![]() ![]() Well, up until recently.Ī lot of people grow up with these type of distant traditions, ones we never quite grasped on our own. As someone who has disliked the frightful and anxiety-inducing fervor of Halloween since childhood, I never bothered to dig deeper. Growing up in the South Bay, tucked away in the southwest corner of Los Angeles County, I was aware of Day of the Dead but assumed it was some quasi-version of Halloween: a day of horror, mischief, and candy. Some years, a small bundle of vibrant marigold flowers would appear in a short glass vase nearby, or some brightly painted sugar skulls might make an appearance. Our altar was usually as minimal as can be: a sepia-toned photo of my mother’s deceased mother and a few artfully arranged glass-jarred prayer candles within the wooden frame. ![]() It was just something that she always did. There was never much fanfare around it, and we never really talked about it. From October 31 to November 2, some photos and candles decorated it until my mother took it down. ![]() I can't speak Spanish to save my life.) The altar was never anything too elaborate, a small rusty red shrine affixed to the wall, in place of where an ornate wooden cross usually hung. That meant smoky enchiladas rojos on Christmas Eve and carnitas tamales laced with green chile on Christmas Day-and an altar for Día de los Muertos. I grew up in a household in that I would describe Mexican-American- ish. ![]()
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