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.