some delayed thoughts on el Día de los Muertos

   Mexico has given me more than I possibly could have imagined, and all of it was shared with such grace and ease that I hardly even realized that a gift had arrived in my lap. The celebration of Day of the Dead was no exception. As we read articles about it in class, I was filled with a sort of skepticism about its origins, commercialization, and purpose, but as the day rolled around, there was an unnamed longing inside of me as I willed this day to help me order my thoughts and feelings. [for context] My mom passed away last April, and in Mexico, I was still feeling confused and conflicted about how the two ostensibly opposing forces of grief and joy could exist inside of me.  On November 2nd I took myself to the pantheon and as I wandered around, I saw my inner turmoil reflected in the unruly and extravagant nature of that cemetery.  

    This unruliness is something the US shies away from. There is this temptation here to see grief and joy as mutually exclusive, and that sadness is something that must be avoided at all cost. It’s a culture of “unrelenting happiness” to a certain degree. And I tend to embrace that. My semester in Mexico complicated that framework though, and I think day of the dead was the moment in which so much fell into place

    So let me bring you to that pantheon. I had walked about 35 minutes from my house to get there, and the closer I got, the more intense the throngs of people. People lined the streets, selling flowers, horchata, pan dulce and even gorditas to those passing through. And that aura of celebration and liveliness didn’t stop at the gates of the graveyard. The cemetery was exuberant yet somber; death was contained in the tombstones but life spilled out over the edges in the form of vibrant orange sempasulche, bright, living plants and papel picado. What a gift that was! Mexico was showing me that pain and beauty can exist at the same time, that sorrow and joy are not mutually exclusive. It no longer confuses me that a deep sadness and profound gratitude can cohabit my being–I am instead amazed by the resiliency of humans, myself included. 

    As I wandered around the cemetery, I chatted with people there, something Mary always encouraged us to do. I met a man there who was at his father’s grave, who had died 11 years ago, when the man was just 24. I almost teared up as I listened to his story, as he shared how his father was always the life of the party; he brought people together, acting as a sort of glue for his family. But since he’s passed, their family hasn’t been the same. I ached as I saw my mother in his father. She was full of an exuberance for life that was contagious, and wherever we went, she served as a catalyst for community. 

    I cannot shake the image of those graves on Día de los Muertos, especially as they are juxtaposed to those in American cemeteries. These tombs were adorned with so many symbols of life, joy and vitality, a crude contrast to the cemeteries of the US that have only organized rows of flowers or American flags. My heart broke as I thought of my mom’s own tiny grave that day, so small and alone and on the other side of the country from where my family lived. The tombs in that cemetery in Querétaro quite literally house death and decay but on that day, reminded me also of the magnificent miracle that is life. They served as a testament to the co-mingling of life and death, of celebration and affliction, light and darkness. They go together, and on this earth, they are inseparable.  I had a sense of peace and comfort knowing that I could feel both joy and sorrow without needing to eradicate or explain that tension. The vibrancy of that holiday, and of Mexico and of all of us, does not dismiss the very real pain and suffering that haunts our world, but it offers another way to live, one that is curious and kind, filled to the brim with grace and gentleness.