[dropcap size=big]I[/dropcap]It's a cold night by Southern California standards in this east L.A. backyard, but not so cold that anyone feels uncomfortable. Students sit in a large circle wearing whatever winter clothing they have. Two friends chat quietly while sharing a fuzzy blanket with her lion king. Classic oldies like “In the Still of the Night” warm the air with nostalgia.
Instructor Berenice Dimas begins with a congratulatory message. She calls all the ancestors into the space and blows smoke from a cup-like earthen vessel into the students' open palms.
I don't know if I'll be blessed either, but I'm standing anyway. Dimas moved my hand and let it smoke. All my fears of infringing on their intimate gathering disappear and I feel welcome.
Dimas is the founder of Hood Herbalism, an educational project that teaches communities of color about indigenous medicine manufacturing practices. This inspiration came when she was teaching health to her 9th graders in Oakland and asked her students to document home remedies. “I realized I wanted to see more of this…I wanted to host herbal classes similar to what I was experiencing in the communities I came from,” Dimas recalls.
All photos by Melissa Dueñas.
In 2016, the El Monte native put her intentions into action when she returned to Los Angeles.
Food Herbalism currently offers both pop-up and weekly workshops for a fee, with payment options available for those in need of financial assistance. These classes are advertised on her website and social media accounts. However, the details are intentionally left vague.
In an age of oversharing, Dimas practices the power of withholding information. “I don’t want to share all my secrets,” she laughs.
Instead, she takes to social media to share a glimpse. “We believe we're providing enough information to people who are curious and curious enough to apply.” This may seem like a strange business model. But with more than 34,000 followers on Instagram, she has no problem filling the 15 spots on her ongoing course.
I was intrigued and asked Dimas if I could sit down with him. Part science experiment, part mystical healing, part community building, what I experienced was certainly not your typical class.
In the final session of the Winter Cure series, everyone comes bearing gifts. Their best project is making medicine for each other. One student at a time, distribute tea, oil, balm, and ointment from an altar placed in the center of the circle. Each student takes a turn explaining their medicine, but also what this lesson means to them.
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Linda Rodriguez, a mother of three, confides in her classmates. “I went to Herbs of Mexico to buy lavender and peppermint, and when I opened them, I was so moved by the beautiful scent. I was really inspired to come here, learn about this, and connect with Mother Earth. I'm grateful. This year has been really hard for me mentally.”
“As part of the Filipino diaspora,” Emily Bautista explains as she hands out guava leaves from her parents' tree. connected to the earth. ”
The second half of the class is a simpler lesson, but still very interactive.
I'm making elderberry syrup tonight. Dimas hands you a recipe listing the ingredients and all their healing properties. At first, you may be surprised by medical terms such as “emmengatives” and “expectorants.” But what I expected, this is not a fake class, Dimas clearly knows his stuff.
Bowls containing ingredients such as leaves, berries, bark, and spices are passed around for closer inspection. Dimas recommends everyone try Osha, a root that is very bitter but has antiviral properties. The Native American nickname for this is “bear root.” Dimas explains the story behind his name with childlike excitement. “Bears are so smart that when winter ends, they look for this root, dig it up, and eat it, which helps kill all the microorganisms before they eat their first meal.” Isn't it cute? ”
In moments like these, she shines as a teacher, taking interest in these off-the-wall topics with a contagious joy.
However, Dimas makes it clear that her teachings are not all-inclusive. When I spoke to her a few weeks later, she told me, “What I present is a combination of what I learned in herbal school, what I know from my relationship with plants, and what I learned from growing up with my mother.”
In this, Dimas is fully aware that she cannot answer questions about the practices of indigenous peoples around the world, but she is confident in what she can offer. “What I can do is provide a space to help you explore those things on your own,” she says.
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[dropcap size=big]F[/dropcap]Or for Iris Salazar, who had been experiencing post-concussion symptoms, anxiety and depression for years, this class gave her an opportunity to find an alternative, less expensive option. “At least I know that if I can't afford medical care, I can feel safe in nature,” she told me in her phone conversation.
On the other hand, “It doesn't mean throwing Western medicine out the window,” Jerusalem Gebreziabah said when speaking to me about the impact of the class. “But we need to re-evaluate how we heal our bodies… but as if what healing art we already have within our culture is within. Please keep an eye on me.”
A general sense of reconnecting with nature and ultimately one's roots was a shared experience among students with cultural connections ranging from Guatemala to Ethiopia. Some students called this decolonization, but it is not a topic explicitly lectured by Dimas.
This ties into the big question that lingers: why only POC? “Yes” means only people of color, “yes” means white people cannot participate. To this, Mr. Dimas replied with a straight face: I said this is a space for us. ”
Dimas trained at Ancestral Apothecary, a POC-led herbal school, but argues that the majority of programs and literature out there are dominated by white practitioners and academics.
Although there are currently no statistical reports documenting the lack of Indigenous representation in herbalism (although there probably should be), the appropriation of Indigenous practices is no great secret and is clearly not consigned to academia. Just last year, Sephora tried to release an embarrassingly insensitive “Bruja Box” that came with a white sage smudging stick.
In Los Angeles, where New Age wellness culture is rampant, Hood Herbalism exists to serve as more than a superficial Instagram-friendly treatment. Food herbalism speaks to a larger truth: the need for a “safe space” in herbalism.
“We are healing our collective trauma by learning this medicine and being able to sustain ourselves. This is our resistance,” Salazar says.
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