In The Philippines, it is called Araw ng mga Patay and is commemorated similarly to our Mexican, Guatemalan, Brazilian, and yes, New Zealand counterparts.
Back in the day, mom would leave a bowl of water and a plate of sweet rice in the basement, at the foot of the stairs, in remembrance of her folks, where they resided abroad. Funny story: a group of shadowy young men attempted a home invasion one night. Lolo fought them off at the entranceway, while my sister and I hid under their folding bed-couch with Lola. The basement bathroom window was another portal from which we were welcomed into our new suburban neighborhood from Manhattan, with our sound system summarily stolen. Race riots around the block were common, then.
Araw ng mga Buhay Patay
American Nightmare:
Open Station Wagon. Overcast day. Blonde Housewife scraps with an Eclipsed Stepfather, while Anonymous KKKids contemplate revenge in the back seat, each other's blood splattered all over the fake leather interior. An obese daughter of Korah emerges from a crater and joins the choir of outrage like a sober crackhead, flinging brimstones at the abomination of domestic desolation. Obscene egocentricity witnessed like a silenced movie from our fingerless gloves. This is how the world reboots — Trick or Threat.
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