They took flight like jays, herons, and hyacinth macaws. A fleet of wings, hunched under helmets, their backs bursting with blue as they turned the corner of Laflin and 50th. I watched them fly, as I was the last to leave.
On August 21, Back of the Yards’ very own #LetUsBreathe, a collective of artists and activists who create a world without prisons and police, held their inaugural six-mile Black August Ancestral Bike Ride, part of their fifth annual Ascension programming to honor beloved comrade, partner, and friend Malik Alim.
A neighborhood changes by what gets built and who moves in. It also changes by who it loses. Back of the Yards has been answering this change with the kind of party the ancestors turn up at. Since 2021, the year of Malik’s death, Ascension has meant drums, African food, art making, and a bonfire on the campus he helped build. This year, it also included a bike ride between Liberation Landing garden and farm, Sistas in the Village urban farm, and Promontory Point.
“After five years of Ascension, I knew it was time for our collective grief and healing programming to evolve,” said Kristiana Rae Colón, #LetUsBreathe cofounder, playwright, and partner to Malik. “I wanted to bridge our two gardens. At first I thought about a second line to Sistas in the Village. But one-and-a-half miles is a long walk. Then I thought, ‘but it’s a short ride.’”
Malik was an organizer who poured his love, energy, and hands into the collective’s #BreathingRoom space, an arts and organizing hub. After George Floyd’s murder, he joined his love of biking to his spirit of resistance, leading direct actions on bikes and training as a marshal.
“Part of how Malik and I fell in love was riding our bikes together. … Malik was a very joyful person, and riding his bike was a place of joy and freedom. I loved seeing his locs blowing in the wind,” Kristiana said.
Kristiana Rae Colón, co-founder of the #LetUsBreathe Collective and Malik Alim’s life partner, pulls up to Sistas in the Village Urban Farm, as drummers welcome cyclists to the farm after the first leg of their ride. Credit: Caeli Kean for South Side Weekly. 
Orí (Malik and Kristiana’s child) and Kamari ride a tandem bike down Garfield Blvd as part of the Black August Ancestral Ride. Credit: Caeli Kean for South Side Weekly. 
A cyclist rides down Garfield Boulevard with #LetUsBreathe Collective for the Black August Ancestral Bike Ride. Credit: Caeli Kean for South Side Weekly.
At Liberation Landing, entering from Laflin Street, Malik’s altar sits to the left, his bicycle angelically placed against it. We were welcomed with warm smiles and wide hugs, not just for coverage, but to commemorate together. I have been in the community here since #FreedomSquare in 2016, an occupation and block party that opposed Homan Square, the Chicago Police Department black site where thousands of Chicagoans have been illegally detained and tortured.
Two years ago, #LetUsBreathe celebrated a decade of work. Among the poets and performers at the celebration was the griot and organizer, well-loved Venus Ayalani. We lost Venus in June of this year. The last time I saw Venus, they did a poem about their aunt retelling them a story about their grandfather, the devil and salt. I have memories of Venus saying my name in full. E’mon Lauren. They would say, “I love you E’mon Lauren.”
The ride commemorated every ancestor we have lost across these seasons. “How can we honor Venus during this programming?” Kristiana asked. As most ideas come from soap bubbles, I replied, “Venus would always perform sitting down.”
Soon a chair, sunflowers, and yellow roses, presented by #LetUsBreathe cofounder and healing practitioner Jennifer Karaya Pagán, sat beside Malik’s bike for flowering and finery. So, we sat, knees-first in soil, thumbs against thorns, dressing these extensions of our love. Kristiana, Malik’s bike. Me, Venus’s chair. I sat with words I could never say to Venus again. The chair stayed at the altar.
For me, grief has felt like a selective yet selfish thing: days of sulking and returning to work, leaving one sore and resentful. I have not only fallen prey to that setup, I have perpetuated it. Even in this community, one that upholds care and love as a tool of support, I have made the grave mistake of pushing through mourning.
“Capitalism and Western culture pressures us to grieve quickly and quietly, and get back to work,” Kristiana said. “We aren’t meant to hold such massive grief alone. Being on our bikes is a way of being in our bodies together, literally moving the grief through us.”
Mounted, intentions set, we made our way to Sistas in the Village. Welcomed by African drumming, we pulled up with chants, calls, and confidence. Libations were poured to the land by Sistah Shamon. Under the lavender and lilac ribbon, we said our names to the wind and earth, and called out our ancestors, Venus Ayalani among them, and Mecca Bey, cofounder of Sistas in the Village. Aside from holding communal gardens, we were holding communal grief.
Once all was blessed, we biked, 30 to 45 people deep. No balloons, no procession, just bodies on bikes. Bike marshals kept us in lane.
At Promontory Point, greeted by brass bells and charbroiled okra, we watched the healthy fires be blessed. We toasted wine, hotdog buns, and sore bottoms. We talked about our friends, homies, and loved ones, and how we’re all here. How they never really left us. And maybe, even, will join us for another ride next year.
I remember, some years ago in New Orleans, Kristiana’s son Orí told me a fact about pigeons, after I had been joking about my distaste for them. With tears in his eyes and running down his face, he said that pigeons find their way back home.
The #BreathingRoom, 1434 W. 51st St. Temporarily closed. Contact letusbreathe2015@gmail.com,visit letusbreathecollective.com, or view their Instagram page @letusbreathe773 for information on programming and opportunities for involvement.
Sistas in the Village, 5800 S. Ada St. Volunteers of all ages welcome; visit website for opportunities. www.sistasinthevillage.com
E’mon Lauren was named Chicago’s first Youth Poet Laureate. Her work unpacks her coined philosophy of “hood-womanism.” Her first chapbook of poems, COMMANDO, was published by Haymarket Books in 2016.