When Santeria Goes Mainstream

As a Iyawo, one way I spend my time is through Facebook. I started two groups on Facebook and like to add photos to my online photo albums (I'm an amateur photographer).

One group I belong to is Orisha-Space. The group has nearly 900 members, and grows every day. It's basically an online crossroads for people to discuss anything related to Ocha/Lucumi/Santeria/Candomble/Umbanda/Quimbada/Ifa.

From discussion postings at Orisha-Space I learned about the "London Lucumi Choir," and then saw a video of the group on YouTube. Apparently, the group is in a national choir competition. On one hand, I feel the awe of the tremendous reach of the Orishas and their power to attract people of all backgrounds and nationalities ... including me. On the other hand, it was strange to see the songs sung as a "choir," when singing to the Orisha is not meant for the stage, or for spectacle.

I shouldn't talk. I've sung for the Orisha on a stage ... more than a few times, when I was the member of an Afro-Cuban dance troupe. But I think about the Tambors I've been to, where everyone is singing, and there is no stage, and if there were, the drummers would complain. Instead, everyone is crowded around the drums, facing the drums -- not the audience, and the only one who's looking out at everyone (besides the drummers) is the Apon, who plays a very sacred role.

It is a very Western thing to take something that is communal, where everyone responds to the call, and transform it into spectacle. I grapple with this issue, because I want to build respect and understanding of The Religion -- and because I myself discovered The Religion through dance and music. I can't be a hypocrite.

Still, I remember my surprise when I was in Cuba for my Initiation, and my most important elder, my abuelo -- the padrino of my padrino's madrina, said I knew too much. I knew too many songs. I knew too many secrets. I loved to sing these songs, but I hadn't realized that these too were secrets revealed in time, to those with lifelong commitment to the Orishas. The songs were to be treated with reverence. Once "inside," one had to learn songs the way we must learn our Ita.

I wonder how it would feel to be an elder in the religion, practicing the ways of my ancestors, and see the sacred songs presented on a stage. Would I be excited to see songs for the Orisha presented in such a "respectable" environment? Or is this the issue: respectable or respectful? Do we want "respect" from "outsiders" so much that we must sacrifice respect for our elders and our rules? And why is a stage considered the "respectable" place?

It would be a shame if the same people who paid for a performance of Orisha music turned around and complained about the Tambor in the house next door ...

Riding a Bike While Wearing White

It's not easy riding a bike (in this case, one of those 4-wheel "quad bikes") while wearing a white skirt. In my case, I was wearing a white skirt over a white slip over white pants over white pantyhose, plus white shoes, a white sweatshirt (over a white undershirt), a white lacy shawl and a white baseball cap (over a small white headscarf). And of course I was wearing my Elekes and Ide (sacred beaded necklaces and bracelet).

E and his young son and I went for a bike/carriage ride at the Bill Baggs Cape National Park in Key Biscayne today. I loved being outside and enjoying this time with two people I love very much. Both are also Santeros, and sons of Obatala. The park has a paved path that divides the edge of the forest from the rocky seawall of Biscayne Bay, where anglers stand in wait for bites by mangrove snappers or flounder.

In the middle of our ride, we disembarked because E wanted to pick up some shells for one of his arts projects. Tiny shells litter the floor of the forest, a reminder of the proximity of these trees to the water. I relished being in the forest, and I know Ochosi did, too. Instead of hunting shells, I hunted with my camera.

The toughest part of riding the bike was making sure that the wheels of the carriage didn't "eat" my skirt, and I managed just fine.

E was more aware of the stares than I was: I think the unwanted attention was the toughest part for him. At this point, I really don't care. It's taken a short while to become accustomed to the stares, but I'm not letting them get to me.

The more I am a Iyawo, the more I discover my ability and courage to be different. I would so much rather be true to myself and my faith than let my life be dictated by the anxieties and intolerance of others.

The Ochosi Sign

It's Sunday, and this afternoon I was sitting at the little concrete table in the front yard of my apartment building, writing in my journal. My apartment building sits on the corner of an intersection in Little Havana, and from the table I could distract myself by looking at pedestrians, dog-walkers, cars with loud stereos, and the old guy who feeds the birds.

Maybe everyone was with their families enjoying New Year's Day weekend, but the street seemed particularly quiet. I saw a young man, mulatto, ride by on his bike. But as soon as he began to pass the intersection, he slowed down and got off his bike, leaving it right in the middle of the road. Now this already seemed unusual, so he had all my attention. He was in the exact center of the intersection, near a single pigeon, which he began to follow, leaning down close to the ground and snapping his fingers. I could tell he had done this before. Suddenly he leaped into the air and grabbed for the scared pigeon, which burst up in flight. He missed it by inches.

Then he looked at me and smiled. I shrugged my shoulders, thinking, "Better luck next time!" And he repeated my gesture, getting on his bike and continuing on his way.

My Padrino doesn't believe in signs, but I do, and I knew this was a sign from Ochosi. I laughed out loud, enjoying the message. I knew he was familiarizing himself with my neighborhood and our local bird population. He just wanted to let me know. Ahh, Ochosi. Don't worry: you'll catch the next one.

The White Flower

I was leaving work, and driving my car the familiar path towards the entrance of 395. As I approached one the busy intersection just before the onramp, I noticed a homeless fellow I'd never seen before. I'm used to the regulars who stake out this key locale. He was an older White gentleman with a white beard, and he immediately approached my car. My windows were down, and I figured he was going to ask me for ...

But no, all he did was smile at me, and put a white flower underneath my windshield wiper. Then he walked away. The flower was beautiful, but I figured it would blow away as soon as I got on the highway, because he had simply slipped into one of the notches in the wiper, and hadn't secured it firmly underneath the rubber blades.

I got on 395, then 95, and the flower didn't blow away. In fact, I made it all the way home, and the flower was just fine, even though its pretty head had tossed furiously during its journey.

Once I entered my apartment, I immediately found a little vase to put it in. And later, I asked E (my significant other, and a Santero) to tell me if it was sacred to an Orisha.

Somehow I wasn't surprised when he told me the answer: It's sacred to Obatala, KIng of the White Cloth.

First Day of Work

Today was my first day back at work since my initiation. As always I showered, still getting used to the lightness of my head without the burden of my long hair. I tied my panuelo around my head, feeling more and more accustomed to the rituals of my Iyaworaje.

In my bedroom, I had laid out an outfit to wear at work. For work attire, my Padrino had given me permission to combine white with another (light) color. I could even wear a wig if I wanted to. But a wig would look fake on me, because my hair has never been particularly neat.

I stood there looking at the outfit -- a green blouse and one of my white linen skirts, along with all the required underclothing. But then I remembered my Ita. I remembered what Obatala and Ochosi had said.

I put away the green blouse, and returned to my closet, which had been weeded of all pieces of dark clothing (now in storage bags underneath my bed). I found a white linen blouse. I was going to dress all in white.

I had only a few options for what to wear on my head, over my panuelo, and I chose my white lidded cap. Then I put on my Ide, and my Elekes, filled with increasing confidence and determination not to hide my faith. Already, several co-workers (including my boss and direct supervisor) knew I practiced Santeria, and knew of my initiation.

Shawl around my shoulders, I stepped out of my apartment building, ready for this next milestone in my journey.

As I walked up the stairs to work, I dreaded having to tell M that she could no longer give me her daily hug. The receptionist, an older Black Christian woman, took a liking to me because I take the time to greet her and ask how she's doing. For about six months now, she's given me a big hug every time I walk in the door.

Phew. The desk was empty. I wanted to see her, but not now. I needed time to adjust.

The director of Human Resources, P, approached me with a big smile. "How are you!!! How was everything!" Her demeanor was warm and genuine. I was a little taken aback. She too was a devout Christian, and I when I had shared my decision to become a priestess of Santeria, I could see the concern on her face, and her struggle to stay professional. Now she seemed very different: maybe she had to go through her own transition.

My boss treated me similarly, and I expressed my gratitude for her efforts to cultivate a workplace tolerant of difference, including religious differences.

Then again, they already knew what I had done, and had had time to prepare. Other co-workers had no idea. What would they think? So instead of forcing my co-workers to wonder, "What happened to Corinna? Why is she dressed all in white? What happened to her hair?" I decided to open up.

Every time I saw a group of co-workers, and caught the look of confusion in their eyes, I would say, "The reason I am dressed in white is because I was just initiated as a priestess in my religion, which is Santeria. I have a lot of rules to follow for a year, and one of them is that I can't touch you, so don't take it personally if I can't give you a hug or shake your hand. And if you have any questions, you can ask me."

Deep breath. I did it. Again. And again. My confidence level kept rising. I am NOT going to hide my religion. This organization is full of social workers. They better understand the religious diversity of Miami! Maybe they will become more aware and tolerant of Santeria when they get used to me being a Santera!

Every co-worker responded a little differently, but for the most part they seemed supportive. One co-worker joked, "Knowing I can't touch you makes me WANT to touch you!" We laughed, and I began to relax.

My First Visit to Publix

I had to go grocery shopping. I had to mentally prepare for my first visit to my local Publix as a Iyawo. I have the advantage of living in Little Havana, and certainly not being the first Iyawo to visit this grocery store. All the same, I wondered -- how would I be treated? Will someone make a nasty comment?

Ya gotta do what you gotta do. So I prepared myself, dressed from head to toe in white, with my lacy shawl around my shoulders, and got in my car to drive to the store. After finding a parking spot near the entrance, I disembarked, taking in deep breaths as I made my way to the store. I focused on finding a shopping cart.

Within a minute of entering the store, after steering the cart left through the Bakery section, I heard two men call out simultaneously, "¡Bendición, Iyawo!" I was so taken off guard that I didn't even look their way, but instead crossed my arms over my chest and bowed slightly in return. Well, this has gotten off to a good start, I thought, and smiled. As I meandered through the aisles, I realized that I would have to tie a knot in my shawl so I could have two hands free, and the thick lacy material made the knot large and conspicuous. Like I said: gotta do what you gotta do.

Then it wasn't difficult at all. I picked up fruits and vegetables (garlic, peppers, oranges, broccoli, bananas ...), organic nonfat milk and yogurt, and some beef and chicken. The store became more and more crowded, and I wanted to get out ASAP. (You definitely become more sensitive as a Iyawo.)

As I stood in the checkout line, an older gentleman approached me and said, "Hija de Yemaya..." (daughter of Yemaya) and pointed to my Ide (sacred bracelet), which has blue, coral, yellow and gold beads. "No, hija de Ochosi," I explained (daughter of Ochosi). "Ohhh," the man said, nodding and smiling.

Suddenly, a young woman standing in the next line exclaimed, "¡Mi esposo es hijo de Ochosi!" (My husband is a son of Ochosi!").

Ahh, I love Little Havana!