The moon and the cradle of community

In the past two weeks there has been serious moon drama.

It’s not like the moon needed to sign up for more, especially if you want to go back to the darkest ages of mental health.

The moon was not looking for any kind of fame, but two things happened. One was an incredibly big deal all over the world, and one was scarce more than a whisper heard by a handful of people in, or concerned with, the goings-on of Hosay in St James.

On August 1, the first supermoon of the month presented itself. It was exquisite.

The next one is booked for August 31. It’s so perfectly parenthesising. And there won’t be another two-in-a-month for a whole 14 years. According to some sources, the second one in a month is called… yep… a blue moon. Everyone’s writing about it.

On July 28, Big Hosay Night in St James started late. So late it seemed like it didn’t start at all. There was some tassa and one or two tadjahs on the road. Some people were lingering on the pavement and no music was blasting from the rumshops and bars.

Somewhere between July 28 and 29, the red moon made a late appearance on the Western Main Road. The green moon had been out for some time. The semi-mysterious purple moon, only on the road for the last couple years (though there are records of an older incarnation of one) was out, too.

It was dark and drizzly and hot. And though there was nothing you could call a crowd, once you start to follow a tadjah or a moon, you end up in a small crush of people and drums and cameras and there is a great feeling of squashedness.

Then there is the great sea of sound and movement and being carried along.

These are feelings I think about with absolute terror. Unless they happen during Hosay. Because Hosay is mine.

And by mine, I mean it is of St James, as I am of St James. So, yes, it is ours.

But also mine. I do not remember the first time I was taken to see it because it was before the time of my first memories. Hosay is one of the few experiences to which I belong. I don’t do anything at all to be part of it other than respect it and show up, but I am part of it.

So when the red moon broke, I felt that knot in my stomach like when you think someone you love is dying.

No one I know has ever heard of a moon breaking. One minute it was going down the road, hundreds of pounds of decorated half-moon, the man shouldering it spinning, spinning yet magnificently controlled.

Whirling dervishes are universally admired. I don’t know if any of them dance with something roughly the weight of a refrigerator. On a stick.

I hear they worked from the small to the big hours of the morning to make sure the moon would be back on the road on Saturday for Big Hosay Day.

The US National Alliance on Mental Health (NAMI) has many tidy definitions of community, but the basic idea is that it is all about connection and feeling accepted and the profound importance this has on mental health.

“If you’ve ever felt like you don’t fit in, you know it can be a lonely experience. Community provides a sense of belonging – a group you identify as being a part of,” they say.

I was born in St James. That is all. I did not lime on the block or sing in a choir. I stopped going to temple when I was about seven. I do not volunteer for WeBeat or anything else.

But I feel an inexplicable safety here and nowhere more so than on the nights and day of Hosay.

In 2004, in The Changing Face of Hosay, the late Terry Joseph wrote, “Hosay’s first adjustment came when it quickly evolved into a cosmopolitan event, with persons of other religions and sheer community spirit swelling the following.”

That’s what I love the most. One of the things that makes me feel I belong. I come from a place that has long allowed space for everyone in a solemn Shi’a Muslim observance. That’s the TT I choose to believe in.

July 29 was Big Hosay Day. It rained hard and rained like it wouldn’t end.

The order issued by the Commissioner of Police is perfectly clear on matters of times for the procession, on streets to be blocked off for it, on where you may or may not park.

It is clear every year. Being so clear, there is no room for things like delays caused by rain. Six o’clock is six o’clock. It is not some other o’clock. The police cannot make it something else.

The police must send the tadjahs and tassa and moons back to their yards. It is not their fault you didn’t get to see or hear any of the beauty and gravitas and community-spiritedness. If you didn’t get to hear a last hand played on the Bournes Road corner, that is the not the fault of the police. That is six o’clock.

And if a group of girls beating bass like it have no tomorrow – because they are honouring their cousin who died this year and he too used to beat drum – if they have to pack up sharp before they are ready, this too is six o’clock.

There are laws, you see, and we must, of course, obey. I am told there is no argument to be made. No pleading for discretion, understanding.

Road make to walk on Carnival day, yes. But we can’t make a little room for some other kinds of days and some other kinds of walking?

Remember to talk to your doctor or therapist if you want to know more about what you read here. In many cases, there’s no single solution or diagnosis to a mental health concern. Many people suffer from more than one condition.