I built my first ofrenda in 2018.
The base is a set of nesting tables rescued from our garage and given a place of honor between our kitchen and living room. An old black, white, and magenta serape that lived in my car’s trunk acts as cover. The colorful blanket smells like my dad José’s laundry soap; it was a casual inheritance. A gold crucifix rests on a bed of coarse salt, which purifies and protects the souls who visit my altar.
My never-ending Goth phase meant that I have plenty of skull and skeleton trinkets. Before he died from cancer in 2018, my dad used to teasingly call me Wednesday Addams. Now, seven years later, his photo sits in a dark wood frame, eternally smiling in a denim flat-cap and an orange polo shirt. Next to him is a potted cactus and a Snickers bar, his favorite candy. Those were things he liked in life. He’s been joined by his mother, my husband’s grandma, and other loved ones who have since died. Pan de muerto, a traditional sweet bread placed on altars for the Day of the Dead, sits on the ofrenda along with mugs, white sage, a brown beaded rosary, tealight candles, Campasúchil — also known as Mexican marigolds — and colorful papel picado.
“On the Day of the Dead, it’s believed that the veil between the spirit world (the world of the dead) and the tangible world (the world of the living) dissolves,” Luis Gavito, Cultural Ambassador with M.E.C.A., Multicultural Education and Counseling through the Arts, told The Barbed Wire. M.E.C.A. is a Houston-based nonprofit that helps keep underrepresented groups connected to arts and culture. Gavito is the curator of M.E.C.A.’s Ofrendas ‘25 exhibit.
“During this brief period the souls of the dead awaken and return to the living world to feast, drink, dance and play music with their loved ones,” Gavito said.
Ofrendas honor the souls who return to the earthly plane for the yearly celebration on Nov. 1 and Nov. 2. The first day of celebration traditionally recognizes deceased children, whereas the second is for deceased adults.
Though my family is Mexican-American, we never built ofrendas growing up in Houston.
Then, my dad passed away. There was a lot to be done, and, as the first-born Tejano daughter, I had to buy the flowers, hire the mariachi, and book a venue big enough to fit my large, extended family. I took care of my mom, tried not to fight with my dad’s oldest sister, and remembered to thank my uncle — the one who loaned us money for the funeral — during the praying of the rosary. But after my dad was laid to rest, and the socially acceptable grieving time of a couple of months passed, I found myself feeling unmoored.
I followed the same grieving patterns I did when I lost a pregnancy a decade before. I wrote about his death, upped my therapy appointments to every week, planted a fig tree in his memory, and tried to accept that I’d live with the loss for the rest of my life. But a few months later I was hurting, and the person who used to make me feel better wasn’t around to comfort me.
His memory had become an open wound. So I set out to change how I felt when I remembered my dad.
My dad had always been my sole connection to my Latinidad.
He taught me the importance of hard work and service to others, especially family. He was my translator in Spanish-speaking spaces. He cultivated my love of Mexican cooking and sang Reggaeton, Cumbia, and Mariachi songs. I hoped his ofrenda would connect me to a culture I was terrified of losing — and to keep his spirit alive.
“Everyone seeks a way to understand death and cope with grief,” Gavito told The Barbed Wire. “Creating an ofrenda can be very therapeutic since it requires reflection and thought.”
As I built my altar for my dad, I thought about what made him who he was. A chef by profession, he spent his life feeding people. He was an artist, a singer, and a man who could fix anything. He had a green thumb, a biting wit, and a giving heart. Remembering those things about him helped refocus my grief on his life. He loved chickens, Disney movies, and being a grandfather. So I added those reminders to the ofrenda.
According to Gavito, M.E.C.A builds a community ofrenda each year for friends and neighbors. The shared grief helps communities connect through a common bond. However, at a time when Latine communities need solidarity more than ever, the fear of immigration raids is interfering with public celebrations of Día de los Muertos, resulting in the cancellation of planned festivities.
There seems to be a surplus of grief in the world this year. Countering that grief with celebration, community, and reminiscence is a radical act of resistance.
Though ofrendas are culturally Mexican, Latine folks aren’t the only ones who embrace the traditions of Día de los Muertos. Ofrendas have been built for communities who’ve faced a shared tragedy, like the Central Texas July 4 floods that claimed the lives of at least 135 people and the victims of the Palestinian genocide. It’s a way of showing both respect for a community’s pain while including the living and deceased in a celebration of life.
“Cultural heritage is not only about going to museums and seeing artifacts or even going to an ofrenda exhibition, it is about actually sharing and experiencing the stories of our ancestors who have shaped our understanding of life and death,” Gavito told The Barbed Wire.
This year, as I add handmade alebrijes — colorful papier-mâché spirit guardians — to my ofrenda, I’ll think of my dad, the man who passed on to me so much of who I am.
I’ll remember his smile and the songs he used to sing. I’ll remember his laugh and him calling me Sea Monkey, a nickname he gave me at birth. And, as these memories flow, my grief will ebb just a little more.