Burn, Zozobra, Burn!

THE WOMAN APPROACHED the “gloom” table flanked by two boys, perhaps seven or eight years old. They advanced quietly—at least compared with the melee of people feverishly jotting down their glooms and stuffing them into one of several glittery boxes festooned with flames and Zozobra’s image.

The sun had just begun its slow late-summer descent, leaving a fuchsia streak in the sky and a rising anticipatory hum in Santa Fe’s Fort Marcy Park, as the clock ticked closer to the burn. The mom and her sons wore identical plaintive expressions and appeared to have a question. At first, the encounter conformed to the general traffic pattern at the Burning of Zozobra gloom table, where I have volunteered for the last 20 or so years. People come either as seasoned pros—frequently with their written grievances already prepared to hand over—or as newcomers eager to learn what’s going on.

The short story on the annual Labor Day weekend fete, hosted by the Kiwanis Club of Santa Fe, is this: In 1924, artist William “Will” Howard Shuster Jr. created the first Zozobra to burn at a backyard party in Santa Fe with a group of fellow artists and writers known as Los Cinco Pintores. Shuster drew inspiration from Easter Holy Week traditions in the Yaqui communities of Arizona and Mexico. He and newspaper editor E. Dana Johnson devised the Spanish name Zozobra for the creation, which translates to anguish, anxiety, or gloom.

AT THE GLOOM TABLE, I get an intimate glimpse into Zozobra’s power. Everyone experiences grief of varying degrees, and I am here as its administrative assistant.

In 2022, with less than two hours before showtime, a couple in their seventies draw near, sorrow written on their faces, as they hand over what appear to be family photos and quickly shuffle away without making eye contact. Shortly thereafter, two high-spirited young women advance, carrying shirts that belonged to their cheating ex-boyfriends. They high-five each other—and me—before heading back into the crowd.

We stock the table throughout the night with pens and paper. People lean on the table to write and, when it’s crowded, use each other’s backs. One young boy scribbles quickly, then tells me his gloom was the loss of his pet rat. Some people cry quietly as they write down their glooms. One woman laughs as she asks me to photograph her, smiling, while she stuffs her divorce decree into one of the bedazzled boxes we have for just such purposes. Another woman arrives clutching Donald Trump’s book The Art of the Deal. She holds it up over her head so the crowd at the table can see—earning applause.

Since 2020, Covid-19 has remained a top gloom, with many last year—including Santa Fe Mayor Alan Webber and Governor Michelle Lujan Grisham—citing the pandemic’s toll as their top gloom for the year. Several people—including the state health department’s spokeswoman—stop by the table just to write “Covid-19” on a sheet of paper (in her case accompanied by an expletive) and shove it in the gloom box.

Read more: As the creator of the annual Santa Fe tradition, Will Shuster burns with a desire to be rid of this gloom—or does he actually love it?

THE KIWANIS CLUB INHERITED ZOZOBRA from Shuster in 1964, and the organization takes the responsibility of preserving the tradition seriously. For the last 10 years—leading up to next year’s 100th anniversary—organizers have revisited Zozobra’s history via the Decades Project, styling Zozobra’s hair and outfit every year to evoke one decade from the past and encouraging attendees to also dress thematically for the event.

This year, which commemorates the aughts, marks the last installment of the project. The September 1 event also means a return to crowd limits. After working with a security consultant, the Kiwanis has decided to cap attendance at 55,000 (so get those tickets while you can!).

For those who can’t attend, opportunities remain to submit gloom—both online and at events such as ZozoFest. Some local businesses also serve as drop-off points in advance.

Sandoval has seen every type of memento brought to burn inside Zozobra. One that sticks with him, he says, is a woman who brought her hospital gown after she went into remission for a cancer her doctor had diagnosed as terminal. “She was crying. I was crying. The security guard was crying,” Sandoval says. “It was one of the most moving experiences I’ve ever had.”

SHORTLY BEFORE THE CEREMONY, a group of us carry the load of gloom—sometimes needing multiple trips—through security and on stage behind Zozobra, stopping to wave at the crowds so they can see we are, indeed, ensuring the incineration of all the woe we’ve collected. With that much emotion in the field, no wonder the crowd goes wild as soon as the lights go out. On stage, the Fire Dancer taunts Zozobra, who begins to moan. She fights back his army of Gloomies, or “Zozobra’s Fire Spirits, who chase the torchbearers away,” says Ortiz-Flores, who oversees the dancers. The crowd chants, “Burn him!” as we all wait for another year’s sadness to go up in smoke.

That brings me back to the woman, her two sons, and their question. Her husband—the boys’ father—had died recently and was cremated. Her sons wanted some of his ashes to be placed into Zozobra, and she wanted to know if it was okay. I made an on-the-spot decision, said it was fine, then carried the ashes separately so I could place the container at Zozobra’s base.

I have never read anyone’s glooms—despite being professionally nosy, I respect people’s privacy—but various stories stick with me. I think of those people as Zozobra burns, and I hope for their solace. That year, I concentrated on the woman and her sons.

When people new to the ceremony stop by the table, they often ask the same question: “Does it work?” I tell them the same answer: It does, if you concentrate on letting go as you watch the flames ignite, the giant puppet fall, and the fireworks fill the darkened New Mexico sky.