La Adelita

A century has passed since the war ended, and the fever for revolution still calls to my grave.

¡Por los que no nombran!

The words are cannon blasts that quake my decay. I rise and march toward you—each step a battle cry. Victory for México has long since been glorified, but my name still bleeds in the margins of history books.

For this, my Cielo, my soul cannot rest.

Luckily, with each harvest comes one chance to fight for my truth. Today is Día de los Muertos, and I’ve arrived from the spirit world praying you’ll hear me this year.

Because God leaves the pleas of the dead unanswered, however, I’ve come with collateral this time: a pair of letters, the one bundle of my truth unburned; a guarantee that my voice will reach you. You will know my story at last, mi querida, even if—once more—my whispers fall deaf on your ears.

And so, let’s raise our cups to my testimony. To mi verdad.

It’s a special day for our country—a day for the living to honor those they’ve loved and lost. The streets stir with the dance of marigold bloom, silhouettes, and the thrum of mariachi song; wings of papel picado flutter like aves from rooftops. The air is electric—charged with the whimsy of ghosts. The moonrise has lifted the veil dividing our realms, and crossed-over souls, like myself, embrace what they’ve waited all year for: to return home for this one, sacred night.

But the dead aren’t the only ones beaming with brio and thrall. Children, alive with excitement, tumble around with faces painted as sugar skulls, and November’s brisk bite sends a chill down your spine. At least, that’s what I suspect, sweet girl. Because I no longer have bones myself, I can’t know for sure. I can only presume what the living feel now; I no longer possess the power to shape what they know or believe. What you believe.

Mis huecos have long since returned to the earth, as has my story. So much of my voice has been silenced—buried not only by time, but by those who’ve felt threatened by my contribution to México. Weak men have the biggest egos, mi niña, and their greatest foe is the strength of a woman. You’re still very young, but you’ll soon witness this deep-rooted truth—how its blossoms shade out the soil of society.

Be it what it may, I’ll have you know this: I no longer have bones as you do, but I once had a spine made of steel.

Oh, Cielo—please heed my story so that it can bloom, too.

Like every year, I’m the first to arrive. I’m waiting for you, as I always do, by la ofrenda. Here, I’m surrounded by the offerings you’ve arranged in the meek way that you do—a traditional gesture to lure fantasmas familiares back home. There are candles to brighten our path toward the land of the living, water to quench our road-weary thirst, pan de muerto and all our favorite foods: tamales, mole, tequila, coffee, galletas. And, of course, there are the framed portraits. There’s one of each of us, meant to anchor our spirits—to remind the world, and ourselves—that we were once loved. Once alive.

So many portraits adorn the table. You’ve placed each one out with such care. The family doesn’t give you enough credit, I know—you are a timid dove among a flock of bold mockingbirds. But you are deliberate, Cielo. This is your strength.

And you never forget me. To put out my photo, that is—despite our family having disowned me. Despite no one caring to honor my truth.

There’s the truth they think they know, of course. The story told by my picture: the sepia image of me, just twenty-three, gazing off into the dust of battle—a bandolier draped over my shoulder; the rifle mi abuelo gifted me resting in the cradle of my arms.

“She should’ve had a baby placed there instead of a gun,” they whisper.

But you, Cielo—you don’t believe them, do you? Something in you—a faint voice—tells you the woman in the photo was more than a vessel for others’ expectations.

Listen closely, Cielo… can you hear her?

¡Por los que no nombran!

That voice inside you is mine.

I study the picture with curiosity, observing my young, proud face, my starred, dark eyes and my long, black hair.

Do you wonder why this is the photo they display of me, Cielo? Do you ask yourself why this is the image they celebrate? Have you seen the snapshot where my locks are sheared short and I’m dressed in borrowed, torn trousers—where streaks of gunpowder soil my face and the stars have faded from my eyes?

You must question everything you’ve been taught about the revolution, mija. I say this to you because even our family believes the weapon held in my arms was a prop. History diminishes the roles played by women. It is designed that way—written to ensure the past praises the patriarchy. The photo of me in the trousers? Of course you’ve never seen it, sweet girl. It was incinerated in the days after my death, the one with my long hair preserved in its place. Can you guess why? So that my legacy would be reduced to a symbol of beauty. Of feminidad. That delicate girl in the photo could never have fired her grandfather’s rifle, right?

Wrong.

The flicker of a candle hits a wine glass, and the glimmer of the knife I used to sever my hair rushes back to me. A split-second decision—a lightning bolt moment of clarity—born from the revelation that my commitment to the revolution would never catch wind as una mujer. I watch as tendrils of copal smoke curl near the floorboards, and I remember how with each strand that fell toward my feet, I began to feel lighter. Freer. As if I’d grown wings. As if I’d become a man.

Later that night, I held the pen in my hand, wrestling over how I’d explain myself to my mother.

I stare at the backing of the portrait, where I’ve placed a thin fold of letters. I remember each aching, inked word etched upon them:

Querida Mamá,

When you see me again—when the war is over—I fear you won’t recognize me. I know you’ve raised me to be a good, respectable woman. However, I’ve learned that life demands more than maintaining a pleasant image. My heart is good, please know this. But with a good heart comes burden, and I now understand I must do things that may shame our family name. They are things that will haunt me, yes, and they are things you will surely never forgive. But I must be brave enough to live with this, for the goodness—and future—of our country may depend on my courage.

I see starvation and poverty, Mamá—I see entire families suffering from hunger while the wealthy eat to their fill, and my good heart cannot sit idle. I see exploitation of labor—peasants toiling long hours under horrendous conditions with little to no pay, and my good heart cannot help but bleed.

Do I need to go on about the brutal land seizures? Must I elaborate on the way wealthy landowners use violence to evict our indigenous brothers and sisters—tearing them from ancestral lands with no recourse or justice?

Don’t tell me you don’t know those who suffer, Mamá. Don’t tell me you haven’t taken note of the religious hypocrisy running rampant not only in the pews, but in the pueblos. The so-called word of God is evil. The spiritual leaders we seek guidance from sit among the elite, preaching morality but excusing the abuses of our oppressors—disguising it all as divine order.

I know you’ll say I followed a man into war, Mamá. I know you’ll believe that I was una tonta—that I let my foolish heart get the best of me. You’ll hold it over my head that no respectable woman would trade her apron for a rifle unless she was desperate for a husband. That’s what they’ll write about us—that we were followers, not fighters. Lovers, not leaders. But you and I both know that’s not the truth.

Con amor eterno,

Your daughter, who always has room for you in her heart

I break myself from the trance and survey the room. The parlor’s grown full with the bright voices of living family members, but you—you’re not here yet. Hmm. Where could you be? Oh, Cielo, I must find you and guide you to these letters… somehow.

I’m thinking about it when the others begin to arrive. There’s Tía Ramona, trying not to be seen as those knobby fingers of hers pluck yellow rose petals from the altar. Ay, she hasn’t changed one bit in her passing, has she? Poor thing, still stuck in her earthbound habits. I watch as the petals are slid into her pockets. She still believes their softness will bring you sweet sueños, and she intends to sew them into your baby blankets. You’re twelve now, I know, but do you remember the lullaby she used to sing you? The one about the mother with fire in her chest, who walked barefoot across the sierra to save her daughters—the people—from the lash of hacendado and hunger? I shake my head, realizing that Tía Ramona was the only one who ever believed me.

My thoughts are interrupted as someone pinches me on the arm.

"I see that dress-up photo survived another year—unlike that story about yourself you keep trying to sell, Petra.”

That voice. It’s unmistakable. I snap around to face the ghost of my older prima, who never once failed in life to express her disapproval of me.

"Still keeping tabs on me from the grave, Elvira? I must’ve mattered more than you dare to admit.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Pet. Your body was the only thing about you that held any merit—its use at keeping the true soldiers amused. Now, even the earth’s grown tired of you, I see. The maggots have eaten your hair, and there’s nothing left of you worth consuming.”

I lift a hand to my short, jagged locks, staring with the lit fuse of a grenade into the voids of her irises. I feel my blood—its phantom essence, that is—begin to boil. Don’t cause a scene, I order myself.

But it’s too late. My rage lifts the settings from the tables, and a chorus of clattering china commands all mortal eyes to widen and snap in our direction.

A wave of whispers crescendos around us—a sprightly sound only the living could summon.

Maldita sea, I scold myself. I’ve already broken the first rule of the Spirit World: Don’t let the living see you.

They can’t actually see me, of course. But they do see the spectacle I’m causing—my rage. I watch as a teacup teeters to the edge of the table. It plunges to the floor, and—just as it explodes into a thousand pieces—I find myself back in the interrogation room. There, the Federales always enjoyed pulling me apart.

“Tell me the names!” Comandante Falcón demands.

I lower my head while maintaining my glare, challenging the menace of his eyes. My spine stiffens with instinct. I want to appear as—and be—a toro. Always.

“Never. Not a chance,” I grunt.

The ghosts of my legs begin to stomp, kicking up phantom dust in their wake.

¡Por los que no nombran!

Falcón slams the knife-edge of his hand into the table beside me, and the force of his wrist births thunder.

It’s a belligerent storm that zaps me back to the present. As I come to, I realize I’ve managed to ram the large oak table onto the floor with my fury. Ash from the disarrayed candles rains down everywhere. The entire altar—pictures, food, all the dead’s keepsakes you’ve thoughtfully placed out—have gone with it. Everything sentimental, beautiful, and ancestral now lies in ruin.

“Nice job,” Elvira smirks, “now she’ll never remember to visit you. Good luck finding your photo in that desastre.”

I want to bulldoze the hollow pride right out of her—send her back to her grave. However, something in the corner of the room catches my eye.

It’s you.

You’re wearing a vestido bordado and you’ve come out to see what the commotion is.

A pindrop can be heard as everyone—living and dead alike—take in the chaos. All souls are silent. Speechless.

Except for you. You’ve decided to be brave today—to use your voice. You’re the first to say something.

“Well, isn’t anyone going to help me clean this up?”

Everyone watches as you waltz toward the wreckage and sift through the debris.

I suddenly find myself back in Ciudad Juárez—half buried by shards of rubble, my ears pounding and my lungs crackling like shattered glass. Retreating footsteps track trails of the blood that pours from my neck back to the campsite, leaving me to fade out on my own. No one came to help me then. But now?

Oh, Cielo—could it be?

While I’ve been reliving my death, you’ve uncovered my portrait from the ruin. It was the first one you searched for.

“What’s this?” You ask, pulling the bundle of letters from the backing.

You flip past the petty note to my mother and examine the shorter one behind it. And, with a sharpened, clear voice that is anything but dove-like, you begin to read:

Querida familia,

My hope is that this letter will survive, even if I do not.

And if the ghost of me suspects you do not believe why I perished, I’ll fight to make you aware. You see, I shall be as much of a soldier in death as I was in life.

Let this truth hit you as hard as a bullet:

I did not fall for love or vanity; I fell for all those unnamed:

for the hungry, for the silenced, for the overworked, for the misguided—for you.

When the war is over, they’ll call us "las Adelitas". I know this because I’ve heard the verses being sung—some hummed quietly, others belted out loud. It’s meant, I believe, to ignite our spirits on the battleground. It’s endearing for now—a gesture of strength, even respect. But I fear that with time, it will soften our memory—turn our fire into folklore… bud roses from the blood we’ve spilt; romanticize our place in the fight.

We were cooks, nurses, and combatants, but there’s one thing we were not: ornaments for war.

Let the beautiful image of me decay in your fiestas’ ruins, and let these words blossom in its place.

Con honor desde mi trinchera,

Petra

Cielo reads the last line, and the room holds its breath.

As the pieces of me are picked up—as the altar’s collected, the chant of my memory rises in the air:

¡Por los que no nombran!

And finally, Cielo... you sow my story.

It dances among the Día de los Muertos candlelight—no longer buried, but effloresced. Resurrected.