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Table of contents :
Frontmatter
PREFACE TO THE 2001 EDITION (page ix)
PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION (page xvii)
INTRODUCTION (page 1)
1. Joseph Binbin Mauvant (page 21)
2. Azaka (page 35)
3. Raise That Woman's Petticoat (page 79)
4. Ogou (page 93)
5. The Baka Made from Jealousy (page 141)
6. Kouzinn (page 155)
7. Dreams and Promises (page 203)
8. Ezili (page 219)
9. Sojème, Sojème (page 259)
10. Danbala (page 271)
11. Plenty Confidence (page 311)
12. Gede (page 329)
AFTERWORD (page 383)
GLOSSARY OF HAITIAN CREOLE TERMS (page 403)
BIBLIOGRAPHY (page 407)
INDEX (page 415)
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MAMA ZA

, - Comparative Studies in Religion and Society | MARK JUERGENSMEYER, EDITOR

1. Redemptive Encounters: Three Modern Styles in the |

Hindu Tradition, by Lawrence Babb ,

2. Saints and Virtues, edited by John Stratton Hawley

| 3. Utopias in Conflict: Religion and Nationalism in Modern India, by Ainslie T. Embree 4. Mama Lola: A Vodou Priestess in Brooklyn, by

, Karen McCarthy Brown | 5. The New Cold War? Religious Nationalism Confronts the | | Secular State, by Mark Juergensmeyer | 6. Pious Passion: The Emergence of Modern Fundamentalism in the United States and Iran, by Martin Riesebrodt, translated by Don Reneau 7. Devt: Goddesses of India, edited by John Stratton

_ Hawley and Donna Marie Wulff | 8. Absent Lord: Ascetics and Kings in a Jain Ritual Culture, by Lawrence A. Babb 9. The Challenge of Fundamentalism: Political Islam and the New World Disorder, by Bassam Tibi

10. Levelling Crowds: Ethno-nationalist Conflicts and , | , Collective Violence in South Asia, by Stanley J. Tambiah 11. The Bridge Betrayed: Religion and Genocide in Bosnia, | by Michael A. Sells 12. China’s Catholics: Tragedy and Hope in an Emerging Civil

Society, by Richard Madsen 13. Terror in the Mind of God: The Global Rise of Religious

Violence, by Mark Juergensmeyer 14. Imaging Karma: Ethical Transformation in Amerindian, Buddhist, and Greek Rebirth, by Gananath Obeyesekere

A Vodou Priestess mn Brooklyn Updated and Expanded Edition KAREN McCARTHY BROWN

UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA PRESS Berkeley Los Angeles London

University of California Press Berkeley and Los Angeles, California University of California Press, Ltd.

London, England , © 1991, 2001 by

The Regents of the University of California

| Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Brown, Karen McCarthy.

| Mama Lola : a Vodou priestess in Brooklyn / Karen McCarthy Brown.— , Rev. and expanded ed. _ p. cm. — (Comparative studies in religion and society ; 4)

, Includes bibliographical references and index.

ISBN 0-520-22475-2 (pbk. : alk. paper) oo

1. Kowalski, Alourdes. 2. Mambos (Voodooism)—New York (State)—-New York. 3. Voodooism—New York (State)—New York. 4. Brooklyn (New York, N. Y.)— Religion. I. Title. II. Series.

BL2490.K68 B76 2001 , 299’.675'092—dc21 [B] 2001037028 | Printed in the United States of America

08 07 06 05 , ,

|98765

~ The paper used in this publication is both acid-free and totally chlorine-free (TCF). It meets the minimum requirements of ANSI/ NISO Z239.48-1992 (R 1997)

(Permanence of Paper). ,

| TO MY TEACHERS, ABDUL EL ZEIN, FLORENCE MIALE, AND ALOURDES MARGAUX

| The spirit is a wind. Everywhere I go, they going too. . . to protect me.

a Alourdes Margaux

CONTENTS

PREFACE TO THE 2001 EDITION ix PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION XVil

INTRODUCTION 1

2. Azaka 35

1. Joseph Binbin Mauvant 21

4. Ogou 93 6. Kouzinn 155 8. Ezili 219 9g. Sojeme, Sojeme 259 3. Raise That Woman’s Petticoat 70 5. The Baka Made from Jealousy 141

7. Dreams and Promises 203

10. Danbala 271 11. Plenty Confidence 311

12. Gede 329 AFTERWORD 383 BIBLIOGRAPHY 407 INDEX 415 GLOSSARY OF HAITIAN CREOLE TERMS 4.03

vil

~ Blank Page | | |

PREFACE TO THE 2001 EDITION

_ Mama Lola: A Vodou Priestess in Brooklyn was published in April

1991. The product of more than twelve years of overlapping research and writing, Mama Lola proved to be a difficult book, es-

pecially in its conception. In the early stages, the problem of voice troubled me more than any other. Who got to speak in this

book and from what perspective? Rather than resolving itself with a single answer, the tension behind this question eased only

when dozens of voices emerged simultaneously from the two thick black binders filled with field notes that I kept on my desk. My voices were several, as were Alourdes’s (Lola’s given name). Hers included the voices of spirits that regularly speak through her. Her daughter Maggie’s voice had a central role, and there was a collection of ancestors, lovers, friends, and clients who also got to speak. Once I had the chorus of voices, it became clear that my role was to be the conductor. It was my job to see that each voice got heard. Within weeks of its appearance Mama Lola was being touted as

an example of “new postmodern ethnography” or “new feminist , ethnography.” As evidence, the book’s “chorus of voices” and its “lack of a hegemonic point of view” were cited, as was “the de-

‘mystifying presence of the author in the narrative,” a presence described by one person as that of “a porous self, vulnerable, open to change and growth.” (Iam still not comfortable with the “porous” metaphor.) Just two weeks after its official publication date, I found myself in a Columbia University faculty seminar being pushed to defend postmodern ethnography, a difficult task, since most of the significant literature had emerged toward the end of my writing process and did not in fact play a role in shaping Mama Lola. In those early days, the postmodern critique of ethnography made me anxious. Soon after it came out, [bought

| a copy of James Clifford and George Marcus’s catalytic volume,

, 1x

Writing Culture: The Poetics and Politics of Ethnography, but at the

time I only managed to read half of it. I was struggling to write

in a way that did justice to Alourdes’s Vodou world as I had ex-

perienced it. Because the postmodern critique of ethnography was new to me and, even more to the point, because I recognized

its significance, it threatened to overwhelm my project. I was Prefaceto afraid Clifford and Marcus might convince me there was no way the2001_ for me to write about Lola, the Vodou Priestess, that was not exFattion ploitive, distorting, and destructive. I put away Writing Culture, put my blinders on, and followed the course I had previously set for myself. Only later did I recognize the confluence of my own thinking with that of the postmodern critique of ethnography. | So, | have come to embrace the labels placed on Mama Lola by

some of its earliest readers and critics, even though I cannot claim to have self-consciously positioned my book in those niches. What is significant for this discussion is that the post- | modern label has become, after the fact, one way of understanding my own work and locating myself within the academy. For _ the academy, it has become one way of appropriating my writing

, and categorizing it. If | were writing Mama Lola today, it would be a book in more deliberate conversation, not only with new modes of writing ethnographically, but also with postcolonial studies and gender studies, centers of growth in the academy even more important to me. In this way books shape-shift before their author’s eyes; they turn on us and change the way we un-

| derstand them. It makes us feel foolish when our readers learn things from our books that we do not deny but did not deliberately put there. Also, the way a book moves after publication— the people who read it and the uses they make of it—can occasion _ important changes in the lives as well as the attitudes and under-

standings of author and subject alike. Much more will be said

~ about that in the afterword to this updated edition. | I still understand Mama Lola, as | did in 1991, primarily as an

exercise in interpretation (14). Yet these days I appreciate the | complexity of this posture more than I did then. Each of us moves through the world making meaning, individually and collectively, as we can and/or need to. This is not to say that we

make meaning out of nothing. We tend to gather up experiences—what we have done, seen, heard, read, felt, learned, intuited, hoped for, reasoned, and believed—and we try to discern patterns there, patterns that are partly discovered and partly cre-

ated by our particular perspectives. , | Anthropology, the academic discipline by which I steer much

of my meaning making, deals with double and triple complexi- yi ties. Most anthropologists understand different cultures (a prob-

lematic term for which there is no good substitute) to be, at minimum, different ways of making meaning in the world. So, an ethnography is written by making meaning out of others’ Preface to processes of meaning making. The task I faced in researching the 2001 and writing Mama Lola was, in practice, more complicated than Edition that. During my field research, I was engaged in learning about Second Diaspora people, Haitians whose ancestors were forcibly removed from Africa by slave traders, and who more recently were forced to leave Haiti by poverty and political upheaval. As if that were not enough, these culturally complex people were also actively engaged in trying to make sense of my own culture at the same time and in the same places that I was trying to make sense of theirs. This last layer of more or less continuous, dynamic, reciprocal interpretation gets us closer to what really hap-

pens these days when an ethnographer is doing research in multicultural urban centers, and it also reveals the static and overly simple way field research in general is usually configured. In the classic ethnographic research situation, the anthropologist is the one who crosses the culture borders (such as they are),

learns the local language, and manages to figure out how the system works by interpreting local practices. Yet when I was doing research for this book, Mama Lola was doing all the things I was, only she called it “surviving in New York City.”

There is a regrettable history in academic anthropology of erasing colonial presence and influence from ethnographies of so-called traditional peoples. The resulting “purity” was once thought, in some back-handed way, to add to the merit of the study. In the same vein, it is still the case that, when individual characters emerge in ethnographic writing, they are almost always depicted as talented and/or accomplished within their own culture contexts, and only there. By definition, every “informant” has at least one intensely crosscultural experience, yet there is seldom much attention paid to the informant’s talent in making sense of the anthropologist and his or her culture. If I were to represent Alourdes in the context of her relationship with me in such a passive way, it would be grossly unfair. She is a veritable survival artist. She is gifted in the art of cultural bricolage, that is, in making use of whatever cultural elements serve to support her and her family, regardless of whether they are Haitian or

ai “American” or come from any of the other peoples and cultures she routinely encounters in New York City. Her current religious commitments include Haitian Vodou and Puerto Rican Santeria, as well as Vatican II Catholicism as interpreted by first-generation Prefaceto Trish immigrant priests. Alourdes’s people-sense functions, with —

the 2001 remarkably few translation problems, across multiple cultural Edition divides. Her sensitivity and her skill at working with people are, at minimum, transnational talents. They have had to be because Lola, the Vodou Priestess, lives in the midst of religious and cul-

tural pluralism. This is apparent in both her healing work and

her day-to-day life. |

, A life as culturally dynamic , flexible, and responsive to change as Alourdes’s evades neat ethnographic description. This has made me especially aware of the role my choices have played in shaping her overall story. I do not pretend to have been merely a

midwife to this book, one who stepped aside and let others speak. While many people’s voices are heard at length there, I take the responsibility for being the author of the book. Iam the one who chose those voices and the one who orchestrated and analyzed their particular articulations. Alourdes’s is a complex life and I acknowledge the many paths not followed in my text. Thus, I take responsibility for the book’s silences, as well as for what it says.

It took Alourdes and me years to sort out these issues of au- / thorship and responsibility. When she began to call Mama Lola “my book,” I was happy to hear it. When she introduced me as “her writer,” I was amused. When she went further and said: “This is Karen. She the one who take my stories and put them in that book,” I began to worry. It appeared that her concept of the. book was that it was something like a cardboard box into which I dumped her life stories, one-by-one, as she handed them over to me. Lola does read, but not easily or at length, and she almost certainly has not read much of Mama Lola (Maggie reviewed it _ before publication). For a long time I said nothing to her about my concern. Then, one day I realized that, if she knew what was on my mind, she would probably be critical of me for not speak-

ing up. This thought gave me the nudge I needed. So, one evening, when I was driving her to a dinner engagement, I re-

minded her that I had spent twelve years working on Mama Lola | and therefore had a substantial investment in it. I suggested that its success was probably due to both her stories and my way of

telling them. “Since we both have a part in it,” I said, “why don’t ae we both call it ‘our book’?” Lola got my point instantly and has “

not missed a beat since. |

The ancestral oral histories included in our book are good illus-

trations of the role differences between storytellers and writers. Preface to Several people have asked me why I fictionalized the ancestral the 2001

tales rather than simply quoting the stories as Lola told them. Edition Such queries often have a wistful quality about them. Behind their implied challenge to the integrity of my presentation lurks a stereotypic image of an African griot—a wise old man who

passes on narratives that have an appropriate amount of dramatic tension and also a clear beginning, middle, and end. This image probably owes more to popular culture, to sources such as

the television production of Alex Haley’s Roots, than it does to most fieldwork situations. Mama Lola handed me no such well shaped narratives. Not only are the accounts of her ancestral history quite frequently joint family “performances,” and therefore as I describe them in the book noisy, contested, and repetitive (18), the dialogue also changes from one telling to the next. Each time Lola tells one of the ancestral tales, she supplies dialogue

that makes it come alive and this dialogue is never quite the same from one telling to the next. Yet, even with this fluidity, the stories have a remarkable consistency. In her community, there is

no premium placed on getting the old stories down word-forword. There was, therefore, no official version I could have reproduced in the text of Mama Lola. It may well be that their labile

character is one of the reasons Alourdes’s family stories have managed to survive. The way Lola performs her family history is only one dimension of the challenge of settling on a way to render her stories in a book. Since her family’s oral history is never rehearsed for entertainment alone, it is also the case that these stories, well known within her extended family, rarely need to be told in their entirety. Most of the time they are simply evoked, with the evocation being aimed at a particular existential knot in the family’s life. For example, on a day when Lola was feeling beaten down by prob-

lems, she evoked for Maggie and me her great-grandfather, a spiritual man born in Africa. “Remember when Mauvant ask Mommie [Alourdes’s mother] to swallow that stone. Mommie say, ‘No.’ That was his power! If he ask me today, you know I gonna do it!” In the immediate crisis, and I no longer remember

X1V . ,

a what it was, Alourdes apparently felt she needed more spiritual power than she had at her fingertips. She articulated that feeling by calling up a fragment of her family history.

I chose to lightly fictionalize the ancestral stories for several | Prefaceto reasons already laid out in the original introduction. At that the 2007 time, however, I did not articulate yet another reason that was Edition robably more influential in determining the format of the book than the others were. The specific type of book I had in mind

called for these short stories. I wanted to write a book with |

strong narrative drive, one that could communicate a lot of information relatively painlessly. The timing of the book was the de-

| terminative issue for me. Most of Mama Lola was written in the | two to three years after Jean-Claude Duvalier’s departure from Haiti. Haiti and Vodou were frequently in the news during that period. This was a precarious and often violent time in Haiti and

| the upheaval there had given life to an all too familiar maneuver. U.S. news reporters and television commentators during that time frequently referred, albeit obliquely, to Vodou as the dimension of Haitian culture that encapsulated, and perhaps even ex-

_ plained, the country’s violence. This is an old racist argument that has actually been around since the Haitian Revolution (1791- , | 1804). From then up to the present, whenever Haiti emerged in the news, the damning caricature of Vodou emerged as well. Usually simply putting the two together was enough to condemn Haiti. I wanted Mama Lola to speak indirectly but force- | fully to this racist rhetoric by showing how Vodou is actually lived, rather than imagined. I wanted to write a book that would © plant images of quotidian Vodou practice in the minds of think-

ing people, images that would linger and soften the formulaic association of Vodou with the superstitious and the satanic. I do not know what it would mean to claim success for such a huge project, yet I do think the book has planted a seed here and there.

| If there is one thing I regret about the 1991 version of Mama Lola, it is that I did not make a clearer statement about what the

| book is and what it is not. Mama Lola is an ethnographic spiritual biography. It is ethnographic because, although I focus on one

| person, Mama Lola, I also provide considerable Haitian and USS.

| cultural context for her life. This does not mean that her life is representative of the lives of all Haitian immigrants, or even of

| all Vodou priestesses living in the United States. It is a spiritual biography because it focuses on Lola’s religious practices. It is

not spiritual in the sense that its primary subject matter opposes ey

itself to embodied, everyday experience in the material world. The Vodou that Alourdes practices is firmly rooted in the here and now. Her religious practice is a conversation with energies she calls “the spirits” who speak eloquently through her body, as Preface to they address the problems and suffering of ordinary human exis- the 2001 tence. Like Lola, her spirits are polyglots. They speak French, Edition Creole, English, and occasionally they use old African words. Although I included in the text five chapters on Mama Lola’s ancestors, this is not a book about history, so much as it is about historical consciousness, something I believe to be an important dimension of daily life. The latter is especially true in Alourdes’s case. My goal was to describe as fully and accurately as I could Alourdes’s day-to-day practice of Haitian Vodou. In doing so I could hardly avoid the oral history preserved in her family, be-

cause her ancestors are among her most important sources for spiritual insight. Her mother appears in her dreams when she needs assistance helping a troubled client. Joseph Binbin Mauvant, the oldest remembered relative, remains a distant but functional model of what is fran Gine, truly African. I never intended to analyze the historical veracity of her ances-

tral stories. That is a reasonable scholarly task, but it was not mine in this book. In a chapter titled “The Baka Made from Jeal-

ousy,” I tell one of Lola’s stories about her maternal grandmother. This story encompasses another about a very wealthy, but also very stingy, married couple named Fouchard. They set up a business in Port-de-Paix, in northern Haiti, sometime in the late nineteenth century. The Fouchards were eventually driven out of town by an evil spirit, one said to be the creation of the town people’s jealousy. Late one windy night, this baka menaced them

by appearing at their own door. The baka in the story is represented as a two-legged horse that stands up straight like a man. About that particular piece of oral history, I would say to the

| historian: just because I pass that story along uncritically, Ido not expect two-legged horses to show up at your door or mine. They do not exist in our world. Nevertheless, the historian would do well to attend to the ancestral stories in Mama Lola. They reveal a wealth of interesting information, when they are positioned in the right way. “The Baka Made from Jealousy,” for example, reflects both connections and tensions between the classes in Portde-Paix in the late nineteenth century. In fact, without the class

xvi Ls or ,

oe dimension the story of the baka would make little sense. Class tension does exist in the world of the historian and in mine. ©

| -~ IT want to thank Laura Cerutti and Naomi Schneider of the University of California Press for giving me this opportunity to Prefaceto add a new preface and an afterword to Mama Lola. I am also the 2001 ~~ grateful for the chance to give the book a more substantial bibli-

_ Edition ography, and to be able this time around to introduce Lola and her family to readers through photographs (see the new photo section following page 192), something no one wanted to risk in 1991. Nothing in the original text of the book has been changed and the original preface also remains in place. Lola and I dedi-

cate this updated edition of Mama Lola to Theodore Buteau, the person who first brought me to her door. Theodore, also my first a guide to Haiti’s Vodou temples and later an immigrant living in

New York City, could never quite find a foothold in the Ameri- |

os , Tribeca

can dream. He died early and alone. We miss him.

| Karen McCarthy Brown New York City | January 2001

PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION

Mama Lola is an intimate spiritual biography of a Vodou priestess

and her family. Haitian Vodou is not only one of the most misunderstood religions in the world; it is also one of the most maligned. In New York City, where Mama Lola lives, prejudice against Vodou practitioners is common. Because of this reality, I have acceded to her request to change some names in the text and to use no photographs of her or her family. Given their understandable fears, I am all the more grateful for the courage that Mama Lola and her daughter, Maggie, have shown in agree-

ing to the publication of this book. They do not need to read these lines to know that, in addition to my gratitude, they have

my love and my respect. |

This book is the result of a dozen years of research and writing. Over such a long period many people have either read portions of the manuscript or heard me deliver lectures drawn from

it. It is impossible to thank all those who have had a hand in shaping the final product. In fact, Ido not even know the names of some of the persons who have been most helpful. For example, at Amherst College, where I did the first public reading from the manuscript, a black student who thanked me for caring enough about this woman to tell her story and for the ‘‘respectful” way I told it helped me to let go of some lingering un-

easiness about questions of tone and style. And there was the student at Mount Holyoke who challenged me to look yet more carefully at Mama Lola’s network of women friends.

I have taught courses on women in Caribbean religions at | Harvard, Barnard, and my own institution, Drew University, and | have also given a series of lectures from the book at Prince-

ton. Students at these institutions have had more sustained contact with the material. Their candor and their difficult questions as well as their enthusiasm have been more important to me than they know. [ also have colleagues to thank. Two women’s groups, Aca-

XV

a demic Women at Drew and the New York Area Feminist Schol“w ars, provided the safe space in which I first spoke about Mama __ _ Lola and in which the idea for the book took shape. In addition, I want to thank especially Carol Christ, Paolo Cucchi, William

; et’ Doty, Christine Downing, Catherine Keller, Florence Miale, Gail ejition Pellett, Judith Plaskow, Arthur Pressley, and Delores Williams, each of whom read and responded thoughtfully to portions of the manuscript. Mama Lola is also a better book because of the

| patient support of Naomi Schneider and Amy Klatzkin, my editors at the University of California Press, and the careful and | respectful copyediting of Mary Renaud. Thanks are also due to Jerry Gordon and Judith Gleason for permission to use their

photographs. : |

| Early research for the book was funded in 1979 by a summer stipend from the National Endowment for the Humanities. | oupport for writing came from two grants administered by the Women’s Studies Program at Harvard Divinity School. In 1983- , 84 I was visiting lecturer and research associate in women’s _ studies in religion at the Divinity School, and in the spring of 1986 I was the Philips scholar in the same program. Constance Buchanan, the director of the women’s studies program and associate dean of the Divinity School, deserves special thanks for her enthusiastic support of this project. I also want to thank the Board of Trustees of Drew University. On three occasions I have _ been given leave to work on the book. Thomas Ogletree, dean of the Theological School at Drew, must be thanked for his un-

flagging support of faculty research and writing and for the creative ways in which he makes those things possible. Finally, I _ want to thank Leary Murphy and Martha Dyson for their technical assistance in preparing the manuscript. Haitian Creole is not a written language. The orthography of

| the Creole used in this book follows the official orthography adopted by the Haitian government in 1979 and interpreted and applied by Albert Valdman in the Haitian Creole-English—French Dictionary (Bloomington: Indiana University, Creole Institute,

1981). | |

INTRODUCTION

I met Mama Lola in the summer of 1978 while working for the Brooklyn Museum on an ethnographic survey of the local Haitian immigrant community, a project that included photographing altars in the homes of Vodou priests and priestesses. Theodore B., a recent arrival to the United States who had befriended me during my first research trip to Haiti in 1973, offered to introduce me to Haitian spiritual leaders in Brooklyn. The home of Marie Thérése Alourdes Macena Margaux Kowalski, also known as Mama Lola, was to be our first stop.

I had already made several research trips to Haiti, but the

brief drive to Mama Lola’s house was my introduction to the | Brooklyn outpost of the Caribbean. As Theodore and I inched through the traffic clogging Nostrand Avenue on an intensely hot July afternoon, our nostrils filled with the smells of charcoal and roasting meat and our ears with overlapping episodes of salsa, reggae, and the bouncy monotony of what Haitians call

| jazz. Animated conversations could be heard in Haitian French Creole, Spanish, and more than one lyrical dialect of English. The street was a crazy quilt of shops: Chicka-Licka, the Ashanti Bazaar, a storefront Christian church with an improbably long and specific name, a Haitian restaurant, and Botanica Shango— one of the apothecaries of New World African religions offering fast-luck and get-rich-quick powders, High John the Conqueror root, and votive candles marked for the Seven African Powers. I was no more than a few miles from my home in lower Manhattan, but I felt as if I had taken a wrong turn, slipped through a

crack between worlds, and emerged on the main street of a

1|

tropical city. By the time we reached Fort Greene, a nondescript section of

Brooklyn near the naval yard, the illusion had receded. Mama Lola owns a narrow, three-story row house there, in the shadow of the elevated Brooklyn-Queens Expressway. As I parked my car on that hot and muggy day, I noticed that it was the only

-_ house on the block with all the blinds down, the doors closed, and no one sitting on the stoop. Closing up the house is a Caribbean technique for staving off the midday heat. I should have

- guessed that this was the home of the only Haitian family living

Introduction iy this North American black neighborhood. , | Alourdes (“Ah-lood” is the Creole pronunciation), the name by which I eventually came to address Mama Lola, took a long time coming to the door. Theodore and I were about to leave

| when the door opened a crack and we were scrutinized by a heavy-lidded, thick-jowled face the color of coffee ice cream. “Humph,” she said as Theodore burst into a stream of nervous Creole telling her who I was, why we were there, how impor-

| tant our work was, and how she was the perfect person to help us. Alourdes sucked her teeth and shook her head in disgust at — -- Theodore. ““You coming here after I don’t see you for six month—

no, almost a year I don’t see you—and you don’t even say, ‘Hello, how are you, Mommie Lola?’ Right away you telling me

what I got to do for you!”” She opened the door and motioned us inside the musty, cool interior of her home. My eyes were

_ still adjusting to the dim light when she turned abruptly and , headed for the basement. As her head was about to disappear

| beneath the level of the banister posts running along the stairwell, she said simply, “You coming?” ~ Moments later, standing in the makeshift living room outside

the door of her altar room (a door which remained resolutely closed on that initial visit), [ got my first good look at a person who was to be central in my life for years to come. Alourdes, who also responds to the nickname Lola or Mama Lola, is a big

woman—not tall, but round and solid. That day she wore a

, loose, sleeveless cotton housecoat. Her hair was covered by a | | scarf knotted tightly around her head. Floppy bedroom slippers revealed swollen feet and ankles. Even though Alourdes was , then in her mid-forties, her skin looked as fresh and smooth as a child’s. Yet she seemed like anything but a child to me; in fact,

_ she made me quite uncomfortable. The fluorescent light in the

| - basement accentuated the broad fleshy planes of her face and - exaggerated the expression she wore, one | interpreted as either

| anger or fatigue. I quickly decided we were intruding. “Perhaps we could come back another time,” I said, smiling politely at Alourdes while nudging Theodore back toward the stairs.

Alourdes looked confused. “You don’t want no coffee? Theo- a dore is my friend. Long time I don’t see him. Long time. You ; going make him go before we even got a chance to talk? Ehhh?

Theodore like my child! Even I don’t see him, I know he think- | ing about me. Right, Theodore?” Breaking into a dazzling ‘””°*“tion smile, she enfolded Theodore in her enormous arms, and the two of them did a little dance round and round to the music of their mutual laughter. The thick body was suddenly light and graceful; the sullen face warm, even beautiful. [ have come to accept these mercurial changes in Alourdes, and sometimes | enjoy them. But I never know what I will find when I visit her, and I still feel vaguely guilty when she is in one of her dour moods. The observation of an anthropologist friend helped: “That look,” she remarked after a joint visit some months later, “is the psychic’s torpor.” I went back to see Alourdes several times before the project

for the Brooklyn Museum was completed. She finally let me photograph her amazing altars: crowded tabletops with tiny flickering flames; stones sitting in oil baths; a crucifix; murky bottles of roots and herbs steeped in alcohol; shiny new bottles of rum, scotch, gin, perfume, and almond-sugar syrup. On one side was an altar arranged in three steps and covered in gold

| and black contact paper. On the top step an open pack of filterless Pall Malls lay next to a cracked and dusty candle in the shape of a skull. A walking stick with its head carved to depict a

huge erect penis leaned against the wall beside it. On the opposite side of the room was a small cabinet, its top littered with vials of powders and herbs. On the ceiling and walls of the room were baskets, bunches of leaves hung to dry, and smokedarkened color lithographs of the saints. The lithographs included several different images of the Virgin Mary and one each of Saint Patrick with snakes at his feet; Saint Gerard contemplating a skull; Saint James, the crusader on his rearing horse; and Saint Isidore, the pilgrim kneeling to pray by a freshly plowed field. These I recognized as images of the Vodou spirits. Each of these spirits has both a Catholic and an African name: Mary is Ezili, the Vodou love spirit; Saint Patrick is the serpent spirit, Danbala; Saint Gerard is Gede, master of the cemetery; Saint James is the warrior Ogou; and Isidore is the peasant farmer Azaka. Vodou, the new religion that emerged

— from the social chaos and agony of Haiti's eighteenth-century 4 slave plantations blended several distinct African religions with _ French colonial Catholicism. Dozens of the resulting VodouCatholic spirits continue to thrive in the twentieth century, Introduction where they reign over one or another troublesome area of human endeavor and act as mediators between God (Bondye) and

“the living.”

In this altar room, Alourdes practices a healing craft that has

been passed down through at least three generations of her | family. She is a priestess (manbo) in the Haitian Vodou tradition. =|

| As such, she is not unique or even rare. Rather, she is one of hundreds of similar professionals who minister to the approximately 450,000 Haitian immigrants living in New York City.* oe Many other Vodou leaders—mostly men—operate on a much grander scale. For example, I know a priest (oungan) who rents the basement of a large apartment house on one of the main ar-

teries in Brooklyn, where he stages dancing and drumming | events attended by two to three hundred people. In contrast, Alourdes, like the great majority of Haitian healers in New York, works in her home. Much of her time is spent consulting with clients, one or two at a time, and the spirit feasts she holds several times a year rarely draw more than thirty people. She does not usually have drummers; they are expensive, and, more

to the point, she does not want to attract the attention of her neighbors. Given the negative image Vodou has in the United States, many devotees prefer that their Vodou “families” oper-

ate onasmall scale. |

Alourdes does have an enviable reputation, however. She has a group of steady followers who appreciate her for being trustworthy and discreet as well as effective. It is also widely known

that she adheres to a tradition that discourages making large profits from healing work. Her reputation, spread by word of mouth, has led to invitations to perform “treatments” throughout the eastern United States and Canada and in several places

| _ in the Caribbean and Central America. In these respects, there

are not many like Mama Lola. |

Healing is at the heart of the religions that African slaves be-

‘Michel S. Laguerre, American Odyssey: Haitians in New York City (Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 1984), 31.

queathed to their descendants, and Alourdes’s Vodou practice is no exception. She deals both with health problems and with a full range of love, work, and family difficulties. Like healers in

related traditions found throughout the Caribbean and South America, Alourdes combines the skills of a medical doctor, a 9 /#70#uction psychotherapist, a social worker, and a priest. It can be argued that Haitians are more religious than people from many of the other former slave colonies and also that Haitian Vodou is closer to its African roots than most other forms of New World African religion. Vodou’s closer ties to its African — origins are primarily a result of Haiti’s virtual isolation from the

rest of the world for nearly a century following its successful slave revolution (1791-1804). The strength of religious belief in Haiti can be accounted for, in part, by the poverty and political oppression that have characterized life for most Haitians from

independence to the present. Haiti is currently the poorest country in the Western Hemisphere, a country whose inhabitants are beset by disease and malnutrition. The wonder of Haiti is that its people seem to have responded to suffering throughout history by augmenting their stores of aesthetic and spiritual riches. A well-worn joke claims, with some truth, that of Haiti's six

million people 85 percent are Catholic, 15 percent are Protes- , tant, and 100 percent serve the Vodou spirits. Among Haitians living in the United States, the few who have made a place for themselves in the middle class have tended to leave Vodou behind—except in times of crisis. But the vast majority of Haitian

lives. |

- immigrants are poor, and these people maintain the habit of turning to healers like Alourdes for help with their stressful Half a dozen times a year, on or around the saints’ days set by the Catholic calendar, Alourdes holds “birthday parties” for her favored spirits, or lwa, as they are also called. Clients, friends, and relatives gather around a decorated “niche,” whose centerpiece is a table laden with food. Here they pray, clap, and sing

spirit.

until the crowd is sufficiently “heated up” to entice a Vodou spirit to join the party, to “ride” Alourdes. In a trance state from

which she will later emerge with little or no memory of what has transpired, her body becomes the “horse” of the spirit, her voice the spirit’s voice, her words and behavior those of the

6 These possession-performances, which blend pro forma actions and attitudes with those responsive to the immediate

situation, are the heart of a Vodou ceremony.’ The spirits talk __-with the faithful. They hug them, hold them, feed them, chasIntroduction tise them. Group and individual problems are aired through interaction with the spirits. Strife is healed and misunderstanding rectified. At these ceremonies, crucial community bonds are reinforced through the process of giving gifts of food and entertainment to the Vodou spirits. Haitians, like their African forebears, operate from understandings of the divine and the virtuous that are markedly different from those of mainstream Catholicism. Bondye does not get involved in the personal, day-to-day affairs of human beings.

“He is too busy,” Alourdes told me. Instead, it is the spirits and the ancestors—neither properly referred to as gods—who handle day-to-day problems and who, if necessary, mediate between the living and God. Although the lwa who possess Alourdes are often called sen-yo |

(saints), they are not saintly types in the traditional Christian sense. For example, in stories about the soldier spirit Ogou/Saint

James, he not only liberates his people but also betrays them. - Ezili Dantd/Mater Salvatoris, the mother, cradles and cares for her children but also sometimes lashes out at them in rage. The Vodou spirits are not models of the well-lived life; rather, they mirror the full range of possibilities inherent in the particular slice of life over which they preside. Failure to understand this has led observers to portray the Vodou spirits as demonic or even to conclude that Vodou is a religion without morality—a serious misconception. Vodou spirits are larger than life but not other than life. Virtue for both the /wa and those who serve them is less an inherent character trait than a dynamic state of being that demands ongoing attention and care. Virtue is achieved by maintaining responsible relationships, relationships characterized by appropriate gifts of tangibles (food, shelter, money) and intangibles | _ (respect, deference, love). When things go as they should, these gifts flow in continuous, interconnected circles among the _

?I use the term possession-performance not to indicate that possession is playacting but to emphasize the theatrical quality of visits from the Vodou spirits.

living and between the living and the spirits or ancestors. In the a ongoing cycle of prestation and counter-prestation, each gives 7 and receives in ways appropriate to his or her place in the social

hierarchy—an overarching, relentless hierarchy that exempts | neither the young child nor the most aged and austere spirit. /™7o4uction Moral persons are thus those who give what they should, as de- | fined by who they are. These days, the little room Alourdes calls her “altar” feels bigger to me than it did when I first saw it. It has become familiar, its contents no longer confusing. During ceremonies in the living room outside, [am sometimes sent into the altar room to fetch a particular bottle, image, or implement. Occasionally I sit in on diagnostic card readings and ritual treatments performed in the altar room itself. Furthermore, some of the contents of the room have changed because I have entered Alourdes’s giftexchange network. The room still contains the rock that whistled to Marie Noelsine Joseph, Alourdes’s maternal grandmother, as

she walked near her home in the remote mountainous interior of Haiti; but now it also contains things I have given Alourdes. The dingy skull candle on top of Gede’s altar has been replaced

by one I bought in the New Orleans airport gift shop, a clean white one with bright red wax-blood dripping over the face. Next to Ogou’s altar hangs a photograph I took of Alourdes

while she was possessed by this spirit. , It was neither an easy nor a direct path that brought me to such familiarity. During the fall and winter after I first met her, I visited Alourdes every few weeks. I usually brought some small

gift, often her favorite bread from an Italian bakery near my home. During this early period, neither of us was sure why I was there, and, although Alourdes was hospitable, she never seemed especially happy to see me. More than once, I waited for hours while she talked on the phone or worked with clients, only to be told that she did not feel like talking that day. For the first year or two, my visits to Alourdes’s home and my

presence at her ritual events were met with suspicion by some members of her Vodou family. Fortunately for me, Haitians usu-

ally keep such judgments to themselves, and the tension and drama that surrounded my entry into the community became known to me only later. Maggie, Alourdes’s daughter, told me one story. “You know, they had a bet on you,” she said. “Mommie won a lot of money!” In response to my confused expres-

3) sion, Maggie explained: “You remember that day I made a manje Marasa [a feast for the Vodou twin child spirits]? Everybody was suppose to take off their shoes and sit on the floor and eat ___-with their hands, right? Some people tell Mommie, ‘Karen never Introduction 5 oing to do that; she is too proud. White people don’t do that.’

, But you know my mother, nobody gonna tell her who can be her friend. So when they say, ‘Karen too proud to sit on the floor,’ she just say, ‘You wanna bet?’ She won a lot of money on © you.” Maggie laughed. “She don’t ever tell you?”

-Alourdes and her family are all either citizens or legal resi-

| dents of the United States, but many of the people she works | with are not. Such a community is tightly knit, protecting its -own and sharing few intimacies with outsiders. During the early years of my contact with its members, I felt their resistance; at the birthday parties for the spirits, I ventured no fur_ ther than the edge of the crowd.

| But things are different these days. Although a few still keep their distance, [now have many friends among the people who | “serve the spirits” under Alourdes’s tutelage. Today, Alourdes

seats me near the center of the ritual action at her ceremonies, | and I often assist in saluting the Vodou spirits. My change in status is a result of the initiation I underwent in the summer of 1981. Under the watchful eyes of Alourdes, I entered the initia-

| tion chamber in a small temple on the coast road south and west _ of Port-au-Prince. I am now one of the “little leaves” (ti-fey) on

Alourdes’s Vodou family tree, and she introduces me as her

| “daughter.” Her offer of initiation and my decision to accept marked the culmination of two inseparable processes. One was , the growth of my friendship with her. The other was a shift in

the way I understood my professional work. | | The friendship grew despite our early halting and not always | successful efforts to trust each other and to share the contents of our lives. Alourdes and I went through a great deal, singly

and together, in the three years between the July day in 1978 ©

| when Theodore took me to her door and the July day in 1981 when she guided me through the taxing initiation rituals. We traveled to Haiti together once before the initiation, sleeping on - the same pallet, talking late into the night, and discussing our dreams in the mornings. We also faced serious problems during

that three-year period: I went through a divorce; Maggie was hospitalized with stomach trouble; and Alourdes’s son William

was arrested for purse snatching. Each of us sought to help the oo

other when and how we could. Like her altar room, Alourdes herself gradually became less

exotic to me. As the shape of her character emerged, I began to | feel considerable admiration for her. Alourdesisastrong woman = ‘"!70duction

who provides the main financial and emotional support for a hard-pressed family. She is also a fighter, a survivor who has had a hard life but nevertheless shows little trace of bitterness from her suffering. She is a presence to be reckoned with, some-

: one who commands the respect of others. And her self-respect is palpable. But Alourdes is also a giver, a caring and empathic person who takes pleasure in helping others. By necessity, she has become adept at balancing this desire to help others with the need to care for herself. Alourdes lives with her daughter, Maggie; her son William, who is mentally retarded and requires monitoring, although he | is an adult; and three young children: her own son Kumar and Maggie’s two small ones, Michael and Betty. Often there are others temporarily living in the house: new arrivals from the extended family in Haiti, clients from her healing practice, and family members or friends down on their luck. Except for the early, quiet hours when the adults are at work, the older children are at school, and Alourdes is babysitting with Betty, the house hums with activity. During my visits in the late afternoon

and early evening, children clamber over me. Haitian music pours from the radio, and the television may be on at the same time. The doorbell rings frequently, with each new arrival raising the energy level in the house. Holidays and other special occasions fill the tables with food and the house with people a dozen times a year. I enjoy being part of this group; Alourdes treats me like family. ]

As Alourdes and I became friends, I found it increasingly difficult to maintain an uncluttered image of myself as scholar and researcher in her presence. This difficulty brought about a change in the research I was doing. As I got closer to Alourdes, I got closer to Vodou. The Vodou Alourdes practices is intimate

and intense, and I soon found that I could not claim a place in her Vodou family and remain a detached observer. Participating in the ceremonies in her Brooklyn home ironically brought me close to a form of Vodou older than the form I had been studying in urban Haiti. It brought me closer to the

“to. family-style Vodou of the countryside, where the patriarch of

_ the extended family functions as priest and all those who serve the spirits under his tutelage are either blood kin or honorary - members of the family. In rural Haiti and in Alourdes’s Brooklyn introduction living room, the group itself provides the content and drama of

Vodou ceremonies in much more obvious ways than it does in , the large-scale ritualizing common in Port-au-Prince.

| My presence in Alourdes’s Vodou world brought other insights. I had long been aware that Vodou priests and priestesses | performed divination, administered herbal treatments, and manufactured charms and amulets, but [ had initially seen their

| healing work as one of several priestly functions, one distinct from communal ritualizing. After some time with Alourdes, I |

| realized that this perception was off the mark, that thereisno

not a healing rite. |

Vodou ritual, small or large, individual or communal, which is

| It is no exaggeration to say that Haitians believe that living and suffering are inseparable. Vodou is the system they have devised to deal with the suffering that is life, a system whose ‘purpose is to minimize pain, avoid disaster, cushion loss, and strengthen survivors and survival instincts. The drama of Vodou

therefore occurs not so much within the rituals themselves asin _ the junction between the rituals and the troubled lives of the

_ devotees. People bring the burdens and pains of their lives to | this religious system in the hope of being healed. I realized that if I brought less to this Vodou world, I would come away with less. If I persisted in studying Vodou objectively, the heart of the system, its ability to heal, would remain closed to me. The

only way I could hope to understand the psychodrama of Vodou was to open my own life to the ministrations of Alourdes. | _ [entered gradually. I accepted Alourdes’s invitations to salute the spirits and pour libations for them. On occasion I brought

, her dreams and asked for interpretation. Sometimes I requested | card readings. At one difficult point in my life, she suggested that I undergo a ritual “marriage” to two of the Vodou spirits, ~Ogou and Danbala. I did that. And in 1981 I went through the

| rituals of initiation. |

No Haitian—and certainly not Alourdes—has ever asked me if I “believe” in Vodou or if I have set aside the religious com-

| - mitments and understandings that come from my childhood

and culture. Alourdes’s approach is, instead, pragmatic: “You — just got to try. See if it work for you.” The choice of relinquish- _

fore never been at issue. |

ing my worldview or adopting another in its entirety has there-

Nevertheless, I soon realized that my personalinvolvementin = 1”!70#ction Vodou represented both gains and risks in relation to my work. The potential gains were in depth of understanding. One of the major risks involved losing the important distinction between : Vodou interacting with the life of a Haitian and Vodou interact-

ing with my own very different blend of experience, memory, dream, and fantasy. My experiences with Vodou both are and are not like those of Haitians. The stories I tell about these experiences have authority only in the territory between cultures. | have attempted to stay clear on this point and even to use these stories quite self-consciously as bridges for my readers, most of whom will be more like me than like Alourdes.

My increasing participation in Vodou also necessitated changes in research techniques. Initially, | used a tape recorder with Alourdes. In the beginning, she submitted reluctantly and tended to answer my questions about her life with portraits that

were somewhat idealized, though fairly accurate. To my delight, however, she was far too spirited a storyteller to remain cautious for long. Soon she began to unfold rich stories about her early days in New York, about the difficult life in Haiti that had forced her to emigrate, and about her ancestors, the healers who had preceded her. [ eventually had to stop relying on a tape recorder, because it was unsuited to the casual rhythms of our growing friendship. Alourdes would often give me the best information when we were working together to prepare a ritual meal or when we were riding in my car. So I began to work in another way. After

speaking on the phone with her, or spending an afternoon drinking coffee at her kitchen table, or passing most of the night at one of her birthday parties for the spirits, | would sit down at my desk to write. It seemed important to capture not only what she said but also how she said it. | found I could use her mnemonic devices, the repeated refrains of her stories, and some of my own memory tools—such as especially poignant visual im-

ages. Beginning with these condensation points and working myself into the rhythm of her speech, I could construct a record

ap by moving both backward and forward and in this way repro- | duce accurate, if selective, accounts of conversations that had taken place hours earlier.

' To these records of conversations I added contextual descrip-

introduction tions as well as some of the more traditional contents of an eth~ nographic journal. Unavoidably, as I brought more of myself

into conversation with Vodou, I put more of myself into my

| field journal. Sometime in the early 1980s, I stopped editing out my reactions to Alourdes. My affection and gratitude, guilt and | impatience began to appear as ingredients in her story, at least partly responsible for evoking her expansive hospitality, infectious humor, or sullen withdrawal. Paying attention to myself

in relation to her became both a learning device (had I not brought some of my own dreams to Alourdes, I would never have learned as much about dream analysis in Vodou) and a

, way of staying honest (when my field notes included my own | moods and motivations, I was more likely to take account of my filters and interventions when I returned to those notes in the future). Yet, putting myself on the line in my field journal and | in my relations with Alourdes and with Vodou was, in the end,

even more than that. It was an acknowledgment that ethnographic research, whatever else it is, is a form of human relationship. When the lines long drawn in anthropology between

participant-observer and informant break down, then the only | truth is the one in between; and anthropology becomes some-

| thing closer to a social art form, open to both aesthetic and a moral judgment. This situation is riskier, but it does bring intel-

lectual labor and life into closer relation.

The academic world has cultivated in me a healthy respect for

the limits of the intelligibility of other people and other cultures. Most of the time, whether I am working in Haiti or visit- | ing Alourdes in Brooklyn, I appreciate the wisdom of this stance | and try to operate from it. For example, because I assume that I do not always understand what is going on, my tolerance levels are higher when I am with Haitians than when I am with, for example, my university colleagues. Because reaction always

| presupposes interpretation, I will sit and wait longer, put up with more delay and chaos, and generally bend more when I am with Alourdes and her family than I would with my own family. Nevertheless, I have thought many times that academics

and cultures from one another. 3 have overemphasized those things that separate individuals aa For Haitians, one of life’s major challenges lies in distinguish-

ing themselves as individuals in the context of an extended fam- | ily. The extended family tends to take over, defining status, con- ‘”!7#uction

trolling assets, and apportioning time. As a result, in Haiti, human connection is the assumption; it is separation that requires both effort and explanation. That is why a Haitian may quiz a beggar on the street in Port-au-Prince before giving alms. What family is it that does not provide food and shelter for one of its own? To a great extent, Alourdes is a product of her culture. She too operates on the assumption of connection. Because of this trait,

she is not afraid to incorporate elements from other cultures into her own worldview. When a woman from the Englishspeaking Caribbean came to her for help in interpreting a dream in which ‘Mister Bones,” a death spirit, had appeared, Alourdes

did not miss a beat: “Oh, Mister Bone—that’s Papa Gede!” Alourdes’s universe expanded, and she now frequently refers to Gede as Mister Bone. A friend of mine once visited Alourdes with me. In her handbag were chromolithographs of the Hindu deities Krishna and Kali. “Let me see!” cried Alourdes, grab-

bing the images. “You going to get me some for my altar?” Alourdes did ask questions (why Krishna was blue), but she knew instantly what category she was dealing with. In a sense, her whole life is about movement between cultures and about understanding and coping with cultural difference. She does not waste much time wondering if and how such connection is theoretically possible; she gets on with it because she has to. I recognize that there is a difference between the understanding and skill required to live in a culture other than one’s own and the understanding and skill required to write about such a culture. I therefore do not want to throw away the hard-won insights of anthropologists into the limits of intelligibility and the reality of diversity. But I do want to balance them with my own experiences. | want to give full respect to my friendship with Alourdes. It is one example of the kind of connection and understanding that is possible across cultural lines. And I want to avoid substituting a theoretical picture of Haitian culture, one

with firm boundaries, for the experiences I have had both in

14 Haiti and in New York, experiences that attest to a constant overlapping of cultures and a good deal of routine culture mixing. The methods used in researching and writing this book have roots in the work of other scholars. I think of myself as working Introduction within a tradition of interpretive anthropology. According to

Clifford Geertz, humans are “suspended in webs of significance” they themselves have created.* We can speak of culture in a general sense (that is, I can talk about Haitian culture) be-

cause human beings in relation, over time, tend to evolve shared | styles of web-spinning. The individual life—Alourdes’s life, for instance—while open to infinite variation, is nevertheless rec-

| ognizable as a version of one or more of these traditional webspinning styles we call cultures. Even more to the point, such a view makes interpretation both the subject matter and the end product of ethnographic work. What the ethnographer studies is how people create meaning or significance in their lives, how _ they interpret objects and events. An ethnographic study such as Mama Lola is thus an exercise in bridge building. It is an inter-

pretation within one web-spinning tradition (in this case, my own) of the interpretations of people who follow a largely different aesthetic in their spinning (in this case, Haitians).

A corollary of this position is that the people who are being studied should be allowed to speak for themselves whenever , | possible, for they are the only true experts on themselves. That is why I quote Alourdes frequently and, often, at length. In_ passing her stories along, I also reproduce her way of speaking—English, wedded to the structure, rhythm, and cadence of Haitian Creole—to bring the reader a fuller sense of her and of

the creative cultural mix in which she lives. |

In Mama Lola, | am most interested in telling rich, textured stories that bring Alourdes and her religion alive. Rather than | simply trying to refute the negative stereotypes often associated with Vodou, I have chosen to enter the public discussion of Vodou by another route: constructing a portrait of this religion as it is lived by Alourdes and the people closest to her. My aim

is to create an intimate portrait of three-dimensional people who are not stand-ins for an abstraction such as “the Haitian

, > Clifford Geertz, “Thick Description: Toward an Interpretive Theory of Culture,” in his The Interpretation of Cultures (New York: Basic Books, 1973), 5.

people” but rather are deeply religious individuals with particu- — lar histories and rich interior lives, individuals who do not live "9 out their religion in unreflective, formulaic ways but instead struggle with it, become confused, and sometimes even contradict themselves. In other words, my aim is to create a portrait of} ‘™/70#uction

Vodou embedded in the vicissitudes of particular lives. I am aware that my material connects with larger discussions

going on in the academic world, discussions about such things , as immigrant experience, Third World women, and even microeconomics. I have chosen, however, not to make these connections explicit. [am also aware that several of the Vodou spirits I describe have archetypal dimensions and appear in similar forms in other places. But, because I want Vodou to speak on its own terms, I have also avoided drawing these parallels. — Yet this book has in fact been motivated by some theoretical concerns. I have deep interests in how Haitian Vodou functions

in relation to family, gender roles, and social change. These issues weave their way in and out of the entire book, but, for the most part, I have left my theorizing embedded in stories. To

do this, I developed a style of narrative analysis in which the flow of the text is determined by story lines that from time to time evoke an analytic voice. This voice most often speaks in asides designed not to break the momentum of a story. I agree with Geertz that ethnographic writing has its greatest integrity when it stays close to the small slices of social interaction that provide its data: “Only short flights of ratiocination tend to be effective in anthropology; longer ones tend to drift off into logical dreams, academic bemusements with formal symmetry.’’* Another sort of theoretical argument is implicit in the struc-

ture of the book, a structure designed to make its own point about the creative role that Alourdes’s multiple, and often contradictory, spirit voices play in orchestrating her life. The longer chapters, those with even numbers, are organized to reflect the major Vodou spirits who possess Alourdes. These spirits, who

preside over particular life domains, serve admirably to give order and definition to the different levels on which the drama of her life has unfolded. Chapter 2 deals with the Vodou spirit Azaka, a peasant farmer who reminds Alourdes of her roots

: *Ibid., 24. ,

6 and therefore of her connections to, and need for, family. With Ogou, the focus of Chapter 4, the themes of risk taking, assertion, and anger are explored through the stories of Alourdes’s

move to New York and her interactions there with various offiIntroduction cials and bureaucracies. Chapter 6 deals with Kouzinn, a rural market woman; this section reviews the economic dimensions

| of Alourdes’s life. , |

The Vodou spirit Ezili, the subject of Chapter 8, provides the context and language in which the stories of Alourdes’s relation-

| ships with men and her role as a mother are told. Chapter 10 focuses on Danbala, the serpent spirit. As the most ancient and most conservative of the Vodou spirits, he provides the context

, for stories about the efforts of Alourdes and Maggie to preserve _ their spiritual heritage. Papa Gede, the trickster spirit, the master of the cemetery, the guardian of sexuality and protector of small children, presides over Chapter 12, which concerns heal-

ing and other transformational arts. | | Talso have debts to feminist scholarship. When I began to dia| gram Alourdes’s family tree, nearly a year after I started work| ing with her, I realized that what she had traced for me with her family stories was a matrilineage. True, the most distant ancestor she acknowledges was a man, her great-grandfather, : Joseph Binbin Mauvant. After him, however, all of her stories follow a line from mother to daughter. After Mauvant, men appear as husbands and lovers who enter the lineage as separate

individuals. No stories seem to exist in Alourdes’s memory about the parents or siblings of these men. Memories of sons born to the central women have also faded. | Instead of dismissing this as an accident of memory or a result of the vicissitudes of a “broken” family (after all, such sudden

7 | disappearances routinely befall women on patrilinear family trees), I chose to follow the feminist maxim that when genderis _ taken as a primary category of analysis it reveals levels of mean-

ing otherwise unsuspected. In the case of Alourdes’s family tree, this direction proved wise. I discovered a women’s history and a parallel kinship structure buried beneath the official ver-

a sions. It is “buried,” because children in the family, following Haitian law and custom, were usually given their father’s name, , making the family tree that lives in Alourdes’s mind quite different from the one documented in such things as birth certificates.

As a result of aligning my picture of Alourdes’s family tree

with the stories she told, I also discovered remarkable parallels

between her family and larger processes at work in Haitian his- / tory. Her ancestral stories track a cycle of social change central

to the past century of Haiti's history. Her great-grandfather, | Joseph Binbin Mauvant, was a rural patriarch who presided over = {™*70#uction

a large extended family of the sort Haitian slaves reconstituted after they gained freedom. When Alourdes’s grandmother left

her family land, a sizable rural outmigration, caused by de-

_ pleted soil, overpopulation, and corrupt politics, was just be- , ginning. Alourdes’s mother, Philomise, was sold into a form of domestic servitude in Port-au-Prince at a time when the flow of displaced peasant farmers into Haiti's urban areas was escalating. In her late teens, Philomise escaped to the Dominican Republic, only to return a decade later to live in one of the rapidly growing pockets of Haiti’s urban poor. And in 1963 Alourdes followed the first large wave of emigrants to New York. Each

stage of this cycle has carried with it shifts in gender roles as well as changes in the way men and women relate to each other and to their children. Attention to the gender dynamics in Alourdes’s family stories yields considerable insight. Alourdes’s matrilineal family tree provides a second organiza-

tional scheme for the book. Short chapters, those with odd numbers, tell the family stories through five generations, beginning with Joseph Binbin Mauvant and ending with Alourdes’s daughter, Maggie. I debated for a long time about the appropri-

| ate form in which to tell these ancestral tales. Alourdes is a superb storyteller, but her stories, as she tells them, do not lend themselves to reproduction in a written text.

Each story has a theme—better, a refrain—with which she | opens and to which she returns time and time again as the story is woven, never in a simple logical or chronological fashion. Each time the refrain is repeated, it signals a new attempt to tell the story. Each attempt seeks to capture that story whole. Yet none succeeds, because the connections, the meanings, and the layers of possible interpretation are too dense to be caught in a single telling. Thus Alourdes moves in a spiral fashion over and over the same ground when telling an important ancestral story. Each pass over familiar turf creates redundancy, but it also brings out some additional nuance or detail. To listen, it is necessary to relax with the rhythm and to trust that it will eventually bring

her around to fill in the gaps. Questions about details or at-

“4g tempts to locate the action precisely in time and space only de-

| rail the process and produce long digressions.

When other family members are present, they add their own versions of the stories, twisting their word spirals in and around Introduction those of Alourdes. If Maggie is there, and especially if we are

| talking about the recent past, the two of them speak simultaneously, around and on top of each other like voices in a fugue.

- Family memories are held collectively; some persons know , much more than others, but no one knows it all. The full story, or, I should say, the real story, cannot be written down. The full story can only be performed by a noisy family group, with each

member adding his or her versions. The real story exists only for the transitory period in which the family takes pleasure and

finds meaning together in bringing their past alive. Stories about the recent past tend to be full and detailed, whereas stories from the distant past are sparse, almost mythic in feel. Yet in all the stories the material of dream, vision, and faith holds equal ground with the drama of politics, jobs and housing, food and hunger, suffering, illness, death, love, birth,

and luck. Nor are these strands kept separate. In Alourdes’s family stories, neglected spirits often bring on illness, just as spirits send cures or winning lottery numbers through dreams. _ _ Virtually no story is unrelated to the wa, and thus none can be told without including the role they play. If the full stories exist only in the transitory context of family | performance, how could I render them? One day in 1984 I sat _down to try to reproduce one of these stories in three or four

| well-honed paragraphs. When I got up from my word pro-

cessor several hours later, I had written a twenty-page short _ | story based on Alourdes’s tale of Joseph Binbin Mauvant’s mysterious disappearance. The story was true to Alourdes’s telling,

details of location. : :

but I had also invented dialogue, supporting characters, and

Turning Alourdes’s family history into fictionalized short stories allows me to tap a reservoir of casual and imagistic knowl-

edge, which all people who have done fieldwork have but do not ordinarily get to use. As Alourdes’s people sit together contributing shards of memory to a larger mosaic, they do so in the context of a great deal of shared but unarticulated information.

For example, when they talk about Joseph Binbin Mauvant, _ they remember the sound and smell of an early morning in the

share it. |

mountains of Haiti, the way a cooking fire is kindled, the grace- a ful dance of bathing with only a few cups of water. I too have “9 some of this contextual information, and I want my readers to

Some of the fabrication in these short stories has larger goals /”#70duction

than merely creating ambiance. For example, if I had not invented sour, scrawny, ageless Jepete, how would the reader know that, as poor as Joseph Binbin Mauvant and his family were, there was surely someone with even fewer resources who served as their bon (maid)? I have seen many versions of Jepete in rural Haiti, and she seems somehow deeply true to me. Readers will have to judge for themselves what they think of her. In deference to the problematic character of such ethnographic in-

vention, I have kept these fictionalized stories separate. They are discrete, short chapters that alternate with the longer ones focused on individual Vodou spirits in which I do no inventing and adhere to more standard methods of ethnographic reporting.

In Great Atlantic culture (that is, white Euro-American culture), we expect history to be written with as much accuracy as possible. We are very concerned with “what really happened,” and we are anxious that stories of our ancestors be both “true” and “verifiable.” Yet, as current feminist criticism shows, the canons of historiography have not prevented the omission or misrepresentation of women in most accounts written about virtually any period of Western civilization. Memory apparently works for those who do the remembering, even for the professional rememberers, in ways more self-serving than generally admitted. Haitians acknowledge this quality of memory more directly. Whereas we are anxious that our history not be false, their anxiety centers on the possibility that their history might become lifeless or be forgotten. Whereas in our eyes truthfulness is the paramount virtue of any historical account, in theirs what matters most is relevance and liveliness. We write history books to

remember our ancestors, and the Haitians call on Gede, the playful trickster who is the spirit of the dead. Mercurial Gede appears in many forms and speaks through many voices. His special talent lies in viewing the facts of life from refreshing new perspectives. [am part of a culture that seeks to capture experience, historical and otherwise, in books. So I write a book about Mama Lola.

30. But in doing so, I try to remember that she is part of a culture

that serves Gede. Therefore I have tried to make up true stories,

| ones that are faithful to both Gede and Alourdes. Ihave tried to _ create her story through a chorus of voices, much as she creates | Introduction herself through a chorus of moods and spirit energies. One of | the voices that speaks in the book is hers, as carefully recorded and respectfully edited as I could manage. Yet another is my scholarly voice, distanced enough to discern patterns and relationships but not so distant as to create the impression of overall logical coherence. No persons life or culture is, in the final analysis, logical. A third voice is also my own, but this one risks

a more intimate and whole self-revelation. The fourth voice is perhaps that of Gede—the one who tells the ancestral tales in the form of fictionalized short stories and in so doing plays with truth, seeking to bring it alive for its immediate audience.

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LE cr rc rr a a: ae ce ei ae : a TRAE SP ee RSS OBE ete SP ESE Sg cicnwhos Re ieee aRRR POS ERTS SaTyo EE Borie ene een ee CRrr Tae SOD a: gdUS 7ST RE ee Sos Oe vo WSU2s.) REAR Sees Pe ea emery — aUES AT=tkeLOR 8SERRE EE IE Loge TDR I EPGEED Ses Ss rrreee rrCURA rairr Ltcoe a8°i St OT icoe RR eeES roi. To SeNEESTRLIT: 7PyCME Ee SERIES ee errr ert a hl rf oe ee ATer. SESE. no okASE net LE ESees RR RRR ACROSOME DUBOIS rt aor i.: 2ool. :. For a full discussion of the Vodou spirit Ogou, see Karen McCarthy Brown, a “Systematic Remembering, Systematic Forgetting: Ogou in Haiti,” in Africa’s Ogun: Old World and New, ed. Sandra T. Barnes (Bloomington: Indiana University Press,

| 1989), 65—89.

Of the various Ogou, Panama is a particularly interesting example of how history is taken up in the Vodou temple and ad shaped into lessons for the lives of the faithful. Ogou Panama takes his name from the fashionable panama hat that was the trademark of President Florvil Hippolyte. In 1896 Hippolyte set Ogou out from Port-au-Prince on a punitive military mission designed to quell resistance—especially that of a certain Vodou priest—in the town of Jacmel. He vowed to burn the town and kill all the inhabitants except one man and one woman, who would be left

to repopulate the region. As Hippolyte mounted his horse to leave, his panama hat fell off. The president’s family took this as a bad omen and pleaded with him not to go, but Hippolyte per-

sisted. Before he was out of Port-au-Prince, he fell from his horse, unconscious, and never recovered.* In Vodou temples today, people sing: “Papa Ogou se nég panama ye [Papa Ogou is a

panama man].” In songs of secular political satire, the falling | panama hat has also become a cryptic reference to power that destroys the one who misuses it. Through such “deep play” with character and context, Haitian Vodou brings the lessons of politics and war to bear on everyday life. Ogou teaches that to live one must fight. Pride, endurance, self-assertion, discipline, and a firm commitment to justice are qualities that bring success. But in one turn of the screw, pride can become lying braggadocio, endurance can become stubbornness, self-assertion fades into mere bullying, and discipline is transformed into tyranny. An overly developed sense of justice, one that is tempered neither by humor nor by graceful resignation, can lead to suicidal rage, especially for people whose life circumstances are as difficult as those of Haitians. In the Ogou who are alcoholic and indigent, one can still see the fierce soldiers who thought themselves invulnerable because they knew their cause was just. Because the constructive and destructive parts of Ogou’s char-

acter are so close together, none of the various Ogou is good or evil, right or wrong, in a simple, unqualified way. Each contains his own paradoxes of personality, which are teased out in

*See Harold Courlander, The Drum and the Hoe: Life and Lore of the Haitian People (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1960), 150-52.

Ogou: | | Ogou -

“98 possession-performance and in song. In July of 1979, for ex- ample, Alourdes’s community sang a lively song for all the

| _ Kt-ki-li-kt, o-ewa!

| , — Papa Ogou, tou piti kon sa. | a | Papa Ogou, anraje. Cock-a-doodle doo!

Papa Ogou, enraged. | Papa Ogou, all children are like that.

Such lean phrasing, replete with double and triple entendre, is characteristic of Vodou songs. From one perspective, Ogou is

| counseled in this song to show forbearance toward his children, his followers. From another, Ogou himself is a strutting banty |

| _ rooster who throws childish tantrums when he cannot have

his way. | |

Vodou spirits, unlike the Catholic saints whose names they

| borrow, are characters defined by contradiction. The Vodou spirits represent the powers at work in and on human life. The wholeness of the spirits—their ability to contain conflicting emotions and to model opposing ways of being in the world—gives

-_ - Vodou its integrity as a religion. | |

| Haitian Vodou is not a religion of the empowered and the ' privileged. Haitians have not had the choice of living with com, forting fantasies about the forces that structure their lives and determine their fate. An open-eyed acceptance of finitude,

which is central to the religion, is one reason the Vodou spirits | have emerged as whole, three-dimensional characters. The op_ pressed are the most practiced analysts of human character and behavior, and Haitian traditional religion is the repository for wisdom accumulated by a people who have lived through slavery, hunger, disease, repression, corruption, and violence—all

In excess.

The African slaves brought their religions with them, reli-

| gions whose wisdom and insight operated on many levels in _ both the social and the natural worlds. Slaves were drawn from specific population subgroups, and they therefore had selective

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als in New York. “Here, you just invite couple people. They come in, sit down, clap the hand,” Alourdes said. “But in Haiti, , they have big yard. You can invite a lot’a people. They beat the | drum. Here, you cannot do that because of the neighbor.” American popular culture dwells on images of Vodou’s ma-

levolence, an attitude as nonsensical as equating Catholicism — with Satanism. The understanding most North Americans have ms of Vodou is derived mainly from its portrayal in novels, films,

and television, where images of sorcerers, zonbi, snakes, blood, | and violence abound. In the United States, the word voodoo is Ogou used in a casual and derogatory way to indicate anything on a spectrum from the deceptive to the downright evil. If it were not so clear that racism underlies these distortions, it would be ©

hard to understand why this kind of stereotyping is tolerated for an African-based religion when it would not be tolerated for other religions. The negative portrayal of Vodou in the press, in novels, and

in travelers’ accounts began in earnest shortly after the Haitian | slaves won their freedom, a period in which slavery was still practiced in the United States and in many European colonies. The argument was often explicitly made that the barbarism of their religion clearly demonstrated that Haitians were incapable

of governing themselves—an argument used by the United States and several countries in Europe to justify their refusal to recognize the fledgling black republic. Racism is more covert and convoluted these days, but the same stereotypes of Vodou

still serve its purposes. One of the central ways such propaganda works is by characterizing Vodou as in every way the op-

posite of “true” religion, that is, of Christianity. This description is ironic, for people who serve the Vodou spirits consider themselves good Christians. Haitians see no conflict between practicing Catholicism and serving the spirits, whom they never refer to as deities. ‘““They have only one God for everybody, and I think everybody love

God,” Alourdes said. “I love God plenty. I got confidence in God. But I love my spirit, too, because they help me. If God don’t give that help, that strength—spirit can do that for you.”

Bondye (God) is singular and supreme in Haitian Vodou. He is a deity with roots in the Christian god as well as in the so-

called high gods of West Africa. Yet in the Haitian view of things, Bondye, like his African models, rarely gets involved with individual human lives. Attention to the everyday drama of life is the work of his “angels,” the Vodou spirits. Of course, equating Bondye and the Christian god and calling the Vodou

spirits his angels are also political strategies that have roots going back to the time of slavery.

“aD “OGOU BADAGRI, WHAT ARE YOU DOING THERE?” Vodou is different for each person who deeply engages with it, because each person concentrates on his or her own particular

Ogou spirits. Although Alourdes routinely honors all the major spirits, she has half a dozen on whom she focuses most of her ritual

activity. It is understood within Vodou that the spirits select

their special devotees, not the reverse. The spirits Alourdes concentrates on are those who have “chosen” her, who “love”

her, and whose “protection” she has inherited from earlier gen- |

| erations within her family. They are the ones featured on her altars and routinely called on for assistance in her healing practice. Singly and in relation, these spirits, who give their names to the chapters in this book, shape and guide her professional

and personal life. | | | |

Alourdes makes no major decision without consulting one or more of these spirits. All significant events are filtered through

the sieve of their personalities, and their character traits and patterns of behavior frame her choices. But the spirits are not moral exemplars. Nor do they dictate exactly what she is to do, although from time to time some of the spirits give advice. More

commonly, through possession-performance, the spirits explore all the potentialities, constructive and destructive, in a given life situation. In this way they provide the images that allow Alourdes to reflect on problems and to make her own , choices about the most appropriate and effective ways of deal-

ing with them. | | Within Alourdes’s group of special spirits, one stands out. He

is her met tet (the master of her head), Ogou Badagri. But the ~ dominance of Ogou Badagri in her life and in her character does not go unchecked. The other spirits with whom she has a close relationship counterbalance Ogou Badagri’s weight. For example, even if a situation has called out the aggression of the Ogou in Alourdes, Gede can possess her and put the matter in an entirely different light through his iconoclastic humor. Thus her view of the world and the moral choices she makes within it emerge from the chemistry of the interaction among her spirits. The personality of the mét tét and that of the devotee tend to

coincide, an intimate tie hinted at in the occasional identification of the “big guardian angel” (gwo bonanj), one dimension of what might be called a person’s soul, with the Vodou spirit

who is his or her met tét. Diagnosing which spirit is a person’s — met tet, something that is not determined by inheritance alone, me amounts to a kind of personality typing. Thus, someone with Ogou as a met tét is expected to be brave, assertive, loyal, and so

forth. The specific Ogou identified as the master of the head Ogou adds nuance to this general portrait. For example, all the Ogou are quick to anger, and some mete out stiff punishment to offenders. Alourdes once said that Ogou Feray has been known to bang his sword on his own head—that is, on the head of his

horse—when that horse had made him mad. But Badagri, Alourdes’s Ogou, handles his anger in another way: he withdraws and withholds. “When he angry, you just don’t see him. You feel it, but you call him. . . he don’t come,” Alourdes said. The way she herself deals with anger reflects the Badagri “in her head.” Tempered by life, she is never frivolous with this potent emotion. I have seen her sulk and withdraw many times, but I have never seen her rant and rave. Ogou Badagri possesses Alourdes more frequently than any other spirit, with the possible exception of Gede. He is almost

always involved in treating the problems her clients bring to her. Because Alourdes has gone through the Vodou marriage to Ogou Badagri, she calls him her “husband.” She sets aside one night a week for him. On this night, she receives the handsome

soldier in dreams, and no human lover shares her bed. On | Wednesday, Ogou’s day, Alourdes always wears his color, red. In describing Ogou Badagri, Alourdes could well be describing herself. Badagri will not tolerate injustice. To illustrate this trait, Alourdes gives a homely example: “If you nagging people—you

know, teasing—when they don’t do nothing, he can get mad about that.” Disloyalty is equally intolerable: “If you do something, like, you make money for him and you spend it for no reason—that make him very angry.” Badagri is also known for his good looks, his generosity (“he love to give—even he angry, he give; he like to spoil people”), his expertise in treating people’s problems (“he just father for everybody; he love to make treatment’), and his penchant for hard work (“he love hard work’). But the most striking part of

’The met tét is not the only appropriate candidate for marriage. Alourdes, for example, has also married Kouzen and Danbala.

14 , Ogou Badagri’s character is his ability to endure in the face of _ trials that would break many others. This quality is portrayed in

Alourdes’s favorite song for him, depicting a conversation be- | _ tween Ogou Feray, head of the army, and Badagri, the loyal sol-

0go# —__dier who stands guard: |

| Ogou Badagri, sa ou ap fe la? | Ou séviye; m'ap reveye.

— | M’ta domi, Feray; m’envi domi, o. | ,

| O Feray, o. |

_ M’ta domi, Feray; m’pase domi, o. |

- Se nan lagé mwen ye! Ou mét m’reveye! Gason lagé mwen ye! Yo mét m’reveye!

Ogou Badagri, what are you doing there?

| You are on watch; I am going to wake you. |

| I would sleep, Feray; I need to sleep, oh. | I would sleep, Feray; Iam beyond sleep, oh. |

| a There is a war going on! You must wake me!

- — O Feray, oh.

Iam a soldier! They must wake me!

Forsaking attack, Alourdes, like Badagri, chooses watchfulness. She draws her power around her like a cloak, holding it close to her body. She does not dream of extending herself out-

ward and conquering the world. Rather, she controls what ex- | perience has taught her she is able to control—herself. As it does in Ogou Badagri, Alourdes’s fighting spirit comes to a keen focus in her pride and self-respect. Her current life strat-

endures. | | egy is to follow the rules, conserve her energy, and practice con-

| stant vigilance. This strategy has gotten her through both shortterm crises and long-term hardship. Like Badagri, Alourdes

oO “THE POLICE WILL ARREST ME” In March of 1981, Alourdes’s strategy was challenged. Her son | William was arrested for purse snatching. Her first response

was disbelief that anyone in her family could do such a thing. ie Then came anger, which quickly gave way to fear, as she was ? forced to deal with the police and the courts, institutions she deeply distrusted.

Alourdes has four children, three of whom were born in Ogou

Haiti; William is the youngest of these three. William suffered brain damage from a bout of meningitis in infancy. Years later, testing by the New York City public school system indicated that his IQ was between 55 and 57. In the tradition of Haitian families, there has never been any thought of putting William in an institution. His place in Alourdes’s household is guaranteed; and in the event of Alourdes’s death, Maggie would assume the same commitment. Underlying this stance is an unarticulated belief that ignoring family responsibilities endangers the care and protection of the spirits. In providing the considerable care William requires, Alourdes and Maggie do not consider themselves martyrs. Neither do they infantilize William. He can be difficult, and Maggie and Alourdes do not spare him when they are annoyed. William was twenty-one when he was arrested. He had the tall, strong body of a man, although his mind and heart were still those of a child. He vacillated between cloying eagerness to

please and stubborn resistance to rules. Entrusted with two subway tokens and money for lunch, William made his own way each day to the trade school he attended in Greenwich Vil-

lage. If he got in trouble, it was usually because he gave his lunch money away or got sidetracked on his way home. William could not say no. He would do anything for anyone if it would earn him a thank-you or a moment to bask in the glow of friend-

ship. Although the full story was not known at first, this need to please had led to his involvement in the purse snatching. Another young man from the trade school had actually taken the purse. He had given it to William to hold, and William had com-

plied. Because the other boy was too young to face criminal charges, William went through the frightening experience of jail and court appearances alone. The police advised Maggie and Alourdes to be at the courthouse at ten o’clock on the morning after William’s arrest. I ar-_

ranged to pick them up in Brooklyn at nine-thirty. Snow was coming down fast and thick that day. The roads were slippery and the driving difficult. Maggie answered the door, looking dreadful. She wore no makeup and had done nothing with her

116 ; ;

on hair but comb it to a stand-off. She paced the hallway in her overcoat, shaking. Maggie had not slept. “I am too nervous,” she said. ‘You got to get those name for me. I cannot do it. We

| got to know the police officer’ name... the judge’ name... Ogou the name of that woman with the pocketbook. If we got those “name, my mother can fix it.” I found Alourdes sitting on her bed watching television. Although we were running late, she said we could not leave until

her friend Soeurette arrived. Insecurity had generalized itself, and Soeurette had been called to watch the empty house while we were gone. With her back to me, Alourdes kept a dispas_ sionate eye on the television. After a time, she began to talk in a - small, tired voice.

“I hope,” she said (meaning “I wish’’), “my mother is here and I just a little girl, and I don’t have no responsibility. I just eat |

...I sleep ...I play. When I was little girl, I say, ‘Oh, boy, when I am going to grow up?’ Now I am sorry. You give them | everything they want, a bed to sleep in, food to eat. If they need

shoes, you give them shoes, clothes, everything they want... . Oh, boy, I hope my mother is here. When | little girl, she give me everything ... well, maybe if I could not get shoes right now, I get them next year! Same thing.” _ Then, in a more desperate tone, Alourdes continued: “Why they not call me and tell me William is dead? Just tell me come down to that place where they keep dead people and get him. Then I call you, Karen. You help me. We sad. Then it’s finish. Why he not just dead?” I stood staring at Alourdes’s back, unsure whether these words had offended my sense of compas-

sion or my sense of propriety. | | Soeurette bustled in the door shortly after ten. Alourdes

greeted her with a sullen stare, followed by accusations. Like a ~ nervous, clucking hen, Soeurette responded, “It not my fault, |

cher1. The car had no heat, and we had to drive slow.’’ Excuses , are mandatory; it is not mandatory that they have any logic. The snow continued to fall in huge feathery flakes. The wind

on the Brooklyn Bridge blew the snow up, down, and side- | _ ways all at once. The tension inside the car mounted. Alourdes withdrew into herself. Sitting in the front passenger seat, she

hunched her shoulders and hung her head, staring at her fingers as She braided and unbraided the fringe on her wool scarf. Maggie was more anxious than depressed, talking nonstop. She

made occasional brave attempts at light conversation, but more Wd often she fell into blaming either William or herself for the cri- / sis. Throughout the short trip, she scrambled around the back of my station wagon using her mittens to wipe off the windows.

We soon confronted the imperial architecture of the criminal Ogow

courts building in lower Manhattan, at 100 Centre Street. The | heavy revolving door could have accommodated a person ten feet tall. Inside, the marble was cold and endless. Feet wet with snow made us feel even more precarious. This was purgatory, the ultimate in liminal places. The hallways seemed wider than the offices that clung along their edges, yet these huge hollow spaces were not waiting rooms. There were no chairs or benches, no ashtrays. People smoked furtively, getting away with some-

| thing each time they put out a cigarette on the floor. Purgatory | did not provide public restrooms. We had to get directions, ne-

gotiate a maze, and then ask permission to use a toilet that seemed to be there for someone else. The building overwhelmed Alourdes. “Oh, boy, this building solid . . . yes!” she said, craning her neck at a massive marble pillar. “Look at that staircase—

iron!” “Tel-e-phone,” she read, tracing her finger over brass letters set in marble. “Telephone in there? Oh, boy, this build-

ing... everywhere gold . . . beautiful. . . yes.”

_ A few basic rules, quickly learned, helped us sort out the so-

cial parade moving through the halls of the building. The accused were black or Hispanic and wore scruffy clothes. Lawyers

were white and wore suits. Anyone dressed like the Marlboro man in jeans, a flannel shirt, and a down vest was a police officer waiting to testify. Although we had been told that in go per-

cent of the cases no family members showed up, dozens of them were roaming the halls. A slender Puerto Rican woman with tight jeans and red, brimming eyes yanked her daughter’s

arm and screamed: “You better behave or—!” , Officer Reese flinched and instinctively backed off when

Alourdes greeted him with the question: “You the man who arrest my son?” Reese was short and kind, paunchy and puffy-

eyed. As the day wore on, the smell of alcohol came on his breath, yet he never seemed drunk, only tired. He told us what to do to move things along, and he waited patiently outside the doors of the crime bureaucracy. “It doesn’t bother me,” he said, “T get paid for it.” Later, he offered an indirect apology: “I’ve

seen too many things. I’m suspicious. I didn’t know if Wil-

"8 liam—that's his name?—is retarded or just putting me on. | thought maybe he was making fun of me. That happens, you — know.” Reese’s partner was a tall black man named Matthews, who took the time to talk with William and uncover his innoOgou cence of spirit. He described William as “hurt by a night in the slammer” and a long day in the “holding pens.”

| Hours passed as we moved from office to office checking on

| the progress of William’s case. We made the rounds from the room on the second floor where papers are compiled, to the docket room where each case is assigned a number, to the little _ window with bars on the first floor where a list of the next cases to be heard is available. My white face, my polite requests, and

the right clothes (I was wearing my grandmother's old rabbit

: coat, which, if not inspected too closely, could pass for something finer) got me quicker and more courteous responses than others seemed to be receiving. The face behind the barred window asked: “Are you the attorney?”

When there was nothing more to do but wait, I looked at Alourdes and said, ‘““Aren’t you warm? Don’t you want to untie your scarf. . . open your coat?” “Yes,” she replied but made no move, so I untied her scarf and unfastened the top button of her coat. She suffered my attentions in an unprotesting, even grate-

| ful, way, as a child might. Alourdes gave herself over to me much as she surrendered to the legal system, trusting that she

would be told the right way to do things. | Maggie, however, was filled with venom from the moment

| we first found ourselves dwarfed by the pillars of justice. ‘““You know what I am going to do? I am going to beat him with a re-

siyol. Resiyol is a thing like...a...a... whip. In Haiti they use that on animals. They use that on people, too!” And moments later: “You know what I am going to do? I’m going to kick

him in the knockers,” she said, jerking her knee up sharply.

“You see how I am going to do it?” |

When Alourdes talked, which was not often, she also blamed William. ‘““Why he got to do that? He know he can’t bring no pocketbook back to my house.” But she also questioned: “William not like that. You know me, Karen. All the time, I just leave my pocketbook. Also I got two big jar full of dime and quarter.

a He never take nothing.” In her mind, William’s major offense was disloyalty. ““When he do something like this, he not just do it hisself. He got family behind him. We got to come down here.

We got to talk to policeman. When | little girl, sometime I bad— but not like this. I never do nothing serious. I know I got my m9 mother. . . my father to think about.” It had already been a long day, and I was finding it difficult to

think of anything to say to Alourdes. I searched lamely for an Ogou encouraging word: “You know, someday we will laugh about all of this. It will be funny.” Alourdes, who had been dry-eyed all day, began to cry. Her crying was more movement than sound; she bent over and covered her face, and her body quaked like a

mountain about to erupt. Eventually we learned that William would be arraigned in night court, which did not convene for several hours. Alourdes

would have stood in purgatory and waited patiently for her turn. Maggie, however, wanted to go back home, “pick up the children, do the laundry.” Given the chill inside and the weather

outside, neither idea seemed practical to me, so I talked them into going out to eat. Snow and wind were driving in our faces as we walked toward Baxter Street and Forlini’s northern Italian cuisine. Alourdes, like an oversized elf in her brown coat and peaked hood, bent into the wind and cried: “Woy! Woy! I can’t

walk! Help me!”

[t was early, and Forlini’s was virtually empty. White cloths were spread on all the tables except one, the booth in the back of the restaurant, closest to the kitchen. Stifling her initial impulse to seat us there, the hostess directed us to the booth in front of it. Alourdes tucked her napkin under her chin, “so I don’t get no food fall on my clothes,” and told me to order for her. We each had a glass of red wine. Maggie had soup, and

salad. :

Alourdes and I split an order of stuffed shells with a green Alourdes commented on her inability to drink: “One little glass of wine and my head begin to spin.” Picking up her wine glass and swaying from side to side, she demonstrated how alcohol affects her. (I had a brief but alarming fantasy of having to

| move Alourdes’s unconscious body the length of a restaurant in which waiters carried folded linen napkins over their arms.)

“But what I don’t understand,” Alourdes said, sitting up straight and looking chipper for the first time all day, “is how the spirit can drink. Papa Ogou come, he drink a lot of rum. He drink but . . . when he gone, I don’t feel nothing.” “You don’t smell no alcohol on your breath, nothing!” Maggie added in an

bo animated voice. The waiter checking accounts at the booth be-

language. | |

hind us turned to look at us over the banquette. Switching from English to Creole, we continued the conversation in our private

Ogou Maggie and Alourdes seemed grateful for a moment in which to act as if tragedy were not lurking around the corner. But before long William was once again the topic of conversation. So —

: far, there had been no opportunity to talk with him, and no one

| had been able to give us any answers about what had happened. (Later, we would all be surprised that we assumed

William took the purse.) |

“Why he got to do that?” Alourdes fumed. “Dummy,” Maggie interjected. Hesitantly, I entered the fray. “I don’t want to

| interfere in your family life... ,” I began. Simultaneous protests came from Maggie and Alourdes: “Don’t say that! You are family.” And so I talked about my fear that William would close down if they were too hard on him. I suggested that maybe that

night they should simply tell him they loved him; tomorrow they could tell him that what he had done was wrong. “He has already had enough of a lesson for today,” I concluded. The wine had made us earnest, and I was vaguely aware that the rhythms of our speech (often shifting into English mid-sentence and then back to Creole before the thought was complete) were careening around the restaurant. Maggie became painfully self-reflective. ‘““You know, you are ©

, right. Just now I am thinking about some things. I call William | ‘dummy,’ and all the time he wanting to kiss me, and I am busy and I say to him, ‘Don’t do that.’ I should not be like that.’” More

quietly and using English, as she usually does when talking _ about her life in New York, Maggie continued: ““You know I am _ sitting here with my college degree [an associate’s degree in early childhood education from Brooklyn College], and I take all these classes, and I don’t know nothing. Maybe if I could just go back and get my books. . . . If I could read, maybe, Piaget—

and there was another book, I cannot remember that name—if I , could read, maybe I could understand. I could set up a program to help William. I am his sister!” Alourdes reflected, too. “Iam always saying to William, ‘Why

don’t you just get out and leave me alone?’ And I mean that.” |

a We finally settled on a comparison between William and the _ children, Kumar and Michael. William was like a child who

needed both punishment and love. The conversation seemed a important, and things seemed clearer. The wine helped to sus- net tain both impressions. While we were in the restaurant, darkness fell and the snow

stopped. Alourdes was more relaxed on the walk back to the Ogou courthouse, and, after two glasses of wine apiece, Maggie and I

were even looser. Impulsively, I leaned over backward on the trunk of a car, into a virgin crust of snow with two inches of powder beneath. Flapping my arms up and down several times, [ made a snow angel for Alourdes and Maggie. They had never

seen one. | |

The arraignment happened quickly. The Legal Aid Society had appointed an attorney who was soothing but not very interested in giving or receiving information. He rushed into the courtroom only minutes before William’s case was called. After

shaking hands all around, the attorney drew us outside for a hasty consultation. When Maggie launched into a stream of explanations and questions, he hushed her with a question of his own: “Did any of you know the woman whose purse was

stolen?” |

“What was her name again?” I asked, catching Maggie’s eye and winking. “Pointer,” he said, “Laura Pointer.” Back in the courtroom, I took out the envelope from a telephone bill received that morning. ] wrote “Laura Pointer’ beneath the names of the judge and the arresting officers, folded the envelope, and

handed it to Maggie. Accessory to magic! | | William came through the door beside the judge’s bench, a uniformed officer holding his left arm. The official procedure passed

in largely inaudible tones at the front of the courtroom. The only comment from the lawyer that drifted our way was about the other boy taking the bag and handing it to William. A court date was set, March 26, and William was released without bail. Outside the courtroom, the attorney explained that there had

been an offer of a misdemeanor charge, but he had advised William not to plead guilty to anything. “Stay in touch,” he said, handing me his card, and then he ran off toward another courtroom and another case. We stood in the now-familiar hallway for several minutes more: William, Alourdes, Maggie, myself, and the two arresting officers. The relief we felt at William’s release was palpable. Everyone was thanking everyone else profusely—everyone except William, who looked dazed.

132 _ In the midst of the hubbub, Maggie grabbed the lawyer's card from my hand and said to Officer Reese: “See! See, I will show | you if I was lying. I was not lying, you will see. Here, William.

‘Read this! Read this line!” The line on the card read “Associate Oger Attorney.” William made a good guess. “Lawyer,” he said. Offi-

| cer Matthews shoved aside the awkward moment with a com- ment as unrealistic as it was caring: “I used to have trouble with reading, too. I understand. You can do it, William. Don’t you ever believe that you can’t. You just have to work at it.”

Maggie had not cried all day, not until the moment it was clear that William would be released without bail. Then she had

turned to me with a hoarse whisper: “Get me out of here!” Her | muffled sobs had accompanied us out of the courtroom. In the hallway, Maggie’s emotional spin began again. The talk came faster and faster; things were said too many times and too loudly.

Whatever restraint Maggie intended to exercise with William

was gone by the time we cleared the door and felt the cold air in our faces. “Did you take that pocketbook?” Maggie snapped. William

_ started to protest, but no one listened. Then Maggie linked her arm with William’s and struck up another tune. “Anything you ever want, you just come to me. I will give it to you. You know you always got your sister.” William said nothing.

“THE JUDGE WILL NOT CONDEMN ME” , Maggie took charge after that first day in court. She kept track of the details of William’s case, making regular telephone calls to the Legal Aid office. Her calls were not always returned. In fact, as the hearing date of March 26 approached, it became

| more and more difficult to get anyone there to speak with her. The evening before William was to appear in court, the lawyer

finally called. He did not know how the district attorney intended to proceed with the case; the prognosis was “anybody’s guess.” The family was nevertheless to show up at ten o’clock _ the next morning. And, oh, yes, he would not be able to be _ there, but the new attorney assigned to the case would have a

| complete set of his notes. | When I went to pick up Alourdes and Maggie this time, the mood was different. They were both dressed up and looking | good, both wearing new wigs. Alourdes met me at the door, all

sugar: “Karen, ba'm nouvel ou [give me news of yourself]. Did 1. you dream about me last night?” Her question caught me off ; guard: “Well. ..er...uh... [really don’t know. I dreamed a lot last night, but I can’t remember.” I tend to take Alourdes too

literally. In fact, her question was simply the prelude to telling Ogow me about her own dream. She launched into the account before I was in the door. “T dream my mother last night . . . like [just forget she dead. In that dream, it like my mother sleeping, and she just wake up and hear me talking. My mother say to me, ‘What that you say?’ I say ‘I don’t say nothing. I just sitting here.’ She say, ‘Who that you talking with? I don’t believe you!’ She take a flashlight and shine it all around, and she say, ‘J see you talking to somebody

... 1 see that!’” Alourdes’s dream made me smile. If only in sleep, she had succeeded in becoming a young girl again, with no responsibility. [ had heard many stories about her clandestine courtships as a young woman, and | also knew that, with little or no electricity in the poor sections of Port-au-Prince, using a flashlight would be one sure way for anxious mothers to ascertain what

was going on in the yards that serve as living rooms in these areas. “Whenever I dream my mother,” Alourdes concluded, “T know everything going to be okay. She come to me like that and

I know.” Although good luck was clearly in the air, Alourdes hedged her bets by stopping in her altar room to splash herself with specially prepared perfumes. This time, we waited in the wide marble halls of 100 Centre

Street for only two hours. Just after noon, we learned that William’s case had been postponed until April 20 and that the judge had excused William from appearing then. The new lawyer told us that he hoped to have the matter resolved before the hearing date. He explained that we might not know anything definite until the last minute. “Is anybody listening to me?” he hollered with good humor. “You are going to get a letter. It will look very official. It will say:

‘If you do not show up in court on April 20, a warrant will be issued for your arrest.’ You can ignore that letter because the judge has excused William. The computer will go ahead and send out the letter anyway. But you do not have to come. Do you understand?” Without a moment's hesitation, Alourdes responded, “I get a letter like that, say they going to come arrest me, put me in jail, I going to come!”

124 Maggie's attitude was different. “I am tired of all this trouble!” she shouted as we pushed through the revolving door of the

| courthouse into a clear sunny day. ‘This stuff going to be finish! | It better be, or I am going to kill them. Papa Danbala! He is Ogou number one on my list. Then come Papa Ogou. I am tired of — trouble. All the time, trouble! But, Karen,” she said, moving her |

speech rapidly from high notes to low, “I really think every- | thing going to be okay. Last night, for the first time, I sleep. You

know I don’t sleep. I don’t eat. And now [just want to sitdown | and relaaaaaaaax! So now I know my guardian angel is quiet, | and everything going to be okay. You know, before, when we was here, tét mwen boulvése [my head was turned around], and my angel got no peace. Then [ don’t sleep. No dream. I could

not even think. Now Iam coming along. If I sleep enough, I will conquer the world! But I don’t got to tell you that. You know

that, right?” = |

Maggie suddenly shouted: “You know too much, Karen!” Seeing my startled response, she laughed and continued in an ordi~ nary conversational tone, “You my friend and you around a lot,

and sometimes I just tell you things. You see thing, you hear thing. I think those spirit say, ‘Karen know too much.’ It is like | | the Mafia—once you know too much, then they got to Christian a [baptize] you. I think you going to have to go to Haiti like me, get your head washed . . . you know.” She grinned mischievously. In another lightning change of mood, Maggie turned to William: “When we get home, I got to call the police. They say we got

lately.” ,

| to keep them informed, what you are doing. ‘Cause if you don’t | behave, they going to put you in jail.” She gave me an exag-

| gerated wink and whispered: “I am just trying to scare him Sometime in mid-April, the telephone call came. No one seemed surprised, and no one made much of it. With the help of school records and test scores procured by Maggie, the district attorney had finally been convinced that William was re- |

tarded. All charges against him were dropped. | DIFFERENT KINDS OF OGOU POWER , _ Alourdes and Maggie have each carved out a place in the New | ~ World, in New York. Their roles and attitudes differ, in part be-

cause they have lived different lives. One way to capture this — difference would be to say that Alourdes is a Haitian who lives "29 in the United States, whereas her daughter is an American who spent the first twelve years of her life in Haiti.

One afternoon in 1983, Alourdes was dreaming aloud about Ogou going back to Haiti. ‘““Nobody don’t like New York! If I got money, I be gone right back to my country. | take the front room

of my mother’ house, open a little boutique. Nothing big. . . just a little place. [sell hat... dress.” “You do that! Not me,” was Maggie’s quick retort. “I don’t care what anybody say about New York. It is better here. [| am staying. You can have your Baby Doc, your Duvalier, your Tonton Makout. Not me!” “Tonton Makout don’t bother me,” Alourdes said simply. “I just mind my business. I don’t have

nothing to do with them.” © |

Alourdes avoids all public authority structures in the United States, as she did in Haiti. When William got in trouble with the police, there was no question that Maggie would be the family’s frontline representative. Once Maggie was clear about William’s

actual role in the incident, she took on this task in a fighting spirit rooted in the assumption that a mistake had been made and that, furthermore, she was not powerless to do something about it. It would not have occurred to Alourdes that she could call the police and the courts to account on a matter of principle or law. In her mind, they represent a force as irrational as nature itself. She challenged them instead through the intervention of

the spirits, just as Philo had when the courts took away her home. It was Alourdes who would not leave for the courthouse until she visited her altar room, and it was she who first asked for the names of the people involved in the case. She did not want to harm them, but she did want to ensure that they could not harm her. Alourdes’s attitude toward those who have authority is based in experiences that go far back in her life. One early lesson concerned her older brother Jean, who had to leave Haiti when he

was nineteen. A colonel in the Haitian army had his eye on Jean’s girlfriend. Philo heard through her network of loyal clients that soldiers were plotting to kill her son to get him out of _ the colonel’s way. By calling in favors wherever and however she could, Philo managed to short-circuit the lengthy emigration process, and she had Jean out of the country in days.

196 “That’s the way it is,” Jean said to me on one of his rare visits to Alourdes’s home in Brooklyn. “Any government official. Get a

mistress, build her a house, give her a BMW. Whatever they

have to do to get what they want, they do it.” | | Ogor _ Since the days of Dessalines, the Haitian army has functioned with few checks on its power. Around soldiers, violence erupts in arbitrary and shocking ways, sparked as often by their own greed or fragile pride as by crime or political dissent. Anyone

who has spent much time walking the streets of Port-au-Prince | has seen examples. These streets were Alourdes’s world until she was in her late twenties. Experience has led her to conclude

a that survival depends on slipping through the cracks in the sys- _ ~ tem. Specifically, it is necessary to cultivate invisibility around anyone who may be threatening. Alourdes credits her Vodou _ spirits with granting her this invisibility: ‘All my life, I’m walk-

ing in the street . . . I’m walking very proud and healthy and

protected. Even. ..I...1awoman—that don’t make no difference! They cannot talk to me. I pass near those people, they | don’t see me. Because I got protection, I got a gad [guard, a pro-

tective charm]. Spirit put that gad in me for protection. I got protection from awful people, ennviyou [envious] people, violent people.” Yet Alourdes acknowledges that this spiritual gift has limitations. “Let me tell you something, protection don’t mean you

can go fight. No, no, no, no, no. That not protection. Protection , | mean people can’t harm you for no reason, just because you don’t do nothing. But you got to protect yourself, too. You got two eye to look. If a car coming, I not going stand up in front of

| that car just so I see if I got protection. No. If I stand up in front of that car, that car going hit me.”

_ Now middle-aged, Alourdes has begun to exhibit a conser-

| vatism that would not have been possible for her as a young woman, when she was still struggling to make a place for herself in the world. Her work as a manbo enables her to confine

: herself largely to her house, a place where she is in control. Alourdes seldom leaves home. When she does go out, careful planning ensures that her transit will be smooth and that the

| reception at her destination will be consonant with her welldeveloped self-esteem. The sources of Alourdes’s conservatism, _ her current tendency to make a fortress of her home, could be

, examined in terms of a lesson Ogou teaches. One of his songs

seems to describe the wounds to the heart and to the will that — can result from too much life experience, too much pain and 077 struggle. This song, addressed to the battle-seasoned chief of the Ogou, Sen Jak Maje, consists of the name of the spirit and one other line: “M’blese, m’pa wé san mwen [I’m wounded, but I Ogou don’t see my blood].” The early part of Alourdes’s life was a constant struggle. She is still bruised and has reason to be wary of the larger world. For

a brief period when she was a teenager, beautiful and highspirited, Alourdes thought she had escaped forever from the hunger and demeaning poverty of her childhood. She talked her mother into letting her audition for a place in Haiti’s Troupe Folklorique, and, to the surprise of everyone but the self-confident fifteen-year-old, she was successful. In no time, she became the lead singer with this group, which performed both popular and traditional religious music and dance. But the excitement and glamour of her career soon ended, as

did the brief marriage that followed it. Before long, Alourdes found herself on her own and responsible for three children. It was impossible to find steady work, and there was never enough

money. At times, she fed her children salt water, as her own mother had done with her, so they would feel they had something in their bellies. ‘That time was awful for me. My mother have to pay my rent. When my mother don’t have nothing... if she don’t have money, she don’t cook—nobody eat that day.” These hard times eventually made Alourdes decide to leave Haiti. And yet, during her first years in New York, things were not much easier. It was difficult to find a good job, her health

failed, and it took a long time to save enough money to bring her children from Haiti. Then, not long after the family was re-

united, another crisis hit, in 1965. |

Alourdes was getting ready to make the trip home to undergo initiation into the Vodou priesthood. It was winter, and the tiny

apartment she was renting had no central heat. Her landlord provided an electric space heater, but its defective wiring started a fire in the middle of the night. The fire took everything—her refrigerator, a new television, even the hundred dollars in cash

a friend had given her to take to his family in Port-au-Prince. ‘Half asleep and scrambling to get his pants on, Jean-Pierre, then

fifteen, sustained burns on his back and neck from a flaming

curtain. He was sent to the hospital, while Alourdes, Maggie, |

128 |

oo and little William were taken in by friends. The Red Cross gave | them new shoes, warm clothing, and coupons for food. These days, Alourdes can say proudly that she owns her own

home and requires no outside help to feed and clothe her fam- | Ogou ily. In the row house in Fort Greene, she and Maggie supporta lively, three-generation household. Alourdes credits her chief protector, Ogou Badagri, with the security she now enjoys, and

| she can detect his presence throughout her early life as well. “Let me give you a story about me,” Alourdes once offered. “Wednesday is Papa Ogouw’ day, right? I born on Wednesday. I

, married on Wednesday. Maggie born on Wednesday. JeanPierre born on Wednesday. I come to New York on Wednesday.

: If I got an appointment with somebody, I have to do any busi| ness, I have to go out for any reason—I go on Wednesday. I

don’t have no luck on Monday.” ,

| Maggie's story is different. She knew hunger and poverty as a child, but she simply accepted them as children are wont to do.

For Maggie, the real struggles began when she came to the

| United States. It was in New York that she learned to fight. When Maggie tells stories about her first few months in school in New York City, she reveals a twelve-year-old self more fright-

| | ened and more aggressive than the worldly wise and resilient

| mother of two who is now my friend. | “T had just come to that school, and they look at me, they | | think, ‘That black girl!’ They think I’m ugly. And I don’t speak | no English. We got all kind’a people in that school: white, black, Puerto Rican. Each one have some kind’a gang. These white girls jump on me and beat me up. I did not even start it, and : they expel me for that! But you should of seen me, Karen; I was | _ big then.” Maggie’s solemn face broke into a huge grin. “I was s000000000 big.” She planted her feet wide apart and took big thumping steps across the room. “I just walk like this. My stomach stick out to here, and my rear end just stick out like this.” In a matter-of-fact tone, she completed the story. “They took

, that girl to the hospital. I cut her here and here,” Maggie said, — vaguely gesturing toward her face and upper arm. “When I first

| come, I always carry a little knife, like a penknife—right here.” She snapped the waistband on her skirt. “When all them white |

| girls jump on me, I just cut one. So they put me out for three weeks. But when I come back, everybody like me! I was the leader, the leader of everybody—black, white, Puerto Rican. I ~ was soooooo big!”

- | le . 129

One day, when Alourdes was singing Ogou songs for my oo tape recorder, we came to one for Ogou Achade:

Baton pase nan men mwen, Achade, 0Ou Pou chyen raje mode mwen.

The club passes into my hand, Achade, For the mad dog bites me.

When she finished singing, Alourdes exclaimed: “That’s me! That’s my protection. Nobody can’t touch me.” Maggie could have made the same point and meant it more literally, although the adult Maggie would never wear a knife in her waistband. As an adult, Maggie, like Alourdes, has learned the value of knowing how to slip by unnoticed. Like Alourdes, she cites the spirits as the source of this talent: “When I’m on the street, it’s like people don’t see me. Or if I’m talking, they don’t hear me. I’m like the wind . . . just passing by!” But Maggie is not Alourdes, and she will still take on a good verbal fight with bill collectors and Vodou spirits alike. Fighting with the spirits was Maggie’s first response to the arrival of serious trouble in Janu-

ary of 1981. |

For several months before this, Maggie had been preoccupied

with financial problems. She and Alourdes were nearly ten thousand dollars in debt, and Maggie’s annual salary was not much more than five thousand dollars. She was constantly scheming and juggling scarce resources. Lying awake one night in mid-January, she conceived a plan. Early the following morning, she and Alourdes made a trip to the bank. Maggie intended to borrow a thousand dollars on her Visa card to pay their over-

due fuel bill, but the bank teller informed her that there were new credit rules. She could have only three hundred fifty dollars. ‘“Why is that?” Maggie demanded. “I got a two-thousand credit line, and once before I got seven hundred on that Visa card.” With indignation rising in her voice, Maggie later described her reaction: “I got so mad, ‘cause I don’t know anything about no new rules! When I hear that—only three hundred fifty dollars!—I get so upset. I’m so mad. I just go. My mother and I walk and walk. We left the house, it was nine o’clock in the morning, and by the time we get back, it was one-thirty. We just

| 130 walk and walk. We nearly freeze to death! And then when I get

home, I come in, put another sweater and my hat, and go out again and walk. We don’t know what we doing to do! I was

gone all day. My head ache, my body ache. I take two Sinutab ©

0s and go to bed.”

| While Maggie was lying down late that afternoon, Alourdes | went to the basement. She found the entire lower floor filled

with steam. Maggie said later, “I’m upstairs, and I hear that scream. .. . If Mommie was the kind’a person who have heart attack, she would be dead!” The fuel tank for their furnace had

| been nearly empty that morning, and the suppliers had refused to deliver more oil until the bill was paid—prompting Maggie's rush to borrow money. During the long, troubled walk, the fuel

, tank had gone dry, and the heat went off. The pipes froze and burst, and Maggie and Alourdes were now faced with expen-

| sive furnace repairs. Late the same day, Maggie recounted the story for me over

a the phone. When she finished, there was a long silence. Then she said defiantly: ““You know what I did, Karen? I talk to my people. I talk to Papa Ogou. I tell him, ‘I’m going to give you

one month! I need one thousand dollar. By two month from now, I’m going to need two thousand. I want it now! I’m tired of waiting! We always borrowing money from this one. . . Visa

or something ... to pay someone else. I’m tired of that! I’ve

| had enough! I want my own money!’ I tell Papa Ogou I’m going | to give him one month, and then I’m going to go downstairs to | the altar and break everything up. I tell him, “You better shape it or ship it! That's right! You better shape it or ship it, ‘cause I am tired of waiting.’” Sounding more depressed than angry, Maggie continued: “I don’t know, Karen. Mommie say to me, ‘Look, you know every-

thing going to be all right.’ But I don’t know, sometime I just

don’t think there is any God up there.” I had never heard Mag- | gie say anything like that, and I could think of nothing to say in

response. Through the long silence on the telephone, I could feel her groping for her customary strength and ironic humor. At last, she laughed. “You know, all this time, I’m just buying thing, buying thing. All the time buying.” She giggled conspiratorially and asked if I knew what she had done just the day before. “Some man come to the house, and I bought an encyclopedia for the kids. Just a

little encyclopedia, but two hundred and fifty dollars! J give him Tat a check for fifty dollars, and now I’m going to have to call him ? and tell him to hold that check until next Tuesday. I want my own money, Karen. I’m tired of just having other people's money. Those spirit got to help me! But all the time they just Osou giving me trouble. I am tired of it, Karen. J am tired!” The broken furnace was only the first in a long list of things that went wrong in Maggie’s life throughout the opening months of 1981. She contracted chicken pox; she lost her job; William

was arrested; and, just a few days after that, Maggie’s floor of their home in Brooklyn was robbed. “Now that robber! All my jewelry! My camera—I just buy that camera! I don’t even make one payment to Mastercard yet.” Maggie decided the spirits were harassing her, as they had done before, because they wanted her to become a manbo like

her mother. By the time William’s problem with the court was | resolved, the other crises had receded into the past, and Maggie

had become philosophical: “This bad luck, it begin with me when I get chicken pox, and it end with me, with that robber. That’s it! Now those spirit know I know what they want.” Ogou provides the weapon to fight mad dogs. But at times the source

of trouble is Ogou himself. Sen Jak pa la. Se chyen ki la.

Saint James’s not there. , It’s a dog who’s there.

When I first met her, in 1978, Maggie said, “Work with the spirit run in my family—-my grandmother, my mother. People coming in here to see my mother all hour of the day and night.

She never too tired to see people. She just like my grandmother, always helping people.” Maggie hesitated before she continued with this train of thought. ‘““My mother, my grandmother—they don’t ever have no money. They just giving. . . always giving. I don’t want to be like them!” But then, with resignation in her voice, Maggie added, “Seem to be each time I _ say I don’t want to be like them, something pulling me back. . . saying, “You can’t do that!’”

2 In the summer of 1981, Maggie finally gave in to the will of the spirits, much as her mother had done a quarter of a century

earlier. She went to Haiti to take the ason. She did not do so _ with dreams of wealth and success. She went out of the convicOgou tion that initiation would reinforce her bonds with her family , and that bonding with family, living and dead, represented her best hope for peace and security.

| Vodou does reinforce family ties. In the presence of Ogou, however, this statement must be qualified. Alourdes and Maggie discuss family with great warmth and feeling; there is no

question of their deep commitment to each other and to their | children. And they both speak lovingly of the extended family,

a good part of it still in Haiti. Nevertheless, although they

| expend considerable energy nurturing family roots, both acknowledge that these links no longer sustain them the way they

should.

| Their fears are often apparent in discussions of what they would do in the case of a real crisis—a serious illness or a death

| in the household. With characteristic exaggeration, Maggie once _ said to me, “I don’t have no friend. Evenif my mother die...[I a could call Madame Francois. I could call her, and after that the very next person I call would be you. I don’t got nobody to ask.”

Alourdes’s complaint is not very different: “I use to got so many | friend in Haiti. Now. . . nobody! I go to Haiti, everybody happy,

_ happy, happy. I see my daddy. I see my sister. Then what I going do? You know, me and my father never get along together. After one week, they tired with you. Where my friend? They in Miami. They in Chicago. They in New York. And I even

: don’t see them.”

When this mood sets in, Maggie and Alourdes seem more willing to lay their bets on new friends and new ways of handling the challenges of life than to count on family. Such judgments do not mean that they have rejected their family any

| more than that they have rejected their Vodou roots. But both | family and religion have been redefined. Relative newcomers in | their lives, people such as myself, carry fictive kinship titles— Alourdes calls me her daughter, and Maggie calls me her sister.

| And the family of spirits has been rearranged as well. Azaka, the rural country cousin, is faithfully honored once a year, but he is seldom called at other times. Papa Ogou is the most fre, quent spirit guest in their home. He is the one who clears a path

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inspecting the spiderweb of streets and alleyways radiating from the fountain. He was trying to match reality with directions he had been given in a dream, and at the moment the

dream was receding. : |

Fearing that he looked foolish, Rapelle abruptly sat down on the edge of the fountain and took out a cigarette. Before long, a | name floated to the surface, and Rapelle held on to it. ‘““Madame,

good evening. Excuse me, please!” he called to a passerby. “Can you give me directions to the lakou people call Seven Stabs

, Temple wall painting of Ezili Dantod (Mater Salvatoris). Port-au-Prince, Haiti, 1980.

, 204

of the Knife?” “Good evening, monsieur,”” she replied. “Yes, | a can explain that for you. But you are almost there. Do you know 209 Rue Tiremasse?” As instructed, Rapelle walked down Tiremasse for a distance and then turned left into an alley so narrow he could touch the = ?reams and

buildings on either side without fully extending his arms. He promises made his way with care, for a moment surrounded by bare-

bottomed toddlers, here forced to straddle a gutter running with raw sewage, there to duck beneath a clothesline hung with long curls of drying orange and grapefruit peel. In front of each open doorway along the alley, Rapelle offered a polite “Good evening.” At the end of the passageway, he found himself in a lakou. —

Many of these homesteads, typical of the countryside, are hidden amid Port-au-Prince’s urban sprawl; and many of them, like this one, have degenerated from well-kept extended-family compounds to hodgepodge rental housing for the urban poor. Seven Stabs of the Knife consisted of about a dozen small wattle-

and-daub houses gathered around a broad, dusty yard with a few stunted trees. “This is the place!” Rapelle realized with a shock of recognition, and good manners temporarily left him. He seized the arm of a young boy and cried: “Do you know a woman called Philo? Does she live here? I need to talk to her!” Philo lived in a small room in the back of one of the houses in seven Stabs of the Knife. These were hard times, but of course

Philo did not speak of such things with Rapelle. Instead, she offered her guest a glass of water and invited him to sit with her

in a corner of the yard. “Are you from the north?” Rapelle asked her. “Yes,” she replied, “IJ come from Jean Rabel, almost

the last point in the north, near Méle Saint Nicolas.” “I want you to treat my son,” Rapelle said abruptly. He rushed on: “He was a good student, first in his class. But now—oh! Now he has lost his head. He cannot even remember his name. You have to

help me!” | “But I do not know how to treat him,” Philo responded. “Why do you ask me to do this?” “I had a dream last night, an

important dream. The spirits told me to come to this place. They told me to ask for a woman named Philo, a woman from

the north.” | ,

“But Ido not know .. .,” Philo began. “Then read the cards for him—just read the cards,” Rapelle urged. “How do you

306 know I read cards?” asked Philo. “They told me in my dream,” Rapelle replied. “You read cards, is that not true?” “From time to time,” Philo answered in a small voice and then stood up to signal their conversation was at an end. “I am sorry,” she said. Dreams and “TY cannot help you.” “I will come back,” declared a stubborn Rapelle. “I know I have found the person to treat my son.” Clement Rapelle did come back. In fact, he visited often, and

Promises |

in time the two became friends. Yet whenever he brought up his | son’s illness, Philo’s response was the same: “It would make me happy, Monsieur Rapelle, if I could treat your child, but truly I

do not know how.” One day, Rapelle would not let the matter drop: “But you treat other people. I have seen them when.I come to visit you. They sit in the courtyard, and they wait for you.” “That is true,” admitted Philo, “but I treat them only when the spirits come in my dreams and tell me exactly what to

do. They have told me nothing about your son’s situation.” “They will!” Rapelle insisted. “I have confidence in you. [have ©

| confidence in the spirits.”

Gradually Philo opened up to her new friend. ‘My life is hard,” Philo said to him one day. “Iam not at ease working with the spirits. It is difficult. Do you understand what I am saying to

| you?” “Yes,” Rapelle replied, “I can understand that. Give me the story, little Philo. Tell me how you started to treat people.” __ “It was a long time I lived in Santo Domingo,” Philo began.

“My three babies were made there. In Santo Domingo, there was | a woman, a manbo. Madame Gilbert was her name, and she had a

treat it. | |

_ very strong spirit named Agéou. He worked, worked, worked.

| People came from all over the Dominicain to see Madame Gilbert and her Agéou. Any problem—any problem!—Ageéou could “But Agéou became angry with Madame Gilbert. She was... . — you know... . a lesbian,” Philo said, dropping her voice, “and

| _ she was always buying things for women. She bought them clothes ... perfume . . . jewelry. All her money she spent on _ those women. She did not give Agéou even one candle! She ex- | pected him to work, but she gave him nothing! There was one day Ageou came in Madame Gilbert’s head, and he got so mad, he made her cut off her finger. He did that!”” Philo sighed, and,

| for the first time since she began talking, she looked Rapelle in

_ the eye. “That woman—so stupid!” |

Philo’s voice quickly fell back to its somber cadence, and her _

~ eyes locked on the cup of herbal tea she held in her hand. —

“Madame Gilbert changed nothing. She went right on buying, 207 . buying, buying for all those women. She did not offer one little thing to Agéou. So he made her sick. She got tuberculosis . . .

consumption. She started to vomit blood. They took her to the =?" hospital. Finally she died—and do you know what happened?” Promises Rapelle did not attempt to answer. “Not one of those women came to see her in the hospital. Not one came to her funeral. Not one.” Philo stretched in her chair like a cat waking from a nap and then swirled her finger absentmindedly through the thick mass of leaves at the bottom of her tin cup. After a lengthy silence, she continued her story. “One night after Madame Gilbert died, [ had to make pee-pee.

[ lighted the lamp. I went out to the yard. When I came back

inside, there it was! A rock—black... shiny... round... in my house! On the floor, by my bed. That made me afraid! I did not put it there; I did not know how it got there. So I took it to

someone, someone who works with that kind of thing, and I asked her, ‘What is it?’ She said that rock was a devil spirit and [ had to pay her seven hundred dollars to get rid of it. [ was so naive! [ paid her.

“Then a handsome man came in my dream. He wore khaki and a panama hat, and he had a beautiful mustache. He said, ‘I am Msye Agéou Hantor Dahomey,’ and he told me that rock was him. And he was angry at me for giving him away, but he said it didn’t matter, because he loved me anyway and he was

going to come to me now.” ,

“Ageéou comes in your dreams and he tells you how to make treatments?” Rapelle asked. “He can,” said Philo quietly. “And he comes in your head, too?” her friend persisted. ““He can,” Philo replied. “But that’s fantastic!” cried Rapelle. “That’s hard!” retorted Philo. “Too much responsibility. My

children go to bed hungry. I don’t have the money to send them | to school. Now these people come to me, and they tell me I have

to treat them. But the only thing I know about treatments is what I see in my dreams. How can I live like that? How can I make money like that? How? And let me tell you, when I came back from the Dominicain, four years ago, 1930, there were no jobs anywhere. I had so much trouble, so much suffering. One day, I had a little problem with my eyes; then after three days I

did that.

208 ;

Te could not see. I was blind! Yes. They made me blind. The spirits “I went to a oungan. I asked him to read the cards for me. When the spirit came in his head, he told me what I had to do. oars one He said I had to ranmase espri mwen [gather up my spirits]. He told me like this: “You must go back to Jean Rabel, where your

| navel cord is buried. You must go back there and give your fam| ily spirits a big feast.’ ‘How am I going to do that?’ I asked him. — ‘Thave no money!’ The spirit said, ‘Put on a karabel [blue denim]

dress, put a makout over your shoulder, and go out in the street and beg for charity. Beg! That is how you will find the money.’ “Not me!’ I said. ‘Not me! Nobody in my family ever asked for charity, and I am not going to be the first.’ Then the spirit

| just looked at me, and he smiled. ‘Sa va [so be it],’ he said. ‘Sa va. But if you do not do this, then you will die—or one of your children will die.’ I was afraid, so I said, ‘Okay, I will do it.’

“That night I went home, and I twisted seven cotton wicks

| and put them on a white plate. I put a little oil. I lighted them. I got on my knees, and I prayed to God. And I prayed to the spirits, to Msye Agéou. I said, ‘Iam blind. You know that! You are the one who made me blind. How am I going to walk in the street and ask people for money when I cannot see?’ Ageou came in my head, and he told my son: “Tell Philo to go to sleep. | She will wake up seeing.’ And that is what happened. The next ©

morning when I woke up, I could see. Then I began to trust him. . . to trust a little. “So I put on a karabel dress, I took a makout, and I went out.

a I walked in the streets. Up and down, up and down. I went to _ the market, too. All day long, I begged. Me? Hah! Me! By the time the sun went to sleep, I had three hundred and eighty ~ gourd in my hand. It was not enough to go to Jean Rabel and | buy the animals for the feast, too, but I gave the spirits a big party here in Port-au-Prince and I said to them, ‘Okay, now I will serve you, but you have to tell me what to do. You have to come in my dreams and tell me what to do. You have to!’” “Things got better after that?” Rapelle asked, his voice full of concern. “Better? Yes . . . but not good,” Philo sighed. “Some

| people come. Sometimes I dream, and when they come I know _ already what to do for them. Sometimes. Not always. When I have the dream first, the treatment is always successful, and _ then they are happy. They give me money—two dollars, three.

Ten dollars if they are really happy. But let me tell you, I pay 500 seven dollars a month for this room and [ have not paid the rent , in three months.” That evening, Rapelle, a clerk in a pharmacy run by expatriate Germans, left in Philo’s hand all the money he

had with him, a little more than six dollars. Dreams and

Philo hid five dollars in a secret place. The next morning, she rromises took one dollar and twenty cents into town, to the Iron Market near the bay. She had in mind buying rice, oil, spices, and a few beans to feed her family, but she could have done that at a market closer to home. Her real reason for making the trip to the middle of town was to visit the herbalists at the biggest market in the city. She sought advice. If they had nothing new to tell

her, she could at least buy more of the broad, prickly green leaves called chapo kare. Several friends had told her that chapo kare tea would “put that baby down. . . fast!’”” Philo was desper-

ate. She had consumed quantities of the bitter tea in the past three weeks, but its only effects had been to increase the gas in her stomach and the ache in her head, discomforts that had been her constant companions since the morning after Alphonse Margaux had lain in her bed. “Take a little beer,’”” one herbalist said. “Put in a handful of salt the size of an egg and boil it. Let it sit overnight. First thing

in the morning, before you eat anything or drink anything— even a glass of water—drink that.” “T tried it,” said Philo. “Pa bon [No good].” In fact, Philo had tried every recipe suggested to her. She had also jumped off chairs, pummeled her stomach, prayed until she had calluses on her knees, and burned enough candles to light the homes in her entire lakou for a month. None of it had worked, and this day’s outing proved no more successful. Philo left the market with a bit of food and a bunch of chapo

kare. Then she trudged back up the hill to Seven Stabs of the Knife, feeling sicker than usual.

That night, Philo slept badly. Her three children heard her groaning in her sleep. ““And the night?” a neighbor called out cheerily, as Philo headed for the outhouse the next morning.

“Not good,” Philo responded, “but | had a dream.” “What dream?” queried the neighbor. “t dreamed an old woman, a white woman, very old—very, very, very old. The old lady called out: ‘Philo! Vin pale ou [Come

talk to me].’ She asked me: “You are pregnant?’ And I put my

head down ... because I was ashamed .. . and I said to her,

ot10 “Yes, lam pregnant.’ The old lady asked me: ‘Why do you drink

| things to put that baby down? Why do you do that? That baby is

going to be born, and that baby is going to be a girl.’ ‘How do

Promises “1. ; . ,

you know?’ I asked. She said, ‘I know.’ Then the old lady said to Dreams and me: ‘Stop what you are doing. Don’t take anything more. I will

| support you. | will give you everything. M’ap ba ou bwe; m’ap ba ou manje [I'll give you drink; I'll give you food].’ And I said,

a ‘How are you going to do that?’ And the old lady just turned

and walked away.” | | “Ehhhhh!” said the neighbor, stretching her neck like a cock

about to crow. “You were sleeping hungry. That’s why you had

that dream.” Then she began to laugh: “Cawk! Cawk! Cawk!” | Philo grew hot with shame. The awful sound of her neighbor’s laughter followed Philo into the outhouse. While she hunkered over the latrine, she muttered to herself: “That old lady in my dream had on rags. All her clothes full of holes! She can’t sup-

| port herself. How is she going to support me?” “She’s a liar!”

Philo said out loud as she slammed the outhouse door and marched off to prepare a batch of chapo kare tea.

, Weeks passed and little changed. Friends offered new recipes, and Philo tried them. No luck. Each time she relieved herself she searched for traces of blood, but none appeared, and the

headaches got worse. Philo was often forced to stop what she | was doing and lie down with a wet cloth over her eyes. When she was two, almost three months pregnant, Philo had

another dream. In this dream she was standing on the corner

| of Rue Macajoux, near the Iron Market. The street was very crowded, and she was hurrying to get home. In front of her were two men, each holding one end of a rope looped around a

| coffin suspended between them. Philo realized she would have to walk beneath the coffin to get across the street. “Excuse me, please,” she said to the men. “May I pass under there? I have to get home.” One of the men curled his lip and snarled: “You are

, ~ not going home. You are too evil. You are going in this coffin.” Philo said, ““No!”’ Both men said, “Yes! Get in the coffin!’” Philo

said, “No!” They said, “Yes! Get in the coffin.” Philo said,

, “No!” and she looked around desperately for a way to escape. | No place to run! Her legs felt like lead. _ Then Philo raised her eyes to the sky and saw the old woman

| from her first dream. This time, she was wearing beautiful |

, | clothes—a wide-brimmed hat and a long white dress with a

beautiful blue belt. “Say ‘Anmwe nég,’” the old woman urgently _ instructed Philo, and Philo quickly repeated, “Anmwe nég.” The on old woman gave the order again: “Say ‘Anmwe nég,’”’ and Philo shouted, “Anmwe nég!”” Before the sound of the password had died away, Philo felt herself lifted up, up, up, over the heads of = P7eaims and

the two men carrying the coffin. Philo wafted upward as if she Promises

were a piece of paper drifting on currents of air, and then slowly she settled onto the shoulders of the old woman. The two of them flew through the sky back to Seven Stabs of the Knife.

Philo spoke to no one about that dream. But she did stop trying to abort her child. She decided to take one day at a time. Neighbors occasionally shared their food, and clients and friends sometimes put a few dollars in her hand. When the pregnancy

was in its fifth month, the mysterious old woman appeared again in a dream. As soon as she saw her, Philo got very upset. “You again!” she yelled. “I don’t want to see you!” But the old

woman put up her hand and said, “Hush, child. Close your mouth. Listen. I have an important message.” ““What message?” Philo asked. “I have come to tell you: Do not come to my

house to have that baby. If you come to my house, you are going to die,” the old woman said. “Where do you live?” Philo asked. “I live in the hospital,” the old woman responded. “Philo! Philo!” the old woman said. “It is all right. You are going to have a baby. That baby is going to be a girl. Call her Alourdes.” In her dream, Philo sputtered and beat her hands

on the air in impotent fury: “You promised to take care of | me! Where is the money to eat? Where is it?” “Philo, Philo,” soothed the old woman, “the money is coming.” “You say the money is coming! You say! Do you think I believe you?” Philo was just about to utter an oath when the old woman turned and walked away. When she woke up, Philo was still upset. But she needed no more ridicule, and so she shared the dream only with Ma’Nini,

her one good friend in the lakou, a woman who lived in the front of the house where Philo had her room. Ma’Nini said, “Ahh! I understand. That was Our Lady of Lourdes who came to you. There is a chapel for Our Lady of Lourdes in the hospital. That is why she said she lived there. This is a serious dream. If J were you, I would not go to the hospital to have that baby.” “But I do not have money for a fanm-saj [midwife], and you

ot know you do not have to pay in the hospital,” Philo moaned. — “IT know a fanm-saj,”” said Ma’Nini. “She does not have a license, but she is very good. You can pay her later. I will call her as soon

as you have your first pain.” After that, Ma’Nini gave food to ora ond Philo every day and checked on her frequently. Early one morning in her ninth month, Philo was getting ready to go to mass. It had become her habit to go to the six o’clock mass every day. Philo was all dressed and on her way across the yard when she felt an urgent need to urinate. She turned back to her house, unlocked the door, and went to the

| basin she kept beside her bed. As she squatted over it, Philo felt odd... dizzy. There was a sudden pressure in her stomach, and before she knew what was happening—without a single pain—the baby slid out of her and plopped into the shallow metal pan. Philo was a woman from the countryside, a person of the old school. She believed that a woman who has just given _ birth should not speak. The wind might come inside her. So she

fell back against the wall, the afterbirth still in place, the um| bilical cord still connecting her to her child, and she pounded

with both fists. |

Ma’Nini was there in no time. She snatched up a sheet and wrapped the infant in it, right where she lay in the chamber pot. “How beautiful you are, little Alourdes,” Ma’Nini crooned

, as she tucked the cover around the newborn. Then, in a flash, | she was gone to fetch the midwife. The fanm-saj cut the umbilical cord and massaged Philo’s belly until the afterbirth came

out. She cleaned Philo and the baby and put them both to bed. | Together, Ma’Nini and the fanm-saj buried Alourdes’s umbilical cord in the blaiye, the pile of smooth rocks where freshly washed clothes were left to whiten in the tropical sun.

Little Alourdes was fine. But Philo was not. The morning after she gave birth, she began to feel feverish and nauseated.

A black fever epidemic had spread rapidly in Port-au-Prince; |

| twenty-five people had died in the city hospital that very week. And now Philo had it. She lay on her bed day and night, soaked in sweat, hallucinating, unable to eat or feed her infant. Luckily,

a wet nurse was found in the lakou, a crazy woman whose baby had died three weeks after it was born. This dirty, disheveled woman never sat still. She roamed the Jakou talking endlessly, giving unsolicited advice on how to make baby food, how to discipline children, how to grow cassava without water. Ma’Nini

put the deranged woman in her own house, gave her clean — clothes and food, and washed her swollen breasts with strong 213 yellow soap. Then she laid Philo’s infant on her bosom. Alourdes would survive. But what to do for Philo? What to do? Help came in the person of Clement Rapelle. His boss, the old 7775 4"4 German pharmacist, refused Rapelle’s polite request, so Rapelle Promises simply waited until the pharmacy was closed. Then he let himself in with his key and “borrowed” the big black book that described diseases and their cures. Rapelle figured out what Philo

needed and bought the medicine for her. Ma’Nini nursed her back to health. In less than a month she was out of danger. But she could not breastfeed her child, and by then the crazy woman was beginning to push the infant away. So Philo asked a friend who had just had a baby if she would feed Alourdes. For sev-

eral months, Alourdes lived in the home of Madame Frederic and sucked contentedly at a breast that did not smell of laundry soap. Alourdes was, for this short time at least, quite unaware of how precarious the world was and how fragile was her place in it. Philo slowly regained her strength, and eventually she began

to dream again. One night, a tall and handsome military man came riding into her dream. “I have come to tell you how to treat the son of Clement Rapelle,” Ageou announced. That next morning was the first day in a long, long time that Philo awakened feeling happy to be alive.

“I do not want you to become discouraged,” she later told Rapelle. “Your son’s problem is serious. The treatment will take

a long time.” “I don’t care how long it takes,” Rapelle responded. “If you heal my son, ] am going to give you a lot of money. When my father died, he left me a small piece of land. It is my inheritance, but if you treat him successfully, I am going

to sell that land and give you the money.” Philo replied, “All I need from you is one hundred dollars to buy the things for the treatment.” The next day Rapelle brought his ten-year-old son to Seven Stabs of the Knife for the first of many, many visits. Over the course of the treatment, Philo became so close to the

Rapelle family that, when Alourdes was baptized, Clement Rapelle and his teenage daughter were named as godparents. The work for Rapelle’s son took more than a year to complete.

When Philo concluded it with a good-luck bath made from flowers, fruits, perfumes, and champagne, Rapelle, true to his word, gave her one thousand dollars. This was more money

214 than Philo had ever held in her hand, and it marked aturning point in her life. The first thing she did was purchase a home in the Belair section of Port-au-Prince, not far from Seven Stabs of

| the Knife. Philo and her children soon settled into her little blue ws and house with three rooms and its own latrine. “oe The years that followed were good ones. Philo had money to buy food and to send her children to school. Clients were com-

ing to her in ever greater numbers. And she now had enough self-confidence and experience to treat people without specific instructions from the spirits. Life was so secure that an important promise was forgotten—until the day something happened

to make Philo remember. | ,

That day started in an ordinary way. Alourdes was seven years old, and her sister Chantal was just entering adolescence. | Chantal had borrowed a hot comb from a neighbor. When she | finished pressing her hair, she gave the comb to her younger _ sister and told her to return it to Marguerite. Alourdes stopped dead in her tracks when she reached the front gate of Marguerite’s home. There was a dog lying inside. “Come here, little girl,”” called Marguerite from her chair on the porch. “I’m afraid

| of the dog,” said Alourdes. “Come, dear, come. I am sitting right here. Do you think I am going to let that dog bite you?”

Alourdes was not convinced, and so she reached through the | gate, grabbed a handful of the dog’s hair, and gave it a hefty tug. The dog did nothing. Alourdes pulled its hair again, and | _ again the dog did nothing. So the child opened the gate, jumped over the dog, and ran to Marguerite. She still had her hand out

| the back of her leg. |

| with the hot comb in it when she felt the dog’s teeth sink into Alourdes dropped the comb and ran. “Manman, Manman, |

~ Manman!” she screamed all the way home. Philo met her at the door. “The dog bit me!” Alourdes sniffled, and she pointed to

| blood running down her left leg. Philo cleaned and wrapped her wound and put the child to bed. Exhausted from the trauma,

Alourdes slept. But when she awoke two hours later, something was dreadfully wrong. Her mother had told her to stay in © | bed. She wanted to obey her mother, but an awful anxiety was rushing through her body, building toward panic. She began to

shake, and her head was spinning. Aware only that she had to move, Alourdes got up, left the house, and began to walk. She

| walked and walked and walked. A frantic need to escape was | the last thing Alourdes would ever remember of this incident.

Alourdes was lost for three days and three nights. Philo was ote

beside herself with worry the entire time. She spent the first ? day checking in every place she thought Alourdes might go. At the end of that day, she went to the police station and reported her daughter missing. On the second and the third days, Philo ” mas one sought help from friends. Rapelle took two afternoons off from his job at the pharmacy to search the northern areas of Belair and Sans Fil, which seemed to be likely places, but he had no luck. Madame Jacques read the cards for Philo and expressed her fear that Alourdes was dead. The oungan Cesaire consulted

his head spirit, who announced that Alourdes had gone off with an older woman who was now keeping the child hidden in her house. Philo’s friend Laline misjudged the extent of the crisis and attempted to make a joke of it all: “Perhaps the spirits

have taken Alourdes below the water. Maybe they want to make her a manbo.”

Another friend, Madame Victoir, also read the cards, and it was she who told Philo that Alourdes was all right. “Tell the police they will find nothing if they look in the north. They are going to find her only if they look in the south,” Madame Victoir said. And then she gave Philo a long, searching look: “Was there something you were supposed to do for the spirits? Did you promise something and then not do it?” Philo’s body jerked to attention. “Yes! There was something,” she said, “a long time ago. I told Ezili Danto [ would kill a pig for her, and | have not done that.” “Go home,’””’ Madame Victoir said. “You don’t have to do anything more to find Alourdes. Just stop by the police and tell them to look in the south. But tonight light a candle, call Ezili, and tell her—promise her!—you are going to make the feast right away.” As darkness fell that third night, Philo went to her altar. She lita candle, and she prayed hard. Then she lay in her bed, eyes

wide open, and let the candle burn itself out. It seemed to her

that the moment the candle sputtered out, the sun began to rise. Or perhaps she had fallen asleep in between. Philo was still trying to figure out if she had slept when she heard a knock

at her door. It was a policeman with the news Alourdes had been found. “Where did you find her?” Philo demanded. “In the south, as you said we would,” the policeman responded, “near the reservoir in Carrefour Feuilles. She was playing with some children. She had been there three days. None of them Knew her name or where she came from. No one could say

516 where she slept or what she ate. Come, your child is waiting for

you. We think you should take her to the hospital. We are not | sure what might have happened to her.” When Alourdes saw her mother come through the door of the

Drea ane police station, she ran to her and grabbed her waist so hard | Philo caught her breath, but the child said nothing. Not until the doctors had finished their intimate poking and prodding and had given her a shot and rebandaged her leg did Alourdes begin to speak. She wanted to know where she was, what had

okay now.” | | |

happened to her. She remembered nothing of the last three

days. “You don’t have to remember,” said Philo. “Everything is

| , That evening, Philo sat in her backyard drinking coffee with | her good friend Clement Rapelle. “Thank you for your help, a Rapelle, my dear,” she said. “I know you don’t get paid when you take off from work.” “It is not a problem,” said Rapelle simply. Then he added with real feeling: “I was so happy when I came by today and saw Alourdes in the house.” “I know you were. I know,” smiled Philo and gave him a warm embrace. “Now you can help me again. I need a strong man to tie up this bundle. It is for the journey. Tomorrow Alourdes and I are

| going to Jean Rabel. It is time for me to gather up my family spirits. It is time for me to kill a pig for Ezili Danto.” —

, And so it was that in the summer of 1942, on the land where Joseph Binbin Mauvant had grown tobacco leaves as long as his arm, just a few yards from the pile of rocks in which Philo’s um-

bilical cord had been buried, she held a feast for her family spir- its that lasted seven days and seven nights. For this considerable undertaking, all the members of her extended family still | living in Jean Rabel were pressed into service as well as many of _ the neighbors. In addition to Ezili Danto’s pig, one cow, two goats, and six chickens were also offered to Philo’s hungry family spirits. Drummers played throughout the week, and people _ danced so energetically that a dust cloud that could be seen a

mile away rose over the Mauvant land. |

| During the early morning hours of one of the days when the

drums were beaten from sunset until sunrise, Ezili Danto pos- _ sessed Philo’s cousin, a woman known for her spiritual powers. — “Dey-dey-dey-dey,’’ Danto said. “Look at the table we have made

for you,” a proud Philo responded. “There is griyo [grilled pork]. There is selebride [liqueur]. There is rapadou [brown-sugar |

candy]. All kinds of fruit.” ““Dey-dey-dey,” the spirit responded 217 with satisfaction. In gratitude, Ezili Danto tipped the bottle of | selebride up to Philo’s mouth, and she also took some of the li-

queur in her hand and wiped it over Alourdes’s face. Then she hugged the seven-year-old to her with a fierce and passionate Dreams one “dey-dey-dey-dey-dey.” “I know, mother, I know,” said Philo, ob-

viously moved by the spirit’s show of affection for her child. Forgetting that she was exposing very private information, Philo continued: “You gave me this child. You kept me from getting rid of my baby. Thank you. Thank you.” The Vodou spirit Ezili Dantd, who is also known as Our Lady of Lourdes, looked at Philo, and her eyes communicated an acceptance that

was absolute and without illusions. |

Then, with a sudden urgency in her manner, Danto pointed at Philo and then at Alourdes. . . at Philo and at Alourdes. Back

and forth, back and forth she went, appealing to the gathered family for an interpretation of her earnest “dey-dey-dey.”’ “Alourdes is going to replace you,” a wise old uncle said. “Phi-

lomise, Danto is telling you that Alourdes is the one to take your place, to serve the family spirits after you.” “That is okay,” said Philo. “That is good.” Then the wrinkled old farmer took his pipe out of his mouth

and stared intently into Alourdes’s face. “You are so young, little girl. Already the spirits are choosing you. That is a big responsibility. You must never forget what Danto has said to you this night. Do you understand?” The wide-eyed little girl with a

bandage on her left leg and a solemn look on her face simply nodded.

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EA ea ge eeeEeaea awe REMSe SSeR SaSO SecSO ee eIEe IRIE ie Te ce mo, ae co: : ; SET arate SERRE OEE I Sine cect in agearaqeeet ana a oe een ets go Sera Sy HOES IS a oe we 2 eS Us. Shin MUMRES rest nn. SLE eT . wo

woke SSRIS ee 4 IE sg ER Se SE SAUER Ua Bh sin Aue bh cb es ce Pg Soe CRE baa OO Sage ten ; - : os.

— Ezili

| Several female spirits belong _ to the group called the Ezili. The three most important are

_ Lasyrenn, the mermaid who links ancient African senses of | woman power and water power; Ezili Danto, the hardworking, solitary, sometimes raging mother; and Ezili Freda, the sensual and elegant, flirtatious and frustrated one. This chapter focuses on each of these powerful women spirits, in turn; all three are _ discussed in one chapter because each is more understandable

| in relation to the others. Taken together, they give a remarkably accurate and detailed portrait of the forces that shape women’s lives both in contemporary Haiti and in Haitian immigrant communities such as the one in which Alourdes lives.! Haitian culture is a misogynist culture. The ideology of male

| supremacy is fierce. Haitian humor is rife with anti-woman | | | jokes, and domestic violence is a frequent occurrence. Vodou has not escaped the influence of this attitude. Certain oungan, for example, are notorious for mistreating, in various ways, the women who become ounsi (ritual assistants) in their temples.

Yet, in spite of this, Vodou empowers women to a larger extent _ than the great majority of the world’s religious traditions. As Haitians struggled to survive and adapt both during and after

| slavery, women gained social and economic power, gains that are mirrored in the influence of women within Vodou. The role of women in Vodou is greatest where there has been the greatest change. Rural women can gain respect as herbalists

, ‘Some of the central ideas presented in this chapter first appeared in Karen Mc| Carthy Brown, “Mama Lola and the Ezilis: Themes of Mothering and Loving in Haitian Vodou,” in Unspoken Worlds: Women’s Religious Lives, ed. Nancy Auer Falk and Rita M. Gross (Belmont, Calif.: Wadsworth, 1989), 235-45.

| a 220 -

Mother combing her daughter’s hair. Gros Morne, Haiti, 1980.

| iM me eee 221

and fanm-saj (midwives), and in certain places in the country- a side they can even be initiated as priestesses; but nowhere do they challenge the religious hegemony of the rural male. In

the cities, however, the picture is quite different. There are no statistics, but my strong impression is that at least half of the Pain urban Vodou leaders are women. Furthermore, the mood of the

women’s temples is markedly different from the atmosphere in temples headed by men. Generally speaking, the issue is flexi_ bility. The ethos within a woman’s temple is like that inside the home, where the mother moves in and out of her role as an authority figure as the situation demands; whereas a man’s temple

usually reflects the more rigid role definitions of the public arena. The question of women and Vodou is broader than the ques-

tion of leadership, however. Consideration of the three Ezili opens up this larger dimension. The adaptability of Vodou over time, and its responsiveness to other cultures and religions; the fact that it has no canon, creed, or pope; the multiplicity of its spirits; and the intimate detail in which those spirits reflect the

lives of the faithful—all these characteristics make women’s lives visible within Vodou in ways they are not in other religious

traditions, including those of the African homeland. This visibility can give women a way of working realistically and creatively with the forces that define and confine them. Lasyrenn, Ezili Danto, and Ezili Freda are each conflated with particular manifestations of the Virgin Mary: Nuestra Senora de la Caridad del Cobre, Mater Salvatoris, and Maria Dolorosa. But unlike the Mary of mainstream Catholicism, who offers an im-

possible ideal of perfectly submissive (and virginal) motherhood for emulation, the Ezili are much closer to the human drama. In addition to providing examples of love, care, and hard work, they model anger—righteous and raging—power and effectivity, sensuality, sexuality, fear, frustration, need, and loneliness. In so doing, they become mirrors that give objective reality to what would otherwise remain, as it does in so many cultures, women’s silent pain and unhonored power. These female spirits are both mirrors and maps, making the present comprehensible and offering direction for the future. In the caricaturelike clarity of Vodou possession-performances, the Ezili sort out, by acting out, the conflicting feelings and values in a given life situation. By interacting with the faithful as

oD individuals and groups, all the Vodou spirits clarify the options in people’s lives; and the Ezili do this especially well for women.

| When Alourdes says that Ezili Danto is her “mother,” she - both describes key circumstances of her life and identifies some bail of her most important values. Yet, in her house, Lasyrenn is also saluted from time to time, and Ezili Freda is even more frequently honored, although neither is given the attention and service that Danto receives. Thus although Ezili Danto is Alourdes’s major female spirit, her life as a woman is actually | choreographed through a dynamic balancing of the three. The individual and the spirits who love and protect that indi- vidual are in a mutually responsive relationship. The three Ezili,

individually and in relation to one another, provide a template | _ for Alourdes’s life. But the circumstances of her life also cause the personalities of Lasyrenn, Danto, and Freda to emerge in particular ways. Alourdes and her spirits create one another, a relationship recognized within her Vodou family, where some- | one is as likely to speak about “Alourdes’s Dant6” as about Ezili

| Danto in general. Alourdes is a heterosexual woman, in mid-life, who grew up

| | in Port-au-Prince and has lived in the United States for twentyfive years. Her situation as a woman relating to the three Ezili is

naturally different from that of a man relating to mother and | - lover figures. Her heterosexuality suppresses the acknowledged

lesbian dimension of Ezili Danto, a part of the /wa’s charac-

OO ter that could be very important for other women. Her age __erystalizes an Ezili Freda who may act like an ingenue but cer-

| tainly is not one. And her life in the New York Haitian immi| grant community and earlier in Port-au-Prince—both places in | which many, if not most, families are headed by women— mutes Danto’s identity as the mysterious tree-dwelling serpent

| and brings her status as single mother to the fore. These urban and immigrant dimensions of Alourdes’s life are most likely also

. responsible for making Lasyrenn retreat even further into the | depths than she usually does.

a | LASYRENN | Lasyrenn, Labalenn,

a | ~ Chapo’m tonbe nan lanme. , |

M’ap fé karés ak Lasyrenn, — |

Chapo’m tonbe nan lanme. 223

M’ap fe dodo ak Lasyrenn, Chapo'm tonbe nan lanme.

Ezilt

The mermaid, the whale, My hat falls into the sea.

| I caress the mermaid,

, My hat falls into the sea. I lie down with the mermaid, My hat falls into the sea.

| Thus goes one of Alourdes’s favorite songs for this watery Ezili sister. As both mermaid and whale (the two sometimes appear as separate spirits), she is an elusive creature of the deep

sea. She is a fleeting presence, never fully seen, hinting at something monumental—huge, deep, sudden, and powerful. When people catch a glimpse of Lasyrenn beneath the water, they feel her beckoning them to come with her back to Ginen, to

Africa, the ancestral home and the dwelling place of the lwa, anba dlo (beneath the water). She hovers large and dark and silent just below the surface of the water, a place Haitians call “the back of the mirror.” Gazing at her is like gazing at your own reflection. It is seductive because she gives a deeper and truer picture of self than is likely to be found in the mirrors of everyday life. But it is also dangerous to try to get too close or hold on too tightly to the vision. A person who reaches out to stroke her or tries to lie close by her broad and comforting side may, quite simply, drown. First the hat falls into the sea, and the person follows quickly after.

Lasyrenn’s elusive character is captured in Alourdes’s description: ““She’s black, not white. Black, black. Her hair go down to her feet. Shiny, shiny, shiny, shiny, long hair! Sometime you see her a blonde. . . long, long, long hair. If you see her with your eyes in the sea, she’s white; when you dream her, she’s black, because they say she got one side white, one side black. A big fish with two color. Lasyrenn, Labalenn. . . always got a comb, to comb her hair.” Lasyrenn is connected to Mammy Water, whose shrines are found throughout West Africa. Some suggest that the mermaid persona, also common for Mammy Water, was derived from the

224 carved figures on the bows of the ships of European traders and : slavers. Thus the Vodou [wa Lasyrenn may have roots that con-

nect, like nerves, to the deepest and most painful parts of the

. loss of homeland and the trauma of slavery. It is therefore fitpail ting that she also reconnects people to Africa and its wisdom. In many stories, people are captured by Lasyrenn and pulled under the water, down to Ginen. Sometimes these stories are descriptions of tragic drownings or of suicides. But as often as not such tales are strategies used by the poor and otherwise dis- _ enfranchised to gain access to the prestigious role of healer.

The stories have a common pattern. A person, usually a woman, disappears for a time—three days, three months, three years. When she returns, she is a changed person. Her skin has become fairer, her hair longer and straighter. Most important, she has gained sacred knowledge. Immediately after her return,

she is disoriented, does not talk, and does not remember what happened to her. But gradually a story emerges, a story of | living for a time “below the water,” where the spirits instructed her in the arts of diagnosis and healing.* A person who can make a convincing claim to receiving instruction in the priestly arts “below the water” need not go through expensive initiation

ceremonies or a time-consuming apprenticeship. I once met such a rural priestess. She was called Sansami, a nickname meaning without friends. When I asked who had initiated her, she responded that no one had. Her instruction, she said simply,

had come anba dlo. ,

Alourdes makes no such claim. Because her grandfather, Al-

phonse Macena, came from the south of Haiti where people go | through formal and expensive initiation ceremonies to attain the role of healer, and because she inherited obligations to Macena’s spirits, Alourdes also went through the rituals to take the ason. Ogou demanded it, and she was the first woman in her family

, to do so. This initiation gives her an official and widely recog- | nized right to claim the role of priestess. Alourdes says, how-

ever, that she serves both her grandfather’s and her grand| mother’s spirits. Her fidelity to the line of Marie Noelsine Joseph,

daughter of the old African Joseph Binbin Mauvant, brings , *See Max Benoit, ‘““Symbi—loi des eaux,” Bulletin du Bureau d’ethnologie (Port-au-

| Prince) 3, nos. 20-22 (June—-December 1959): 12-22. |

claims to other sources of wisdom—Mauvant had the spirits 225

“on him” all the time, and he healed the natural way, the simple way, without ason or elaborate ritualizing.

Quite unconsciously, Alourdes describes a time of instruction anba dlo when she connects her call to the priesthood with the ail time she was lost at age seven. The object that occasioned her adventure was a borrowed comb, and the comb is Lasyrenn’s most common accoutrement. It was Ezili Danto, Lasyrenn’s dark

sister, who caused the disappearance. And it was Danto who, when Alourdes was found, made an appearance to convey the message that Alourdes was to inherit her mother’s healing practice. Alourdes was gone for three days (the ritual number), was found next to the city reservoir (an urban transformation of the sea), and, when found, was disoriented and could remember nothing of what had transpired. Alourdes’s story deviates from the pattern only in that she still claims amnesia about what occurred during those three days. The events of Alourdes’s life gravitated like barnacles to the back of the whale—Labalenn, Lasyrenn. Myth provided the template for life. Yet when Alourdes tells that story, she never says that she received religious instruction anba dlo. Like the elusive whale, the interpretive framework of her childhood experience hovers seductively just below the surface of the waters of consciousness.

EZILI DANTO

In 1965 Alourdes was finally able to bring her three children— Jean-Pierre, Maggie, and William—to New York. They arrived during midsummer’s heat, two months before school began. By

this time, Alourdes thought of herself primarily as a healer, and her practice was growing rapidly. Nevertheless, she had taken an outside job to cover the expense of reuniting her family, working from four in the afternoon until midnight doing laundry at the Hotel National on Seventh Avenue and Fortysecond Street in Manhattan. While she was at work, the children fended for themselves in Brooklyn. Maggie was twelve years old, about to turn thirteen. Some af-

ternoons when Alourdes had gone to work, Maggie would sit on the front stoop watching the neighborhood children. She

Zul .

36 sometimes ventured, in her halting English, to join games of tag or skip-rope, but, in the beginning, she was not often success-

ful. Her first weeks in New York were hard and lonely. On most | eel days, like a dutiful Haitian girl-child, she did housework. One day when Mommie went to work, you know, being in the house, the only girl, I work a lot, right? So what I did, I wash all those clothes, Jean’ clothes, William’ clothes, my clothes, sheets—everything in the house, I wash by hand. And then when I finish (I don’t know . . . I must’a thought I

was in Haiti. . . .), | put my iron board and my iron. I start ironing, and I iron everything. Then I took a bath and from

was real sick! | |

there—I got sick! I had trembling, fever, and the next morning Mommie took me to the doctor, and the doctor say that I

The emergency-room physician suspected Maggie had tuberculosis, a disease common among Haitians, or perhaps pneumonia; but he could not be sure and wanted to hospitalize her for further testing. Maggie was afraid to be separated from her

| family and begged to go home. The doctor said that would be all right if she promised to come back the next day for more tests, and Maggie went home to bed. When Alourdes returned from work that night, Maggie got up, and the family ate, talked, and

| watched television together. It was after two in the morning | when they turned off-the lights. Maggie’s bed was in the living

her pillow. ,

room, and, when she lay down, the light from the streetlamp at the corner of Utica Avenue and Jane Street fell directly across

| — We just went to bed, and then I saw, like a shadow, coming to the light. . . . Next minute, I actually saw a lady standing in front of me. But I could not see her face real clear. I saw a lady standing in front of me with a blue dress, and she have a veil

a covering her head and her face. I wasn’t scared of that lady, and I was saying, ‘Who are you? Who are you?” And then

who you are.” ,

she said, ““You don’t know who [J am?” I said, “I don’t know

And then she pull up the veil, and I could see it was her with the two mark. Ezili DantO with the two mark on her

7 _ a ~ : 7 ° . . . . ,- .,M- ts. liEzilt : vs

cheek. Whooooo! Yeah! And then I start to get scared. She

told me, “Don’ d, ther.” “er ola me, ont get scared, ’m your mother. Then she told me to turn my back around, she was going to

heal me; I wasn’t going to be sick no more. She turned me

s _ e 5 _ e Jt J .

around. She rubbed my back. She rubbed my lungs and every-

thing; she rub it, and then she said, “Now you know what to

. ~ . ys 4 -.s ‘i s *_/ * _ .esad es . Mt y . yy _ e 2 : . _ e e . _ _ * _ _ e _L*.-;_°_ Sd . _ . ee_ :«

do for me. Just light up a candle and thank me.” I say, “Okay, and then she say, “I’m going now, I'm going,” and I say, “Let me call my mother, tell my mother you here.” It’s strange. . .

d th h . a i . ~~ an i ‘ yy d | Mf

you know, just like a visitor . . . somebody come to visit. I said, “Let me call my mother—Don’t! Wait! Let me call— She said, “No, no, your mother don’t have to come. I have heard this important family story many times. When Alourdes is present, the story emerges antiphonally. When that happens, Alourdes invariably breaks in at this point, as she did once when my tape recorder was running: “When Maggie call,

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Sojeme, Sojeme

A. nine o’clock in the morning on July 16, 1979, Alourdes Margaux lay unmoving, eyes wide | open. The ornate headboard of her bed was draped with an

enormous plastic rosary. Images of Santa Clara and an impassive, pretty Jesus gazed out from the wall above. The noises of , children playing in the hallway drifted into her darkened room. She cleared her throat, rolled over, spat into the chamber pot beside the bed, and mumbled, “How come those children got to

| make so much noise?” “Oh, Lawd!” she sighed, using the burst ,

_ of breath to carry her body to a sitting position. | In a few minutes, she came padding out the door of her bedroom wearing a long nightgown and floppy slippers. Alourdes turned a haggard face toward the offending children. “What _ happen?” she asked. “Nothing, Mommie Lola,” nine-year-old ~ Kumar chirped. “Michael and me was playing Batman!”

“How come you still got pi’jjama on you?” Alourdes de| manded. “Eleven o'clock, we going to the hospital to see Maggie. You know that! If you not ready when Karen come, you not going.”” Michael, just a toddler, began to cry: “I wanna see

| Maggieeeeee!” | | “So, go get clothes on you. Kumar, you help Mikey. You understand?” ‘Yes, Mommie Lola,” Kumar replied as he took the

_ child’s hand and pulled him up the stairs. Alourdes watched ~ her son and grandson until they reached the second-floor land_ ing, and then she went down the staircase to the basement. Small windows in the rear admitted only faint light to the basement floor. Moving with care, Alourdes made her way toward her altar room at the opposite end of the house. In the dim

light, she fumbled with a ring of keys, finally locating the right ,

Haiti, 1989.

| , 260

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Danbala

L, 1931, Melville Herskovits noted that the Fon of Dahomey (the modern West African republic of Benin) still mourned the loss of kin to the trans-Atlantic

slave trade. Herskovits recorded this remarkable prayer, which | was chanted as blood was poured over an altar to the unknown

dead: “Oh, ancestors, do all in your power that princes and nobles who today rule never be sent away from here as slaves to Ame’ika, . . . We pray you to do all in your power to punish the

again.” OO :

_ people who bought our kinsmen, whom we shall never see

Such long-held sentiment is more than.a historical grudge. Although there is in Dahomey a public cult with deities recognized by all, the heart of Dahomean religious life is ancestor veneration. These rites necessarily occur within specific lineages. Dahomeans depend on the day-to-day protection of their _ lineage ancestors, and they fear the anger of any of their family _ dead who might be neglected. They also believe in a form of intralineage reincarnation. For all these reasons, the loss of kin to the European slave trade diminished every family repre_ sented on the slave ships. This loss did not dissipate with time,

and it continues to threaten the well-being of the living on both _ _ sides of the Atlantic. In the popular naive painting of Haiti, a blighted, leafless tree whose branches have been lopped off is a

recurrent motif. Like the Dahomean prayer, it testifies to the persistent sense of loss occasioned by slavery.

_ ‘Melville J. Herskovits, Dahomey: An Ancient West African Kingdom (Evanston, IIL:

Northwestern University Press, 1967), 2:64. oo

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go CELLS SARE gcc rrr rr AY rae Tvl. pe Se cine eS eeepc EEL eiseet: reoe teeeeaaeae Bi a Men: eenSDoni Tay SE ee Ais aFtDD. ee men 7 CRE ORE espera. Sear SAUL NA Blo ce SUL pee Shona RRO oT0 a eo fofe SLES ur-Boo :_"aps, ERS Sagi OEE -i uri, SRE oere nia a RRO (LD US. Bceee aa rd EES. SRE ADEA UT USE Eg Se iEe wrest ileLTi BO eet pega tlt: aGER agenerrcmiaanipaen cog eTSSE le - Dif ES Ee crnee eonSa ieefie, TSRPMLA: ane nolo, LL Re 7

BEESSof] USS ggether D08cL te fe? ELUDES m. .“er “ Bee! icy See cee Sh rrr Spe 22 J 1oO 151)1: Sa RR . DE JET 2 Lakh y extent, the /wa are as susceptible to destructive emotions as living persons are, the problems Alourdes treats can be traced

| to neglected spirits or hungry ancestors as well as to jealous, - angry, or malicious human beings.

, The first thing Alourdes must do with new clients is ascertain whether the problems they have are “natural” or “super-

a natural” in origin. She usually does a card reading to determine | this. The diagnosis of a natural problem indicates that the malady is “from God,” and this means that neither Alourdes nor any other Vodou healer can do anything about it. Alourdes sends such clients away. ‘‘Why I got to take those people’ money |

if I can’t help them?” she asks. Virtually all natural problems seem to be physical maladies. The reverse is not true, however;

| many physical afflictions are diagnosed as supernatural in origin. Resistance to diagnosis and cure by scientific medicine is

| taken as a sure sign that a problem is supernatural. Most problems are diagnosed as supernatural, and, because they fall into the realm of the spirits, something can be done about them.

In spite of using terminology such as natural and supernatural, _ Vodou does not assume the existence of a two-story universe. 347 Both God and the spirits operate in dimensions that permeate ordinary human life, but the two operate in different ways. ““Be-

tween God and the spirit is two different thing,” Alourdes said. Cede “You don’t see God to talk to God. No. You are born. You see the sky. You see the earth. You don’t know who put it there. But that’s God. . . . God you don’t see. God you talk about. You go

to church, they talk about God. You read the Bible, you read about God. But spirit you don’t read about. The spirit come

in people’ head, and you see them, you talk to them. They help you.” Alourdes can treat supernatural illnesses, which are

within the spirits’ purview, because the spirits are directly avail- | able to her. The spirits have come to depend on Alourdes’s care, just as she depends on theirs. She has leverage with them. God

is different. A problem that comes from God is natural; like a rock, it simply is. You cannot plead with a rock to change or coerce it into another state of being. Relationships, the focus of Vodou healing rites, are complex and often fragile. The range of diagnostic categories in Vodou reflects the range of difficulties that can develop in relationships. On the mild end of the spectrum lies the diagnosis that a _ person is suffering from “eyes’’—too many others are thinking and talking about the client, and all the attention has pushed that person spiritually off balance. With no prior knowledge of the situation, Alourdes diagnosed me as suffering from “eyes” during the time I was being considered for tenure at my university. A slightly more serious version of this condition is called a djok, or “bad eyes,” in which the attention focused on the client has a negative tone, involving, for example, jealousy. This diagnosis, however, does not indicate a conscious intent to harm the

client. |

Cecile’s case, in which someone had “done work” against her, falls toward the far end of the spectrum. Such a diagnosis assumes that the damage is willful, and it usually means that another spiritual expert has been involved in focusing and directing that ill will. The most extreme cases involve deliberate harm that is more than the mere by-product of getting one’s own way; such malice crosses over into the territory of pure revenge. Alourdes never initiates activity at this end of the spectrum, which is the domain of the bokd, a specialist in “work of the left hand.”

a8 | Vodou healing shows a penchant for “the science of the conj4 — crete.”° In her cures, Alourdes puts problematic human relationships into a tangible, external form, where they can be worked on and ultimately transformed. When a love relationGede ship is desired, she binds two dolls face-to-face. When the dis-

| solution of a relationship is sought, she binds them back-toback. For restive, “hungry” spirits, she prescribes a meal of their favorite foods. To treat a violent marriage, Alourdes makes

| a charm for the wife by filling a jar with ice (“to cool him down”) and molasses (“to make him sweet’). Then she wraps the charm in some article of the husband’s clothing and turns the whole thing upside down, a clear signal within the Vodou science of

_ the concrete that a revolutionary change is desired. For Cecile, an upper-class Jamaican woman experiencing some conflict about her involvement with Vodou, Alourdes fashioned the | unobtrusive potted shimalady. These charms are called pwen (points). They are condensations of complex social, psychological, and spiritual conditions.

| Baths, a staple in Alourdes’s healing repertoire, are also pwen of a sort. These mixtures of herbs, perfumes, milk, alcohol, fruits, and, in some situations, less agreeable things concretize troublesome as well as desired states in a variety of ways. Smell

is among the most powerful instruments. After taking a ritual

| bath, the client is instructed not to wash for three days, leaving — the heady odors of Alourdes’s medicine chest on the skin for

| three long days, waking and sleeping. Our sense of smell connects with the limbic mind, a primordial, nonverbal self, and it , is often this deeper self that is addressed by Alourdes’s cures.

| Unlike psychiatrists, Vodou healers do not believe they must _ bring problems to the level of consciousness to work with them. | There are two types of baths: good-luck and bad-luck. In both | cases, about two cups of viscous liquid are used. Bad-luck baths are applied from the top of the body down, whereas good-luck baths proceed from the bottom up. Many problems are treated with a simple series of three good-luck baths. But when the negativity is more palpable, a preliminary cleansing with a bath

designed to remove the bad luck is required. If a healer pre-

>This phrase is taken from Claude Lévi-Strauss, “The Science of the Concrete,” in his The Savage Mind (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1966), 1-33.

scribes a bad-luck bath, it does not necessarily mean that the a client has been the object of malice. It may simply mean that the 349 problem has been around for a long time and has infected many

areas of the person’s life. Vodou healing operates according to traditional wisdom. For Cede example, a great deal of solid herbal knowledge is available to healers such as Alourdes. They use it to treat successfully a variety of noncritical physical ailments. There are also standard ritual forms for treatments such as baths and standard recipes for concocting them. But there is room for inspired innovation, too. Alourdes told me that on several occasions when she was unsure how to treat a client, she had a dream in which one of the spirits—or, more often, her mother—told her to “take such and such a leaf, mix it with this fruit and this perfume,” and so forth. At other times, she simply has an impulse to try something new. Part of what a healer must learn to do is identify and trust what might be labeled intuition, if this term is taken in its

most serious sense. Strengthening konesans (intuitive knowledge) is one of the goals of Vodou initiation ceremonies.

Alourdes never refers to the persons she works for as patients, and for good reason. In Vodou, the one being healed re-

mains active throughout the healing process—from the card reading, in which the client is free to agree or disagree with any diagnosis Alourdes suggests, to the manufacture of the pwen, in which the client has a direct hand. It was Cecile who picked and planted the shimalady. With the point in hand, the client’s par-

ticipation becomes crucial, for a point must be “worked”: it must be prayed over daily, candles must be lit before it, refreshing water poured over it, sweet-smelling perfume sprayed on it. In the months following our trip to Jamaica, asked Alourdes several times if she had heard from Cecile, but she had nothing

to tell me until nearly a year later. “Yeah, I hear from her,” Alourdes said, in a matter-of-fact tone. “Everything okay.” And

then she added with a touch of impatience: “Of course everything okay. I do that work for her, don’t I?” “The land was sold?” I queried. “I forget to ask,” Alourdes responded. In the beginning of my association with Alourdes, I tended to view her treatments as suspense stories, and I eagerly awaited their denouements. For Alourdes, however, the outcome of her healing work is rarely cause for suspense, and, furthermore, its value does not appear to depend on particular concrete results.

aro It took me some time to realize what motivated this attitude.

3 Alourdes is confident in the effectiveness of her work, and she knows intuitively when it has been successful. In a noncontradictory way, she also knows that the most she can do is

Cele identify the root problems and then place the proper tools to deal with them in the hands of those who are in trouble. It is up to the clients to use these tools. Cecile had to learn to “talk.” _ She had to stop begging and say what she wanted. She alone was responsible for working the point, that is, talking daily be-

| fore the potted shimalady until she understood that she possessed the power to bend her husband's errant will. From what | Alourdes had to say, Cecile learned this lesson. _ Mabel’s problems were not so easily resolved. Edmund’s visa

did come through but not for several years. The missing suitcase | ss containing the ritual clothing and other things Mabel needed to | undergo initiation in Haiti never showed up. It was just as well, because Mabel never made it to Haiti. Instead, she got sidetracked into multiple family problems. For the entire time we were in Jamaica, Mabel was in constant motion, doing everyone’s laundry, running their errands, and troubleshooting in — their lives. On the day Alourdes and I left for Port-au-Prince,

she hardly took time to wave good-bye as she bustled off to town on yet one more mission.

| “What do these people do when Mabel isn’t around?” I asked Alourdes. “How do I know?” she responded peevishly. “I think she uses their problems to avoid her own,” I observed. “I sup-

pose so,” said Alourdes. | | | “She’s a tough one,” I mused. “She makes people dependent on her and then gets mad at them for it.” “Humph,” said _. Alourdes, who has little taste for psychologizing. She simply reiterated the opinion she had expressed in the airport: ‘“Mabel

| help herself.” | |

| got a lot’a problem. She got to wash her head . . . so she can

| - INITIATION AND THE SPIRITS IN THE HEAD | There are four levels of initiation into Vodou as it is practiced in

Port-au-Prince. The first is a ritual headwashing aimed at the spirits lodged in the head. From one perspective, these are the particular Vodou spirits said to love that person. But, from an-

other, the spirits in the head are the constituent parts of the 351

self, principally the gwo bonanj (big guardian angel), which is roughly equivalent to the personality or consciousness of the individual. When someone is troubled, the big guardian angel

becomes agitated, and, as a result, that person loses access to vei dreams as well as the waking powers of discrimination, insight, and understanding. Like a boat without a navigational system, | such a person bobs perilously through life at the mercy of the currents. The headwashing ceremony “refreshes” and “feeds”

restive head spirits. Once placated, they will function as conduits for the wisdom, ancestral and spiritual, that every person needs to negotiate daily life. Alourdes had prescribed this treatment for Mabel, and it is a required first step even for those who

7 go on to higher levels of initiation during the same cycle of ceremonies. The second level of initiation is called kanzo, a term referring to a rite of fire designed to transform suffering into power. The public, and therefore discussable, part of kanzo is a ritual called

boule zen (the burning of the pots), in which the initiates are briefly removed from the inner chamber of the temple where they have been sequestered in order to undergo a sort of trial by

fire. Small clay pots are placed in the center of specially prepared fires. Hard, hot dumplings are snatched from the boiling pots and pressed into the palm of the initiate’s left hand and the sole of the left foot. When this ritual is complete, the initiates may be told, “Never say hot again; say strong!” To kouche—to lie down, sleep, make love, give birth, and, less frequently, to die—is the verbal form used for all levels of initia-

, tion. To kouche sou pwen (to lie down on the point) is the third level of induction into the arts of Vodou. In this phrase, the word point (pwen) refers to a ritualized concentration of the power of the Vodou spirit said to be the master of the initiate’s head, the met tét. Through the kouche sou pwen, novices solidify their relationship with their met tét and at the same time come to recognize that spirit’s power as a dimension of their own character. The giving of the sacred rattle, the ason, is the final level of initiation. Possession of the ason qualifies a person to begin to do healing work.

| No one undertakes these various levels of initiation idly or out of pure curiosity. They are expensive and taxing. Persons who take the ason do so because they have serious problems,

352 problems that, by a sort of circular reasoning, are interpreted as the harassment of spirits who desire that person to kouche. Ini-

tiation is thus an especially intense form of healing. All those | | who are empowered to heal in Vodou have received their trainGene ing by first being healed themselves. Almost everyone who has taken the ason has a story to tell about suffering and instinctive _

| resistance to the call of the spirits. In this respect, the experi- | ences of Alourdes and Maggie were not extreme. People resist the call to be a healer because, although such a life may provide prestige, it also requires considerable selfsacrifice. For example, when Alourdes’s mother finally said yes

| to the spirits, it signaled the end of her relationships with men. Philo’s house filled up with those in need of healing, and she no | longer had space, time, energy, or money to raise her daughter _ Alourdes. Manbo and oungan, those who take on the most se_ rious obligations in relation to the spirits, are prepared for these

sacrifices by the initiation process itself. Ina pattern commonto such rites the world over, Vodou initiation rituals demand noth- | ing less than a surrender of self. These rites force a rapid regression on the part of the initiate. They hammer a person back to a

state of childlike uncertainty and dependence. In this vulner- |

- lessons.

able state of infancy, ritually revisited, Vodou teaches its potent For the higher levels of initiation, one of the central surrender lessons has to do with possession. Through ritual means, an at-

tempt is made to pull the initiate over the edge and into the deep waters of trance. Those who serve the Vodou spirits believe that, in possession, the gwo bonanj leaves the body and floats loose in the world. No one easily gives up consciousness

| and the control associated with it; even as practiced a horse of the spirits as Alourdes still shows signs of struggle as she is mounted by a spirit. But she no longer fears the experience as

she most likely did when the spirits first sought to use her as | | their vehicle. When Alourdes was only thirteen, an ancient fe- | male spirit called Marienette “passed” through her head, a type

| of spirit contact that falls short of possession. Alourdes’s first full possession came at the age of nineteen. In 1980 Alourdes described possession in this way: “When the spirit going to come in you head, you feel very light, light

| like a piece of paper. . . very light in your head. You feel dizzy in your head. Then after, you pass out. But the spirit come, and

he talk to people, and he look at the table you make for him. . . oe you know. Then he leaves and . . . and you come from very, 993 very, very far. But when the spirit in your body, in your head, you don’t know nothing. They have to tell you what the spirit say, What message he leave for you.” In the matter-of-fact, al- Cede most clinical way Alourdes describes the descent into possession, the unconsciousness during it, and the amnesia that follows can be heard the voice of a manbo secure in her relationship

with the Vodou spirits and trusting her own ability to pull herself back together after their temporarily fragmenting visits. Maggie, who has absorbed a heavier dose of New York’s hard lessons about the need for constant control, still fights against the surrender demanded by trance states. And she uses revealingly different language in describing possession. When she told me about her first possession experience, which occurred in Haiti at age ten, Maggie began with characteristic bravado: “J started to be Miss Invisible—the Invisible Woman!” But she soon switched to a different tone: “I’m losing my foot. . . . I’m losing

my arm... losing my body, and it’s just going. And I was much younger then, and I start calling, ‘Mommie, Mommie, Mommie!’ and then my mother—she doesn’t come. . . . I don’t know if she come or don’t come. .. . Once it hits your head, that’s it! It’s black, and then I don’t know nothing. Nothing!” While describing a more recent brush with possession by the

lwa, Maggie reiterated the language of loss that filled her account of that first experience, but she combined it with other threatening and paradoxical imagery: “It’s the funniest feeling... like losing your toes. Your toes is gone, like you stand up and someone is pulling your blood out of you. You don’t feel

your head. . . like something running through your body, you

know ... like you taking a shower and the thing just running down all over you. You feel like your feet is not touching

the ground. Your head is heavy. ... Not heavy. It’s like you are floating up, like high blood pressure . . . running down.” Whether Maggie can eventually trust enough to welcome— even to seek out—-the unconsciousness of trance has yet to be

determined, but it is an important issue if she is to take over Alourdes’s healing practice. In her role as healer, Alourdes must

frequently, and more or less at will, go through the perilous

| ego-exchange with the /wa that is at the center of possession. All persons who take the ason do not become practicing heal-

oe ers. Some choose not to, and others never gain the needed as394 sent of the community. In urban contexts, those who function | as priests or priestesses for Vodou families can do so because their skills (including the skill of being a good horse for the Cede spirits) have been recognized and repeatedly proven. Some of these skills are taught in the initiation chamber, but others are inherited. | Alourdes’s mother, Philomise, was a well-known healer in Port-au-Prince, with a substantial following. Everyone knows that Alourdes “replaced” her mother, that is, inherited her role. Alourdes’s tangible inheritance from Philo is her altar, the ag— gregate of Philo’s relationships with the Vodou spirits, made tangible in stones and pots and other ritual implements. The

— intangible inheritance involves extraordinary diagnostic and curative skills. Philo was known for her psychic abilities, but Alourdes resists the claim that she has these same gifts. “I’m not psychic like my mother. . . no,” she says.

| She does, however, admit to having the “gift of eyes.” “When somebody come in—even three person come—I got the feel which one need me.” When I asked if calling this the gift of eyes

meant that she saw something such as light or color, she responded: “I don’t see light. I got the feel in my body. The blood |

«goes up and my hair start to stand up if there a spirit there that

| bothering somebody. I feel something inside that mean danger.” Ina related way, she claims to know when a treatment has

| been successful, because of how she feels. “After you treat people, you feel relieved, you feel happy. Then I feel in my body that the people going to be all right. Also, the people’ face change. It not the same face any more.” Just as Alourdes routinely attributes greater psychic powers to her mother than to herself and greater ones still to her most

distant remembered ancestor, the old African Joseph Binbin | Mauvant, so Maggie declares that she does not have her mother’s abilities. But she does admit to some extraordinary ways of knowing things. “Me and my ESP!” Maggie said. “Usually ] dream something. I get a funny feeling, like a pressure. When I feel that pressure, that when I know what I dream going to happen.” The skills of the Vodou healer focus on the social drama, on relational problems that often fall through the cracks between the various specialists who do the healing in Western, tech-

nological society. This focus may be not only the most realistic a but also the most helpful for the majority of Haitians, who lack 399 any realistic expectation of gaining access to the powers that ac-

tually control the world—that is, to guns and money. Understanding people, maneuvering and even manipulating human Gede

| relationships—these are the weapons of the disenfranchised, the survival skills of the oppressed. Innumerable times I have heard Alourdes say: “I got plenty confidence in myself!” Emphasis on self-confidence as a relational and survival skill is one of Alourdes’s most distinctive

traits. This confidence enables her to take on the thorniest of problems, even those that involve pitting her will against that of another healer. And, on many occasions, the treatment Alourdes prescribes for a client includes attention to that person’s need for more self-confidence.

Self-confidence, as Alourdes uses the term, is not to be confused with the heroic “I can do anything I want to” attitude valued in the United States, or even with simple pride. “Pride?” said Alourdes. “Pride never did nobody no good.” The selfconfidence Alourdes fosters in herself and encourages in others

is not so much a sense of self-importance as it is basic selfrespect. When Aunt Emma talked about the importance of believing in God and in the Bible, Alourdes added emphatically, “And in yourself.” Self-respect is the antidote to the daily insults poor, urban Haitians experience when they see how mem-

bers of the elite live. Self-respect is also the most important thing to have with you when standing in line in a New York welfare office or asking a white bureaucrat for a job.

| Alourdes’s challenge to imitate her in having “plenty confi| dence” is probably most resonant for women. It is not surprising that women healers (I doubt Alourdes is the only one) are quite sophisticated about the problems women face. Inattention to self—Mabel’s frantic self-sacrifice in the service of her family, for example—is one of the greatest female problems. For wives

and mothers, the self-caring Alourdes counsels is the necessary counterbalance to the push and pull of family claims. Healers, like mothers, define their life’s work as the service of others. Thus when Alourdes, both a mother and a healer, urges selfconfidence in the women she treats, she speaks with authority.

Alourdes works at maintaining a large and diverse Vodou family around her, and as a result she sits at the confluence of

anh dense and powerful streams of human neediness. Her instinct

3 is to want to help. “I love to make treatment. I love to help people. When they feel good, that make me feel good.” But she |

| _has to be constantly vigilant to maintain her balance in the | Cede midst of her big needy “family,” and she does so by insisting

| that her own needs be met as well as those of her clients. When I see Alourdes acting like a “queen bee,” something she does from time to time, I try to remember what a difficult role it is

| that she occupies. _ | |

_ Priestly power is said to reside in konesans. This knowledge could be called psychic power, the gift of eyes, empathy, or intuition. It is any and all of these things. Above all, it is knowledge about people. Vodou provides a vast and complex symbol system for thinking about people. Konesans is the ability to read

, people, with or without cards; to diagnose and name their suf| fering, suffering that Haitians know comes not from God and usually not from chance but from others—the living, the dead, and the spirits. Finally, konesans is the ability to heal. __‘The initiation chamber is the alchemical oven in which suffer-

ing is transformed into knowledge, into experientially rooted priestly power. It is also the only ritual arena I know of that Papa Gede is forbidden to enter. If an initiate has Gede as his or |

her head spirit, that person will kouche on the point of Ogou,

the patron of self-assertion and Gede’s temporary stand-in dur- , ing initiations. In the djévo, the small room where initiates spend

- several days in seclusion, no songs are sung for Gede and no prayers are offered to him. Gede’s presence in the initiation chamber would be a fearful redundancy that might snap the delicate balance between death and rebirth which these rituals orchestrate. Papa Gede must be excluded because he is so

present. :

A BIRTHDAY PARTY FOR PAPA GEDE

About twenty-five of us were gathered at Alourdes’s home in

| the predawn hours of a Sunday in late October 1981. Gede was_ | with us, holding forth in the center of the crowd. ‘Papa Gede,”

| , someone called out, trying to get his attention. Gede drew him- | self up, erect and proud, pulled down his black top hat with both hands, and stuck out his lower lip in an exaggerated pout.

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