Coco
Miguel and his grandmother Coco, Coco, Pixar, 2017.
Remember me
Though I have to say goodbye
Remember me
Don’t let it make you cry
For even if I’m far away, I hold you in my heart
I sing a secret song to you each night we are apart
Remember me
Though I have to travel far
Remember me
Each time you hear a sad guitar
Know that I’m with you the only way that I can be
Until you’re in my arms again
Remember me
- Robert Lopez & Kristen Anderson-Lopez, “Remember Me,” Coco
Coco, the 2018 Oscar winner for Best Animated Feature, tells the story of a young boy Miguel who idolizes a famous deceased musician and is whisked away to the spirit world on Dia de los Muertos or the Day of the Dead. To honor their ancestors, the families cook their favorite foods, gaze upon their pictures set up on an ofrenda (altar), and tell stories about them. Miguel, even at age 12, knows the stories of his deceased ancestors, spanning four generations prior to his. He knows because (presumably) every year the stories are told. We find out later how key this repeated storytelling is: in the land of the dead, when a spirit is no longer remembered by anyone living, he or she dies a second death and is gone forever.
I recently got to chat with Alec Esparza, whose mother Ofelia Esparza is an iconic altarista (one who makes the types of ofrenda featured in the movie) and was a cultural consultant on Coco. Alec told me that his mother insisted that the final death - when no one on earth remembers you anymore - should be emphasized in the narrative. I told Alec that the narrative of the final death was central to the narrative for me: as a writer, it raises the stakes for why we tell the stories of our family, why we pass them down. As a human, I was shattered when Miguel sees the example of someone dying the final time, crumbling into dust.
Back in 2018, after seeing the movie, my five-year-old nephew asked his dad, as he was being tucked in, if he could hear a story about his great-grandfather. Whether or not you believe the stories behind the Day of the Dead, there is a mythic truth to the central idea: when we remember our ancestors, they do live on. Storytelling is a continually evolving activity: even if you think your ancestors’ stories are fixed in time, actively remembering and retelling the stories may strike you differently as you grow older. Maybe a different part of the story resonates. Maybe you learn new information through research or other voices, which create a new narrative or shift the old one.
In Coco, the family narrative is that Mama Imelda, the matriarch of the family, was once married to a musician who ran off and broke her heart. Instead of sitting around, she learned a practical trade (shoemaking) which has sustained the family ever since. She also banned music in the household, as it was a reminder of the man who abandoned his family and responsibilities.
By the end of the movie the family narrative shifts based on what Miguel has learned in the spirit world. The new narrative allows for more joy and music in their lives. In the end, it’s music that saves this family in the spirit and earth worlds and changes the family narrative. It’s music that brings Coco back to herself and brings out her story which redeems the family. Shutting out that part of the narrative kept the family in the past. As the story evolved, so did the family, into the future.
In the Philippines, relatives sleep in graveyards on Undas or Day of the Dead. They clean and care for their loved ones’ tombstones. They bring food and tell stories about them. You don’t have to sleep in a graveyard: but perhaps you can allow the veil to be lifted, just a little, to let the spirit world in. What do your ancestors’ stories have to teach you?