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!