A Japanese-American girl at the Obon festival is too shy to dance--until her encouraging grandfather reminds her what's being celebrated.I thread each arm through my peach sleeves. Grandpa Jo ties the bright yellow sash around me. I check to make sure the paper flowers in my hair are on just right. I am ready for my first Bon dance festival! It's a young Japanese-American girl's first time at the "Festival of Souls," one of the largest Buddhist festivals. It's just like her grandfather described: the smell of corndogs, the glow of hanging paper lanterns, the beat of taiko drums. But Grandpa Jo didn't tell her that everyone else already knew how to dance! Suddenly, the lanterns feel like spotlights. She wish, wish, wishes she could dance, but she can't bring herself to try. . . until Grandpa Jo encourages her to remember the meaning of the Obon Festival--celebrating our family members who have passed on--and to imagine her beloved Grandma Nat dancing along with her. Because she is there, and behind her are her parents, sugar-cane cutters, and behind them are their parents, who came to Hawai'I on ships from Japan. . . My body moves to the rhythm of the music. I am a bon dancer, one in a line of dancing ancestors.
