A Culture within a Culture

The austere look of the school had been transformed into a myriad of enticing colors.The children at the orphanage where I am volunteering are anxious to share the memory of their loved ones with visitors such as myself.In my culture death is regarded as a morbid topic never openly discussed.Today, however, I am part of one that treats death not with sadness and tears but rather with laughter and gaiety.I am in Mexico to celebrate its festival, Day of the Dead.

I walk up to the first altar and am immediately met with resounding holas by the children who had constructed it.I ask them about the objects they had placed on their altar.Scattered amongst the photographs of loved ones and flickering candles are random objects-a bottle of Negra Modela beer and a worn-looking pendant; all objects that mean nothing to a stranger but had meant something to the departed. Before I leave to go to the next altar,I realize that a beloved inanimate object is just as strong a presence as an actual person.

At the next altar I am drowning in the scent of flowers of the dead.Strands of marigolds surround me, their fiery orange color bathing my pale skin in dark rich tones.I continue my procession around the courtyard, stopping at each of the altars until I arrive at the final one.It has no altar in the traditional sense. Instead, its altar is the ground. The girl explains to me that her group had designed their altar as a means of symbolizing the eternal home of the deceased.I stare at the altar comprising sand and rocks of all different colors and it strikes me that this non-traditional one, the one in which there are no personal objects but only a skull that rests in its center, is my favorite.

Before I leave, I go into the café where I purchase a miniature bread of the dead.The bread is encased in wrapping but is still warm, its sugary smell wafting through the brown parchment.As I start to eat it, I remember what I was told earlier, that no dead soul likes to be thought of sadly.