Constellation... Camilla Johnson

of Seven Fish. A few years ago my sisters and I became the first Polynesian dancers to perform at the National Shrine. I cherish my Catholic upbringing and education, which forms the backbone of my culture, my character, and my sense of purpose, but it has also been a point of struggle for me in recent years. rowing into my teen years, I learned how to think critically about myself and the world around me, to question my initial assumptions about how I should act and who I should be. To anyone who knows me, I’m a passionate feminist with views one might generally describe as “progressive.” To those who know me well, I’ve been out as bisexual for a little over a year. While I’m proud of who I’ve become at this stage of life, there is a certain amount of stress that comes with being caught in the center of a battle for the future of the Church.

he friction between what often seem to be

A Constellation of Freckles, Camilla Johnson, watercolor and colored pencil

two irreconcilable sides of my identity has forced me to confront some difficult questions. Does solidarity with women and people of marginalized identities make me a bad Catholic? Does choosing to keep the faith that taught me love for one’s neighbor make me a bad activist? How do I honor tradition when aspects of tradition have not always been kind to people like me? don’t have a complete answer to any of these yet, but I find some solace in the gravy pot. There’s a lot that goes in there: a family history of standing together in times of struggle, a spirit of generosity and hospitality towards others, and the pride and responsibility of preparing one of our table’s centerpieces, all floating around with the onions and bone marrow and cheese rinds. None of these things disappear should the recipe vary. Sometimes we have guests who, for religious or health reasons or otherwise, can’t eat meatballs or gravy. But we have other recipes— marinara and pesto and mushroom risotto—that feed just as many and taste just as good.

ne of the things I’ve learned from late nights spent stirring the gravy, eyeballing measurements and substituting one ingredient for another, is that tradition, like any living thing, adapts. I make changes to the recipe, just as my dad and his mom and his grandma did. It survives not because we use the same amount of parsley as those who came before us, but because everyone has a seat at the table. — Bella Williams