The Parade

Stained glass from Notre Dame

Sundays

dias de misa!

Bright and flowery days

everyone dressed in their best

for all to see.

My family, neighbors, strangers

ready to praise the Lord!

The folks who did the most

went to Jericho Baptist Church.

I was certain no one at my church,

Our Lady of Victoryyyyy

could compete.

But the folks who walked

down our streeeeet

to get to First Samoan Full Gospel Church

around the corner from my block

also had flair.  

While mom and my sisters finished

getting ready for our service,

“Holy Communion!”

I’d sit on the front steps

like a good girl, the thickness

of my dress

bunched up between my legs,

my hair slicked back

in a plain pony-tail and feet stuffed into

my Mexican-leather shoes mom bought me

at la tienda 3 Hermanos. My shoes felt

tight, like my pony-tail, but around my toes.

Sundays cramped my style, toes

and temples throbbed, as I watched

the contingent of worshippers go by. 

Jericho was smack in the middle of my block,

had Wednesday service but folks showed up

in mass on Sunday. There were men in purple suits

with matching purple ties

looking SHARP in black and white

Stacy Adams. Others strolled in their red suits

with black vests, black bowties and patent

leather wingtips that glistened along

with their jerry curl in the sun.

There were lots of little girls

with ruffled dresses layered like a cake

and barrettes clinging like gum

drops all over their hair. Some little girls wore

summer dresses, spaghetti straps

over their shoulders, their hair in cornrows

with beads at the ends reminded me of Smarties.

My hair never looked piñata fancy

Just a plain pony tail, or parted to the side

with wavy bangs over my eyes

and a single bow dancing near the part.

The Samoan women walked down my street,

doing it! in bunches. Groups would pass by

one at a time. Samoan women

didn’t wear ribbons, barrettes nor bows,

just a little bun on top of their dome,

looking like a Bowler hat. Or they wore

their hair in a braid hanging thick, black

like a three-strand twisted fiber rope

down their back to their waist.

They wore color from neck to toe

in their Pea with plumerias, hibiscus, ferns and

and palm tree prints that went from

light to dark like water colors. Their feet

free in nice huaraches not pinched by

hard leather. The men too were comfy

in their chanclas and ½ and ½ attire.

Shirt, jacket and tie on the top and

a lavalava around their waist in colors

darker than the women’s.

Sunday was my weekly Rose Parade,

the street filled with people walking,

talking, saying their “good mornings,”

dress shoes tapping on the pavement

and cars honking as they cut their way

through churchgoers crossing the street.

Always so much to see. The viejitas of Jericho

wore hats decorated with flowers,

feathers, bowknots, organza or lace trimming

and walked by slowly as a float, their purses swinging

on their arm as they took steady steps in

their white patent squared heels.

Some hats were super secretive with a broad brim

or a chapel veil covering the face.

Each lady looking like a queen with her crown.

The air filled with the sent of soap, cocoa butter

and of my Tia Rosa’s flower garden.

I’d wave at some of the folks who saw me staring,

they flashed me a smile, revealing big white teeth behind

bold red lips. Some little girls would stop and stare 

at me like I was a funny sculpture but didn’t wave back.