All posts by Mariel

Born in Havana, Cuba, and raised in Venezuela, Mariel Masque is a poetry, fiction, fable, and non-fiction writer. She lives in Oro Valley, Arizona.
Food, The Story Weaver Project

Mariel’s Quesillo Venezolano

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La receta original es de mi mama. Yo le di un toque de nuevo Latino.  Mi alteración consiste en usar leche baja en grasa y sustituir la leche de vaca y la azúcar de la receta original por la leche evaporada y la leche condensada las cuales le dan un sabor especial. También decoro el quesillo con frutas frescas y uso un balsámico reducido para darle contraste. Para el caramelo, vea la receta de caramelo.

Ingredientes

8 huevos

1 lata 14 oz de leche condensada (sin grasa si desea un postre bajo en grasa)

1 lata de 12 oz de leche evaporada (sin grasa si desea un postre bajo en grasa)

1/2 cucharadita de extracto de vainilla

2 cucharaditas de ron oscuro, brandy, or bourbon (opcional)

Una pisca de sal

Preparación

Precaliente el horno a 325 grados.

Prepare el caramelo siguiendo la receta para caramelo. Una vez que el caramelo espesa y toma un color dorado, retírelo del fuego, viértalo en la quesillera o el molde, y cubra los lados del molde con caramelo evitando contacto. Deje enfriar a temperatura ambiente.

Utilizando una licuadora, batidora eléctrica o batidor de mano, mezcle las dos leches (condensada y evaporada), los huevos, la vainilla, la pisca de sal y el brandy, bourbon o ron si decide agregarlo.

Vierta la mezcla de quesillo sobre el caramelo.

Colocar la quesillera o el molde con el quesillo en el horno dentro de una bandeja más grande llena de agua hasta la mitad para cocinar el quesillo a Baño María.

Hornear de 20 a 30 minutos hasta que puedas introducir un palillo en el centro del quesillo y este salga limpio. Se debe revisar el horno cada 20 minutos para asegurarse de tener suficiente agua en la bandeja grande.

Cuando el quesillo esté listo, retírelo del horno y déjelo reposar por 30 minutos. Una vez a temperatura ambiente, ponga el molde en la nevera por 2 horas y dejé enfriar el quesillo.

Una vez frio, despegue los bordes con un cuchillo de mesa. Con cuidado, desmóldelo en un plato de servir.

Decórelo con frutas frescas y hojas de menta. También puede decorar con balsámico reducido. La acides le da un sabor delicioso.

Mariel Masque
Copyright 2014-2020
All Rights Reserved

Stream, The Poet

Desenchufe

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Querida Musa,

Lleno de actitud, un pinot noir envejecido en roble besa mis labios brindándome el sabor agridulce del fruto del grosellero, esa uva o baya globosa y jugosa de color rojo, blanco o negro. En un espacio sombreado en un bar sin mucho enredo, los ritmos exuberantes de Marruecos y España se abrazan en la guitarra Mora de Nathaniel.

De lo más hondo de esa alma introspectiva, emana una embriagante melodía. La vela sobre la mesa danza con el embrujo de su canción. La magia en sus dedos me hace pensar en vos. Este hermoso Gitano con rizos cobrizos, perfil serbio y postura de Buda me brinda un universo alterno donde los sueños empapan.

Enamorada de las notas de una tierra ancestral, aireo el vino. El tranvía pasa de largo ausente en su vacío. Mojo mis labios, saboreo recuerdos encurtidos.

La sangre Mora me llama. En mi corazón, una caravana gitana persigue al ritmo del cajón y los acordes febriles de una guitarra flamenca. Rasgueos, dedos que tocan la madera de un instrumento con alta resonancia. La muñeca derrama arpegios. El sonido percusivo de la guitarra dibuja almas peregrinas que pasean de un lado a otro en la acera.

Brillantes, secos y austeros, los sonidos proyectados desaparecen casi al instante, permitiendo un juego rítmico rápido. Cada nota tiene ojos percusivos y dedos que se agitan. Me desnudan en la oscuridad de un bar solitario, sosteniéndome sin aliento contra una pared desconicida.

El fascinante grito de leyendas viaja bajo tierra desde Andalucia hasta el desierto de Sonora y se arrastra sobre mis pies. El preludio es una canción de tres movimientos donde las melodías andaluzas y sus paisajes llenos de caballos robustos y apasionados me hacen gemir.

El flamenco es una amante experimentada que imita las técnicas de un guitarrista famoso, alternando pulgar y dedos, y con notas saladas que mojan los labios y debilitan las rodillas.

Los clap, clap, clap, para, para, dum, clap, para, para, dum, clap duru dam, diddle, didle, don, didle, didle, dan regalan a la brisa tu presencia. El viejo edificio rojo al otro lado de la calle me guiña un ventanal.

Cae la lluvia. En el pavimento, las luces de los vehículos aparecen y desaparecen a toda velocidad. Mi espalda busca el calor en el respaldo de cuero, me abraza la música del guitarrista del rincón, mis labios buscan tus labios ausentes, y un sorbo de vino rojo quema las entrañas e inunda los pantanales.

Consciente, respiro melodías y ritmos, saboreo los rasgos del pinot noir ricos en púrpura. Las olas del momento lamen conversadoras las arenas del tiempo. Desde tu cálida bahía, las alas de tu antojo juegan al escondite.

Te pienso, te siento, Musa de mi corazón, bajo el hechizo de la guitarra moruna sumergida en la taberna de la imaginación.

Autora: Mariel Masque
Derechos Reservados 2014 – Incluyendo Derechos Internacionales

Nota:
En traducciones literarias, la obra traducida pierde sentido. Por esa razón no traduzco del Ingles al Español, simplemente reescribo la pieza en una nueva versión. Esta es la versión en Español de la obra original titulada Unplugged. Stream of consciousness.

Creative Non-fiction, Non-fiction, The Story Weaver Project

Yellow Leaves


Okaloosa County, Florida, February 14, 1995

On four limbs over a carpet of fallen leaves, I no longer linger in scattered confusion. I watch the oncoming traffic through thick protective glasses, insert the thick nail inside the washer, and place its tip on the target. The hammer in my right hand is ready to strike, force its body through thick asphalt on that white band that marks the edge between the world and the Earth. I look up again. The sun makes my eyes squint. The honk of a double-wide truck brings me to my feet. I ebb to the shoulder of the road for refuge. After the eighteen-wheeler passes, I return to perform my task. Forget red roses and imported chocolate; this is what I do–get on my knees and jump. I know the hard hat and the thin orange jacket that waves like a flag are not going to save me. If I think that I have no health insurance, that I have to work under the rain on Saint Valentine’s Day, through cold days, under the inclement weather of Florida’s hurricanes, listen to my runaway thoughts…that I stand in this foreign margin, speaking a fragmented tongue, stripped from my culture, my family, my people, my values, my music, my art, I would quiver when the rumbling voice of the poet, Pablo Neruda, thunder my core, asking me one more time “Why do leaves suicide when they feel yellow?”

I recall a single yellow leaf during the fall. In that vision, the cold wind blows over her weak body. The leaf clinches fiercely to a tree branch, as if having little manitas that hang on, refusing to let go. I used to see my face on every yellow leaf. Back then, that image shattered my soul. It does not matter anymore.

Like the yellow leaf, I ultimately surrender and fall with dignity aware of natural cycles. There is no end and no beginning. There is no separate reality, only a place where all parts, like pieces of a giant puzzle, coexist. The head of the nail reaches the paved surface. I stand on the Earth, observe the wound that curves into the horizon. I pick up the measuring wheel, set it to zero, spray a cross with red fluorescent paint on the white band every one hundred feet. Red splotches remind me of military tanks, machine guns, and pools of blood. I keep on walking, keep on moving. The moment is all I have.

Aloof, I measure the depth of the site, from the red cross to the litter catch point, the mowing line, the hedge, the swamp, a see-through chicken wire fence, or a solid stone wall. Wondering who will pay my student loans, I force a galvanized metal rod on the grass, string the area, and survey the green rectangle.

“One empty beer can, one smashed plastic soda bottle, one baby diaper with contents, one empty snack bag, one empty cigarette pack, one piece of tire, one plastic film canister, one cardboard fast-food box, one polystyrene cup.” The cassette recorder listens. With Zen steps, I continue the inventory, measure how much trash has trespass the planet of life by counting litter, categorizing items into 82 pre-established categories I memorized to get the job. 

Litter is a terrible human habit. To throw things out the window shows how little we care about our home. The solid waste research center hired me as a temporary worker to study litter and to measure how much it infringes prairies, farm fields, rolling hills, rivers, creeks, and swamps along rural roads.

As I carry on, men dressed in orange overalls widen the road. The Sheriff drives by, slows down, and stops. I watch him approach, knowing that I have an accent and that I missplaced my green card. 

“Ma’am are you with the crew?” He points at the prisoners paving the road and lifts his hat.

“No Sir,” I say and hand him my employer’s card. Humming Willy Nelson’s “On the Road Again,” I hope to distract his search.

“I’ll be darn. It’s about time someone picks up all this damn trash.”

“I’m not picking it up, Sir.”

“What in sweet heavens are you doing with it?”

“Counting it, Sir.”

“Say what? Are you telling me young lady that you’re counting the trash and not picking it up?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“So that’s where our tax money goes!”

“I suppose.”

“Stay out of the sun and keep an eye on those prisoners. A fine young woman ought to stay away from those birds of prey.”

“I will, Sir.”

After a long day, back aching and brain swelling from the humid heat, I step into a raggedy room in a roach motel, unroll a sleeping bag on top of a bed with sheets so thin they look like orphan home bedwear. I refuse to sleep with fleas and bed bugs. After a long shower, I lay in bed, stare at the ceiling crack and hear the voices of my island of sun; the place my soul chose to return; the sanctuary where my roots await. What is a tree without a strong root system? I think.

In this English-only land obsessed with border and walls, hopes, dreams and aspirations clipped, I grow under planned controls, like a bonsai. I urge to set root, grow tall like cypress threes do, wear my mantilla made of Spanish Moss and never surrender to the gooey drama of the melting pot.  Arbitrary laws should never colonize my thoughts!

But I am also content to live in this country and no longer yearn for a piece of land, a slice of pie, or a broken Dream. The fabricated world means much less than old bread crumbs.

As in dreams, I, la chica del charco, wake every day to the mural of injustices awaiting outside my door. Chin up, I grab the doorknob, walk through the portal, and navigate the tempest thoughts hollering like jackals. This cold, still life, this canvas that is a refugee’s life, overfed with boundaries and limits, sucks my strength like a vampire.  Barefoot, I step on the embers of going nowhere.

The Earth embraces me and provides the nourishment and sustenance needed to endure the journey. It does not ask stupid questions. Where ever my feet stand, I reclaim as the sacred land, knowing that the Earth does not belong to anyone, much less to those egoístas fixated with borderlands, always feeding disputes and drawing lines on the sand.

Next morning, my rubber boots step again over the brittle carpet of dry leaves. I discard Neruda’s vision at the sight of falling, yellow leaves, and keep on walking through winter storms towards the spring.

Note:

An earlier version of this creative non-fiction piece written after a long workday on San Valentine’s Day back in 1995 and titled “Yellow Leaves” was published under my former pen name, Maria de los Rios, in New to North America: Writing by U.S. Immigrants, their Children and Grandchildren, edited by Abby Bogomolny, Burning Bush Publications, Santa Cruz, California, Second Edition, 1997, pp. 154-156.

Credits:

The poem, “Por qué se suicidan las hojas cuando se sienten amarillas?” (Why do leaves kill themselves as soon as they feel yellow?) appears in Pablo Neruda’s Late and Posthumous Poems: 1968-1974, edited and translated by Ben Belitt. Bilingual Edition. Fundación Pablo Neruda. New York: Grove Press, 1988.

Poetry, The Story Weaver Project

Published Poems by Mariel Masque

When I was 9, longing to reach my adored abuelo,
I tried to swim back to the island from Palma Sola Beach.

I got sucked by the riptide.
There was no lifeguard on duty.

With all my strength,
I swam to reach the surface.

My legs cramped.
As the asthma attack evolved,

the pull of the undertow dragged me to the depths.
I watched the last bubble of air float toward the sun.

Hours later, I woke eyes sculpted on sand
and coughed streams of salt.

Hair entangled with Caribbean seagrasses,
My scratched tongue wetted the cracks on my lips.

I rose from driftwood,
diatoms and beach wrack.

Wearing the cloak of a starlit night,
I walked home sobbing.

“Where have you been all day, muchachita?”
Mami screamed.

“Fishing.”

Published Source:

Masque, Mariel. “Genesis, Birth of a Poet, and Self Portrait,” 50 Over FiftyPoetryAnthology, edited by Ann Davenport, Quills Edge Press, 2018.

Poetry, The Story Weaver Project

Published Poems by Mariel Masque

Hot chili pepper body,
curvy torso,
plumb breasts,
bird of paradise head,
peacock-fancy hair dress,
and fish tail served over crisp lettuce bed.

A tempting sea nymph,
I dance on stone plate.
Roasted pimento scents the air.
Like in flies,
these compound eyes
watch multiple realities at once.

Go ahead,
try to eat this sabe-lo-todo
who grew up next to the asbestos plant,
breathing fine glass,
sweating pesticides,
head sprayed with DDT for the lice.

Published Source:

Masque, Mariel. “Genesis, Birth of a Poet, and Self Portrait,” 50 Over FiftyPoetryAnthology, edited by Ann Davenport, Quills Edge Press, 2018.

Poetry, The Story Weaver Project

Published Poems by Mariel Masque

And I thought,
let there be folds.

And there were dark-pink,
velvet‑soft, labia creases.

And I said,
let there be water.

And a river rushed from her base,
washing her rich terrain.

And I said, let there be a breadth
between her waters.

And the tip of my tongue
traveled the length of her hips

and I made her expanse open and stretch
for seven nights and seven days                                

And her pleasure I named heaven
and her moans warm summer rain.

Published Source:

Masque, Mariel. “Genesis, Birth of a Poet, and Self Portrait,” 50 Over Fifty Poetry Anthology, edited by Ann Davenport, Quills Edge Press, 2018.

The Story Weaver Project

Mariel Masque’s “The Butterfly’s Ring”

 

By M.E. Wakamatsu, September 26, 2018

Allusions to classical mythology, colonialist history, island politics, art history and scripture are woven through an engaging story full of sensual detail, poetic language and cinematic quality. The Butterfly’s Ring, Mariel Masque’s maiden voyage into the novel form, blends the genres of Jorge Amado, Antoine de Saint-Exupery, and Hayao Miyazaki, birthing a rhythm that mimics hypnotic waves slapping at the shore. One moment, the reader finds herself experiencing the violent throes of a seizure and the next, she is in the jungle with a hunter/healer who makes trauma disappear. Totally normal.

The Butterfly’s Ring is about the journey of exile as seen through the eyes of a child. While her father is fighting with the Cuban Revolution, she and her mother live with her grandparents. She becomes very attached to her grandfather who with his storytelling soothes and distracts the sickly child from the multiple hospital visits and painful treatments she undergoes almost weekly. As she sleeps, she is gifted with knowledge, strength, and power not unlike that of her Roma, Arabic, Jewish, and African ancestors.

The Butterfly’s Ring is also a fable where rabbits discover the power to liberate themselves from captivity and domestication, the jungle comes alive with magic, and a cow appreciates being read to. It is the story of two lovers struggling against the violent, confusing and idealistic backdrop of the Cuban Revolution. It is a story of sacrifice, of love, love, love…

Masque’s chapter are powerful and poetic short stories that feel as though they’ve been written while hiding from the militia, the Nazis, or townspeople persecuting witches. There is an undercurrent of danger coursing below every scene, even the ones that are full of innocence or humor. There is an urgency in every scene. There is beauty and poetry. There are no easy resolutions.

In this work, we hear echoes of Jorge Amado, Brazilian master of literary syncretism and local color, who used magical realism before critics even coined the term to describe Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s work. In this work, we see the delicate and poetic world of Antoine de Saint-Exupery’s Little Prince, a story of exile as specific and concrete as it is graceful and elegant. And in this work, we witness Hayao Miyazaki, the Japanese master of animation, unable to resist returning from the afterlife to direct…just one more masterpiece.

 

About the Reviewer:
M.E Wakamatsu is an award-winning teacher-poet. She is recipient of the University of Arizona Poetry Center’s Mary Ann Campau Fellowship Inaugural Award and a Southern Arizona Teacher of the Year Scarlet & Gray Award from The Ohio State University Alumni of Southern Arizona. Her work appears in The Sonoran Desert: A Literary Field Guide, This Piece of Earth: Images and Words from Tumamoc Hill, Spiral Orb, Cantos al Sexto Sol, Southwestern Women New Voices, Drunken Boat, Cutthroat, A Journal of the Arts, Read, Listen, Tell: Indigenous Stories from Turtle Island and Edible Baja Arizona.

Creative Non-fiction

Letter to First Lady Melania Knavs

 

Honorable First Lady,

Čestitam Melanija, as your mother would say. Congratulations, Melania! You are the first woman not born in the United States to become the First Lady. As an immigrant and a world traveler, you understand from personal experience how easy it is to shift roles from host to stranger. I am glad that your parents benefitted from chain immigration. As an immigrant myself, I understand how hard it is to have your loved ones on the other side of a vast expanse of land or sea.

A dreamer born in Novo Mesto, a tiny town covered by smoke and steam[i] and raised in Sevnica, Slovenia, daughter of Amalija Knavs, a farm worker who later became a local factory worker,[ii] and Viktor Knavs, a member of the Communist Party and a car salesman,[iii] your desire for more than a simple life at a snail pace took you to fashion houses in Paris and Milan.

Regarded as benevolent and respectful by a neighbor who lived in an apartment complex nearby during your youth,[iv] you became a permanent resident of the United States in 2001 and took the Oath of Allegiance in 2006. A bright woman, you speak English, Slovene, German, French, Italian and Serbo-Croatian languages.[v] Such cross-pollination of cultures and languages are integral parts of your identity.

Despite your husband’s attempts to dissuade you from launching the ‘Be Best’ anti-bullying social media campaign, you stood firm. This proves that you are not only astute and independent, but that you can tell a right from a wrong and stand by your convictions.

Abuelo Jose Maria always warned, “Nadie aprende con cabeza ajena.” Although I believe that no one learns with someone else’s head, I sincerely hope that this letter inspires you to co-create a world without walls based on the values you hold dear: justice, respect, and opportunity for all.

The separation of undocumented immigrant children from their families when they cross the border, placing hundreds of young ones already at-risk miles away from their agonizing parents is a crime against nature, humanity, and god. As a former refugee, I can assure you, dear First Lady, that these children will carry wounds that will haunt them a lifespan.

I believe you when you say that you care deeply about these children. When the news hit, you expressed genuine concern, wanted to ensure the children’s wellbeing, and didn’t approve having parents and kids separated. I am sure that a bright and sensible woman like you cannot comprehend how such cruel and inhumane acts can be part of a “Make America Great Again” plan.

Abuelo Jose Maria used to say, “La ignorancia alimenta el odio.” Y asi es, ignorance feeds hatred. Por eso es tan importante to distinguish history from myth. And you dear First Lady, as an immigrant required to study the history of this country for your naturalization test, know more about this subject than the President of the United States.

As a country built from the gifts of native people and undocumented immigrants, we often sustain the illusion that everything “American” sprouted by spontaneous generation and indulge in a glorious fabricated past that never existed.

Even our nation’s namesake derives from Amerigo Vespucci, the Italian explorer, navigator, and cartographer born in the Republic of Florence in the 1400s who accompanied Christopher Columbus, the undocumented immigrant who paved the trail of genocide that decimated two-thirds of the population of what they called the Americas and who ignited the African people’s slave trade. From the natives, La Conquista stole their lands, and from Africa, it stole the people.

As a well-informed First Lady, you know that the Americas include North, Central, and South America. Pues sí, “America the Beautiful” spans from the Arctic circle all the way to Antarctica and includes Canada, the United States, Mexico, Salvador, Honduras, Guatemala, Belize, Nicaragua, Costa Rica, Panamá, Colombia, Venezuela, Brasil, Guyana, Surinam, Perú, Ecuador, Bolivia, Chile, Uruguay, Paraguay, Argentina, Cuba, Puerto Rico, Haití, Barbados, Las Bahamas, Santo Domingo y otras islas del Mar Caribe. ¡Esa es la única América que yo conozco!

Nothing reeks of history more than food, dear First Lady. Although you are more the smoothie and fresh fruit type to keep a cut figure, I am sure you know that in our “American” cuisine, even those praised culinary items grilled during our 4th of July came to this country in the hands of undocumented immigrants. The hamburger patty created in the 19th century in Hamburg, Germany, is a great example. The hot dog, another Independence Day favorite, can be traced back to undocumented German immigrants who brought German sausage to this country back in the 1800s.

Our very “American” corn on the cob was domesticated by natives in southern Mexico about 10,000 years ago. Even the potatoes in the potato salad traveled quite a bit before reaching the United States. First cultivated by the Aymara people in what is today Bolivia and Peru, around 200 B.C., potatoes arrived in North America in 1621.

When it comes to our favorite 4th of July dessert, nothing, my dear Frist Lady, is more “American” than apple pie. Geoffrey Chaucer printed the first recipe of apple pie in England in 1381. The apple pie arrived with the undocumented immigrants, also known as the Pilgrims, traveling aboard the Mayflower in 1620.

Even Lady Liberty is an immigrant. “Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door!” reads Emma Lazarus’ sonnet at her feet. A present from France, the Statue of Liberty celebrates Dreamers like you.

As you see my dear First Lady, everything held so dearly as an expression of the United States’ identity, character, and sense of place traveled to this land in the hands of undocumented immigrants or was already here in Apache, Blackfoot, Cherokee, Cheyenne, Comanche, Hopi, Navajo, Seminole, Pima, Potano, Tohono, Yaqui and many other native lands before the Pilgrims, the Huguenots and the Spanish Conquistadores arrived. That mixture of traditions from this sacred land and every corner of the world is what makes this nation a Gran Mestiza.

My dear First Lady, in my grandfather Jose Maria’s words, “Las almas perdidas no saben su historia.” And I agree. Lost souls do not know their history and live in terrible anguish because they don’t know who they are.

As an immigrant and former refugee, I thank you for paying a visit and offering your help to our children unjustly held prisoners at the Tucson Southwest Key on Oracle Road. Despite the “I really don’t care. Do you?” I am sure you understand as a mother that a nice haircut, a bed, and a pair of new shorts is not enough.

I see you, Melanija, the child who wore a second-hand polka-dot winter jacket to school, descendant of farm and factory workers, a Dreamer who carved a future as an immigrant far away from her homeland, the small-town local girl who weaved her way to the White House. You inspire girls all over the world. And I trust that you, my dear First Lady, will do anything in your power to help these frightened children reunite with their distressed parents as promised during the press conference after your recent visit to Tucson.

With glimmering hope, I call the beautiful banks of the Sava River and the forest that watched you grow, the sacred rains, the winter snow, the four winds that brought you to this shore, the fire in your immigrant heart to offer you the strength required to fulfill your promise and lead us out of this violent chubasco.

Respectfully,

Luz

 

Mariel Masque – Copyright 2018
All Rights Reserved, including International Rights.

 

Sources:

[i] Johnson, Glen, “The People of a Small Slovenian Town are excited that Melania Trump is About to Become First Lady.” Los Angeles Times, Los Angeles, California, November 14, 2016.

[ii] Ibid.

[iii] Ibid.

[iv] Johnson, Glen, “The People of a Small Slovenian Town are excited that Melania Trump is About to Become First Lady.” Los Angeles Times, Los Angeles, California, November 14, 2016.

[v] Kessier, Ronald, “The Real Melania Trump.” The Washington Times, Washington DC, May 8, 2018.

Poetry

Dedicated to IBC and La Casita

 

They came from nowhere!
Yellow machines with sharp teeth

bit into the roof, the walls, the window sills
the sacred spaces in between.

Urban sharks shredded the work of generations,
spat out the young ones’ dreams

on piles of construction debris
dusting the calming breeze

They came from nowhere!
Metal and chain

covered the trail of lies,
deception their middle name

Their ruthless game
bulldozed away the institutional memory

the people’s sweat.
That’s how folks get erased.

They came from nowhere!
Sneaky and brave

with pompous overtones
they blazed the framers’ fence

their ignorance-fed rage
swallowed the Earth Mother’s children like a hurricane.

And I, the wood bench,
sat still under the oak tree,

tasting the bitter flavor
of gentrification and urban renewal.

I wanted to stand up,
run across the street.

Legs nailed to concrete,
I wept. The draping Spanish Moss

 spoke, “Don’t cry, dear bench.
Our Mama’s children are mighty strong.

Shooting roots on this brown soil
I’ve seen it all. The Dreamers will return.”

I watched them demolish two homes,
and I could not say a word.

They came from nowhere!

 

Mariel Masque
Copyright 2018 – All Rights Reserved

Non-fiction

Día De Los Muertos

The memory of a loved one never fades; we carry that memory in our minds, hearts, spirit, and even in our DNA, the blueprint of our individuality. Such memory reminds us that we are connected to each other physically, emotionally, mentally and spiritually as a community; it also prompts us to celebrate the footsteps of those ancestors who walked the Earth before us. Just as the memory of our loved ones survives in our souls, tears, blood, and bone marrow, Día De Los Muertos has endured more than 3,000 years, yet its origins and purpose are often mistaken.

As evident in the archeological record, cross-culturally and throughout the space-time continuum, before the appearance of villages, hamlets, boroughs and more complex forms of settlement pattern and social organization, all cultures across the world paid homage to their dead in myriad ways. Rituals surrounding death constitute the origins of art and music and include oral and written traditions as well as elaborate processions and dances.

Performed to mark the death of distinct members of their society, The Egungun festival, a part of the Yoruba traditional religion, consists of an elaborate dance.  In Malaysia, The Mah Meri tribe celebrates their dead with a day of dancing. Shamans bless the event before the ceremonies begin. Obon, one of Japan’s most well-known holidays and known as The Lantern Festival or The Festival of the Dead is a day to honor and celebrate those who have passed away.

Through the ages, death has been associated with a distinct rite of passage, equivalent only to birth. All world cosmologies and religions see death as a passage into another form of life; some call it heaven, others refer to it as a way of reaching nirvana. Still, others see it as a return to the Tree of Life. Traditions mourning those who depart may change, evolve, express in more complex forms, but they never die.

Elaborate rituals evolved in Egypt, Mesopotamia, Persia, and in the Americas. One of the oldest celebrations in the world honoring those who left this plane emerged in Mexico.

Cortez and his crew learned about Día De Los Muertos when they arrived in central Mexico in the 16th century. Spanish Conquerors viewed the ritual initiated by the Aztecs some 3,000 years ago as sacrilegious. The festival survived despite the Spaniards’ attempts to quash it.

Not only Día De Los Muertos survived, but it also thrived, traveling from southern Mexico to North, Central, and South America as well as to islands in the Caribbean and West Indies; as part of its survival, the elaborate festival syncretized, merging with elements of Christianity. Initially celebrated in the summer, it moved to November 1st and 2nd to coincide with All Saints Days and All Souls Day.

Day of the Dead or All Souls Day is still celebrated throughout Mexico, Latin America, Spain, and many cities in the United States. The festival even reached Hollywood in a scene in 2015’s “Spectre,” where Daniel Craig’s James Bond pursues a villain through Mexico City during a massive Day of the Dead Carnival. The 2014 film “The Book of Life” features a Day of the Dead theme that includes animation filled with calacas (skeletons) and calaveras (skulls).

Day of the Dead has also conquered the heart of some areas of the United States. In Arizona alone, dozens of events honor the dead. The All Souls Procession in Tucson is one of the most important, inclusive and authentic public ceremonies in North America today. The Procession originated in Tucson, Arizona, in 1990, and it is now running for its 27th year.

When I look back to my childhood, I recall vividly all the rituals involving Día De Los Muertos. Everyone in Venezuela, my second homeland, would go to the cemetery to spend time with their dead. People baked elaborate skulls made of sugar to honor our departed loved ones, including our pets. Meeting family and seeing friends at the cemetery and during the procession turned into a celebration of life.

As Cuban refugees who had arrived alone to a new homeland, my parents and I did not have the opportunity to bring flowers to our loved ones left behind in Cuba, our island of sun. Therefore, Mama would prepare an elaborate altar to honor all our loved ones who had passed. Other immigrant families and friends in similar situations, would join our Día De Los Muertos celebration, bringing flowers, candles, photos, and objects belonging to their loved ones to our community altar and food to share.

When I look back, I recall a particular Día De Los Muertos when my mother was hospitalized for several months while receiving cancer treatment. Immortalized in a piece of autobiographical fiction titled: Día De Los Muertos, this childhood memory still brings tears to my eyes.

Día De Los Muertos has never been associated with fear. On the contrary, it is a holiday about telling stories of loved ones who have departed and about instilling their memory on younger generations. Part of the tradition is to smile at death and to see it as a significant natural rite of passage that equates only to birth. In doing so, we meaningfully celebrate our ancestors as they were when they were alive on this earth among us. It has never been a sad day or a scary day. Día De Los Muertos stands on its own as a fiesta to acknowledge that Death is the great equalizer, and to celebrate those who have left their footprints before us.