My granddaughter, Anna, 7, has announced her big decision --- she will be a ladybug for Halloween. Her sister, Lily, 9, can’t make up her mind as yet but does have it narrowed down to a polar bear or a pirate. Their mother the costume-maker says, “I’m pulling for the pirate.”
Mexican kids in San Pancho might not invest as much in what they’re going to be, but they sure have caught on to trick or treating. With or without costumes, they run from shop to shop in search of free candy, shouting, “Ah-lo-een!” and holding open plastic grocery bags or simply their own cupped hands. American adults in town try to crank up the fun. They decorate their houses, hand out fistfuls of miniature chocolate bars, and ooh and ah over the little princesses and cowboys who come to their door.
Some lament this intrusion of Americana. They fear it might overtake Mexicans’ traditional Day of the Dead. An unjustified fear, I think, if you go by the spreading popularity of the day’s traditional altars and artesania on both sides of the border now. Last year, my family alone, with no Mexican members, went to Dia de los Muertos gatherings and brought along photos of dead loved ones for altars in New York, Pittsburgh, Austin, and San Jose. My Mexican friend, Mini, born and raised in Cuernavaca, told me, “We city people used to see Dia de los Muertos rituals as superstitions practiced by ‘la gente indigena’ out in the pueblos. But now that it’s cool, we’re into it, too.”
Last year I also built an altar and, according to custom, filled it with bouquets of marigolds, photos of my deceased husband Marsh, candles, his beloved celestial navigation tools. Late in the evening on November 1st, I lit the candles and placed some of his favorite foods on the altar, the fragrances and light meant to guide his spirit home. I played some of the CDs he liked best and read aloud from a piece I had written about us. I felt sheepish, though, and kept it all a secret from my family and friends. No one could have been more surprised than I, however, by the joy it gave me to commemorate Marsh in this way. So this year my daughter and granddaughters will join me, and our altar will be bigger, better, and more inclusive.
The stuffed mussels, oatmeal raisin cookies, and old brass sextant will still be there, but we’ll also remember my parents and grandparents by adding their photos and mementos. We’ll nibble on Wisconsin cheddar cheese which always numbered among my mother’s Christmas gifts from home, and popcorn made from scratch, the way my father made it most Sunday nights. We’ll add more background music---Irish “diddly-ay” and German polkas would suit--- as the four of us share stories about these people we loved.
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