Culture Clash Page 9

  “And we’re glad, too,” Mama says, pushing the basket up to be third in line. “Because of your dedication we have one of the best botanicas in Los Angeles County—run by a true devotee, not a mercenary like most of the other shops I visit.” Watching Mama and Miguel continue their chatter, my thoughts drift off to what the people outside are saying about The Path. There’s a church across the street that looks like it’s just ending or beginning Saturday night service. Some of the church folks are outside staring and pointing across the street. I’m sure Miguel and his regulars are used to the gawking by now, but I’m not. It makes me uncomfortable having vehement hate directed my way, no matter where it’s coming from.

  Most of the patrons of any botanica are Hispanic, with black clientele taking a distant second place. And the people in most neighborhoods in LA County realize the tension between the two cultures. I don’t understand why so many black people hate Mexicans. If it weren’t for stores like this one, there would be very little representation of our traditions around. By having botanicas and practitioners of the faith in our neighborhood, they bring a little bit of Africa to the hood, and I’m grateful for it, no matter what country they’re from or what language they speak.

  Mama finally makes it to the front of the line and pays for all of the supplies. Miguel walks us to the car and helps us load the trunk and backseat before saying good-bye to Mama and hello to the haters across the street. As they hiss at us, Mama looks at them and smiles, all the while holding on to the multiple eleke—each beaded necklace representing a particular Orisha—hanging around her neck.

  “Mama, how can you be so calm when people are so rude?” I ask, driving out of the crowded lot as quickly as I can. It’s time to get out of this part of the city and back to Compton. After I drop Mama off I’m going straight to my mom’s and curling up on the couch with the remote and a bag of Trader Joe’s Joe-Joe’s—double-chocolate flavor. I found my mom’s secret stash last weekend and have been waiting for the perfect time to dig in.

  “Oshune is mostly about love and forgiveness, Jayd. Being sweet is the best way to ensure victory in any situation. And I’ve told you many times, Jayd. Be audacious in your faith. Speak for your ancestors and they will take care of you. They—like the Orisha—need us to be their vessels. If we don’t honor them, they’ll be lost forever. That’s why I don’t initiate non-Africans into the religion. I believe everyone should honor their respective ancestors, period. And I like to think that by turning away folks, I’m helping them to discover their true path.”

  “But if they’re called to the religion, does it matter that they’re white?” I ask, playing devil’s advocate and thinking of Chance and his true roots. “Maybe they have a little black in them we can’t see.”

  Mama carefully contemplates before answering my question. I turn onto Alondra Boulevard and head straight for Gunlock Avenue. It’s pretty much a straight shot from the botanica to Mama’s house.

  “You remember that book I used to read to you when you were a little girl, about the little chicken who went around looking for his mother? But the whole time his mother was preparing his dinner, and had the chicken been patient and waited she would’ve come right back?”

  “Yeah, I remember that one,” I say, reminiscing about our story time. Mama reading to me was my favorite part of our nightly routine when I was a child. “I loved that book.”

  “I know you did because it was relevant then, like it is now. White folks can look through as many doors as they want to, even voodoo and other traditional African religions. But no matter what they think, voodoo is not their mother.” Mama has a special way of making sense so that even a baby can understand. Noticing the novel Ms. Toni gave me on the floor next to her feet, she picks it up and reads the description on the back cover. She then tosses the borrowed text in the backseat, hissing her teeth. That can’t be a good sign. I was hoping she’d love the book like I do and want to read it together, maybe even form our own book club based on the women in our lineage. But I guess that won’t be happening anytime soon.

  “We also have to be careful about stereotyping ourselves within the caricatures of the religion given to us by people who misinterpret voodoo. We’re not mammies and this ain’t no magic show. And more often than not, any movie or novel that mentions voodoo does so from a horror, blood-and-guts perspective. And that’s not how we roll.” Mama always makes me laugh when she talks in slang like me and my friends.

  “I hear you, Mama, loud and clear.” We pull up to the dark house and notice no one’s home. Everyone else must be out for the night already. I back the car into the driveway, ready to unload the trunk and get on with our evening. It’s dark and the nightly chill is unwelcoming without a jacket to keep me warm.

  I’m surprised Mama didn’t complain about my driving. I’ll take her silence as a compliment.

  “Do you know how many times I read about misrepresentations of our lineage in some book and get vexed?” Mama asks, glancing at the book in the back before exiting the passenger’s side. “Maman Marie was not a witch, and that’s what most of these people out here think. It gets on my nerves and it hurts. But it also keeps me on my toes. If we don’t live her truth and the truth of other devotees, then who will?”

  I unload the objects from the trunk and follow Mama to the spirit room. I get her message loud and clear. I have to find another way to deal with Reid and his bull besides crippling him in public. I’ll take the rest of the weekend to think about how to do that and how to be successful with the ASU. Right now, I just want to finish my work and head to my mom’s. Monday will come soon enough.

  5

  Bunny Boilers

  “Don’t know how you do the voodoo that you do/

  But hell, this is swell.”

  —SALT-N-PEPA

  I successfully avoided talking to Rah for the entire weekend—a major feat. In order for me to get my work done, I had to take some time alone. That meant no girls or boys to distract me from my goals. And because I was so disciplined with my one day off from the outside world, I was able to work on my English paper, get some studying done for the rest of my classes, as well as record this past week’s experiences in my spirit journal. After all of my major tasks were out of the way, I snuck in some reading time for Voodoo Dreams before calling it a night.

  When I arrived on campus this morning and saw that ASB was already busy posting the flyers for Cultural Awareness Day, I felt a renewed sense of responsibility to our new club. I want to make sure the African Student Union starts out with a bang at the festival. I also want to make Mr. A and Ms. Toni are proud of me. Mama’s slightly disappointed in my choice of pleasure reading, but I’m actually learning a lot from this novel. Maybe Mr. Adewale and Ms. Toni would like to start a book club separate from what we’re doing in ASU, since Mama’s not feeling me. There are lessons to be gained from Ms. Toni’s bookshelf, whether or not she likes the packaging.

  The first two class periods were quite busy. And I spent the nutrition break doing research in the library, where I also ate a Snickers without anyone noticing. My sugar rush is in full effect, and I’m anxious to utilize my energy in debate class. Mr. Adewale’s got this morning’s topic on the board. Based on the words written in blue marker on the white board, I know today’s debate will be anything but friendly. I can already feel all eyes on me, and I’m ready for any hater who comes my way.

  “So should we all be one or two religions, like political parties?” Mr. Adewale asks, setting the debate off. I look around the quiet room waiting for someone to take the lead. No one’s speaking so I guess I’ll have to.

  “No, because my religion would go back into hiding like it was forced to do when my ancestors were captives in this country.” I shudder at the thought of not being able to practice voodoo as we now know it. Mama had to hide it under the cloak of Catholicism when she was a child, and then again when she got older, under the guise of being a first lady of the AME church. But now we’re free to just
be ourselves and damned proud of it, too.

  “Aren’t you Christian like the rest of us?” Alia asks, assuming something I never told her. Most people think that all black people belong to a Christian church, whatever the denomination. But not this black girl.

  “No, I am not a Christian. Never have been and never will be.” All eyes are now on me, the heathen in the room. The only proud eyes I see staring back at me are Mr. Adewale’s, Maggie’s, and Emilio’s. Jeremy looks bored with the conversation and puts his head down on his desk, ready for a quick nap. Since he’s a self-proclaimed atheist, I’m sure Jeremy finds this debate futile.

  “Then what religion are you?” Alia’s question hits me like a ton of bricks. Should I out myself right here, right now? There’s really no use in avoiding it any longer. Everyone up here knows I walk differently, and they all have their suspicions about me being a witch. But to actually claim my voodoo crown is another thing entirely.

  I look around at the thirty-plus faces staring at me, waiting for my reply. Will they understand the difference between a priestess and a witch, or brush it off like Jeremy did when I told him why I didn’t want to see the stupid Valentine’s Day movie he suggested? Even after Mama and Netta’s pep talk on Saturday, I still don’t know how to respond. Mama would wring my neck if she could see me now.

  “I don’t think so, lil miss,” my mom says. “She’d be proud of you for owning your crown, as long as you keep your mouth shut about the ins and outs of how our house works. But she’d never object to you claiming your heritage.” Without reservation, Mama said to be bold in my faith. Here goes nothing.

  “Thank you, Mom. I needed that,” I quickly think back, now ready to answer the question.

  “I practice traditional West African spirituality, also known as voodoo in the Americas and across the rest of the African diaspora.”

  “Oh,” Alia says, backing up from me a little bit. Everyone seems to have taken a deep breath at my confession. I feel like I’m on the witness stand and my classmates are the jury.

  “Across the what?” Del asks. He’s not the only one who looks confused.

  “The African diaspora,” I repeat, much to Mr. Adewale’s liking. He’s sitting back in his seat, enjoying the debate. “It’s the trail of blood that followed the slave ships from Africa.” The shocked expressions on most of the students’ faces tells me I’ve struck a chord.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Adewale,” a student from the main office says from outside of the open classroom door. “I need you to sign something.” The timid girl walks in and hands our teacher the paper.

  “I’ll be right back, class. Please continue the discussion.” Mr. Adewale looks at the letter and follows the girl out of the room. Whatever it says must be pretty private for him to leave his post at such a volatile point in the conversation.

  “Don’t y’all kill chickens and drink their blood?” Laura asks, now officially offending me. Apparently Emilio’s feeling me, too. Jeremy hasn’t stopped staring at me since my open admission of being a priestess shocked him awake. Although I hate being in the center of a negative spotlight, I’m glad the truth is finally out. Misty looks uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation and mentally checks out by reading the textbook. Misty can continue to live in fear if she wants to. Like Mama said, we don’t need to hide behind white gods anymore, and I’m ready to remove my veil, dead chickens and all.

  “No, we only do that to stupid white girls who ask dumb-ass questions,” I say, the anger apparent in my voice. Emilio smiles at me and knows that I just want to put the fear of God in this girl. She already knows how I get down, from firsthand experience.

  “Jayd, you really need to speak with someone about your anger issues,” Reid cautiously adds. From the dull look in his blue eyes, I can tell he’s still shook up from the mental ass-whipping I gave him last week. But little does he know I already have had counseling and it did no good. These people up here can still get a rise out of me because their ignorance of other cultures is so shocking. If it doesn’t look, walk, and talk like they do, they have no respect for it.

  “You know, in my village we raise our own food, vegetables, and livestock. It’s just a part of our daily lives. And it’s also a part of our religion. It seems that here in the United States most people are disconnected from their roots, and that is sad,” Emilio says, offering me his support from across the classroom, making Jeremy jealous.

  “Yes, and your people also boil rabbits and frogs and dogs and shit in your little third world country,” Laura says, eliciting laughter from her wicked crew. “But that’s not how we do it in the first world.” Emilio looks like he wants to slap the spit out of Laura’s mouth, but luckily Mr. Adewale walks back into the classroom just in time to cool our heated discussion.

  “Okay, so what did I miss?” Mr. A asks, obviously disturbed by whatever news he received from the main office. However, he’s excited that we’re debating without him. I don’t know why. Nothing productive is coming from this conversation at all.

  “You missed this girl calling my people bunny boilers and Jayd a chicken-blood drinker or something like that.” With Emilio’s thick Spanish accent, even the most offensive words now possess a sexy tone. “Where do you all get your information about traditional religions from? Is this the type of education I left Venezuela for?” Emilio’s right. The only thing he can learn at this school is how to be a racist, seriously.

  “Okay, let’s all calm down and take it from the top. The original topic of debate for the week, is how does learning about other cultures influence your worldview? And if the influence is positive or negative. Today’s specific topic is, should we have two official religions, or more, in the United States?” Mr. Adewale says, pointing to the newspaper article he’s holding up. “This is real, people.”

  “Like I said, I think other cultures can learn a great deal from us about how to behave in a modern society,” Laura says, sticking her narrow nose up in the air higher than the stick already up her ass. “And we can learn from others just how lucky and advanced we are.” Laura’s a bitch and then some.

  “Others should be so lucky that they can come here and mesh with us. We’re so giving,” Cameron says—the newest member of the bitch crew. Laura’s clone sounds just as clueless as the prototype.

  “Yeah, and everyone knows how primitive third world countries are. And the fact that we saved all of those other less fortunate people you’d think would earn us some respect. But all we ever hear in return is complaint after compliant.” Reid is really smelling himself today. Since my extra sight has been suppressed, maybe I should find another way to remind him of his recent lesson in humility. Seems he didn’t learn anything the first time around.

  “What is this idea of ‘others’ floating around this room?” Mr. Adewale asks, visually upset with that word. “Before I stepped outside, you were talking about all Americans melting into one citizen of the Untied States, Reid. What happened?” KJ and his crew are obviously tired—from a weekend of hardcore partying, I assume. It’s March Madness time and his basketball buddies at UCLA probably allowed him to hang with the big boys. Mr. A looks around the class but no one is saying a word.

  “I do believe that. But some people don’t want to give up their primitive ways to assimilate,” Reid says, looking directly at me. There’s that word again. Too bad I can’t use Maman’s powers, because if I could, he’d be squirming on the floor like a python by now.

  “There you go with that Borg talk. Give Star Trek a rest, please,” I say, taking Ms. Toni’s novel out and placing it on the desk in front of me so I don’t forget to return it at lunch. “Pick up a book for a change. I have an entire list of authors who would counter your thought process. They’ve dealt with your kind before.” I’m so sick of this debate I would walk out if it were any other teacher. But I know Mr. A must be going somewhere with this, so I’ll stick it out.

  “My kind?” Reid repeats. “You see that, right there. If I’d said so
mething like that I’d immediately be called a racist. But because I’m a white man and you’re a black woman, you’ll never wear that title.”

  “Damn skippy,” Nigel says, having my back while rubbing Mickey’s belly. She couldn’t care less about the conversation, but I’m glad someone does because the rest of the black folks up in this class are too quiet for me today. I know it’s Monday, but damn. These folk around here need to wake up in more ways than one.

  “I’m not talking about your kind from a racial point of view,” I say, pointing at Reid, who is sitting directly across from me. “I’m talking about your ignorant kind. And trust, ignorance crosses racial lines,” I say, eyeing KJ, Misty, and the rest of their silent crew. They look at me, knowing I’ve just busted them out. They know as little about African American history as any of the white students up in here. That much is evident from our first ASU meeting last week.

  “I hear that,” Emilio says. I’m glad he’s talkative about what he knows. It’s refreshing to hear his point of view and always lovely to watch him do his confident thang. Jeremy watches me watching our classmate, the jealousy rising in his now wide-awake eyes. What can I say? I like an intelligent man, and Jeremy’s not the only one walking around this campus who can hold his own on a variety of topics. I bet Emilio can even play chess as well as Jeremy, if not better. That would really piss Jeremy off.

  “You hear what? The sounds of dogs screaming when they see you coming?” Reid says, making his crew laugh. Before Mr. Adewale can defend him, Emilio catches the insult rebound and serves it back up court.