Joyful Day of the Dead Celebrations Across US Latino Communities

(MINNEAPOLIS) Latino communities across the United States marked the Day of the Dead with record turnouts in 2025, choosing public remembrance over retreat despite weeks of social media rumors and fresh anxiety about immigration raids. From Minneapolis and Mankato in Minnesota to Chicago, Los Angeles, San Antonio and San Francisco, organizers said crowds swelled into the thousands, turning altars and processions into visible acts of resilience during a tense year.

In Minneapolis, more than 100 people followed Aztec dancers through an arch of paper flowers and into El Colegio High School, a bilingual school where students had built ofrendas—altars for the dead—covered with candles, candy skulls and photographs. Daniela Rosales, a senior who helped host the school’s celebration, said,

“It’s … a way of greeting our ancestors into our homes, back into our lives, even if they’re like not here physically, but spiritually. It’s a way of just having the community come all together and knowing that in some way they might feel safe.”
Her words captured a theme heard in city after city: fear was present, but it did not dictate the day.

The strongest signal came from Mankato, Minnesota, where a parking lot gathering founded in 2018 grew into a daylong festival that drew about 12,000 people this year. Co-founder Justin Ek said the community made a conscious choice not to shrink its plans after talk of immigration raids spread online.

“We decided we can’t cave. Our cultural celebrations are what we need to fill our souls for what’s to come.”
He added, “It’s our way to honor what we lost.” That tone carried through streets lined with marigolds, as performers and families mixed around community-funded altars and crowds paused to listen to live music under flashes of orange and candlelight.

The festival’s emcee, Luis Alberto Orozco, described a balancing act that many attendees felt.

“It’s remembering people who passed on positively because they would want us to remember them happy … and making ourselves feel they’re with us.”
He acknowledged that early fears were real given the climate around immigration enforcement but said the public nature of the event helped. “We decided we were not going to be afraid. It was important for us to keep our faith. Once I got to the event and saw all the people smile, all the fears went away.” Organizers said they heard similar reports from families who had stayed home in recent years: this time, they came out.

In Chicago, where debates over border policy and a crackdown on illegal immigration have pushed immigration raids into constant local conversation, museum organizers who braced for thin attendance instead watched crowds swell. The National Museum of Mexican Art hosted both indoor and outdoor events, including its longtime “Día de Los Muertos Xicágo” traditions and the evening “Love Never Dies Ball,” which charged $125 for tickets. Lisa Noce, who helped assemble one of the museum’s installations, said she expected people to stay away after the recent enforcement headlines. Instead,

“a big crowd came.”
Noce added, “I’m very thankful that it turned out that way,” and said she also set up a smaller ofrenda at home, with candy, Barbie dolls and photos of relatives who had passed.

In Los Angeles, the Day of the Dead turned solemn and interfaith in places, with activists organizing a prayer vigil that blended Buddhist, Jewish and Protestant rituals. The event honored migrants who died in detention, placing their stories alongside family remembrances. Rev. Jennifer Gutierrez, who helped lead the service, said,

“There’s pretty high anxiety. But also an atmosphere of coming together to help each other.”
Across the city, public commemorations continued at major sites, including Hollywood Forever Cemetery, where one of the nation’s largest Day of the Dead gatherings featured more than 100 altars, Aztec ritual dancers and art exhibitions that stretched through the grounds.

Organizers from multiple cities said this year’s record turnouts reflected a shared choice: to make cultural pride more visible when nerves are high. Community groups reported new volunteers and donors who wanted to help fund altars and expand public programming rather than scale it back. Aztec dancers performed against rows of candles and marigolds, while dozens of papier-mâché Catrinas—elaborately dressed skeleton figures—stood at entrances and along walkways. Fantasy creatures called alebrijes appeared in parades and on stages, their bright hues drawing children into photo lines. Ofrendas included pan de muerto and fruit, favorite drinks, music and even small objects linked to the pastimes of the dead. In some places, marigold petals formed paths meant to guide spirits to the offerings.

In Minneapolis, El Colegio’s celebration was intimate but resolute. Teachers and students greeted families at the door, where paper flowers arched above a narrow passage that opened into a room lined with altars built by students. Some placed school photos next to candlelight; others dotted the tables with candy skulls, painted masks and short notes to grandparents.

“It’s … a way of greeting our ancestors into our homes, back into our lives,” Rosales said earlier, explaining why she believes the annual event matters for students who have lost relatives or who are far from extended family.
Staff said the evening’s procession was one of the strongest in years, a sign that the community wanted to be seen together.

Concerns about immigration raids traveled quickly on social media in the weeks before the holiday, feeding anxiety in immigrant-heavy neighborhoods. Organizers said they responded by strengthening coordination with venues and volunteers, while emphasizing that Day of the Dead is a public, family-centered commemoration, not a political rally. They also made small adjustments to help nervous attendees feel safer, such as predictable entry and exit points, additional lighting and volunteers stationed near parking areas. Attendance in several cities still grew, and in many cases, organizers described bigger crowds than before the pandemic.

In Mankato, the jump to about 12,000 visitors underscored that growth. Families arrived early with flowers and photos, joined processions behind drummers and dancers, and lingered to hear stories told from the stage about loved ones. For some, the festival was a first. For others, it was a return after years away. Ek said the public had space to mourn individual losses and collective ones.

“It’s our way to honor what we lost,” he said, pointing to people who built ofrendas for grandparents and also those who created community altars for migrants who died crossing the border.
That mix of personal and shared remembrance, he added, helped people hold grief and joy in the same place.

Chicago’s events underscored that blend. At the museum, families walked past large-scale installations and then gathered outside for processions that wove past marigold bunches and Catrina figures. Inside, volunteers explained the meaning of ofrendas to first-time visitors. Noce said she used a smaller altar at home to tell family stories to younger relatives, bringing them into traditions she grew up with.

“I’m very thankful that it turned out that way,” she said, describing relief that “a big crowd came” despite the fear that hovered over planning meetings.

Los Angeles offered both pageantry and reflection. At Hollywood Forever Cemetery, more than 100 altars dotted lawns lined with candles, while Aztec ritual dancers led rhythmic processions through the grounds. In the city’s downtown, near Olvera Street, vendors sold paper marigolds and face paint as performers moved through plazas. At the interfaith vigil, Rev. Gutierrez said the tone was careful and calm.

“There’s pretty high anxiety. But also an atmosphere of coming together to help each other.”
Organizers dedicated prayers to the memory of migrants who died in detention, and to families who could not travel to funerals far from the United States.

Farther south, San Antonio’s Muertos Fest at Hemisfair returned as a multi-day event with five stages, a layout that gave families space for both performances and quieter moments by altars. In San Francisco, the Mission District’s Festival of Altars and a large procession to Potrero Del Sol Park drew steady crowds into the evening, as people moved between installations that honored relatives, community elders and those lost to violence. Organizers in both cities said they heard from attendees who debated staying home but decided that being present mattered this year.

The presence of immigration raids in daily conversation shaped planning. Community leaders said they tried to keep messaging simple and steady, even as rumors flared online. They shared event times and routes early, reminded people about family-friendly programming, and asked local groups to help spread accurate information. Organizers said that the more visible the events became, the safer people felt, and the bigger the crowds grew. Several pointed to the sight of grandparents leading grandchildren past rows of lit candles as the moment the mood shifted from wary to confident.

The stakes were personal for many attendees. Families placed food and beloved items on altars: a favorite soda beside a photograph, a baseball cap next to a plate of sweets, or a deck of cards beside a radio playing an old song. Ofrendas for migrants who died crossing the border and for victims of violence stood near family memorials, joining private grief to shared remembrance. Organizers called this year’s events acts of “spiritual resilience” and “community pride,” and said they expect the momentum to carry into future gatherings, even if the enforcement climate does not change.

Officials were not a regular presence at these events, but the context of immigration enforcement loomed large. The public information posted by U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement’s Enforcement and Removal Operations explains the agency’s role in carrying out civil immigration laws, an ongoing point of tension in communities where mixed-status families watch for news of arrests. Organizers said they do not ask about immigration status and emphasized that the Day of the Dead is an open, cultural commemoration where families of all backgrounds are welcome.

The details of the celebrations varied by city, but the elements echoed each other. Aztec dancers led processions past clusters of marigolds. Dozens of papier-mâché Catrinas stood outside museums and along park paths. Alebrijes, the brightly colored creatures that have become icons of Mexican folk art, appeared in parades, community halls and school gyms. The scent of candles and flowers mixed with the sound of live music. At some altars, people left bottles of favorite drinks or small tools from a loved one’s trade. In school settings like El Colegio, students explained the symbolism to classmates and parents, turning the evening into a lesson in history and belonging.

At the heart of the gatherings were decisions made in private homes. Families debated whether to attend, weighed the rumors about immigration raids, and then, in many cases, chose to go together. Organizers in Minneapolis said the sight of more than 100 people walking behind the dancers into the school gym signaled that the neighborhood was ready to be seen. In Mankato, traffic backed up near the festival grounds as people arrived to find a place in processions. In Chicago, Noce watched relief spread across volunteers as lines formed at museum entrances and families lingered at installations. In Los Angeles, the prayer vigil’s interfaith rituals anchored a day that mixed joy with loss.

By night’s end in cities large and small, the pattern was clear. Record turnouts were not just a tally; they were a message. Communities chose visibility over withdrawal, public pride over private fear.

“We decided we can’t cave,” Ek said in Mankato. “It’s our way to honor what we lost.”
In Minneapolis, Rosales spoke of safety and welcome even as she acknowledged the unease that families brought with them.
“It’s … a way of greeting our ancestors into our homes, back into our lives,” she said, describing why the Day of the Dead needs to be lived out in the open.

The coming months will test whether this momentum holds, community leaders said. But they also noted that this year’s Day of the Dead set a template: keep the focus on shared remembrance, make space for both grief and celebration, and meet fear with crowds, candles and flowers. In a year when immigration raids dominated headlines and rumor mills, the Day of the Dead offered a different headline on the ground: full streets, lasting rituals, and communities that decided to gather anyway.