I remember visiting a high school friend’s home in West Harlem. Donna’s family were African Americans from the South and had come north ten years before. A group of us were gathered in her living room because we were going to the museum to complete a class assignment. While waiting for Donna, I overheard her mother say, “Why do you include that Puerto Rican girl in the group? Don’t you know spics got head lice? If you come home with head lice, I’m going to beat you upside your head.” Somehow, I didn’t really fit in. When I was a child, my parents had lovingly called me negrita, little black one, when I was growing up. I knew I was black, but I also knew I was Puerto Rican.
Curating La Esclavitud required my traveling to two black towns in Puerto Rico—Loíza Aldea and Bélgica—to gather information. Researching the archives in San Juan, I saw the grotesque iron chains and masks-of-torture used on slaves. Every bone in my body shook from anger and sorrow. When I saw the drawings and photographs of ex-slaves, it was too much for my heart to handle. In those pictures were the faces of my abuela, uncles, aunts, and friends. The pictures were like a family album. They reminded me that slavery had occurred not only in the United States but in Puerto Rico as well. It was one thing to read about the dispersal of slaves in books. It was another to see the faces and hear the stories of those whose families had lived through it.
In Bélgica, I met a family of black elders. Most of them were in their late eighties and nineties when I visited in 1973, which meant that some members of their family had been born into slavery. There was a humble elegance to these soft-spoken women in their white scarves and muslin dresses that sparkled against their burnished black skin. I noticed the stoic dignity of the men, with their immaculately white starched shirts standing out against their taut, polished ebony faces. When we explained the purpose of our visit, their expressions turned joyous, welcoming the opportunity to share the untold stories of their families’ oppression and struggles.
One of the most harrowing stories they told me detailed how the plantation owners punished pregnant women. They dug holes in the ground so that the stomachs were protected when the women were beaten. Doña Elsa, an old woman in her late eighties, remembered touching the lash marks on her mother’s back. Constantly nodding her head ever so slightly, she swayed on the old wooden rocking chair on the front porch of her house. She explained that in this way the fetus, property of the plantation owner, would be protected.
They talked about how the plantation owners would have them work from dawn to dusk with little food and rest. Observing their quiet dignity as they shared their stories made me realize that my family must have endured the same hardships, yet they chose not to share their stories. I realized that the experiences of their families were also those of mine.
After our conversation, they decided to pull out their large wooden-barrel drums and maracas, and they played bombas and plenas for the community to enjoy. All the members of the family gathered alongside a large ceiba tree and joined in.* The oldest female member of the family was guided to the center of an imaginary circle. She gathered the lace hem of her skirt in her hands and spread it out like a half-moon. Saluting the drums with a slight bow, she slowly began moving her feet to and fro, lifting the dust off the dirt road. Her gray eyes sparkled as she danced in a circle, delicately moving her skirt up to display the edge of her decorative underskirt. Then she was joined by the other members of her family.
As my interest in understanding the African traditions of Puerto Rico grew, so did my desire to learn more about African cultures in the Americas. I decided to leave El Museo in 1974 when the idea for the Caribbean Cultural Center began to form in my mind. I applied for and was granted a Senior Rockefeller Fellowship, a six-month research grant through the Metropolitan Museum in New York. The award allowed me to travel to the Caribbean and continue my research on the Native and African cultures of the islands. The funds covered my trips to Jamaica, Trinidad and Tobago, Puerto Rico, Dominican Republic, and Haiti. The work I did for my La Esclavitud installation at El Museo was the beginning of my research into the Diaspora cultures of African descendants in the Americas.
During my fellowship, I had been invited to be part of the Caribbean Exchange Program of the Phelps Stokes Fund in New York, a program that was establishing a network of professionals in the Caribbean and the United States. My first step in developing the center was to approach the Phelps Stokes Fund, then headed by the African American ambassador Franklin H. Williams. Since he was a distinguished civil rights lawyer and former ambassador to Ghana, I believed he would understand the concept of uniting the cultures of the African Diaspora. As it turned out, he more than understood. Ambassador Williams immediately offered free office space in the Phelps Stokes Fund, an elegant mansion at 10 East 87th Street, for me to develop the center.
I incorporated the center in 1976, and Ambassador Williams accepted the position of chairperson of the board of directors; I became executive director. He was so impressed by the center’s growth that, after three years, the Phelps Stokes Fund arranged a loan enabling the center to purchase a building, which is still the organization’s location, at 408 West 58th Street in Manhattan. Although the center had no actual funds for operations, the opportunity to function from a central upscale location opened doors to foundation support.
The mission of the center grew from the recognition that there was only limited information on the Native and African cultures of the Caribbean and Latin American countries. Soon teachers, scholars, and artists were knocking on our doors, seeking to participate in the vision that would become the Caribbean Cultural Center African Diaspora Institute.
A Message from My Elders
Obatalá, the divine artist, teaches us to be creative in seeking solutions. Too often we become creatures of habit and are afraid to explore new ways of approaching situations. The legend of Obatalá teaches us to be persistent and inventive in achieving our goals.
Fostering creative energy begins with changing small things in our lives. In a recent divination session with my godfather, I learned that the symbols of the oguele, the divining chain, indicated that I should move. Startled, I was alarmed by the message. Gently he explained, “You can move within your own home. Revitalize the energy in your home by moving furniture into new arrangements. Change the color scheme in your home. Introduce new colors into your life. Take another route to the train station. Approach situations in new ways.” He added in his impish way, “Create change your way. Do not wait for change to befall you with your inaction. Understand the fundamental message is to reinvent yourself. Figure out different ways of surmounting the difficulties presented. Create a space that feels comfortable and allow energy to freely flow.”
It made sense to me. I had been in a rut and feeling depleted. I felt a need for change and was waiting for something to happen to create it. The message shared by Obatalá’s legend was that we create change. Even when obstacles are placed in our path, we can succeed in our goals with composure and a logical approach.
Just as Obatalá learned to control his temper to obtain his goals, we must use our creative thoughts to reach our goals. We must learn to take calculated risks into the unknown, seeking new knowledge without letting fear paralyze us or keep us from seeking new places and new spaces for ourselves.
*I later learned that the ceiba tree is sacred to orisha worship.
Ellegua is the orisha who opens and closes roads. He is a wise, youthful divinity, the messenger of Olodumare. According to the elders in Cuba, all ceremonies begin and end with a tribute to Ellegua to ensure that his blessings allow the ceremony to be a success. His childlike antics are a means of teaching practitioners profound lessons.
One day, the orishas were informed that Olodumare was very ill. He was too weak even to get out of bed. Each day his illness worsened. All of the orishas united their powers searching for a remedy for Olodumare. Yemayá brought medicine from the depths of the ocean for Olodumare. Her remedy did not help him. Ochosi went to the fore
st and brought back to Olodumare the meat of healthy animals to build up his strength. This did not heal him. Each orisha made a special medicine to heal Olodumare. None of them cured him. When Ellegua heard about Olodumare’s illness, he begged his mother, Yemayá, to take him to see his father. He told his mother that he could prepare the medicine that would cure him. Yemayá explained to Ellegua that the more powerful orishas were unable to find the potion to cure Olodumare.
Ellegua begged to be taken to Olodumare. Finally, Yemayá consented as Olodumare’s condition continued to worsen. Ellegua went deep into the forest and gathered herbs that he then prepared into a medicinal potion. Olodumare drank Ellegua’s herbal beverage. As the liquid traveled through Olodumare’s body, he began to heal. When he finished the potion, Olodumare was completely cured. In gratitude for Ellegua’s medicine, Olodumare informed the elder orishas that from that day forward the first offering at all rituals was to be given to Ellegua. But even more, Olodumare gave Ellegua the key that would open all the roads of life.
“My child, drink some ice water to refresh you,” Doña Rosa said, placing a glass in my hands. “It will make you feel better.” The adoring elder priestess of Yemayá had tender, smiling eyes that touched me with their warmth. The kitchen, a beehive of activity, was filled with the excitement of the many chattering voices of women preparing food.
Teasing me, Doña Rosa asked, “How could you fall asleep with all this noise?” Still in a dreamlike state, I responded that the heat in the room was making me drowsy. The slight breeze from the makeshift cardboard fan was of little relief. Nevertheless, I kept fanning myself. The dizzying cadence of the overlapping conversations kept me from joining in. It was enjoyable just listening to Cuban-inflected Spanish.
Dabbing my forehead with a wet towel, Doña Rosa advised me to relax, because the ceremony was delayed. “Pachuco went to pick up more large bowls for the omiero [a sacred herbal mixture prepared for rituals]. He will return quickly,” she assured me.
I smiled, knowing that every errand in Cuba takes a long time to complete. The slow-moving cars, the obligatory pleasantries exchanged when people meet, always take longer than expected, and locating scarce objects that are in constant circulation causes long delays. At first, I had been annoyed by the long gaps of time between beginning and completing rituals in Cuba. But after eighteen years, I have grown accustomed to the fact that this is part of the process that maintains the internal network of initiates. Connecting and involving family and friends is an important part of gathering the many items needed for ceremonies. Talking and sharing information is an essential part of events in the Santería community.
Listening to the conversations, I learned that a santera named Iris had better roosters than Pablito and sold them at better prices. The plants used for preparing omiero had just come into the farmers’ market in Cuatro Caminos Plaza, Four Roads Plaza. The wife of Justo, the babalawo, had run away with her lover and left her four children. And a fresh red palm oil used in ceremonies of Ellegua was being sold by Belen, who lived down the street. The casual chatter functioned like a daily newspaper, keeping everyone informed of current events. The joy being shared by the santeras and santeros reminded me of my childhood, and I could not help but remember the love our family shared in our apartment in El Barrio.
My mother, a headstrong, large-boned, and imposing woman, appeared to be powerful, healthy, and self-assured. Our home revolved around her. She prepared our favorite sancocho soup and kept the house meticulously clean, picked us up from school, checked our homework, disciplined us, and arranged our recreational trips to Pelham Bay Beach, Central Park, and Coney Island during the summer months.
Most important, she performed magic with the family’s limited budget. My father would turn over his paycheck to her on Fridays, and she took care of paying the bills and making his earnings stretch from week to week. When there was money missing, my mother would bravely and defiantly confront my father, asking for an accounting of the missing cash.
If he had been drinking, he would storm out of the house saying, “Soy un hombre, I’m a man. I don’t have to account to a woman for my actions.” Sober, my father would apologize, explaining that he had stopped to play a few games of dominoes with friends and had a couple of beers. “Hmm,” my mother would groan, sucking on her teeth and creating that unique slurping sound particular to women of the Caribbean. “We don’t have enough money to pay the bills, and you’re drinking beer.”
My mother never went out without my father or us. She exchanged visits with friends in the building, her children in tow, making sure that we used the bathroom and ate before we visited. We understood that if we were offered food, we were to refuse, since most of our family’s friends, like us, had little to spare. Wading through the dizzying aroma of rice and chicken, roasted pig, Hormel’s spam with eggs and fried Vienna saugages, we would sit quietly in the apartments of our friends, our hands crossed in our laps, making believe we were not listening to the grown-ups’ conversations.
When friends visited, we went through the same ritual. Following traditional Puerto Rican customs of politeness, we were compelled to offer food even though there was barely enough for our own family. In turn, our friends adhered to the informal niceties and would dutifully decline the offer of food, saying, “We just finished eating.”
The exception was when a pregnant woman passed by our door and asked for food because the aroma impelled her to do so. So as not to harm the developing baby, popular folklore demanded that, whether or not we knew the woman, she be invited to eat with us. A pregnant woman was a sign of good luck for the family, and my mother was always generous in abiding by this tradition.
When the Christmas holidays came, all of the families threw their penny-pinching budgets to the wind and splurged on goodies and toys, and everyone knew that they would suffer the consequences for their minor reckless splurges for the rest of the year. In 1949, few Puerto Ricans in East Harlem were able to find jobs that would provide adequate salaries to support their families. Our family, like others in the building, decorated with more ornate plastic curtains, crocheted doilies for the furniture, and small crystal-like figures of colorful animals for display on the living room television console, already cluttered with other figurines. Families hosted generous dinners of roast pig; rice with chicken; beans; pasteles, boiled plantains and seasoned meats wrapped in banana leaves; blood saugage; and coquito, a powerful coconut and egg drink made with 150-proof rum—our special brand of eggnog.
During Christmastime, my mother became the unofficial social coordinator of the building, scheduling gatherings to include all of the tenants. Our door was always open, welcoming the revelry of well-wishers singing Puerto Rican aguinaldos, Christmas songs, with their tambourines, maracas, and güiros, long calabashes played by rasping a wirelike comb against their surface. The building was alive; it was a Christmas tree of lights, silver trimmings, and bountiful wishes for a prosperous New Year.
Throughout the year, my mother would use her nursing skills to cure the sick. Her knowledge of bureaucracy helped tenants get welfare aid and find apartments in the area. When she needed assistance, we were volunteered to accompany newly arrived relatives and friends from Puerto Rico to the welfare office or other social service community agencies to serve as English translators.
My father would often remark that the city should pay her for her services since she was more involved in the community than in her own home. Jealous of anything that deflected attention from him, my father would complain unjustifiably that his dinner was cold and his clothing poorly ironed, or that he could not find whatever he was looking for. Feigning helplessness, my father controlled much of my mother’s life.
My father may have been the power behind the throne, but my mother was a benign ruler. Nothing would happen in our home or building without her knowledge and acceptance, yet everyone seemed to admire her intelligence and her get-the-job-done, self-confident attitude. When I was little, I loved the
look and feel of my mother. Mammy’s black hair had a shocking streak of white that was unusually attractive, her clothing fit beautifully on her well-built body, and her strong, erect shoulders gave her a stately elegance. When we went shopping without my father, men would spontaneously say, “What a beautiful woman—Qué mujer linda,” as she left a trail of her special perfume, Maderas de Oriente, floating in the air.
As a child, I loved to snuggle in my mother’s arms as she swayed back and forth in her rocker. Sometimes when she sat in the dark, I would hear the motion of the rocking chair and crawl into her lap to drink my evening milk in a Coca-Cola glass bottle covered with a nipple that had a hole the size of a dime. As she rocked, I would feel her rubbing the left side of her chest while she softly sang a Spanish lullaby, caressing me to sleep. “A dormir, a dormir, pichón del monte. A dormir, a dormir, pichón del monte. Si tú no duermes, el cuco te lleva.” “Sleep, sleep, my little pigeon from the mountain. Sleep, sleep, my little pigeon from the mountain. If you do not sleep, the boogeyman will take you.” In the morning, I would wake up feeling like a grown woman, with the scent of Maderas de Oriente still clinging to me.
On Saturday mornings, our building swayed to the varied rhythms of Puerto Rican music as the women opened their doors early in the morning and washed the hallway. My mother’s cleaning music was the beautiful, haunting, lamenting jíbaro mountain songs of Ramito, which spoke of lost love, the beauty of Puerto Rico, and the need for Puerto Ricans to protect the island from American cultural and governmental control.
From other apartments, the music of Cortijo and Ismael Rivera flooded the halls with the vibrant rhythms of drums and the fast beat of the African-derived rhythms of bombas and plenas. The power of Cortijo’s bombas placed me into another zone when the beat of his drums penetrated my body. This was island music that celebrated the beauty of being black Puerto Ricans, while the music of Machito, Graciela, and Mario Bauza swirled through the building with the song “Tanga,” which united African American jazz with Afro-Cuban pulsating rhythms.
The Altar of My Soul Page 7
