This is a long post about death and funerals in a pueblo. I found the whole experience beautiful, sad and important. I have a lot to learn from this culture about helping, company and coming together to honor the dead.

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Death is a funny thing.

It’s funny like the funny bone is funny. You knock your elbow carelessly against an inconvenient edge and you’re seized by this weird ripple sensation; you forgot about this feeling but now you can’t think about anything else. Like right before you sneeze, everything goes a little white and all you can feel is your face. I compare the funny bone with death because it could happen any moment, but most of the time you forget you have a funny bone.

After you sneeze you forget that weird sensation, and after your funny bone spazzes out, you move on.

This particular experience was like a three-part event: hearing of the death, the procession/burial, and the wake.

The News of El Difunto/The Deceased:

Since I moved to Santa Clara, my beloved host pueblo in Guatemala, I hear about death a lot. My site has a population of 6,000 and when someone dies it is the talk of the dinner table; My host mom will usually say “hay un muerto.” Just like that. “Pobrecita” or “Pobrecito” will follow and then the explanation which almost always occurs in this exact order: death, man or woman, how it happened, age, part of town and remaining family.

I’ve explained death and funerals to my host family and how they work in my corner of the world. When I tell my host family about my life before Guatemala, I describe my friends, family and how dang hot Atlanta can be. Every person I describe is inhaling oxygen somewhere, lungs rise and lungs fall, as I detail their character, tell a funny story or explain what is happening in a picture. Except for my Nana. When I tell them about her, I sometimes refer to her in present tense on accident. Is it my inchoate second language grasp that leads me to say: “Nana likes pink” or “Nana and I are very close” instead of putting her in the past with the proper verbs? I mean to say it correctly: “Ella le encantaba mucho a ver beisbol” but while I’m doing conversions in my head from present to past, “Did Nana like it one time (le gustó) or did Nana like it all the time (le gustaba)?, some words slip through the cracks before they’re fully cooked. I wonder if they notice that I’m erroneously referring to her in the present, and if it makes them sad. Or I wonder if they simply chalk it up to a grammar mistake. She’s the only person in my life who I have to introduce to them to understand who I am, but who was always been in the past since I have been in their present.

As I write, Nana’s gold ring hugs my left ring finger. It hugs it tightly because her fingers were very delicate, thin and soft-skinned and my hands are larger than hers were. I miss everything about Nana, even the challenges of caring for her in the midst of her addled memory. Her hands represent everything soft and lovely about her and now her ring hugs my finger, connecting me todavía with her hands.

I’ve heard before that death is only a tragedy to the first world. In places stricken by civil war, epidemics, dangerous borders, poverty or lo que sea/whatever it may be, and that’s more places than I might realize as I sit in (sometimes) quiet, clean cafes reflecting on my life, death is a result, an inevitability, perhaps a shame but hardly a tragedy. Tragedy can’t be an everyday occurrence or you’d never survive. And even still, Nana’s natural death to old age felt tragic to me. I can’t even understand how much more difficult it would be to lose a loved one in the conditions I often hear about in Santa Clara.

On October 2nd someone did die tragically in my site, and the details are only chisme/gossip so I won’t share them. But what I know is that it was a tragic death. First I heard from my host family, then I heard in my classroom. A woman who drank a lot, “a good person,” died in a “baño.” Now, you might think of one of the first phrases you learned in Spanish, right? “Dónde está el baño?” But baños can also be behemoth tins in which people serve food or bathe, I guess. For some reason, this is what I had pictured in my head instead of a bathroom. I was imagining a dead person in a huge bath tub. My host family said: “She had her vices, but she was a good person.” And that’s when I imagine the all-day, all-night musical vigil that will follow. If a person is beloved, these types of memorials always ensue. I usually pass these memorials on the street, but I do not partake because I don’t usually know the dead.

The scene is usually a temporary space arranged in someone’s house entrance: the picture(s) of the dead are displayed in a frame ensconced in the sound of ongoing prayers, religious words or songs blasted through a microphone and an electronic keyboard in the background. Food wrapped in leaves accompanied by styrofoam cups, probably instant coffee and tamales, are passed around to all of the visitors who sit and listen. I don’t know who is responsible for these long-winded wakes but they seem to go on like the lines at Black Friday: the amplified voice of the female singer always finds a direct route to my room. It’s almost scientific: if my host family says: “Someone died and they were a good person” I’m sure to see the funeral procession within days carrying the coffin down the street. I might run into neighbors who are on their way to “see the dead”/ver la muerta/el muerte (that means, go eat with the family in light of a funeral) and I will hear the ceremony music playing throughout the pueblo. But if my host family says: “someone died, they were a drunk” I don’t run into a wake or a funeral procession. I wonder if these events still occur but outside of my normal route. Surely they are properly buried? Burial costs money, perhaps not. Perhaps the bodies are disposed elsewhere.

I have to explain that I’ve become accustomed to hearing about death. At first I found it strange, at least once a week, “someone died.” And what was sadder was their age or the reason: “We don’t know why they died.” In a town of 6,000 people, someone is going to die at least every week right? But I don’t hear about death that often in the States except through the news. Now that I think about it, people must be dying all around me but I’m just not aware of it: neighbors, co-workers, but because we don’t occupy the same space, we don’t know. Whereas in a pueblo, the same streets the person walked their whole life will be the same streets on which they are carried to their grave. All I can do now is express my sadness, listen, and continue. I’ve grown hard because of how often I hear it.

And what’s more, when I see the very inebriated members of Santa Clara roam the streets, bleary-eyed and incoherent, sleeping on the curbs or urinating as they walk, I’m not surprised to hear when someone with a drinking problem has died. In the light of day they live drunk and die drunk. It’s a huge issue, alcoholism, and because of this drinking alcohol at all is very, very taboo. But honestly, I said “qué lastima” when I heard the news of this woman and I moved on. I felt sorry for her passing, for her family, and I went to school. And because I just didn’t think, it didn’t occur to me that many of my students would know this woman and that perhaps she would be related to several of the faces I teach. One of my segundo básico students told me as I walked into the classroom: “There was a death” and I said “Yes, I heard, a woman died in a river.” And they said “A baño” and I said: “oh yes, a baño” still picturing a tub. A drunk man had died in a river the week before.

But it became clear that this death was different: the student council gathered in la dirección (which is the room that serves as a director’s office/computer lab/teachers’ lounge, reception and parent meeting room) to ask for permission to attend the funeral. I think they were asking for the support of the teachers to arrange that all the students go to the funeral procession in the morning. You see, students don’t just self-organize to show up to events unless someone is organizing it. (I’ve had to learn this the hard way). They may have even been asking to cancel/delay classes in light of the death. One of my student’s said: “She is my aunt and she’s our compañeras’ mom.” The staff of teachers heard them out, but without the Director they could not approve the request.

I asked Seño Mary: Whose mother was it? I learned that two of my student’s were her daughters. I suppose they are still her daughters, they will never be anyone else’s daughters. They are 13 and 17, beautiful, and now motherless.

The Funeral Procession & Burial/El Entierro:

The next morning I put my traje on with my host sister’s help and caught the funeral procession like the middle of a parade. I walked with a neighbor to a place on the street where we would catch the procession. I followed her lead. It seemed like everyone came out of their houses to see the event. Faces poked out of windows, small children stood outside of their houses to see the scene accompanied by the people who intentionally occupied the space to encounter the procession. In the distance I saw the familiar cloud of incense of the catholic church preceding a procession of singing, sober people. First appeared the church officials, in white robes and red adornments, followed by (what I assume were) family members of the deceased adorned with purple cloth and a series of women with white cloths over their heads. At the front one woman held up a photo of the deceased while another carried her grave-marker in hand, a wooden cross with the name, date of birth and date of death etched into the wood. On the shoulders of 8 men was a wooden mahogany casket draped with a white cloth. Just as the procession reached us, it started to rain.

I joined the line as it continued in procession to the cemetery. Adjustments were made for the rain, covering themselves with plastic sheets or huddling under umbrellas. There was no solution for our feet except to get wet. This is rainy season in Guatemala, inevitable as death I suppose.

Immediately this did not feel like the type of funeral I know. In the States funerals are somber affairs, out of respect for the dead and for those who have lost them, laughing is rude or out of place and smiles are limited to side exchanges to make the event bearable. At least, I’ve been to some pretty tragic funerals. While this funeral is now part of that tragic funeral contingency, it wasn’t somber like the ones I have seen. This small town doesn’t become quiet for anyone or anything, life continues as children kick plastic balls back and forth while chuchos bark and tuk-tuks whiz past, and this funeral was just like one more event layered on to the usual activity. The funeral procession in the middle of the road did not silence or restrict the usual flow of activity. It also didn’t restrict the usual flow of rain, pouring down on us as we waited in a clump to funnel into the chapel. Not to mention, many people had their cell phones out, recording video and taking shots of the crowd surrounding the grave. This is the only thing that made me feel okay to take mine out for a few shots, too.

Just as the town activity continued, people interacted with smiles and laughter in spite of the weight of the funeral. Apparently there is no ‘code of conduct’ that says no one can smile among friends even if there is a funeral. I noticed this right away, among the usual surge of attention directed at me.

As we piled into the entrance of the brightly-colored cemetery, we sought temporary shelter in the small chapel at the entrance. I got the usual stares and the questions as I huddled under a kind man’s umbrella: “Where are you from?” Um, should I really be talking about myself? But I answered the queries, small chat seemed as welcome an option as any other. Because this wasn’t the usual crowd I see on market days or my route from school to home to the muni, it was like I had arrived to Santa Clara for the first time all over again. This was obvious because everyone looked at me with questions reflecting off their eyeballs. We have tourists pass through Santa Clara on the way to more touristy towns, but none of those tourists go to funerals. Certainly none of those tourists wear traje, and none of them wear traje and go to funerals. In the midst of tragedy I still stick out like a sore thumb, the only foreigner in the bunch.

That isn’t to say that we were throwing a hoe-down, the mood was still heavy: in retrospect, it was soft and sad and sweet.

The music of the procession was a collection of brass instruments, the music both eerie and beautiful as the rain fell. The brass instruments have a drawl, a lilt to their expression that honors the death and the grief of those left behind. As I followed the crowd through the existing graves, I passed my host aunt, Nan Wi’j, and I explained that the fallecida, the dead woman, was my students’ mother. She offered me agua pura. She always helps when someone dies, I wonder if it is because she lost her husband. She said: “This was also her daughter.” and signaled to the woman ahead of her. I took in the woman’s face, obviously grieved, faint with loss, and I gingerly touched her arm to her brief recognition of the gesture. I inched in closer to the grave, the only way to see it was to stand on top of another grave, the cement tombs like small buildings for us to climb. A crowd surrounded the grave so we could look down on the burial. There were men selling bags of peanuts, announcing the sales, and ice cream carts rolling through. That was another shock, this isn’t a baseball game, but I guess it’s normal here. If people will buy it, they will be there to sell it, even at a cemetery.

I saw the faces of my students, standing on top of the graves as they looked down. I noticed the faces of neighbors, relatives of my host family, all grieved. Holy rites were issued by the priest, the music of the brass instruments soldiered on behind us against the soft, respectful music of the voices who stood around the casket. I do not know the words to the music, but everyone around me knew them by heart. The casket was (somewhat) precariously angled so that it could be lowered and ushered inside the tomb, the cement looked fresh like it was laid yesterday. Thick wires jutted up from the four corners of the grave to be able to build onto the current one when the next death in the family occurs. A man with wet cement and a spade stood by, and as the family members slowly paid their final respects to their beloved mom/sister or relative, they pushed in brick by brick to close of the grave. Once all the bricks were in place, the man with the cement wiped it across the front to close it off.

I’ve never seen a burial with blocks and wet cement. It makes sense of course it’s just not what I’m used to. I cried. I saw the pained tears of my host cousin, Nan Nil, from across the grave. Some folks pointed at me, the crying made me more absurd I guess even though it was a funeral.

And we left the grave, the ground slippery from the mud. I noticed all the familiar last names on all the graves, the last names of my students, their family members buried around us: Cumpar, Ajsoc, Ronox, Chiyal, Ixmata.

The Wake:

I tagged along with a group back to the center of town, a 15-minute walk, who began to ask me questions: where are you from?, what do you do here?, how long have you been here, where do you live?, who do you live with, how long will you live here?, are you married?, do you have a boyfriend? And the tone of everything changed to chistosa for the rest of the event. I gave my usual responses to these questions which are meant to elicit laughter and surprise. It’s because I get tired of being asked if I have a boyfriend and all the other same questions. I guess I’d get tired of any question if it was asked of me repeatedly: “Do you like broccoli?” every single day. Eventually I’d start saying: “I’m allergic to the color green.”

We wound through town, down a steep hill and up other steep sidewalks to reach the house of the deceased. We entered the house and there was an honest-to-goodness assembly line. Food is taken very, very seriously, maybe second to death (and I mean that seriously). There was a trash can full of bagged-up horchata meant for people to grab and go. Next there were earthenware bowls with a broth passed out with a plastic white spoon inside. Thirdly there was a bag of steaming-hot green leaves passed to us: tamalitos.

We laughed through the meal, the very reality of a weirdo like me dressed in traje and saying phrases in K’iche’ at a funeral wake was all too much for them. I sat on the edge of a curb near a friend, a host of eating people sitting on the crest of this hill and ate my food. “Coma coma coma” the gente would tell me as they passed. (I don’t know why they always say this, because I am always in the process of eating when they tell me to eat). Eventually I saw the face of my 13 year-old student whose mother died with the following expression: I think it was a combination of surprise, laughter and exhaustion. This series of expressions combined looked a lot like relief as it washed over her face, but I don’t think she felt an ounce of relief. She said: “Coma, seño” after I gave her a hug. What could I say? I thanked her and continued to eat. When I finished my meal, I brought the bowl up to dishes area and I saw a line of women waiting to use the bathroom.

I made sure to say “Muchas gracias” to everyone, that is the custom after you finish a meal: “muchas gracias” to their “provecho.” And I walked back down the hill to the street, thanking every face along the way. The street was muddy and slippery and my injured ankle was still on the mend so I was extra careful. My faja (woven belt) hugged my middle as I walked the winding, steep way home.

The Visit:

After school, I decided to leave the house after dinner (which I rarely do) and went to my neighbor Juana’s house. We attended a training together and I wanted to bring her a ‘recuerdo,’ some printed pictures and one in a frame. I debated saving the picture frame to give to someone else, but I decided to bring it. I can always buy more for future gifts. I walked the dark, muddy path to her house and knocked on the door. Juana came to the door and I handed her the pictures, she asked me if I wanted to come in. She normally leads me to the kitchen but she told me that everyone was resting. I entered her room and took note of it’s bare walls and damp, reinforced tile ceilings. Her single bed. Her stand-up wardrobe/dresser and a small wooden desk with a plastic chair were all that furnished the space. She sat on her bed and offered me the chair. I was relieved that I brought the picture frame when I saw how little she had, nothing. It made me sick to compare it to my childhood bedroom. But in exchange for the emptiness, she furnished the space with her beautifully curated thoughts on death, dying and how to carry on. She must have spoken for 40 minutes, myself hardly saying a word, telling me what her cousins (the daughters of the woman who died) planned to do now that their mother was gone.

She continued to say: “Yes, she had 12 children and left six unmarried.” What a strange thing to say, I thought. Yeah I suppose if my parents died, people would say: “Natalie is only 31” but they wouldn’t say: “Natalie is unmarried, what will she do now?” But I realize that it is almost one in the same here: “They are unmarried” is like saying “They are still so young.” The older of my two students, Catherine, is 17 years old. I was only able to see the back of her head, her hair pulled up in a black pony tail, during the funeral. I remember when she won the Fat Tuesday costume contest earlier in the school year, her face occluded with a mask. In both memories I couldn’t see her face. I listened to Juana’s well-formed thoughts and noticed how different her posture was now. When she’s in school she messes around with the guys in her class, punching them on the arm, working on assignments for other classes during my charlas instead of participating or talking over me. She has the posture of a tomboy and a smile on her face. But in her home, she was talking to me like a young adult, like a young woman. She said: “Catherine just wants to get married. She said she is 17 and she doesn’t have a mother, maybe she should just get married. But I told her that she needs to finish school, there are only three weeks until school is done. And if you don’t finish this year, you will have wasted a whole year for nothing.”

I tried to keep my attention on her, even though I want to walk the room with my eyes. I was not used to receiving an uninterrupted monologue. What is the normal response? Maintain eye contact, utter sounds of recognition? “Mhmm. Sí, me imagino.” Her head is perfectly centered so that the corner of the room juts from her head like a line that runs from her skull to the ceiling, cutting her down the middle if it could. I have enough time to notice this and reflect on it because of how long her speech goes. I am taking it all in, finding it beautiful, and I come to the conclusion that Juana’s words are an exchange of the gift I gave her: the gift of the photos and the visit. I don’t consider the visit ‘a gift’ but I think that is how this culture sees it. Words of welcome and words of company are a part of sharing life, technology hasn’t ruined the art of visiting like it has in my own country.

She continued: “It’s different to lose your mom. When your mom dies and you are her daughter, it is not the same. Yes you can talk to your dad about some things but you can’t talk to him about everything. It’s not the same feeling that you have when you talk to your mom.” And without pause she would launch into the next thought: “The Bible says that life is just a dust, and that any moment everything can esparcirse.” I hadn’t ever heard the word, made a mental note of it and thought it probably meant “make itself sparce.” She continued saying: “Pero que hacemos, seño? Sólo Dios sabe porque pasa la vida así.”

I looked up the word for ‘grief’ in Spanish and it doesn’t exist. The dictionary says: pesor (which means weight, heaviness) or pena (which means trouble or annoyance). Grief didn’t appear. My country has forgotten the art of conversation but we do have a word for grief. El luto means ‘in mourning’ so there is that.

I hope I remember everything about this day because it was so unusual to me: the assembly line for serving food at the wake, the host of women huddled in a steamy cooking area to help serve everyone, the brick by brick sealing of the grave, the drowsy trombone and the crowd climbing the tombs to see their neighbor and friend buried. The beautiful and bright flowers were so refreshing in the midst of sadness, and the attitude of my 14 year-old student as she explained the nature of life and loss. “Esparcirse” means to disseminate or to scatter.