Every December, at the midnight that ushers in December 12, millions of people all over the world, but especially in the western hemisphere, celebrate the Feast Day of the Virgen de Guadalupe, Patron Saint of Mexico and Empress of the Americas.
The preferred way to observe this holiday is to travel to the Virgin’s Basilica in Mexico, or to one of the various churches in the US which put on a large ceremony for the occasion, but for many, the festivities take place in private homes, around the television, tuned to a Spanish-language channel with a live feed from the Basilica, and some of the larger US churches.

For those who do not know the story, in 1532 a man named Juan Diego Cuauhtlatoatzin of the Chimecheca tribe saw a vision of a lady on the spot where the Spanish invaders had destroyed the temple of Tonantzin the corn goddess. She gave him miraculous roses, imprinted her image on his cloak (the Tilma), and instructed him to tell the local Bishop that a cathedral should be built on this spot.

This particular December, I was privileged to attend such a celebration. Of course there was food, traditional Mexican platos like chile rellenos, cochinitas piviles, mole, and the Caribbean contingent made sure that no one lacked for black beans and rice, or those little knots of pork loin that only Cubans can make. But there were also wots from Ethiopia, huge dishes of rice with raisins, almonds and spices, lamb in cream, all from Kashmir, ground nut stew and corn cakes from Africa, chicken with pistaschios and saffron and cous cous from Yemen, pink potato salad and latkes from Russia, crunchy pakuras and spicy curries from India and Nepal, challah and tabouleh and falafel from Palestine and Israel, spaghetti and meatballs from Italy, little meat pies from Scotland and Jamaica (and lively discussion over which are best), dumplings and duckling from China, spring rolls and beef pho from Southeast Asia, and this year, crawfish etoufee, pralines and red beans and rice cooked with andouille, thanks to the Katrina survivors. Every item with a horizontal surface in the house and several surrounding it had to be brought in to accomodate the abundance of comestibles.

Available seating was gladly surrendered to the European elders, as most people preferred the soft handwoven carpets and elaborate silken cushions that had been lent for the occasion by a congenial lady from Teheran who reassured and astonished her worried hostess, let the kids spill stuff, these are from my grandchildren’s playroom.

Several televisions were borrowed to augment the one small one owned by the hosts, with one set up outside, as the evening was mild, at least to those who had “been here a while,” who spilled out into the clear night and spread bright serapes onto the grass.

Stars of Mexico stage and screen sang hyms to the Virgin, troops of Aztec dancers leaped and swirled in brilliant plumage, caracoles on their ankles jangling.

Did you know the Koran has a whole book about Mary? a little girl asked her mother. The mother had not known that, but observed that the Muslims must love her, look at those boys clapping. I would not be here if it were not for the Virgin, said a small stocky man from Guatemala. I went on my knees to ask for a miracle, that I could get the money for the paisage, so I could take care of my family. Next year, they will build a house, a cement block one, strong.

The Virgin saved my baby, smiled a young mother, trying vainly to hold onto a sturdy and slippery infant whose wriggling indicated a greater interest in a nearby plate of baklava than the story of his miraculous survival as a premature newborn.

My brother in law says she healed his mother’s eyesight, a lady from Laos informs the group. Yes, she did! exclaims the brother in law, a studious young man from Jalisco.

An elder lady with long white braids offers finger-searing small potatoes cooked in oil and pungent chiles. Gracias a la Virgencita, she says, por haberme dado tantos años, y por mi familia. With a smile that lights the room, she points out a particularly noisy gaggle of children busily topping yebeg wot tacos with kim chi.

They all love the American food, nods a Russian lady. Very pretty children, very pretty hair.

As the clock struck twelve, hour of Mexico, the millions of people all over the world, including the hundred or so at this particular gathering burst into the “Mananitas” for this is celebrated as the Virgin’s birthday:

Estas son las mañanitas que cantaba el Rey David;
hoy por ser dia de tu santo te las cantamos a ti;
Despieta mi bien despierta mira que ya amanecio ;
Ya los pajaritos cantan la luna ya se metio

Everyone, even people whose native land lies far from Mexico, especially children, know the words, since this is the traditional song sung at all birthday parties.

The live television coverage ended, but the singing went on. From nowhere appeared a band of mariachis, and everyone came out to see them, and shout birthday wishes, and petitions to the Virgin.

O Virgencita, cura mi mama!

For my hermano, Virgencita, I ask that you help him get a car!

Health and good grades for my children!

That my sister cross safely and arrive here soon!

I was touched to hear more than one petition for me, Virgencita take the sugar away from his blood!

You don’t have to be Catholic, the Virgencita loves everybody, an elderly gentleman from El Salvador shouted to be heard over the noise.

As the pleas tapered off, one clear voice, the voice of a child, a little girl from New Orleans, shouted one word:

“Peace.”

And as the mariachis fell silent, one jazz trumpet soared into the night, Ave Maria.

Tell them to build my cathedral here, said the lady to Juan Diego Cuauhtlatoatzin. And that is where the grand Basilica is today, and the Tilma can be seen there. The Virgin is winking. Yes, I am still Tonantzin.