Why had it taken me so long to embrace a longstanding religion of my homeland as my own? Why had I never given folk religion a moment’s thought prior to this, I wondered. I surprised myself by tearing up-one of the few times I’d ever done so in response to an act of worship. It was hard not to get swept up in the excitement, not to marvel a little at how Mazuism was thriving across generations and across the strait from Fujian, where the historical figure is said to have lived more than a thousand years ago. Like the older women, they were there to celebrate Mazu, arguably one of Asia’s most beloved goddesses. The teens and twenty-somethings were on their float, blasting a club remix of a pop song. The folksy brass music faded away, to be replaced by. Next came the standard bearers, waving red and gold banners embroidered with dragons and characters like “harmony” and “hope.” Suddenly, the tone shifted. Instead of gangly high schoolers, I spied a troupe of grannies huffing into their horns and banging on their drums, wearing uniforms best described as somewhere between majorette and cheerleader, with short, pleated skirts and vests pink enough to signal for help from a deserted island.
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