The Altar of My Soul

by Marta Moreno Vega

  Wearing a long white dress, her head covered with a kerchief trimmed in nine colors. Ma Mina gently held my hands. She slowly looked up, gazed intently into my eyes, and said, “The spirits of my ancestors have been good to me. Oyá, the orisha that claimed me, has guided me since I was ten years old. Orisha is love, orisha is health and family; do not be afraid to learn about your ancestors, because in knowing them you learn about yourself.” Thanking her, I gingerly took my seat, trying to comprehend why she had directed this message to me. I wondered if she knew something I did not.

  The espiritista Olga began the misa with a series of Catholic prayers from The Collection of Selected Prayers by Allan Kardec, a nineteenth-century French educator and philosopher well regarded in the spiritualist community. A short, husky woman with curly black hair and cashew smooth skin, Olga exuded cheer and friendship. Olga was a santera as well as an espiritista. She was initiated into the Santería religion and was a medium who could be possessed by spirits of the ancestors. She explained that Ochun saved her life when complications arose during the birth of her first child. She praised and loved her orisha; however, her true gift was as an espiritista. When she sat down in front of the group, all chatter quickly ceased. Silence fell over the room as she started the session.

  Softly, the twenty-five people present began to pray with Olga and joined in the songs to attract the spirits. The room was soon filled with a thick, gray-blue haze as most participants leisurely smoked their cigars. One by one, participants went before the bóveda, scooped up perfumed water and flower petals from the white enamel basin on the floor, and cleansed their auras with this Florida water mixture while the others began reciting prayers. The pleasant murmuring of the prayers lulled me into a pleasant tranquillity. When everyone was seated, the songs started. Then, suddenly, my soul stood on edge as I again heard the songs calling the spirits. It was the same beautiful song that I had heard for the first time during my mother’s illness.

  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 hacer caridad. I have come to perform a good deed.

  Si la luz redentora te If the redeeming light calls

  llama, buen ser. you, good spirit.

  Y te llama con amor a And it calls you with love

  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.

  When I looked up at Olga, she had gone into a trance, swaying gently back and forth on her chair. She tossed her head back, massaged the left side of her chest with her right hand, and started foaming at the mouth. From a low hum, she began to moan loudly.

  Suddenly, her short body grew lean and tall. I was shocked. Without a word being spoken, I somehow knew my mother was present in that room. And her spirit began to speak through Olga.

  “Marta, I am glad that I am finally able to speak to you. I have waited a long time for this moment. The time has come for you to assume your spiritual responsibility and open your heart to the orishas. My beloved family is being destroyed because I refused to follow the calling of the spirits. You must assume your spiritual calling. Open your heart and let the spirits and the orishas guide you. Always remember that I am by your side.”

  A Message from My Elders

  When I started my spiritual journey into the teaching of Santería, my elders explained that the first orishas to be received are Ellegua, Ochosi, Osun, and Oggun. Together they are called the warrior orishas, guerreros.

  Ellegua is generally represented by a black triangular stone with cowry shells for eyes, nose, and mouth. He is placed by the door along with the hunter divinity Ochosi, the god of justice; Oggun, the warrior orisha of iron; and the orisha Osun, the small staff that represents the sacred head of the initiate. Each of these orishas possesses a particular power that helps stabilize the life of the initiate. The symbol of Ochosi is the bow and arrow, which he used to gain justice in the world. For Oggun it is iron; in ancient times in West Africa people swore on iron instead of the Bible. Osun is symbolic of the initiate’s head, where the sacred aché is placed.

  According to my elders, Ellegua is the orisha that brings balance into our lives. His stone talisman properly cared for—with red palm oil, candy, and toys, and annointed with rum, tobacco smoke, and candlelight every Monday—he protects the initiate by creating a sense of balance in our environment and in our lives. He uses his divine key to open avenues of opportunity for the initiate. He lives on a crossroads of life symbolized by the meeting of four converging roads.

  My elder suggests that we “examine our options, carefully select what we consider the best path, and follow it without fear. Our inner spirit will guide us.” Elpidio offers a simple way of actualizing this advice by doing the following: “When you are undecided of what path to follow, try standing in a space that leads in four directions. Think about your choices and decide on one. You can follow only one path.”

  My godmother Zenaida explained that there are many patakís in Santería that address the resiliency and power of women to struggle and thrive against all odds. Ochun is one of the powerful female orishas. She holds others accountable when they disrespect her. According to Yoruba legend in Africa and the Americas, the orisha Ochun lives in sweet water. Gold, copper, fertility, and love are all her domain.

  It is said that when the male orishas came to Earth, they held a secret meeting. When Ochun heard that they were meeting, she attempted to attend but was turned away. She became so angry that she made all women barren and turned the affairs of the world into chaos. Frightened, the orishas turned to Olodumare for help. The world was in disorder, and no one but Olodumare knew why.

  Olodumare called the male orishas before him and asked if they had invited Ochun to their meeting. When they answered no, Olodumare became enraged and told them to hold another meeting and to invite Ochun. He explained that without women and children, the world could not function. Without Ochun, the world would always be in a state of confusion.

  When the orishas returned to Earth, they followed Olodumare’s orders. However, Ochun was angry and refused to attend the meeting. The orishas went to her home with gifts of gold and copper, hoping to change her mind. But it was not until the orishas brought her an offering of honey that Ochun finally decided to forgive them. At last, she made women fertile again and brought order back to the world. Ochun teaches us that the world will be in disorder as long as women and children are neglected, disrespected, and abused.

  In the comfort of her kitchen, Doña Rosa, in her gentle way, enjoyed passing on information to younger initiates. When she heard the kitchen chatter settle down to a low hum, she said, “My children, we need a little gaiety in the room.” She walked to the cupboard and pulled out a jar of honey. With a coquettish twinkle in her eyes, she placed the jar on her head and started dancing and singing to Ochun, and then said, “Let us remember that when the orishas rushed to Earth and failed to invite Ochun to their meeting, the world went into chaos. Ochun reminds us to put care and love into everything we do.” Quickly, everyone in the room livened up and joined Doña Rosa in song. A joyfulness embraced them as Doña Rosa ceremoniously lifted the jar from her head and gave each of us women and men a spoonful of honey, saying, “May the spirit of Ochun bless you.”

  When the spirit of my mother spoke to me in Olga’s
home, my soul released a sea of tears that had been stored within me for more than twenty years. The room seemed to disappear into the distance, and I was watching Olga and the other participants as if from afar. Mama’s spirit remained close and touched me, sending a warm, arching wave that overwhelmed and cleansed my soul. Gradually, my body surfaced—light as a feather, motionless, and numb. My mother and I became one; her thoughts were also mine. I felt the sensation of two worlds, the spiritual and secular, harmoniously joining. I could see, feel, and comprehend more than ever before. A soothing yellow wave of tranquillity covered my body and cradled me in its cresting foam.

  My mother’s arms reached within me; her hands held the pain of our family’s separation and transformed it into a golden amber liquid nestled in her palms. Her body was surrounded by the intense yellow-white glowing light of Ochun. She calmly shared her thoughts, placing messages in my mind as I sat silent and motionless, treasuring her presence inside me.

  Mama cautioned me to let go of the anger toward my sister’s wrongdoings, which had caused our family to break apart like shattered glass. She said it was more important to concentrate my energy on healing and uniting the healthy pieces of our family, rather than continuously trying to figure out what had gone wrong. It was time to look toward the future.

  I asked her how I could look to the future when I knew that my brother’s marriage to Laura was ending. Laura was angered by his womanizing and had decided it was time for them to divorce. She had struggled to hold the marriage together for the sake of their children; however, my brother continued to disrespect his family and obligations. Again I felt helpless in not knowing how to protect my family.

  My mother admitted that she had pampered us for too long; she claimed she was blinded by her misguided maternal love. In her desire to be surrounded by a loving family like the one she left in Puerto Rico, she was lenient in disciplining my brother, sister, and me. She assuaged her lonely youth in New York with the strong desire to have a family and find happiness in bringing children into the world. Imploringly, she asked, “How could I punish the children who brought me the desire to live?” Then my mother continued her story.

  The spirits had claimed her at an early age in Puerto Rico. During a spirtual session in her hometown, Caguas, the espiritista, became possessed by my mother’s guardian angel, in the form of a Spanish flamenco dancer dressed in yellow. The espiritista described the dancer as having an olive complexion with deep jet black hair; with sensual, captivating eyes, she was as sweet as Ochun’s honey. The spirit of the dancer laid claim to my mother, saying she would eventually become a medium as a young girl. But my mother had no interest in becoming a medium. When she was a little girl, her father had died of a heart attack while eating dinner with the family. His early death was attributed to his refusal to become a spiritualist. From that day forward, she shunned the spirits; she refused to have anything to do with these elusive beings who she thought had killed her father.

  My mother told herself that Espiritismo was the religion of superstitious old people, and she ran away to New York, fleeing her destiny. She left behind her mother, sister, and brother.

  Under the pretense of pursuing a career, she enrolled in a training program that was available only in the city.

  Now the guardian angels she had tried so hard to keep at bay were causing confusion and destruction in our family. These spirits were at the lowest tier of spiritual enlightment, having not received prayers to elevate them to the upper level of the spiritual realm; they were in a state of bewilderment. My mother felt that, due to her neglect, these disoriented spirits had attached themselves to my brother and sister, causing Alberto’s womanizing and Socorro’s drug and alcohol abuse. She explained that when our souls are weak, we can be easily overwhelmed by negative thoughts and temptations.

  My mother understood that Laura was tired of Alberto’s philandering and drinking; she had no choice but to divorce him. My brother had lost all sense of decency. Women were calling the house letting Laura know of their affairs with my brother. My sister’s alcohol addiction, coupled with her lying and stealing, finally caused my father, Laura, and me to sever our ties with her. One day Socorro shouted out the window to her twin thirteen-year-old daughters, “Don’t you dare look at or speak to your grandfather.” After this incident my father broke down crying. It was the first time I had ever seen my father cry.

  My father, Laura, my husband, and I decided that the damage done by my siblings’ destructive behavior justified our decision to separate them from our lives. We understood that our children would lose contact with immediate members of the family, and because we were close it was very painful to realize that my sons would never get to know their aunt, uncle, and cousins. The family that we thought invincible was actually fragile and finally shattered. With a tremendous load of grief, anger, and guilt, we disassociated ourselves. Several years passed before we heard through friends that my brother had moved to Venezuela in pursuit of a much younger woman he planned to marry, and my sister had died somewhere in Florida—we assumed of an overdose or alcoholism. To this day, we do not know the circumstances of Socorro’s death or where her burial site is located.

  Before departing, my mother’s spirit focused on me and said, “I know you have been hurt and you are trying to protect yourself from further pain; however, you must stop trying to be the judge and jury in all situations. If people or situations don’t act according to your ethics, you are too willing to dismiss them from your life. You were the youngest in the family, and your father and I let you have your way. Life is a balance; it is a give and take. Learn to adjust, be flexible. Life is like a tree; learn to sway with the wind. Learn to listen to your head and your soul.”

  My mother accepted the choices we had made and left instructions as to how we should prepare for the future unification of our family. She explained that, as a family, we had to develop a relationship with the spirit world, and that opportunities for reconnecting the family would eventually occur. She said it was necessary for me to begin my spiritual journey and then others in our family would follow.

  Years later my sister’s spirit appeared in a misa in Cuba, asking for forgiveness. Every day, I pray for the elevation of her spirit and find that now when she appears in the misas, her confusion and grief have diminished. As the pain lifts and I continue to heal, the fragments of our family are all gradually coming together. Daily prayer is dissolving the confusion of the spirits in turmoil, and their enlightenment is helping the members of our family find resolution to problems.

  My mother understood that, in 1970, we were unprepared to deal with these confused spirits. For reasons of her own, she had not taught us how to defend ourselves from the turmoil released by the perplexed spirits. I felt defenseless when my brother and sister turned against the rest of the family. And the hurt and resentment my father felt caused him to talk incessantly of his children’s betrayal. I, too, felt the inexplicable family guilt entangle me, for we had turned our backs on our own flesh and blood.

  Sitting in the misa in 1979, nine years after the dissolution of my family, I was exchanging spiritual thoughts with my mother. Our conversation opened an inner door. I possessed tremendous love for my mother, and I realized that she had been trapped in the traditions of her time. She struggled to build a loving family in spite of my father’s domination and physical abuse; she tried to carve a safe space for her children to succeed within the boundaries she understood. But her sense of tradition presented certain contradictions about the roles of men versus those of women.

  My brother was taught that, as a man, he would be the breadwinner and supporter of his family. This gave him power. It gave him the sense that he had the right to philander outside the home as long as he met the responsibility of financially supporting his family. The fact that Laura helped finance his education as an X-ray technician and worked outside the home as hard as he did mattered little. He carried the assumption that a “real man” did not need to answer t
o his wife or family, as long as he brought home the paycheck. My sister was trained to be a housewife. Although she started college, she did not receive the same moral or financial support given my brother. My parents’ attitude was that my sister and I would quit school as soon as we decided to marry. School was just a way of occupying our time until the right man came along. We were instructed to keep our legs “tightly shut” until we married, protecting the virginity that Latino men desire in their women. Against her will, Socorro fulfilled their prophecy, quitting school and marrying as a way of escaping the contradictory rules of the house that had worked against her.

  The conversation with my mother made me aware that I had to view my role as a black Puerto Rican woman differently. My sons would be exposed to more liberated ways of thinking, so they would behave as equal partners in the family and in their future relationships. My thoughts were understood and encouraged by my mother. She let me know that following my spiritual path would open more choices that would help restructure the lives of the children.

  My mother was the glue that held our family together. Now I understand that her misguided love created a false sense of family unity. She often told “white lies” to our father to protect us from his harsh discipline. If my brother failed a class in school or arrived home after his curfew, she would tell my father that Alberto was obedient and doing fine. Even when my father found out that he had been lied to, he was actually proud of my brother for acting like a “man.”

  However, when my sister was more than fifteen minutes late from school or received a poor grade, my parents’ reaction was very different. She would be punished and scolded because, according to my parents, “she was trying to act like a man.” One of my father’s favorite phrases was, “Women are supposed to be at home, not in the streets.” I know my parents treated my sister unfairly in the name of love. Believing that they were preparing her for motherhood and my brother for manhood, my parents bestowed privilege and punishment with an uneven hand. As the girls, my sister and I accepted the fact that my brother had privileges that applied only to him. We learned that part of being a woman required that we quietly accept being less favored.