San Antonio Express-News (Sunday)
Tears, remembrances and healing at Day of the Dead fest
Profound grief and mourning are now part of life for so many of us — at least 1 in 3 Americans have close family or friends who died of COVID-19.
Of course, all the other ways of dying — heart disease, cancer, accidents — never stopped. A gut-wrenching article in the Washington Post described prolonged grief disorder. A condition of chronic mourning newly recognized as an official mental health diagnosis, it is now in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, or DSM-5.
Death is something we all must come to terms with. Many faiths and cultures believe that as difficult as it is to lose loved ones, death — and the transition to the afterlife — is to be honored and celebrated.
That belief was magnificently manifested last weekend at San Antonio’s Muertos Fest, the largest in Texas and one of America’s top seven fall festivals. In its ninth year, the festival celebrates Día de los Muertos,
or Day of the Dead, a Latin American, Indigenous tradition on full display at Hemisfair.
The sound of Tejano music and poetry, the smell of Mexican food and incense, and the intense feelings of sorrow and hope thickened the humid air when I attended with my husband last Sunday afternoon. Last year, the event was virtual, but this year’s crowd — reaching a record high of 125,000 people — looked like Fiesta.
Except this celebration was no Fiesta. No, this was a solemn, spiritual tradition of people paying their respects at more than 50 ofrendas, or altars, built by the community to remember their deceased loved ones. Their stories brought tears to my eyes, yet I marveled at the love and strength of the living.
The tradition of Day of the Dead heals the living. Many community members who built altars said it helped them grieve and seeing their deceased loved ones honored by thousands brought peace.
Astrella Tanguma built an intricate altar out of recycled materials in honor of her father, Juan Tanguma Sr., as well as her brother, Jose Angel Tanguma
Sr., a Tejano musician who died in May. She said she hopes this will bring closure.
“Maybe I will finally be able to accept his death when this is over,” she said.
Juan and Crystal Marquez, there with their three young daughters, were emotional as they spoke of the loved ones they’ve lost. They say they treasure this tradition.
Seemingly everyone stopped to take in the grand community altar that includes 656 photos of the deceased. Mariana Vasquez, who lives in New York and works with the city’s COVID-19 contact tracing unit, built the altar.
Vasquez, who’s built four of San Antonio’s community altars, knows grief. She built her first miniature altar 14 years ago, after her grandmother, mother and boyfriend died in the span of seven months.
She stood in the altar’s shadow, burning copal, a resin from Mexico, while some shared their gratitude and sadness.
“The depths where grief will take you — if you let it,” Vasquez said.
Some of those honored by their families with altars have been in the news.
Seeing the altar for Erin Rios Castro, a 19-year-old domestic violence victim brutally killed in 2018, a tragedy I have written about, hit me — hard. I instantly recognized her young, beautiful face.
Diana Cristina Rubio, a 24year-old who died along with her friend Daniela Lute in an August head-on collision with an alleged drunken, wrong-way driver on I-35, was another young, beautiful face.
Amanda Gonzalez, one of Rubio’s best friends, took weeks to build Rubio’s intricate altar.
“I just felt like she was more than a news story,” Gonzalez said through tears that moved me to tears. “She was such a beautiful person. Everyone should know about her and care about what happened to her.”
May we all be so blessed to be remembered in such a sacred way.