The Revival

Loira Limbal

by Laurence Bass

(page 1 of 2)

 Change remains an ever-present word in the annals of America’s vast lexicon of coined optimism. This six letter word was the key element in one of Sam Cooke’s most sobering ballads and the nucleus of President Obama’s rallying cry. Although the newspapers openly proclaim that “change” has come to this nation, Loira Limbal still waits for it to be placed flat on the checkout counter.      

“There are times when I go into a store and when the cashier is about to give me my change back,” Limbal says. “I ask him, ‘Could you please set it down for me?’ And then he starts with, ‘Huh? Why? Why?’ Then he gets real animated like most New Yorkers can get really quickly. I ask him again, nicely, if he can just place the change on the counter so I can be on my way. And depending how I’m feeling some days, I could either leave without the money or do the back and forth with people.”

When the over-the-counter quarrel reaches its boiling point, Limbal offers the annotated methodology of her path to becoming a Priestess of Yemaya in the Yoruba religion. She is currently six-months deep into her year-long journey and one aspect of the process forbids physical contact with others. Limbal’s energetic anecdote is more than just a once every month occurrence—it’s commonplace. This almost daily foxtrot between her and merchants is filled with prying questions and cutting gawks. In New York City, where space is at a premium and close encounters with strangers are inevitable, Limbal is sometimes treated as an outcast. Circumstances such as these could easily make anyone feel claustrophobic, but she focuses on the positive.

“One of the things I found really interesting, being in this process, is that it has made me very aware of people whose garb is determined by their religion—in a way that I wasn’t really before,” says Limbal. “So, when I see Muslims, Sikhs and even Orthodox Jewish women, I really think about their commitment to their beliefs.” Her religious journey also entails that she wear all white. From her monochromatic platform shoes and stockings to the long day dress and head wrap, her process is on display. “And now when I see them and they see me, we’ll acknowledge each other. It’s a moment of recognition and solidarity.” Her universal outlook on the varying religious beliefs and practices of her peers is echoed in her voyage through one of the world’s most common languages—hip-hop.          

Limbal’s apartment is nestled in the Tremont section of the Bronx. It’s a handful of streets, avenues and neighborhoods away from the congested artery that fostered the hip-hop’s genesis—the Cross Bronx Expressway. Graffiti-etched murals decorate the landscape of this borough. Her building is just due east of the folkloric 1520 Sedgwick Avenue address where DJ Kool Herc unveiled the sonic-altering break beat. Only a healthy walk along the Bronx Zoo’s southern façade divides her from the Bronx River Housing Projects where Afrika Bambaataa transformed the Black Spades gang into the world renowned Zulu Nation. In an era where fans are quick to give hip-hop that long procession to the burial ground, its history beckons for a sustaining revival.