Dia de los Muertos 2025: A Day of Resistance in Pilsen

The 2025 Dia de los Muertos celebration at Dvorak Park in Pilsen was lightly attended, and the parade was canceled. No one mentioned the official reason, but we all knew why. Those who came still found ways to celebrate and honor their loved ones.

Inside the community center, a group of young people from the community sang songs for the departed. Then those of us watching were invited to share memories of people we had lost. We were divided into small groups to encourage personal sharing. One woman wearing face paint shared how her deceased brother looked out for her even as he drifted away from his family. I shared how I learned how to listen closely to people and read them watching my dad play poker all night and into the early morning.

“Were you aware you were absorbing this knowledge at the time?” the woman asked.

“No,” I laughed. “I was focused on trying to figure out how my dad was going to play his hand. I wasn’t aware I had learned anything from him until long afterward.”

We both reflected on how little we understand what our families pass down to us until years later, when there’s enough distance to see it clearly.

Her surviving brother, standing next to her, gently reached over, touched the lapel of my faux leather jacket.

“Hey man,” he said. “Where did you buy this?”

We laughed like two kids in church, finding a strange joy in a tapered jacket amid a solemn afternoon devoted to remembrance.

“Thank you for telling your story,” the woman said. “I really enjoyed that.”

It was also her way of thanking me for showing up, for sharing among people I didn’t know. She could probably tell I wasn’t from Pilsen.

Her brother shook my hand and smiled.

A youth troupe performed Danza Mexica to the steady rhythm of drums, the sound deep and insistent. Then we took part in the Saludo a los Cuatro Rumbos, turning in quiet reverence to the west, south, east, and north. At first, I did not realize that I was supposed to turn my body to face each wall, but a gentle hand behind me touched my shoulder and turned my body just a bit so that I understood what I needed to do. I caught a glance of the person who had guded me, a woman who looked to be in her sixties, her hair streaked with silver. She smiled softly.

After the ceremony, I explored the community center. I noticed five women standing together, their faces painted to honor the lost.

“May I take your photo?” I asked.

“Yes,” one of them answered. “But we brought a banner with us. Please make sure your photo includes the banner.” She carefully unfurled a bright red cloth covered with marigolds, hearts, and names written in black and blue marker. Across the center, in bold letters, were the words “Sacrificed in Custody.”

“This banner includes names of people we know who have died in ICE custody in 2025,” she said.

The women stood shoulder to shoulder in front of tall barred windows that cast soft light across their painted faces. Each wore a floral crown or colorful shawl, and one had on a pair of pink boots. Their expressions were steady and composed. These were faces of strength.

I snapped a few photos and showed them how they turned out.

“These are good,” the lead woman said. Then she asked me to give her a copy. We huddled around my phone as she recited her phone number, watching together as I sent one of the photos so that she could confirm it had gone through.

As the afternoon drew to a close, I stepped outside at around 5:00 p.m. The light had begun to fade. A group of women had gathered near a baseball field, including the group I had photograped with the banner. They talked in low tones and posed for photos.

“It’s time,” one of them said. Then they all started to march.

One of them explained to me that even though the official parade had been canceled, about 25 women had decided to form their own renegade parade. Normally the officlal Dia de Los Muertos parade is lengthy, with participants carrying ofrendas and signs to remember the dead. This time, the parade was a march of resistance. The women shouted, “Where are our children? What is happening to your children and our children, being taken off the streets?”

They moved north on Carpenter Street, west on 18th, and through the courtyard of St. Procopius Catholic Church. Cars honked. Pedestrians stopped, pulled out their phones, took pictures, and waved.

The march continued past a public square on Loomis where small groups of men cheered them on. I have sat with these men from time to time as they gather at the square and watch the community hum around them. Their faces bear the bumps and scars of lives lived on the margins. In recent months, their numbers have increased. They have nowhere to go but here.

The parade finally ended on 19th Street at a home whose backyard was decorated with a large ofrenda. The gate stood open, and visitors stepped down into the yard to look more closely at the display.

I asked the woman who led the parade if I could take her picture.

“Yes, I hope you will,” she replied. “And please share what you saw today.”

I told her I visit Pilsen often, and I express my love of the community through my photos of its people and places. But I worry that, given the state of current affairs, taking photos might make people uncomfortable because I am an outsider.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “We can tell who we can trust, and who is here to exploit or harm us with their cameras.”

“How?” I asked.

“Your eyes,” she said. “Your eyes tell us everything we need to know.”