The Day of the Dead

 

The Day of the Dead

 

 My ancestors came from Kentucky. During the gold rush, they were some of the first people to settle in this community in the 1850s. The same year California achieved statehood and joined the Union as a Free State. More than a century later, I was born and raised in this small town. I am Paul, and I live in Visalia, in the heart of California.

Since middle school, my best friends have been Mexicans. I liked how they're firmly rooted in their traditions and proud of their Aztec/Spanish ancestry. I took Spanish in high school but learned much more from my friends. My family didn't like me spending so much time with my Mexican friends, but I ignored them. 

I celebrated all Mexican holidays with them. I especially liked 'el Dia de los Muertos.' Every year we visited the cemetery on the day of the dead to visit their dead relatives. I liked the peculiar way they celebrated that day. Praying and reminiscing about their dearly departed, music and food were an essential part of the tradition.        

In middle school, I met Carlos. We were fourteen; he had a sixteen-year-old sister and a younger brother. The first time I tasted real Mexican food was at his house. It was spicy hot. I remember they had chiles rellenos. They made me feel at home. In contrast, my family was hostile and indifferent when I invited Carlos to my house. Eventually, things would change.

 

 My grandfather bought some land when he arrived in this area. Later, my dad did too. We now own a large piece of land with walnut trees, oranges, and many different fruits. My dad built a large house in the middle of it all. 

The first time I invited Carlos to my house, my older sister and her husband and my younger brother, mom, and dad were there. They were in the swimming pool. When I introduced Carlos to them, they were indifferent. When we got in the water, they exited the pool one by one; they didn't even simulate their scorn. Each one gave a different excuse as they got out of the water. 

My heart broke; I was disappointed in my family. I couldn't believe my family could have such a terrible attitude. We had never discussed anything about race differences or social positions, so it was a surprise for me, a sad and lousy surprise. I knew I had to do something, but that wasn't the right moment. 

I knew Carlos noticed the subtle rejection, but we neither showed annoyance nor anger. After several minutes of fake enjoyment, we got out of the water, picked up our bikes, and headed for the Saint John's river. Our friends were there, Carlos' sister Lola too. I felt attracted to her. I knew Carlos didn't mind.    

Carlos was a fast swimmer. He spent most summer weekends in the river. We crossed the river underwater, jumped, and dived from the trees. We would tie the ends of a rope from a tree to another tree on the other side of the river. We used old inner tubes from car tires to float in the middle of the river. Sometimes we even tried to fish, but we were too impatient.

Just before nightfall, we headed for their home, tired and hungry. Lola and her mom prepared food for everybody, tacos with mashed potatoes, soup with whole pinto beans, and hot sauce. That night I received my first kiss from a girl. Dolores was her name, but they called her Lola. 

When I got home, I confronted my family about their attitude earlier. They denied the whole thing saying it was just my predisposed imagination and that none of them intentionally showed any adverse reactions when Carlos got in the swimming pool. All of them gave me a valid response. In the end, they almost convinced me that it was my imagination. 

When I was in bed, before I turned the lights off, my dad came to my room and said, "Son, many Mexicans work for me. They're good people and good workers. You're right. We didn't treat your friend properly. I regret that, and I promise it won't happen again." 

I felt so much better. Before falling asleep, I rubbed my cheek where Lola had kissed me, and then I kissed my hand, and I got lost in my thoughts.

At that time, I was sure I would love Lola forever. I thought I could never be apart from her. That night I created several scenarios where I would save her from dangerous situations and become her hero. 

I spent the rest of the summer with them. One day, I even joined them in picking grapes. It was hard work, but I enjoyed every single minute. I couldn't imagine what my dad would have thought if he had seen me picking grapes. Lola said it was one of the easiest jobs in the fields. Even Pepito collected more grapes than I did.

On the last day before returning to school, I dared Carlos to an underwater race across the river. The river was not too wide or deep; the water was melted snow from the Sequoia Mountains, the Sierra Nevada that divides California and Nevada.

It was a little murky below the surface, and I got stuck under a fallen tree. I had my left foot in between a branch, and the harder I tried to release myself, the more I struggled to get loose. I felt desperate and began to panic, then I saw Carlos and Pepito pulling my arms, but it was all in vain. I thought I couldn't resist any longer; they went back up, and a second later, they came back and went straight to untangle my foot.

As I was in the middle of my predicament, instead of seeing my life flash in a second, I thought they would forget about me in a week if I died. Then I passed out. When I opened my eyes, Lola was kissing me. I thought I was in heaven, but I was lying on the sand, and Lola was trying to resuscitate me.

They had tears and were happy because I wasn't dead.

 

 Later, nobody would take me seriously whenever I'd talk about my near-death experience in the river. I guess you have to die; otherwise, they think it's an insignificant story, but I knew I would have died if I had stayed underwater for a few more seconds. 

One day my dad came home with a Mexican boy in the back of his flatbed truck. He just had an accident while working in the field. He was picking oranges and fell from an eight-foot ladder. 

He had a broken arm, was about my age, and was obviously in a lot of pain, but he wasn't crying, and I asked him in Spanish, "Te duele?" — Does it hurt?

“Si, mucho, pero eso no importa, lo malo es que ya no voy a poder ayudarle a mi papa a trabajar, y no tenemos dinero para ir al doctor.” he answered.

Está bien, mi papá puede pagar. No te preocupes. I responded.

 

 My dad dropped his jaw and opened his eyes wide open, surprised to hear me speak Spanish for the first time. I translated to my dad, and I told him that the boy was in pain and was worried about not being able to work anymore and not having money to pay for the doctor. My dad asked me to tell him he would take care of everything. 

 

 I was proud of my dad when he fulfilled his promise.

One day Carlos told me that he thought Lola had a crush on me and that I was the least ugly of all the guys that were chasing her. He also told me to ask her out if I wanted to, which I did. 

When I asked her out to the movies, it wasn't different from any other day. We all went together anyway. 

I had to wait a few more weeks to lose my virginity and find paradise simultaneously.

They lived on the other side of the railroad tracks, next to the cemetery. I was walking Lola from school that afternoon, and we took a shortcut and went straight into the graveyard. 

We visited Lola's aunt's gravesite. We sat on a black marble tomb. It was near dark. She was wearing a skirt. We did it right there on the hard cool marble, under the stars of Visalia and surrounded by thousands of dead people, right above Marylou Whitendale. 

*****

Carlos missed school for four weeks that year because his dad fell from a ladder and broke his left leg. They let him go just like that, without even giving him some money to pay for the doctor. Carlos went to work in his place. After a while, our teacher said that if Carlos missed one more week, he would have to repeat the same grade the following year. 

Pepito and I went to work with him ten hours a day on Saturdays. I couldn't believe how hard it was. Carlos was working sixty hours a week. I asked my dad to give Carlos' dad any work, light work; he had to wear a cast for only two more weeks.

My dad hired him. Don Pedro drove the truck, collected the crates, and supervised the workers. Don Pedro ended up staying for the rest of his life. My dad gained the best worker he ever had and a good friend too. Don Pedro had a heart of gold; our dog started to follow him wherever he went. My dad had never realized how much he needed a good foreman and supervisor. My mom was happier than ever because my dad spent more time in the house and wasn't 'killing himself,' as she used to say.

*****

On the day of the dead, Mexicans visit cemeteries to be with the souls of the departed and build altars or shrines containing their favorite food and beverages and photos of the deceased. They believe the souls of the dead would show up to listen to the prayers and comments of the living directed to them. The families remember funny events and anecdotes about the departed. They decorate the graves with candles, memorabilia, and flowers. 

They'll bring bread and edible sugar skulls with the names of the dead written on the forehead. They include in the offerings whatever the deceased liked when they were alive. Sometimes they bring musicians to play their favorite songs. It begins like a picnic and ends up like a carnival. The cemetery is such a strange place for a party, and at the same time, very appropriate. 

Carlos said that when his aunt died, he was secretly happy because they would have an excuse to go to the cemetery on the day of the dead. I thought it was a little sinister to wish for a relative to die so you could visit them at the cemetery.

I remember I asked Lola and Carlos who they thought would die first of us three. Then Lola picked three little sticks, each a different size, and said, "Whoever picks the shortest one is the one who's going to die first." 

I picked it, and it became true. 

                                                *****

The day Carlos became my brother was a hot summer day.

We were in the fields when, without any warning, three green vans with probably two dozen agents rounded the fields. The whole place became noisy and chaotic. Everybody tried to run to avoid getting arrested. We had over thirty workers that day. They screamed, "La migra, la migra," or the INS (Immigration and Naturalization Service). They caught more than half of them, including Carlos. 

I noticed when my dad hid Don Pedro in his pickup truck under crates and tarps. Our dog was there too. When one of the agents came to search in the back of the truck, the dog wouldn't let him near. He kept barking ferociously until the agent gave up and left. My dad was distraught, claiming he would lose all the crops, but they gave him some papers and told him that everything they did was legal. They would interrogate all the workers and then release all legal residents.

 

We knew they weren't taking any jobs away from Americans. We all knew that nobody but Mexicans would work in the fields. The INS was doing a useless, never-ending job.

When we returned home, Carlos' mom was already there waiting for news about Don Pedro and Carlos. She cried when she noticed Carlos was missing. 

My dad hired a lawyer and explained the situation. He said the only solution was for Carlos to admit he was an orphan and had no relatives in the USA. That way, my dad could adopt him.

After my dad signed several papers, they released Carlos the following day. Carlos was my new brother, but he was my brother before the documents said so. He had been my real brother since he saved my life in the river. 

                                              *****

The festivities began early in the morning. Old Mexican ladies had come before dawn to clean the tombs of their relatives. It was my first time celebrating the day of the dead on the other side.  

 

I died a week before I was supposed to leave for college. 

It was a stupid accident. Bored teenagers with nothing to do. Most of us have done it too—a sixteen-year-old boy, driving, too distracted and drunk to see a stop sign. I had taken Lola to her house and promised eternal love and faithfulness. I promised her I'd come back to marry her. I couldn't accomplish the last part. 

Death is everyone's final destination. We know there is no divine intervention at all, just simple fate. The kid that caused the accident is also here with us. 

The sadness in my heart increased when my two families arrived. Lola looked as beautiful as ever. 

At the end of the day, I watched them disappear in the distance. I wished I could join them. Before they reached the gate, Carlos returned, took a picture from his wallet, and hung it on the wooden cross. 

 

It was a picture somebody took the day I almost drowned in the river. In the photograph, everybody was looking at the camera except me. I was staring at Carlos with a look of gratitude in my eyes.

Edmundo Barraza  

Visalia, Ca. May 2011