Santo del Rayo October 26, 2022
Santo del Rayo, just one of many feast days from the colonial heyday, is commemorated like a state funeral in Centro Historico. Gone are the towering plaster dummies and white spinning globe that ordinarily herald a fiesta. Instead, over the rough cobblestones of Calle Cinco de Mayo, burros pull a wooden wagon heaped with yellow and red flowers ahead of a long ribbon of solemn mourners.
Young Jesus makes an appearance on the back of a flatbed truck, taking a moment to rehydrate with a bottle of aqua mineral. His hefty crucifix is being carried by 10 middle-age men in black suits, with one gentleman walking backward to direct the struggling pallbearers. The marching band plays a short lament, then the mourners fill in the silence with a prayerful chant, then the band recommences, and so on, with the repetition of a Rosary, to the cadence of cobbled steps. On the quieter blocks, the effect is both eerie and enchanting, causing residents above to open their windows, but the rising noise of the city soon encroaches.
Unbeknownst to the innocent, the Catholics are on a collision course with the largest gathering of protestors I have yet seen in Oaxaca. The list of grievances is undoubtedly long but basically revolves around fairness and decency. Thus, thousands have descended on the Zocalo from the hill country, organized by pueblo, each with colored flags to designate a region with specific gripes—Sierra del Norte, Sierra del Sur, Costa, Istmo, etc. The largest flag is hanging from the central gazebo—red with a golden star, the symbol of revolution.
Needless to say, there will be no revolution today, and, after a few hours of marching and waving flags, the revolutionaries are hungry and thirsty. Especially popular are the memelitas con frijoles and cold Modelo. Diners drop their banners and fill the shaded steps around the Cathedral, while a folksinger strums her acoustic guitar for social justice and harmony. Her oaken voice and frizzy grey hair remind me of Patti Smith’s “People have the Power.” I even feel the peace-and-love for a moment.
From the back of his truck, Jesus stretches his neck to see the commotion ahead of his funeral train. Already the horns and drums of the marchers’ lament are drowned by a cacophony radiating from the Zocalo. All prayers have paused. Traffic is at a standstill, as cops hurriedly establish detour routes for the oncoming travelers. Automobile drivers have no hope of making progress today. Indeed, it is entirely possible that Jesus, with or without the famous crucifix, may not reach the Cathedral as scheduled. Fortunately, Oaxaca de Juarez has no scarcity of churches. If He were only to make a U-turn, for instance, peaceful resting places are generally available at Templo Merced, where ample benches sit beneath shade trees, and the shaved-ice vender offers generous servings of syrup. But I speak out of turn.
Here we essentially have yet another standoff between the stalwart Catholics and the perennial Reformists, in which the Catholics would seem to be outnumbered, Santo del Rayo notwithstanding. It might then be considered a small miracle that the impenetrable mass of protestors on Independencia is able to clear a path for the plodding funeral train. The men in black suits are hauling their holy burden straight for me. I am now completely surrounded on the Zocalo. I move away from the approaching burros and closer to Latina Patti Smith, so as to show my tenuous tribal affiliation. I can almost decipher the singer’s strident words:
Where there were deserts
I saw fountains
Like cream the waters rise
And we strolled there together
With none to laugh or criticize
And the leopard
And the lamb
Lay together truly bound
I was hoping in my hoping
To recall what I had found
I was dreaming in my dreaming
God knows a purer view
As I surrender to my sleeping
I commit my dream to you
The people have the power