Dia de Locura

It was a beautiful day for the parade. A sea of people lined the road for miles. Food vendors hawked their wares from their gaily-decorated carts, and everyone wore their favorite outfits, combining into a shimmery kaleidoscopic panorama for the eyes. Music was playing, and while this was an important parade, it was a day of celebration and socializing as well, and it would last well into the night.

Reflecting on this, I worried that maybe we were getting too caught up in the fun, forgetting the importance of the occasion. My thoughts were interrupted by a half-naked dynamo smashing into my lower extremities.

“Derek!” I mock scolded, “you nearly knocked me over!”
“Sorry mom,” he grinned. “I had a question for you.”

Glancing over at my partner, I saw he was deep into conversation with a neighborhood friend, so I squatted so I could look Derek in the eye.

“What is it, my handsome boy?” I asked.

“Momma, I want to head over to Jared’s house, but his mom won’t let me. She says we have to stay for the parade!” he said indignantly.

“She’s right,” I soothed, letting him feel his frustration. “It’s ok to be impatient, but this is an important day. It’s the day we remember some very important things.”

Rolling his eyes in aggravation he groused, “Well, I hope we’re done soon! Jared says the peaches are ripe, and I want some!”

Our conversation was suddenly interrupted by the low growl of distant, ancient machinery. Even though they were just starting them up in the staging area we could hear them over a kilometer away. Silence descended over the crowd. Even the children sensed something, and quieted in their play, looking around with concern at the suddenly serious faces of the adults. Chilled, I moved next to Paul so I could feel his arm around me, Derek’s hand in mine. We listened as the engines rumbled, growing closer, seemingly putting a pall even over the sun.

Suddenly, far down the road, I saw the dark shapes turn the corner. Paul picked up Derek so he could see over the crowd, and I reached up rubbing his back to calm his nervousness as he stared at the distant, advancing vehicles. First up, as always, were the missiles. Monstrous, sleek, deadly, these uniquely hellish darts of horror always lead the parade. They once held the innocuous sounding name of ICBM, and two missiles with the markings of two former world-threatening enemies rode side-by-side. Even stripped of their dangerous mechanisms and fuels, I could barely repress a shudder at the sight. I remembered the fears, threats and insanities these represented, experienced when I was a young teen, many decades ago.

Next up were the massive tanks. The operators made a good show of swinging the turrets around and revving the engines loudly, and people couldn't help but flinch as the barrels pointed their way. Derek shook like a leaf and moaned, covering his eyes.

“It’s ok, sweetheart,” I said, rubbing his back.

The tanks spread trepidation, surging in their choking toxic clouds, and a palpable nervousness filled the air. Nodding to myself, I was reminded that the impact of this parade is always more powerful than I remember. Mere words, nor memory can scarcely impress as well as the actuality of the death machines marching implacably on.

A column of mock soldiers followed, sweating in their drab uniforms, every nationality represented holding every style of handheld tool of death imaginable. These tools were deactivated, but they would be holding live demonstrations later. It’s hard to describe the destructive power of these small devices once cultivated and valued, but the demonstrations were effective.

Then there were the wheeled machinery of all types, including artillery pieces, anti-aircraft guns, various missile launchers, all old, but some very old. Ancient cannon that could have defended an ancient fort rolled alongside cruise missiles that once could have carried nuclear bombs. They were in various states of repair, some rusty, some shiny and refurbished.

I wondered to myself at the passion some had in restoring these museum pieces, but I was glad that someone did it, because there was no denying the effect this parade was having. All sense of festivities had fled completely, and the contrast of the parade of drab metal death to the colorful costumes made for a dramatic effect. It would be many hours of sober discussion and reflection before the celebrations would be able to resume.

Then the flag draped coffins appeared. Rows and rows of coffins, with the flags of all nations represented - symbolic, of course, but a reminder of the astonishing numbers of people killed by a world gone mad. Hats were removed and heads bowed as we reflected on the insanity and the horror that humans could inflict, and on what scale. I felt the chill of the ghosts marching alongside the coffins – lives cut short, senselessly, ruthlessly, efficiently.

As the last of the coffins passed by, a long quiet held the crowd. No one spoke, no one moved. We just stared at the empty street and reflected on what had just passed, and what that meant. Gradually, though, and lead by the ever-resilient, irrepressible children, life returned to the crowd, and people began heading over to their campsites and picnic spreads. The parade always left me with a sense that “If we can survive that, we can do anything.” Walking next to my lover, and with my son’s warm hand in mine, I smiled.

Dia de Locura. Day of Madness. A perfect name for the holiday, a somber reminder of who we once were, what we are capable of, and most importantly, what we have left behind.