by L. Divine
“The heart and cross are both drawn in red, symbolizing the power of love to give life,” Mama continues. “And depending on the circumstance, that same love can take life away.”
“And vice versa,” Netta adds. “The lesson is to humble ourselves to the pain that comes with the blessing. Seeking wisdom in all situations is not an easy job, but ultimately it’s the only one worthwhile.”
I’m more confused now than I was in my dream a little while ago. With the week I’ve had dealing with Misty, Mickey’s man, and Cameron’s bull, the last thing I need is more to think about. I have enough work on my plate as it is.
“There are days where you will love your crown and others when you’ll want to hurl it at your shrines.” Mama looks at her altar grinning at her memories. “It’s a marriage and much like in romantic love, you have to take the bitter with the sweet, Jayd. That’s how all-worthwhile commitments are.”
“You can try and cross a boyfriend out of your life, making him your ex and all that foolishness,” Netta says, bringing the images of Jeremy with Cameron and Rah with Sandy to the forefront of my mind. “But once he cuts through your heart, those wounds are as permanent as a tattoo. It’s always important to know which way you’re going no matter the type of relationship you’re engaged in. Ultimately to get to the sweetness, the sacrifice will be just as great as the benefit.”
“We as children of both Legba and Oshune can have just about anything our hearts desire, but it is in the asking where our deepest betrayal can also manifest,” Mama says, taking the water glass from the ancestors’ shrine and pouring a quick libation. “Yeye is about more than the material wealth that our gifts can bring.”
Mama’s always taught that same lesson repeatedly, warning of the dangers asking without giving could bring. That’s why every time I buy something new I give something away. No need in being greedy when there’s something better on the horizon.
“Deciding when to hold on and when to let go is the wisdom you’ll master along the way,” Netta says, claiming a brass bell from Oshune’s tier and softly ringing it.
If I could share that lesson with my friends their lives would be much easier. Imagine how much time Nellie would save if she’d stop trying to be something she’s not, or Sandy trying to hold on to Rah when he doesn’t want her anymore. Those two alone could’ve shed five years of drama from their lives.
“There will always be decisions to make and consequences for every path you choose,” Mama says cryptically.
“Do you want this man because he makes you happy or because having him will cause others to envy you?” Netta asks, the ringing growing louder with each thrust of her wrist. If she gets any louder she’ll wake everyone else in the quiet house.
“Do you want this job because it is your true calling or because of the accolades it comes with? Are you a priestess because it is your birthright or because of the people who will worship your crown?” Mama adds, replacing the clear glass on the shrine while alluding to her evil counterpart, Esmeralda. I’ve yet to tell them about Misty’s fangs, but will as soon as we’re all done.
“Making tough choices is all a part of the ultimate sacrifice, Jayd, but know this. Love is God and God is love. It’s as simple as that.”
“Your grandmother’s right about that,” Netta says, opening the customary bottle of gin on the ancestor shrine and pouring out a little liquor in their honor. “People make life difficult, not the Creator. Spirit just wants to give and receive. After all, reciprocity is what life’s ultimately about.”
“This is yours to keep now, little miss,” Mama says, handing me the delicate leather binding of the ancient text. “This is the cover you were born into. It’s up to you to create and protect the next generations’ stories.”
“So it was never really damaged,” I say, touching the smooth inner skin of the spirit book completely unphased by the damage my uncle caused to the protective coat.
“No, chile. As many times as we’ve been attacked we’ve learned how to protect what really matters. The outside is just for show.”
“It’s the heart and spirit that must survive,” Netta says, slowly trimming the loose threads from the binding in preparation for the book’s new case. “Flesh’s purpose is simply to house the real deal.”
Try telling Nellie, Mickey, or any of the rich girls we go to school with that bit of wisdom. As far as any of them are concerned what’s inside a person, book, or anything else is irrelevant. If it doesn’t look good it’s not worth having.
“That’s why this veve is such an accurate representation of our lineage, Jayd. Maman Marie designed it when she was initially ridden by her mother, beginning her initiation into the priesthood.”
I trace the fine lines of the red symbol carefully feeling the ashe of the spiritual drawing course through my veins.
“Isn’t it amazing how something so simple can have so much power?” Netta says, admiring the veve. Even with my great-grandmother’s fancy and nearly illegible handwriting, it is a rather unassuming sign.
The people at the beach earlier this week whose cars costs more than most people make in ten years from around here have no understanding of that concept. Simple isn’t in their vocabulary, which is why a lot of people I know aim to become hood rich: buying expensive rims for cars that aren’t worth their weight in sand or buying flyy rides while living in their mamas’ garages. It’s all show with no real substance; quite the opposite of what we’ve got going on in the Williams’ household.
“When Maman would perform her healing dance in Congo Square in honor of our ancestors, including the Maries before her, this was the veve she drew on the ground in cornmeal to begin the ceremony. Then, she would pierce the tip of her left index finger with Ogun’s blade and let three drops of her blood lend ashe to the festivities.
“Every priest has their own version of the various veves for the orisha. This is ours and like any brand, it’s recognized all over the world as the symbol of the Williams Women,” Mama says, placing my right hand on the spirit book like I’m being sworn into office. “When you sign your name to this book you take an oath to protect our bloodline. Do you understand your responsibilities as a fully initiated voodoo priestess?”
“Beni, Iyalosha,” I agree in Yoruba. Part of my training has been learning more French and Yoruba, our mother tongues. Sometimes Mama only speaks and answers in one of the two languages.
Mama then opens her brass Oshune vessel at the top of the shrine and takes out an eleke with gold, amber, yellow, orange, and red beads similar to the one I’m wearing now. At the end of the long necklace hangs a small charm with the crossed heart veve made out of solid brass. With the thin gold circle at the top of the heart connecting it to the string of beads it almost looks like a miniature purse. She sets the necklace on top of the veve in the spirit book and prays over it.
Netta passes Mama one of Ogun’s blades—the orisha over war and justice—from the tier dedicated to the warriors repeating the same chant.
“Your first step as a priestess is to willingly surrender to the collective ashe of all the Queen Jayds before you,” Mama says, holding the blade over the holy jewelry. “Give me your left index finger.”
I raise my hand causing the jade bracelets to clink one by one down my arm providing the perfect accompaniment to their melody. The unfamiliar words become louder, lifting my spirits as tiny drops of my blood drip onto the faded yellow page where all of the women who came before me have already signed.
With my fingerprint firmly planted next to my name, the praying ceases. Netta wipes the blade clean with a wet towel while Mama claims the consecrated eleke. “Wear it well, my dear.”
“It’s beautiful. Thank you,” I say, kissing the necklace before bowing my head for Mama to put it around my neck.
“You may wear colors even though you are still iyawo Oshune for the rest of your year.” Mama kisses my forehead and smiles down at me with pride in her green eyes.
“Your praise name for our mother is
Osunlade. Oshune wears the crown, which you do, little Jayd.” Netta kisses me three times with tears in her eyes before rising to her feet.
Before rising, Mama kisses my hands, cupping them in hers. “Protect your heart at all times, help those you love at all cost, and keep what’s sacred to you close, like money in your purse,” Mama says, winking at me as she repeats my thought nearly verbatim.
“And don’t be afraid to defend yourself against those who try to hurt you. Remember a blade cuts both ways; the pain they inflict upon you will be swiftly returned.” Leave it to Netta to keep even the holiest of ceremonies hood.
“There’s no life without love. Be discerning in who you choose to bestow with the honor of having a piece of your heart,” Mama says, standing up and joining her best friend on the other side of her bed. “Be a soldier for life, honey, and life will be good to you.”
Rising to my feet and coming around the bed, both elders bow and kiss their fingertips to my feet, honoring Oshune’s presence on my head. I’ve been promoted from a child to a young woman overnight and it feels good. I know my new crown doesn’t come without haters as Netta and Mama have so eloquently reiterated. I understand it’s a natural progression. The more powerful I get the deeper the drama, and I’m ready for it all.
5
Social Promotion
Reality is catchin’ up with me/
Takin’ my inner child, I’m fighting for it, custody.
—KANYE WEST
Along with the majestic ocean view from nearly every angle of the sprawling campus, the smells of freshly cut grass and new paint welcomes us back to South Bay High. I’m in no rush to park my mom’s car in one of several available spots in the half-empty lot, taking in the serene ocean air before the school day officially begins. There’s still the matter of cheerleading to deal with, not to mention having Mrs. Bennett as my AP English teacher this year, Lord help me. Ultimately not even the disturbing thought of having that she-devil this semester could ruin my good mood this Tuesday morning. No matter how I look at the situation, I’m a senior and will be out of here in less than nine months come hell or high water. The first day of my last year in high school is finally here and I’m ready to get on with it.
I thought Saturday’s unexpected graduation ceremony would be more eventful with at least an actual bembe to celebrate like the ones Mama and Netta help with on the regular. Unlike Esmeralda’s ceremonies that mirror performances at mega churches that deduct members’ tithes from their taxes, Mama keeps it simple in our spiritual house. Pimping ain’t easy, but it sure is common across religious and cultural lines; Mama has no part of any of that nonsense. With or without the hoopla, the point is that I’m a priestess and I’m good with that.
Mama has freed me up to wear some color, but I still can’t wear anything too dark, flashy, or torn. Luckily I got in a little shopping yesterday afternoon with Mama and Netta right by my side and secured a few new pieces for my wardrobe. This morning I opted for a pair of white jeans, a yellow top, and a pretty rhinestone belt to give it some flare. My sandals match my shirt and are the perfect first day back shoes. I’m not used to walking around the huge campus anymore and need to get back in shape for the school year.
Last year the first day started with a fight, not to mention the drive-by I witnessed in my mom’s hood right before school started. Hopefully today’s drama will be at a minimum, but knowing my life I seriously doubt it. I haven’t run into Misty yet, but I did find out something interesting about her vampire tendencies. In order for her to keep up appearances Esmeralda has to continuously feed her the potion without missing a dose. If I can find the tainted medicine and replace it with a tincture of my own, I can keep Misty’s teeth, eyes, and every other manufactured power she has in check long enough to figure out exactly what Esmeralda’s working with. Dealing with Mickey’s man and Jeremy’s obsessed admirer will require a different approach.
Due to Misty’s mystical transformation and because of what went down at the beach with Cameron last week, Mama and Netta decided it was best for me to sit out this year’s birthday festivities and recoup for my first day of school instead. My social quarantine didn’t stop them from having enough fun for the three of us. Netta and Mama have had more energy than they know what to do with since their summer road trip. And with Netta’s sisters insisting on sticking around to help with the beauty shop for a few more weeks, Mama and Netta have had more time to spend on spirit work and pampering—two of their favorite activities.
“Sexy chocolate,” Chance says out of his car window, scaring me half to death. The other forty or so students look at us and keep talking amongst themselves. Everyone’s used to Chance’s swag. He honks his horn and I wave as I continue walking toward the front gate of the parking lot. I need to stop by the main office and pick up my registration packet. Usually it would’ve come in the mail at my mom’s friend’s house in Redondo Beach, but she swears she called and there was nothing there from South Bay High.
The rest of my friends should be here soon. I still can’t believe we made it to senior year. No one I know wants to be late for the first day with the exception of maybe Jeremy. He called me consistently all weekend, but resorted to sending random messages by yesterday afternoon. We’ve been texting back and forth defending our separate stances on Cameron and his mother plotting Jeremy’s future. Eventually he’ll see I’m telling the truth. It’s just a matter of time before I reveal Cameron for the diabolical trick she is.
“Hey, girl. I almost didn’t recognize you,” Nigel says, rising from the bench he and my girls are posted on and hugging me. The senior quad is full of freshly dressed students; a few of them who we all know shouldn’t be here. Because South Bay doesn’t want to look bad holding back dozens of students, the administration promotes some of them to the next grade even if they’re not academically progressive. Makes me wonder why I work my tail off to get good grades when I know there’s little chance I won’t make it to the next grade level.
“There’s the Jayd we all know and love.” If Mickey only knew how much I’ve changed this summer she’d eat her words. “Flyy hair, colors and all.”
Nellie and Mickey continue complimenting our individual outfits while also judging everyone else’s. I feel slightly strange wearing colors again. It still feels as if all eyes are on me even though I know they’re not.
“How come you know that?” my mom says, up in my head early this morning. “No matter how you look, you’ll always have je ne sais quoi . . . that something special about yourself that speaks louder than any outfit you’re wearing. You could have on a potato sack and my daughter would still make heads turn.”
“Good morning to you, too, Mom,” I think back while trying to pay attention to the fashion police in front of me. My girls are ruthless when it comes to gear. In their very separate ways Nellie and Mickey could run very successful clothing lines—Nellie for the preppy and loaded, Mickey for the hood-funky and fabulous.
“Good morning, baby. I just wanted to wish you a happy first day, miss senior in high school.”
I know my mom’s proud of her baby. Mama also called me before my alarm went off to say our morning prayers and wish me a good day. It was our first night apart in weeks. I missed sleeping in Mama’s room like I’ve done most of my life, but I missed the privacy at my mom’s place even more.
“Thanks, Mom.” I would remind her that I have to make a special trip to the office before class due to her missing follow-up skills, but I stop short of getting cussed out before she leaves my head.
“Earth to Jayd,” Nellie says, snapping her manicured fingers in front of my face. “What do you think of Misty’s new haircut?” Nellie calls my attention to Esmeralda’s favorite drone entering the quad. Misty’s dyed her long, golden-brown, curly hair black, had it straightened and cut it to her jawline. With her crystal-blue contact lenses making the change even starker, her tight black dress and silver heels give Misty a completely different look altogether.
/> “Damn,” Nigel says, expressing our sentiments exactly. Misty looks like a grown-ass woman. She already had that whole Boricua morena energy going for her, but instead of looking like Jennifer Lopez’s younger sister, Misty looks like she could be one of her industry rivals.
“Close your mouth, fool,” Mickey says, smacking Nigel in the back of the head. The warning bell rings saving us from envying Misty’s transformation. We have to give props where due and to my crew and everyone else gawking, Misty’s worthy. In my mind, we should all praise Esmeralda for a job well done.
“I have to go. I’ll catch up with y’all later,” I say, responding to the rush of energy from more students arriving filling the other quads, walkways, and buildings. There are some new faces; mostly freshmen and they look like it, too. There’s no mistaking the young, fearful face of a new high school student. There’s a reason we call them “freshmeat”—they’re easy targets for all kinds of cliques, clubs, and everything in between.
The Associated Student Body is already passing out thousands of flyers trying to recruit new blood for their political regime. As president of the African Student Union, I need to call a meeting as soon as possible. We need to get the word out about our club, but first things first. I need to get my class schedule and get to first period on time. Being late is not a good start for the year.
As soon as I step foot in the front office the first day jitters hit and I’m suddenly nervous about everything from my new class schedule to where my locker’s going to be. It’s bad enough I automatically have to take Mrs. Bennett’s English class because I’m on the Advanced Placement track, but I also have to suffer through cheer practice with the perky broads on the squad. It’s been nice having a forced break from them, but all that’ll change now that school’s back in session.
“Jayd, it’s nice to see you,” Mr. Adelizi says, standing in front of his opened door with a stack of envelopes in his left arm. I rarely see him outside of his cramped office. “How was your summer?”
