Casting the shells, he determined that the road of my orisha was Obatalá. He said, “Obatalá Ayáguna, the young warrior, is your orisha. He is like Shangó, but younger and more daring. Ayáguna will protect you in times of crisis.”
Without commenting, I realized that Yemayá’s prophecy was already occurring; my dreams were predicting and confirming events before they happened. I had already known that Ayáguna would claim me.
“Do you have any questions?” El Chino asked tenderly as he looked from me to my godmothers. Then he asked Zenaida, “What name do you want to give your daughter?”
“Adufora,” she said.
Casting the shells, he said, “Obatalá accepts.”
As he gathered his divination objects, El Chino advised, “Make certain that you follow the instructions of your orishas for life; in helping yourself, you also protect your family. Having these sacred powers in your possession will radiate in everything you do. I wish you the very best,” and then went to embrace Zenaida and Virginia.
“My daughter, the orishas have spoken clearly,” said Zenaida. “It is your responsibility to follow what has been said.”
Then she invited everyone to stay for dinner. The sacred bond among the initiates again filled me with joy. The gathering reminded me of the terreiro I had visited in Brazil, where everyone functioned as a loving family. Zenaida informed all that she had arranged to present me to the sacred batá drums at the end of the week. According to Zenaida, this public ceremony was a final reaffirmation of initiation before the orisha Añya, the orisha of the drum. These specially prepared drums had undergone a sacred ritual in which the aché of Orisha Añya is infused into the drum.
After dinner, Virginia and I returned to my room for the evening. Zenaida and the other santeras and santeros remained in the front room cleaning up. Virginia, arranging my sleeping area, said, “My daughter, I know this is all new to you and a little overwhelming. Don’t be afraid to ask questions. Your madrina and I will do our best to answer all of them.”
Enjoying the airy feeling of levitation, I didn’t want to focus then; but I promised to have questions for her the next day. After making certain that I was comfortable, she left me alone to go help with the cleaning up. Lying on the straw mat, I couldn’t help but wonder why I felt so comfortable and at peace in a small isolated room, far away from home. Somehow I felt as if I were in the sacred room of my abuela’s apartment in El Barrio.
The following day, I was prepared to question Zenaida and Virginia. Worried that it would not be easy to get them or my godfather on the telephone from New York, I said, “I have my personal book and the pamphlets, but are they enough to instruct and guide me?”
Laughing, Zenaida said, “The information you take back with you is valuable and it will assist you, but only if you study, study, study.” Pausing a moment, she added with a mischievous smile, “I know what you’re looking for: a Santería version of the Ten Commandments.”
I thought it would be a great idea, and so teasingly I said, “Yes, tell me the ten commandments of Santería.”
First jokingly and then with great seriousness, Zenaida and Virginia developed a list that has served me well over the eighteen years since my initiation.
Zenaida began, “Number one: Remember you are sacred. You carry the aché of your orisha. Respect your sacredness and insist that others respect it as well. Remember we are all sacred, we have Orí, each of us has our own destiny.
“Number two: We are part of nature, and nature is part of us. We are one. Live a balanced life, taking care of both your spiritual and secular needs. Honor your spirits and your orishas. Yemayá teaches us that we must attend to both worlds, the spiritual and secular.
“Number three: We are social beings who live in a society. And we each have a contribution to make so that the society can function effectively. It is our responsibility to determine what our contribution will be. Like Ochosi and Oggun, we must cooperate, be trustworthy, and seek justice in all situations.”
Then, Virginia joined in. “Number four: Everything begins and ends with Ellegua. Life presents us with constant choices, like coming to a crossroads, but we can travel only one road at a time. We must examine all possibilities in order to make informed decisions.
“Five: Don’t be afraid of the unknown. Every day provides an opportunity to learn. Through the teachings of Orula, we can reveal the unknown.”
Zenaida, invigorated by our discussion, again joined in. “Six: Power resides in a cool head. We must remember to use our heads at all times. Strive to develop good character and bring calmness into your life; let the aché of Obatalá flow into your life.”
Virginia added, “Seven: Learn to shed those habits, behaviors, and things that no longer contribute to your life. Like Oyá, we must learn to sweep away unnecessary freight that weighs us down.
“Eight: Be a faithful friend, companion, and family member. Like Obba, trust in others, but at the same time remember to be vigilant against human failings, envy, jealousy, and treachery.”
Then Zenaida added, “Nine: Learn to make war when necessary. There are many ways of waging war; learn them. Shangó reminds us that sometimes we need to enter into battle. Like a warrior, plan your attack.”
With a sensuous smile she said, “Ten: Love makes the world go round. Like Ochun, always be prepared to pull out the honey, honey.”
Ready to answer my most challenging questions, she said, “Do you have any more questions?”
“I want to know how to respond when people ask me about black cloth dolls pierced with needles and pins. What do I say when people tell me Santería is witchcraft, black magic, and evil? How do I respond?”I asked, with more emotion in my voice than I had intended.
Zenaida and Virginia glanced at each other and then hesitated. The room became silent, and I could hear the voices of people talking in the kitchen area, as they thought about a response.
Virginia, turning to Zenaida, said, “You speak first.”
“My daughter, we know there is good because bad exists. We understand evil, because we have experienced goodness. Santería is a benevolent religion; it is about righteousness, about nature and living a blessed life. There are those who pollute the ocean, destroy the forest, and poison the air we breathe; they are evil. So it is with people who use their knowledge to hurt, destroy, and perpetuate jealousy, envy, and greed,” she said with an unusual sadness in her voice. “It is unfortunate that some think they can use their knowledge incorrectly and go unpunished. But be absolutely clear, those who use their knowledge incorrectly are not following the teachings of Santería.
“When one doctor does not uphold the medical oath to heal, does that mean all doctors are unprofessional? We have heard of priests and nuns who have violated their vows, but should we assume that all the others have done the same? Of course not. Why then do people assume if one initiate functions against the laws of Santería, we are all bad?
“We believe that truth and good triumph over evil. Those who seek to do wrong are the outcast,” concluded Zenaida emotionally.
Then Virginia said, “My daughter, do not allow anyone to put you in a defensive position because of your beliefs. Santería practitioners have never oppressed others, nor have they imposed their religion on others. We have never forced baptism or the tenets of our beliefs on other groups in the name of Olodumare or the orishas. We have nothing to be ashamed of.”
Our conversation left us fulfilled and at the same time opened avenues for further thought. However, we knew that we had concluded our discussion for the night. Virginia suggested that we rest in preparation for the tambor to be held on the following day.
In the morning, the house was alive with excitement. From my room, I could hear the banging of pots and pans as food was prepared for the drummers’ early lunch. The high-pitched voices of the santeras rose above the clamor as they excitedly ran around the kitchen. The drummers’ lunch would be served at eleven A.M., and the tambor would start at two P
.M.
Virginia brought in my breakfast as usual and then began selecting the clothes I was to wear for the afternoon ceremony. She chose a long white gauze dress that I had purchased in an Indian shop in the West Village of New York, and an accompanying scarf to wrap around my head. Surprisingly, I was quickly getting accustomed to dressing without a mirror. It took little time to dress since my outfits required little coordination. Time moved quickly and suddenly I heard the drummers toning their drums in the distance. My godmothers and Laura entered the room, accompanied by an arpon who would lead me out into the courtyard.
From my room he led the procession ringing a bell that announced my arrival. I held my breath in anticipation, not knowing what to expect. The arpon started singing as we left the room. When we entered the yard, his voice filled the enclosure with Yoruba chants as he led us into a circle in a slow-moving dance. Soon we were joined by other initiates. The low, vibrating sounds of the drums slowly picked up momentum as the arpon s voice reached to the sky, singing to Obatalá, “Okuní Bamba … That you live forever.”
We kept moving in a circle, building an elusive invisible energy that touched us. I could feel the warm earth beneath my feet, and the heat within my body began to grow. I could feel a momentary breeze caress my face, and I followed the soft, swaying movements in honor of the orishas. The chants grew more intense with the initiates’ call and response to elevate the energy and honor Obatalá. “Okuní Bamba … That you live forever.” The heat in the yard intensified as the drummers’ voices joined in the chants. Santeras pulled out their small hand fans and leisurely waved them back and forth, trying to lower the growing concentration of heat.
Then my godmothers led me from the circle and brought me before the drums. Crossing my hands on my chest, I bowed, placing my forehead on each of the three drums. The piercing sound of the thundering drumbeats penetrated my head and filled me with ecstasy.
That evening, I prepared my bags for an early departure the following day. Zenaida suggested that I wear a white T-shirt, blue jeans, and a colorful head scarf. “My daughter, if you dress in white, you will be stopped at the airport. Place your elekes in this white scarf and place them inside your bag, and put on a little makeup,” she advised.
“Madrina, I understand your concern, but I would like to wear the T-shirt and white scarf and jeans. Let’s forget the makeup. If I can’t look into a mirror, I do not want to look like a clown,” I said, poking fun at her suggestion.
“As soon as you get home, follow the rules,”she said, hugging me as tears glistened in her eyes.
On the ride to the airport, I suddenly became anxious to see my sons and to be at home. Having wanted to go home almost as soon as she arrived, Laura was elated that we were leaving. “I want a nice, big, juicy steak with onions, a Coca-Cola, French fries, chocolate cake, a bottle of wine, a case of beer, all the fried plantains I can eat, and then some,”she shouted as we rode to the airport. “When I get home, I’m going to play loud music, kiss my refrigerator, and give thanks for all I have,” she said. “The people in Cuba are so strong and committed and I admire their courage, their ability to withstand hunger and live with so little, but I could not continue to see so much pain in people’s faces.”
We arrived in the Bronx that night at ten. I went to Brooklyn to get the kids from Tom’s house, and Laura went to pick up her children from her friend’s home. The sight of the healthy faces of Sergio and Omar coming down the stairs swelled my heart with joy. Sergio was now thirteen and Omar was eight; though I felt they might understand why I initiated into Santería, it was too late that night to discuss my initiation with them.
The following day, when I told them about my trip, they were receptive and polite, which led me to believe they understood my explanations. Years later they told me that, while they respected my decision, they had been the targets of their friends’ jokes and ridicule.
“Mom, how do you explain to teenagers why your mother looks like a snowman every day?” Sergio asked.
While Omar laughed hysterically, he said, “My friends called Mom a witch, and others would say, ‘There goes the Pillsbury doughgirl.’ I got into a lot of fights because of you, Mom.”
Upon my arrival back in the States, my life quickly returned to the hectic schedule of balancing work, my home, and the children. The major difference was that I did these tasks dressed in white, and I attracted an incredible amount of attention wherever I went. Attending a meeting at city hall, a group of women approached and asked if I was Brazilian. In the pizza store, a Pentecostal woman shouted in front of my sons, “You are in the religion of the devil!” The winter was the worst. Dressed in a heavy white coat, in the dark subways of New York I stood out like a snowball in hell.
The planning of the First International Conference on Orisha Tradition and Culture occupied most of my time. Coordinating the program and the travel arrangements of international representatives of the orisha tradition to the conference placed me in contact with a wide range of practitioners interested in uniting the branches of the tradition.
In July 1981, the Caribbean Cultural Center was instrumental in planning, implementing, and supporting the participation of sixty initiates, scholars, and artists in this historic event. For the first time, representatives from Trinidad, Cuba, Venezuela, Puerto Rico, Haiti, and the United States came together as a community to the birthplace of their religion—the sacred city of Ile Ife, Nigeria. The overwhelming attention of the press placed the conference on the front pages. Headlines called me an “orisha woman” with a derogatory undertone, while others announced, “World Delegation of Orisha Worshipers Come Home.”
In the emotionally charged public and sacred atmosphere, moments of pure magic occurred. The center sponsored the first trip of an eighty-year-old Brazilian priestess of Yemayá, Mâe Bida, to the conference. When we arrived in Abeoukuta, the city of Yemayá’s birth, she was overwhelmed. We were greeted by high government officials who sponsored a lavish reception in our honor at the local palace. The reception did not impress Mâe Bida. She was concerned about communicating with a group of Yemayá priestesses who were discreetly sitting in a corner of the room. Mâe Bida, in a beautiful, lavish blue-and-white, shimmering and billowing brocade dress and head wrap, was a vision of Yemayá on Earth. She was a short, plump woman with smooth velvetlike chocolate skin, and her timid warm manner won us all.
I watched Mâe Bida as she tried to speak to the women in Portuguese, then tried the few words of English she learned for the trip. When their eyes clouded from a lack of understanding, she grew agitated and began nervously pacing the floor. Apprehensive, I dashed across the room to assist her. Suddenly, Mâe Bida, raising her hands toward the sky, started dancing in a wavelike movement as she began singing to Yemayá in Yoruba. The room stood still as everyone heard her beautiful voice rise above the reception chatter. The eyes of the Yoruba priestesses filled with recognition and tears as their voices joined in Mâe Bida’s chant. Everyone in the room stood paralyzed as five hundred years of stored tears trickled down their faces. This moment was an extraordinary revelation, but another incident was not to be as pleasant.
Chills shocked my body the first day of the conference when the entrance was blocked by Christians dressed in Western clothing and carrying large picket signs that read: DEVIL WORSHIPERS. I felt as if I were back in the pizza shop in the Bronx. Without warning, we were made aware of the depth of cultural devastation that had occurred in Nigeria, a situation that apparently was much like what we had experienced in the Americas.
I also realized the importance of having organized a world conference that would give birth to other similar events and would continue to establish a network of orisha worshipers and scholars expert in the history and culture of these traditions. Over time I organized two other international orisha conferences, one in 1983 in Bahia, Brazil, and the other in 1986 in New York City, in addition to many other African Diaspora events over the past eighteen years. Orula’s prophecy had quic
kly become a reality. I traveled extensively, studying and developing programs on the branches of the orisha tradition, often taking my sons with me.
The prediction of the orishas foreseen in my itá also became realities. Initiation opened the sacred doors for the Orisha’s aché to function on my behalf, allowing me to understand and fulfill my destiny. Each year new pruebas confirmed the prophecy of the orishas. Ellegua brought godchildren to my door unexpectedly. Yemayá listened to my problems and saved Laura from near death. Shangó and Oyá suggested that I continue my studies, and I received my doctorate in 1995.
The center had grown into an important cultural institution, promoting African Diaspora cultures throughout the world. My sons were now grown and brought tremendous joy and love into my life. Ayáguna gave me the courage to overcome the barriers that were placed in my path. How did all of this happen? By surrounding myself with positive people who had my best interests in mind—people who allow the aché of the orishas to work through them.
The lessons of Zenaida and Elpidio took on new meaning over the years. Santería was a way of life, a way of celebrating and guiding my life.
The advice of my orishas and godparents continued to be revealed in marvelous natural ways, as people flowed into my life, helping me fulfill my destiny. When I started thinking about completing my doctoral work, I received an unexpected call from Dr. Molefi Kete Asante, chairperson of the newly formed department of African American Studies at Temple University. Dr. Asante suggested that I consider returning to school; he felt that my work would be enhanced by enrolling in the department. As the idea of teaching at the college level took form, I received a call from Dr. Donald Smith, requesting that I teach one of his education classes at Baruch College while he was on sabbatical in 1994. The following year, in 1995, a position opened in the department of African and Hispanic Studies at Baruch College, which he recommended I apply for. In September 1995, I started teaching classes in Puerto Rican and Latin American history and culture.
The Altar of My Soul Page 25
