American Voudou: Journey Into a Hidden World by Rod Davis Page A
Authors: Rod Davis
Tags: Religión, General, Social Science, Ethnic Studies, Body; Mind & Spirit, test, African American Studies, Ethnic & Tribal
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her possessions, still wasn't repaired. It was a touchy subject, so I turned my attention to the radio.
A white fundamentalist talk show preacher was healing people on the air, spacing out the broadcast miracles with recorded hymns. Lorita didn't think white people, most of whom she believed to be Catholic, could pull off gospel music"they try, but it all sounds like, what is it, 'Old Rugged Cross'"but she listened to white shows anyway. The Lord was the Lord, church was church, and singing for Jesus was singing for Jesus.
Presently her temper cooled and she talked to a steady stream of clients on the phone for over an hour. About five, she asked me to give her and her family a ride home. We piled into my car just as the heavy air turned to raindrops so big I could barely see to drive. All the way home Lorita tried to remain cheerful, dispensing advice on curing Antoinée's cold with goose grease and honey.
It wasn't just the Caddy. It was everythingthe last three years. In some people this would be a mood; in Lorita it seemed more than that, some power, some bad thing always out there,
Page 43
Shelves of candles, herbs, and other religious supplies inside St. Lazarus
botanica. Candies, pop and other snacks, foreground, helped add to the
bottom line.
Room behind main counter in St. Lazarus botanica. In corner under blanket,
palo mayombe pot filled with bones, iron nails and bundles of wooden
branches. Machete wedged to one side. Next to palo pot, Igloo cooler hides
bucket of crabs to feed Elegba. In foreground, crates of live roosters and chicks.
Page 44
always to be fought, not always to be defeated. Since I'd last seen her, she'd changed churches, started a new business, fought with her Cuban santeria advisors. She'd nearly lost everything when a fire inflicted heavy smoke damage on the triplex, and the insurance wasn't paying off a black woman preacher of some weird inner city religion, and the truth was going thirty days at a time right now. Forget credit cards. And now the Caddy was being held hostage by the mechanic and the whiplash hurt and the lawsuit against the taxi that hit her was a nightmare and she hated physical therapy but wouldn't take pills because they were drugs and she didn't like drugs, which was why she was dressed up; she'd been to the clinic that day.
Just before we got to her house, Lorita asked me to stop at a Baskin-Robbins. She ordered a banana split, and that was dinner, as a small can of barbecue flavor Vienna sausages had been lunch. Before I left she asked me to come by the shop early the next morning. Gary had to work at his catering job and she would need help getting ready for three "urgent" clients. I promised to be there at eight.
<><><><><><><><><><><><>
I had barely said good morning when she told me to take down a bunch of bananas bound by a purple ribbon tacked to the ceiling just inside the door. They were an offering for Shango, to help draw money, but had gone sugary black in the heat. I pulled them down and tossed them into a black plastic garbage bag. The phone rang. Lorita told the caller she'd try to work her in. While we waited for the first client, she finished a long overdue chore, wiping smoke film from small vials of oils salvaged from the fire.
She was still peeved about the Caddy, her neck still was achy, and she was still nursing a grudge against me for telling her last week a CAT-scan of her neck wouldn't be so bad. I offered to
Page 45
run down to McDonald's to get us some coffee and sausage biscuits. By the time I returned she was puttering around in her readings office, and soon I heard her singing. I took in a biscuit, but she put it to one side. In that room of her own, where the powers of Jesus and her voudou spirits worked in harmony, Lorita found the real nourishment of her life. Sitting at her cloth-covered divining table, she hummed absent-mindedly as she arranged the few
A white fundamentalist talk show preacher was healing people on the air, spacing out the broadcast miracles with recorded hymns. Lorita didn't think white people, most of whom she believed to be Catholic, could pull off gospel music"they try, but it all sounds like, what is it, 'Old Rugged Cross'"but she listened to white shows anyway. The Lord was the Lord, church was church, and singing for Jesus was singing for Jesus.
Presently her temper cooled and she talked to a steady stream of clients on the phone for over an hour. About five, she asked me to give her and her family a ride home. We piled into my car just as the heavy air turned to raindrops so big I could barely see to drive. All the way home Lorita tried to remain cheerful, dispensing advice on curing Antoinée's cold with goose grease and honey.
It wasn't just the Caddy. It was everythingthe last three years. In some people this would be a mood; in Lorita it seemed more than that, some power, some bad thing always out there,
Page 43
Shelves of candles, herbs, and other religious supplies inside St. Lazarus
botanica. Candies, pop and other snacks, foreground, helped add to the
bottom line.
Room behind main counter in St. Lazarus botanica. In corner under blanket,
palo mayombe pot filled with bones, iron nails and bundles of wooden
branches. Machete wedged to one side. Next to palo pot, Igloo cooler hides
bucket of crabs to feed Elegba. In foreground, crates of live roosters and chicks.
Page 44
always to be fought, not always to be defeated. Since I'd last seen her, she'd changed churches, started a new business, fought with her Cuban santeria advisors. She'd nearly lost everything when a fire inflicted heavy smoke damage on the triplex, and the insurance wasn't paying off a black woman preacher of some weird inner city religion, and the truth was going thirty days at a time right now. Forget credit cards. And now the Caddy was being held hostage by the mechanic and the whiplash hurt and the lawsuit against the taxi that hit her was a nightmare and she hated physical therapy but wouldn't take pills because they were drugs and she didn't like drugs, which was why she was dressed up; she'd been to the clinic that day.
Just before we got to her house, Lorita asked me to stop at a Baskin-Robbins. She ordered a banana split, and that was dinner, as a small can of barbecue flavor Vienna sausages had been lunch. Before I left she asked me to come by the shop early the next morning. Gary had to work at his catering job and she would need help getting ready for three "urgent" clients. I promised to be there at eight.
<><><><><><><><><><><><>
I had barely said good morning when she told me to take down a bunch of bananas bound by a purple ribbon tacked to the ceiling just inside the door. They were an offering for Shango, to help draw money, but had gone sugary black in the heat. I pulled them down and tossed them into a black plastic garbage bag. The phone rang. Lorita told the caller she'd try to work her in. While we waited for the first client, she finished a long overdue chore, wiping smoke film from small vials of oils salvaged from the fire.
She was still peeved about the Caddy, her neck still was achy, and she was still nursing a grudge against me for telling her last week a CAT-scan of her neck wouldn't be so bad. I offered to
Page 45
run down to McDonald's to get us some coffee and sausage biscuits. By the time I returned she was puttering around in her readings office, and soon I heard her singing. I took in a biscuit, but she put it to one side. In that room of her own, where the powers of Jesus and her voudou spirits worked in harmony, Lorita found the real nourishment of her life. Sitting at her cloth-covered divining table, she hummed absent-mindedly as she arranged the few
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