When I was a child, I was scared of the cemetery. Well, this is not entirely true. In fact, I am afraid of them.

Once, when I was a teenager, driving with a few friends, I naively mentioned this. The next thing I knew was that the driver drove into the cemetery. night. What are friends for, right? I started to frighten, and when I couldn't open the door, I started knocking on the side window. The driver understood, turned and left.

I don’t know when I first heard about the Day of the Dead, but I’m still very young and I can’t understand why people want to spend the night in the cemetery. But even though it looks strange, there are some interesting aspects of this ceremony. When I went to Mexico for the first time in 1997, it was to film this holiday.

I went to Metepec, Mexico with Olivia. Olivia is a friend of my friend who lives in Tepoztlán. We arrived at the cemetery at dusk and soon learned that taking pictures is difficult. When it gets dark without lights, it becomes impossible. I can't see anything. Olivia suggested taking a break early and coming back.

When we drove back there in the darkness before dawn, a golden light hovered on the wall of the cemetery. I got out of the car quickly and was very angry because I think I missed that people were setting up a campfire. But this is not a bonfire. It was the light from hundreds of small fires and thousands of candles around the tomb. There is plenty of light, so I can see clearly and can write on the notebook.

On the bus returning to Tepoztlán, I tried to write down my feelings. Although I thought I was just here to take pictures, something touched me deeply. When I left, it felt as if I had participated in the ceremony in some way.

I initially wrote, "It's like a religious experience." I knew I was wrong as soon as I finished writing. I crossed it out and wrote: "This is not like a religious experience, but a religious experience."

My Day of the Dead did not arrive until 2003, which is not what I expected. Not at all. I was working on a project to document the lives of Mexican coffee growers, but I stopped by to take photos of the holidays in San Agustín Etla, a small town on the outskirts of Oaxaca. I stayed with local artist Fernando. After settling down, I asked: "What did you do for the Day of the Dead?"

"What is comparison?" I asked.

I thought it might help if I was more specific, so I asked when we went to the cemetery.

"We are not going to the cemetery," was the answer.

"Oh. So what would you do?"

"Comparsa" was the only answer I got when I asked about what happened on the day of death in that town, like in the middle of Abbot and Costello's "Who is Number One" sketch.

Comparsa started in the evening of November 1, with a lot of food and drinks, and a 14-member band exploded in someone's yard. There are many men-and only men-in costumes and dancing. Some people wear long coats with small mirrors sewn on them. One person told me that the mirror attracted the dead. Others told me that they kept the devil away. I'm not sure which is correct-maybe both.

At some point, the parade started, the band was playing, the men were dancing, passing through the pueblo. There was a stop in front of the house-more food and drinks-where skits were staged, mainly about the dead and the dying. Whenever the band starts to play, the men start to dance.

The parade continued until around 9 o'clock the next morning. Comparsa has lasted for more than 12 hours and I am exhausted just by walking. I asked someone how could he continue dancing after so many hours. He answered without hesitation.

The Day of the Dead in Santa Ana Tlacotenco is an indigenous town in Milpa Alta, Mexico City. It is different from what I have witnessed in other towns such as Metepec and San Gregorio Atlapulco in Mexico City, where people spend the night in the cemetery. The people of Santa Ana visit the cemetery during the day. At night, they would light a fire in front of their house, called fogatas.

"Years ago, every house caught fire," said José Ortiz Rivera. "Now, there are not so many. We are losing tradition."

I asked a few people why they have a Fogheta, and got different answers. One is to bring people together. Of course I saw this. Another reason is that the fire led the soul back to his home. But the answer I get most often is the one I get from Ortiz.

"This is because when our grandparents come back," he said, "they will catch a cold. The fire is to warm them."

I have now participated in four celebrations of the Day of the Dead in Mexico. Although this certainly does not make me an expert, I have seen enough things to clearly recognize the difference in attitudes towards death between the United States and Mexico.

Mexicans seem to be more able to accept—or may have resigned—the inevitability of death, and Day of the Dead is a perfect example. Although most people in the United States try to avoid contact with the spirit, Mexicans welcome them and use cempasúchil (Mexican marigold) petals and other brightly colored flowers to open the way and guide the spirit back to them.

These paths can be seen outside of homes across the country. The tombs and altars in the home were filled with food, drinks, cigarettes, etc., which the deceased liked during his lifetime.

In the United States, death is a more gloomy occasion. I don’t call the Day of the Dead a festival (unless you go to the Catrina parade or other parades in Mexico City), but there is music—usually a small band traveling from grave to grave, playing the music that the dead enjoy in their lives. In the cemetery and outside, there is food and drink, and laughter, but in general, I would say that there is a melancholy feeling.

Like many things in Mexico, there are many regional differences in the way of observing the Day of the Dead. In San Gregorio Atrapulco, November 1st is to commemorate dead children and November 2nd is to commemorate adults. There are other days to commemorate those who lost their lives in violence and accidents. I began to think of it as "Day of the Dead"-or as my friend Kara said, "Moon of the Dead."

I am happy to say that I finally overcome my fear of the cemetery and I am honored to be able to participate in the Day of the Dead in Mexico. It changed my attitude towards death. When someone I know dies, I feel sad, but I no longer struggle with "why?" Since participating in the ceremony of the day of death, I have seen more clearly that death is a continuum of what we call life Part of it, I started to accept it.

Because, really, what choice do I have?

Joseph Sorrentino is the author of "San Gregorio Atlapulco: A View of the Universe" and "The Legend of the Smelly Island: Some Stories of Italian American Childhood", Photographer and author, he is a regular contributor to the "Mexico News Daily". For more examples of his photos and links to other articles, please visit www.sorrentinophotography.com. He currently lives in Chipilo, Puebla.

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