Tuesday, November 1, 2016

Día de los Muertos—Space on the Ofrenda Murfin Verse

The Ofrenda at the Tree of Life on the Day of the Deadd 2015

This past Sunday we, as is our custom, we observed Día de los Muertos—Day of the Dead—at Tree of Life Unitarian Universalist Congregation in McHenry, Illinois.  We began more than a decade ago in our old church building in Woodstock primarily as a way to honor and connect with McHenry County’s large Mexican and Mexican American community with which we were deeply engaged in social justice work.  Elaborate care was taken to explain the cultural and religious roots of the observance, describe the customs, and creat our own ofrenda—the altar to the dead.  To complete the experience, members and friends were invited to add photos and memorabilia of their own dearly departed to the altar and share a comment or memory.
Over the years as we became used to it, less time was spent each year connecting the holiday to its roots.  After all, we knew the story by now, didn’t we?  Despite the traditional Mexican decorations—the sugar skulls, papel picado cut-out tissue banners, votive and other candles, and marigold blooms—more and more the services concentrated on honoring the memories of our own dead—a kind of therapeutic and cathartic sharing that brought tears to our eyes and perhaps a faint glimpse of mortality.
Many Unitarian Universalist congregations have adopted similar annual observances.  We have discussed before the controversies and challenges of cultural appropriation or a sincere yearning to learn and grow through wide varieties of spiritual practice.  We will leave that aside in the present case.
I had planned to bring a photo of my father this year, but it was a groggy Sunday morning for me after sacrificing sleep to watch my beloved Cubs lose a World Series Game and then working my usual overnight shift at the gas station/convenience store down the road.  I was half way to McHenry before I realized that I left my picture beside my computer in the study.   Oh well, I thought.  This year I will just sit back and listen.
And so I did.  As usual the photos, trinkets, and momentos to lay on the ofrenda were accompanied by touching, wistful, tragic, and even funny memories.  But as the parade to the altar continued my mind drifted to those unmemorialized—those beyond our immediate circles and family.  Perhaps it was because this year, thankfully, I had no new loss of my own to process.  I mentally peered over the horizon.
Almost without realizing it, I found myself moving to the pulpit.  As if another voice was speaking through my body, I said something like this, lay single marigold blossom, and retreated in surprised silence to my seat.
Later, at home, I tried to form what I said into a poem.  Not sure if it works.  You be the judge.

A single marigold blossom to lay on the ofrenda.
Space on the Ofrenda for the Dead Who Didn’t Matter
November 1, 2016

What can I lay upon the ofrenda
            for the Day of the Dead        
            when I do not know a favorite food,
            have a fond story to tell,
            memory to share,
            faded photo in a tarnished frame,
            when we have already
            forgotten the name?

Not someone I should care about,
            no kin or clansman,
            no old romance or childhood pal
            no skin off our nose
            alive or dead,
            strangers to the party for the dead
            on our altar and shrine.

No one, after all, who really mattered
            I am assured   
            if a stray thought wanders
            off the reservation      
            and feels a moment of
            undeserved connection.

That guy, the fat father, car broken down
            on a nice White road,
            a real bad dude
            to a cop in a helicopter.

Or the other one reading in his own car
            in his own parking lot,
            some kind of disabled head case,
            drilled as his wife screamed
            “He doesn’t have a gun.”

Or that Native American girl
            in her own apartment with her           
            four year old child,
            sad and suicidal
            and obliged in an instant.

None of them mattered,
            no concern of mine, yours or anyone,
            all deserving to die
            at righteous, blameless hands
            for being Black or Brown
            and a fill-in-the blank threat.

I have already forgotten their names,
            if they had one,
            next week you will forget
            and there will be others
            to temporarily take their places.

Why crowd our gay ofrenda
            for the likes of them?

Well, if I really must,
            just one marigold
            over there behind
            Auntie’s teapot
            and grandpa’s airplane bottle
            of Jack Daniels.

And keep quiet about it.

—Patrick Murfin

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