Day of the Dead: Remembrance and Return Rooted in Tradition

The practice of creating an altar takes place every year on November 1 and 2, as Mexicans (and other Latin American communities) arrange colorful offerings of food, flowers, candles, candy, and drinks for their deceased loved ones. It’s a practice that dates back to Spanish colonization, and blends Catholic and Indigenous traditions as a way to help usher the dead back to the land of the living for an evening. Over the years, I began to feel that my family’s altar was less a commemoration to my ancestor, and more a constant reminder of the forced distance and disconnect between me, my family, and my culture. That pain and resentment wouldn’t begin to heal until I revisited my birthplace for the first time, two decades later.

Going to Mexico, even for a funeral, isn’t as easy as just catching a flight for people like me. I’m what’s known as a “Dreamer,” one of those people caught up in legal limbo as a quasi-undocumented person. Dreamers are allowed to work thanks to an Obama-era memorandum that granted renewable 2-year-long work permits, but international travel wasn’t part of that 2012 deal. Instead, people with Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals (DACA) require additional permitting to leave the country through Advanced Parole, which doesn’t guarantee you’ll be allowed back into the country and requires an applicant to prove travel is necessary, whether due to educational, emergency, or work-related conditions. Approvals can take months, but as soon as I got the go-ahead, I booked myself on a first-class flight from Seattle.

In the four months I was in Mexico, I lived a lifetime. I took in the azure waters and busy nightlife of Cancún, while staying in a $16-a-night Airbnb, soundtracked by street cats, street vendors, and cumbia sonidera. I dove 20 feet down into the famed cenotes of Yucatán, imagining how the Mayans once threw tributes to their lords of Xibalba, the underworld. I saw Chichén Itzá, Teotihuacán, and “el DF”—the once-great Tenochtitlán—now known as “CDMX.” In Morelos, I stayed in one of Hernán Cortés’ sugar plantations and drove to Mexican revolutionary Emiliano Zapata’s birthplace. I visited pueblos mágicos like Bernal and Taxco to eat whatever I could, unapologetically. In the latter, I learned about their Holy Week traditions, when Catholics show their devotion through suffering.

In total, I visited eight of the 32 states of La República Mexicana, including stops in lesser-known pueblos like Tlaxcalilla, Hidalgo, where my father grew up. It’s there I met my 98-year-old paternal grandfather, my only surviving grandparent, and was embraced as his kin even though we’d never spoken or met. “El tiempo pesa,” he told me. Time weighs heavy. Still, I was happy to hear his tales of inheriting land after the revolution and see him point out scars made by bullets, marks of a near-assassination. I didn’t doubt him when he recalled once being the best charro in town. But I mostly remained in Santiago de Querétaro, the city closest to my birthplace of San Juan del Río, where family members refused to let me into the house my parents left behind, but had not forgotten; the house where I’d taken my first steps, and danced with my dead abuelito before going to the US. Twenty years on, the distance was less, but my grief only evolved.

As the end of my trip approached, the weather in Querétaro began to resemble that of Seattle, as heavy rains and gray skies hinted toward a change of season. Orange cempasuchiles started appearing at flower stands and panaderías began selling pan de muerto (“dead bread”), the aroma of both filling the streets. (Every morning before I returned to the US I bought a fresh pan de muerto to eat alongside a glass of milk. The flavor of orange essence was entirely new to me and I still long for that taste, one I can't seem to find this far north.) As I thought about my trip, I remembered something a cousin said to me over shots of tequila. “Los mexicanos sí que sabemos gozar nuestras penas.” We Mexicans sure know how to enjoy our sorrows.

Perhaps my greatest sorrow was not getting to spend Day of the Dead in Mexico. I’d wanted to visit the island of Janitzio, known for its beautiful Día de Muertos celebrations, but I went back to the States at the end of September. A month later, I arranged my own Day of the Dead altar in my room: bouquets of cempasúchil surrounded photos of my abuelito, my grandmother, and my uncle, alongside mazapanes; sugar skulls; and effigies of La Santa Muerte, la Virgen María, and San Judas Tadeo. Instead of feeling self pity from being unable to spend Day of the Dead in my homeland, I felt a certain kind of pride—despite my DACA status I’d made it to Mexico anyway. Nowadays, thanks to my trip, my altar feels more alive than ever and I’ve never felt closer to my grandfather or to my birthplace, even though returning to Seattle felt like a little death all of its own. To enjoy my sorrow is to be Mexican. To celebrate not in the face of death, but alongside death, has helped dissolve the pain of both time and distance.