Each glass of water on the ancestor table was dedicated to the memory of an individual spirit energy that is part of the foundation of our racial and cultural identities. One glass was filled for the Yorubas, one for the Kongos, one for the Native Americans, another for our guardian angels, one for relatives, one for loved ones, and finally, a last for unknown spirits. The bóveda was an offering of fresh water and flowers in their honor; my grandmother was acknowledging her devotion and gratitude for the sacred energies they shared with her.
It is believed that every altar must be maintained and cleaned so it may attract positive spiritual energy to the surroundings. Abuela’s adoration of the spiritual guides created a safe environment that enveloped me with love. The figurines captured the unique individual personalities of the spirits and orishas that they were so valiantly protecting.
The statues disguised the images of the Yoruba spirits and orishas, who managed to survive the terrible journey of the Middle Passage and to enter the Americas in the souls of enslaved Africans. Our elders ingeniously hid the spirits and orishas behind Catholic images that carried characteristics similar to their own spirits and African gods and goddesses. The Yoruban people of Cuba used the Catholic image of La Virgen de Regla to hide the orisha Yemayá. And the Yorubas in Bahia, Brazil, borrowed the Catholic image of Nossa Sra. Da Concieçcão Da Praia to veil the universal mother orisha of creation, whom Bahianos call Yemanjá. In Cuba the image of Santa Bárbara hides the warrior Shangó, and Las Mercedes conceals Obatalá.
On my abuela’s altar, the flirtatious Gypsy dressed in yellow and the Catholic image of La Caridad del Cobre both represented the spirit of Ochun, the goddess of love and community in Africa and the Diaspora. The African woman in her red dress hid the warrior orisha, Shangó, as does the Catholic image of Santa Bárbara. The red and white dress and the crown and sword of Santa Bárbara were royal symbols that Shangó, the Yoruba god-king of thunder and lightning, could mask himself behind. The Indian chief was Abuela’s guardian warrior spirit Orisha Ochosi, the hunter. And the childlike statue of El Niño de Atocha veiled the mischievous Ellegua. Practitioners understand that there is a sharp line demarcating the differences between orishas and the Catholic images that are used to camouflage them. In the Americas, Yoruba descendants have developed a creative and inclusive spiritual system that embraces all divinities in their myriad forms while understanding their distinct differences.
Abuela always called the saints by their two names. When praying to El Niño de Atocha, she would say, “Niño de Atocha protect us. Ellegua, open your roads bringing health, tranquillity, unity, and love to our family.” As a child I did not understand why she used various names for one symbolic image, but today it is clear to me that for her they were different incarnations of similar energy forces.
Before leaving my abuela’s apartment, I would glance with curiosity at the objects she kept behind the door to the entrance of her home. She had a large triangular-shaped stone with cowry shells forming eyes, a nose, and a mouth in the center. The stone was placed on a clay plate surrounded by caramel candy and small toys. Next to the stone there was a round iron pot filled with a small set of farming tools—a hammer, shovel, anvil, and hoe. Although she often caught my roving eyes looking longingly at these intriguing objects, Abuela never explained the meaning of these objects to me. Now I understand that these objects are symbols that represent the orishas. Otanes, stones that have undergone ceremonial rites, are the embodiment of the energy of the orishas. Sometimes Abuela would say, “You’re a child, like Ellegua, always into everything.” And she would share a piece of candy with me before placing the rest on the clay plate.
All these many years later, my abuela’s mysterious objects and rituals have come to have meaning in my life. The spiritual objects that were an integral part of her life are equally a part of mine. Having traveled my own spiritual journey, I have come to embrace my guardian angels and the sacred energies of the orishas. My abuela’s sacred space was a warm place that is always present in my thoughts. She introduced me to a tapestry of images and scents that are woven into my memory forever. The vigor I felt when entering her apartment I now understand to be the spiritual energy—the aché—that flowed from her sacred African divinities.
However, I often still wonder why my abuela didn’t share more information with me about the practices of calling the ancestral spirits—Espiritismo and Santería—or about their representation as nature’s energy forces. I have come to the conclusion that she continued to camouflage her African beliefs behind Catholic images in order to protect her divinities from hostile, prying eyes. My abuela was born during a period when practitioners of African religions were imprisoned and persecuted for their beliefs. In a tradition that could be preserved and maintained only by codes of secrecy, her own loved ones must have taught her to keep her beliefs hidden.
It saddens me to think about the abuse she must have endured to practice her religion. Court records from the late 1800s affirm how Puerto Rican women were consistently brought to trial by white men whose sexual advances they had refused. These men accused them of being brujas—witches and practitioners of evil magic. Women like my abuela lived on the margins of society, discriminated against because of their color, gender, and economic status. The suffering that Abuela and other initiates experienced must have been severe. Indeed, it was an act of pure faith and devotion for her to continue to practice her religion. In New York City, no doubt, she encountered similar restrictions and prejudices. A poor, single woman who did not speak English faced constant attacks because of her race and migrant status. In addition, the stigma of being an unmarried mother branded her as a woman of ill repute.
In her desire to pass on her sacred beliefs, Abuela took advantage of my afternoon visits to perform basic rituals, unknown to me, and these began my instruction in the religious practices she loved. Watching and following her in the altar room left imprints in my memory that appear before me now even when I perform my own rituals. The altars in my own home continue to praise the guardian angels and orishas that my abuela treasured. My bóveda also has the statue of the African woman in her red dress, as well as other figurines that symbolize the spirits watching over my family.
In my room dedicated to the orishas, sacred stones rest within their porcelain decorative bowls. Shango’s sacred stones—otanes, symbols of his power—rest within a bowl made of wood on a wooden stand, a pilón. My abuela’s statue of the warrior Indian, with his winged arms of feathers spread to the sky, and the image of the old thoughtful African man dressed in white, carry the protective warmth and memory of my abuela’s apartment. Although my grandmother shared little information regarding her sacred beliefs, rituals, and ceremonies, she did inspire my search for a religion that touched my soul.
It took me more than twenty-two years of exploration to reconnect to the sacred practices of my abuela. Over time, I have explored faiths and attended a number of different churches, including Protestant, Catholic, and Pentecostal houses of faith as I searched for my spiritual center. But my parents offered little advice or direction as they observed my exploration. Pretending to be faithful Catholics, they never had images of the spirits or symbols of the orishas like Abuela did.
Although we did not attend church regularly when I was a child, my mother considered us devoted Catholics. When we did go to services, it was for weddings and baptism ceremonies, merely to please family and friends. My only recollection of following Catholic beliefs was my mother’s insistence that we not eat meat on Fridays or during Lent. My father ignored her rule, saying, “Neither God nor Jesus has done anything for me lately.”
My mother would turn red with anger and lash out with stinging words, “Clemente, you’ll burn in hell!” In response, my father would open a newspaper, ignoring her, winking at us while my mother’s anger grew and she continued to admonish him for his lack of faith in the Almighty. My mother would then get silent, knowing that if she truly upset my father, he would hit
her. Over the years she learned to take an argument to a certain point and then retreat before my father would explode in anger. Fearing these outbursts, Alberto, Socorro, and I would sit quietly, hoping that my mother would stop before my father lost control of his temper. My brother, sister, and I grew accustomed to their Friday arguments, as we dutifully ate our codfish with potatoes and onions.
My parents never connected the many scattered images of saints in our home to the images of saints in the Catholic church. In my mind, they were simply our family’s special pictures and statues, which we worshiped when we had any problems.
When we caught colds, for instance, my mother prayed to the Saint of Perpetual Help to cure us. During our sicknesses, a candle would be lit before the saint’s image, and my mother would say a daily prayer. She would also place a ball of camphor in a small handmade cotton bag and string it around our necks, then place fresh garlic in the four corners of the room to dispel negative energy.
If we were in need of money, my mother would light a candle, place the Bible before the Saint of Perpetual Help, and pray for assistance. Sometimes she would select the “illegal” underground horse race winning numbers—la bolita—which would buy food, clothes, and schoolbooks, and pay utility bills. I often wondered how a saint, through divine intervention, gave my mother the winning numbers. As soon as we all enjoyed her winnings, however, any questions I had would flee.
My sister was eleven years older than I. Overweight, light-skinned, with nappy reddish hair, she walked around with a detached air. She was named Socorro, in honor of the Saint of Perpetual Help. My brother was named Alberto after our paternal grandfather. His rich brown skin, trim figure, and wisecracking manner made him fun to have around. My brother and I would often tease Socorro because of her saintly name. When she would come after us with a broom, my brother and I would lock ourselves in the living room, shouting “Perpetuo Socorro, help us!” Inevitably we would be punished for blasphemy.
Though we grew up surrounded by religious icons in Abuela’s and my own family home, my family did not provide us with formal training in any religion. Nonetheless, I did consider our family religious, as prayer was our way of solving problems. My mother was devoted to La Perpetuo Socorro and Abuela to her spirits and orishas. When I had an exam, a discreet hint to my mother or Abuela assured me that they would quickly put their prayers to work to help me pass my test. My mother would silently go to the bureau where the statue of La Perpetuo Socorro stood behind the Bible and then burn a candle, bowing her head to pray. Abuela would always comfort me with a warm smile and tell me that my concern “was no big thing.”
I attended elementary school at P.S. 121 and junior high school at P.S. 99 in El Barrio. My community was the center of my universe, and I was happily surrounded by my family and friends who looked like me. I believed everyone lived like us and that the scenes I saw on television were mere fairy tales. In 1954, at the encouragement of my junior high school art teacher, Mrs. Siegel, I applied to and was accepted at the High School of Music and Art, for my drawing talent. Mrs. Siegel was a warm and dedicated Jewish teacher who worked hard to convince my parents that art and academic studies would eventually prepare me for a future with a good-paying job. Barely persuaded, my parents agreed to table their desires that I become a nurse or a secretary, jobs that they believed guaranteed stable incomes.
My new school opened a world of museums and art galleries. I “discovered” the work of artists like Wilfredo Lam with his Afro-Cuban spiritual images, and Paul Gauguin, with his beautiful brown faces and tropical colors. Gaugin’s work resembled images in my home and the likenesses of family and friends. These artists became my imaginary friends, as my art classes introduced me to the imposed primacy of western European art.
In high school, I was surrounded primarily by middle-class white students who lived like the actors I saw on television. I suddenly felt different about my neighborhood and myself. At home and in my neighborhood, I was social and outspoken, but I became withdrawn and shy in school. For the first time I heard my neighborhood referred to as a ghetto, my friends called spics, and my community defined as colored. Shaken by these revelations, I sought to hang out with the handful of African American and Puerto Rican students who were experiencing a shared cultural shock.
I met my first boyfriend, future husband, and father of my sons in English class. Tomás Vega looked like he had stepped out of a Gauguin painting. His silky jet black hair framed a face that looked like the East Indian movie idol Sabu. Friendly and inquisitive, he continuously irritated our pompous English teacher, who openly embarrassed the Latino and black students in class. One day she had me stand before the class and repeat the words that and did for most of the class, saying that I did not know the difference between t and d. Close to tears, I ran from the room when the bell signaled the end of the class. Tomás ran after me, offering his handkerchief to wipe away the tears that freely flowed. His caring, gentle, and mature manner belied the fact that he was only six months older than me. We became steadfast friends and were part of the small clique of students of color who hung out together in school. We created our own community.
Most of us lacked the formal art and academic training that middle-class students took for granted; we depended upon our creative, intuitive imaginations and many late hours of study to pass our classes. Drawing was my first love. I drew because I could create my own world. My art classes allowed me the opportunity to draw and paint the images that were part of my everyday life. Class assignments required that I draw still-life scenes using interesting objects in my home. Rather than use my home as the subject of my work, I chose to use objects in my abuela’s apartment. The colors and light in her apartment made me feel protected, as if I were surrounded by stained-glass windows.
Her sacred room—a symphony of patterns, colors, lines, and forms—was my favorite still-life scene. One of my first paintings was of my abuela’s bóveda. The crystal glasses reflected the pale yellow fire of the burning candle. The vase filled with fresh flowers on top of the white lace tablecloth possessed a serenity that I struggled to capture in my paintings. Her bóveda enraptured me, keeping me in the room for hours. Through my work I was able to weave the images of my home into my school environment, reducing my feeling of isolation. The spiritually charged images reflected the brown faces of my ancestry and, unbeknownst to me, my growing affinity to the orishas.
My abuela would often sit silently next to me and watch as I transformed the images of her sacred altar onto my sketch pad. Sometimes she tenderly stroked my hair and said, “Someday the drawings of my altar will hang in a museum.”
I would giggle and say, “No, Abuela, I’m just a beginner,” feeling proud that she thought I had talent.
“No one knows what tomorrow will bring,” she would always respond. “Life is like the ocean; it is never still, and what is true today may be different tomorrow.”
A Message from My Elders
My madrina taught me to set up a bóveda to my spirits on my first trip to Cuba. The bóveda attracts the spirit energy of loved ones to my home.
Glasses on my bóveda are in tribute to the Yorubas, Kongos, Indians, beloved spirits, spirits that need light, guardian angels, and the unknown souls of the spirit realm. On Monday mornings I replace the water in the glasses, light a candle, and pray before my ancestor altar, calling the names of loved ones. The presence of a bóveda in the home spiritually charges the environment with the memory of those who are no longer on this Earth.
The bóveda should be placed in a quiet area in your home. Standing before the altar in a meditative state each morning, I make time to recite the names of beloved spirits. My prayer is as follows:
With the permission of Olodumare, the Almighty, I acknowledge the presence in my life of those who have contributed to my life. Let their teachings and love guide me as I embark on a new day. Let the richness and experiences of their lives serve to help me make informed decisions.
I call on t
he spirits of my grandmothers, María de la O, Luisa Correa, and Marta Cruz Marcano. The spirits of my grandfathers, Felipe Moreno, Alberto Moreno Sr.; my parents, Clemente Moreno and Flora Moreno; my aunt Moncha Cruz; and my sister, Socorro Moreno. I also call upon the spirits known and unknown that bring light into my life to protect and guide my family each day.
I conclude in this way: “My guardian spirits, I ask that you inspire faith, hope, and love in my life so that I can share it with my family, friends, and community.”
One of the most valued characteristics of the Yoruba and their descendants in the Americas is the ability to remain composed, rational, and calm in all situations. To remain levelheaded allows us to critically evaluate and seek resolution for the problems we face in life. One of the many parables that describe this important quality stresses the need for patience and coolness.
One day Obatalá decided to visit his friend Shangó, the king of Oyo. Before setting out, Obatalá visited a diviner—a babalawo—to make certain his trip would be a safe one. The diviner told him that it was best to delay his trip, because he saw many enemies awaiting Obatalá along the way. But he was both independent and stubborn, and nevertheless insisted on visiting Shangó.
The Altar of My Soul Page 4
