Excited by her friend’s response to her reading, Norma decided to have the oriate consult the orishas for her as well. “After casting the cowries on the straw mat, he looked at the patterns and didn’t say anything to me for a long while. This old Cuban man with shriveled hands and face totally ignored me as he went about tossing the cowries. I started fidgeting, trying to get his attention. He continued moving the cowries, ignoring my impatience.
“Then he looked me straight in my eyes and said, ‘Why are you acting as if you want to leave when you know that here you have found your inner peace? It is Yemayá who brought you here because she wants to save you from yourself.’ He told me that my job didn’t bring me the happiness I sought, nor would another pair of shoes or a car. He said, ‘It is spiritual healing that you come seeking.’
“His words cut through me, cut through every inch of me, every year of my life, from my childhood all the way to my present life. When he finished his reading, my inner soul screamed yes!
“Then he smiled, and said, ‘Always give thanks to the orisha Ochun for having brought you your happiness. Ochun, the orisha of fresh water, is the guardian orisha of your friend, and although both of you are always arguing, there is friendship. In the stories of Santería, Ochun and Yemayá protect and help each other.’”
Norma’s self-commanding and decisive manner was helpful in allowing me to understand how to balance the power of culture with the strength of spiritual energy. I learned from her that this power and this strength are the same. The turbulence of the ocean surrounded Norma at every moment, making the spirit of Yemayá visible in her every action. Yet the calming quiet of a rolling wave that ended its journey on a warm shore was also Norma.
I met Warren, an engineer, when he attended a panel discussion on Santería and Candomblé at the center. He had just left a lucrative job to dedicate himself to his orisha and to his studies of the religion. It was incomprehensible to his family that he had achieved the “dream” and had chosen to toss it away. His family was up in arms, fighting his decision to enter into the orisha priesthood, leaving behind his “professional, successful position.”
Talking with Warren was like drinking a glass of cool water in the middle of a desert. His composed elegance was in clear contrast to Norma’s effervescent, stormlike energy. Like his orisha, Obatalá, the god of creation, he took great care in selecting his words and actions. He appeared to be a typical corporate type, with close-cropped, brushed hair and a careful, analytical style. When I asked about his dedication to Santería, he explained, “Life is about making choices that make sense. Choices that make you live a better life and allow you to be in the service of your family, community, and society.
“Working for a large corporation, I am an object, a thing, with no value. My value is based on the amount of profit I can bring to the corporation. The more enriched they are, the more value I am perceived to have. It’s not about me; it’s about my skills—if they could pull out my talents and put them in a box, it would be clear that I’m not needed. I found no humanity in the engineering positions I’ve held.
“Each of us has the responsibility of living a life filled with love for a better, more humane existence. If we do not do our part to create a more humane society—a society where a person is of more value than things—then we are fostering a mentality that supports the enslavement of others.” Warren continued, espousing our need to foster values that place children and families first, education that provides opportunities for all, and jobs that contribute to the well-being of our community. He told me, “I have faith in my religion because it created a new reality for our people that negated the enslavement of our spirits. The orishas brought us to the Americas for a reason, and it certainly was not for me to be enslaved by corporate interests. It is our faith in the orishas, our faith in a new tomorrow, that will prepare us for the next millennium. And I believe it is my duty to prepare my community now.”
Warren put into words the elusive drive that fueled my commitment to an organization that provided alternatives and solutions for my community. The feelings of Norma and Warren were my feelings as well. And I was assured that through my work, their vision of the world would find a wider audience.
One of the many things I have learned through Santería is that friendships develop magically. Conversations happen simply because someone may notice the beaded necklaces around your neck or the bracelet you wear that identifies you as a member of the larger religious community. This is how I met Cudjoe, a middle-aged musician, on the bus on my way to the Caribbean Cultural Center in midtown Manhattan. He noticed my beaded bracelet and with a sly wink pulled up his sleeve, displaying his Ochosi bracelet of Prussian blue and amber. Slipping into the vacant seat next to me, he asked, “When did you initiate?” Before I could answer, he said, “I initiated in Brooklyn twenty years ago. My madrina is Ochosi Tafa; you must know her?” “Sorry, I don’t,” I responded, and he made me laugh with his impish manner.
“Well, I am a true son of Ochosi. No one can mess with me, because I’m always ready to fight and hunt them down. If you need protection, just let me know,” he continued, laughing. “My orisha is the greatest blessing I have in my life. Ochosi protects me always, because I am a faithful follower. One day, I’m walking down my block, and this crazy man started shooting, just running out of a store he had just robbed. He wounded two people who were walking on each side of me. Miraculously, I was not harmed. Then he decided to come after me. I ran down the block trying to protect myself, and the police got there just in time and arrested him. Wheeeee, I love my Ochosi.”
My interviews provided an understanding of the deep-seated commitment that initiates had for the religion. As I planned my trips to organize the First International Conference of Orisha Tradition and Culture, the interviews provided an important source of motivation. The planning phase of the conference occurred in 1980, over a three-month period. I traveled to Brazil and Trinidad to plan the conference, and during my travels had the opportunity to hear many more stories of how the orishas had been instrumental in saving initiates’ lives and protecting their children.
Mãe Leila, a priestess of Candomblé whom I met through officials at the Bahia Cultural Foundation, lovingly escorted me into a temple where the orishas of her religious family were kept. Looking out over the vast land owned by the terreiro, the temple, I noticed the slow, melodious movement of a sea of black Brazilian initiates going about their daily chores. In the distance, a young girl carried on her head a straw basket filled with newly washed clothing. A young man was repairing a fallen picket fence. Older members of the community were seated under large tree branches laden with lush green leaves, avoiding the burning sun.
In Mãe Leila’s terreiro, each of the orishas had a small one-room house that could hold at least twenty people. When she opened the door to the house of Oxalá, the Brazilian name for Obatalá, I imagined that this is what heaven must look like. Exquisite, large bows of embroidered lace covered long porcelain bowls, neatly organized on white shelved walls that seemed to vibrate with spiritual energy. The spiritual essence of aché immediately embraced me when I prostrated myself in front of the orishas. Lifting me with her delicate hands, Mãe Leila warmly embraced me as if I were her long-lost daughter.
“My child, welcome to our humble home. This is your home away from home.” When she learned that I was planning an international conference to take place in Ile Ife, Nigeria, the following year, her face lit up. Then tears of joy burst from her eyes as she again embraced me. “My daughter, this event will be very important. It is time that the world recognized the power of the orishas and the community of initiates. Look around; this is a small town. We live as a family. My child, you see the old woman dressed in white, sitting by the man with the striped shirt?” “Yes,” I responded, then asked, “How old is she?” “We think she is ninety-two years old. Her birth was never officially recorded. What we do know is that she has lived her whole life on this terreiro. Like her,
there are many men and women who have continued the ways of their ancestors, living in traditional communities. It pleases me to know that our belief system is in Cuba and the United States. No one can stop the orishas.”
I laughed when she uttered these words; they repeated the thought of the Shangó priest in Cuba. Looking forward to my visit to Trinidad, I asked Mãe Leila if she knew anyone I should meet with during my trip. “Ahhh, my daughter, make certain to meet with Mother Sheila. She is a dear friend who has been visiting Bahia for more than fifteen years. Take her address and tell her I sent you,” Mãe Leila said, and she placed a beautiful white-beaded necklace around my neck. “You will need the patience of Oxalá, the orisha of creation and peace, to organize this conference and achieve success.”
My travels to Trinidad were equally illuminating. There, I witnessed rituals similar to the ones I saw in Cuba and Brazil. I met and was accompanied by Mother Sheila, a Trinidadian priestess who was also a prominent choreographer and scholar of the African Diaspora cultures, and well known in the Shangó community of Trinidad. Our visits to the temples introduced another reality as I witnessed Amit, an East Indian Yoruba priest, include his Indian gods beside the Yoruba gods on his altar. The ornate beauty of Shangó resided alongside Shiva, the East Indian warrior divinity, as members of the same family. When I visited his home with Mother Sheila, Amit was comfortably dressed in the traditional clothes of West Africa, designed with East Indian red, white, and golden cloth. He was the head of a large family of initiates that included Trinidadians from all racial groups and economic statuses.
Amit blessed Mother Sheila and warmly welcomed us into his living room. After I explained that I was coordinating the First International Conference of Orisha Tradition and Culture, planned for the summer of 1981 in the birthplace of the orishas, he lowered his guard and quickly warmed up, sharing his thoughts and hospitality with us. Amit’s home also reflected the unification of two religions, as the double-headed ax of Shangó was surrounded by the golden, red glitter of exotic silk cloth. Talking with him, I recalled the conversation I had had with Ma Mina about the photograph of her Chinese husband, which rested alongside the tureen of his Oyá. They both saw no contradiction in practicing these divergent beliefs simultaneously.
Mother Sheila then took me into the mountains of Port of Spain, to the temple of Gabby, a priestess of the Shangó religion.
Mother Gabby, a thin, dark-skinned young woman, had a large room filled with Catholic images representing the Yoruba gods and goddesses of West Africa. And she had another room filled with the “stools” of the orishas. Smiling shyly, she pointed to the stools and bowls that had large flags of pink, yellow, and white alongside. Pointing to the stools, she said, “There is where the true power of the orishas rests.”
Walking back toward the room where she kept the Catholic saints, she motioned for us to follow. “Let me show you a portrait of a saint I recently purchased in Venezuela; it is an image of María Lionza. According to the blacks in Venezuela, she is the representation of an Indian goddess. The Catholic followers of María Lionza are spiritualists who, like us, work with natural elements of nature. Air, earth, wind, and fire, tobacco and candles, call the spirits in a similar way to our practices.” Once again, the cross-cultural connections emerged, affirming that the American Yoruba belief systems are inclusive, embracing many traditions, yet maintaining the philosophical foundation, the fundamento, of the original African philosophies. In every temple I visited, I found testaments to the power of faith and religion in keeping a community united. This was also my experience in Haiti, which I visited in preparation for the conference.
Although the Haitians’ religion emerged from the Fon people of West Africa, members of a sister religion, the Haitian practitioners would also have representatives at the conference. I wanted to be certain that we had the broadest possible representation of the many African religions that were thriving in the Americas. During my trip to Port-au-Prince, Haiti, I was taken to the temples, the homforts, of the luas, Fon divinities of the Vodun. Invited by the hougan, Vodun priest, Max Beauchamp and I toured the temples of Haitian African gods and goddesses. The homforts, equivalents of the orisha temples, were decorated with beautiful bursts of colors in celebration of the Vodun gods. Max’s temple occupied a large area and reminded me of the Brazilian terreiros. The round, straw roof of the temple sheltered intricately designed, sacred altars. Standing among the mosaic of sequins and satin cloth on flags and bottles on the altar was like being within a rainbow.
The temples were attended by priestesses, mambos, dressed in clothing that was so white it had an almost light-blue glow. When I met with a priestess named Paulette, she told me, “It is because of the luas, the African Vodun gods, that Haiti was liberated; they are so powerful.” In Haiti, I was struck by the pervasive presence of the luas in all areas of life. Images of the luas were everywhere, just as in Bahia, Brazil, where African gods are openly celebrated. At the crossroads, offerings of rum, candles, and tobacco to the divinity Legba, the Vodun equivalent of Ellegua, the trickster, professed the continued devotion of initiates to the mischievous divinity. The overwhelming presence of the luas in Haiti and the orishas in Brazil would not prepare me for the quiet energy of the orishas in Ile Ife, Nigeria.
For a period of three months, I was immersed in my travels and in planning the conference that would take place the following year. My travels culminated in Ile Ife, Nigeria, the site where the conference would take place. I was met at the Lagos Airport by the local coordinator of the conference, Dayo Otunde, a professor of philosophy at the University of Ile Ife.
The tropical foliage surrounding the airport made me feel as if I had arrived in the Caribbean or in Latin America. The rich, reddish brown of the earth and the deep blue-green of the palm trees were framed by the clearest blue sky I had ever seen. Riding in the van to Ile Ife, I trembled from shock as the words of Orula again reverberated in my mind. I would soon be arriving in the sacred city of Ile Ife, just nine months after Orula’s prediction that I would travel internationally in celebration of the orishas. I felt as if I were dreaming with my eyes wide open.
The reaction of priests and priestesses in Ile Ife was inspiring. In the face of the relentless onslaught of the Christian and Muslem faiths, they were struggling to maintain the traditional Yoruba religion. Similar to the battle the Yoruba descendants in the Americas had with the Catholic church, the Yoruba of West Africa were being ostracized for their desire to maintain their traditional beliefs.
When I visited the temples from which the orishas in the Americas had been born, I was saddened to see how the houses of our honored gods and goddesses had declined. When I asked why the temples were so poorly kept, Dayo explained that the traditional religions of the Yoruba were under attack by other religions. Most of the temples were administered by Muslim or Christian officials, who were not committed to preserving a religion that they viewed as incompatible with their own faiths.
This was why Dayo wanted the First International Conference of Orisha Tradition and Culture to occur in Ile Ife. He wanted the community to understand that the Yoruba traditional belief system was so powerful that it continued to be a strong force throughout the world. “How is it possible that in the birthplace of the orishas our worship is being stifled? We need to send a message to the people here and abroad that the orishas will always be present in our lives. Ile Ife is where the root first took hold on the Earth. We need our brothers and sisters from the Diaspora to come home to show our international strength,” he told me, expressing such great emotion that I knew my work would not be for naught. As we visited the homes of traditional priests and priestesses in Ile Ife, the message was the same. I was moved to tears when we visited the house of a respected elder babalawo named Babatunde. When Dayo explained the conference project, Babatunde remained quiet for a long time. Then, signaling to Dayo to translate, he said, “Orula told me that one day soon our children would come back home. This is wonderful news.
They are returning when we need them most.”
When I returned home to New York, my heart and mind were filled with the images of Yoruba practitioners from all over the world. The traditions of the initiates were so similar in all of the countries that I would sometimes lose sight of where I had attended certain rituals. In each country, I witnessed variations of a tradition that had departed from Africa nearly five hundred years ago. In reviewing my journal notes, I began to understand the historic significance the conference would have in mobilizing a global community of initiates and uniting the varied branches of the Yoruba religion.
Through the many conversations, I learned that the power of a faithful community can move mountains. How do you explain faith? Can you capture it, box it, sell it? No, I learned, faith lies within, in our commitment to our own sacredness. My experiences in Africa, Brazil, Trinidad, Haiti, Cuba, and New York taught me that the power of the orishas resides in each of us. There is no one faith that is superior, and this is why spirituality cannot be codified. So in their journey across the Americas, the orishas embraced all the diversity of racial and cultural traditions that Africans in the Diaspora represent. For me, this is the strength of the New World Yoruba religions—their ability to embrace us all.
I completed my trips in February 1980. On returning home, I realized how much I had learned and enjoyed on my first trip to Cuba and how much I missed the community of initiates. As the contemporary, impersonal rhythm of New York somehow drained my spirit, it was absolutely clear to me that Cuba—despite old-fashioned ways, cobbled streets, inadequate phone service, and poor transportation—held the wisdom of our ancestral elders. Like the other countries I had visited, there was a resplendent, magical feeling in the air that enlivened the soul. There was also a willingness to share a sacred knowledge, even in everyday acts.
The Altar of My Soul Page 20
