Storyville Opera House at the corner of Bienville and N. Rampart St. (1904)

Hs. VAUDEVILLIAN CIRCUS

In a city too well acquainted with horror and the supernatural, one event stands out in New Orleans’ long litany of unexplained tragedies.  On April 8^th, 1904 at the Storyville Opera House on what is today North Rampart Street, just blocks from the famed French Quarter an evening’s performance ended in inexplicable tragedy.

On this site, Dean Parewig Lawrence (professionally known as “D.P. Lawrence”) a circus impresario and former stagehand held a Vaudevillian variety show.  Of the 134 people known to be in the building that evening, all but two were dead or permanently insane within weeks of the performance.  Interpretations and theories about what happened vary wildly but the common thread in every account is a supernatural act, conjuring or experiment gone horrifically wrong.

Lawrence rented the building in the fall of 1903 for a pittance on the promise of large revenues to come from the theater he intended to open there.  At that time, the building had been derelict for many years but it had originally been a hospital for yellow fever victims during the frequent outbreaks of the 1800s.  In the 1870s it is said that the so-called “Voodoo Queen” Marie Laveau was regularly seen at the hospital, tending to the sick.

For months after he acquired the building, Lawrence aggressively courted New Orleans theater society to generate interest and seek funds for the restoration of the building, promising a “world class house of drama, comedy and theater.”  During this time he also assembled his troupe of performers and began rehearsing them for the theater’s opening performance.  Lawrence refused to give the names of his players but claimed that they hailed from twelve different countries and that they were world-class performers.  Some speculated that the whole thing was a hoax and that Lawrence was actually using a troupe of unknown amateurs. Even this sparked public curiosity.

For the theater’s inaugural offering, Lawrence promised a Vaudevillian spectacular entitled “The Cirque Nuit,” or nighttime circus.  The show was to feature live music, fortune telling, juggling, trapeze artists, oriental (belly) dancers, fire performance, sideshow acts and a finale with a mystery performer who Lawrence evasively described as, “a dazzling incarnation, a pyramid of oriental dance,” saying poetically in the Times-Democrat theater column (“Vaudeville to open new Storyville Opera House”; Times-Democrat, Jan. 3, 1904), “all men will gaze in terrible wonder at her undulating scales.”

Enterprising as he was Lawrence used his connections with the stagehands in town to sneak in to New Orleans’ largest theaters on show nights during intermission.  On no less than 4 occasions, Lawrence simply waited until the house lights went up & strode onstage, first asking the audience a moment’s indulgence and then quickly and clearly making his pitch for both their patronage and their financial support.  Due to his poise and presence onstage people assumed Lawrence was supposed to be there.  It was only the day after in the papers that these publicity stunts were revealed.  New Orleanians howled with amusement and as a result of his impish earnestness Lawrence quickly became known for his dark wardrobe, his sharp looks and the passion with which he spoke about his theater and the Cirque Nuit.

Jean-Robert LaCourre, a funeral director on Magazine Street and a vocal supporter of the arts in New Orleans was so charmed by Lawrence’s bravado that he invited the troupe to perform at his home for his birthday party.  Lawrence eagerly obliged.  Mr. LaCourre said in the Picayune society column that the private performance Mr. Lawrence offered, “erased all doubt that the Cirque Nuit is the most impressively skilled troupe of performers I’ve yet seen in a lifetime of New Orleans theater.” (Picayunne; Societe’; Feb. 14, 1904)

By now the city was abuzz with anticipation and publicity was good.  Lawrence made sure to capitalize on it and by March of 1904 Cirque Nuit’s three performance opening engagement (Apr. 8-10^th, 1904) was completely sold out and the future of the theater looked bright.

The opening performance was scheduled to take place at an inexplicable 1:11am.  When pressed by a reporter as to why the show was going on so late a winking Lawrence said simply, “Late?  That idiot Houdini kept a house up all night last month in London and that was a one-trick show.  Never you fear we’ll give them a show to remember with a cup of chicory coffee on the side.” (Picayunne; playbill section; April , 1904)

When the night finally arrived, the theater opened at midnight and patrons were greeted inside by a Dixieland parlour quartet.  Coffee and beignets were served by clowns and stilt-walking harlequinne.  The performance started normally; there was a juggling act, a fire-eater, a belly dancer, a magician and so on.  It is around this point that stories begin to diverge.

What is known is that at the beginning of what was to be the finale of the show a woman covered in black robes and a hood was ushered onstage.  The musicians began and Lawrence acted as conductor.  The stage was lit with a large number of candles and Lawrence began reciting a strange litany of poetic verses in a foreign tongue.  Theatrical certainly but nothing seemed out of the ordinary.  The woman is said to have started moving very slowly like a rousing reptile when Lawrence intoned the verses and shortly he seemed to swoon before her.  Then suddenly, convulsing he screamed and dropped to his knees.  What is agreed upon is that the woman onstage began to howl and everyone in the building began to panic.

THE ONES WHO GOT OUT

Janos Pinski, the fortune teller and one of only a few eyewitnesses claimed that, “she had stepped forward and began to pull off her hood and robes, she was beautiful, but almost as soon as the light caught her face, it grew brighter and brighter until I couldn’t stand it and I had to look away.  The air turned cold, so cold I could see my breath.  Then she screamed and I was so frightened I ran out of the theater as fast as I could.  That scream, it wasn’t human, it made the whole building shake.  It was agony!” [Tulane Univ.; Dept. of Antiquities, “Cirque Nuit Incident;” NOPD, Sgt. M. Monaghan, Rpt. No 9864]

When interviewed by police inspectors, residents nearby reported hearing a horrible sound like a great, agonized scream, around 3 in the morning.

Mr. & Mrs. Arnaud Baudelaire left the theater hastily just before the finale and in their buggy made for their home near Metairie, LA.  On the drive the buggy snapped an axle and Mr. Baudelaire was thrown face-first into a turnbuckle and died.  His wife unable to remove the horse’s bridle & harness, started the walk home and was found the following morning on the roadside; dead of hypothermia.

Carol-Anne Rouchard a talented young actress and singer who had attended the performance had been by all accounts a vivacious, animated young woman.  She left the theater that night in mute shock and never spoke another word again.  A week later she experienced a sleepwalking incident and awoke at the Old Ursuline convent on Chartres St.  She lived the rest of her life at the convent and in her old age became a stigmatic.
Henri Roussard, a leather dealer and arts patron in New Orleans was seen leaving the theater that night bleeding from the ears.  He walked four blocks to nearby St. Louis Cathedral where he entered the church, walked up to the tabernacle, lay face down on the floor and simply expired.  A shocked priest who had been in prayer watched Roussard enter the cathedral, lie down and die.

Nadya Brynner was 63; she had been a fixture of New Orleans theater along with her husband Nikos who died in the building that night.  Panic-stricken, she could not recall how she got out of the building.  She died two weeks later of exhaustion after slipping into a violent fever.  The illness left her in a hallucinatory reverie, punctuated by visceral nightmares and screaming fits.  Mrs. Brynner claimed to be plagued by dreams of a spectral woman with black eyes and a terrible scream.

Rosalyn Dubois, daughter of the Louisiana seafood magnate Herbert Dubois, left the performance in hysterics.  The only thing that calmed her in the days that followed was sitting at her harpsichord and playing the melody of the Cirque Nuit overture.  Any attempt by doctors or nurses to remove Rosalyn from her harpsichord resulted in fits of screaming rage, crying and violence.  Seven days after the tragedy at the theater, Rosalyn Dubois jumped from the roof of her father’s garden district mansion and died on the flagstones below.

Janos Pinski the fortune-teller was interviewed by police and allowed to go home.  In the days that followed, Pinski attempted to read his Tarot cards for information about what had happened but to no avail.  With increasing frustration Pinski became convinced that whatever gift he had for divination had left him.  He drank heavily and was seen in the pharmacy on Royal St. purchasing a bevy of sedatives from camphor to laudanum to opium, presumably in an attempt to reach his oracle.  Eight days after the Cirque Nuit incident Pinski was found drowned in the tub of his apartment after slipping into an Absinthe-fueled stupor.

Mr. William Henry Hyde, a retired British Army officer, gave his statement to the police, saying simply that he had no explanation but that he ran from the theater when he saw panic break out.  “I suppose I thought it was part of the show you know.  But when the other people reached the panicked state that they did…  Well, I served in India, I’ve seen riots break out and I saw that this was no different.  I figured best run with others, ahead of them if possible or be trapped there with…  Well, God knows.”

After giving his statement Mr. Hyde headed for his home at the far end of Esplanade Avenue near Bayou St. John.  Arriving there in the wee hours of the morning, Mr. Hyde exited the streetcar and waited for an inbound streetcar to pass.  In the dewy pre-dawn hours Mr. Hyde slipped on a damp section of track and fell forward landing in front of the oncoming streetcar with no time to recover and was decapitated.

Twenty-one days after the performance the last of the people known to have survived the event and escaped the building was found.  The bloated body of Howard O’Brien washed up on the banks of the Mississippi near the St. Joseph Plantation.

The night of the horror; NOPD had received a tip from a waiter at Café Du Monde saying that in the early hours of the morning, someone had come running into the Café claiming that a man in a grey suit had just walked into the river and started swimming off in the direction of Algiers.  By the time the waiter a few others had run back over the embankment to the river’s edge, nothing could be seen.  Howard O’Brien was listed as a suicide.

THE LIVING

One person in the building that night who seemed to suffer no immediate ill effects is the so-called Voodoo Queen of New Orleans, Mama K.  Mama K was arrested by police at the scene of the tragedy and charged by the New Orleans’ District Attorney as an accessory to murder for her participation in the show.  However, due to a complete lack of material evidence the charges were dropped after only a few days.

As a result of the incident and because she had associated with a white theater troupe, Mama K. lost her position of primacy within the Voodoo community of New Orleans and remained bitter about it until her death in 1918 of Spanish flu.

Samuel R.  Baylor, had been a reporter for the Times-Picayune at the time of the incident and approached Mama K. for an interview about the Cirque Nuit Horror in 1914.  Ten years after the incident Mama K. was still furious and at first refused to make comment.  What Baylor did get out of her he could not print in the paper but included in a magazine article for Horror Stories magazine entitled, “Circus of the Dead.” [Popular Publications, 1937]

When asked by Baylor what happened the night of the Cirque Nuit, Mama K. reacted angrily the moment Lawrence’s name was mentioned.  “That dumb [expletive deleted] done tried to cross the cross woman, that’s what happened.  Left hands always get crossed theyselves; you don’t know that?  That boy asked me to sing a hoodoo song, I sang a hoodoo song and that’s all I did!  What he did ain’t never right!  Lord! … Where you from!?!?”  She slammed the door in Baylor’s face and refused to say anymore.

The other person known to have survived and frankly, in better shape than anyone else present that night was the coat check boy, Peter Endersen Phillips.  Phillips was 20 years old and working nights to finance his education.  For no reason anyone can explain, Phillips, was unaffected by whatever happened inside the theater.  He was also the NOPD’s main source of information on what happened immediately following the show’s tragic climax.

[…“Phillips recalled sipping a cup of coffee and looking into his cup to see a large black beetle float to the surface of his drink.  Shocked he leapt backwards dropping his cup.  As it shattered on the floor, Phillips looked up to see a couple coming out of the theater the wife in hysterics.  The husband was pleading with his wife, saying, “you didn’t see anything, its just lights and nonsense,” just then the husband’s voice cracked, “lights and nonsense.”  The husband began to sob as he walked past Phillips.  Phillips also remembers seeing Mr. Henri Roussard walk down the stairs slowly, but with his eyes fixed dead ahead.  Phillips saw that blood was trickling from Roussard’s ears.  Phillips asked him if everything was all right in the theater and Roussard did not respond.”…] (Horror Stories, “Circus of the Dead”, by S.R. Baylor, Popular Publications, 1937)

Just as Phillips was about to ask Mr. Roussard if he could call a doctor, he heard a tremendous scream that shook the floorboards and ran for his life.  A group of frightened patrons fled the theater right behind him.  A woman identified as one of the waitresses tripped in her panic to escape and fell down the staircase, snapping her neck and killing her instantly.

Once outside Phillips claims he looked up at the second story windows and saw a green-tinted fire burning inside the theater. After that he says he saw a bright green light emanate from the building in all directions and shoot outwards with a tremendous boom, like an explosion.  Then just as suddenly, it was quiet.  The electrical power in the building had blown and Phillips stood with the other survivors in stupefied silence hoping to see someone emerge.  No one did.

Within minutes of the disturbance New Orleans policemen began to arrive.  The first on the scene was a beat Sergeant Monaghan, who came upon the theater and said this in his report:

“Approximately 3:14am on April the 9^th, 1904 while on patrol in the neighborhood of Storyville on Bienville St., Sgt. heard tremendous sound in the direction of North Rampart St. & proceeded on foot to the Storyville Opera House.  Sgt. found there 9 souls standing adjacent to theater entrance in various states of hysteria & delusion.  Sgt. found & interviewed one P.E. Phillips a staff member & witness to the event.  His explanation was unclear & led Sgt. to enter the theater himself to ascertain the nature of the disruption there.  Upon reaching second floor level, Sgt. found theater doors open & saw clearly the faces of at least two-dozen men and women, still in their seats inside, all deceased.  Sgt. summoned additional officers immediately.” (Tulane Univ.; Dept. of Antiquities, “Cirque Nuit Incident;” NOPD, Sgt. M. Monaghan, Rpt. No 9862)

Police quickly swarmed the building and discovered the worst.  In all 121 bodies were found inside.  Performers, crew, kitchen staff and the entire audience save those who ran, lay inside the theater dead.

There were burn marks on stage; evidence of a minor fire but it did relatively little damage.  Beyond that none of the bodies found inside were killed by smoke inhalation or burns.  The Police department and the coroner’s office examined them one at a time and could find no medical explanation for the deaths.   It was as if they simply stopped living.

The Orleans parish coroner released a statement saying, “This is the most frustrating case I have been called to work on in my entire career.  Medically speaking these people should be alive right now.  Despite thorough analysis by our department in cooperation with faculty members from the Tulane University School of Medicine, multiple autopsies have failed to ascertain the cause of these deaths.  There are no wounds, no poisons, no evidence of heart attack; nothing, they’ve simply expired.  Upon inspection every patient was found to have an expression of abject terror on his face and I shudder to think what their dying eyes must have beheld.  May God have mercy on them all.”

The day after the incident police had sealed off the building and were in the process of recovering bodies and evidence.  Just at noon an elderly derelict woman approached the Police Inspector in charge, one Captain Morris from the street.  She walked right up to the inspector muttering in a strange tongue.  Just as Morris’ second, Lt. Thompson stood forward to warn the woman off, she said loudly, “Sekhmet Ha Ek!”  Thompson heard a strange hissing sound and turned to see a large snake emerge from under the banquette (wood plank sidewalk) and spring forth, striking the woman and biting her on the face and neck.  Lt. Thompson seized the animal by the tail and beat it dead on the banquette.  The woman who was never identified, died within minutes at the scene. (The snake was taken with the woman’s body to the city morgue and identified by a student intern from the Zoology department at Tulane Univ.  The snake was identified as N. haje or Naja haje, commonly known as the Egyptian cobra)

Dexter S. Gaster, the Superintendent of Police mounted a full-scale investigation and spent large sums of city money doing so.  After a few months with no leads, no Lawrence and no progress Gaster became the subject of public ridicule.  Due to the Cirque Nuit incident and its failed investigation the mayor of New Orleans, Paul Capdevielle took over the Police Dept. a few months later in July of 1904 and reorganized the department, selecting new leadership.

In a particularly strange twist, all official newspaper records of the incident disappeared.  The Times Democrat and the Picayune newspapers merged in 1904 and when the move was complete, a reporter went to view archives of the paper’s coverage.  Upon a thorough search the records and even the original photographs from the scene had vanished.  The new Times-Picayune editor said that they must have been lost accidentally.  Still, it is a frustrating loss and seems hardly coincidental.  Copies were saved but they have aged poorly in the humid southern atmosphere.  A few copies have been digitally reassembled.  Frustrating also is the fact that New Orleans coroners did not start keeping records of autopsy files until 1905.

Adding to the unpredictability of these mysterious events P.E. Phillips lived out the remainder of his life in relative peace and obscurity.    In 1928 he granted one interview, also to Samuel R. Baylor.  After that, he never spoke about the incident publicly again and he died peacefully in his sleep at the age of 89 in 1973.

The greatest unanswered question about that night is what happened to D.P. Lawrence?  His body was neither among those lost inside nor did he turn up again in town, at his apartment, anywhere.  Did he make it out with the first few?  Rosalyn Dubois thought she saw a man in a black suit similar to Lawrence’s run from the building as soon as they were outside.  Her subsequent fatal mental illness of course brings this, like so much else in this story into question.

Was Lawrence as some say consumed by whatever was unleashed that night?  New Orleans police scoured the city, Lawrence’s apartments and an area of swamp on the north end of the city known as Bayou St. Jean.  Not only had Mr. Hyde died there, not only was this an area Lawrence was known to visit.  But this was also an area known by locals to be a prime location for voodoo ceremonies dating back to the early 1800s.  After the Cirque Nuit horror there had been reports of a pack of dogs at the Bayou’s edge for some several weeks.  Local residents were unusually alarmed at the presence of these dogs and some swore that among these dogs they had seen one particularly overlarge mongrel animal that bore a striking resemblance to a Jackal.

In New Orleans these stories are by necessity, taken with a grain of salt.  Still the confluence of strange events and frustratingly little evidence is compelling even here. Ultimately, the building was demolished in the 1940s and today the site where the Opera House stood is nothing more than a parking lot.

Storyville Opera House  site today (2009)

In a city rife with stories of wild personalities, abandon, voodoo, murder and greed the story of the Cirque Nuit has faded from popular memory and taken its place among the oddities of New Orleans history.  It has in turn been replaced by new and more pressing horrors like economic stagnation, Hurricane Katrina and the first 27 years of the Saints football team. (Go Saints!)

AFTERWORD

This last section was transcribed from a recorded interview that my editor and boss Robert Hanson did after I finished researching the Cirque Nuit Horror.  I was basically freaked out and needed to vent so he took me to Decatur St.; got me fed, got me drinking and pressed record.  Here’s what I said once I stopped yelling at him and got some rum in me:

“When I got hired to look into the Cirque Nuit story I really didn’t know what I was getting into.  I’m the voodoo writer; I get that stuff, that’s what I know…why wouldn’t I go?  I figured if this is a really dark voodoo thing I’ll be able to understand it, even if it’s really gruesome and we can all “ooh” and “ahh” and the freakiness of it.  When I got to New Orleans this time, almost from the second I hit the ground and started talking to people, I felt this just really wrong, fucked-up, eerie feeling like I really wasn’t dealing with anything familiar.  Even the weather while we’ve been here, I mean… dude, its August!  Why have I been cold and clammy feeling in August?  Why has it been overcast? [Sips drink]

Researching this story left me with some serious goose bumps honestly.  I mean… We do these stories on purpose I know and its like, we WANT to find something, or we think we do when we get started, but then this…[pause] this got freaky man, fast.

Now, being here today, I only get an echo of whatever really happened that night.  All I can be sure of is that it was something… other than nothing.  No one has explained it adequately to me, but whatever was opened or invoked or broke through that night (right?) … killed almost everyone who saw it, and no one ever saw the man responsible again, not a body, not a set of clothes, not even a fingernail.  OK?  And they were REALLY looking!  And its basically been forgotten, I mean [sips drink] are they high?

[long pause]

What’s really shocking honestly, is this city’s ability to accept these events and move on… as though this was… ordinary business.  That chick at the voodoo shop last week was like, “well, that’s New Orleans.”  Are you fuckin’ kidding me?!?

[long pause, Rob says something inaudible to the waitress]

This was a truly eerie piece to work on and I am looking forward to my nice, quiet apartment in Oakland and some normal weather and no voodoo and my cat!  Cheers to that!”

I really couldn’t write a better epilogue, thanks Rob.

Paige Lawrence

February 2010

Paige Lawrence was hired as ethno botany and voodoo editor by Dark American in 2006.  This was his third investigation for the guide.  He is not related to D.P. Lawrence.

by Paige Lawrence

It started innocently enough I suppose.  I had been working as a recording engineer for a small company in Berkeley, California.  We recorded lectures and speeches by some of the world’s preeminent thinkers in the fields of philosophy, religion, meditation and transpersonal psychology.

In the first two years of my employ, I recorded Buddhist and Christian monks, Sufi sheikhs, rabbis, gurus, shamans, as well as a host of forward thinking environmentalists, doctors, lawyers, politicians, civil engineers, particle physicists, et cetera.

One day in the spring of 1998 my boss came in to the office and told me that a woman named Luisah Teish would be arriving shortly to listen to one of her recordings.  He told me she did a lot of work with ‘at risk’ teens.  A moment later an imposing, colorfully dressed, black woman entered the office.  She looked to be about 40 years old and had a presence that simultaneously demanded respect and radiated light and love.

Now, you must understand who is telling this story.  You see for as long as I can remember there has been a strong black woman somewhere in my life.  When I was very young it was my elementary school principal, Mrs. Penny-James.  Later it was a classmate’s mother, Betty Jean.  When I was in junior high school it was my vice-principal, Mrs. Gwen Carr.  When I was in high school it was a girl in my acting class.  The deeper I have delved into my study of African culture and spirituality, the more significant the impact that these women had upon my character becomes.

Teish and I were introduced and we sat down and began the editing process during which I listened to a collection of her workshops and speeches from various conferences on spirituality and environmental justice.  I mentioned her work with children and asked her what she did.

“You do interventions with teenagers don’t you,” I asked, “what’s it like?”

“Yeah,” she replied with a sigh, “well they get a serious reality check by the time I’m done with them.”

Teish and I got along right away and in the years that followed, became good friends.  I responded primarily to her no-nonsense attitude towards people and life in general.  Indeed it was sometime before I discovered that she was in fact a Voodoo priestess and a chieftain of the Yoruba tribe of Nigeria.

I have been studying religion and spirituality for most of my life and one of my favorite archetypes has always been that of the Shaman/Mentor shocking the student out of his or her own patterns and illusions through the use of blunt honesty.  From Carlos Castaneda’s don Juan Matus character to Yoda browbeating an impatient Luke Skywalker in George Lucas’ Empire Strikes Back, I think blunt honesty gets results.  I remember chuckling at the idea of Teish reading some 14 year-old smart-ass the riot act.

August 1998, New Orleans, Louisiana

In the late summer months of 1998 I took my first trip to New Orleans, Louisiana.  I had been enamored of that city for many years.  Admittedly I had quite a few romantic illusions about the city.  I read Anne Rice’s ‘Interview with the Vampire’ like every other 13-year-old in my town but somewhere along the way I became fascinated with the city as it stands today.  I started reading through histories of the city, maps and folktales until finally I had to see it for myself.  At that point I knew Teish well enough to know that she was from New Orleans and she made several recommendations as to where I could go to learn more about Voodoo history and culture.

To make a long story short, I was in Heaven.  I got off the plane at Louis Armstrong Int’l airport just before sunset and drove straight to the French Quarter without stopping to check in to my room.  I ended up staying out until well past sunrise the next day.  More than anything else I felt a connection to the Old World more palpable than anywhere else I had been before.  The sense I had walking down some of the quieter streets of the quarter in the wee hours of the morning was that it could well have been the year 1770 and I would scarcely have known the difference.  After all, the quarter has looked and smelled pretty much the same since the French settled it in 1718.  I felt as though I had been there before.  Moreover I felt like I was home.  I think if I had to pick a city to spend eternity in, it would be New Orleans.  That sentiment by the way is how you spot someone who is not from New Orleans.  Most of the people I know from New Orleans, make their home in California, and have very little desire to return, ever.

My first visit was very much a touristy affair, however I had had a taste and I wanted more.  I have since returned to New Orleans once a year and made a few friends.  Over the course a several visits I felt more and more as though it were my home away from home.

“The Mississippi is a seductress,” Teish once told me.  I should have known.  After all, Teish herself is a priestess of Oshun, the Yoruba goddess of the river.

By 1999, I had begun a serious inquiry into New Orleans Voodoo culture and history. I was amazed that there was a region of the country that still had such a vibrant, living link to the past.  I was also deeply moved by the resilience of the African brothers and sisters who preserved this lineage throughout the years of the slave trade and brought it into the present.  I was intrigued by the idea that this fundamentally African tradition that predates recorded history was not only alive and well, but in true American fashion had grafted itself onto the culture of today.  As another teacher of mine told me, ‘anywhere there’s black people, you’ll find voodoo.’

I read all the books I could get my hands on and visited the New Orleans Historic Voodoo Museum regularly.  To be honest I was not in a big rush to see a ceremony for myself.  As interested as I was, the fact is I was a stranger in a strange land and New Orleans is still one of the most dangerous cities in the country.  I was willing to wait until I had a proper escort, or an invitation or something.  Charging into the swamp looking for trouble is for guys like Wade Davis and so be it.

As my studies continued I traced the Voodoo culture from New Orleans back to the Caribbean where it was prolific during the years of the slave trade.  From the Caribbean (Cuba, Haiti, Santo Domingo, etc.) the lineage can be traced back to West African regions such as Benin, Dahomey and Nigeria.  Most of what we know in America as Voodoo comes from the religious practices of West Africa.  It is interesting to note that the flavor of the religion in Africa is much more embracing and joyful than a westerner might expect.  This gentler more familial form of Voodoo stems from the warmth and stability of Africa before the years of the slave trade.  The spirits associated with this form of Voodoo are called Rada spirits.  Songs for the Rada spirits are characterized by an elegant, playful drumbeat.  Also the Rada spirits are generally treated like dearly departed relatives, they reflect parental love and genuine concern.  Accordingly, offerings for the Rada spirits might include sweet cakes, rum and water.

The scarier more dramatic images of voodoo popularized by Hollywood have their basis in post-African practices developed in the New World by enslaved Africans.  For Africans in the New World times were dark and their spiritual practices reflected that.  In Haiti in particular the Voodoo began to call on different aspects of the old gods and create new ones to address the harshness of more desperate times. This family of New World spirits were called the Petro.  Petro spirits are unique to the New World and their songs have a harsh unpredictable beat, often compared to the crack of the whip. The Petro spirits are hot-tempered, tricky, and impatient and unlike the gentler Rada spirits, Petro are known to come down out of the heavens and mess with you until you give them your undivided attention.  Offerings for the Petro spirits can include whips, gunpowder, black coffee and cayenne pepper.

The more answers I uncovered in my investigation, the more fascinated I became.  I was particularly struck by the assimilation of Catholic saints and symbolism into the Voodoo cult that took place when slaves were forcibly converted to Christianity.

As slaves, many of our ancestors were forced to convert to Catholicism under penalty of death; naturally they converted at least outwardly.  However, something much more powerful than conversion was taking place underneath the surface.  The slaves recognized archetypal similarities between Catholic saints and African gods.  The Virgin Mary for example, the holy mother of the Catholic faith from an African perspective was not that different from Erzulie the voodoo goddess of love.  They recognized the archetypal qualities of the saints as universal and simply assigned them to corresponding African gods or Loa from the African Diaspora.  Damballah, the West African snake God became associated with St. Patrick who is depicted with snakes at his feet in Catholic chromolithographs.  Elegba the god of the crossroads and first Loa to be propitiated in any work came to be paired with both Jesus and St. Martin de Porres.

Even the term ‘under the skirts,’ is derived from the practice of placing small statues of African gods literally under the skirts of full size statues of Catholic saints on the family altar.  The idea being that if the wrong person came snooping around a Voodoo household, they would see only Catholic iconry.  In this way the tradition both mutated and survived. At this point in my studies I realized that adaptation and flexibility under pressure are the qualities that had preserved this religion.

If there is anything important to be learned from the history of voodoo it is this: the Holy Mother is the Holy Mother, you can call her Mary, Shiva, Yemaya it doesn’t matter.  What does matter is that you pray with sincerity to that archetypal force that represents motherly love, nurturing and wisdom.

In November of 1999, I had just returned from New Orleans and was preparing to fly to Capetown, South Africa for the Parliament of the world’s religions when I got a call from Teish.

“Paige,” she asked busily, “Listen, Mama Lola’s in town and I think you should come for a reading, are you free this week?”

“Sure,” I replied.

“Ok Baby,” she said, “I’ll set up a time and pick you up, try to wear something white.”

Now, I didn’t have the slightest what I was getting into, however I felt that it was important to trust Teish.  For whatever reason, Teish is one of the first people I have ever met who I felt comfortable being completely honest with from the get go.  As long as I have known her, I have never felt afraid that she would judge me in some way if I said or did the wrong thing.  What I have felt is that the more honest I am able to be with her, the more helpful she can be to me in terms of my personal and spiritual development.  So when she recommended that I have a reading with Mama Lola I took her word for it without question.

Teish made the arrangements and picked me up a few days later in the late afternoon.  She handed me a white votive candle and told me to hold it and pray.  She instructed me to think about what I wanted from life and about my destiny and to imagine my energy going into the candle.  She told me to hold onto it until we reached our destination.  She drove me to a small candle shop called Eleggua Botanica just off of High Street in one of Oakland’s nastier neighborhoods.

When we got to the door, she leaned down and knocked on the floor several times to let Elegba, the guardian of the gates, know she was there.  She instructed me to do the same.  The whole place had the scent of magic in the air.  As we stepped inside I was assailed by the scent of Florida water, Bay rum, and a hundred oils and candles of every shape and color.

As I looked around the shop I saw a younger white women about my age seated to my right looking rather shyly at me.  There was a woman behind the counter at the rear of the store with a small child and a pair of women with coffee colored skin, dressed in white, seated to my left towards the back of the store eating dinner.  Teish sat down with them and began eating.  There was some Haitian music playing softly in the background and I noticed one of the women dressed in white, the younger one, would sing and dance along intermittently, almost as though it were an involuntary reaction.  I was to find out later that this is a trait typical of many Haitians, if there’s music, they will dance.

The younger white woman got up and Teish told me to come and sit down.  She offered a bite of chicken and some corn on the cob; I refused, I was too nervous to eat.  I was beginning to wonder just what I was getting myself into.  I didn’t know whom this Mama Lola character was or what I was here to find out.  As I said earlier, I trusted Teish implicitly, but I was very much in uncharted territory.  I noticed that the older of the two women in white was regarding me with a sort of amused expression.

Teish was making conversation with the two women and exchanging pleasantries.  I sat quietly looking around the shop.  At one point the elder of the two women in white began to sing along with the music in the shop but only for a few bars.

“This one’s a wild one,” Teish said referring to the older of the two women.

The elder woman chuckled and looked at me for a long moment but never addressed me directly.  Shortly, the two women dressed in white, excused themselves and went behind a curtain into a smaller room in the back of the shop.  A moment later the younger of the two came out with her child in one arm and left the store.  Teish also went into the rear room.  I was really beginning to wonder when this Mama Lola was going to show up.  Naturally I assumed that there would be some sort of formal introduction, I was wrong.  Just as I was beginning to wonder if this was all a phenomenal waste of time, my reverie was interrupted.

“OK baby, come on back,” it was Teish, holding back the curtain.  She was going to sit in with me and take notes so that I could concentrate.  I had been holding the candle and praying as I was instructed.  I walked to the back of the botanica’s storefront space and passed through the door with the white curtain.  Inside was a smaller room used mostly for storage of the various herbs and oils sold in the store.  In the middle of the room was a small square card table.  Seated at the table was the elder of the two women dressed in white, this was Mama Lola.

Even now, I wonder why it never occurred to me that this was her.  In fact she had been watching me the whole time I was in the front of the store.  In retrospect I realize this is probably the best way to get a sense of someone quickly that I have ever heard of.  Think about it.  I was sitting there nervously awaiting the grand entrance of some mystical figure, completely unaware that the women I was there to see was right in front of me, watching me.  Moreover she had been observing me as I behave naturally, not as I behave when I am in front of someone I wish to make a good impression on.  The effect of this simple realization put me immediately in a very vulnerable place.  I was ready to open up to this woman.  As with Teish, I just knew intuitively it would be in my best interests to be as honest with her as possible.

She offered me the seat to her right.  She took the candle from me and lit it, and I remember seeing a single egg and a glass of water.  She took out a deck of ordinary playing cards.  She skillfully shuffled the deck and laid out about 3 cards.  For several minutes she leaned on her elbow tapping her lips with her forefinger.  Finally her face turned dark and then sour, like she was disgusted and she looked me dead in the eye.

“Why you so confuse!?” she demanded grumpily in her thick patois accent.

It took a long moment before I could reply because I realized my answer was so painfully general I practically couldn’t put it into words.

“I don’t know,” I replied slowly, “I don’t know who or what I am, I don’t know who or what God is, I don’t know where I’m going and I don’t know what to do.”

There was a long pause.

“You’re a man,” she said sharply, smacking her hand against the tabletop.  ”Act like it!  Who are you to ask what is God!?!”

She asked me for some details about my life.  She wanted to know what events had been particularly significant to me growing up.  We talked awhile and she asked questions.  I told her about growing up in America and being confused by illusions about how you have to be cool, rich, good looking and so on.  I told her about my difficulty making friends in school and about my father’s history as a child molester.  Particularly, the fact that my father’s abuse of my sister, and his subsequent imprisonment cost me the company of my little sister, whose mother took her away from the family when our father was incarcerated.  I told her about being sexually abused as a young teen and my subsequent drinking binges and thoughts of suicide.  At this last point she had heard enough.  She nodded her head as if all the typical symptoms were present and turning to Teish she said, “He’s got a bad spiwit in him.”  Haitians sometimes use “W’s” instead of “R’s.”

She looked at Teish as if to say, ‘how the hell did this happen on your watch?’  She clearly had a hard time with the idea that so much could befall a child, unchecked.

“I going to give you a bath, to clean you, you understand,” she asked me, I nodded.

“I want you to put him in white,” she said to Teish, “until New Years at least, and he needs to be cleaned, you understand?”

“Yes Ma’am,” Teish responded succinctly.

“You have to give him seven baths, in seven kinds of fruit, with seven kinds of perfume, and you have to do it before the sun comes up each morning.  You have to clean him, you understand, completely,” she said to Teish emphatically.

“You have to finish all the baths before New Years because I don’t want him

going into 2000 with any of this on his back.”

Teish nodded her head and then turning to me said, “OK, so your going to South Africa dressed in white.”

I simply nodded my assent.  It’s a funny thing but without being told, I knew that this was a process to be treated with the utmost respect and humility and that I would do whatever Lola advised without question.

Suddenly Teish’s expression darkened and she leaned forward in her chair and pointed a finger right at me.

“And from this moment forward,” she said in the sternest voice she has ever directed my way,” As your Iya, (or Godmother) thoughts of suicide are strictly forbidden, do you understand me?”

“Yes,” I said, and it was the truth.  Although I had some difficulty when I was a teenager, the truth is I had decided for myself by the time I was eighteen that suicide is never an option.  I was at most in an identity crisis and a bit confused as to what path to choose, I was 23.

We went over the particular ingredients for my baths, as well as some prayers and songs in Creole.  I was to take the leftovers from each bath to a high place where the birds could eat the bits and fly away.  I was advised to meditate and pray to Jesus, in particular.  I suppose that seemed a little curious to me at the time but as it turns out, although Lola makes her living as a voodoo priestess, she like most Haitians also considers herself a devout Christian.

I had converted to Catholicism in 1999 and I was deeply moved by the safety net that this pairing of faiths allowed me.  For the first time in my life I had discovered a religious practice that did not outwardly reject all other faiths on principle.  I felt safe exploring with Lola and Teish; I wish I felt as safe around Christians.

As we parted ways, Lola embraced me with a warm-hearted smile and I saw just how much love & compassion she had for me (little old me…) just because I was a human and I was in front of her.  I had forgotten how infrequently that happens.

“Merci Mama,” I said.

I was quiet as we drove away from the little Botanica.  I felt like a weight had been lifted but I also felt very vulnerable like I had just opened all my old wounds at once.  Again I just knew that I would trust in the process Lola had prescribed.  Teish told me a bit about where to find the best ingredients for my baths and where to find some white clothing.  Finally I perked up.

“So where’s Lola from anyway?”

“Port-au Prince,” Teish said with a mildly foreboding tone.

I remember telling Teish that I did not think anything Lola had instructed me to do was subject to debate.

After a long, wide-eyed sigh she said, “Yeah, it’s not.”

And so it began.

December, 1999, Capetown, South Africa

I subsequently spent two weeks in Capetown, South Africa under meditation, dressed in white.  I was working at the Parliament of the Worlds Religions as a recording engineer.  My job was to record as many of the lectures as possible.  In one nine day period there were over 1,000 presentations on every religion you can imagine.   Christian, Jewish, Muslim, Hindu, Zoroastrian, Pagan, Egyptian Orthodox, and a host of others.  There were lectures on theology, workshops on Shamanism, and major addresses by Nelson Mandela and the Dalai Lama.  It was amazing.

South Africa itself of course is being referred to more and more as the birthplace of humanity.  After being there in a religious context and meditating every evening at the foot of Table Mountain I began to feel a connection to a time before recorded history.  I had numerous dreams during my time in Capetown.  Some were about reconciling with people that had wronged me.  Some were visions of myself as an old man, a father.  One of the conditions of my meditation was that I was to avoid arguments.  I found that over the weeks of my meditation my whole demeanor became both calmer and more confident.  I was beginning to stand by my convictions.

My company put me up in a modest dormitory on the University of Capetown campus.  The name of the town I was in was Mowbray, a Capetown suburb.  The next town to the north was Woodstock one of the most dangerous neighborhoods in Capetown.  I didn’t find this out until about halfway through my stay but apparently many a hapless tourist had disappeared in Woodstock by walking down the wrong street at the wrong hour.

One morning I woke up early and decided to go to the meat pie shop a few blocks away for breakfast.  I put on my white clothes and stepped out onto the main drag.  I took in the cool, early morning air and the gentle light of the sunrise.  I took in the scene of the street coming to life first thing in the morning.  Taxi vans bulging with people from the townships were heading downtown.  The bakeries had been open a few hours already.  There were people everywhere.  I ducked into the little shop and grabbed a pie to take away.  As I walked back towards my dormitory, I noticed something.

As I said the streets were full, people were walking their children to school, going to work, shopping; I stopped in my tracks.  I was the only white person in sight.

‘So,’ I remember thinking, ‘THIS is what it feels like.’

I don’t know if that is the first time I have ever been in that position, but it is the first time I noticed and really thought about it.  A number of thoughts passed through my mind.  I saw myself in the place that so many of my own African American friends have been in more times than they can count.  A few people on the street gave me an extra long stare.  To be fair I wasn’t just a white man, I was a white man dressed in white with matching tattoos on his forearms.  When I related this part of my story to Teish she laughed and told me that among many African tribes the tattoos on each forearm actually mean you are a part of a secret society.  I’m sure I confused a few people but for the most part no one bothered me.  No comments, not a lot of staring, no attitude.  In Capetown I became keenly aware of just how standoff-ish Americans can be.  All the Africans that I met were genuinely kind people.  Everyone I talked to welcomed my company and my conversation.

One day I had to go pickup blank audiotape for work at an outlet store thirty miles outside of Capetown in an area called the Cape Flats.  I took a rental car and began to drive.  Ten miles outside of town I entered a barren desert flat.  It was brown in every direction as far as I could see.  For the next ten miles there was nothing and then I came over a rise.  In front of me was a South African shantytown alive and well and it was still populated.  You see on the way into Capetown from the airport I saw the remnant of one, but it was empty.

This town was the size of a small town in rural America. Unfortunately, despite the end of apartheid many South Africans are no better off, they simply own their homes in the shantytowns.  As I drove by almost everyone gave me an appraising look, as if they were discerning whether or not I was a potential threat or in possession of something of value.

I was amazed.  More than anything else I noticed the ingenuity in the houses.  I saw houses with 4 rooms, yards, and picket fences made out of egg crates, plywood, cardboard and anything else that could be utilized.  I saw a children’s swing set made from scratch out of old tires and twine.  One of the houses had a wall made from tin siding that had been painted with a Coca-Cola ad.  I have never seen a better example of human creativity and resilience in my life and I will never again forget my place and my luck at being an American.  We have it better than we know.

Before and just after my trip to South Africa I met with Teish on seven mornings much earlier than either one of us wanted to and I was given a ritual bath of fruit, champagne, rum, beer, essential oil, ocean water and a host of other ingredients.  All of these were mixed together by Teish while she sang prayers to the Orisha, or the African spirits.  During the time she spent preparing the ingredients, I sat in my white clothing, with a white towel over my head, and a chunk of coconut in my mouth, meditating.  When Teish was ready she led me with the towel still over my head and blew smoke from a cigar over me from top to bottom to clean me.  After that I would step into the tub and she washed my arms and legs my head and my back with the bath mixture.  I will never forget how nice it smelled.

I meditated each morning on my life, my destiny and my hopes and dreams.  Mama Lola had determined that what I needed was a strong dose of masculine energy.  She told me to pray to Damballah, the father god and Chango the god of lightning, as well as Jesus and to listen to my intuition.  After about four baths things began to start making sense.

What I noticed wearing white everyday is that after awhile I felt more and more confident.  I felt more willing to stand my ground and yet, more compassionate and good-natured.  I felt a lack of tension in my body and my mind, and I felt clear.  Also, my meditations were beginning to yield interesting results.  More than anything, I felt psychically bulletproof.  My normal tendency is to get caught up in other people’s stress and anxiety.  While wearing white, I didn’t have that problem; I simply retained a balanced, calm center and that was something new.

I remember one morning I was under the towel and I was thinking about my band.  I have always wanted to make my living as a musician, I still do.  Out of the darkness in my mind’s eye I saw a dark figure seated at a throne made of wicker obscured by shadow.  Slowly he became more visible and I saw the figure of a very large muscular man, perhaps 6 and a half feet tall, 250 lbs. and black-skinned.  But his skin was not human, it was scaly and reptilian.  He appeared to have the body of a man and the skin of a black snake.  His face was not unlike images of the ‘grey’ people described in accounts of alien abductions, however the flesh was much darker and he appeared to have no eyes, just black holes.

As I approached him, he put his hands on my shoulders and drew me near.  He whispered in my ear and then began to blow on me, lightly at first and then much harder.  He turned me to face away from him and pointed to the horizon.  I began to walk forward to the spot he had indicated.  With my first step I noticed a wall of fog materialize before me.  With my second step I noticed small pinpoints of light through the fog.  With my third step, I was surrounded by fog, the man had disappeared and I could see that the pinpoints of light were tiny flames, like candlelight.  With my fourth step I noticed a microphone standing on a stage about 2 meters in front of me and I saw that the lights were from thousands of lighters.  With my last step I reached the microphone and the fog disappeared.  I was standing in front of a crowd of thousands in an arena playing with my band.

Whether you see this as a fantasy or a very real psychic/magical event, the image was a powerful one for me and has inspired me to work harder on my music ever since.  Later on in my research I discovered that the snake man was actually Damballah the Dahomean snake deity and most ancient of ancestral spirits.  He represents the spirits of the dead who are too old to be remembered.

I spent the next few years reading every book on voodoo I could get my hands on.  I went through the works of Maya Deren, Milo Rigaud, Robert Tallant, Ron Bodin and the like.  I also read Teish’s own book Jambalaya, as well as its follow up Carnival of the Spirit.  To my astonishment, I even found a book on Mama Lola.

Every trip I took to New Orleans I made a point to visit the grave of the most famous Voodoo priestess of the New World, Marie Laveau or “Mamselle,” as she is called, at St. Louis Cemetery.  Although there are plenty of reasons why her physical remains may not actually be buried there, the grave itself has come to be known as a shrine for the Voodoo.  Every time I have visited New Orleans I have taken the time to stop at Mamselle’s grave.  It always feels like a visit to Grandmother’s house.  I remember once entering the cemetery thinking to myself, ‘Mama, Mama, it’s me,’ and standing in front of Mamselle’s grave hearing an inner, female voice clearly say, ‘give me some sugar baby.’  I am so grateful for Marie Laveau’s continued presence in my life.  If I have learned one thing from her, it’s that real Voodoo is predicated on one thing: love.

After my series of baths was concluded I asked Teish where I stood with respect to the tradition.

“Am I a student, an initiate or what?”

“Well let’s just say that right now I’ve got you in check,” and that is basically where I stand today.

June, 2002, New Orleans, Louisiana

As luck would have it, I was hired for a three-day recording job in New Orleans.  I would fly in the day before the Summer Solstice and fly out the afternoon of St. John’s Eve.  I had read that St. John’s Eve is an annual ritual for Marie Laveau held primarily in New Orleans.  When she was alive, Marie herself held an annual ritual in Congo Square on June 25^th.  Later when laws were enacted to prevent slaves from gathering in public, Marie moved the ritual to Bayou St. John just outside the French Quarter.  Today the New Orleans Voodoo community still holds an annual ritual in Mamselle’s honor on Bayou St. John.

After 5 years of study and a certain amount of soul-searching, I felt as though I had finally been called to participate.  I was determined to use this special time to dig a little deeper into the world of New Orleans Voodoo as it stands today.  Until this trip I had only caught glimpses of what this town hides beneath its surface.  Voices in the back of French Quarter candle shops and echoes of drums here and there late into the night.  New Orleans to me has always felt somewhat secretive.  On each trip I picked up a little more information, but I had never attended a ceremony.  I had learned enough to know that the big public ceremonies were for the tourists and had very little to do with the actual religion.

When I was called to work in New Orleans I realized with a chuckle that I was probably going to be in town just in time for the St John’s Eve celebrations.  Legba the trickster at his best, I’m certain.

I called Teish and told her I was going to New Orleans and asked if she knew of any where I could go to see a real ritual, perhaps at Congo square or Jackson square in front of St. Louis’ cathedral.  I assumed it would cost me a few dollars and I wasn’t too happy about the idea of standing toe-to-toe with a few tourists, but whatever, I was determined to learn something, I’m still not sure what.  So Teish told me to call her friend Brandy at Voodoo Authentica on North Peters Street in the French Quarter and see what she said.  I had seen Brandy before in a documentary film entitled ‘New Orleans Voodoo from the Inside.’  She had been one of the primary interviewees in the film.

While I was in New Orleans work was not going well.  I was overworked and poorly rested.  I hadn’t been eating all that well either.  So I was a little out of it, but I made it down to the shop in the late afternoon on Saturday.

I walked in and my heart warmed a little as I looked at the dolls and candles, the necklaces and especially the altars.  Towards the back of the store a pleasant looking woman asked me if I needed any help.

“Is Brandy Kelly in,” I asked.

“Yeah she’s here, do you need a reading or did someone refer you?”

“My Godmother referred me.”  I have found over the past few years its best not to drop names unless you feel you have to, it feels insincere to me.

“Oh, who’s your godmother?”

Cautiously I said, “Luisah Teish.”

“Oh Teish,” she said, “sure one second.”

Her whole demeanor relaxed from that of polite customer service to familial warmth and Southern hospitality.

“I’m Yolanda, Brandy’s mama, let me get her for you, what’s your name?”

“Paige,” I said, “Thank you.”

A moment later a slender, Cajun-looking woman approached me with a warm smile.

“Hi Paige, I’m Brandy,” she said with a cheerful Bayou accent, “have a seat.”

We sat down at a small table towards the back of the shop and began to talk.  Like most Cajuns she was excellent at making conversation.  I told her about how I had met Teish and found my way to New Orleans, and asked her if she knew of a St. John’s celebration I could attend.  She offered me two choices.  The first was a public ceremony that was being held in the French Quarter.  The cost was $15 dollars and tourists were guaranteed.  The other was a much quieter affair conducted by a mambo-priestess named Sallie Ann Glassman.  An acquaintance of Teish’s, I had a feeling Sallie Ann’s ceremony would be the genuine article.  Brandy underscored this point for me.

“It’s going to be in the Haitian tradition so you know, the goal of the ceremony is possession (channeling if you will, of the Haitian spirits)…and for another thing it’s free.”

I decided immediately that I would go Bayou St. John and see for myself.  After all, I had no intention of trudging all the way down into the swamp to play games with gawking tourists.  For me this endeavor was part anthropology and part pilgrimage.  I wanted to see the real thing, 21^st century American Voodoo.

Brandy gave me Sallie Ann’s number and we began to discuss the tradition in general.  I asked her how she got started and what dangers I should be aware of as a stranger in New Orleans.  On this last point she had quite a bit to say.  Basically, it boiled down to common sense.  New Orleans in many ways is just as lawless and dangerous as it was 300 years ago and attitudes have been slow to change. She said it would be wise to be on my guard at all times, and I will be grateful to her for a long time for sharing this.

Brandy went on to explain that most of the practitioners of Voodoo in New Orleans and Haiti, understand that although the practice is strange and frightening to many people, they must still comport themselves with “Christ-like behavior.”  This was an unexpected twist.  The most important thing Brandy told me is that if someone is trying to scare you, make you feel insecure or ‘out-voodoo’ you, chances are they are “full of hoopla.”

In my extensive experience among Christians I have noticed the same type of behavior many times.  Literally a game of holier-than-thou, of who has more scriptures memorized, who is more abstinent or pious, et cetera.  It gets tedious very quickly; no matter what religion you practice.  Brandy told me to look for kindness, love, happiness, altruism, these she felt were the earmarks of people who were truly learning from their practice.

As she was making this last point to me, a kind-faced older woman entered the shop dressed in what looked like traditional Nigerian clothing, right down to the cowry shells.  Brandy introduced this woman to me as Margaret.  As if she was there to emphasize Brandy’s words to me, Margaret was sweet, good-natured, and smart as a whip.  We talked awhile and realized we were going to the same ceremony the next day.  Since she knew where we were going, I offered to pay for a cab, we made arrangements to meet beforehand and I would take Margaret to the bayou.

Before we parted ways, Brandy gave me some cascarilla and a low-john-the conqueror root to be kept in my right pocket for protection.  She gave me a big hug and told me to say hello to Teish for her.  She was kind to me because I was there, just like Lola and Teish were.  For me this was a prime example of both Christian altruism as well as Voodoo in practice.

It’s funny how spirit works.  I was convinced almost immediately that this was a bit of a test.  Now the truth is, I was a bit intimidated.  After all, Sallie Ann’s address was well outside the French Quarter in an area I didn’t know.  Moreover, I was expecting to be the only white person there.  I figured the best thing that I could do was to comport myself as maturely and responsibly as possible and hope for the best.  I wasn’t going to run my mouth about how cool I was for going to Africa, for learning about Voodoo or for that matter knowing Teish, who apparently is somewhat famous.  My plan was to behave, observe and hopefully participate in some small way.

As it turns out, the trickster had other plans for me…

On Sunday afternoon I got to the botanica on N. St. Peters around 6 o’clock, Margaret was there waiting for me.  I had called Sallie Ann at the Island of Salvation bookshop and asked if I should bring anything.  She had a kind voice and she told me to bring an altar offering for Marie Laveau, after all St. John’s Eve is her night.  She recommended something sweet like pralines, or something that looked spooky and voodoo-like.  She also told me to wear all white.  This last I had come prepared for.  I have come to love wearing all white.  For years I wore nothing but black.  Black can attract a lot of negative energy as well as affect your mood.  I still wear black clothing, but I always wear some other color with it.  White clothing particularly feels a bit like a psychic suit of armor.  When I wear white from head to toe, I generally feel clear-headed and safe no matter what.

Margaret asked me to get a cab, and told me that cabs still didn’t usually stop for black people in New Orleans.  Like I said earlier, in New Orleans some things haven’t changed for 300 years.  That’s just a damn shame, come on Louisiana.  So I went and hailed a cab, ironically driven by an Ethiopian woman who saw Margaret and was surprised to find out that she was an American and not West African.  Again, this woman Margaret had style, right down to her cowry shell necklace.

We got to a small house near Piety St. on the north end of New Orleans.  Margaret knocked on the door and a petite Jewish lady dressed in white answered.  This was Sallie Ann.  Now there was a time when I was very conflicted about my own Jewish background.  Judaism after all is a matriarchal line.  When you are a quarter Jewish on your father’s side, orthodox Jews don’t consider you Jewish. There were several times in my late teens when I remember Jewish friends of mine deciding that I was a gentile and becoming very distant, or just condescending.  So I never knew how to feel about it.  During a very dark period in my teens I even developed a fascination with Nazi history and politics.  In my acting class I helped write a play about a neo-Nazi regime taking over America in the 21^st century and destroying itself all over again.  Those were not optimistic times.  When I realized that the spirits had sent me to this woman I knew I was being challenged to give up my preconceived notions.  When I met Sallie Ann I began to relax immediately.  She greeted us and showed Margaret and I inside and put on a pot of coffee.  We were the first people to arrive.

Her living room had hardwood floors and was adorned with primitive artwork, African masks and artifacts as well as books in every corner.  It was threatening to rain that evening and Sallie Ann had to make a few calls to figure out whether or not we would have the ceremony indoors or brave the Bayou.  Sallie Ann invited Margaret to show me around.  We went into Sallie Ann’s altar room.  The room was bathed in a dim red light from the ceiling lights.  There was a red and white striped center post or Poteau Mitan running from floor to ceiling as well as masks and spears, feathers and candles.  Also there was the same smell I noticed at the botanica in Oakland, oil, burnt wax and incense; the smell of magic.  In truth, most churches smell the same if perhaps a bit more subdued.  The altar stood some 5 feet tall and was about 6 feet wide.  It was a collage of statues, saints, candles, incense burners, notes and pictures; it was beautiful.  I must have stared at it for five minutes straight.  After a while we sat down with Sallie Ann in the kitchen, had some coffee and began to talk.  I told them both a little bit about my background and listened to their stories as well.  Margaret and I traded stories of strange experiences with dreams or precognition, intuitions and so on.  Margaret had not had the easiest life and she made a concerted effort to communicate to me that despite hardship she said, “You…is love.”

“You are a loving human being, born into love and created to give to love back to the universe.”  She was emphatic.  Lastly, she told us that this tradition and truly life itself calls upon all of us to uphold the highest possible standard of ethics.  As the stories go, Marie Laveau shared a similar sentiment during her later years in particular.  She reputedly refused to do evil work of any kind, even gris gris, after awhile.  She said that ‘left-handed work’ only comes back to haunt you.  Moreover, she said that when someone works evil against you, they only cross themselves.  That knowledge has kept me safe and sane on more than one occasion.

After about an hour there was a knock at the door and Sallie Ann went to answer it.  Sallie Ann’s people were starting to show up.  The first person there was a young lady with blond hair, who introduced herself as Elly.  The second was a drummer named Eric.  A third showed up, a man named George.  Almost every person that showed up came in and politely took the time to introduce themselves.  Eric the drummer and I had quite a laugh when we realized we were both from Berkeley.  We even knew a couple of the same people.  At this point I was beginning to feel very comfortable and welcome and it put me in just the right mindset for the celebration ahead.  After all, tonight was a holiday.

Finally it was decided that we would chance the rain and go to Bayou St. John, the area where Marie Laveau held her annual St. John’s Eve rituals in the 1800’s.  About fifteen people had arrived by then and there was a pretty Creole girl there named Enrika who was kind enough to offer Margaret and I a ride from Sallie Ann’s to the Bayou.  I brought my small bag of pralines and pecan cream candy, along with a miniature voodoo doll I had purchased in the French Quarter earlier that day.

Along the west bank of Bayou St. John there is a clearing near 1035 Moss Street.  It is about the size of a one home lot and covered in grass.  To the north, south and west residences surround it.  To the east lay the dark green waters of Bayou St. John itself.  We arrived at about 6 pm with a good hour of sunlight left.  In all, about 30 people were there that night, all dressed in white.  There were men and women of varying age, a couple with their baby, and I noticed something else.  With 3 exceptions, everyone there that night was either white or Jewish.  For the second time that night I was being called upon to set aside my own preconceived notions.  What Teish noticed when I told her this story is that lately this tradition is more about kindred spirits than color lines.  I can only hope this trend continues.  That’s what this American idea of the melting pot is supposed to be about.

More than anything else that night I noticed that there was a continuous flow of movement.  From the time we arrived to the time we said our last goodbyes, it seemed like something was going on all around me.  We didn’t just show up and then, at an arbitrary moment begin our prayers.  We got out of our cars and gradually segued into a cohesive gathering, it was almost musical.  As soon as one person set out the altar cloth, another was already placing candles and offerings onto its surface.  It was like a choreographed chaos.

As the cloth was put down on the west end of the clearing and we were instructed to arrange our altar offerings.  I followed along with the group and placed my pralines and cream candy and my miniature voodoo doll at the edge of the altar cloth.  As soon as I turned around the drummer I had met earlier and two others were setting up on the northwest side of the clearing.  Their music, like the whole gathering did not begin at a definite point.  First there were only rattles and shakers and gradually as each musician was ready, they joined in.  First, a smaller drum and then the much larger Papa drum.

Finally the drummers were silent and the group encircled.  I was standing next to Margaret and Enrika.  Opposite me in the circle stood Sallie Ann at the altar and to her right a group of about 8 or 10 ounsis (assistants; pronounced “oon-sees”) who were members of her house in New Orleans, the rest that night were like myself, visitors.

The ritual began with a young man named Seth.  He looked to be about my age with blond hair.  He stepped forward with a ritual sword and belted out an invitation to the spirits in Creole.  He swung his sword through the air in a series of ritual movements symbolizing the lives of the spirits.

He was joined by a woman who held up a flag (called a Drapeaux) with a vevres on it.  Vevres (pronounced “veh-VAY”) are elaborate, sigil-like designs drawn on the ground with wheat or corn flour.  Every Loa has their own vevres.  The two hunched over and began a ritualized dance combat between the two of them.  I was a bit surprised by the mood.  I was expecting to feel intimidated to say the least and nervous about what to do with myself.  In fact the whole night I felt happy and welcome.  I felt like I was among kindred spirits and we were rejoicing in awe and wonder together.  This was no more apparent than when Sallie Ann’s dog, Aiyzan began to chase the pantomime spirits around the clearing and bark at the top of her lungs.  Soon the whole group was laughing and smiling, I felt like I was at a family Barbeque.

When the first ritual movements were completed Sallie Ann’s ounsis began to sing.  One woman played the role of Kantor but all of the students knew the songs.  Others throughout the group only knew some of the songs, I simply watched with rapt attention.  The leader would sing a line and the chorus would respond.  Between songs they let out a cry of, “Ayi Bobo,” to let the spirits know we were there and then turned, right and left to look behind them, to ward off any negativity and look for bad spirits.  The prayer-songs continued for the better part of an hour.  Sallie Ann and an assistant made offerings to each of the four directions while the songs continued.

After the four directions and by extension the four elements (earth, air, fire and water) had been greeted Sallie Ann took some white powder and began to draw an elaborate vevres on the ground.  When she finally finished, the singing concluded.

Next, those who chose to do so were invited to come forward and have their heads washed.  The head washing or Lave’ Tete ritual is a common one in Haitian Vodou where a student is cleansed of negative energy and blessed for the road ahead.

Teish told me a few weeks before I left for New Orleans that Lola had called asking after me.  She told Teish that I had to have my head washed for Damballah.  In keeping with the theme of my ritual baths a few years earlier, I felt this head washing would be good spiritual hygiene.

I watched a few people before me come forward and kneel in front of Sallie Ann.  She reached into a blue bowl in front of her and pulled out a generous amount of orange muck and washed each person’s head, ears, hands and feet.  I think I was fourth.  I stepped forward and knelt in front of Sallie Ann.  She told me to lean forward while she did it.  The mixture in the bowl looked like it was part cornmeal, part rum, a few flowers and something that smelled like crabmeat.  After my ritual baths in 1999, I embraced the fact that Voodoo is a gloriously messy practice, and I leaned forward without hesitation.

Sallie Ann massaged the orange muck into my hair and held it there for a few seconds.  She rubbed some more into my ears, and onto my hands at the wrists and my feet at the ankles.  As with the others before me, my head was wrapped in a strip of white cloth, to keep the muck in place.  Having my head washed that night was a lot like my Catholic baptism should have been.  I willingly surrendered control to the divine.  I thought of what Margaret had said, ‘you is love,’ and I felt like a long-empty vessel being filled.  I lost my sense of self-consciousness and doubt and became a part of a centuries old tradition.

Just as Sallie Ann was finishing my head washing a young woman named Robyn came up and said, “I’m sorry to interrupt your head washing but, Sallie Ann the cops just showed up.”

“You should try to leave this on for 24 hours, or at least over night, so it can affect your dreams,” Sallie Ann told me quickly and then got up to see what the police wanted.  She told us to keep dancing until she came back.  That was when I turned around to see not one, but 6 New Orleans police department vehicles and about 10 officers standing on the street at the edge of the clearing, watching us.  We never heard any sirens or anything (and yes, for those of you wondering, IT WAS around then that I considered just how weird my chosen activities this evening were, in the grand scheme of things).

After speaking with the police for about 30 seconds Sallie Ann returned to our circle laughing and rolling her eyes.  Just as she got within earshot I heard her telling one of the others, “…he just said, ‘we know y’all ain’t doin’ nuthin’ we just have to respond to every call.’”

“Apparently,” Sallie Ann continued with a big grin on her face, “one of our neighbors didn’t like the noise from the drums so he called the cops and told them we were biting the heads off of chickens or something.”  Everybody broke out laughing, including me, and the subject was dropped.

The odd thing was that the police didn’t leave.  They stayed across the street with their lights off and watched, quietly.  I also noticed that about 15 people from the neighborhood had come out to watch from the street, some with their children.  They were curious, not hateful.  They actually stood and watched us for sometime with a quiet respect.  I wondered how many scenes like this had taken place throughout New Orleans history.  The Voodoos on one side and the local citizens, watching on the other.  Its funny but even being gawked at is a part of New Orleans Voodoo tradition.  However, I never expected real people in New Orleans even in 2002 to be as tolerant as they were.

For me this is what American Voodoo is all about.  Disparate cultures, coming together if not in utopian harmony at least with respect and living together in a constructive way.  Observing our differences and I dare say appreciating them.  That’s the way America is supposed to work.

When you think of Louisiana you probably think of intolerant, Christian fundamentalists.  Well, here I was in the heart of Louisiana and even the police didn’t seem to mind, in a way they were even acting as our guards.  Once again my preconceived notions had been refuted.  None of the people who watched the ceremony came up to us afterwards to ask questions.  I think the truth is that most people from New Orleans have mixed feelings towards Voodoo, but they all recognize its validity, even if some choose not to admit it publicly.

After the head washings were finished and the police handled, the mood shifted again.  It was just about sunset.  At this point I had been dancing for about an hour straight.  Oddly enough, I found myself actually exhilarated by my experience and wanted to keep moving.  I felt blessed to be alive and grateful to the spirits for bringing me here.

The drummers stopped playing and there was a long pause.  Then our Kantor began a softer song, which we were all to sing in unison.  This was a hymn-like song for Mamselle Marie Laveau.  The ritual is to sing her name on her night, St. John’s Eve, and call her to come and bless you and your house with luck, money or sometimes just advice.  It was a sweet, melancholy song and made me think of friends long gone.  I felt like I was at a wake.

“Marie Laveau”

“Marie Laveau”

“Mamselle”

“Marie Laveau”

I don’t remember when the drummers started playing their mid-tempo rhythm all I know is that it started.  We sang the hymn for Mamselle Marie and then we began to dance again counter-clockwise around the circle.  At first I just went along with the crowd enjoying the spectacle of it and losing myself in the rhythm.  I was happy to be there and that was enough for me.

“Whoa, easy,” I heard a male voice off to my left exclaim, as though something had startled him.

I turned and saw that three of Sallie Ann’s students had gathered around her and formed a perimeter, preventing her from moving too quickly or too far away.  It appeared at first like they wanted to contain her without actually touching her.  The next thing I saw was Sallie Ann’s face, completely slack, her eyes rolling into the back of her head.  Just then, my stomach turned, fiercely and I felt like I might get sick.  The felling passed quickly enough, but it was like the feeling you get when you hear that a loved one has died, or when you witness a car accident.  It was as if my body was trying to tell me that something was very wrong.  Sallie Ann began to stumble and shake, almost losing her balance more than once.  Slowly she seemed to regain her balance but she still walked in a stupor, as if she were not used to her own body.  The more coherently she walked the more room her students gave her.  It became clear to me that Sallie Ann was not in control of her body anymore.  Brandy Kelly’s words from the day before came back to me.  After all, the ultimate goal of the ritual was possession; this is what I came to see.

My feeling of uneasiness passed quickly enough, but it was very apparent to me that while my mind was struggling to accept and understand what I was seeing, my body was fully aware that the veil between the physical and the spiritual had been torn.  My feeling was that while this type of possession is possible, technically it’s not natural, and my body knew it.

Sallie Ann’s possessed body began to look around still appearing mostly delirious.  She looked into the eyes of everyone there, and we all looked back at her with rapt attention.  She began to walk around the interior of the circle and look at each of us a little more closely as we continued dancing around the circle.  She began to mimic our dancing and pantomime it back to us.  She sidled up to one lady a few feet ahead of me and began to imitate her steps perfectly in time with the music.  She looked the young woman in front of me in the eye the whole time, smiling almost impishly.

“Bonjour, Mamselle,” the young lady said.

Sallie Ann’s hand reached out and caressed the young woman’s cheek in a maternal gesture of adoration and love.  The look on Sallie Ann’s face was that of a proud mother looking at her grown children.  This contact between them lasted only a few seconds and then Sallie Ann twirled away and looked for another.  She would twirl into the center of the circle taking libations from a bottle in her left hand and point her finger outwards.  Some called out to her.

“Mama, bonjour, Mama!”

“Bonjour Mamselle!”

To some she would respond with a few words, mostly in Creole.  For others she would shake the ason rattle in her right hand and say a prayer.

After she had attended to a few people she returned to the center of the circle and began to twirl in place, again taking a drink from the bottle and pointing.  When she stopped this time her finger was pointing right at me.

I looked into her eyes for a long time, spellbound.  She looked right back unflinchingly with an amazing intensity.

“Qu’est-ce que c’est,” (what is it) she inquired.

I was dumbstruck, all my years of taking French and I couldn’t say a thing.  I just looked back at her unable to find my voice.  Later on, one of the ounsis told me that I could have spoken to her in English if I wanted, I just didn’t know.

Just when I was starting to feel uncomfortable she looked at me with an expression of empathy for my awkwardness, as if I were a shy child.  She smiled and came towards me.  As soon as she was within reach, she put one hand out and grabbed me gently but firmly by the back of my head.  She closed her eyes and lowered her head and began to shake her rattle over my head.

I wasn’t sure what was happening but I knew I was being prayed for and I went with it.  I closed my eyes and let her work.  Only later did one of the others confirm for me that that was the spirit of Marie Laveau herself, possessing Sallie Ann, and blessing little old me.  Again this idea of love for love’s sake was reiterated for me in stunning glory.  It was like being with a long lost family of kindred spirits.  After a few seconds, she moved on to the next person and I began to dance with a renewed intensity.  After ministering to a few other people in the circle of dancers, Mamselle turned her attention to the newborn baby that a couple had brought for his first head washing.  She knelt with the couple on the ground and said a series of quiet prayers for the child.  That was the last time I saw Mamselle that night.

While Mamselle was kneeling over the couple and their child I heard someone speak up behind me.  I turned and noticed that another woman, Elly, a very thin, young woman with light brown hair was convulsing and losing her balance, as if she was having a seizure.  Several of the ounsis broke her fall and eased her onto the ground.  Soon after Elly began to open her eyes and look around however, Elly was no longer Elly.  From her head to her toes to the bewildered expression on her face, she had become the very picture of a classical crone.  She carried herself as though she were ages beyond old.  The ounsis were practically holding her up.  She looked as though she had barely the strength to stand.  Her hands trembled and her face became wan and tight like an old woman’s.  Elly had been mounted by Manman Brigette.  In Haitian Voodoo lore Brigette is the wife of Guede (pronounced: “Gay-day”) the god of the cemetery.

At this point in the ceremony things began to happen like popcorn.  The drums continued their hypnotic beat.  Three of the men were mounted by spirits and ridden for a period that seemed out of time completely.  Seth was mounted by an impish spirit named Kalfou the twinned opposite of Legba the god of the crossroads.  During this same time a female spirit called LaSirene the sea-aspect of the goddess of love Erzulie, mounted another ounsi, Lance.

It is difficult even now to recall all these events exactly as they took place.  Basically the spirits all showed up at once.  I continued dancing and watched the scene develop for a long time.  What I noticed more than anything was the casual atmosphere with which the spirits were approached.  As I watched the others, I noticed that they simply walked up to the different spirits and began to converse.  Some asked for a blessing, others for advice about a particular problem.  After a short time I worked up the courage to try this myself.  I noticed the girl, Enrika talking to Seth, and I decided to approach.

He was wearing a blue head wrap and a pair of sparkly blue sunglasses.  Kneeling frog-leg style at the altar, he picked over the various offerings of food and libations.  Enrika was asking his advice and he seemed to be listening closely but casually.

He was smoking a cigarette and just as I was sitting down, one of the others came over smoking her own.  As soon as he saw it, Kalfou reached out and took her cigarette out of her mouth and began smoking both cigarettes himself.

“Mmmm,” he said sensuously, like he was savoring a fine wine.  He literally smoked those things down to the filter in about 60 seconds.  When he was finished, he let out a big sigh of relief.  I have seen nicotine fits but this was gluttony.  As I looked around that whole night I noticed that all of the spirits were voracious in their appetites for libations.  It occurred to me then that if this was for real (and at this point, I had no doubt that it was), and these creatures were indeed dead spirits borrowing bodies from the living, that they would want to experience as much physical sensation as possible during this short opportunity.  All the spirits smoked and drank in amounts that would have laid me out flat three times over, but they seemed disaffected.  When the spirits left one of the ounsis they would look and sound like themselves once more and they were stone sober.  Also, none of the people who were possessed or “ridden” that night remembered anything of the time during which possession took place.

As I knelt on the ground next to Seth and Enrika near the altar, Seth inclined his head my way and gave me an appraising look.

“You want some-ting,” he asked in a high-pitched voice with a Haitian accent, clearly not his own.

After my head washing I felt different, more clear-headed, more energetic.  After my brief contact with Mamselle, the feeling became even stronger.  As the Haitians would say, the spirits were ‘heating me up.’  By the time I sat before Kalfou at the altar I was clear-headed and ready to talk.

“Actually, no,” I told him.  “I don’t need anything, I’m just happy to be here, I can feel the love.”  It was true I had not felt as spiritually content as I did then, in a long time.  Kalfou wasted no time in laughing at my expense.

“Tee hee hee hee,” he tittered, nodding in mock confidentiality to Enrika, “He feels the love, eh?”

I got a little bolder.

“What’s your name?”

“I am Carfou,” he said in his high-pitched Creole accent.

“I am glad to be with you, thank you for coming,” I said.  “Would you like something to eat?”

“What you have, hmm?”  Now that I think about it, he reminded me of Yoda from the Star Wars movies.  He seemed to find the reverence with which he was treated as something of a fluke and made fun of his own station at every opportunity.  This self-deprecating sense of humor, this ability to parody oneself in the face of etiquette, seems to be common among both the spirits of Voodoo and Mambo priestesses alike.

I picked up a piece of the pecan crème candy that I had to offer and broke it in two.  It had a crème filling that was rolled in sugar coated pecan pieces.  He reached forward with a curious, “ooh” and took the candy in his hands.  He held it up close to his face and smelled it with a crinkled nose.  Then he took a bite.

“Mmmm,” he mused with his mouth full, “very tasty!”

At this point Sallie Ann approached from behind and she was herself again.

“Are you enjoying the party Papa?” she inquired of Kalfou cordially.  She seemed like nothing more than an ebullient hostess, taking care of her guests with true southern hospitality.

“Oh Yes,” Kalfou told Sallie Ann, “everyone’s so happy.”

He reached forward and picked up a bowl that had been filled with whipped cream, and took a generous handful.  He leaned forward and took a huge bite, getting it all over his face.  After a second he looked up at Enrika and I and laughed.  He took another handful and smeared it all over my face, laughing harder and harder.  What could I do but laugh back; we were like children playing together.

Shortly I decided it would be polite not to monopolize anyone’s time.  I stood up and began to dance around the circle again.  In the middle of the circle was Lance, possessed by Erzuli or LaSirene.  True to her mythological form, Erzuli, despite having mounted a man, was pouting and preening, like the sophisticated lady that she is.  She was dancing gracefully in the middle of the circle, pouting her lips and never getting too close to any of the male ounsis.  At one moment when I was not looking I heard someone shout, ”Shit,” and take off running.  It was LaSirene, she had decided to take off running, full speed and jump into the bayou some 75 feet away.  Several ounsis took off after her and spent several minutes trying to persuade her to come back to the circle and not ride Lance into the water.

Although I never saw them leave, the police and most of the bystanders had gone.  We had been at it for close to 3 hours.

After a few moments and a certain amount of protest LaSirene was persuaded to return her host to the safety of dry land.  Shortly after the commotion died down I noticed George, swaggering around the circle, drinking out of a coconut shell and smoking a big cigar.

Again I was amazed at how physically different he looked from his natural self.  It really did give me the impression of someone who was driving a car with an unfamiliar clutch.  Awkward at first and then as time wore on more stable.  Out of all of them however, George looked at ease the quickest.  He began strutting around the circle with what I can only describe as a gangsta’ lean.

By this time I felt comfortable approaching one of these spirits and starting a conversation so I walked up to George.

“Hello,” I said.

“How you doin’,” he said in a strong African American accent.

“I’m well, are you hungry,” I asked.

“Sure, whatch’ you got,” he seemed casual, in no rush.

I went for my trusty praline cream candy and handed him a piece.  He took it, smelled it for a moment and took a large bite.

“That’s pretty good,” he said with his mouth full, “try this.”

He held out his coconut shell, which had been filled with a sweet wine.  I took a drink and handed it back to him.

“What’s your name,” I asked.

“They call me Guede,” again he seemed at ease, he reminded me of a long established celebrity who doesn’t believe in the hype surrounding him.

“My name’s Paige,” I said, “thank you for coming tonight.”

“That’s no problem baby,” this cat was cool, “somethin’ you want to ask me?”

I didn’t exactly know who Guede was at the time, however I figured I would make the best of the situation and ask his advice.

“Yeah, I’ve got something I want to ask you,” I said.  “You see when I get home, I’m going to ask my girlfriend to marry me and I want to know if you have any advice on how to be a good man and a strong husband.”

I was thinking of Lola.  All along she has been prompting me to get in touch with my masculine side.  The subtext of this I think was a lesson in what it means to be a real man.  Real men aren’t macho cowboys who always have to prove themselves. Real men are stewards of their community.  Real men are fathers who attend to their children and their women with care and respect.  This is the model set by Damballah and the one I was being challenged to reach for.  Papa Guede liked my question.  He nodded while still puffing on his cigar as if to say, ‘I know the answer to this one.’

“Baby, you only ever got to do one thing.  Just listen to yo’ heart.  You know what to do.”

He put a hand on my shoulder and maintained a firm grip.

“See ‘dis up here,” he pointed to his own head with his cigar, “’dis just a calculator baby.  If you listen to yo’ heart, you be all right no matter what happen.  Cause sooner or later,” he broke into a grin and gestured to the whole assembled circle, “you all just gonna’ be lyin’ down.  When that happens ain’t shit gonna’ matter.”

He broke out laughing.  I had to admit, whether I was speaking to the real spirit of a deceased man, or just listening to a crazy person ramble, what he made sense.

“Well thank you,” I said sincerely, “You give good advice.”

“ME!?!” He laughed like he had just heard the biggest joke in the world and then looking me right in the eye he said, ”I’m Dead!”

I was dumbstruck.  I stood for a few moments and shared a few more bites of candy with him.  It was a comfortable silence, he smoked passively and I just stood there thinking about what he had said.  Despite everything I had seen that night I was quite calm.  Actually I was elated having finally witnessed something I had been studying for so long.  More than anything else I remembered something my priest told me when I was converting to Catholicism.  He said that the one phrase Jesus used more than any other in the gospels was, ‘do not be afraid.’

That night in New Orleans I stood on the threshold of a larger world and I was not afraid.  Amazed yes, surprised certainly, but I was never scared.  Frankly, ordinary people scare me more than anyone else.

After a few minutes I rejoined the others in dancing around the circle.  Shortly I saw George standing off to the side with one of the others and he was wiping his hands with a rag.  Just as I was progressing past him I heard him say, “yeah my hands are all sticky, I must have just finished doing something.”  His voice was his own again and he didn’t seem to remember a thing.

Eventually the drums got softer and softer and then stopped.   All those who had been ridden were themselves again.  Once more the difference between these individuals in a normal lucid state and in the state of possession was unmistakable and striking.

Now, I hate to sound like bumbling old Carlos Castaneda but something a bit more pedestrian had been going on in the middle of all this.  Earlier, when the ceremony was only about half over, I realized that I really had to pee.  In New Orleans, you drink water all day, if you don’t, sooner or later you collapse, that’s how it is.  I had been diligently drinking water all day, but I had no idea when I arrived just how long this ceremony was going to be.

I should mention that by Haitian standards this was actually a rather brief ceremony.  Mama Lola’s birthday parties for the spirits have been known to go on for as long as twelve hours.  Just the same I had to pee when we arrived, but I figured I could hold on at least an hour.  When an hour drew near I finally asked a fellow next to me if he knew of a bathroom nearby, and he said it would be better to hold it.  So I did, frankly I don’t know how.  At any rate, after close to 2 hours of ritual dancing I realized I didn’t have to go anymore.  I had lost myself in the dance so completely that my body re-absorbed the fluid.  At the end of the ceremony I felt relaxed, energized and carefree.

Sallie Ann instructed us to gather up the leftover libations and offerings of pastry and candy and throw them into the bayou.  One of the other celebrants and I were walking to the waters edge and we introduced ourselves.  His name was Alex and he was smiling from ear to ear.  Everyone seemed elated that we had come together and done this.  Here again the one thing I felt above everything else was love.  I made a small prayer to Oshun the goddess of the river we threw our libations in.

I said my good-byes and collected phone numbers from a few people.  Sallie Ann gave me a big hug and Enrika once again offered Margaret and I a ride.  During the ride back to my hotel I thought about what I had just seen.  How lucky I am to have an opportunity to see this for myself.  I should mention that there is nothing funnier than walking through the lobby of the Hyatt Superdome in New Orleans dressed all in white covered in whipped cream, cornmeal, smelling like funky day-old crab and rum.  On top of that there is nothing funnier than watching the staff of the hotel look you up and down one time and then go back to work like they’ve seen it a hundred times before.  I should also mention that I ordered room service for the first time in my life that night.  I had a big old bowl of gumbo, and I slept like a baby.  I still have the head-wrap that Sallie Ann gave me and I wear it whenever things get stressful.  I always feel a little calmer when it’s on.

So there it is.  As my studies continue I fill in more and more of the blanks.  I have not been to another Voodoo ceremony since St. John’s Eve.  It took me six months to assemble and articulate my experiences from that weekend and they give me new insights everyday.  I look forward to the next time but I know it will happen when it is suppose to, and not before.

In closing I would remind you that I am not an academic.  I am a musician; I have a band called Black Snake Moan in Berkeley, California.  I stumbled across this tradition along the way.  All that I have learned I have incorporated into my music, lyrically, thematically.  When I start a show now, I remember that our music is medicine for the audience and I say a little prayer to Elegba.

For me Voodoo in America in the 21^st century is about reconciling opposites.  It is about finding space to grow under even the most difficult circumstances.  Voodoo is about survival and adaptability.  Voodoo is the only spiritual practice I have ever known that does not reject all other religions outright.

As it stands today the “tradition” (as many prefer to call it) is breaking down color lines and building understanding.  Every person I meet in this tradition teaches me something new.  Whenever I am feeling overwhelmed or depressed I think about what the brothers and sisters before me had to go through to keep this tradition alive and I remember how strong we really are.

Mo-Yu-Ba, Love and Respect to you,

Paige Lawrence

Berkeley, California

February 20^th, 2003