Rituals - Día de los Muertos

By Laura Saari / Photograph by Christina Cronin-Vejar

 

Halloween in Orange County is all about the drama: too much Disney with cleavage, too many Glinda the Good Witches, too much rented imagination. Needing respite—and recovering from a party that found me dancing with three gay guys in burqas—I headed to the Santa Ana Artists Village.

It was about 10 p.m. during the First Saturday Artwalk, but as I turned the corner onto the Second Street Promenade, High Mass rose up to meet me. Hundreds of flickering candles lighted the old brick street outside the Grand Central Art Center. Frankincense choked the air. Everyone seemed to be murmuring. The street was quiet, everyone reverent. An art installation, I thought. Then I saw a few skeletons on a display, and it finally clicked: I’d just stumbled into my first Day of the Dead.

That was 1994, and I’ve attended almost every year since—though I am not yet a Day of the Deadhead (devotees who count this as their favorite holiday).

The ritual—which Santa Ana celebrates this year on Nov. 7— is a cultural amalgam, part ancient Celt, part Spanish, part Mayan and Aztec. The Roman Catholic Church adopted All Saints (Nov. 1) and All Souls (Nov. 2) days. Many cultures believe that the line between the living and the dead is blurred as October turns into November.

The faithful also believe the Day of the Dead eases communication with the departed, and so they perform a courtship ritual to coax their departed ones from the other world. They create altars at home and in public places, covered with ofrendas, or offerings, to the deceased. They set out favorite foods, play the right songs, entice them with flowers or their favorite scents.

The Santa Ana event is known as “Noche de Altares,” or “Night of the Altars.” In addition to personal altars, some of which took months to build, Santa Ana’s artists began downtown public observances with community altars to which everyone could contribute. Over the years, the gathering has become more traditional, with the artists fading out, and more families joining in. A social services group took over and moved the observance a few blocks northeast of the village, yet close enough to make a night out of the Artwalk and the Day of the Dead. The families heap papayas and mangos and Mexican breads on tables adorned with flowers. Silver frames display photos of the departed.

The tables also are laden with personal favorites. Last year, I saw a six-pack of old-fashioned Coca-Cola bottles, two decks of cards and some dominoes, tamales, an Angels cap, In-N-Out burgers, a flacon of Vicky Tiel perfume, a bottle of Don Julio tequila, a box of cigars. The objects always seem so odd precisely because they’re so familiar. (And let me add that it’s really quite telling how much junk food, alcohol, tobacco, and sports memorabilia is required in the afterworld.)

A table with a Yankees cap caught my eye last year. It was near photos of a handsome young man. I didn’t want to ask.

“He’s here with us right now,” said Viviana Gonzalez, who’d also decorated her altar with french fries and energy drinks. She said her 16-year-old son, Adam, died in a car accident a few months earlier, and this was her way of feeling close to him.

At another altar, I saw photos of two families—one Japanese, one Hispanic. Rosalía Quintana de Godfrey of Santa Ana said her family came to Orange County from Mexico in 1923. They started working for the Nitta family, Japanese farmers.

“The Nittas were good to us,” she said. “When I was born, the Nittas bought my little high chair. Then in World War II, the Nittas found out [they would be placed] in an internment camp. Mr. Nitta sold his property to my dad for a dollar. My dad kept the farm going. When the Nittas were released from the camp, they came to stay in my grandmother’s house the first night. They slept in her old iron bed. Then my father sold them their property back.”

I ask her how much her mother got for selling the property back. “Dollar and a half,” she says. The families were entwined in life, and so she prays for them in death.

You’ll find stories like this at every altar. I’m struck each visit by how Day of the Dead celebrates the extraordinary power of the common, individual life. Artist and teacher Kalim Quevedo’s family—he’s part Mayan—has celebrated the occasion for centuries. Quevedo, who helped start the first artists’ celebration in Santa Ana, says he hopes to lure the artists back to the event this year. He says it’s a healing ritual for everyone, regardless of culture.

“If you love someone, and they die, you still love them,” he says. “And they’re still looking to drink with us, to eat with us, to dance with us. So this is how we celebrate our happiness with them.”

When the Santa Ana Artists Village opened about 15 years ago just two blocks from Fourth Street, some worried about berets replacing Stetsons downtown, that the boho gentry of Orange County would displace the Hispanics of Fourth Street. As far as I can tell—and for a number of reasons—that hasn’t happened. Fourth Street still draws Hispanics to its retail center from all over the county on the weekends. Hispanic artists have contributed immeasurably to the success of the village.

The Santa Ana parking lot between the two venues is just one of many places where cultures merge in Orange County. It’s a good place to find the spirit of Halloween—and maybe be found, as well.

'Noche de Altares'

Santa Ana's annual Day of the Dead celebration takes place from 2 to 10 p.m. Nov. 7 at the Fiesta Marketplace. The event is organized by El Centro Cultural de Mexico and Calacas Inc. For more information about the Santa Ana Artist Village, click here.

Laura Saari is an Orange Coast contributing editor.