What paradise must we protect in the wake of tragedy?
In honor of the lives lost on Lapu Lapu Day in Vancouver
Last week on April 26th, eleven people were killed and nearly thirty were injured during the Lapu Lapu Festival in so-called Vancouver, Canada (K'emk'emeláy). My dear friend Ange invited Netanya (@amakeshiftaltar) and I to organize a vigil together in Manila, in solidarity with our dear Filipino-Canadian community from K'emk'emeláy. We reached out to Migrante International, an organization working to champion and aid overseas Filipino workers, and held the vigil on the evening of Friday, May 2nd.
What makes this tragedy so difficult to move through is that it was completely avoidable. The SUV that drove through the Lapu Lapu Day crowd should never have been able to enter the roads if the Vancouver police had followed protocol. Of course, we won’t see this reported in the news. We’ll see the police statements expressing grief, but we won’t see journalists question systemic accountability in elite-owned media.
Nevertheless, we have to find a way to move through the grief and rage. I know we are tired of demanding the minimum from the governments that are meant to serve us. We are used to providing for each other in mutual aid (you can see this in how quickly the donations for the families of the deceased poured in from around the world), and we need to continue doing so with courage and compassion.
The vigil was a beautiful and sacred space shared by 16, a mix of migrant Filipinos, local activists, and their loved ones. We honored each person who passed and each person who was injured at the festival, then we offered songs and poems and shared food with one another.
I shared two poems that night, “Forsythia” by Ada Limón and “A Portable Paradise” by Roger Robinson, as well as a few words on community and hope:
Forsythia by Ada Limón
At the cabin in Snug Hollow near McSwain Branch creek, just spring, all the animals are out, and my beloved and I are lying in bed in a soft silence. We are talking about how we carry so many people with us wherever we go, how even simple living, these unearned moments, are a tribute to the dead. We are both expecting to hear an owl as the night deepens. All afternoon, from the porch, we watched an Eastern towhee furiously build her nest in the untamed forsythia with its yellow spilling out into the horizon. I told him that the way I remember the name forsythia is that when my stepmother, Cynthia, was dying, that last week, she said lucidly, but mysteriously, More yellow. And I thought yes, more yellow and nodded because I agreed. Of course, more yellow. And so now in my head, when I see that yellow tangle, I say, For Cynthia, for Cynthia, forsythia, forsythia, more yellow. It is night now. And the owl never comes, only more of night and what repeats in the night.
We don’t have forsythias here in Manila, but now is the season of Narra flowers, of bright yellow buds decorating the sky and the ground with the color of joy. It’s a reminder that those who have passed are never truly lost to us. Although it is night and dark, although the ‘owl’ may never come, the day will break and we’ll see that splash of color again, that one thing that says our beloved’s name back to us.
This next poem was written in the wake of a tragedy as well. In 2017, what would have been a household fire in Grenfell, London, caused the whole building to go up due to building material that did not comply with regulations. Seventy-two people were killed by this completely avoidable accident, essentially government neglect. The residents were people of color and working class folk, who had raised the alarm about the dangers of the building, to no avail. The poem addresses us, the marginalized and neglected, and reminds us of our secret paradises.
A Portable Paradise by Roger Robinson
And if I speak of Paradise,
then I’m speaking of my grandmother,
who told me to carry it always
on my person, concealed, so
no one else would know but me.
That way they can’t steal it, she’d say.
And if life puts you under pressure,
trace its ridges in your pocket,
smell its piney scent on your handkerchief,
hum its anthem under your breath.
And if your stresses are sustained and daily,
get yourself to an empty room – be it hotel,
hostel, or hovel – find a lamp
and empty your paradise onto a desk:
your white sands, green hills, and fresh fish.
Shine the lamp on it like the fresh hope
of morning, and keep staring at it till you sleep.
In times of distress and trauma, especially as we question why tragedies happen, – who and what allowed such senseless loss of lives – we have to sustain ourselves on something no less than paradise. We have to imagine that special warm place and make sure we carry it around with us. Like the author Roger Robinson writes, “carry it always” on your person, “concealed” so no one else can steal it from you.
Like Adrienne Rich wrote in 1977, “My heart is moved by all I cannot save / So much has been destroyed / I have to cast my lot with those, who, age after age, / Perversely, with no extraordinary / Power, reconstitute the world.”
What paradise must we protect in the wake of such tragedy? Hold onto it, nourish it, and I know that one day, it won’t be a small hidden thing in our pockets anymore—because we will hold and share it together.
I hope these words reach you with nourishment wherever you are in your life. We are all going through something secret that no one else may know about, but I hope you are reminded that you are not alone, and that there is so much beauty to be had in being there for your community. If you don’t have the capacity, let others hold you. And if you do have the capacity, allow yourself to hold whoever needs it: your friend, your sister, your neighbor.
I hope you feel the strength of community within the vision of a more just future as you move through this coming week.
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