Where the Ancestors Eat
Three years ago, my partner and I arrived in this part of the world carrying more than suitcases, we brought altars in our hearts. As Black immigrants building a life abroad, we were drawn not just to new landscapes, but to new ways of remembering. That first fall, we encountered Hanal Pixán: “the food of the souls,” as it’s known in Maya tradition.
We learned that here, the dead don’t vanish, they return. And when they do, you feed them. You set a place at the table, light candles, burn copal, and leave their favorite dishes steaming under banana leaves. As someone whose love language is hospitality (due to my southern roots) whose identity is rooted in being a host, this felt deeply familiar. Honoring the departed by welcoming them back into your home is not foreign; it’s family.
In our upbringing in the U.S., Halloween was never just about costumes or candy. It was block parties with neighbors, front porches strung with orange lights, the elders handing out homemade treats wrapped in wax paper. It was joy, yes—but also a community ritual that stitches people together across generations. So when we began participating in local Hanal Pixán observances, we didn’t see any contradiction, we saw continuity.
Both traditions, in their own rites, affirm that the unseen world matters and gathering is how we make space for it.
This year, our circle has grown. Our friends—Black artists, teachers, healers, and creatives from across the diaspora- are weaving our own version of Hanal Pixán. We’re blending Yucatecan elements with flavors from across the diaspora. There’s mucbil pollo beside our traditional dishes. As candles flicker next to libation bowls. We speak names of those lost too soon, of ancestors whose names we may never know but whose resilience lives in our bones.
And yes, we’ll still celebrate Halloween as part of our layered cultural inheritance. This weekend, we are outside, soaking everything in with laughter, music, and children in glittering masks. Later that night, after the last trick-or-treater leaves, we’ll dim the lights and tend to our altar. Two celebrations, one heart.
What’s emerging among us isn’t imitation, we upgraded it, it’s co-creation. As Black immigrants, we’re not simply adopting local customs; we’re entering into dialogue with them. We bring our own cosmologies, our own griefs, our own ways of saying: You are remembered. You belong here, even in death.
In the end, every tradition we keep, whether passed down or newly stitched, is an act of love made visible. This season, in our shared courtyards and candlelit corners, we’re proving that belonging isn’t inherited, it’s built.
We’re creating a third one where everyone who’s ever loved us, lost us, or longed for us has a place… because in this community, there’s always enough, and we always have room for one more.
Feast, Memory, and Belonging: A Black Immigrants Journey Through Hanal Pixán
By Dr Salaama Journey, for Merida Collective
Photo of Salaama and Willie, Hanal Pixan dinner 2023, Merida, Mexico.
