Halloween Haunts: A Día de Muertos Primer by Vanta M. Black
Día de Muertos is more widely-celebrated each year. Chances are you’ve heard of it, and may have even attended a festival. The beautiful art and costumes that surround this holiday are hard to ignore. Though Día de Muertos falls close to Halloween—our favorite time of the year by the way—its origins are diverse.
Primarily a Mexican celebration, other cultures and countries observe the occasion, too. To prime you on the history and customs, let’s look at the beginnings of Día de Muertos, how it is celebrated, and the traditions associated with it.
History of Día de Muertos
In Mexico Día de Muertos is considered a national holiday. Primarily celebrated in southern and central Mexico, its popularity has spread north and into the United States. Before the 16th century, Día de Muertos was held at the beginning of summer. As Catholicism took hold, the tradition of honoring the dead coincided with the traditions of All Saints Eve and All Saints Day—or All Hallows Eve and All Hallows Day—as they are known.
The origins of Día de Muertos can be traced back hundreds of years and to an Aztec festival dedicated to the goddess Mictecacihuatl. Prior to that, there are records of a celebration that honored a goddess known as the “Lady of the Dead”, which goes back nearly 3,000 years.
Día de Muertos Traditions
Traditions associated with Día de Muertos include cleaning the graves of relatives, erecting altars called ofrendas, gifting the dead with sugar skulls, marigold flowers, and other presents such as the deceased’s favorite food, drinks, and memorabilia from their life. Often the former possessions of the loved one are also displayed on the altar, along with photos, candles, and religious symbols such as the cross or the Virgin Mary.
Community involvement frequently includes parades and parties. Children often enjoy special festivities at school, and it is customary to dress up. This is where Día de Muertos comes close to Halloween, as people will wear traditional costumes that look like skeletons, or Calca.
Many believe that the souls of their dearly departed come and join the festivities during this time of the year. Just as with All Hallow’s Eve, the veil that separates the living and the dead is believed to be at its thinnest during Día de Muertos. The departed are believed to be nearby, and able to enjoy the homage presented to them.
Celebrating Día de Muertos in Los Angeles
The Hollywood Forever Cemetery is home to a large, annual Día de Muertos celebration. The final resting place of many notable names in entertainment, the cemetery is a tourist destination and features movie nights and other festivities throughout the year. During Día de Muertos, the cemetery transforms as people come to celebrate and honor their loved ones.
Notable names at the cemetery include Rudolph Valentine, Micky Rooney, Douglas Fairbanks, Nelson Eddy, Janet Gaynor, Jane Mansfield and Johnny Ramone. During Día de Muertos special altars to these individuals, as well as altars honoring groups of people such as war veterans, are erected.
Food, dancing, music, arts and crafts vendors, traditional Aztec blessings, stage performances, and art exhibitions are part of the celebration to honor those who are no longer with us. This year the Día de Muertos Festival at Hollywood Forever Cemetery happens Saturday, October 29th from noon until midnight. The ceremonial alter set up happens the day before. Attendees are encouraged to come in Día de Muertos attire.
For more information, visit the official website for LA Day of the Dead.
TODAY’S GIVEAWAY: Vanta M. Black is giving away a signed copy of Oubliette—A Forgotten Little Place. Comment below or email membership@horror.org with the subject title HH Contest Entry for a chance to win
Vanta M. Black is the author of Oubliette—A Forgotten Little Place. She is a seeker of knowledge and has an affinity for exploring the otherworldly. Her curiosity had taken her to Paris to explore the Catacombs and Père Lachaise Cemetery, Costa Rica to see the mysterious stone balls, the haunted Queen Mary in Long Beach, California, the haunted Leap Castle in Ireland, plus many other locations in her quest. Childhood experiences with entities called “shadow people” feed her thirst for answers. Black has degrees in English, communication and art. She resides in Los Angeles, but lives wherever her spirit moves her.
Links:
www.BlackChateauEnterprises.com
http://tinyurl.com/OublietteAmazon
The Oh Lá Lá Oubliette Fan Fiction Contest
Additionally, if you would like to promote the Oh Lá Lá Oubliette Fan Fiction Contest, it gives writers the opportunity to win a trip to France! This is ideal for horror fans who love to read and write. They can read the Oubliette—A Forgotten Little Place in October, then participate in NaMoWriMo in November, and enter their work in plenty of time to be considered for the contest!
The criteria is simple. Writers are asked to submit between 500 and 10,000 words. Any of the many story lines or characters from the book may be used for inspiration. A judging panel will evaluate fan fiction submissions on story structure, creativity, and authenticity to the book. Entries can be flash fiction, biographical, historical, poem, or nearly any other narrative format.
Link to contest:
http://www.vantamblack.com/oubliette-fan-fiction-contest.html
Link to press release:
http://us11.campaign-archive1.com/?u=6c14c1093eac85962c8bfaabb&id=30c16ff805&e=628d07ecee
Read an Excerpt of Oubliette—A Forgotten Little Place by Vanta M. Black
During the French Revolution, a noble French woman prone to mad “fits of fancy”, is strapped to her bed to prevent a premature birth. Sequestered to a dank, dreary tower room while the caste she resides in is under siege, she awakens to slicing labor pains. No one comes to her aid, though, at least no one human…
I awoke to rumbling pain in my gut. Worse than any cramp from my menses, the contraction shuddered through my loins. It was the little hours of the morning –– what time I did not know –– but my candle still burnt low, so I knew it was before sunrise.
The pain subsided, and I waited for several minutes. I almost decided it was only an uneasy stomach, then it hit again, stronger than before. I writhed on the hard bed, the sores on my buttocks and legs stung as they slid across the soaked mattress — my water had broken. The baby was about to be born. But was it too soon? I did not know and could only pray that he would be born a big, healthy baby boy — or girl — if God so chose.
Again, the pain came, this time quicker than the last. I cried out. It was intense, and I knew I needed the midwife’s help. Being tied up meant that I couldn’t even open my legs to allow the baby to pass. I arched my back as high off the bed as possible. It was only a few inches and would barely allow enough room for the child.
Desperate, I tore at the strap around my neck. If I could free it, then I could sit up and reach the other tethers. As I pulled, the leather cut into my palms, causing them to bleed. With all my might, I yanked but to no avail. Another contraction gripped my stomach as I fought with the straps. It shot down my left leg like a bolt of lightning.
“For the love of God,” I cried out. “Please, help me!”
No one came, and I cursed them for their insolence. How could they not have a guard stationed to watch over me? How could Henri allow himself to be so far away from his pregnant wife? And the midwife should surely be close by! But not a soul heard my cries, and not a one came to my aid.
Unable to remove the strap from around my neck, I then tried to rip the one from my chest. This tether was twice as thick as the first and gave up no inches. Hot, frustrated tears burst from my eyes, and I pleaded, “God, please help me. Someone please come…”
Something stirred from within the oubliette. I could hear the rustling behind the boards. Whatever foul specter might dwell there mattered not, I was desperate for any companionship, and I begged of it, “Help me, please. Free me from these binds.”
I felt a pain in my gut so sharp that it made my vision blur and go black. I arched my back as high as I could. The baby’s head was pushing its way out. I felt the swelling between my thighs. With all my might, I tried to spread my legs, but the constraints held firm.
I reached out with desperate, waving hands, trying to find something — anything — that could help me. I grabbed the small stool beside my bed and pushed it over, hoping the noise would alert someone. Nobody came. Flailing wildly, my fingertips finally came into contact with the stone wall. I slid them down the crevices of the mortar; the cool, slick, grainy texture brought relief to my burning, hot skin.
Another contraction ravaged my stomach. This time it reverberated not only through my leg but also up into my back. I dug my desperate fingers into the mortar of the wall. As the contraction gripped me with a pain beyond compare, the world twirled to a stop. Digging and burrowing, my fingernails kneaded the rock, quickly becoming raw against the hard, jagged surface. The pain in my fingers was sharp and stinging, and insanely, it felt better than the tormenting aches of labor — it actually provided a distracting relief from the contractions!
I dug my fingers into the mortar of the wall again, scratching and tearing in an attempt to divert my attention from the agony of giving birth. The nail on my forefinger became lodged in a hairline crack in the mortar. As a contraction sliced through me, I pulled back my hand, and the nail stayed fixed. It tore straight off my fingertip!
In agony, I beat my fist against the wall. Warm blood gushed from the wounded finger. It hurt, but not nearly as bad as the labor pains.
The baby’s head once again pushed into my thighs, this time harder than before. I forced my legs to spread, my fleshy thighs bearing against the leather belt until they bled.
Beside me, I sensed movement. Something stirred alongside the bed. I allowed my bloody hand to pause from scratching the mortar and dropped it slightly to let it connect with the creature. It was small and hairy; it was the shadow rabbit — my imaginary friend come to reality as I lay struggling in misery!
I stroked the rabbit’s fur as the baby’s head once again pressed into my thighs. I forced my legs as wide open as I could. The belt burrowed into the meaty sides of my legs as I spread them. Arching my back gave the child just enough room to force its head through. It was almost born!
The baby let out a tentative whimper; as if unsure of the outside world he was being forced into. Then, he sucked in a deep breath and let out a bold, forceful cry.
Happiness overtook me, and I cried tears of joy along with my child. All the while, I remained posed with my back arched and my legs spread as wide as possible — lying down or closing my legs would smother the child. It hurt tremendously to remain in that position, but I had no choice. Another battering of labor pains accosted me. Coughing and crying, I bore down hard, pushing with all my might so that the baby’s shoulders would pass through. However, they did not.
I needed hands to pull the baby free. I frantically tried to reach down with mine. The belt around my neck choked me, but I fought for every inch, trying to grip the baby. It was to no avail. Though I was mere inches from pulling him free, I simply could not reach.
My back ached as waves of labor pulsated through it. I felt weak beyond compare, and my body trembled with frailty. I was losing strength. If I lay down now, I would crush my child’s skull.
I pushed again, battling to force the baby from my loins with every muscle in my body. Then, he moved slightly. I felt him wiggling and heard a gasp for air. He gurgled a moment and then stopped making any sounds. He couldn’t breathe!
I squirmed, attempting to adjust my body so he might reposition and find air. Still, he did not cry out. As another contraction sliced though me, I pushed with all my might, willing the baby to be expelled. He stayed in place, though, where I knew surely he would die.
“Please, someone help me!” I begged hoarsely. I stretched my arms as far as I could. The belt around my neck gripped my throat. I couldn’t breathe, but I didn’t care. The only thing that mattered was freeing my child. The room swirled like a vortex, like I was falling into a hole, as I began to lose consciousness.
Then, with a snap that was as liberating as having the noose cut for a hanging man, the belt around my neck gave way. My head was free! I could now reach my baby.
Quickly, my hysterical hands clinched my child’s head. His skin was cool to the touch. In anguish, I cried out, “No! God, please no!”
I gently cupped the back of his head and the top of one shoulder and pulled. There was resistance. I slid my hands down and felt the cord that was coiled around his neck. I untangled it with numb fingers. Again, I pulled my child with my hands and pushed with my internal muscles. At first, there was only the slightest movement, and then in a rush, a quick release as he easily slid out. I held onto him as he squirmed between my legs. I heard him breathe in — the most beautiful sound a mother could hear — and then let out a long, loud, trembling cry.
My back was still arched, and I feared I would lose the strength to hold the position. If I came down now, I would lay right on top of my child. I twisted to the side and pulled on his little arm, moving him out of the way. Gradually, I pulled him up along my body, across my chest, and into my arms.
Exhausted, I collapsed into the wet, slimy bed. It didn’t matter though; nothing mattered but holding my — I checked to make sure — my son. I had given Henri his boy.
Through bleary eyes, I looked around the room to see if that creature was truly there with me. I saw nothing. My imagination playing tricks with me during the throes of labor, I decided. But what of the tether around my neck? It had been cut. How could that have happened?
My baby cooed. His cherubic lips nuzzled for a breast. Sobbing silently, I fed my child and waited until morning for the maid to find us.
Don’t celebrate day of the dead but enjoy hearing about it.