Pt. 1: Would-Have-Been Birthday Extravaganza

Nov. 2021

At 7 pm I walked off the plane’s metal staircase and onward into Oaxaca, México, my first solo trip. It was already dark, but I could see the flicker of city lights in the distance and smell a crisp air that only comes with an abundance of trees. My 25-pound backpack buckled over my waist, cinching it a little too tight. Months of sitting by hospital beds and stress eating led to a bit of sluggishness in my step despite my excitement at finally arriving in Oaxaca, the Mexican state known for its cultural and indigenous legacy.

The real reason I visited Oaxaca was that I wanted to light a candle on my mom’s birthday at a church she often hinted at wanting to see. And so, I made a day of it. I spent my first day in Mexico crafting my mom’s would-have-been 57th birthday extravaganza, concluding with Mass and candle lighting at the cathedral in the Zócalo. (The church she actually wanted to visit, Templo de Santo Domingo de Guzmán, was closed that day.)

She never was a big birthday party person. She always wanted to keep it intimate with little fuss, but she often complied when pressured to aggrandize. Even on her birthday, she gave.

This time around, the pressure was on. I brought her spirit to Mexico, and we were going all out. I checked into my Airbnb, and we were off.

In search of the birthday feast, I followed my nose through the city until I meandered into a narrow, smokey mess hall bordered with food stands draped with hanging meat. Lines of people excitedly called me to look at their menus. I walked through politely declining each offer until I was almost jogging away to avoid their persistence. Finally, I settled on a stand managed by a woman and her toddler grandson. I leaned a photo of my mom and me against the napkin holder while she prepared my mole negro.

The chicken was moist beneath the black, spiced, unsweetened chocolate sauce, while the white rice balanced the otherwise complex flavors on the plate. According to my surface-level research, mole, derived from the Nahuatl (naa·waa·tl) word “molli,” originated in pre-hispanic Mexico and was served during Aztec rituals. An indigenous dish that outlasted the Spanish should be revered, so I closed my eyes, gave thanks, and ate slowly.

Afterward, I went for a walk, like my mom and I did almost daily before work during the pandemic. Short, colorful buildings donned wrought-iron balconies, intricately carved doorframes, and last month’s Día de Muertos marigolds. Papeles picados hung over the stone streets where stray dogs laid prostrate in the heat, kids played with firecrackers, and men shined their shoes.

A bookstand caught my eye. I walked over and thought about buying a book to practice my Spanish when a wholesome-looking man around my age popped up from behind the stand and asked if I needed help.

“Estoy buscando un libro sobre Oaxaca.” I’m looking for a book about Oaxaca. I said confidently.

“¿De dónde vienes?” Where are you from? He replied. Ugh. This always happens.

“Los Estados Unidos. Los Ángeles,” I replied reluctantly.

“Por qué estas en Oaxaca?” Why are you in Oaxaca?

And the flood gates opened. I told him all about my mom, her sudden cancer diagnosis, my short stint as her hospice nurse, and her quick passing. It had been two months since she died, and now I’m in México, sola. Alone.

He looked me in the eye. Empathetically, he told me that his mom battled breast cancer for years and how awful it was. He expressed that he was sorry my mom had passed but was grateful her agony was relatively short. We looked at each other in comfortable silence for a moment before he turned around and gave me his book recommendations.

After talking a little more, I walked away with No Todos Los Hombres Son Romanticos, his WhatsApp number, and an invitation to grab a hot chocolate later that night. “Podemos practicar tú español,” he said. I never intended to meet with him, but the offer still felt nice, and today was my mom’s day anyway.

I read my new book on the steps of Auditorio Guelaguetza, high above the city center, before I headed back down to attend Mass at 5 pm.

I made it to the Catedral Metropolitana just in time, impressed that I could navigate without GPS. The baroque church stood magnificently at the center of the Zócalo. Parishioners dressed in their Sunday best silently waited for Mass to start.

I grew up a practicing Catholic and attended all Catholic schools from Kindergarten through college. I even worked at a Catholic charity for three years after graduation. I loved the faith; however, I am aware and conflicted by the problematic past and present of the church. I blame humans. They ruin so many good things that I’m sure God isn’t happy with the church either. I thought about all this as I watched a woman dressed in indigenous vestments kneeling in the front row.

Mass went on, and I tried to get into a meditative state, but I was too preoccupied trying to translate. I eventually gave up and just thought of going to church with my mom. Every Sunday, we would walk from our house, sometimes run if we were late, and sit as close to the cutest baby as possible. Sometimes we would listen, and other times we would whisper ideas for breakfast during the Homily. It made Mass fun, and I still felt God’s presence.

The priest said his final prayer and exited the altar. The light that once poured through the stained glass windows was fading as evening set in, and I was ready to go to bed. I searched for a good place to light my candle and conclude the day, but there were endless altars with hundreds of candles. Finally, at the very back of the church was a statue of Mary, Mother of God. I walked up, looked at her face and outstretched arms, and I felt a wave of profound sadness.

I felt the expansiveness of my mom’s absence for the first time since I stepped off that plane, and I cried, surrendered my sorrow to her, the Blessed Mother. I was alone in Mexico, but I felt alone in a much bigger way. I took out my mom’s photo and found a tiny unlit candle. I lifted the candle and used an existing flame to light it, then gently placed it back onto the table alongside hundreds of other candles.

I took a deep breath and walked back to my apartment, snuggled into bed, and went soundly to sleep.