Burning Man's Dad

Friday night, we went to Zozobra. This ritualistic burning of “Old Man Gloom” is a crazy Santa Fe tradition, now in its 98th year, meant to banish the bad juju of the previous year. For weeks beforehand, Santa Feans send in their divorce decrees, layoff notices, bad medical news —whatever represents recent misfortune. These are stuffed inside a gigantic, fully functioning marionette, which is then raised on the west side of the Fort Marcy ball fields. This year’s Zozobra was the biggest ever—50 feet high—and looked like a cross between a tuxedoed waiter and Justin Timberlake. More on that later.

Here's the story: Zozobra is a trickster who roams the Sangre de Cristos stealing sheep and making mischief. To entrap him, Santa Fe’s leaders invite him to a formal dinner, at which he will be the guest of honor. Zozobra eagerly accepts, secretly hatching a plot to hit town, bewitch children (“Gloomies,”played by Santa Fe high schoolers who try out for the honor), and from his new domicile in Santa Fe, steal all hope across the land. This audacious plan belies almost a century of unfortunate outcomes for Zozobra—he is tall and a snappy dresser, but apparently not too bright. When he arrives for dinner, the townspeople seize him, denounce his dastardly acts, and once more---as predictably as crocuses come up in the spring—dispatch Zozobra to a fiery death.

Zozobra was the brainchild of Will Shuster, a Santa Fe artist who lived in the early 20th century. One of Los Cinco Pintores (The Five Painters, credited with launching the local art scene), Shuster came to Santa Fe to recover from the lung damage he sustained from poison gas in World War I. He was a painter of regional note. But Santa Feans seem to revere Shuster more for his eccentric personality and tireless promotion of good times than any artistic talent. Every night at last call, the bartenders at the Matador pour a shot and leave it on the bar for Will. This endures today, 53 years after Shuster’s own personal last call. The first Zozobra burned in Shuster‘s backyard in 1924 with his artist friends. Which means Zozobra predates its more famous progeny, Burning Man, by about 60 years. I sent Cooper a photo captioned “Who knew I’d get to Burning Man before you?” He replied: “Mom, you went to a burn, not the burn.” Uppity millennial.

We were told by more than one local to “be careful” if we went to Zozobra. It was rowdy, they said. People drank a lot and did drugs, and the crowds—which were huge, poorly controlled, and not all that well-checked for things like firearms—could get unruly. Oddly, however, this event has long been sponsored by the Kiwanis Club, bastion of civic service and good works. The event is unabashedly promoted to families; its proceeds benefit children’s health. Acknowledging the cognitive dissonance between these two accounts, Cal and I did not hesitate. We had to see this.

It was crowded and chaotic. The volunteer gatekeepers, tasked with taking tickets, checking bags, and operating metal detectors, were clearly overmatched. Our express passes, which were supposed to expedite entry, were of dubious use. After a long delay at the gate alongside the Scottish Rites Temple, we wound our way up Bishop’s Lodge Road with a record 71,000 people, ultimately disgorging onto the ball fields. The scene was a kaleidoscope of lights and noise. Electronic dance music thumped. Mariachi bands played. Indian dancers performed. Beach balls bounced around the top of the crowd and neon art glowed; the pot wafting through the air was strong enough to choke a horse. Above it all loomed the monster himself, red eyes glowing and animatronic arms moving. His face was a visage of alarm—I guess he had divined what was coming. Chants of “Burn him, burn him” broke out intermittently.

So why did the 2022 Zozobra look like a member of a boy band? There’s an explanation—beyond the general weirdness of the event. Zozobra’s creators started a 10-year countdown leading up to 2024—the 100th anniversary of Zozobra. There have been homages to the decades: the Roaring 20s; Depression 30s; Disco 80s, and so on. This year’s theme? Dance Party 90s. The event playlist was stuffed with NSync, Backstreet Boys and Brittney Spears. There was an extended salute to the Macarena. Ricky Martin’s La Vida Loca reprised approximately 900 times. Zozobra himself sported arm tattoos and bleach blond hair.

It was fun, festive and very New Mexico. And it took forever.

The dramatic re-enactment was a little hard to see from where we stood. But as the story goes, when Zozobra is sentenced to die, he starts to growl his terrible growls. The Gloomies rush to defend their master, but scatter—the evil spell broken---at the bright light of torch bearers. The Fire Spirit, Zozobra’s arch enemy, dances on a staircase below, holding aloft two lit torches, ready to seal Zozobra’s fate. She dances and dances and dances some more. And then some more. She runs up and down the stairs more than 10 times but inexplicably, fails to light the flame. The surrounding chants of “Burn him!” turn to “Enough already!”

No. That last thing isn’t true. But you could tell the crowd was getting restive.

Finally, after what felt like a long time, fireworks blasted off behind Zozobra and his head ignited from the inside.

Ahhhh. The payoff. Voracious flames consumed his head, arms, torso, body, creating a dazzling column of fire reaching high in the sky. Within two minutes, the figure collapsed into ash. It was spectacular. And, in a that weird, primal way that fire and vengeance speak to us humans (even if we don’t admit it), it was satisfying.

Every human culture has rituals like this. Fire and destruction; atrocity and vengeance; death and resurrection. The evil is burned away; we are purified, reborn. Why do we have these stories—all of us, everywhere? Do we need to banish our monsters by taking over the narrative? If we control the story—tell it in our own way, on our own time, with our own rules—do we control the reality, just a little?

I gaze at the craziness around me. All these people, drawn to this night. What is your story? What do you burn this night?

To the group of Hispanic teenagers behind us, who are having a really good time and might have taken the “no alcohol” directive as more of a guideline than a rule: You are on the cusp of taking your place in an adult world beset by plagues, political divisions, and injustice. Do you burn anxieties for your future?

To the young family in front of us; small children hoisted on their shoulders to see, but melting down with exhaustion and overstimulation. What is it like to launch children into all of this—or even try to nurture them now?

To the middle-aged woman outside the gate, with the long skirt, sour expression, and huge sign that reads: Accept Jesus or Burn in Hell! What kind of a world view makes you believe in threatening fiery death to those who don’t hold your own theology? Is this truly the best use of your Friday night?

To my brother, who left the world this year and--I fervently hope--is finding peace and health in the next. RIP brother. May your demons, at last, be still.

And to my clients: this is the year you begin the journey of rediscovering life after shattering loss. Will you make it? How long will it take? If only this ceremony could burn away all your grief. We both know that’s not possible.

My own inventory of misfortune is small this year. I realize that with a start.

There is residual sadness, always, from that day in 2015 when everything changed. There is losing my brother this past June. On the other hand, a year of adventuring in the Southwest with Cal has

left me feeling like I am one of the lucky ones. I’m in a pretty good place right now for seeing both light and dark, and assigning them their relative power. For understanding that there are cycles, seasons; to all of it.

Balance. So often the answer. So hard to achieve.

By all means let’s burn the monster. Let’s destroy the sad, the barbaric, the incomprehensible. Let’s make it a party, complete with beach balls, pot and each other. But when the flames have died to ash, and the phoenix starts to rise, let’s be clear: the burning's the easy part. The harder work begins.