On the Day of the Dead
In honor of CJR’s anniversary and Mexico’s Día de los Muertos holiday (Nov. 2), I am posting a story I wrote a few years ago about a special Day of the Dead experience, which came in Oaxaca courtesy of a generous Mexican family who spontaneously invited Scott and me to partake in their graveyard “festivities.” Laughter, tears, tamales, and surprise chicken feet ensue.
Visuals for the Day of the Dead are incredible, but—believe it or not—all of my photos back then were taken on film and slides. Please visit Scott’s gorgeous Day of the Dead gallery here.
From my perch on a wooden bench outside the corner store, I take in the busy scene.
Children with painted faces dash by. Families with wheelbarrows laden with flowers and tapered candles lumber up the road. Food vendors line the dusty path as far as I can see—an exciting array of cheap dinner prospects here in Oaxaca, a city in southern Mexico celebrated for its rich cuisine.
For now, however, I greet my husband, Scott, as he returns from the store with two cold beers. While we sip these on the bench, a middle-aged man emerges from the same store with a bag full of beer. In Spanish, Scott teases him about the purchase: “Those all for you, or are you going to a party?”
The man guffaws, introduces himself as Rafael, and asks to join us in our people-watching. He owns one of the many jewelry stores we’d seen in the city’s commercial district, and is cheerfully chatty. After offering us each another beer, he invites us to accompany him to the “party” he is en route to, a family gathering where there would be food and drink—just up the road at the graves of his brother and father.
***
In the U.S., cemeteries are cold, gray places. You may bring flowers to a loved one’s grave, but probably not a bottle of booze. You certainly wouldn’t expect to find a Ferris wheel, clusters of giggling children, or live music.
But in Mexico, that’s exactly what you might see in cemeteries during El Día de los Muertos, or the Day of the Dead. The official “day” is November 2, but the festivities begin the night of October 31, which is when we met Rafael and the carnival-like atmosphere of a local cemetery, or panteón.
The holiday dates back centuries to the indigenous population of Mexico, who believed that the deceased could return to their homes or families for a visit once a year. To them, death was something to embrace rather than fear; it was not the end of a life, but the same life’s continuation in a parallel world.
Over the years, of course, the Day of the Dead has had to adapt to its country, most notably to the Spanish conquest, the ensuing infiltration of Catholicism, even Halloween’s candied influence. Yet despite their common belief in a Christian heaven, modern Mexicans still sit for hours, sometimes overnight, at their loved ones’ graves during the Day of the Dead to accompany their spirits for the night.
Among the rituals the holiday has preserved over the years are the elaborate preparations used to “welcome home” the deceased. Throughout October, countless fields of gleaming marigolds are harvested from the countryside and sold in city markets; the golden flowers are traditionally believed to help guide spirits back into this world. Markets fill with morditos, little gifts for the dead like chocolate skulls and coffins.
Over a century ago, the artist José Guadalupe Posada created calaveras—whimsical skeletons engaged in everyday activities like cooking or dancing—in order to satirize social figures; today, jovial skeletons continue to mock death this time of year from the shelves of markets and museums alike.
Oaxaca is renowned for its artisans, and the Day of the Dead provides occasion for exceptional creativity. Images of death are everywhere, so wonderfully rendered that they quickly grow on you. The calaveras are particularly charming: Life-size and papier-mâché, they take over the courtyards of the Casa de las Artesanías de Oaxaca store, mischievously engaged in getting married, playing music, and making tortillas; stretchy and wiry, they dangle from the arms of old women in the zócalo, priced at $1 apiece; hand-carved and stoic, they are sold alongside paintings of skulls at outdoor art markets.
Dazzling handmade altars designed to honor and welcome the dead spring up around town in bright bursts of color. Lovingly decorated with marigold arches, magenta coxcomb flowers, candles, photos, stacks of tortillas, cups of hot atole or bottles of tequila—whatever the deceased’s beverage of choice might have been—these altars are prominently displayed in restaurants and public plazas, and are glimpsed through open doorways and windows in every home.
***
At the Panteón Xoxocotlan, a.k.a. Xoxo (“ho-ho”), we pick our way around the graves, careful not to tread on any of them. It is a challenge, because while most graves are concrete, coffin-shaped tombstones, some are no more than mounds of dirt and a small cross.
The level of activity is baffling. Whole families are sprawled on blankets and in plastic chairs around each grave, diligently cleaning them before piling on candles and flowers, often in artistic religious designs. An old man sells pastel orbs of cotton candy. Costumed children run over to us with upturned palms and plastic pumpkins. “Halloween?” they ask hopefully.
Rafael’s family is split between two graves—that of his father, deceased two years, and his brother, deceased nine years—and both are adorned in the typical fashion. We join Rafael’s brother, sister-in-law, and their children at his father’s grave, around which two metal benches and a tin roof with an electric light have conveniently been built so the family can gather comfortably, rain or shine.
The air is heavy with copal incense and flowers. I practice my Spanish with Alberto, Rafael’s precocious 10-year-old nephew, who wears a Grateful Dead T-shirt without knowing who they are. Behind us, another family works to secure a Halloween-esque string of paper skeletons around their own tin roof.
Rafael keeps passing out cans of beer. The merry atmosphere is intoxicating—literally and emotively—but I am keenly aware of the fact that we are hanging out in a graveyard. Nobody is even talking about the dead; our hosts are more interested in asking us questions. Aren’t we supposed to be remembering them?
“We remember by being here. We come here to be with each other and to be with my father and brother in a spiritual way,” Rafael informs me.
But isn’t it sad?
“It’s sad, but it’s good to be here,” he says. “We are making new memories together, as a family.” He smiles, and I know that we are included in that group, for the night anyway.
The matriarch of the family joins us from her son’s grave, and Rafael’s sister arrives with—bless her soul— a big bucket of delicious homemade tamales. They insist on serving the guests first. Carefully wrapped in cornhusk, the steaming cornmeal inside is laced with shredded chicken and the region’s famous chocolate mole sauce. Scott receives a present in his: a whole chicken foot. “The best part!” Rafael exclaims, reaching for it.
Although we’d chosen to visit a cemetery outside of the city center, we are definitely not the only foreigners in Oaxaca, or Xoxo for that matter, this popular time of year. As the night wears on, a parade of tourists passes by our spot, asking to photograph the family’s grave. They probably don’t want the gringos in the picture, but we stay put with our adopted family and smile for the cameras, in honor of new memories.
***
Despite our lighthearted graveyard experience, death isn’t, of course, all silly skeletons and pretty remembrances for the people of Mexico. Two days later, during an afternoon mass for the dead in the same cemetery, many tears are shed. In the middle of it, a strange and sudden shift comes over the sunny day: Dark clouds seize the sky; a strong gust blows dust from the street into our eyes. The rain falls hard and fast, without warning.
We seek shelter at Rafael’s father’s grave, huddling for dry warmth under the flimsy tin roof, and little Alberto tries to give me the T-shirt off his back to ease my chills. A short distance away, a burial begins. Exposed to the elements and their own worst fears, the bereaved family surrenders to the rain. Through the rushing downpour, I hear the moans and sobs of raw grief.
But for the first night of El Día de los Muertos, it was okay to leave the vulnerability behind and celebrate the dead, among old family and new friends. When Rafael offers to drive us home late that night, we hesitate, knowing he’d put back a few beers. His whole family assures us that he’s fine to drive the short distance to our guesthouse; several hours and many tamales have passed since our arrival. We aren’t sure if it’s even possible to catch a taxi back to town at that hour, so we relent.
In the front seat of his pickup truck, for good measure, I secure a seatbelt around Scott and myself, much to Rafael’s amusement. He drives slowly and on back roads, where we hardly even glimpse another vehicle. “See? I’m a good driver,” he insists.
Did I feel at risk? Not at all. But giggling at his repeated assurances, I can’t help but fancy myself in the Mexican way, laughing ever so softly in the face of death.
***
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