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| Gaily hand painted skulls on sale in a Mexican shop for la Dia De Los Muertos. |
Note—Another popular re-run with bonus
Murfin Verse.
Despite sharing some key common imagery—skulls and skeletons—and some cultural and religious DNA,
Día de los Muertos, the two day festival from Mexico, is not just a Latino Halloween. The two observations reflect two entirely
different views of death—one
reflecting terror and horror and the other welcoming acceptance. That’s the shorthand for it anyway. In
reality it is, of course, more complicated. The Mexican holiday owes its unique vitality
to the merging and mutual corruption of two cultures so alien to each other that at first the seemed totally incompatible.
The Aztecs were the new kids on
the block. Just the most recent in a chain of high civilizations that had risen and fallen in Mesoamerica over a period of 4,000
years—the Olmec, Maya, and Toltec to name a few. There were serious ethnic, cultural, and religious differences between these
groups, but archeological evidence shows
that they shared a view of the afterlife—a cyclical pattern of life and death that was continuous and in which the spirits
of the dead were a protective
presence to the living and under the right
circumstances the living and they could communicate. Death was not seen
as something grim, but as a natural step
in continuing existence.
This belief manifested itself in
many ways, including some that to European
eyes seemed barbaric and brutal beyond imagination, especially
the mass human sacrifices as practiced by the Aztec. But, at least theoretically, those sacrificed were expected to undergo the knife in a state of religious ecstasy as they transitioned to the next life for the good of their people. Of course in practice, the Aztecs often used hundreds of their captured enemies for the rituals and
they may not have been so sanguine
to their fates.
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| Mictecacihuatl, Queen of the Aztec Underworld, eater of the dead. |
But beyond the sacrifices, these
beliefs meant that ordinary people could commune, even celebrate, with their lost
loved ones. The Aztecs expressed it
in a month long festival honoring the goddess
Mictecacihuatl, Queen of the
Underworld, or Lady of the Dead.
During the festival they first honored los
angelitos, the deceased children
and then those who passed away as adults. The Mictecacihuatl festival was held
during the late summer period of the
corn harvests, a natural time of bounty and celebration.
Enter the Spanish, their soldiers and
priests who conquered the mighty Aztec—with the significant assistance of other civilized vassal peoples who were tired of giving up their corn and sacrifants to the mighty rulers of Tenochtitlan—who
had very different ideas. The first order of the day, going hand-in-hand in making the conquered people
slaves, was destroying all vestiges of the old religion and imposing Catholicism on them. After all, saving the souls of the savages
whether they liked it or not was
a central mission of the Conquest.
The Church, of course, had a lot of experience in this sort of
thing. Hundreds of years earlier it had encountered, squelched, and absorbed
the pagan Celtic and Germanic peoples. The Church had learned to adapt local customs that could not be
obliterated and cloak them as Christian traditions by turning old gods into venerated saints.
The transformation of the popular
Celtic festival of Samhain, for
instance, had been transformed into All
Saints and All Souls Days. Similarly in Mexico they re-purposed the Mictecacihuatl festival
and squeezed it down from a month to
the same two days coinciding with
the end of the European harvest season
on November 1 and 2.
Indio
peons were expected to attend Masses to honor their dead—a least
those who had died good Catholics. And
this the people dutifully did. Indeed at
first they had no choice, but eventually they internalized the changes and accepted
them. While the people accepted the
Masses, they brought their own interpretations
to them, and they continued to hold onto folk
traditions that stretched back to Pre-Columbian
times.
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| A home ofrenda with images of the Dead and gifts of things they enjoyed in life. |
Over generations those traditions blossomed into Día de los Muertos as we
know it today—spilled out of the
churches and into homes where ofrendas, welcoming altars to the dead, are gaily decorated with skeletons, skulls, Flor de Muerto—orange marigolds, candles, religious icons, photos and memorabilia
of the dead and groan with gifts of
sweets, favorite foods, and alcohol. These altars welcome the spirits of the
visiting dead.
Then in many places families return the favor by visiting
the cemeteries and picnicking on the graves of loved ones. In
some areas of Northern Mexico the
family might camp out there from the
evening of All Saints Day, November 1.
There are many regional
variations involving parades and
special celebrations in the homes
where someone has died within the year which are opened to all visitors who are fed with homemade tamales and other treats.
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| 19th Century Mexican artist Jose Guadalupe Posada and his creation Catrina in a 1981 linocut poster by my old friend and IWW Fellow Worker Carlos Cortez for the Movemento Artistico Chicano (MARCH.) |
The frequent use of skeletons and
skulls is meant as a reminder that we
are all mortal and will someday join the dead. The popular 19th Century artist José
Guadalupe Posada who depicted calacas—skeletons—cavorting gaily is credited with popularizing that sort of imagery which
is continually re-interpreted by folk and fine artists. Particularly popular is the image of Catrina, the lanky, skeletal female figure bedecked in sumptuous clothing and giant ornate hats, who serves as a
reminder that death is a fate that even the rich can’t avoid. Catrina is also seen as an embodiment of old Aztec goddess
Mictecacihuatl. Other countries of Latin
heritage have significant All Saints and All Souls celebrations, but
outside of Mexico and adjacent countries with significant Mexican populations
or cultural influence, none celebrate Día de los Muertos in this unique way.
The
United States, with a large and growing population
of Mexican descent or origin, is one place where the festival is widely celebrated, particularly in the Southwest and border regions. But with
large population moving north into the old industrial
cities of the Midwest and northeast and into rural and small town communities, the custom has
spread, adapting to new circumstances.
Anglo
children are introduced to the Festival, stripped
of religious significance, as part of their cultural awareness curriculum now in many schools. Street
festivals featuring revelers painted
to look like skeletons are popular in cities like San Francisco and draw many non-Mexicans.
The spirituality of Día de los Muertos and its unique view of death and
the relationships between the living and the dead appeals to many in this
country looking for new religious
experiences. Many non-Catholic
churches now have Day of the Dead
services or host family gatherings. It
is commonly observed in many Unitarian
Universalist congregations which strive to navigate he tricky ground between respect and cultural
misappropriation. My church, the Tree of Life Unitarian Universalist
Congregation in McHenry, Illinois
had regular Day of the Dead services for
well over a decade.
Last year at the Tree of Life UU Congregation in McHenry, in lieu of bring a photo and tokens to some deceased family member,
I extemporized a riff inspired by
the seemingly never ending executions of
Black and Brown people by trigger
happy authorities. Later, when I got
home, I organized my rambling babble into
this poem.
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| The Ofrenda at the Tree of Life U.U. Congregation. |
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 I have
already
forgotten
the name?
Not someone I should care about,
no kin or
clansman,
no old
romance or childhood pal
no skin off
my 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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