Dia De Los Muertos: When Passion, Culture, and Tragedy Intersect
For those who know me, it’s all too obvious that I’ve loved all things horror since I was too young to process all that. If you’re new to knowing me, well, you’re reading this on a horror site, so I guess the cat is out of the bag. I’ve also always had an interest in the macabre and the subject of death and dying. I mean, huge Lydia Deetz fan here. This fascination is a mix of the mystery of the unknown and an intense fear of death. Luckily I was born into a Mexican family, so this all doesn’t seem so weird. Tarot cards, ghost stories, candles, and all sorts of incense were just some of the norm. You could almost say that horror is in my blood.
I went to college late in life. I joined the military straight out of high school, and when I separated from the Air Force, I was a military spouse. What does that mean? Well, I finally went to university and earned my first bachelor’s when my children were much older. It was a big deal, even at my age. I am a first-generation American and first-generation college graduate. I majored in Latin American Studies because I felt that digging in and studying more of that history would better help me serve my community as a nurse, the next phase of my education. I’ve always been very proud of my heritage and my culture, but I never felt more connected than when I was studying Latin America.
In my second to last semester, I needed to write a capstone paper, and I chose to write on Santa Muerte or La Santisima Muerte. Santa Muerte is what’s known as a “folk saint” which basically means a saint worshipped regionally and not canonized by the Vatican. Santa Muerte specifically is a wonderful representation of the dichotomy of good and evil. She’s heavily associated with the cartel in Mexico. However, she’s also a protector of the innocent and the abused. I was so excited at the opportunity to research and read texts from the Spanish Colonial era. The school I attended has one of the largest and most extensive collections of Latin American resources. I’m a huge research nerd, so to say I was in heaven would be a grand understatement.
April 4, 2019: I received the worst phone call of my life. My mother had been killed in an automobile accident. Her two sisters were with her and were in critical condition. Her sisters have thankfully recovered. It still feels unreal. I took three weeks off school to attend to the arrangements needed to give my mother the send-off she wanted and deserved. She wanted the works and we gave that woman a beautiful celebration. Seriously, mariachis at the rosary and cemetery.
I went back to school numb but ready to finish the semester. I felt like I had no choice at my age and I was afraid of losing that momentum. My mother would have pressured me to continue, so I did. Then the reality of writing about death hit me as I was mourning my mother. I still had this paper on Santa Muerte. It felt both mocking and sensationalist. It was an emotional and gut-wrenching experience, dwelling on death both intimately and voyeuristically. I forged through, though, because I know that my original intent of connection and curiosity with my ancestors was still there.
Fast forward to this past January. My sister and I began a horror movie podcast, Nightmare On Fifth Street. Every family connects over different things, and ours is scary shit. We bond over horror, movies, and dealing with our trauma in sometimes fucked up ways. When I tell people about the podcast, I can see their fake smiles stick around a little too long as they try not to show their surprise or disdain. I get it; it’s odd to live in horror when you’re mentally struggling to keep your head above water. I mean, look at the past two years; this pandemic has us all feeling all kinds of ways. But that’s why I find horror so comforting. I get to detach from my own troubles and root for someone else’s survival. Or just enjoy some ridiculous, gory, campy fun.
Halloween is my jam, but my family also celebrates Dia De Los Muertos. I have a beautiful memory of my mother visiting me as an adult and building a huge ofrenda on our front lawn with my family. I’ve never been a sentimental person who takes and holds onto photos. It’s just not me but now I wish I had some of that year. In years past our ofrendas have held photos of friends and family now gone, flowers, their favorite foods, drawings, and so much more. I remember my mother placing her own mother’s picture in memoriam and feeling so sad for her. Now it’s my turn.
This is our second year that my mother will cross that veil, between the living and the dead. My oldest daughter has a beautiful ofrenda of her own, and I’m grateful that honoring our ancestors has always been a tradition in our family. It makes the process of creating an altar and sitting with our loved ones a natural experience for us. And shouting “tradition” when I talk out loud to my mother now gone is okay, and not weird at all.
Now I sit here writing about horror, family, and Dia De Los Muertos and their meaningful and welcome intersection in my life as I sit with bad news. A few hours ago, someone very close to me shared that they have leukemia. They are one of my biggest supporters in life, and even though it’s not MY news, it hit me hard, and I struggle. It brings that circle right back around to my fear of death and the unknown. I’m still shaking; it’s new.
While I don’t have any answers, while I struggle with all that life throws at my loved ones and me, I draw strength from those who have gone before me. I look forward to sitting with them this Dia De Los Muertos. That is what this day means to me. We only have so much control over our lives, and doesn’t that just suck. But this one day, if no other day out of the year, I feel at peace and loved.
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