Embracing our ghosts on Día de Los Muertos

Halloween is probably the most durable and — alas, like many of the creatures in the movies we like to watch this time of year — even unkillable of non-official holiday observances on the American calendar. And the reasons why surprise exactly no one: It’s all about fun and sexiness, creativity and theatricality. Tiresome family obligations are minimal. Guilt trips and grudges are almost never part of the equation. Candy is everywhere. And at its heart is license, to drink, to party, to wear as much makeup and/or as little clothing as you want.

Seriously, what’s not to love?

But gradually, Halloween, in a cultural sense, is evolving, thanks to the related but tonally different traditional Mexican observance of Día de Los Muertos (Day of the Dead). And I think that’s good news.

Día de Los Muertos traditionally takes place the day after Halloween (though not always), and the pronounced mainstreaming of the holiday means many more Americans are embracing it, or at least acknowledging it, every year. As you might already know, Día de Los Muertos is, at its heart, about remembering loved ones who have passed on. Of course, it’s not like traditional American culture doesn’t bother to remember our dead. But we often do so with a sometimes suffocating sense of solemnity and sorrow, as if the period of genuine mourning never quite ends. 

The gift that Día de Los Muertos gives us, then, is the permission to grieve our loved ones with something other than a sense of crippling heartache. It is, at heart, a celebration, not of someone’s death, but all that other more joyful stuff that preceded that death. Everyone deserves to be remembered for something other than the circumstances of their death.

In that spirit, I want to take a moment to remember those in my life who have died, not necessarily my own personal family losses, of which there’ve been a few, but of the many people I’ve come to know, and in some cases love, in the course of my job as a journalist in Santa Cruz County. I’ve been covering the cultural scene locally for a third of a century and, in that time, I’ve written scads of obituaries and tributes, for many I considered good friends. It’s important to note here that journalists often can occupy a unique space somewhere between “friend” and “acquaintance,” and there are scores of people I can put in that category. Sure, I have probably never caught a game or taken a road trip with them. But over the course of one or two or half a dozen interviews, often on subjects dear to their hearts, I’ve been able to attain a level of intimacy with them that, in some cases, even close friends don’t get to enjoy. It is the single greatest privilege of my work.

So, terrified that I am certain to leave someone out who belongs here, let me take a moment to remember those who many across Santa Cruz County and beyond will remember as well, some of the souls who have defined this community’s creative personality, people whose absence has diminished all our lives, but whose influence continues to enrich them.

There are two men — who died in the same year, 2009 — who remain big influences in my life as a writer and a person. Laconic, courtly James D. “Jim” Houston was, in many ways, one of my idols. A writer of great historical sensitivity, he always seemed to be seeing a greater distance than the rest of us. Poet and film critic Morton Marcus fired my imagination nearly every time I spoke to him. Just like the ambitious boxer that he was in his youth, Mort punched above his weight and never wasted a moment on boredom or cynicism or apathy. 

Artist James Aschbacher’s life was brimming with love, for food, for art, for his wife, for every day that he was given. Sista Monica Parker got a late start in life in following her dream, but she did it anyway, and her courage continually pushes me to keep tracking my passions. 

My friend, the artist and writer Jory Post, got a terminal diagnosis and spent the last year of his life racing to create. I’m still amazed at his energy and commitment, and use it for my own motivational purposes. Pete McLaughlin was an uncommonly talented writer who inspired me on the page and, as a friend, taught me a few things about the demons that often accompany uncommon talent.

Musician and scholar Linda Burman-Hall devoted her life and career to understanding the cross-cultural currents of music, and we’re all the better for it. Robin Janiszeufski Hesson — known in every corner of the Santa Cruz surfing scene as “Zeuf” — was a relentless life force of a woman, and stronger than a storm swell in January. And I’m not sure I’ve ever met a person of greater moral decency and grace as the tireless teacher and internment-camp survivor Mas Hashimoto.

I spent many hours marveling at the huge appetites — for books, for life — of comedian Fred Reiss, who somehow kept a hearty soul intact in the face of one tragedy after another. Jayme Kelly Curtis was a soulful singer-songwriter and a real angel of a person. And Audrey Stanley wore her role as the queen of local theater with a regal elegance and a down-to-earth kindness.

I’m still amazed at all the time I got to spend with the far-seeing astronomer and the pioneer of the search for life on other planets, the incomparable Frank Drake. Writer and troublemaker Lee Quarnstrom, with his gift for storytelling, was someone I aspired to be like as a young journalist. Then, he became a friend, and a source of inspiration and entertainment. Mary McCaslin was an unnatural talent as a singer, a songwriter and a guitarist, but was a sweet-natured and modest person off-stage as well.

And of the folks we’ve lost in recent months, time seemed to stand still when I hung out with Wallace “Jay” Nichols, especially when he talked about his love for the ocean and the “Slow Coast.” Writer Amy Ettinger sparkled with equal parts kindness and passion, and I’ll forever remember her smile. Mathematician and counterculture explorer Ralph Abraham might have been the most intellectually brilliant mind I’ve ever encountered, and a gentle soul on top of that. Rowland Rebele was nothing less than a giant in this community with his philanthropy, his commitment to help the less fortunate and his passionate attachment to the arts. He was a big personality who gave me confidence as a writer and who taught me how far you can get with will and tenacity.

I’ve failed to mention so many others who’ve touched my life over the years. But I can’t get out of here without mentioning my old friend, the late writer Tana Butler, a woman of distinctively Southern fire and ice. There are so many moments when I still hear Tana’s honeyed voice shaking me out of complacency, and reminding me that I don’t have all that long to make a difference in the world.

These are the spirits animating my imagination on this Día de Los Muertos.

Ernest Hemingway was once quoted: “Every man has two deaths, when he is buried in the ground and the last time someone says his name.” I’m going to go ahead and make a wild stab here, Papa, and say that the same applies to women. But the point is a profound one. Chances are there is someone, probably several someones, in your life who is no longer on this plane in a physical sense, but whose memory still burns bright and whose example and influence are still a big part of who you are. 

Have fun this Halloween. But after all the partying and indulging and acting out, do some remembering of your personal los muertos. Have a drink, or a Kit Kat bar, or a fistful of candy corns in their honor. Say their names. And look for the light in the enveloping darkness of their absence. It’s there, shining brightly. 

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