My Grandma’s Way

My Grandma’s Way

This time of year always stirs something in me. Fall is my favorite time of year. The colors, the candles, the quiet in-between. I used to think Halloween was just about fear — now I know it’s about remembering.

As I have become older and I have really begun being curious about history and traditions; it kicked off when I took a Mexican History course in college - hands down, one of my favorite classes I have taken. It was so rich in history, culture, the stuff I didn’t learn about from family, but the teacher was one of those awesome ones that makes you want to take another one of their classes just because of them.

I had already begun learning about Halloween and how it was meant to celebrate the last harvest, but that class pulled in a new thread. I started to see the connection between the old-world ways and the new, between what I’d been told was “scary and evil” and what my ancestors actually celebrated, and why. But I do understand with a deep-rooted religious background why they could have felt this way.

We found out that only fall students got a little extra with a Día de los Muertos portion added to our class. Wow, something in me lit up. It wasn’t new exactly - it felt familiar. I grew up watching my grandma do little things that now make sense. She would set out pictures of loved ones, light candles, sometimes even make foods or sweet bread and leave them on the table like they were waiting for someone to stop by.

At the time, I didn’t question it. It was just “Grandma’s way.” And you let it be. But that class helped me understand why she even had that tradition. She never liked the skeleton, scarier stuff though. She welcomed her lost loved ones in more quiet religious manner.

It was the first time I understood what she’d really been doing - building an altar, honoring her dead loved ones, keeping the connection alive. Was she connecting with anyone when she was saying her prayers during this time?

The thing is, she never explained the purpose of an altar or showed me what to do, what should I do with it. It was just something only she did. Quietly. Gently. Like muscle memory passed down from generations that had to hide quietly for their traditions to survive. And to be honest I really didn’t give it that much thought into until I started putting puzzle pieces together.

I started realizing how many things I’d seen but never really knew what I was seeing.

My grandma lived with us, and she was my primary caregiver - my rock. She was the warm rhythm in our house. And we had our secrets, her and I. She’d whisper certain things to me in Spanish, little phrases I could recognize but not repeat. When I tried to mimic them, to roll my R’s, my mom got upset - said I didn’t need to learn that.

Looking back now, I get it. My mom was teased for being “too white” growing up. My grandparents were lighter-skinned Mexicans - my grandma especially. My mom wanted to protect me from that kind of bullying. So she raised me “white,” thinking it would make life easier. But somewhere between her trying to protect me and my grandma trying to pass something on, I fell into the middle.

A “White Mexican.”

For a long time, it added to my feeling of not quite fitting in. Now I see it more like a translation problem - I was just living between hearts, different languages, between worlds, between two very different eras but both of them with loving fear. Being a parent, I get that.

But that class changed everything for me.

I learned that the “veil” being thin wasn’t about demons or monsters, but more about welcoming loved ones back for one night, it hit me hard. It made me emotional in a way I didn’t expect. I didn’t have many feelings back then (other than the love for my kids).

It’s not about fear. It’s about love. It’s about remembering.

It’s about blending in with the spirits so your loved ones can safely find their way to you.

And I fucking loved that. Even more now that she has passed on. 

Back then, Day of the Dead wasn’t mainstream. You couldn’t just walk into Target and find sugar skull décor and bright Katrina dolls, or pan dulce (sweet bread). You had to go looking for it - little corner stores, or Mexican markets where people remembered the meaning behind the celebration.

During this time, the kids and I had watched Nightmare Before Christmas (a movie we deemed as scary at the time, LMAO) and it made sense to me, Halloween Town just got stuck in not knowing any different.

That’s when Halloween started to shift for me — from a night of fear to a night of connection. A bridge between worlds.