Day of the Dead
Today, as expats living in a small Mexican city, we find ourselves becoming a part of Mexican society. Just living here isn't enough to gain acceptance with our neighbors. We have to put effort into learning Spanish so that we can participate in social gatherings. We have to leave the comfort of the expat community, to cultivate friendships with Mexicans.
All that said, I still divide my world into Mexican stuff and American stuff. The Day of the Dead activities are an example of Mexican stuff. Aren't they quaint, those Mexicans, with their primitive little graveside ceremonies?
Jose Guadalupe Posada. (1852-1913)
Last year I wrote a long post about Day of the Dead in San Miguel. My perspective was that of a commentator observing foreign customs. I'm afraid I was pushy and obnoxious, stomping around the cemetery, shoving my camera into peoples' faces, intruding on families' visits with their forebears. The disturbance I created was amplified by 50 other gringos all doing the same thing.
I was particularly proud of a film clip I made of a family playing guitars and singing favorite songs to the deceased. The patriarch saw me filming and solemnly waggled his finger at me: "No. Don't do this." I felt like a voyeur.
I made a decision not to interfere with the Mexicans' family reunions this year. Then, a month ago, my friend Michael died after a long illness. He was buried in the Panteón, San Miguel's main cemetery. This morning, on my way home from the gym, I saw many people walking toward the Panteón carrying bunches of flowers and vases and candles and tools for sprucing up graves. The thought came into my mind that I would really enjoy taking an hour to visit with Michael's spirit, and maybe spruce up his grave a little.
I walked down the street that runs to the Panteón, through the rows of vendors selling food, drink and flowers.
I bought some marigolds and an empty jalapeño can to put them in. Inside the Panteón I looked for his grave, but I couldn't remember where it was. Eventually Michael's friend Carlos saw me and we spent a few minutes talking beside Michael's resting place while I trimmed the flowers so they would fit into the can.
Michael's grave looked forlorn: loose dirt scattered, no headstone yet, a steel marker for a Mexican child's grave misplaced on his mound. Somehow, I'm sure that all of us who were his friends will sort all of that out in the not distant future.
Carlos left. I sat on somebody else's grave and silently held a conversation with Michael. The sunshine warmed my shoulders, and I felt the contentment of spending time with a good friend. Around me, others sat beside the graves of their dead. Some were enjoying picnics. Others were singing. One woman was reading a favorite novel out loud, so the spirit at her feet could hear it. We all sat there—me and my community—visiting our dead.