Death, Cocido and Spiderwebs
Its that time of year to pay homage to the ancestors. The last couple of years my mother and I have recognized Dia de Los Muertos by paying respects at the resting grounds of loved ones.
As part of my continued genealogical research as an exploration of my family’s oral history, my mother and I made a pilgrimage further south to Los Angeles. We were looking for a record of my great grandmother’s death in Los Angeles in 1928. There has always been a real mystery behind her passing and my grandfather’s (her son) birth. It seems 1926-1928 was a tumultuous time for them. My grandfather’s birth at home was never properly recorded, so he has no formal birth certificate. His mother’s death record could not be located so we did not know what she had passed from. Directly after her death, my grandfather’s sister was abducted by extended family. This was followed by a move two years later to the Central Valley where my grandfather’s dad then died. Orphaned with a family torn apart, my grandfather’s identity always felt uprooted.
By the time I was old enough to take an interest in my family history, the story of my great grandmother’s death had become family lore, rich with embellishment and lessons for us young ones. It goes: she had recently had my grandfather and was going out dancing. She was dressed in flapper fashion and did not wear a coat out. She caught a cold and died shortly thereafter leaving her husband and five children behind.
Translation: “We don’t know how she died exactly but 1) it is inappropriate to party when you have a family 2) revealing clothing can lead to bad things 3) never go out without your jacket. Defying these basic rules can lead to death or worse, an abandoned family…also don’t blow your nose too often, I know a woman who rubbed her nose right off her face from too much nose blowing.”
When I would inquire further about death records I always got (and still do) the same response “back then mihija, nobody kept records of poor Mexicans.”
It turns out this is not true. Our trip was fruitful. Looking through city and county records, old directory archives and burial records, we found her death record as well as her resting place. We also confirmed the home my grandfather was born in through baptismal records.
We paid homage and brought our findings back to the family over steamy bowls of Cocido (Mexican beef soup) and warm tortillas that my Tio Margarito made. We talked of the days of birth and death at home, herbal medicine practiced by the older generations and the many transitions faced by the family as they made their way in the U.S. My Tia Maria Jesus, still living on the land bought by my greatgreat grandparents from Mexico, cut lemon grass for me and pointed around the yard to where the first generation had kept their tomillo, yerba buena, ruda, epazote, estafiate and the ailments they were used for. My Tios told me how to use spider webs to staunch the bleeding from a cut. Our oldest generation is as eager to share as I am to listen. For me El Dia and this season in general, is when we bring to light and offer thanks to the deep ancestral knowledge passed down to us.








