I love Sundays.
Though they're never quite lazy, Sundays provide a natural break from "busy," and allow me a moment to collect my thoughts outside of the organized madness of my Monday to Saturday. I generally leave my Sundays un-programmed apart from the occasional short-term project or work session in the evening, meaning that I am left with more time than I am used to. It's nice.
We were finishing up a dim Far Bar meeting a few weeks ago when traci invited us all to the downtown action in support of International Women's Day.
traci, a mentor and big sister to many (myself included), was working with a group of fellow organizers to build a loose, informal contingent of Asian American organizations. We were to meet at noon on Sunday, March 8th at City Hall. There wasn't a plan in place to find each other really. We'd figure it out as we went.
Between Connie Lim's debut show as MILCK this past weekend, the premiere of Old People Play next Friday, and Bambu's return to LA next Sunday at the Echo, March has already proven to be quite crowded. On top of that, the whole daylight savings "spring forward" thing has been more disorienting than I expected it to be. It feels like 1AM when in fact I am writing this in the early evening.
So waking up late after springing forward while sorting out my calendar for the weekend, I found myself rushing through the door sans basic marching gear (I forgot to bring water and somehow found myself in skinny jeans and boots) and onto the dry, baking concrete.
Spring has come to Los Angeles.
It was in that state of disorientation, however, that I found myself at ease. Stepping on the Purple Line train to downtown, I found that my natural reaction to chaos was calm. In regular Sunday fashion, my mind wandered while the train passed through station after station. A Tribe Called Quest vibed through my ear canal. A friend tapped me on the shoulder on his way to a separate stop. I would see him later in the afternoon.
The sun was somehow brighter as I emerged from the underground station and I quickly found our small group assembled under a tree. Our small group eventually joined a bigger group, that bigger group an even bigger group, and soon our "contingent" snaked and splintered throughout the crowd like tributaries from a determined stream.
I was there to listen to the speakers, the performers, and take in the energy that flowed through the streets. But as we listened to anti-colonial son jarocho music at the starting point, action-sparking #BlackLivesMatter speakers after we marched to LAPD headquarters, and poets fighting for immigration reform in front of the Metro Detention Center, I recognized more faces and found moments of reunion. There was Sheridan, a poet and dancing buddy from months prior. Hector, a musician I'd met at a vigil after George Zimmerman was acquitted. Cherisse, a writer I presented as part of a program I curated a while back.
The city may seem segmented, but the gaps are not so wide. Even on days meant to be quiet, we find ways to connect. I don't believe that as Angelenos we are ever quite out of the work -- there will always be people at the door and conversations to be had.
And that's beautiful.