The story of MiAltar begins in the state of Jalisco in the early 1990s when, as a teenager, I was entrusted with carrying one of the many freshly prepared dishes and held responsible for ensuring a spill-free journey (“que no se te vaya a tirar”). There were snippets of conversation as my parents, aunts, and uncles talked about the mariachi band’s arrival and that we would shortly be making our way to the town cemetery in time for the mass that would be held there. The food was not intended for us, nor was the music, I was told, but instead, it was for my grandfather and other relatives I had not met but who were buried there. 

It was my first year living in Mexico (I had grown up in the Bay Area in California), and I was regularly introduced to new relatives. At the time, it only made sense to me that there would also be buried relatives I had never met. When we arrived at the colorful cemetery it was adorned with aromatic flowers, I remember watching family, friends, and everyone at the cemetery, seeing the fusion of joy and sadness as they gently placed the food, drinks and flowers as ofrendas on the graves of their loved ones. The somber yet joyful expressions I remember from the cemetery are synonymous with what I now feel on Dia de Muertos when I think of the relatives and friends who have since passed away. 

The three years we lived in Mexico are remarkably etched in my heart. Experiencing life there was easy, enriching, natural, familiar, and deep. Then came the loss. Beginning with my grandmother’s passing, followed by my godfather, then another uncle, and with this confusion, I found myself swept into a whirlwind as we made our way back to the US, never to experience another Dia de Muertos in Mexico since. I went on to pursue my passion for diversity, cultures, and connecting the familiar with the unfamiliar, working in international education. My global travels often brought me back to Mexico in October, coinciding with the appearance of altars in restaurants and public spaces.