Building a Queer Altar for Myself on the Day of the Dead
As a fortune teller, I’ve gotten used to seeing Death all over the place—mostly in the form of the Death tarot card, of course. It’s nothing unusual, though, because growing up, I could always expect Death to come around after Halloween. The literal figure of death, that skeletal revenant, would show up in unexpected places—at the fairgrounds by our house where the carnival set up, at the grocery store when we were buying the on-sale candy on November 1, or even literally knocking on our door, asking to come in for a merienda—a snack—before taking off to party with the living. Those calacas—skeleton and skull decorations—never scared me then, and so seeing Death in a tarot spread is like greeting an old friend.
My devoutly Catholic family celebrated Halloween, but didn’t really do much for Dia de los Muertos. November 1 was only All Saints Day to us, a day to think of the Catholic saints we prayed to, to whom we lit our candles and offered our worries and asked for intercession. It was certainly not Dia de los Muertos, and while we would accept those who did celebrate, and we’d see the beauty of their costumes and makeup, we still knew that eso era malo, and therefore prohibited.
Knowing that some things were malo and not for me was something I’d always known growing up queer in south Texas. I knew that there were parts of me that had to die in the shadows so I could live in the light. Those marigolds of queerness were only beautiful from afar, and would certainly stink up the place if I brought them home. So I buried my love of Dia de los Muertos and las catrinas right beside my love of glitter and Barbie and Rainbow Brite, beside every queer thing I loved, and hoped and prayed that they’d stay dead.
And yet the catrina, in her fancy regalia and her queenly demeanor, reminded me of all of the divas I had grown up wanting to be like, from Charo to Cher. I knew I had to kill that fascination lest anyone think I was being too gay, or—heaven forbid—that I actually was gay. There was certainly no way I was going to be allowed to dress up as the catrina, and so she stayed in her tomb, blooming as a flower once a year in my heart.
The flowers of our youth, even wilted, sometimes have strong roots, and my love of Dia de los Muertos, and of the catrina, had very deep roots. But I had to keep them buried, even when I began doing business as Golden Mirror Fortunes. Golden Mirror Fortunes was born of, of all things, a horrible breakup: I needed something to keep me busy, keep me healed, and keep me helping others. Tarot and witchcraft were things I loved, and since my great-grandfather was a curandero, or a folk healer, I knew that it wouldn’t be quite as malo as it might otherwise have seemed.
To bolster business at the start of Golden Mirror Fortunes, I began vending at local pop-up markets. It was a glorious time, and thankfully I had my sister, Paloma, along to help me. Because the flowers of my queerness refused to die but couldn’t quite bloom, I’d wear something I considered sufficiently witchy to the pop-up markets, even if it wasn’t what I dreamed of wearing. I’d put on some gold pants and a duster, or some gym shorts and a t-shirt with our logo emblazoned on it, and secretly long to look like Diana Ross or RuPaul or Walter Mercado instead. Their fabulousness, their unabashed glamour, their otherness, felt like too much, as if wearing the sequins and makeup would let the world know, “Not only is Fernie a fortune-telling witch, he’s also… you know… queer!” So I buried that desire alongside the rest of my queerness. I let myself wear some glitter and maybe some Glossier Futuredew (which isn’t quite makeup), and say that it was good enough because it wasn’t gay enough.
Around the same time, my Tia Dora passed away after a long battle with cancer. My sister Paloma was especially close to her, and while grieving and mourning were necessary, they felt difficult to do. It didn’t feel quite right to ask the tarot to talk to Dora, and I couldn’t think of any spells or rituals that fit our needs. It was at a pop-up market where we’d set up our Golden Mirror Fortunes booth that the way to honor tia Dora came to me. Among the catrinas and the calacas and the pungent aroma of cempasuchil, those beautiful marigolds, I revived my love of this gorgeous holiday and found the perfect way to help Paloma grieve, mourn, and honor our Tia Dora.
On November 2, the day we honor the dearly departed, Paloma and I created a Dia de los Muertos altar for Tia Dora. We had never created one before, as that wasn’t something we did in our family, but I felt in my heart that it was the right thing to do. Paloma found some things that reminded her of our aunt: a rooster for the way she decorated her house, some flowers, even the cigarettes she smoked against doctor’s orders. She also pulled up her favorite picture of Dora on her phone. I gave Paloma a candle, and then I left her to finish the altar, giving her a hug when she came back in with a tear and a smile on her face.
At the market where I realized how to help Paloma grieve, I also recognized something else that needed grieving—the person I’d have to let die in order to be who I really was. I knew that to be like the catrinas walking around, looking so pretty with their faces painted like sugar skulls and their glamorous attire, I’d have to let the Fernie who wore gym shorts and T-shirts to tell fortunes pass away, as hard as that might be.
I am reminded of the way the Death card in the tarot very rarely signifies an actual death—more often, it represents a transformation that we undergo. Death, in this case, was my transformation from the person who had to hide their queerness and their fabulousness to not be malo, into someone who might actually be malo. Death allowed me to be reborn as the fortune teller who wears glitter and caftans and heels, someone who spreads magic and joy through their queerness. At the most recent Day of the Dead market, I wore heels and a caftan, my face painted for the gods (if not quite like a sugar skull), and finally felt like I’d given the catrina in me her due.
So, won’t you join me at the altar I’ve built to the old Fernie? At this altar, I’ve placed some marigolds, and the lipstick I fearfully put on and then threw away, and the pictures of me fortune-telling in shorts and a T-shirt. Let’s also place the first sequin robe I bought, the glitter lip gloss that lets my words sparkle in the air, and the nail polish that lets my fingers shine as I shuffle the cards. I invite you to kneel before this altar and weep for what would have been lost if that Fernie hadn’t passed away. I will stand before this altar and dance in my caftan and heels, and sing in my loudest voice of who I am. Let’s celebrate the newest catrina to celebrate Dia de los Muertos together, mis amores.
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