Text and Photographs by Eduardo Barraza
Phoenix, Arizona - Los muertos. Our dead loved ones. The ones that
were around us and are no more. Those who were as alive as we are
today, and as dead as we will be tomorrow. Men and women who linger
in our memories with an unfathomable presence, in spite of their
departure. Their last breath became the motive of our sighing, and our
longing for what’s gone. Their presence is much alive, because we are
alive, and we keep them alive.
They remind us that we are alive each year, each November 2nd, when
the Day of the Dead – their day – prompts us to pause and think about
them once again, this time, in a more formal, reflective and melancholic
manner. Reminiscences of what they were, recollections of what they
meant, and still mean in our lives, leads us to light up a candle, to look at
their pictures – images where their perennial smiles remain – and to
place a glass of water, a piece of bread, next to those portraits to feed –
not their souls – but our own hunger and thirst for them.
We had them for a time. They were much of what we were yesterday
and are today. In their latitude of silence, their lifetime appears in our
minds and hearts in seconds; seconds that we breathe on their behalf. A
part of us died with them; a part of them lives in us. Together – their
absence and our presence - they become a full circle of life and death, a
circumference encompassing both the reality of life and the dreading of
death. An endless loop always ending and always beginning, but yet
reminds us of their and our finite journey.
Do we, the living, try to perpetuate ourselves by perpetuating the
memories of them, the dead? Do we celebrate the Day of the Dead, to
ensure someone will celebrate for us when we become “them?” Is the
candle we light for them today seeking to earn a flame for us tomorrow?
Can we blackmail ourselves observing the ritual of the dead, thinking
that our self-compassion will be an after-death applicable guarantee? Or
are we simply fulfilling our duty, no matter who may remember us, who
may forget us tomorrow?
We bring the flowers, nevertheless; their aroma saturates the room and
gives scent to our remembrance. We fill the glass with water, and see
the images of both the dead and us through an inexplicable
transparency: what is water, what is life? And then, we place the piece
of bread. In its unassuming appearance, bread is still bread: it feeds us,
literally and figuratively. So metaphorically, the bread feeds us in more
than a couple of ways. More than anything, it nourishes our yearning to
feed the deceased one’s spirit. However, the incidental effect of this
desire ends up feeding us. And thus, celebrating the dead, we are
satiated. Today, we are alive. Don’t we know anyway that God “is not a
God of the dead, but of the living?”
In the Day of the Dead, let’s be assured that tears are allowed; after all,
death is a very sad event. Laughter is acceptable as well; after all, the
concept of celebrating the life of the dead is a catchy distraction that
entertains our minds and consciences from the somber, future,
inescapable reality. Laughter won’t hinder grief; sadness won’t deter
happiness. Both entwine and become one. We rejoice that our dead
were once alive; and then we retreat, realizing with sorrow that our
dead, are that, dead. Laughter and grief symbolize our beginning and
our end. They both are also needed to close the circle. Laughter will
lessen our heart’s burden. Tears streaming down our cheeks might
quench the candle’s flame, but they won’t quench the memory of those
who moved off.
were around us and are no more. Those who were as alive as we are
today, and as dead as we will be tomorrow. Men and women who linger
in our memories with an unfathomable presence, in spite of their
departure. Their last breath became the motive of our sighing, and our
longing for what’s gone. Their presence is much alive, because we are
alive, and we keep them alive.
They remind us that we are alive each year, each November 2nd, when
the Day of the Dead – their day – prompts us to pause and think about
them once again, this time, in a more formal, reflective and melancholic
manner. Reminiscences of what they were, recollections of what they
meant, and still mean in our lives, leads us to light up a candle, to look at
their pictures – images where their perennial smiles remain – and to
place a glass of water, a piece of bread, next to those portraits to feed –
not their souls – but our own hunger and thirst for them.
We had them for a time. They were much of what we were yesterday
and are today. In their latitude of silence, their lifetime appears in our
minds and hearts in seconds; seconds that we breathe on their behalf. A
part of us died with them; a part of them lives in us. Together – their
absence and our presence - they become a full circle of life and death, a
circumference encompassing both the reality of life and the dreading of
death. An endless loop always ending and always beginning, but yet
reminds us of their and our finite journey.
Do we, the living, try to perpetuate ourselves by perpetuating the
memories of them, the dead? Do we celebrate the Day of the Dead, to
ensure someone will celebrate for us when we become “them?” Is the
candle we light for them today seeking to earn a flame for us tomorrow?
Can we blackmail ourselves observing the ritual of the dead, thinking
that our self-compassion will be an after-death applicable guarantee? Or
are we simply fulfilling our duty, no matter who may remember us, who
may forget us tomorrow?
We bring the flowers, nevertheless; their aroma saturates the room and
gives scent to our remembrance. We fill the glass with water, and see
the images of both the dead and us through an inexplicable
transparency: what is water, what is life? And then, we place the piece
of bread. In its unassuming appearance, bread is still bread: it feeds us,
literally and figuratively. So metaphorically, the bread feeds us in more
than a couple of ways. More than anything, it nourishes our yearning to
feed the deceased one’s spirit. However, the incidental effect of this
desire ends up feeding us. And thus, celebrating the dead, we are
satiated. Today, we are alive. Don’t we know anyway that God “is not a
God of the dead, but of the living?”
In the Day of the Dead, let’s be assured that tears are allowed; after all,
death is a very sad event. Laughter is acceptable as well; after all, the
concept of celebrating the life of the dead is a catchy distraction that
entertains our minds and consciences from the somber, future,
inescapable reality. Laughter won’t hinder grief; sadness won’t deter
happiness. Both entwine and become one. We rejoice that our dead
were once alive; and then we retreat, realizing with sorrow that our
dead, are that, dead. Laughter and grief symbolize our beginning and
our end. They both are also needed to close the circle. Laughter will
lessen our heart’s burden. Tears streaming down our cheeks might
quench the candle’s flame, but they won’t quench the memory of those
who moved off.
Eduardo Barraza is a journalist and writer,
Barriozona Magazine's editor, and director of
the Hispanic Insitute of Social Issues.
E-mail: editor@barriozona.com
Barriozona Magazine's editor, and director of
the Hispanic Insitute of Social Issues.
E-mail: editor@barriozona.com
Published by the Hispanic Institute of Social Issues in Phoenix, Arizona
| Eduardo Barraza © 2006 |
|
barriozona.com
| INTERACTIVE |
| Photos by Eduardo Barraza | Photos of cemeteries in Mexico by William Gonzalez |Altars in photos were created following the Mexican tradition, and prepared by HISI Staff and volunteers. |
| HISTORY IS ABOUT TO CHANGE Grassroots Journalism |
Day of the Dead: Comfort for the
Living
Living
Do we so devoutly remember the dead in hopes that we ourselves may
be remembered one day?
be remembered one day?
| Sophia Remembers, Day of the Dead Pages: 32 (Includes color photographs) ISBN-13: 978-1-936885-03-9 Read More |
