From the homes of our African American friends, “Rock Around the Clock” by the outrageous, swinging Little Richard made the halls dance, while the bittersweet pain of Billie Holiday singing “Strange Fruit,” one of my favorite songs, cut through the piercing, pungent smells of ammonia, pine, and Florida water, and the sharp-as-a-guillotine scent of rompe saragüey, a plant used to spiritually cleanse an apartment. Nat King Cole’s “Mona Lisa” intoxicated the environment with his soothing, mellow, romantic voice, and the deep, thunderous voice of vocalist Mario Lanza, singing “Be My Love,” joined in from the apartments of our Italian neighbors. In our room, my sister and I would fight for our favorite radio station, switching from Tito Puente’s “Hot Timbales” to my idols, Frankie Lymon and the Teenagers, singing “I Want You to Be My Girl.”
From Abuela’s apartment the voice of Cuba’s Celina y Reutilio swelled and rumbled with the thunderous song, “Que Viva Shangó,” May Shangó Live. Or I would hear the incredible voice of the Latina Patti LaBelle, Afro-Cuban vocalist Celia Cruz, singing with the orchestra of La Sonora Mantancera in the “Homenaje a Yemayá,”Homage to Yemayá.
On Saturdays, when I visited Abuela’s apartment, she would put away her mop and we would sing and dance to the songs of her albums, especially moved by the upbeat songs to the orishas. Often Abuela was so lost in the music that she forgot I was there. Her steps and hand movements changed with each song, creating visual motions of the sea, thunder, and lightning, as she moved around the kitchen like a graceful whirlwind.
Filled with the energy of the music, she would pull me into her imaginary circle, encouraging me to follow her movements. These moments of shared joy created a powerful wordless bond between us. We lived in the moment, feeling no need to speak with each other or anyone else of our delight in singing and dancing. I must admit, I used my visits to Abuela’s apartment as an excuse to escape my Saturday chores, but I also looked forward to our private celebrations and the feeling of ecstasy we created with the music.
Years later, in 1981, when I found my true spiritual home in Santería, I began to recognize the mind-altering power of music in African-based religions in the New World. During ceremonies, the thunderous, rhythmic pounding of the sacred batá drums of the orisha Shangó—the double-headed hourglass-shaped drums that came from the Yoruba of West Africa—draws practitioners into the spirit world. The drums’ piercing beats echo the rhythmic patterns of the heart as voices chant and escalate, causing the steps of the dancers to quicken. In this way, the powerful orishas are enticed to come down to Earth and take over the consciousness of the initiates.
I now understand that in traditional African belief all things are grounded in the spiritual flow of nature’s patterns. Breath, movement, sight, and sound—music and song—are all deeply entwined and are part of the daily living and sacred experience that make our spirits rise. Santería has taught me to tap into my spirituality each day, reminding me that we live in a state of holiness. Our music traces its origins to West Africa and carries sacred meaning and soul-spirit. It is a conduit that calls down and internalizes spiritual energy for divine celebration, healing, and communication with the metaphysical world.
When I was young, my mother’s songs also lulled me into a dream state. She would entice me to sleep with the promise that she would dab a drop or two of her perfume on my neck. It was exciting to feel the fragrance embrace me; there was something magical in the beautiful apple-shaped bottle, adorned with a picture of a dark, olive-skinned Spanish woman with mysterious black eyes peering sensually over a yellow veil. I imagined my mother also possessed the beguiling qualities of this mysterious woman on the perfume bottle.
Since my mother had such intense spirit and warmth, it came as a terrible shock when she suddenly became ill. My life was turned upside down, and I did not understand why. I was eight years old when she suffered an almost fatal heart attack and was bedridden for six months. My father was desperate to cure her, trying every remedy he had heard of. I remember standing behind a closed door in the living room, listening to the healing prayers and songs that we all hoped would save her life. Even now, when I think of those days, I can still vividly recall the scent of Florida water that filtered through the closed door as I tried to peek into the kitchen where a group of people dressed in white were gathered. My father came to the door, admonished me not to go where I was not needed, and then shooed me away.
Without any explanation, my siblings and I were kept alone in the living room, wondering what could make our mother so sick that she was unable to get out of bed alone. My older brother and sister were as frightened as I was.
We knew it was dire when family friends came to visit and left my mother’s bedroom in tears. At the sight of us, they attempted to mask their sorrow with smiles, assuring us that our mother would soon get well. But they avoided looking into our eyes, which told us they were lying. The doctor visited almost daily, always speaking to my father in a low, reserved voice to make certain we could not hear their conversation. When we asked what was wrong with our mother, the response was always, “está descansando”—she is resting.
When we were finally allowed to sit with our mother, we could see that she was seriously ill. She could barely speak, and it took time for her to recognize us. Her skin had turned the color of ash, and she had gotten very thin. Her strength and power had all but vanished. Looking into my mother’s spiritless, skeletal face, I found a fear I had never before known. I felt she was dying, and I knew I could do nothing to save her. My brother, sister, and I grieved among ourselves, not knowing what to do to help her.
My mother lay ill in the bedroom. As we sat outside the kitchen and in the living room, we could hear the songs sung to the spirits and we could smell the wafting scents that called to them. I was transfixed by the beauty of the voices that I heard singing the enchanting songs that called upon the healing spirits.
Congo de Guinea soy. I am a Congo from Africa.
Buenas noches, criollo, Good evening, creoles,
Congo de Guinea soy. I am a Congo from Africa.
Buenas noches, criollo, Good evening, creoles,
Yo dejo mi hueso allá. I left my bones there.
Yo vengo a I have come to perform a
hacer caridad. good deed.
Yo dejo mi hueso allá. I left my bones there.
Yo vengo a I have come to perform a
hacer caridad. good deed.
Si la luz redentora te If the redeeming light calls
llama, buen ser, you, good spirit,
Y te llama con amor And it calls you with love
a la tierra. to Earth.
Yo quisiera ver a ese ser, I want to see that spirit,
Cantándole gloria al Singing gloriously to the
Divino Manuel. divine saint Manuel.
Oye, buen ser. Listen, good spirit.
Avanza y ven, Hurry and come,
Que el coro te llama The chorus is calling you
Y te dice, ven. Asking you to come.
As I listened, I was lulled to sleep. Suddenly I was awakened by an explosive, bellowing woman’s voice breaking through the prayers.
“Good evening, if it is evening. Good morning, if it is morning. Why did you call me to Earth?” she asked.
“Welcome, good spirit,” the members of the group said in unison, and, gradually, sleep overtook me once again.
Three days after that evening spiritual session, my mother was up and about. There was little trace of her illness. Although she had lost a great deal of weight, her skin color was almost normal. Her hair, now with more silvery strands, shimmered, creating a crowning illumination around her gaunt, glowing face. Somehow she seemed taller, even more elegantly attractive. And she continued to project the same comforting, tranquil quality until her death in 1964.
Each time we asked about the meeting in our kitchen, our parents ignored our questions. They would say that friends had come to visit, and as children we had no business being in the middle
of adult discussions. My brother, sister, and I continued to wonder about what had occurred in our kitchen to make our mother well. Eventually, though, like most children, we forgot that our mother had been so ill.
Meanwhile, my mother took great pride in having baffled the doctor, who had no explanation for her recovery. She continued to have her heart condition checked periodically, taking prescription medicines when she felt “sickness coming on.” Over time, my mother’s illness became a story she would tell to friends almost like a fairy tale. And she always ended with the phrase, “ We must believe in the power of the spirits.”
I witnessed the power of spirits again in 1957 when I was fifteen years old. My lively niece, Melody, became very ill around the time of her first birthday. After several examinations in the hospital, the doctors still could not diagnose what was wrong. As each day passed, Melody became weaker. Her chubby body became fragile. Her features were transformed. Her caramel-colored skin became pale gray. Melody’s small, almond-shaped eyes were now enormous and round; she stared blankly before her without even recognizing her parents.
Although we did not openly share our fears, we knew she was dying. I could not help but compare Melody’s appearance to the way my mother had looked when she was sick. Overwhelming feelings of isolation engulfed me as the panic of trying to verbalize my fears seemed to strangle me.
I later learned that my mother and sister-in-law secretly took Melody to an espiritista. In three days, Melody was miraculously cured. According to my mother, the espiritista cleansed Melody with cigar smoke and prayers. And while under the possession of her guardian spirit, the espiritista placed her sacred hands on my niece’s body and healed her. When my mother told me the story, I was frightened, although I did not know why. Nonetheless, this experience made it clear to me that there was some obscure force that had the power to heal my loved ones.
Lurking in the recesses of my mind was always the secret desire to understand these inexplicable events. But the secrecy throughout my childhood that surrounded spirit worship had left me hesitant about probing into the unknown. Twenty-one years were to pass before I was ready to understand the presence and power of the spirits and orishas.
It happened in 1979 during my first trip to Cuba. I had been invited to attend the Carifesta Festival, a gala event highlighting cultural and artistic expressions of the Caribbean. During this period, I was able to learn and participate in activities that would help me to further define my racial and cultural identity. I had experienced the blossoming of the civil rights movement and the Black Power and Latino movements of the fifties, sixties, and seventies. These ethnic actions not only revolutionized my thinking and behavior but also motivated my creation of programs for the center. Carifesta was a golden opportunity for me to attend a weeklong series of events that presented the most outstanding creative artists and scholars on African Diaspora cultures. And it allowed me to visit Cuba, an island that had been isolated and inaccessible because of its socialist government.
The main purpose of my visit was to note details of the festival’s organization with the expectation of developing a similar event in New York for the Caribbean Cultural Center. Carifesta had an array of performances, art exhibits, and conferences—it was an explosion of color, music, song, and dance. Members of musical groups from Haiti, Jamaica, Barbados, and other islands, in their costumes of blazing color, resembled proud peacocks.
Visual artists painted images of the powerful African gods of Vodun, Santería, and Obeah, depicting images and symbols of the divinities that had survived the Middle Passage. The sacred iconographic paintings of the vévés—symbols of Haitian African divinities—were placed alongside altars to the orishas of Cuba. In these altars the double-headed battle-ax of Shangó called down lightning, while the nine hues of Oyá created a whirlwind of colors, expressing the artist’s vivid interpretation of sacred images.
A carnival ended the weeklong festival. It was an eruption of floats and vibrant, extravagant costumes with sequins, satins, ruffles, and feathers. Music and song boomed from loudspeakers as dancers moved their undulating bodies to whatever deliriously enticing rhythm caught their fancy. The comparsas, the carnival bands, engaged in friendly competitions to see which could attract the largest following of dancers. Carifesta Festival wrapped the crowd in a deafening, overwhelming jubilee. It was a seemingly endless performing arts extravaganza that stretched three full miles.
Fortunately, Javier Colón, who accompanied me to Cuba, had arranged for us to ride on a float of one of the most famous composers and musicians of Cuba, Pello El Afrokan. It was a carousel that rocked with the music he created, Mozambique. I had a front-row view of the wonderful madness of the festival. Finally, I could no longer resist the beat and the frenzy. I stepped out of my shoes, clapped my hands, and danced the night away along the Malecón—an oceanfront walkway—under the midnight blue sky and jewel-like stars of Havana. Pello’s orchestra seemed to have the largest following of dancers, dressed in all the colors of the rainbow, singing, shouting, and moving to the rhythms of the music.
My friend and guide Javier was planning to be initiated into the exclusively male priesthood of Ifá, the diviners, within the Santería religion. Javier had worked as a consultant to an exhibition that I curated for the center in 1978, entitled Santería and Vodun African Religions in the Caribbean. He had been raised in a recognized Santería family in Cuba, and was a vital source of information for the community of Santería initiates and scholars.
When we began working together on the exhibit, he was guarded, secretive, and unwilling to reveal too much information about the religion. Though he continued to be reserved about sharing information with me, he gradually began to open up, and eventually he became a significant contributor to the exhibition. Our friendship grew and deepened as he noted my respect for Santería and my desire to learn more about it. When the center received the invitation for representatives to attend the 1979 Carifesta, Javier decided to visit his childhood home for the first time in twenty-five years.
I was still curious to learn more about the practices of Espiritismo and Santería, so I accompanied Javier as he made preparations for his ceremony. I was invited to attend a misa, a spiritual session that would inform his guardian angels of his upcoming Ifá initiation ceremony. I found myself sitting in a room filled with spiritualists and initiates of the Santería religion. The apartment belonged to the spiritual medium Olga Serrano; it was located between Animas and Trocadero in Old Havana.
Olga was a long-trusted friend of Javier’s family, and he had asked her to arrange the misa. Her home was decorated in shades of yellow—the colors of her orisha, Ochun. Olga’s living room felt as if it were filled with sunlight and bright golden sunflowers.
Surrounded by the familiar scents of Florida water, sandal-wood incense, and cigar smoke, I thought of Abuela and of my mother, who always dabbed her forehead with Florida water when she had a headache or felt pain in her chest. It had been twenty years since Abuela had died, and fifteen years since my mother had passed. Looking around the room, I noticed familiar images that also reminded me of my childhood. A portrait of Saint Michael, the archangel, was placed behind the entrance door. She had installed a small shelf. On it she placed a horseshoe alongside a glass of water and a piece of hard bread. On a small table toward the back of the room, Olga had a large statue of El Kongo, similar to the one on my abuela’s altar. The smell of tuberoses permeated the room and mixed with the poignant smell of sandalwood incense.
Olga’s altar to Ochun was in a small room next to the living room where the misa was to begin. The altar, covered in yellow lace cloth, had two peacock-feather fans and a vase filled with sunflowers next to the image of La Caridad del Cobre, the Catholic image that served to hide the Yoruba goddess during enslavement and continues to be identified with the African divinity. Ochun, the orisha of sweet water, love, beauty, and fertility, exudes happiness and gaiety surrounded by her favorite color, yellow. High on a stool
covered with satin brocade cloth was a covered yellow porcelain bowl that that held the sacred water stones of Ochun. On the floor was a small brass bell resting on a straw mat, which initiates were to ring when they asked Orisha Ochun for her blessings.
After embracing Olga, the initiates took turns gathering in the room, prostrating themselves before the altar and ringing the bell to ask Ochun for her blessings. Then they returned to the main room to greet friends and to introduce themselves to unfamiliar members of the gathering. I was struck by the congeniality and familial feeling of this bustling group. Dressed in white, proudly wearing their beaded necklaces, old and young seemed strengthened by the ancient wisdom they possessed.
Elder men and women in their late eighties were given special attention, in honor of their long years of initiation and profound knowledge. Their cottony white hair, gray-aged eyes, and tissue-thin black skin made them appear deceptively fragile, while at the same time they seemed to glow with clarity of mind and confidence. These unassuming elders projected an aura of serenity and coolness that was reminiscent of my grandmother and my mother.
Throughout my travels I met with elders much like these in Brazil, Haiti, Trinidad and Tobago, New Orleans, Puerto Rico, Santo Domingo, and in other countries throughout the world. They have developed an inner power and strength that quietly blankets their environment with a special, magical aura of peace. This desired quality acquired over time requires that initiates set aside a period of time to meditate and acknowledge the orisha that resides within—the Orí—who repesents our destiny.
With tremendous pride, Javier introduced me to the Iyalorisha Mina, a longtime friend of his deceased mother. She was a thin old woman, bent with age from many years of harsh work. Ma Mina herself had been initiated by a once-enslaved African woman who taught her the ancient secrets of the African orisha initiation. Javier explained that she spoke Yoruba and had initiated more than fifty people into the religion.
The Altar of My Soul Page 8
