Seis Días de los Muertos

As we approached Día de los Muertos, I could feel the excitement in my family growing. "Josh, ¿cuantos de tus amigos vendrán a hacer pan? Josh, how many of your friends are coming to make bread?" my cousin Jacobo would eagerly ask me. He had invited my YAGM Mexico friends to come to Tlaxcala for the quintessential Mexican holiday in order to make Pan de Muerto and experience the traditions of Tlaxcala. When I asked my family about the traditions of Día de los Muertos in Tlaxcala and within our family, the answers I received were vague. Like many other aspects of life in Mexico, I realized that I would just have to wait and experience Día de los Muertos myself. Here is an account - in words and pictures - of what I experienced.

Calaveras de Chocolate en el mercado antes de Día de los Muertos ::
Chocolate skulls in the market leading up to Día de los Muertos

DAY ONE - OCTOBER 28th

Today was dedicated to making offerings to those who have died in accidents: drowning, choking, fires, car accidents, etc. My family has four relatives that have died from accidents. Mamá put together a small offering for these family members, consisting of:

-a candle: a light to illumine the path
-a cross made of flowers: to find their destination
-salt: to purify the salt
-water, fruit, and Pan de Muerto for each individual: to eat, drink, and enjoy

DAY TWO - OCTOBER 29th

Today, I accompanied Tía Norma to the school she works at in order to see their Día de los Muertos celebrations. The school had displayed a number of Catrinas that kids had made.

A number of kids had their faces painted as skeletons, and a number of girls were dressed up as Catrinas.

One class in the school was responsible for making an offering.

Cempazúchitl flowers - more commonly known as Flor de Muerto - adorn the offering and lead over a hundred feet from the entrance of the school, guiding the dead to the offering. 

Colorful and intricate tissue paper art decorate the offering. 

A picture of Jesus and the Virgin adorn the top of this offering. Many offerings hold the pictures of deceased loved ones to which the offering is dedicated.

The offering is filled with oranges, bananas, tamales, mole, bread, Pan de Muerto, apples, rice, Calaveras de Amaranto, Calaveras de Chocolate, jicama, sugar cane, camote, chicken, tequila and mezcal. 

Candles and incense bath the offering.

In addition to the offering, there was a large fiesta. Each class in the school was responsible for brining one dish: rice, tamales, tlacloyos, agua, tortillas, mole or candy. Everyone ate and took in the surroundings for an hour or two before school was dismissed for the day.

DAY THREE - OCTOBER 30th

At the shelter, we made an offering for the three migrants who had died in/near Apizaco during the last couple of years. The offering was adorned with paper-tissue art, flowers, water, guayaba, sugar cane, jicama, oranges, flowers, and the names of the three individuals who had passed away. The crosses adorned the ground: one of dirt to remind us that those passed away lived and walked on the earth with us, one of salt to purify the souls of the deceased, and one of flowers to celebrate the deceased. After putting the altar together, we had a service of sorts that lasted close to an hour. I think we said the Rosary during the service, but I'm not really sure. [Church services or speeches combined with a language in which you are not completely familiar is a good recipe for a lack of attention.]

In memory of Arlen Nahum, Henry Hernandez & Marly Marcial + Chavez

DAY FOUR - OCTOBER 31st

Today my YAGM friends Becca and Alyssa accompanied me to my cousin Jacobo's house to make Pan de Muerto. We began shortly after 7am by mixing the ingredients for the bread. 

We mixed flour, sugar, vanilla, eggs, oil, milk, yeast [and probably some other things that I don't remember]. We did this three different times, making one batch with nueces [pecans], one with guayaba [guava], and one with canola [cinnamon]. 

After this, we allowed the bread to rise. 

And we prepared the adobe-like oven for baking. [A fire was made within the oven to heat the stones around the oven. Eventually, the sticks and coals were removed, and baking commenced. Every once in a while, a blow torch was put inside the oven to add heat again.]

After the bread rose a tad-bit, we formed it into Pan de Muerto. It is called this because the pieces of dough that adorn the top represent huesos [bones] and the ball in the middle represents a skull.

After forming the pieces of bread, we added a glaze and seeds. 

At this point, it was 3pm. We had been working on the Pan de Muerto - and taking breaks - for over seven hours. We had formed seventy pieces of Pan de Muerto with nuez from the mixture, but still lacked the baking, and the formation of the other 2/3 of the mix. Alyssa, Becca, Catherine [who also joined us] and I decided to go see some Día de los Muertos traditions in the center of town, while my family continued to bake. Jacobo did not finish baking until after 2am! Here is a video of the process we undertook to make Pan de Muerto

The Zócalo in Tlaxcala hosted about a dozen different altars that people and organizations had made. It was part cultural display and part offering competition.

After viewing the offerings in the center of town, we headed back to my house to celebrate the birthdays of my sisters: Annie and Karla. The party was part birthday, part Halloween party, and part Día de los Muertos celebration, outfitted with face painting, a mariachi band, a taco stand, and plenty of tequila and mezcal. It was a fun night of celebrating life with my Mexican family and American friends.

My primas Laura & Yiyi, My sisters Karla & Annie

DAY FIVE - NOVEMBER 1st

Today, we put together a big offering in our house for the abuelos and bisabuelos. 

Traditional Candy: Cajeta, Camote, Cocada y más

DAY SIX - NOVEMBER 2nd

Today felt like New Year's Day. Most people had the day off. The town was quiet, and we spent most of the day laying around the house. In the afternoon, my family went to the grave site of los abuelos and laid flowers there.

Goofy Gringo Cuentitos [short stories]

Living a new country inevitably leads to interesting incidents, misunderstandings and lessons learned. Life is even more ridiculous when you live with a big, outrageous, and loving Mexican family. The last couple of months have created a number of great stories. Here are a few of the funny stories of mishaps and mistakes that I have made...

Miel Cough Drops

Saturday and Sunday of every weekend, the center of Tlaxcala – the town in which I live – is flooded with people buying and selling fruit, clothes, artisanal goods, and even animals. It’s like a farmer’s market, only much bigger, more active, and more vibrant. Plus, it’s not only health nuts and hippies at the market, all kind of people are there. One specific plaza in the center of town sells only hand-made crafts, goods, and natural products.  One Sunday, I accompanied my Tía Norma and Luis to a honey stand in this plaza. I was given a few samples of honey, and then the owner of the stand began telling me about the candy that they also sold. I didn’t understand all of what he was saying, but I was pretty confident that I understood him. He had me taste a certain candy that is supposed to help with gripe – the flu. I wanted to support his business, but felt no need to buy flu medicine candy. So, I proceeded to buy some honey suckers. After walking away from the stand, I popped one in my mouth. It was kind of sweet, but also tasted like a cough drop. I realized that this candy was also for gripe. I laughed at myself. I’m sure the man had told me this and I just didn’t realize it. I will make sure to ask more questions next time I don’t understand what someone is saying. 

posing with rice I helped make at the shelter

Agua de Zanahoria con Sal

Here in Mexico, agua does not have the same meaning as “water” in the U.S. Yes, agua means “water.” Most of the time though, when someone drinks agua, they are drinking a flavored beverage, consisting of water, fruit juice or blended fruit or another flavoring, and a butt-load of sugar. [i.e. Agua de Mandarin, Agua de Chia, Agua de Frutas, Agua de Alfalfa, Agua de Chocolate, Agua de Guayaba, Agua de Lima.] While this agua may not be the best for one’s health, it is certainly delicious.

One day in the shelter, I was tasked with making the agua of the day. Spefically, I was making agua de zanahoria [carrot]. I know it doesn’t sound appetizing, but it is actually pretty darn good. After slicing a ton of carrots into strips, blending them and mixing the resulting carrot liquid with a lot of water, I arrived at the most important step: adding the sugar. During my previous two attempts to make water, I had been very hesitant to add too much sugar, but this time, I wasn’t going to be as reserved.  I poured a butt-ton of sugar into the water. I was proud of myself. I had set aside my concerns for the health of everyone in the shelter, including myself, and had flavored the water like a true Mexican.

Unfortunately, my prideful thoughts were interrupted by Jacqi, saying “¿Sabes que fue sal, verdad?” [“You know that was salt, right?”] I was devastated. I grabbed the white container with the blue lid instead of that with the green lid. I couldn’t believe my careless mistake. I had ruined nearly an hour of work and a lot of carrots. Fortunately, my thoughts were once again interrupted. Jacqi and John could not contain their laughter. While I had been traumatized, they realized that it was not a big deal, and in fact, found it very funny. I immediately felt better knowing that I put a smile – albeit unintentionally – on the faces of John and Jacqi after their stressful week in the shelter.

Jacqi helped me to problem solve the situation. I added juice from a dozen oranges to the shelter, and then added the proper amount of sugar to the water. The water still tasted salty, but it was manageable. As we served the Agua de Zanahoria at mealtime, Jacqi announced to all the migrants that we had made a special electrolyte beverage, so that everyone would be hydrated for their journey. I smiled. I suppose it’s all a matter of perspective.

Getting Sick

Animals eat very well in Mexico. Well, at least the animals with which I have contact: my family’s dog, and the chickens and turkeys at the shelter. They receive whatever food is not eaten during our meals. For the turkeys and chickens this usually means fresh rice, beans and soup. For my family’s dog, usually tortillas, chicken, and caldo. As a result, I have no problem eating the same food as the animals. This is not something I usually do, but it is something I did one day in the shelter. And in these circumstances, it was not a great idea…

“Jacqi, ¿que vamos a hacer con estos totopos duros?” [“What are we going to do with these hard tortilla strips?”] I asked. We had left a number of tortillas out to harden in order to make chilaquiles, but we did not end up using all of them. “Puedes echar agua en los totopos para hacerse mas maduros, y luego podemos darlos a los gallos” [“You can put water on the tortilla strips in order to soften them so that we can feed them to the chickens later”] Jacqi replied. I proceeded to fill the pot of tortilla strips with water straight from the facet. Since I was hungry, I proceeded to eat some of the tortilla strips. Unfortunately, I did not think about the fact that these tortillas were soaking in unfiltered water.  My stomach felt better for the moment, but my carelessness would come back to bite me that night.

I spent an entire day either sleeping or on the toilet. My Mexican family was very worried about me, so they eventually decided to take me to the doctor. Luckily, mi mamá is a doctor at a nearby clinic and was on duty. My primo took me to her clinic, where I was given a suero. Suero has a few meanings. It is an electrolyte beverage, and IV, or in the state of Oaxaca, a michelada [a beer with tamarindo and other flavorings]. In this case, suero refers to an IV. The next day I felt much better, and was able to laugh at my dumb mistake. Thank God for my Mexican family.

My Neighbor Is A Migrant

My first day at the shelter caught me off guard. I didn’t spend much time talking with migrants that day, but quickly bonded over the game of fútbol. Running up and down the court, passing the ball, and defending attacks, I felt like I was at home, playing soccer with friends. If I had not know better, I would have had no idea these guys were on a long, arduous journey, on which the fate of their futures and their very lives clung. I would have had no idea that some of these men – the “lucky ones” – would soon be labeled as “illegal aliens.” They sure didn’t look like “aliens” or “illegals” to me. In fact, one of the guys at the shelter looked nearly identical to a friend of mine in Texas. I was struck right away by the fact that immigration was no longer an “issue” about which I had an opinion. Immigration is an activity undertaken by real people – people searching for efficacy over their lives. People searching for the same freedom to live, earn money and live comfortably that I take for granted each day. These people helped me to realize that immigration is something that is happening all around me. I am affected by people who immigrate, and the decisions I make also affect these individuals’ lives.

I was initially taken aback by the fact that one of the individuals at the shelter looked like my friend. A little while later, a young man arrived sporting a Texas State hat – the state university that is less than half an hour from my home in Texas. Then, I met a man named Santos. Santos was trying to make it back to Houston, the same city in which much of my family lives. Santos had been living there for a year with his wife and two kids before being caught by immigration and deported, leaving his family behind. During his year in Texas, Santos worked construction jobs in College Station – the same city that my brother lives and attends college in, the same city in which my parents met. I realized that my life is intertwined with Santos’ in many ways. Santos was not an “alien” or an “issue,” he was my neighbor.

View of Shelter from the Tracks

A few days later, I met Franklin. Franklin, or Franky as everyone at the shelter called him, approached me speaking flawless English. He asked me where I was from, and I responded “San Antonio, Texas.” Before I even finished responding, Franky began talking about the Spurs. He shared his love for Tim Duncan and Manu Ginobili, and how he thought that DeMarcus Aldridge was a great addition to the team. I warmly embraced the topic of conversation since the Spurs remind me of home and family. I would soon find out why Franky knew so much about the Spurs.

Fanklin is from Honduras. When he was fourteen years old, he was struck by a stray bullet from a nearby gang fight. Franky was not seriously injured, but the incident was taken seriously by Franky’s father. Franky’s dad, who was living and working in the U.S., made arrangements for him to be brought to the States. Franky did not want to go; his whole life and his family were in Honduras. Plus, he did not feel that he was unsafe. But, he felt obliged to follow his dad’s request. He was soon on his way to the U.S. via Mexico and La Bestia.

Franky made it across the border and moved in with his dad in Iowa. He enrolled in school for two years before beginning to work. At eighteen, Franky was arrested for DUI and deported. At this point, Franky had made friends in the U.S., had become accustomed to life in the States and was awaiting the arrival of a baby girl. Franky decided that he would return to the United States.

Franky made the journey by train again. This time he settled in San Antonio, where he began to work as a landscaper. He moved into a house in Northeast San Antonio – near Retama Park and The Forum – with a woman who worked in a clinic. Together they had a son. Franky quickly became a San Antonian. He became a Spurs fan, and enjoyed weekend trips to toob the San Marcos River and jet-ski on Canyon Lake with friends.

On July 4^th, 2014, Franky’s future would take a turn. After being clean from drinking for many years, Franky was swept up in the excitement of Independence Day celebrations, and began drinking with friends. While driving to the stores to purchase more alcohol, Franky was pulled over and arrested for driving under the influence. He spent the next two months in a detention center before being sent back to Honduras.

"La Bestia." Seen from Shelter on Rainy Day

Franky told his girlfriend – with whom he lived and had a son – that he did not know if he would be back. Trying to make it to the U.S. is always a crap shoot. It takes a lot of luck to survive the gangs, the train, La Migra, the desert, and other travails of the journey. Entrance to the U.S. is never guaranteed. Knowing this, Franky told his girlfriend that she could move on with her life. They agreed that he would still retain the right to see and speak with his son.

Franky spent the last year in Honduras, working construction and spending time with his mom. During the year, Franky spoke on the phone with his kids in the States. Though initially content to be back with his mother in his home country, the sound of his children’s voices soon stirred paternal instincts within Franky. It pained him that he could not be there to comfort his kids when they were sick. He also struggled to explain to his eight year old son why he left. All that he managed to say was that he had to leave for a while, but would be back soon.

Now, Franky is traveling north again to try to make it back to San Antonio, to his son. He was already deported once from the state of Tabasco on this attempt to make it to the north. As soon as he and his friend reached the Honduras border, they boarded another bus and began the journey again. He knows he’s not guaranteed to make it back to the United States, but he’s hopeful. He’s made it twice, and already on this journey he’s made it through the perils of Chiapas and other southern states. He prays he’ll make it again, so his son no longer has to ask why his dad is not present at school events when all the other kids’ fathers are.

Talking to Franky was refreshing. Franky was kind, outgoing and full of life. I was sad to see him leave after spending time with him for several days. I told Franky good-bye and wished him luck on his journey. Franky looked at me and said, “Remember, Go Spurs Go!” Little did he know, “Go Spurs Go” was a code my parents use to tell me “I Love You.” They began using this phrase when I was in fifth grade, knowing that I would be embarrassed if they told me they loved me in front of my friends. Thinking back to this, Franky’s words took on a new meaning. I looked back at Franky, and with a smile on my face, replied “Go Spurs Go!”

Mi Nombre Es...

Names are interesting. They are given by others, but are things that we take on. Some are given out of love - like our birth names. Other names that we pick up along the way are taunts, insults, or just jokes. Regardless of their origin, names are what allow us to be identified by others. They become ingrained in our identity and existence. Names tell a story.

As I introduce myself to people in Mexico, I've had to think about what I call myself. Do I call myself Josué [the Spanish name for Josh]? Or, should I just stick to Josh?

These thoughts have led my to reflect on my name. I've come to realize that I have many names. Recalling these names helps me to remember who I am in a time in which there is so much change and insecurity in my life. These names also tell stories. Here are some of the most prominent names of my life...


Joshua Chanz was the name given to me by my parents at birth. Chanz being the summation of my grandmothers' maiden names: Chapin and Lanz.

Josh is the name that I have most often gone by. While I do not have a preference between Josh and Joshua, I usually introduce myself as Josh because it is shorter and easier to say. Most of my friends and family call me Josh, and my Facebook profile is even listed as Josh.

Cha-Chee is the name that my Uncle David gave me... I think he gave it to me. Anyways, I have had this name since my first years of life. I used to detest as a kid. Crying, I would say, "My name is not Cha-Chee." Now, however, I love the name. My Uncle David and his family still call me Cha-Chee, as do a number of other relatives.

"Cha-Chee" '97

Joshy-Washy is a playful rhyme of name that has been used by a number of relatives at times throughout the years, especially when I was younger.

Mushroomhead is a name that I took on during 7th grade. Haha. I was given this name because of the hideous bowl-cut that I sported for over a year. My head looked, well, like a mushroom. I didn't necessarily like the name at the time, but I didn't hate it either. Now, I look back fondly on this name. It reminds me of my awkwardness as a middle-schooler - the same awkwardness that extended into my high school years. It reminds me of my longing to "fit in" and "be cool" and the fact that most of the time I really wasn't. It reminds that each step of my journey, even the ones that were painful and awkward, were important in shaping me to be who I am today.

"Mushroomhead" 7th Grade Year Book Photo

Joshy or Joshy Poo] is a name that I have been playfully called throughout my life. One of the most memorable seasons in which I have been called this was during my Freshman year of high school during Model United Nations club meetings by two Junior girls - Ashley and Lauren, who are my friends to this day. Ashley and Lauren decided to adopt me as their little brother and began to call me Joshy. I think the name was reflective of the fact that I was so tiny as a Freshman. While I thought the name was embarrassing at the time, I look back now, knowing that I was loved.

"Joshy-Poo" [I'm the tiny one] '08 Photo Cred: Donna Weaver

J-Daddy was a name that I took on during the Spring of my Freshman year of high school. During a memorable afternoon run, my friends John, Joey, James and I decided to form a "club" of sorts. We were the up and coming "stars" of the Cross-Country team, and knowing that all of our names started with J created a special bond. During that run up Panther Canyon, we named ourselves the "J-Hawks," and then named each one of ourselves individually: "Big-J," "Triple-J," "Dr.J," and me, "J-Daddy." To this day, we occasionally go by these names in our Cross Country group or with one another.

Nips was another nickname given to me by Cross Country teammates during my Junior of high school. Shortly after finishing a half-marathon, I stripped off my sweaty shirt, revealing two band-aids over my nipples, which I had placed there to prevent chafing. My friends thought this was amusing, so they began to call me Nips. I didn't talk a liking to the name, so it slowly faded away. I somewhat like it now though because it evokes many great memories with my friends in high school Cross Country and Track.

J is a name that my Dad calls me. He primarily uses this in e-mails and texts, designating me as J, my mom as K, and my brother as K2. At first, I wasn't sure of this shortening of my name. Now, I love this name. Though a single letter, it carries all the love of my parents and their continued affection throughout my life.

"J" - Dad & I at 2014 Metro State Invite. Photo Cred: Cambria Magnuson

Yeshua was a name that took on special significance during college. During my Sophomore year of college, I learned that the names Joshua and Jesus share the same Hebrew name: Yeshua. This word means something along the lines of "God is Salvation." My college Cross Country coach, who is also named Joshua, began calling me Yeshua as well. Yeshua was an important name for me during college when I was learning about myself and discovering more of the world. It is also important for me now in the midst of more growth, doubts about my faith and questions about the world. It is a reminder that the very root of my identity - my name - is in the God of Abraham and Isaac, Moses, David, and Jesus.

"Yeshua" - 2013 NCAA D2 Regionals

Jésus is another name by which my college Cross Country coach called me. This name came from the fact that Jésus - Jesus - and Joshua share the same root of Yeshua. This name reminds me of the playful love of my coach, my years of running in college, and the importance that this man played in my life.

Cardio is a name that I just recently took on this summer while hiking. Thru-hiking [back-packing long distances] has a culture of its own. A part of this culture is taking on a new name that make one more easily identified. Besides, nicknames are just fun in general. Anyways, I was bestowed this name by my friend Frost because of my endurance up hills and the latin feel of this name [he knew that I was preparing to head to Mexico].

"Cardio" Frost & I on the Colorado Trail '15. Photo Cred: AsiaRae

Now, upon entering Mexico, I've taken on a few new names.

Hosh is a name that I was given by my friend Gracia, who is living and serving in Mexico City this year. I'm not sure how she settled on this name, but I think I like it.

Josué is the name that I introduce myself by here in Mexico. "Mi nombre es Josué," I say. People often look at me puzzled, and then I explain that my English name is "Josh," but in Spanish its "Josué." Many people have opted to call me Josué because it is easier for them to say.

Meanwhile, several people in my Mexican family think that I should be called by my "real" name: Joshua. Since this name is it not as easy to pronounce though, there attempts to say Joshua end up sounding more like Yoshua.

I'm not sure why he calls me this - he might've heard me wrong, or maybe he is just original - but, one of my Mexican uncles calls me Josef. Thought it's not quite my name, I find it endearing.


These are the stories of my names. What stories do your names tell?


"... Continue to call each other by the names I've given you to help remember who you are. Touch each other, and keep telling the stories." 
[Excerpt from "Passover Remembered..." by Alla Bozarth-Campbell]