Doin’ the dia

As a kid, my family used to celebrate All Souls’ Day on November 2. While the real Catholic tradition is to pray for the souls of the faithful who have not been cleansed of their venial or mortal sins, in my family it was more about commemorating and connecting to the souls of our loved ones.

No other Catholic seems to have had the same All Souls’ Day experience as my brother and I did as kids. I can only assume my mother made up the tradition of leaving our shoes behind our bedroom doors the night of November 1, to wake with them filled with gifts from our ancestors who returned to earth the previous night to check in and protect us.

As I’ve read more about the history and traditions of All Souls’ Day, I’ve come to wonder if my mother changed the real meaning of the holiday around to be more comforting to my brother and me, and to be a way to teach us about our ancestors and deceased family members in a nurturing way. If not, that’s cool, Mom; if so, even cooler. Our celebration of All Souls’ Day inspired in me a deep curiosity and sincere connectivity to my great-grandparents and fostered a life-long interest in my cultural heritage and family history.

Anyway, because All Souls’ Day was regularly honored in my home, I’ve always been interested in Dia de los Muertos. For my first Day of the Dead in Los Angeles, I joined Ryan and some of his friends on a visit to Olvera Street, the oldest street in Los Angeles, and the epicenter of Latin American culture in Los Angeles.

Olvera Street, and Los Angeles, celebrate Dia de los Muertos for a full week, and on the night we went there were stunning family shrines, a religious procession of locals in full Day of the Dead regalia, and traditional Aztec dancing.

It was an incredible party and spectacle, but for me the most memorable part of it was the most modest of shrines. There were family shrines that were 10 feet tall, covered in marigolds, jewel encrusted skulls, religious icons, fruits, and flags. But the unassuming beauty of the shrine to Rodolfo Ernesto Gonzalez has haunted me for days.

Gone from his shrine was the pomp and pageantry of the other memorials. His was one that welcomed you into the life of a man that was so clearly simple in his love for his family and the love they gave back to him. R and I spent a good 10 minutes looking at his shrine, and fully feeling the meaning of the day and what it meant to the Gonzalez family.

Sappy, I know, but it’s the best kind of sappy possible. I promise you that. Oh, stop looking at me that way. I promise my next post will be edgier.