Before we go any further, I pause at this time of still beginning here on Substack.
I want to acknowledge and give thanks to African-American and Indigenous friends who brought my spiritual senses back not just to ancestor remembrance, but to the fullness of ongoing relationships with our, my, the Ancestors.
In this vein-river, I also acknowledge that I am living, breathing and creating on the unceded land of the Gabrielino Tongva Nation, and have been much provided for by the labor and hands of many workers, seen and unseen.
I can see one of my Sistastars, InterPlay elder Toni McClendon who, along with other Black InterPlayers (who in turn have learned from their West African siblings), have guided me back to sound beginnings, pouring libation at the opening of any BIPOC-led spaces. Since this is not a practice from my own lineage, I can only imagine the depth, breadth, richness and multidimensional realities of this sacred honoring. I can see Toni with a green plant beside her as she pours offerings of water into it, honoring the Ancestors, the Earth, the Spirit Realm, Those Here Now, and Those Yet to Come. It is with Toni’s blessing I share this with you.
Speaking of the Ancestors, I recently left a position as Spiritual Nurture Coordinator at Buena Vista United Methodist Church (BVUMC), a very special community of followers of Jesus . . . whose prayer ministry involves Reiki healing, and whose organizational makeup includes a small nonprofit institute wholly committed to social justice. BVUMC’s roots go back to the WWII mass incarceration and internment of people—ancestors—of Japanese descent. And, as many UMCs do, on the first Sundays of each month, BVUMC enters the embodied ancestral space of Holy Communion [at BVUMC, this is a responsively sung liturgy to the melody of Tamil Pakistani hymn, Saranam, Saranam, Saranam (Refuge, Refuge, Refuge) This, for me, is a spiritual game changer.]. The UMC ritual of the open table allows our bodyspirits to travel waaaay back.
To retrieve and be retrieved.
Also on first Sundays at BVUMC, we remember our BVUMC ancestors. We name those who’ve passed away on any day of that respective month, of any year, no matter how long ago or near. A child or relative is invited to come forward and place a long-stemmed flower in the vase of collective memory. After this ritual is done, together we say:
Which, in the contemporary context of our hearts, we translate as Because of you, I am.
***
The Crenshaw Carnival starts tonight, where I will get to share in Bon Odori.
Mom pins a little fake bun to the top of my head (I have very little hair; another story for another time), wrapping it in pink and green silk that stretches and holds. She saves the tiny butterflies for last. She puts her lipstick on my mouth and rubs a little into my cheeks with her soft strong thumbs. She powders my face. She dresses me in my kimono or yukata, tucking into my obi all I will need to join the dance—my tenugui, kachi-kachi and folding fan in front, my uchiwa fan in back.
She helps me put fresh white tabi on my feet to wear with the cushioned slippers embroidered with blossoms.
I join in the big Bon Odori circle, the colorful ring like dancing fish moving counterclockwise in a summertime sea. It’s Obon season, and we are here to honor the spirits of our ancestors, in body, song, drum, community.
I dance in the outer ring with everyone who’s practiced each Wednesday night since summer began, in the parking lot behind Sumitomo Bank at the other end of Crenshaw Square. We learn, practice, then each receive neapolitan ice cream in a plastic cup with a tabbed cardboard lid and a little wooden paddle for a spoon. We savor the treat, hang out together on the curbs around the lot.
Tonight at the long-awaited carnival, we faithfully follow the inner ring of the real, serious students of Hanayagi Rokumine Kai. They in turn move around the taiko drummer raised high upon the platform in the center.
Now we become the music, goldfish and stuffed animals, beef teriyaki, corn on the cob and taquitos, confetti eggs, ferris wheel and faraway whir of carnival motors. We dance ondo with our toes turned slightly in, kimono or happi sleeves gliding through the air like wings of windsailing tsuru.
We dance with all our ancestors we’ve never met, with the stories we’ve never heard yet feel in our growing bones, and with the ripening August moon. We transform back into ourselves, all the way back. We become the night.
***
For You, Tani and Seki ancestors, further back, and further. For You, Toma and Sadoyama ancestors, further back and further. For ancestors I had not considered as such but have come to know in my body that You too are so real, near and responsive—spiritual ancestors, medicine ancestors, queer ancestors, female ancestors, art ancestors, justice ancestors, earth ancestors. For you. For you I pour this language.
Now may we begin. Now may we come through.
I love this photo… of the little dancer you who was to become the wise adult dancer you, carrying them with you.
Coke, the tenderness of your mother getting you ready to join the dance.
Her lipstick on your mouth...thank you for these images and memories.