Does culture form our identity or our community?

Dia de Muertos, deculturation, and cultural appropriation

Last night, Iris and I participated in our first muerteada, a nightlong communal street procession with a brass band, costumes, and theatrical skits. In the small town 30 minutes north of Oaxaca where we live, the muerteada begins at a street mural painted each year by local artists¹, before slowly proceeding throughout the town until sunrise.

When I say we “participated” in our first muerteada, I don’t mean we were in the band. Or in the skits. We weren’t even dressed up. We were onlookers with expensive phones eager to capture Real Culture.²

As we followed the procession, I started to question the point of culture. Isn’t it meant to create a shared social fabric? So why does it feel like we’re just feeding the algorithms and expressing our identities? Do we engage in culture to bring us together or to set us apart?

Olivier Roy’s Crisis of Culture

Olivier Roy would point to us as just another example of “deculturation,” the detachment of culture from community. In his latest book, Roy argues that culture has become a marker of individual identity, emphasizing personal expression over communal bonds.³

Roy contends that modern culture prioritizes individual expression, such as describing oneself as Buddhist on a dating profile, without the actual communal practices like regularly visiting a temple. Similarly,

Radical Radha

notes the shift of Divali celebrations from family-oriented gatherings to exclusive parties focused on Instagram appeal. And while people have long lamented the commercialization of Christmas, this represents something different: performing culture for status rather than engaging meaningfully in community.

“Culture used to be something we did for its own sake; now we do it to position ourselves vis-à-vis other people,” writes Joshua Rothman in his review of Roy’s book.

Can we do anything about deculturation? After all, Roy says it’s the inevitable result of unstoppable forces: “globalization, commodification, individualism, secularism, and the Internet.”

Perhaps there is a path toward re-culturation if we replace the urge to obsess over our identities with cultural practices that reinforce community around shared rituals and beliefs.

I wanna give it a shot.

Cultural appropriation

This year also marked our first ofrenda, or altar de muertos. We drew on the generational knowledge handed down through ChatGPT and the animated film Coco to build ours. 😋

I expected it to be a fun seasonal decor project—akin to carving pumpkins or stringing Christmas lights—but it turned out to be surprisingly meaningful. For instance, I had to hunt down a photo of my uncle, who disappeared in the 1980s with schizophrenia, and I found a childhood picture of my grandfather before his family lost their home and was sent to Japanese internment camps during WWII. I learned a ton about Iris’ family, including how much we still don’t know.

In theory, Iris and I invited the souls of our ancestors to visit us for the night. And while I don’t actually believe this, I was more than happy to play along. We placed their favorite foods, drinks, and vices on the altar.⁴ Each evening after dinner, we lit candles and shared memories of our deceased ancestors—stories that wouldn’t have surfaced without the altar.

You may be thinking: “This is cultural appropriation! You’re not Mexican, and you don’t have the right to participate in their culture.”

The beauty of Día de Muertos is that it’s cultural appropriation all the way down. Anthropologists trace its roots to the Olmecs over 3,500 years ago. The Maya, Zapotecs, Totonacs, Purépechas, and Aztecs each added their particular practices, which eventually consolidated with the Spanish celebration of All Souls Day. The tradition continues to evolve; one of last night’s skits featured a Halloween mask of Joe Biden.

Maybe I should instead adopt the cultural practices of my distant relatives from Wangen an der Aare, Switzerland, where they celebrate Fasnacht each February with music, merriment, and political satire. If I lived in Switzerland, I would. But I live in Oaxaca, and so I’m invested in Día de Muertos and other local traditions. Culture evolves through embrace, not exclusion.

The Future of Culture

I intend to re-read the Time Capsule in 20 years. But for this one, I’ve set a reminder to revisit next September to prepare for the next Día de Muertos. I’ll offer to help paint next year’s neighborhood mural. I’ll volunteer for the tequio to clean up the local cemetery, and hopefully find a group of neighbors to design costumes and perform a skit.

I hope that 20 years from now I’m still doing the same, though I recognize the odds are slim. The forces of globalization, commodification, individualism, and technology aren’t slowing down and will likely accelerate. Plus, I’ve never lived anywhere for more than five years—will I still be in the same neighborhood in 2044? It seems unlikely.

Either way, culture doesn’t have to be something I merely document and upload to express my identity. It can help weave me into a shared social fabric. At least that’s my goal.

What about you? Have you discovered a cultural practice in adulthood that ties you closer to your community? I’d love to hear about it.

1. This year's lead artist was Alonso Chavez with help from local youth eager to participate.

2. Also, we were asleep by 11 pm.

3. If he were in the mood to talk shit (he’s French, after all), he might suggest we attended the muerteada just to distinguish ourselves from suburban parents trick-or-treating in Disney costumes.

4. The scent of yellow marigolds is meant to guide their souls, and many families leave a trail of marigold petals leading from the road to the altar.