The Vodou that I don’t

A few weeks ago I had a post titled The Vodou that I do, about my struggle to be, and to be honest about being, a priestess of Vodou. It can be hard to talk about, for reasons that I imagine are obvious. Most people don’t even realize Vodou is a religion, and some can be remarkably committed to that view.

So I’m pleased that, after years of frustrating conversations, I finally have a  conclusive way to prove that Vodou is a REAL religion! Is it that Vodouists believe in a Supreme Being? It is that it’s about the human quest to understand the unseen world? No! It’s that Vodou has as much judgment, intolerance and factionalism as other, better known faiths. We’re in the club, people!

I’ve been pretty active on various Facebook groups relating to Vodou, and am happy to have found an incredibly welcoming, diverse and compassionate online community. Of course I have my Vodou family in New Orleans, but I don’t live there. My friends and family here are very supportive, but it gets a little lonely up here in Minnesota. It was wonderful to find others to talk to.  The earthquake in Haiti brought the Vodou community in the USA into conversation, everyone was shaken, everyone was (is) doing something to help our brothers and sisters in Haiti.  Everyone is talking, reaching out, holding each other together.

One particular FB group is a great resource, with mostly kind, informed and helpful people. But, as I discovered -- in a discussion topic on how to deal with ignorance and misinformation about Vodou, of all things – that it wasn’t such a great place to express my uncertainty  about how to respond to said ignorance (I think that’s what’s meant by “irony”). Some people were supportive; others, not so much. My use of the phrase “turn the other cheek” provoked a veritable roar of outrage: I was informed that Vodou is not a “turn the other cheek” sort of religion. Apparently, machetes are required. If our family is threatened, we will draw blades! I was like, AH! NO! Stop now! Bloody metaphors are not particularly helpful in, wait, what were just talking about? I mean, really, it’s funny: let’s address misinformation and fear with some really violent imagery, because clearly people aren’t scared enough of us already. *sigh*

I don’t expect everyone to agree with me (where’s the fun in that?) but neither did I expect the metaphorical machete lady, also a group admin and a fellow Mambo, to tell me that my statements illustrate my lack of understanding of Vodou. That Vodou is not this but that. One thing led to another and, suddenly I realized I was in conversation with Vodouists who believe that because I 1. did not kanzo (initiate) in Haiti and 2. do not offer animal sacrifice, I am not a “real” Mambo. To these people that I found welcoming and interesting and cool, I practice “Pseudo Voodoo” and am not a priestess. Ouch.

Now, to be fair, this is my own fault. I asked for this. I knew there were people who would not recognize my initiation because of these things. I was like, ok, they can chill with the other 4 billion people (or 2 billion, or 5.9 billion, or whatever) who don’t recognize any religion other than their own. Given the choice to kanzo in Haiti or New Orleans, I would choose New Orleans every time, every day, from now to eternity.

Anyway, I believed that people would not recognize me as a Mambo, but I didn’t BELIVE believe it. You know what I mean.

The group admin/Mambo, whom I have been FB friends and very cordial with for over a year, actually unfriended me after the revelation of my New Orleans lineage and wimpy, non-sacrificing ways. I have to admit that I’m (perhaps inappropriately) delighted to be unfriended on FB over Vodoun ideological differences. I mean, doesn’t that make you feel like anything is possible?  But I’m also saddened and pissed off by the contemptuous tone of her words.

It’s not the differences or disagreement that bother me—I love to argue, live to argue—it’s the blatant arrogance and disrespect inherent in telling someone they 1. do not understand their own religion and 2. what they are practicing is not legitimate religion anyway. WTF? What makes someone think they have the authority to ascribe legitimacy?

The real question is: why does it bother me? I’ve been a member of a little-understood tradition since birth. Never mind what most Americans or Brits I’ve lived among think, I have found other Hindus to be the most disrespectful, judgmental and dogmatic people imaginable. I guess the closer we are to something, the more it can threaten us. There’s no feud like a family feud. To explain: Hinduism is really really a real religion made up of countless factions, philosophies, views and practices…but some are more prominent than others. I’m sort of a religious minority among Hindus, what with this weirdo meditation stuff. Many Hindus also don’t consider me a priestess—they have a problem with that “ess” thingy on the end of the word that indicates my gender isn’t male. Some traditional, caste-obsessed Hindus even consider me literally, not just metaphorically, illegitimate. My mother, a priestess in her own right,  was not born in India, so she wasn’t Hindu enough for my parents’ marriage to be recognized in some hidebound Brahmin circles.  My feelings on these matters? Whatever. Screw you and the narrow-minded, misogynistic caste you rode in on. I would never waste my time arguing about this stuff (although I’d recommend people watch what they say about my mom; I do have a machete around here somewhere). I’d stew my teeth, roll my eyes and forget it by the end of the day. Ok, no, I’d probably rant about it for awhile, but you know what I mean. It rolls right off of me.

So, if half a billion (or however many) conservative Hindus don’t bother me, why do a few Vodouists? 

I’ve been mulling that over for awhile now. I’ve ranted, talked it out, even sat in front of my altar all night and sort of sulked about it….and I’ve come to some really uncomfortable conclusions.

This is about my arrogance, not anyone else's. When Hindus denigrate or disrespect me, I can ignore them, in part, because I know what I know. I know who I am. I can be like, yeah, why don’t you go study the Vedas in Sanskrit, then get back to me? You want my lineage?  Sit down, honey, this is going to take awhile. I’ve got crumbling manuscripts and however many generations of ancients backing me up. My family’s land was granted by the mother of the dude who built Taj Mahal, around a hundred years before the founding of the United States. Our spiritual heritage is far more ancient. I’m terrifically proud of my history, and do my best to fulfill the responsibilities that come with it. Although I’ve struggled to make sense of my place in my tradition –-as a woman and someone with, it’s been pointed out, somewhat strong opinions— I’ve never doubted that there was a place. It was my choice to take it or leave it (well, not really, but that’s a post for another day). Basically, I can out-Hindu most Hindus. 

Then the Lwa found me in New Orleans and everything was chaos and I discovered Vodou. (Although the Lwa havr been with me my whole life, I didn’t realize until then.) It’s a tradition I knew little about. I have no privilege of birth, no credentials or education that come with it. I have to speak for myself in a different way, to find faith in myself in a different way.  The very things I love about Vodou—its capacity to level, its lack of hierarchy—are the very things that stir the doubt in my depths. In Vodou I am no one. I am leveled. I have to struggle through my fear and frailties in order to find or make myself. And I’d rather there not be any witnesses to that journey. It’s bad enough that I have to witness it.

These people I’m in disagreement with affect me because they  reveal things about me that I’d rather ignore. Anger I can embrace. Lack of confidence is something I have a hard time accepting, assessing and forgiving myself for. The closer we are to something, the more it can threaten us.

However, feeling insecure and like maybe I don’t know what I’m talking about might slow me down but does not shut me up. It’s  also been pointed out that shutting me up can be a little, um, challenging.

Here is my response to a very lovely post from another group admin describing traditional Haitian Vodou which stated, among other things, that there is one true Vodou, and (although nothing was directed at me personally) I am not a part of it.

~If for some insane reason this post is not long enough for you, and you feel the need to see the whole conversation, you can view it here and here.~

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I'm going to try and tread carefully here. I do not intend any of what follows to be an analysis of your tradition, I am trying only to respond to your comments regarding yours being the one true Vodou.

I agree that someone cannot take a class or read a few books and then expect to be accepted into a tradition, although the books and the class may lead them to find a tradition. Discipline, guidance and commitment to one's tradition are necessary.

I also agree that people should not label what they are doing as traditional Haitian Vodou if it is not. That is both disrespectful and delusional. Where I disagree is with your statements that other paths are "Pseudo-Voodoo" which threaten your tradition's future. Please let me be clear that I am not referring to doing things haphazardly or randomly, but to other different or emergent traditions and communities that respectfully serve the Lwa.

As someone born into a very ancient spiritual lineage, not hundreds but thousands of years old, (see? I somehow manage to drag that in) I understand the need to preserve and pass on tradition. It IS a calamity for these ancient and wise ways to vanish. However, I don't think that the existence of different, syncretic or parallel traditions in any way threatens the ancient way of doing things.

As for altering tradition, most ancient traditions change as the years go on, in subtle as well as obvious ways. Do you think that a tradition that excludes women from being clergy is destroyed when women become clergy? One comment I have heard from an African practitioner is that women cannot be "real" priests in the way men are. Someone in Africa might well consider Caribbean traditions "pseudo voodoo" that threatens to corrupt and destroy their ancient tradition. (Although most of the traditional African practitioners I know do not see boundaries around their faith. As it was put to me, Vodou is "everywhere and everything").

Alterations, evolution or innovation aside, even some ancient traditions do not recognize other, equally ancient, traditions. (Hindus have been disagreeing with other Hindus for literally ages). We can choose to recognize the legitimacy of other people's faith, in the same way we hope our own faith will be respected. That does not mean we understand or agree with it.

We all have a hard time taking our younger siblings seriously! Africa is the soil of Vodou. Caribbean traditions are younger and different from African traditions, not less real or less authentic. They are not African traditions altered for personal preference. They are birthed, evolved from and perpetuate ancient ways, not particular practice, but the deep knowledge, the pulse that underlies and gives life to the visible.

Likewise, there are ways to serve the Lwa that are not traditional Haitian Vodou as you describe it, and "different" does not mean watering down or corrupting something authentic. Practitioners of your tradition's path are not the only ones who have real relationships with the Lwa. As an East Indian I frequently often offer guests something they have never tried before...quite often they like it. Does that significantly change them as a person? Are they less of who they are because they had some chai? If the Lwa don't like something, they are, as you pointed out, very capable of saying so. If the guest is as happy with chai at my house as with chicken at yours, what is the problem?

I'm going to use the example of New Orleans Vodou, as it's what I'm familiar with. New Orleans has its own Lwa, some of which are Haitian and before that, African. Others are local. Just as Haiti looks to Africa, New Orleans looks to Haiti. For a Haitian practitioner, going to Africa to initiate into the ways of the Lwa is not necessary; their Lwa are right there in Haiti. For the practitioner of New Orleans Vodou, their Lwa are right there as well. The pulse of New Orleans is Vodou, deep and real and true.

There is also "Pseudo-Voodoo," or "tourist voodoo" as it's often called, in New Orleans: souvenirs, performances and so on. I imagine the same is true in Haiti?...the intent is to entertain and bring in tourist dollars. That is what makes it "pseudo." People may confuse this with Vodou in the peristyle. It is not.

From what I understand, there are many native Haitian practitioners who do not feel that there is "one true Vodou" as defined in the terms you set forth. There are also those who share your views. I'm sure, as with all traditions, there are some who feel that one must be born into it.

Which of these views represents Vodou? One of them? Two? All three? Are the ones who recognize or perform kanzo outside of Haiti not "real" Vodousiants, despite their being born and initiated into generations-old lineages in Haiti? Do people not born in Haiti and not raised in that culture, have the authority to tell native Haitians that what they are practicing is not real, or that they have no authority to interact with their family Lwa or practice their own ancestral traditions in the manner of their choosing? (I have no idea where you're born, I'm just trying to make a point about the dangers of using only one tradition as a synonym for authenticity.)

Isn't that what happens when the missionaries come? They start deciding what is religion and what is not?

I understand the need for distinct markers by which to define what is and what isn't a particular tradition. Much of your post is a great example of how to do that. These traditions MUST be preserved. But where we differ, is that I think it is possible to define, practice and perpetuate a tradition without labeling everything outside of it as false.

Isn't that our complaint about conservative, proselytizing Christians? That they think everything outside of their tradition is a 'pseudo' religion which threatens and destroys the one true faith? Don't we keep saying that those views are based on ignorance and fear?
I'd ask you to consider the same thing I ask the conservative Christian to consider: How, exactly, does the way I worship in my home threaten the way you worship in yours? Who has the authority to judge what is real religion?

One way of worship offers no insult or threat whatsoever to another...until we choose to denigrate a different way of life as false and set ourselves, and our tradition, above all others as the sole authority for truth. Is that Vodou? If so, you're right, what I practice is not Vodou at all.

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~If you’re going to leave a comment, and I wish you would, please keep in mind that some of the people I’ve discussed (probably not the infamous, Unfriendly Mambo) may read this, and thus your comments. So, be nice. We may disagree, but they are still my sisters. And if you threaten my family, well… I might have to get the machete out.

The Vodou that I do.

Recently, a friend at a party asked me what, exactly, it is that I do as a Vodou priestess. I was silent for a moment, then launched into an explanation heavy on the giving-of-counsel–regardless-of-faith and general hand-holding, as if I am primarily an unpaid social worker who just happens to keep a lot of rum and candles around the house.

I find myself doing this a lot—the secular priestess act. I can’t lay the blame on cautious representation of the Vodou taboo to the fearful. I have to admit it: this is just how I am. My intellect tends to overpower my good sense, and I then suddenly it’s like I’m behind a podium. I reduce my religion to historical context and social components. The answer I should have given—the answer my friend deserved—is very simple. As a Vodou priestess, I serve the Spirits, and I serve the community.

So what the hell does that mean? Well, let me tell you, it varies. Lately, it’s kind of sucked. Here’s why.

My surgery was less than a week after the earthquake and I was furious that I had to stop what I was doing; I mean, surgery always makes me furious that I have to stop what I’m doing, but come on!  This is life or death for thousands of people. I’m busy fundraising here. I kept thinking: please let me continue to help somehow.

I got what I asked for. Lucky me. Stupid me!

I've had a good number of surgeries in the last 8 years; but that is a post for another day. What’s relevant here is that while under anesthesia, I occasionally meet the nearly or newly dead; it’s not usually a big deal, they show me stuff, or talk for a bit & then drift off. It’s always peaceful: misty and bright in a based-on-a-true-story, I-saw-an-angel, spiritual porn kind of way.

This is not what happens when I go in for the latest surgery —this is hardcore. Countless people are begging me to bring them, or their loved ones, to the hospital I am in. There are many crying out in helplessness agony, begging to be rescued from under the rubble. They don’t realize they are dead at first; I think many are dying as they speak to me. Later, I wonder, how did these souls find me here, so many hundreds of miles away from where they lay dying? I imagine a big blinking arrow on a Google map in the Ether: “Manbo Here.” I guess distance is only a physical concern. But right now, these are not my thoughts. I am here. I do my best to reassure them, hold their hands, send them on. Once they realize they are dead, most become very peaceful and drift off, but some still want me to help their families. They are desperate.

This is not frightening; I do feel beleaguered, like the only airline employee at an airport in a war zone, where nobody knows how to get to their flights but everybody knows they’re late.

Things are getting hazy. I see some people join their loved ones. A woman gives a cry of fierce joy and swings a lanky boy into her arms. I smile before I remember. He’s here because he’s dead.

Waking up post-op is always pretty disorienting. Recovery from surgery is always a little rough, often leaving both Urban & me emotionally ragged. This has been a tough one. I’m moody, whiny, angry. I feel the Dead hovering just out of the range of my vision; as I drift off to sleep, as I wake up, as I pass though moments of transition, they come forward. They are not all polite. I feel wrenching sympathy for them, but sometimes I want them to leave me alone for a bit. Narcotics withdrawal is enough on its own just now, thanks. There are times I feel totally overwhelmed, clueless and wretchedly unworthy. I fumble around in the blur of my own life; as lost as anyone. How am I supposed to help these souls find their way? I feel selfish and tired and my stomach hurts and I yell at Urban.

I remember going into initiation last year and being told: if you are doing this to make your life easier, leave now! This will make your life harder, but truer. I remember nodding and smiling and thinking I knew what that meant. I realize now, we never know what a vow meant when we take it. That’s why you have to make vows—duh, so when the challenge of reality exceeds your imagination, you don’t scarper. When your heart breaks, your conscience keeps beating. It can be as brutal as it sounds. You’ve had that moment of hesitation in a doorway, aching to leave but knowing you promised to stay.  Romantic imaginings (I’m going to be a Vodou priestess, how cool is THAT?) are a pale, pretty shadow of something greater. Beyond ideas of how it ought to be, there’s a genuine way of being. I feel an incredible outrushing of gratitude: for the Dead and the life they’ve had, the life I’m still living, and the trust they show in me. In their final moment it does not matter where I am or how I feel or if I’m worthy. I promised to serve. I’ll just have to work with what I’ve got.

I've done some brief ceremonies as I've recovered from my surgery. This Friday is Shivarathri, the festival for Shiva (yeah I’m Hindu too, by birth--that is definitely a topic for a different post). I will try to do some focused work over the weekend to help the Dead, as He's (kind of) the Hindu Gede, and my long-time patron.

My community in New Orleans has also been doing ceremonies for the Dead; every Vodou house I know is doing ceremonies to guide and honor them. They media has shared lovely pictures and footage of Christians singing and praying, but be assured there are also many, many people, both in Haiti and around the world, who are not Christian, or not only Christian, serving those in need, those who live and suffer and those who have passed to the next life. If you are one of the many who offered prayers for the Dead, your prayers were heard. They thank you.

So what, exactly, do I do as a Vodou priestess? It varies. Right now, I light candles, coax, pray, chant and sing the Dead on to Guinen, the homeland waiting under the Waters. I tell them they will not be forgotten, that now they are our memory, history, inspiration. They are our guides. In leading them home, I’ve found my way.

Comfort & Joy Division

I’m hanging out in the big dome room of my farm, listening to Joy Division and talking to a new Twitter friend about his day. He thanked me for my efforts to get help to his family in Haiti. His uncle is still buried under rubble, but they think he is alive. I feel a warm wave of pride, followed closely by a crushing sense of shame…what the hell did I do? I tweeted. I sent emails. I did stuff of Facebook. I donated. I asked others to donate. So little, in the face of so much.

I am overtaken by gloom; this is why I shouldn’t listen to Joy Division.

It feels wrong to go about my day. Everything I do feels acutely, embarrassingly, wrapped in privilege. I don’t feel well, so Urban brings dinner home; I think of people in Jacmel, traumatized and hungry, wondering when they will eat next. I wrestle yet another mangled rabbit away from the dogs and feel sick at the sight of the broken body. I take a painkiller and feel anxious about my surgery on Thursday; I think of people in Port au Prince sitting on the sidewalk waiting to have crushed limbs amputated.  Suddenly, I can’t take Ian Curtis moaning at me anymore, and shut off the music. I light my altar and think of the NYT article quoting a man holding his bleeding girlfriend in his arms and saying “Bless us, oh Lord, but please send a doctor to plug the hole in my beloved’s head.”

As I watch the candles flicker, my guilt intensifies, peaks, falls away. I feel something else. An emptiness and peace, a thankfulness for my comfort, for the universal ritual of light. I feel empathy—wait, it’s not what you think. I feel empathy for myself. I realize that I can only find myself where I am; I can only live the life I am given. I’m not in Haiti. I can’t trade my comfort for another’s suffering. I’ve given what I can and I’ll keep giving, as I can. If I could share my dinner, my Darvocet, my comfy couch, they’d already be in a shipping container. If I could donate my surgeon, operating room and health insurance, I would.

All I can share is what can be given. Right now it’s a moment: my awareness and the light of Spirit. To the people of Haiti, know this: Legba of the crossroads is with you. Ganesh who overcomes obstacles is helping you. Fierce Dantor looks over you. Mother Ayizan walks among you. Ezili weeps for you. Ogun the warrior stands guard and works though the hand of the surgeon. Jesus, most gentle, is with you. Simbi moves as a river of compassion and communication, pouring the message across the world: Haiti! Haiti! Haiti!  Gede is there, immense and compassionate, taking the dead in his arms. They party with him tonight; rum and laughter flow freely beneath the Waters. You see these Spirits, these ways of being human, in the faces of the aid workers, your neighbors, family, children, yourselves. They are you, Haiti, and they are me. I am there, my brothers and sisters, in every one of you, in every way I know how.

I turn the music back on, sit in candlelight. And let it myself be what I am.