Reflections on the Marade

I attended my first Marade last year, and this year knew I wanted to go again. The Marade is an annual Denver event held every January on the birthday of Dr. Martin Luther King. This year it was held on Jan. 18, and two weeks later, I’m still thinking about it. Like last year, the weather was sunny and relatively warm, always a boon for outdoor events, and thousands turned out for it. Like last year, I walked from home and met marchers along the parade route, ready to watch and then join in. Judging by the signs, there were members of church groups and non-profits and progressive movements, along with parents and kids and friends. There were horses too, and bringing up the rear, a fire truck in parade mode. Unlike last year, however, there was less music and a different mood at the front of the march. Members of Black Lives Matter had displaced the traditional leaders—the mayor, various dignitaries and corporate sponsors. They did it by getting an early start, walking down a different street and then cutting in front of the others.

Looking at the diversity of faces and signs, I wondered how many others felt as I did, feeling that combination of pride in all that’s been done amid reminders of all that needs to be done for equality and justice in this country. Despite the pressing needs of now, I wanted the past to get its due. Dr. King’s work had been my initiation to political work. Fifty years ago, it was, and it still surprises me to realize that. Yes, half a century ago, I was a freshman at Mundelein College, a Catholic women’s college in Chicago, where a group of older students and nuns were planning to join the last leg of the historic Selma to Montgomery march. I knew right away I wanted to go, and when my worried parents objected, got a job to earn the $20 round trip bus fare. The Civil Rights Movement was in full swing in the South, where African-Americans were fighting for the basic right to vote and an end to oppression from the white power structure. Such excitement in the air! I remember many moments of that event—the beginning of my understanding of how people of different races could unite to make change. Months later, the landmark 1965 Voting Rights Act was signed into law.

Fast forward to the Marade. This year it was clear that the injustices needing to be addressed superceded any reflections on history. There were lots of signs and banners calling for specific things— an end to the death penalty, the freeing of Native American activist Leonard Peltier, a woman’s right to control her body, among others. Two Muslim women marched together holding a sign expressing hopes that children of all races might live in peace together. “Reclaim MLK” was one sign I noticed and wondered about. The answer came when the marchers spilled into the park facing the State Capitol and the speeches began.

I confess I skipped the speeches. Call it an aversion to crowds and waiting and noise. My friends and I watched the horses and the riders who let kids take a turn. I approached one of riders and learned that some of them were from Buffalo Soldiers of the American West, and some from a local horse rescue network. We enjoyed this somewhat quiet, pleasant corner of the park. In the background we could hear clapping, drumming, and the echoes of words. Before the speeches finished, we left the park and went to lunch.

Only later did we learn what we had missed. Thanks to youtube, I later heard the speech delivered by Amy Brown of Black Lives Matter 5280. You can listen to it here. The group—which had not sought any official permission to speak—had four demands. A key one surrounded the deaths of two men, one Michael Marshall, an African-American who died in police custody, and the other, Native American Paul Castaway, who was shot and killed by police called to help during a schizophrenic episode. In her speech, Amy Brown demanded the release of a video of Marshall’s death.* Black Lives Matter also called for more affordable housing in Denver, an end to the urban camping ban, and a renaming of the Stapleton community, as its namesake former mayor was a member of the KuKluxKlan. It was clear that the sign “Reclaim MLK” was a reference to making the day a time for taking on Dr. King’s own campaign against poverty and discrimination— not making it simply a safe acknowledgment of past victories.

Later, Denver Mayor Hancock was booed as he tried to say he was on board with Dr. King’s dream. You can hear his speech in this youtube video. My age shows here, as I don’t like what seems to be the political temper of the times: enhancing your own message by shouting down someone else’s. Yet, at the same time, I remember the words of Rev. Osagyefo Sekou, a Christian minister who gave an inspiring speech last summer. (Thanks to yes! Magazine for reporting on it.) “Martin Luther King ain’t coming back. Get over it,” Rev. Sekou said during a lecture at Warner Pacific College in Portland, Oregon. “(Today’s movement) won’t look like the civil rights movement. It’s angry. It’s profane. If you’re more concerned about young people using profanity than about the profane conditions they live in, there’s something wrong with you.”

Speaking to a Christian audience, Rev. Sekou had four suggestions for white churches who want to continue Martin Luther King Jr.’s dream. These are his words:  1) Your attitude toward the plight of African-Americans in this country reflects your theology. If you tell me what you think about Jesus, I can tell you what you think about Ferguson. Christianity in and of itself is not simply about the redemption of the world, it's about some peasant articulating a vision of the world and the state crucified him and he rose again.
2) White churches don't need to become multicultural. They need to show up. What if the next time a black boy gets shot a white church shows up? They don't say a word but they go sit with that mama and ask what she needs. What if some white clergy showed up in their robes and stood between the protestors and the police, telling the police, 'You're going to have to get through us to get to these babies.’
3) The first step toward understanding and justice is friendship.
4) Your opinion of the rioters' distasteful language and behavior shouldn't shape your opinion of their message.
5) Change is going to require sacrifice. Are you willing to fight for a world you’re never going to live in?

Perhaps, as much as the images and the pleasure of the day and the march itself, I’ll carry these words with me this year.

*The video was subsequently released, but the District Attorney did not press charges against any of the officers involved in Marshall’s death, saying multiple causes were involved.

A Japanese New Year: Part 2--Seven Lucky Gods

One of the many things I enjoyed about New Year in Japan was the fact that it did not end on January 1. The 3—5 days following were usually days off for many if not most workers—time to catch up on sleep, relax, or visit friends or relatives. My favorite activity was a Seven Lucky Gods walk in one of the neighborhoods in or around Tokyo. I usually went with my friend Renate. We chose a neighborhood and the best-weather day, and then off we went for a day-long hike, including stops at 7 different shrines or temples, each devoted to a different deity.

“Gods” seems a misnomer for the Seven Lucky Gods, all but one derived from mythological or historical characters from China and India. Collectively, they reminded me of the things we hope for in a new year, like riches (defined broadly), happiness, prosperity, longevity, and protection. You can often see their images as the new year arrives in Japan—usually smiling atop a takarabune (treasure ship)—on flyers or cards. At each temple or shrine on our walk, a monk would stamp our cardboard with the deity’s image.

Some years we got small figurines instead of stamped boards, and I still have my favorite set on display each New Year and beyond.

Sometimes there would be stone reproductions of the dieties in the shrine gardens.

Like pagan gods of the West, they often had funny or eccentric characteristics and special groups of devotees. Fukurokuju (riches, happiness, wisdom), has an enormous head, long beard and sweet smile; Jurojin (wisdom) is more normal-looking, often portrayed with a sacred deer; Daikoku (demon chaser) dresses like a dandy and is short-legged and plump. The only woman in the group is Benten, who is often pictured with a stringed instrument called a biwa; she is the goddess of music, arts and eloquence. Then there’s Ebisu—the only native Japanese god—often elegantly dressed while carrying a bamboo fishing pole and huge fish; he’s the god of good fortune and fair dealing. I'm especially fond of Hotei, said to be modeled on a real-life Zen priest, who has a narrow forehead and huge belly and was so funny to the Chinese that they called him “Cho-tei-shi” (old cloth bag); he is the patron of children, wits, bartenders and fortune tellers. Rounding out the cast is Bishomon, a warrior and guardian of Buddhist virtues. He is sometimes considered a god of healing on the theory that sickness comes from evil and Bishomon defends against evil. A photo from a shrine honoring this guardian deity:

Most years I did the walk with my friend Renate, who enjoyed it as much or more than I did. Here she is on a particularly chilly day in early 2008, posing in front of a map above an illustrated takarabune, with an image of Benten on the right:

Approaching a shrine, we always found a fountain, where we could purify ourselves by running water over our fingers, using a bamboo or tin ladle. Some fountains were especially decorative. 

The walk was often a day-long affair, allowing train travel time, periodic rest breaks, exploration of the shrines, and food stops (sandwiches or onigiri, cookies and a small bottle of champagne being popular choices).   Some years our friend Marimar joined us, and one time she brought along her fiancé (now husband), Frank.

Usually we stopped at a restaurant at some point, when a tea break or warm spot for chilled fingers and toes seemed like a good idea. Food displays could attract, including this basket of these rather fiercely-decorated sweet potatoes outside one shop.

Returning home, I’d usually feel pleasantly tired and content that my new year had started well—with exercise and a kind of hopeful and peaceful feeling from all those shrine visits. Back in the US now, I still like to display a print of this photo which summarizes that feeling. 

I used to think that people in Japan were less focused on making new year resolutions than we are in the US. I don’t recall making them or hearing about them very much. Yet, when I quizzed my friend Junko about this, she told me that Japanese are often very focused on making resolutions for things they want to commit to in the coming year. They just don’t talk about it very much. The old proverb, “Actions speak louder than words” is taken to heart. Shrine visits are a way of getting spiritual support or enlisting a diety as witness. I was surprised to hear this, realizing once again how easy it is to make cultural generalizations. Just because we don’t notice something doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist.

I’ve pretty much stopped making resolutions. My friend Roberta and I were talking the other day about how we want to continue the good things we’re already doing—things that bring us energy and satisfaction. Some things on my list: the strength training program I started last fall at the YMCA, time for being, communicating, dancing or laughing with friends, exposure to more books and ideas and finding opportunities for being at least a part-time political activist. Perhaps I can summon the Seven Lucky Gods as my witnesses. According to the Chinese zodiac, 2016 the Year of the Monkey, so I’ll try to be as clever and playful as one in the process.

A Japanese New Year: Part 1

One of the many things I got from my years in Japan was a new appreciation for the New Year holiday, which became my very favorite holiday there. In the US I just couldn’t get into it. I had no enthusiasm for football or travel amid substance-impaired drivers or for balls dropping at midnight in large crowds. But in Japan—where the new year is a family holiday— there were various rituals I enjoyed exploring: eating morsels of osechi ryori (special holiday foods) placed in lacquer boxes, watching the variety show, Kohaku Uta Gassen, followed by the Joya no Kane (the ringing of temple bells), and then a day or two or three later, taking one of the Seven Lucky Gods walks held in neighborhoods throughout Tokyo and environs. Fortunately, I’ve had a chance to repeat some of those rituals in Colorado over the past several years. Thanks to Susie, Anne and Marga, who live in Boulder and have a subscription to the Japan Broadcasting Network (NHK), I could renew my favorite rituals this omisoka (New Year’s Eve).

This year Susie’s daughter Gwyneth was visiting from Japan, and she managed to bring an ojubako (lacquered box) of osechi delicacies to the early evening feast of goodies: small colorful heaps of black beans, small fish, puree of sweet potatoes and chestnuts, a sweet rolled omelet, and more. (For photos and recipes, try this chef’s blog.) I remembered the many beautiful osechi arrangements I had enjoyed with Junko, who lives in Japan and is still family to me. Here’s a photo of her and one osechi feast she shared with me in 2004.

Of course, other foods make their way onto the table on this holiday, especially if kids are there. I still remember my surprise when I first joined Junko’s family for a New Year dinner and two of her nephews brought McDonald’s take-out. Kids don’t like the traditional foods that much, I was told. So I suppose the non-traditional tidbits we had this year, such as guacamole and chips, were right in step with changing traditions.

Having a buffet is useful on New Year’s Eve for all who watch Kohaku (Red and White Singing Battle), as I did with my friends in Boulder. Junko first introduced me to this show about 20 years ago; she has been watching it since childhood. The closest image I can suggest for this unique event is Las Vegas, Walt Disney and Lawrence Welk all rolled into one 4-hour extravaganza. Technically it’s a contest between the Red (female) and White (male) teams, with the audience voting at the end. I’m not sure how much anyone cares about the result, though. The important thing is how important it still is in Japan. An estimated 40% of the country watches, and it’s a big deal to be selected to perform. There were fifty-one acts this year, ranging from teenie-bopper acts with once-improbable names, like AKB48 to elaborate dance numbers (Sandaime J Soul Brothers from the EXILE TRIBE) to enka veterans (Yoshimi Tendo, Shinichi Mori) whose songs tell of heartbreak and struggle and longing, to pop stars who’ve had long careers or made comebacks.  A photo of idol group AKB48 (from The Japan Times):

Although the NHK-produced show avoids political controversy (no mention—at least none that I could catch— of the widespread peace demonstrations in the country last year), it pays tribute to disasters survived. This year marked the 70th anniversary of the end of World War II, and there were songs commemorating the struggles of that era. The future got its due also, as Olympic athletes were honored, with an eye toward the upcoming 2020 Summer Olympics in Tokyo. Kohaku emcees vary from year to year; this year one of them was 82-year-old veteran actress and UN cultural ambassador, Tetsuko Kuroyanagi. The show continues to fascinate, and occasionally, appall me. (Must so many young women dress and sound like little girls?) The fascination comes the showmanship of it all and the reminder that we are not all living in a globalized, homogenous world. It’s a very Japanese production. The number of costume changes throughout the evening is astonishing, and increasingly, computer graphics have been integrated into the choreography. 

Is there any other show that has such a broad reach? The producers are clearly mindful of the fact that New Year’s Eve is still often an intergenerational event in Japan, that new audiences must continually be attracted while satisfying the older ones. This has benefits for all viewers, I think, as everyone appreciates having acts they don’t mind missing to make a trip back to the kitchen for something. This was true at our Boulder party, as attendees included Susie’s two granddaughters, ages 5 and 8, who joined us around the screen in the basement, all of us taking breaks for rollicking play or food.

Unfortunately, I couldn't snap a good picture of our group, but I did manage this mother and daughter (or are they twins?) photo of Susie and Gwyneth.

In addition to the osechi buffet, there is another traditional food, usually served around midnight on New Year’s Eve: buckwheat (soba) noodles in a soy-flavored dipping sauce, topped with chopped onion. They’re called toshikoshi soba, meaning long-life noodles, a very appropriate and tasty idea, as we all get ready to plunge into the uncertainties of the new year. Our hosts brought our lacquer bowls of soba downstairs, which we ate as we watched the Kohaku finale. It was a rousing finish and then the winner was announced (Red broke White’s 3-year winning streak), and then came the part I always stayed up for and never tire of: the ringing of the temple bells. NHK cameras are stationed at various temples throughout Japan, including one in Fukushima that had been closed since the 2011 nuclear disaster. In Buddhist tradition, the bells toll 108 times, for the number of evil desires humans suffer from. (And to think Christians focused on only 7 deadly sins, perhaps the original sin-labelers had no time for the many minor ones we commit.) Mercifully, the cameras did not wait for all 108 strikes of the bell; rather, we saw lines of people waiting to enter the Buddhist temple or Shinto shrine—both traditions co-existing in Japan. Some were waiting to pray or ring the bell, others to get a lucky arrow or sip a bit of sake around a bonfire.

During most of my 20 years in Japan, I visited shrines on New Year’s Eve or sometimes the day after. Here’s one of me with Junko’s late mother (circa 2004).

This year, with no shrine opportunity in sight, my friend Roberta and I bid our hostesses good night, and drove a mile or so back to her place, where we each soon fell asleep. On January 1, we joined Roberta’s friend Hannah for a New Year’s Day brunch at a restaurant in Chatauqua Park, and drove by the Boulder mall, where in years past there has been a Japanese-style celebration sponsored by a local sushi restaurant. It usually included mochi-poundings and the resulting soft rice cakes with toppings, as well as a stand serving hot soup and performances by taiko drummers. The event was cancelled last year due to extremely cold weather, so with this year’s warmer temperatures, we had high hopes for attending one. No luck. Instead we joined a few walker and shoppers on the mall, appreciating the sun and the start of a brand new year.

Next: Part 2: Beginnings of things and the Seven Lucky Gods