Finding comfort and community
Fiesta de Santa Fe isn’t a one-time occasion for those of us who love it. It’s layer upon layer of experience, memories that blend together to create a kaleidoscope of sensation and feeling. Parades. Processions. Pageantry. Plaza fun. And, yes, the burning of Zozobra, once a centerpiece of the three days of Fiesta proper.
My first Fiesta, Zozobra wasn’t a Thursday eve precursor to Fiesta. It wasn’t the Friday before. Zozobra burned the Friday of Fiesta, conducted as a sort of the bookend to the first day, which started with the Pregón de La Fiesta, a Mass at Rosario Chapel and ended with frantic dancing on the Plaza after our collective gloom had been reduced to ashes.
The traditional Mass still opens Fiesta, an annual reminder that this commemoration by descendants of a people who endured 12 years of exile and returned to help create a unique New Mexico culture, is rooted in religion. Don Diego de Vargas, who brought the colonists back to Santa Fe after the 1680 Pueblo Revolt, promised the Virgin Mary that she would be remembered if they could go home. Depicted in a 30-inch statue — Mary, known over the years as Our Lady of the Assumption, Our Lady of the Rosary, La Conquistadora and, today, as Our Lady of Peace, is still the center of Fiesta for descendants of those original colonists.
That first year I went to Fiesta, though, I was in a quandary. Should I go? At 5 a.m. or so that Friday of Fiesta, my mom called to tell me that after a summer of setbacks and recoveries, my beloved grandmother had died. The tiny woman who made tortillas most days, helped me learn my prayers and taught me to dance in the kitchen listening to KFUN, was gone.
Crying, I put down the phone and fell back asleep. Back then, nothing disturbed my sleep. I got up around 9 and went to work, only to have my mom call the paper to make sure I had remembered the earlier call. Not only did I sleep well at 25, I often would forget conversations that happened as I was waking up. Not this one.
I had a story to finish and a decision to make. Was it right to go to Fiesta, considering what had just happened? Given that Zozobra is designed
to relieve gloom, I decided there was no better place to be before I went home to help prepare for Grandma’s funeral.
Not only that, with grandma gone, I knew that I would be leaving Santa Fe soon — I had returned to New Mexico to work so I could help my mom and her sister with Grandma’s care. With that tie unraveled, I was free to pick up again. Fiesta 1986 might be my only chance to see the spectacle, not just of Zozobra but all of Fiesta. I couldn’t pass it up.
We were close to the stage that first Fiesta. My friend Emily and I had to work, but her husband and another friend went early to get us a good spot. I joined them after my Sunday story was done, not knowing what to expect. I was curious about the fire dancer, since I had interviewed Chip Lilienthal for our pre-Fiesta coverage. Other than that, I was clueless.
As day stretched into evening, the suspense built. Finally, the lights went out. There was dancing and the most wonderful voice booming from Zozobra, expressing fear and the knowledge of his coming doom. The flames rose, licking Zozobra, seemingly swallowing him whole. I couldn’t believe it. As he burned, so did my grief. I cried through the darkness. As the flames died down, I wiped my face clean.
Once over, the crowd gathered to leave. My friends and I moved quickly off the field — the event was much smaller then, only 25,000 or so people. And we didn’t leave to parties or to bars. No, the crowd moved, almost as one being, down Washington Avenue straight to the Plaza. Zozobra was part of Fiesta. It was time to dance. Loud music reverberated through the night, and people snaked around the Plaza, spinning and moving as they danced. The energy from the burn had transported us from spectators to energetic dancers.
The connection between Zozobra and Fiesta was electric, joining the people who attend because of the spectacle with those there to honor culture and ancestors. For those precious minutes, we were one Santa Fe. The Plaza was packed, the music was booming and everyone celebrated Fiesta. Que Viva!