Well, I've been attending the extravaganza known as the Hollywood Forever Día de los Muertos for the last dozen years or so. I know that at the beginning, I wanted to be in tune with events and spectacles that portrayed my culture in a positive light. We never celebrated the Día de los Muertos in my Hispanic household, but we would hear about it as a celebration or, more appropriately, a ritual practiced by other Mexicans. Usually, I associated it with images of dark-skinned Mexicans in indigenous and colorful clothing lighting candles and putting out food in cemeteries. We were Mexican, of course, but we were not indigenous, we didn't wear that type of indigenous clothing nor did our women wear those long braids. And I had no awareness of what the cempasuchil (the orange flowers) meant, I only thought of them as vibrantly colored, almost too much. Carnations painted orange.
But I grew to learn a little bit. Not all Mexicans are alike, but Chicanos embraced this ritual that was celebrated by only a few Mexicans, and they converted it into a Chicano celebration that was meant to affirm our culture. I followed along with that trend, not recognizing it as a trend that was being created. And the Anglos who own this famous cemetery deep in the heart of Hollywood saw a business opportunity, one that involved a cross-over where they could attract the attention of many of the liberal Anglos who live in the area, and they came up with this spectacle, the Hollywood Forever Día de los Muertos. Even way back in 2011 or 2012 I remember one distinguished cultural representative, a Mexican woman, exclaiming in outrage that the organizers where cashing in the bucks raiding our Hispanic/Mexican culture. I agreed, but I also liked what the spectacle had become. It was overblown in an extreme way that I found almost profane in a place that is supposed to be sacred. Imagine all those paying visitors, Anglos and Mexicans alike, walking around over people's graves while sipping beer and tequila and oohing and ahhing at the altars that are plopped over those gravestones with little sign of respect. I wonder what the family members would think if they saw people setting up over the little mausaleums they erected for their deceased. But then I thought, get a grip. This is America. They don't give a f*ck about their lost ones, they erect the gravestones and then they forget. This is the land where you forget the past and you concentrate on the present and the sacred task of consuming and accumulating as much as you mindlessly can for yourself. That is what it means to be American, you shed your identity and you become a vast and insatiable mouth. It is the American way, to eat to excess and talk and say vapid things to excess. (Which is what someone might say about me at this moment, but let me just retort, I am just jaded and old and tired of this sh*t.)
So, they divided the spectacle into two separate-entry events. the Día and the Noche de los Muertos. I attended the daylight event, mostly because I was afraid of the zombie-like crowds that were sure to materialize at night. As they say, we should "Fear the Walking Dead". I paid quite a bit too, considering that almost all these events should be free but no, this is a production, with stages assigned to promoters who bring in their performing friends to fill up the time. Well, forget those stages. This time, I was just going to walk around and admire the altars, soak up the ambiance (as long as it didn't get too boozy because then I would have left in a flash) and take a few photos. And take a few photos I did, with the accent on "few", because I took so little that I could have seriously left my cameras at home. I should have, they weighed like an anchor, especially my Nikon DSLR. What was I thinking?
Oh, and this being fall in southern California, no need for a jacket or sweater. This was definitely weather for shirts and T-shirts, even if it might have seemed vaguely disrespectful for an event to honor the dead. We are gawking at the Eiffel Tower in Paris in the middle of summer, after all. We are supposed to acknowledge the sentiment of remembrance, although really, it was all about walking around and being entertained. I am sorry to say that, but yes, we go and behave like disgusting Philistines, and one hears, from the left and right, from front and back, Anglos exclaiming how "quaint" something is. But I'm not insulted. It is the American way, everything is meant to distract us from the empty materiality of our lives, even spectacles like this one whose scale pretty much insures that we will not be thinking nostalgically about spiritual values nor philosophizing about life and our ethereal natures. No, it is Disneyland imposed on an ancient cultural ritual. Take that, Catrina.
Did I arrive with a positive attitude? No, I was complaining to myself the whole time. Was the act of complaining worthwhile to me? Well, in a manner of speaking, yes it was. Here I am, a p*nche Mexican American who is overeducated and yet still seeks to find a sense of value in rituals that are being refashioned for Chicanos. This is supposed to add meaning to us, except when you see all the booths selling tequila or useless kitsch. Then you kind of have to admit, they just blew it. But can't I find something, anything? Am I that lost?
I left when I had to leave, at about 2:00 p.m. It was about three hours later than I wanted to leave, but I forced myself to stay. I walked round and round and round, and I made it a challenge. Stay until 2 p.m. You don't want to feel as if you paid that money just to walk out after half an hour?
I admit it, I was not in the mood. And, the crowds were very sparse, too. Nothing like the throngs of yesteryear, when you couldn't walk without bumping into others. I think the nighttime event must have been better attended, but I don't really know nor do I care. This is a bloated spectacle, there, I said it. There are tiny corners of honest sentiment, but most of these altars are just playing a game of one-upmanship. Let's see who has the most visually stunning display. They are competing, in other words, and I don't like this, nor would I approve of my family's photos being displayed here nor my photo. It becomes, in other words, void of spiritual value. Maybe that would be more accurate. This is a black hole, where spirits are sucked in, never to be retrieved. It is Disneyland for Latinos who want to feel good about themselves, but are doing the same thing they do everywhere else. Consuming.
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