"To the people of New York, Paris or London, ‘death’ is a word that is never pronounced because it burns the lips. The Mexican, however, frequents it, jokes about it, caresses it, sleeps with it, celebrates it; it is one of his favorite toys and most steadfast loves."
— Octavio Paz, The Labyrinth of Solitude
PATZCUARO, MEXICO — Every year, Rosa Medina, 60, visits the cemetery of Tzurumutaro, Michoacan, located two miles from Lake Pátzcuaro, which inspired many of the scenes of the Disney-Pixar movie Coco.
This year, Medina had to make sure five graves were properly decorated with all the flowers and candles—like the ones seen in the movie — especially her husband’s. She buried him a year ago.
“We haven’t forgotten them yet, and they still live in our hearts.” Medina said.
In the P'urhepecha tradition, an indigenous community from Michoacan, during the first three years after someone dies, the tomb has to be decorated with a huge wooden structure, resembling a tombstone, decorated with fruits, cempasúchil flowers, sugar figures, fruit, and any significant symbol to help their loved one come back.
The celebration of death in Mexico is one of the most interesting, fascinating, albeit morbid traditions. More than 75% of Mexicans celebrate the Day of the Dead and believe the deceased return home to spend time with their families.
The tradition, which is more than 3,000 years old, is steeped in the Aztec and other Mesoamerican traditions in Mexico. It has served to honor death as a natural part of the cycle of life by making offerings to ancestors, creating altars and burning incense in a month-long celebration.
During Mexico’s colonization, the Spaniards decided to move dates around and made the celebration align with the Catholic All Saints’ Day and All Souls’ celebration — blending both indigenous and European festivities.
The celebration spread throughout Latin America — in Peru, people also visit graveyards and play popular music. In recent years, it's increasingly common to see Catrinas next to pumpkins in the U.S.
A new blend of trick-or-treating and cempasúchil altars transformed the Halloween landscape — from Santa Monica and San Antonio, to New York City and Detroit.
The celebration first gained popularity in the 1970s. Latino activists and artists began bringing the cultural tradition northward through public and often artistic displays to build a new identity that recognized and celebrated its roots.
This cultural exchange has been fueled largely by Hollywood this last decade. Movies like Guillermo del Toro’s The Book of Life showed the tradition in a different spectrum. After the Bond movie Spectre, the Day of the Dead parade portrayed at the beginning of the movie attracted so much attention that Mexican authorities decided to make it an annual event.
But the Disney movie Coco became a sort of trademark outside Mexico. The scenery taken from Lake Patzcuaro in Michoacan showed a general audience the deep meaning the Day of the Dead has, and one that generates more $2.2 billion for the economy.
In Mexican belief, for a brief moment, those who are no longer in the living world can revisit their families. It is almost as if the two worlds blend, leaving the border between life and death behind. Families gather around altars that now feature not only tequila and mole but also Coca-Colas and Doritos.
"As long as God grants us life, we’ll be here, bringing them flowers and their candles;” Medina explained. She visited five graves, including her husband's.
For Medina, it is very important that the next generations keep the tradition of making altars, arranging the tomb and spending the night with their deceased loved ones at the cemetery.
“Remember the movie Coco? We do believe that graves who don’t get candles are the forgotten who don’t get to cross to our world,” a woman next to Medina explained.
Another relative, Jessica Salvador, 32, lit a dozen candles beautifully scattered over the grave. "My grandmother used to tell me that it’s like the light they follow to come here," she explained.
Salvador also hoped to pass on the tradition to her daughters. She explained to them how an altar is set, and why it’s important to add food: "When we put offerings at home, it’s because they’re expected. We have to give them water, and we place the food they used to like."
Night came, and everything shone with a golden light reflected from the cempasúchil flowers.
The sound of prayers mixed with music that drifted across the cemeteries of Janitzio and Tzintzuntzan, creating a symphony that felt timeless. Flickering candles cast a warm, ethereal glow over the graves, illuminating the marigold petals and photos that decorated the altars.
They felt presence of their ancestors with a closeness as tangible as the aroma of incense in the air.
“We haven’t forgotten them yet," Medina said of her loved ones, "and they still live in our hearts.”
