Death is something to which I am unaccumtomed. I've never really been close to anybody who has died. One of my teachers in junior high passed away years ago, and a neighbor's life was snatched away at an unexpected, early age. A young mother I worked with died. An acquaintance in high school met her end in a car accident. Still, these people seemed so far from me. That they had died was surreal. Death wasn't real. It was an aberration, an absurdity, an anomaly.
On the evening of the Day of the Dead, I found myself in oddly fortuitous company at the Calpulli Tlalpalcalli, a center for traditional Aztec-Chichimec religious life and a hub for social activism. At the Calpulli I would see how others understand death and dead ones. These people would teach me.
They held a ceremony, and it was beautiful. Everything took place in front of an altar. On that altar were pictures of the deceased, sugar skulls (literally skull-shaped candies or food made out of sugar), flowers and candles. I also saw items that once belonged to the dead--his harmonica, her favorite brush, etc. The altar was colorful and festive-looking and everything on it, in one way or another, reminded us of someone who had passed away.
Someone. To me, someone.
Front and center, we gave offerings, sang and thanked the beings that be for our company. The whole premise is that offerings and song not only assist the dead in their journey throughout the afterlife but also honor them. Were the dead to walk on, they would do so with our help and blessings. They would have our respective, regardless of dimension, time or realm.
But then the questions. Whom was I to bless? Distant relatives long passed, people I had known only fraternally? People I don't know? Whom was I to honor? Anybody? Everybody?
A week later, I found my answers. A friend, Sean, died after years of complications with his heart. That's one way of saying it. His heart failed him. It was a three-year-old transplant, and it gave up and gave out. His ticker was tocked. At the time, I thought that another friend, Kevin, was soon to follow suit. He made a bad decision after a night partying, and the international grapevine said that he was hurting in a bad way. A coma way.
I spent a week with Sean as a junior in high school, and I had connected with him several times since. At the beginning of my intellectual and social maturation, he was one of the first men with whom I was intimate--and no, this isn't one of those Catholic cover-ups turned revelations. I just had all kinds of admiration for Sean. He was warm and kind, and his faith and commitment to us, his students, and his God was--and still is--endlessly inspiring. He was a supremely gentle and compassionate being.
He was also maybe one of the toughest men that I've ever met. On this service trip, our charge was to tear down a retirement home for elderly nuns so that another could be erected in its place. For a week, we took sledgehammers and picks to the rafters, dismantled the supporting crossbeams and hacked at the walls until the two-story building was little more than rubble. There couldn't have been any more than fifteen of us, but we tore that thing apart.
I remember Sean in the bathroom. Sean had been supervising us, his teenage crew, making sure that we weren't hand tools and irrigation poles at each other. Kids. With two and a half walls demolished and another left to go, he asked to take a swing at a tile-lined section of what then only resembled a shower wall. I handed him the sledgehammer I was using. I couldn't get rid of it soon enough. After a good twenty, thirty swings, I could hardly make a dent in the wall. The hammer was his.
We stepped away as Sean took the sledge in hand. Sean filled up the room--he was no small man--and the sun came down through the roof that no longer was and illuminated his figure. Dusty remnants of the building were at his feet. A carpenter's mask covered much of his face.
Sean looked at the wall and paused. He brought the head of the sledgehammer close to his face and murmured a prayer. He sized up his swing and THWACK!--brought down half of the wall. After another two or three swings, the wall was no more. He put down the hammer, turned around slowly and took off his mask. He smiled to our gaping awe.
If you were ever to ask me what I thought about religion, I'd say that that was one of the most profound religious moments I've ever had.
Kevin I met my sophomore year as resident adviser in college. We we grew up, so to speak, with Adam, Sean, Autumn and later Robin, initially as co-workers and later as members of what I playfully coined the "Fab Five". We earned Religious Studies degrees together and spoke with short breaths and long sentences about Martin Buber, Native American religion and the Gautama-Buddha. People love Kevin for his laugh and his warm presence. He himself has always been the peaceful, smiling Buddha of our group.
He's also been one to make some poor decisions when it came to post-party transportation. To make a long story short, Kevin was living in the U.S. Virgin Islands when he rolled his jeep while on his way home from a friend's Halloween party. Two other people were in the car with him--a friend and his girlfriend. The girlfriend was wearing a seat belt and escaped with nothing more than whiplash. Thrown from the back of the jeep, the friend broke his clavicle. Kevin... no one knows exactly what happened... he had more extensive injuries.
He survived. He had to have his fourth and sixth vertebrae fused together in his back, because the fifth was pulverized. He has an abrasion on his spine. His right hand was demolished. According to his doctor, the long-term outlook looks "good". With about a year's worth of effort, Kevin will be able to use his hand and walk as before.
Kevin's a fortunate man--he knows that. He also knows that we were as upset as could be with him but will do all that we can to help him out. We love him and care for him, and that's it. We'll give him our all. In weeks to come, we'll give him our company.
Although belated, that's my offering for The Day of the Dead. The day isn't so much about lamenting those who have passed on, but about celebrating what we've shared with them and those who are still with us. I have a lot of love for Sean and Kev, and I hope that they journey well.
Walk on, Sean.
Walk on, Kev.
Traditional Azteca-Chichimeca song and dance at the Narciso Martinez Cultural Center in San Benito. Two of the dancers, Gina and Rick on the right, were present at the Day of the Dead ceremony described above (peel back the fold). I should also make a note that they were all extremely generous in allowing me to stay at the Calpulli for several days.
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