(Reprinted from West Trade Review, 2014.)
1
I went to Mexico as a reporter; there’s no such thing as an objective reporter, incidentally. You become a part of whatever you report. I’ve made my peace with it. I’ve made my peace with a lot of things. Never by choice.
I was walking along the rows of shops—temporary stands, set up only for the month of October, selling their wares for el día de los muertos, The Day of the Dead, a holiday unique to Mexico, which I always found curious, since the alliteration is so only in English. Two voiced alveolar plosives, that hard “deh” sound, “D-ay” of the “D-ea-D,” a harsh stop of air that brings a sudden halt, like the sudden cessation of breath that comes with death itself. Day of the Dead should’ve been an English holiday, I’m telling you. Or at least an American.
But it’s a Mexican one instead; it will always be foreign to me, just as life will always be more than we can bear. Because that’s the other thing about being a reporter—what you report on will never fully become part of you. I’ve made my peace with it. I’ve made my peace with a lot of things. Never by choice.
These rows of shops, I called them temporary stands, but only in the sense that they’re up only a month a year. Some of these stands had been in the family since the 1910 Revolution. Emilio Zapata was riding around for real, not just as a spectre haunting the hills of Morelos, when this family began selling skeletons dressed as mariachi singers.
“You talk too much,” said Mike, while I examined a skeleton shaped chocolate bar. Everything has to be skeletons with Day of the Dead; they euphemize nothing.
“I don’t recall saying any of that outloud,” I replied at last, “Or saying any of that to you, anyways.”
“No, I told you that first day of High School, don’t you remember? You talk too much, it puts people off, you’ll make more friends if you just keep your mouth shut, is all I’m sayin.”
“I remember.”
“Dammit man, look at me, it’s me, Mike! Your good buddy Mike; I was, like, your best friend freshmen year.”
“I think you were my only friend,” I replied, “And I bitterly resented every moment of it.”
“Ah, is thathow it’s gonna be?” he said, “Dude, let me tell you what, if it wasn’t for me, you’d of just cried yourself every day in the bathroom after school, crying, crying that nobody liked you!”
“Yeah, I learned to stop crying,” I said as I tried to translate a poster for sale in my head:
No vale nada la vida
La vida no vale nada
Comienza siempre llorando
Y así llorando se acaba.
“Hey, man, you can read that?” Michael asked me.
“Life means nothing, nothing means life, it begins in crying, and so in crying ends,” I translated.
“Dude, that’s depressing.”
“It rhymes better in Spanish.”
“You always did pay attention in Mrs. Fay’s class,” he reminisced, “Everyone else was just trying to get the stupid elective out of the way—the Mexicans were just tryin’ to get an easy A! Remember? Honest to God, the only Spanish word I learned was ‘fea,’ because I knew it meant ‘ugly’ and I could call her ‘Mrs. Ugly’ every day.”
“Uh-huh.” I looked at the Mexican wrestling masks; always so colorful in the late afternoon sun.
“But you man, you,” he continued, “You seemed to actually want to learn! Well, I’m glad it all panned out for you, you actually learned Spanish, I knew you would.”
“I didn’t learn Spanish in High School,” I said.
He jogs up to keep pace with me as I meandered along. “Well, where the hell did you learn Spanish, if not in Mrs. Fay’s class?” he asked me.
For the first time I stopped and looked him in the eye. “Michael, High School happened a long time ago.”
I kept walking. “Oh, is that’s how it is?” he said, “You’ve already forgotten your good buddy Mike, all he did to protect you freshman year, that’s all nothing, I’m forgotten now?”
I answered by walking.
“C’mon, man,” he tried again, “Do you remember anything about me at all? The mere fact that I’m here talking to you at all must mean I mean something to you, right?”
“Mike, I cried all night the night you died.”
“Oh, no, you didn’t,” he cocks his head, “After all the things I did to you? I used you cruelly, man, I won’t deny it for a second. I bet you breathed a sigh of relief when you heard the news.”
“I cried all night,” I repeated, “But I haven’t cried since, make no mistake.”
“Dude, I know you better than that,” he said, “I may’ve only known you freshmen year, but I know you better than that.”
“Do you now,” I said, making a note in my press-pad.
“You weren’t just crying over me, give me a little credit, man.”
I turned and faced him again. “Yes, Michael, you’re right,” I say dispassionately, “I was crying that I didn’t go to that party with you, because there was drinking, and I was too scared to go somewhere where there was drinking, and hated that I was too scared, and hated that even if I wasn’t too scared you would’ve been the only person I could’ve hung out with, and I hated that I resented my only friend so much, and hated that I wasn’t there to stop you from getting in that car, and angry that I probably wouldn’t have been able to stop you even if I had. But then I never cried about it again.”
He stepped back a little, his face falling a little. “Damn, you really got over me, didn’t you,” he said at last, “Not a tear, not even a quiver.”
“I’ve made my peace with it,” I said, pulling out my camera to take some more pictures of the displays, “I’ve made my peace with a lot of things.”
“You’ve changed, man,” he said, “You’ve really changed from the scared little boy I tormented in High School, haven’t you.”
“I should certainly hope so,” I said, purchasing a dulce. “Cinco pesos,” said the shop owner. “Gracias,” I said smiling.
“Are those good?” he asked me.
“I like ‘em,” I replied.
“No, wait, I’m gonna call bullshit on you, man,” he said, suddenly remembering himself “If you’re not living in the past with everyone else, then why am I here, huh? Why did you remember me here?”
“I think the better question is why did you come here,” I said.
And then I saw something I’d never seen him do before, something that caused me to think maybe this wasn’t really a hallucination, a memory gone wild, but perhaps a ghost after all.
He began tear up.
“I guess I…I…I’m just looking for someone to remember me, is all,” he said at last.
“Mike,” I said walking ahead without looking at him, “I never forgot you.”
2
This was in Guadalajara, mind you; named for a much smaller city in Spain. It’s an Arabic name, meaning “singing rocks,” like in a brook, left over from the Moorish occupation, before the reconquest of 1492, and the conquest of the Aztecs soon afterwards. But Day of the Dead was an Aztec holiday first, but it soon conquered the conquistadores instead. Wherever the Spanish have conquered they’ve been conquered right back. From the Arabs to the Aztecs, they couldn’t fight them with their swords and steel.
The town Centro of Guadalajara is filled with Baroque buildings from that first colonization—towering edifices, breath-taking in their beauty, proclaiming the glory of an empire that long ago disappeared off the earth. It was while walking these cobble-stone streets that Jessica caught up with me.
“How’s the kid,” I asked.
“How did you know I had a kid?” she asked with that mischievous smile of hers, her amber hair glowing in the sun.
“Heard it through the grape vine,” I said, still not looking at her.
“I have a second on the way now,” she said coyly, like she always did.
“Good for you.”
“You never did meet my husband, did you,” she said, flashing her pearly whites.
“I’m sure he’s a wonderful man,” I remarked, striding into a wall-side restaurant, “Dos gringas, por favor, con carne del pastor y chonchillo.”
She giggled flirtatiously. “You’re so cute when you speak Spanish.”
“Why don’t you go bug your husband, instead,” I said, waiting for my food.
“Oh, is that anyway to talk to your lover?” she pouted with those irresistible baby blues.
“Jessica,” I said, at last turning to look at her, though it pained me to, “If you have a second kid on the way, then by that very grammatical construction you must still be alive, so what are you doing here?”
“Ooh, such deductive logic,” she cooed teasingly, “You must be a geniusor something!”
“Una Coca tambien, por favor,” I ordered. Mexican Cokes use real can sugar, makes it sweeter, hits the spot in a dry heat like this.
“I never died, at least not yet, of course,” she continued, “But I’m pretty sure our love did, sweetheart.”
“Dead and buried, huh,” I took a sip.
“Oh, c’mon darling, it wasn’t that easy to get over me, was it?”
“Was it that easy for you?”
Finally she heaved a sigh. “I waited forever for you, you know,” she said.
“I know,” I said, accepting my change.
“You don’t know how many nights I lost over you, waiting for you to come around, trying to forget you and never being able to.”
“I can imagine.”
“You know, at any moment you could’ve had me, do you know that?”
“I was aware.”
“Any time, you could’ve taken me back, and I would’ve come running into your arms.”
“I know.”
“Said the word, and I would’ve been putty in your hands. You could’ve proposed to me, and I would’ve said ‘Yes! Yes! Yes!’ a million times over.”
“Aquí, señor,” said the cook, serving me my plate; gringas are like quesadillas, only larger and with much meatier inside; a local Jalisco favorite. I picked up a lime and squeezed the juice on it.
“But then one day, the fever broke,” she said smiling, “the spell disappeared, and I didn’t want you anymore.”
I took a bite from my gringa. “I know,” I said swallowing.
“Dead and buried,” she echoed, “And when Matthew asked me out—that’s my husband, you really should meet him, a wonderful man, like you said—well, he caught me at the right time, and I fell madly in love…”
“You were always good at that,” I said, taking another bite.
“I’ll just ignore that last comment!” she giggled, slapping my arm playfully, “I loved you so long, I guess that love sort of just took on a life of its own, because now that it’s dead and buried it still wonders the earth after you.”
I took another sip to wash down my gringa.
“So, yeah,” she became serious again, “It took me far longer than you, but I did finally get over you.”
Now I turned and looked at her, puzzled. “Jessica,” I said, “I nevergot over you.”
“Well,” she sighed at last, “just so you know, Ireally did! Get over you, I mean. Our love is long dead and buried, like I said, and I will never ask for you again. I don’t even think of you when I look in his eyes. I don’t wonder what our babies would’ve looked like instead. I don’t even compare you to him when we make love, just so you know.”
I took a sip of coke.
“It seems like you were trying to spare me, spare my feelings, if I recall right,” she said, “But I guess you’rethe one who needs to be spared, huh, babe?”
“I’ve made my peace with it, babe,” I replied, taking another bite, “I’ve made my peace with a lot of things.”
3
If you want to experience a foreign country, you must ride their public transportation. You can tell a lot the character, the spirit, of a country, by how punctual their buses pass or how hard the driver takes the turns down narrow alleys or how passionately lovers kiss while sandwiched between drunks, school children, elderly women selling dulces for a peso apiece, shoppers, and day laborers on their way home to their families. During rush hour there’s standing room only on the bus. But late at night or mid-day, you can have a couple seats to yourself.
“Well, hello-uh there, m’boy!” said the old man, sitting next to me, in spite of the near empty bus.
“Hi grandpa,” I said, not looking up.
“And-uh, how do ya like ol’ Me-hee-co?” He always loved to over-pronounce the h-sounded “x” in Mexico.
“I’m enjoying it,” I said, still looking out the window.
“And what sorts-a sights are ya seein, ma’ boy?”
I pulled out my press-pad to review my notes. “Nothing I haven’t seen already.”
“Oh, ma’ boy,” he almost sang, “You gotta see new things every day, or you’ll start to grow old like me! Seeing new things is what makes each day worth it. Otherwise the days just fly by, and then one day you’re 90, and you wonder where the days went.”
“You know, you weren’t just another grandson to me,” he began again, “I always took a sort-a likin’ to ya, even from the first time your Momma showed you off to me…”
“I appreciate it, grandpa.”
“No, I’m not sure you quite do yet, m’ boy,” he continued, “I loved all my grandkids, and I think I saw through all of you better then ye all saw yourselves. That should provide ya with a bit of perspective, dunnit, m’boy?”
“I’ve made my peace with a lot of things,” I said to myself.
“Have ya, now?” he cocked his head towards me, stroked his white mustache, “M’ boy, I’m not sure yous is quite ol’ enough to understand what it means to make peace with somethin’.”
“What does it mean to make peace with somethin’,” I said quickly. The Mexicans, it seemed, didn’t take much notice of me seemingly talking to myself. Guero loco, they probably thought, just another crazy white boy who thinks he can change by crossing borders.
“M’ boy, m’ good-hearted boy, it means exactly what it means! There’s a peace, and you make it, simple as that. You know you’ve made peace cause there’s a peace that follows.”
He paused again, before continuing with, “Have you had a peace follow, ma’ boy? Have ye really made peace?”
“Never by choice,” I replied.
He roared at that one. “Oh, ma’ good boy!” he laughed, wiping a tear from his eye—a tear of laughter, “ye just might learn yet, ye might just learn yet!”
“Learn what, exactly?”
“M’ boy, you’re still so very young,” he said, “I know you think you’re old already, but you’ve still got a whole life in front of ye to make peace with.”
“Hey Grandpa.”
“Yes, ma’ boy.”
“I miss you terribly.”
“I know, I know…” He said cheerfully, patting me paternally on the back.
4
There is an appropriate run-up festival to the Day of the Dead here in Guadalajara; the Catholic festival of the procession of the Virgin of Zapopan on the 12 of October. In the states, October 12 is of course Columbus Day, a time for school children to crudely crayon out three brown ships in descending size and rhyme-ability—the Niña, the Pinta, and the Santa Maria. In Mexico, however, there is no observance of Christopher Columbus’ fateful sighting of the Americas, nor are there monuments to Cortez nor Universities named for Pizzaro. They have willfully removed the names of the invadersfrom their common memory, as a sort of long-standing revenge. Hence, when a two foot statue is carried from the Cathedral in Guadalajara to the Bascillica in Zapopan, the little-lady will beat out the Italian navigator every time.
Which I found to be exceedingly curious, since the religion through which they snub Columbus is the same faith the Italian imported over. For though the Mexicans may by and large be Aztec in ancestry, that bloodline is irrevocably mixed with the Spanish. Unlike the English, the Spanish married their conquests, rather than just slaughter them. I wondered sometimes what I would be like if my Puritan ancestors had married into the Delewares, the Hurons, the Cherokee, the Navajo. Perhaps the states would have a Day of the Dead, too, and we could finally claim the alliteration for our own.
But we don’t, and I’ve made peace with it (I’ve made peace with a lot of things), so I got up at 4 a.m. to join the throngs of the faithful, men, women, and children of all ages, whole families, to line the streets all the way from Guadalajara to Zapopan, waiting for their chance to glimpse and pay their respects to the Virgin.
Not that there wasn’t a show; when they call it a procession they mean a procession—a lively parade of native-dressed dancers, mariachi bands, priests, nuns, and children dressed as revenants for the coming holiday. The excitement of the crowd kept me from drifting asleep again, and my vigilance was at last was rewarded when a grand wagon wheeled by to great fanfare, and someone in the crowd would cry out jubilantly, “¡Mira la Virgen de Zapopan!” and all the faithful around her echoed back, “¡Mira!”
“What does mira mean?” he asked me.
It took me a moment to recognize him. “Alex!” I exclaimed at last, “Oh no, don’t tell me you’re dead, too!”
“Fallujah offensive, ’06,” he said with his trademark grin, “roadside bomb, didn’t even see it coming.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that,” I say dejectedly.
“Hey, it wasn’t your fault. Don’t worry about it,” he snorted.
“I wasn’t accepting responsibility,” I say.
“So, hey, hey, you didn’t answer my question, what does ‘mira’ mean?”
“Look.”
“Look, the Virgin de Zapopan, eh?” he smiles good-naturedly, “That’s profound man, wow, that’s profound.”
“Well, what are you even doing here?” I asked, “I haven’t seen you since college, and I didn’t think we were that close even then.”
“Hey, man, I’ve been dead a few years now,” he said with a wink, “It’s not like you were on the top of my list or anything.”
“Of course not,” I couldn’t help but smile. He was never anything less than good natured. For some reason, he was the last person I expected to drop out of college and join the Army.
“I have been thinking of you though, man,” he says at last.
“The dead think?” I asked.
“Well, yeah, man, it’s not like we got a whole lot else to do,” he chuckled.
“I see.” Silence for a minute.
“That seems to bother you,” he noted, “What’s up, man, you’re not the kind of guy I’d expect to be bothered by having time to think.”
“But to have nothing else to do but…” I trailed off.
“Oh, man, it’s not like that!” he laughed, “Besides, it’s a different kind of thinking, really; you make your peace with things.”
“I’ve made my peace with a lot of things,” I begin.
At that he really roared.
“What?” I asked, a bit piqued, as he wiped the tears of joy from his eyes.
“Oh, you living!” he managed, before bursting out laughing again.
“Oh, what, we’re a subgroup now?”
“My friend,” he said, finally composing himself, “You may not have thought of it this way, but you guys are so the minority! There’s almost none of you, really, and are here for almost no time at all. You think you’ve made peace with things? And you’re alive? Man oh man oh man, I don’t even know where to begin with that one!”
His laughter was infectious, so in spite of myself, I couldn’t help but chuckle a bit too. “That’s what I liked about you,” I said at last, “You were always so good-natured, nothing ever got the best of ya, you know that?”
“Oh, stop,” he said dismissively, “I was tortured by things too, man. We all are. I just hid it better, I suppose.”
There was another minute of silence between us before it finally occurred to me to ask, “So, what’s it like?”
“To die, you mean?”
“Yeah.”
Now he fell silent. His eyes got lost in the distance, probably the most pensive I’d ever seen him. “I would say…hm…man, it’s like a…I would say it’s like a fog lifting, but that’s not quite it.” He turned to face me, “It’s something you really have to experience for yourself, before we can talk about it, you understand?”
“No, not really,” I confessed, “I guess’ll find out soon enough, eh?”
“Eh, don’t be in a hurry,” he shrugged, “I know everyone says this, but everyone says this cause its true, man—just enjoy the moment you’re in, that’s all. The past, the future, man—it’s all one, really, all in the same moment.
“No, wait, man, listen to me for a second, seriously!” My attention had drifted away into pensive thought, but now I turned to listen to him. “You know how many sunsets I watched in Iraq?” he continued, “The most brilliant colors come out of the horizon in the Iraqi desert. Took my breath away every time. And sometimes, even if it’d been a long day of fighting before, I’d still get up early enough the next morning to make sure I caught the sunrise, because it was just too brilliant to miss! I’d actually volunteer for patrol duty outside the green zone, because that was where the stars were the most brilliant, and I tell ya, it doesn’t matter how bad things get, when you’re staring at the stars, away from all the city lights, everything’s right, everything’s alright. Oh man oh man, I’m tellin’ ya, you shoulda’ been there man! You of all people woulda’ appreciated it…”
“I shoulda’ been in Iraq, huh?” I smirked.
“You should seen everything around you,” he said.
Finally I confess. “Alex, I wish I’d gotten to know ya better back in college.”
“You know I was thinking the same thing?” he said, “I wish I’d gotten to know you better, too.”
“It’s not like we hate each other or anything…”
“Oh no, not even close! We just should’ve been better friends, is all. That’s why I decided to see how you was doin’, you know?”
“Making peace with things?” I asked.
“You betcha.”
5
The Day of the Dead itself is November 1st, but you wouldn’t need a calendar to let you know. My widowed landlady, for example, had elaborate candle-lit shrines set up to her dearly-departed loved ones. But it wasn’t a quiet night to herself—she had her children and grandchildren visiting, loud music playing, and fine tequila flowing. It’s not a time of mourning, you see—they did their mourning at the funeral—it’s a time of celebration, for this is a family reunion; even her dead husband will be their to dance with them.
But it’s at the cemeteries where the Day of the Dead is clearest of all; candles are lit and scattered through out all tombs, some with one or two, some blazing bright beneath the devotions of the multitude. It caused me to furrow my brow to consider that even in death there is popularity and loneliness.
While I walked the candle-lit cobblestones of one of the city’s oldest cemeteries that I heard her walking beside me at last. “Hi, hon,” she chirped.
“Hey Mom,” I replied, not looking up.
“How was your day?” she said, as though I were just getting home from school.
“Turned in a couple pieces to my editor,” I replied, still fixated on the cobblestone, “Did some research on another.”
“So you decided to become a journalist after all.”
“I always said I would.”
“It’s really competitive out there,” she warned, “And I’ve heard that the newspaper industry itself is falling apart, so it’s only going to get harder out there for you. Oh, my son, are you sure you don’t want to still look for a career in something a little more…stable? Secure? Why, with your talents…”
“Look, Mom,” I turn to her, “It’s wonderful to see you again, more than I can put in words. But doesn’t it strike you as a bit ironic for youto be telling me about a dying industry?”
She looked at me with a perplexed expression, much like the one I’d earlier given Jessica, “My son, what are you talking about?”
“Nothing,” I said sighing, and turned to walk again.
“I just don’t want you to be so reckless, my son,” she began again.
“I’ve been too cautious, Mom,” I replied, “And that’s killed me over and over again. I’ve been reckless ever since, and it’s kept me alive.”
“Eventually it will catch up with you, son,” she admonished, “You can’t runaway forever.”
“Running away?” I nearly shouted, “Mom, you were never reckless, and death caught you anyways, so what difference does it make?”
“Death?” she said, “Son, that’s not what I was talking about.”
Now I was confused. I turned to examine a well-lit tomb that featured a plaster of Michelangelo’s Madonna—the one where the Virgin Maria held her crucified Christ in her lap.
“My son, my son, my dear, sweet boy…” she began again, putting her hands on my shoulders, “You thought you were already old, a full grown man, when I passed on…”
“Moriste, madre,” I corrected her, “You died Mom, you died, let’s not euphemize—”
“When I passed one,” she gently interrupted, “You thought you were an adult, but you were still just a child, a boy, barely even born. I could still remember holding you in my arms when I passed on, as though no time had passed at all. I knew even then how young you were, and what I feared more than anything, more even than death itself, was that you wouldn’t know how to handle it…”
“I’ve made peace with it, Mom,” I replied, “I’ve made peace with a lot of things, not just you.”
“Never by choice,” she added.
“Never by choice,” I echoed.
We sat on a nearby bench and watched the pilgrims lay candles on the tombs.
“It’s a beautiful holiday, really,” I said.
“I’m glad I could spend it with you,” she said.
“Mom?”
“Yes?”
“I miss you most of all,” I said.
“I know, son,” she said. I turned to gaze on the candles again.
They filled the darkness of the cemetery until they merged with the city lights of Guadalajara over the hill, then blended into the stars of the moonless sky until the earth and the sky merged into one brilliant canvas of light against the everlasting night.