Day of the Dead, November 2
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| Elizabeth Uppman |
Gabriel died eight years ago. For eight years I have created a Day of the Dead altar for him. The first couple of years, when November 2 rolled around, I had to talk myself into it. I would make myself a cup of tea, sit quietly, tell myself it was going to be okay. Then I would go to the wooden chest where we keep his things, yank it open, and pull everything out at once. I would sit on the floor in the middle of that shaggy pile of stuff—the toys I’d bought, the clothes I’d washed, all of it so familiar, all of it strange.
These last few years I haven’t had such a struggle. Gabriel’s toys aren’t toy-like to me anymore. They’ve become like the offering plate we pass to one another in church: ritualistic objects, parts of a ceremony.
The Day of the Dead is a Mexican holiday. I am not Mexican, but I lived there for five years with my Mexican husband. When we first moved there, I thought the custom of putting a dead person’s things on an altar was tokenistic and backwards, honoring the things rather than the person. Then my husband took me to city hall to view a display of altars for famous residents of our city. One, built for a well-loved teacher, consisted of terraced platforms rising in a pyramid nearly to the ceiling, with the dead man’s photo on top. Candles, marigold petals, and loaves of pan de muerto—bread of the dead—decorated the tiers. And here were the teacher’s spectacles, displayed in a leather case. They drew me in, the round lenses like two coins. I could picture them on the teacher’s desk, waiting for him like a servant—waiting still, it seemed to me, as if no one had told them the old man had died.
Every time I make an altar for Gabriel—every time I take his things and lay them next to one another—something makes me stop and look. The elf cap, the stuffed lion, and the candle seem to borrow from one another a heightened sense of importance, like objects in a still life. Gabriel wore that elf cap on his first Christmas Eve, in a shiny metal crib on the pediatric floor. The nurses brought him gifts at midnight, a bear and a play set. I remember how happy it made them to give him toys instead of the usual IV meds and breathing treatments.
I don’t know what happened to those gifts. I couldn’t keep everything—the wooden chest is only so big. But the elf cap, the lion, and the candle—these are enough. They hold so much inside of them.
Elizabeth Uppman
Labels: culture
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When the Spanish colonialists arrived on this continent, they tried, unsuccessfully, to stamp out Dia de los Muertos, because they found the rituals to be bizarre and possibly blasphemous. When they realized they could not stop the holiday, they decided to move the date from August to the beginning of November in order to coincide with All Saints Day and All Soul Days—holidays officially sanctioned by the Catholic Church.
Joan Serber works for Hospice Brazos Valley in central Texas. She has been working for several years to revive the tradition in her area. Her initial efforts weren’t in a hospice setting, however. She worked with area artists and galleries to feature Dia de los Muertos art and crafts.



