hello, I am Haitian American and am pregnant. I want to connect more with my spiritual roots for the benefit of my baby and my aunt sent me to someone she said can help who is a Haitian midwife. There are some leaves she told me to buy in a botanica so she can make me protective baths, she gave me a list that had fay trumpet, bois kaka, orange dous, zaniman, mascreti, and some others that i can't read. Which are the best ones?
Hi there,
Folks who are pregnant need to be very careful with what leaves are used in baths. Some folks will even go so far as to say pregnant folks should not take spiritual baths with leaves or drink tea while pregnant out of an abundance of caution for the baby.
Some of those leaves listed are cause for concern and should never be used by folks who are pregnant and want to carry to term. Leaves like twompèt, bwa kaka, maskreti are purgatives that are used to clear out the body of ailments and could lead to spontaneous miscarriage. On the spiritual side, some of those leaves are used for protection but in a way that is grating and can make things stand up and fight. That is not an energy to introduce to the body while pregnant. I would have reservations working with someone who was prescribing those leaves to someone who has pregnant, but its always possible there was a miscommunication.
Leaves that are generally considered safe for EXTERNAL USE ONLY during pregnancy for a spiritual bath are cool and sweet leaves like bazilik, zoranj dous, and chadèk.
Leaves that are purgatives are sometimes used after pregnancy to help close the body and uterus, but folks should always check with a medical doctor first, particularly if you are breastfeeding.
For protection, you can and should engage with your ancestors and lwa. Children are considered a huge blessing in Haitian Vodou and the lwa and ancestors are deeply invested in their safety. Working with a reputable houngan or manbo to discern where exactly to turn can be helpful, and maybe checking in with your aunt about family lwa and practices.
Praying for an unremarkable pregnancy and healthy baby for you. May the lwa bless and your child with good health, prosperity, and happiness always!
Yes, but with a HUGE caveat: children can be possessed by the lwa, but possession of children is never sought, i.e. no one is going to be trying to put a lwa in the head of a 5 year old or similar. In general, children are considered too small and fragile for the process of calling down the lwa on their head and it would be considered unnecessarily careless to do so.
However, the lwa often show up organically in children on their own, for any variety of reasons. If you sit with the granmoun and ask about it, most families have a story.
For example, my husband has a cousin who, at about 7 months old, was in a bassinet while a ceremony was happening, pulled themselves to their feet, and had a couple words pop out of their mouth that a baby of that age wouldn't say on their own. It was recognized that Gede was visiting in the head of the baby. We experienced similar with our kiddo, ranging from a lwa passing through her head to her father's head or my head to a lwa coming down in an adult head and saying things like 'Remember kiddo was screaming a few minutes ago? That was me, why didn't you greet me?'.
Spontaneous possession of children usually calms down early in life, but children in ceremonies sometimes will get possessed organically. There are plenty of videos out there of it; a lot of it is around Gede, which makes a lot of sense, or a lwa bitasyon. That is sometimes a reason children will not be allowed to remain present in ceremonies. I've seen plenty of children snatched up by their caregivers and taken outside when it looks like the lwa are getting closer than their caregivers are comfortable with.
Teenagers are still considered children, but not as fragile as true children so folks don't get as worried.
If dried herbs don't expire, do the baths themselves expire or last a long time? Under what condition should they be in? Can we refrigerate, or perhaps even freeze and later defrost baths?
Hi,
It depends on the bath. Baths can last a very long time; I have bottles of baths made years ago that are still good and that can be used as needed. A lot is based on scent and condition of the bath itself. Some baths are made for specific situations and should only be used for that as a remedy or treatment.
In general, I don't recommend freezing baths, as that is contrary to the purposes of using a spiritual bath; baths change conditions or situations or provide treatments, freezing things kind of removes that.
The person who is preparing your baths should be able to tell you how to use it, if some can be reserved or if all of it should be used at once, and how to tell if it is no longer good!
Re: your post about who benefits from someone being a priest in name only by being untrained. What kind of timeline for initiation do you think is reasonable? How much time before someone is initiated to asogwe?
Hi,
This is probably a more complex question than you intended, which is okay! There's a lot of framing to consider.
There is no specific timeline to elevate someone to asogwe, and there is a lot behind why.
The pathway that has developed outside of Haiti re: initiation of you've gone to a fete (maybe), gotten a reading, received some sort of contract about initiation, and now you'll be in Haiti in a few months is something that has really become kind of malignant and (potentially deliberately) unhelpful. The idea that an asogwe initiation should be taken up by a beginner or someone who is otherwise unprepared to hold a spiritual title that is defined by the ability to build, lead, and teach community is setting up folks for failure and is more of a curse than a blessing.
The traditional framework for initiation in the asson lineage has three different placements:
Hounsi kanzo: this is someone who has passed the djevo, emerged, and is baptized. They are not a priest, but assist with ceremonies and, in many cases, end up being the most knowledgeable folks in the temple. All initiates that pass the djevo can be called hounsi kanzo, but this also indicates this specific type of initiation. A hounsi has hands-in with the work of the temple; they assist with preparation for ceremonies, spiritual work, and are actively learning.
Houngan/manbo sou pwen: this is a priest that can work for folks on their own with some limitations; they cannot confer the asson/initiate others and need the support and oversight of asogweman for specific things. This is a position of continued learning where knowledge can and should be transmitted; there is very limited knowledge that a sou pwen cannot know and they can and should be functioning priests in community who have hands-in the work that is happening.
Houngan/manbo asogwe: this is a priest who has full license to do all work within the religion, and in particular initiating others. They have the ability and knowledge to build and hold a temple of their own, perform initiations, and build, teach, and maintain community. An asogweman is made for community and has responsibilities to community,. Initiation to asogwe indicates (or should indicate) the pinnacle of learning and training, in that they have committed time and effort to learn and demonstrate that knowledge in real time.
This framework does not embrace the Western idea of initiation as the beginning of learning. It says that there has been learning and capacity to learn prior to stepping into the temple, and the initiation endorses that and endorses connection and relationship to community.
I was taught that the traditional cycle of initiation was unnecessary, and that initiation immediately to asogwe is most helpful in that it reduces financial contribution and amount of times folks need to go to Haiti, which is a WILD reason to want to put people directly to asogwe. I believed that because I trusted what I was being told. The process of learning and working next to traditional practitioners has informed me differently. With more information, more experience, and more exposure, I think initiating someone to asogwe without even minimum familiarity with community, language, culture, and basic knowledge of the lwa, nevermind already being able to function as a practitioner, is an extreme disservice, actively hurts folks, and has no discernable positive outcome for the initiate or the community. The only person benefiting in that kind of situation is the person taking the fee for the initiation.
When I left where I was initiated and started speaking with elders to understand what I had experienced and where my deficits were, I was met with a LOT of questioning about my abilities before I entered the djevo as a way to indicate exactly how unprepared I was. Did I know how to remove a fever from a child? Could I assist someone who had an illness the doctors in the hospital were not able to treat effectively? Did I know how to treat someone who had walked through bad magic? Could I go to the crossroads and make a pact with Kafou? If a client had X issue, what bath would I prescribe? Could I sing for the lwa? Could I dance?
While not exhaustive, these questions pointed to knowledge that is considered beginning or foundational. This is stuff uninitiated folks know, so why would someone who doesn't know those things be entering the djevo to be lifted as the class of priest who is said to embody all of the foundational knowledge, and more? Why would someone who has not spent extensive time in Haiti and with Haitians learning and doing the work be lifted to take the title that Haitians hold as the pinnacle? What does that say about the regard held for individuals, for community-at-large, and for our spiritual elders?
Please note: I am not saying that people that went through this way--direct initiation to Asogwe--are bad, at fault, etc. Instead, I am saying we deserve more care, development, and discernment. Our communities and lwa do, too.
One elder said something that hit me as very profound when I asked what the benefit was of putting someone to asogwe very quickly. It comes across as quite harsh in Kreyòl for an English speaker, but roughly to putting someone in the djevo who is stupid (not a negative connotation, but more a position in life) re: the lwa and Vodou only means they come out more stupid. This was right alongside asking the rhetorical question of why would someone who didn't have the basics be given the secrets of Haiti (literally)?
All of this kinda blew my hair back, but I can very much see how it applies, both in my experience and the experiences of others I have observed. Someone not having an understanding of even the basics is not benefited by being given a license that communicates a pretty specific knowledge base because it only amplifies the lack of knowledge and makes it more profound. Being given a title that you can't back up isn't a blessing. In many ways, it puts your feet in cement.
A recurring theme in conversations with folks who were put through the djevo in this manner (direct, without prior initiation) has been about why the community-at-large appears to treat them in a particular way or why they don't seem to be treated the way other priests are or are even laughed at, and, after this extended period of learning and conversation, I can say it's because these other folks can see that they were initiated without the courtesy of any sort of learning and that there is a gap in knowledge. When you have the knowledge, it's easy to see. That was a very painful revelation because it put a lot of things in perspective.
So, what does that mean about the pathway to/through the djevo?
I assume that folks don't want a title just to have it. Instead, I operate under the assumption that people want to learn, want to grow, want to be a part of community, and want to develop relationships with both lwa and people. If folks don't, there are plenty of people who will take your money, bring you to Haiti, and then drop you back at the airport with some govi, an asson, and some photocopies of a notebook and call it complete.
I want more than that for people, because I want folks to grow spiritually and develop into their best selves. There is a reason for tradition, and I want folks to engage with that with their full selves because it is this tradition that advances us; tradition is not a means to limit or hold back, but to provide the way forward.
Generally, when folks want to learn what it is to be a priest in Haitian Vodou, they initiate to sou pwen and stay there for quite awhile if not forever. A lot of the folks I talked to say a minimum of seven years as sou pwen, but that varies; it can be more or it can be less. It's not a checklist, but is an organic way of development. The person is learning spiritual work, learning how to build and/or deepen relationships with lwa, being part of community, and, for folks who are not Haitian or did not grow up exposed to Vodou, learning the culture of Haiti and Vodou, which are inseperable parts of each other.
Part of the work of sou pwen is discernment. On the side of the priest, it is discerning around community (though much of that should have been done ahead of sou pwen) and initiator, and discernment with the lwa around if they are where they need to be, if this is the right place for them, and if the lwa are asking for more work and commitment via a return to the djevo for elevation to asogwe. On the side of the initiator, it is continuing discernment around the development of the person, if they are able to learn what is being taught and if they want to, and, if the lwa are asking for further elevation, they can be trusted with the secrets that asogweman hold, because the price for passing those secrets to someone who betrays them is HIGH.
Sometimes the discernment on both sides is the same, sometimes the discernment ends up going in different directions. There's not particular way that is better than the other; some people will stay at sou pwen and do great work there, some folks will need to move to asogwe, some folks will want asogwe and where they are says no or not yet and they choose to go elsewhere, some folks will have their initiator say 'hmm, I think it's time' and they may or may not agree, some will have the lwa say yes or no and may not be thrilled either way. All outcomes are possible, and none are better than the other. The bad outcomes are when someone moves too fast and/or before they are ready, when someone is placed where they don't need to be, or when the outcome is the result of a rote process that unfolds the same way for everyone.
S (my husband who has been an houngan for more than 30 years) and I have talked a lot about this in regards to our lakou, what we offer, and how we partner with folks. Both of us stand very heavily on the side of wanting to teach people and develop them prior to entrance into the djevo. We want to make functioning priests who can walk out of the djevo with their heads held high and be able to walk into any ceremony and put their hands in the work confidently. We want decisions to be mutual between us, the lwa, and the individual who is choosing us, and we want it to be clear what it means to place someone in the djevo and what responsibilities are before and after.
So, we don't hold to a particular timeline, but really focus on relationship and the individual person; we would rather walk with you for years than you to go into the djevo only to come out and stand in ceremonies without the ability or knowledge to do things. I would rather have a lakou full of people who are growing with their lwa and supporting each other in community and an empty djevo than I would a bank account full of money from folks I put in the djevo and never see again. We serve the lwa for love of the lwa, and not to have a revolving door in our temple.
So, tl:dr: timelines are largely non-existent. There is some traditional stuff around how long people learn, but is is individual, reflexive, and rooted in relationship, versus rooted in $$$. Traditional processes protect culture, community, and individuals, and growth happens at an organic rate.
This is long and probably more than you asked for, but please feel free to ask more questions if needed!
hi, i asked you about the ancestor veneration and you mentioned i may see some lwas that my family may have dealt with.
would it be crazy for me to be scared of that lol cause my moms side did leave that environment and are Christian now, wouldn’t the lwas be mad at me?
Hi,
Why would the lwa hold you accountable in a pejorative way for the decisions your elders made? You are the child and the child cannot be responsible for what the parent has done. It's possible that they could hold you accountable via reclamation to returning to the lineage and family spiritual practices, but the lwa are not cruel.
I have never seen the lwa angry with someone returning to the spiritual practices of their ancestors. If they did get angry at someone returning, would anyone return?
The lwa also understand our complexities better than we do. We often imagine their responses echo what our responses would be to a particular situation, and they just do not behave in that way. They see longer and broader than we do, and our concerns about cruelty are often a reflection of how we have seen people respond or how we have responded to similar situations in the past.
Be brave and reach out for your ancestors, because, at minimum, some of them will be reaching for you. Remain open to what blessings may come because of it and the road will unfold before you.
Hello! I'm currently practicing witchcraft but I am also Haitian Creole. I wanted to get into learning about and potentially joining the voudou practice. Do I have to be initiated in? Or am I able to start practicing because it's natural for me to do so by blood? Both of my parents are Haitian and I do know my fathers side practices slightly but I'm not in full contact with them.
Hi,
Starting with your family is both the easiest and most powerful place to begin; if you can speak to the family members who still serve the lwa, they can tell you about family-specific practices which will not be the same as anywhere else.
Initiation is not a requirement for Vodou or necessary for participation for all folks, but community and connection to others is. It is in your blood, but how would you know what to do without guidance? This is the same for everyone, Haitian or not; Vodou cannot be learned or practiced in a solitary vacuum. Vodou is a culture of interdependence. We need each other, and folks who need knowledge need to learn from folks who have it.
A leson/reading can also be helpful and point you in the direction(s) of the lwa that may be present, and can be done in conjunction with communication with your family or as a substitute, if they are unavailable. You can also always start with your ancestors; light a white candle and put out fresh water and talk to them. Ask them to put your feet on the best path for you and to bring you into alignment with them.
Hoping this helps, please feel free to reach out if it feels necessary!
Before there was the lakou and the family within it, there were trees and leaves and earth. The mountain was green and teeming with it's own life; birds and bugs and snakes and mice and all other manner of beasts, big and small, called the shaded groves and towering trees home. The green canopy sheltered the rich, black earth and in return the earth was full of roots and shoots that promised more shade when the elder trees gave their final breath.
Where there was stillness up on the mountain, revolution had begun to rage in plains and the valley. Buildings and fields burned and those who had not yet been considered people fought and then fled. Some fled further west towards the great arm of the island. Some fled east towards larger forests where they would be difficult to pursue. Others fled into the humid canopy of the mountains where colonizers in wool uniforms carrying heavy guns were reticent to go.
These mountains were not strangers to sheltering those with a thirst to live without chains. When the colonizers arrived, those who loved the island first saw what guns and greed did and ran into the jungle and up to the peaks and plateaus where they could not be reached. They watched what happened below, and so did the land that would become the lakou.
At some point, in the midst of change happening at the points of machetes and bayonets, a trajectory below aligned with a trajectory above. A free man of color, the child of a French colonizer and an enslaved African woman, and his partner, an enslaved woman of African descent, knew that it was only a matter of time until their relationship was discovered and both would feel consequences, the severity of which did not need to be made explicit to either of them. They made a plan to meet after the early Caribbean night fell and to flee towards the rainforest-covered mountains. They knew others who had fled, but to where they were unsure so they were to head into night and up the mountain with no map and no sure destination.
And so they did.
Did the land that would become the lakou know that they were coming? Was it waiting for them and taking the deep breaths that forests take when alone? Did it know that it would not just be two but generations of a family that would be birthed there and then stretch out into the world? Or, was it surprised when those two ancestors arrived that night, not so long before the sun rose on what would be a new beginning for both the land that was now the lakou and the two ancestors who dreamed it into existence?
To get to the lakou now is a battle. If you can find a moto with gas and a driver who isn't scared, you can putter up to the top of the mountain slowly and then descend to home on foot. If not, you can climb up the side, over roots and fallen trees and rocks and yards long emptied of their families, until you reach the clearing and the cross and the open sky above. If you're up for the physical exertion, it's three or four hours up the side. If you're not...well, the sun comes up early and sets late.
The family is still there, though not in force as it would have been when Haiti became Haiti and the colonizers were removed by sea or by blood. Family has left the lakou to descend to other, newer family land closer to the town nearby or to the big cities of Haiti and beyond, out into the world that still fears the revolution that birthed the island. When you ask the family in the lakou now about what happened then, the stories flow and meander through a history of a family that has grown hand-in-hand with the land that received their ancestors so well. Stories move, too, when family members show you the important places in the lakou; the remains of the first kay lwa, built up several generations before and then swallowed by the lakou bit-by-bit, the bees in natural hives who are used to determine the health of the family and difficulties to come, and the cross.
The cross is old and weathered and out of the way, yet is in the middle of every path. The rocks are spotted with the spent wax of hundreds of candles lit over the years. The cross doesn't have the answer of what year the family came, but beneath it are those two ancestors who first fled and made a space that they lived out their lives in, followed by generations of descendants whose feet pressed that same earth. Family history is not complete without the stories of the family and of the spirits who live there, and those stories come easily by the cross, with the ancestors sleeping beneath your feet yet listening to every word.
When the ancestors arrived, the lakou was wild. It still is to those used to the more settled areas of Haiti, but then it was a wall of trees and green. The family cut that back little by little, first to create space for a small wooden house with a dirt floor and then to create a place to plant seeds for food and a place to have a fire to cook and space for the babies to roll around and be children.
As the lakou took shape and the family grew, someone heard a voice.
This wasn't shocking or out of place for the family; after all, there were many voices that spoke without the benefit of a mouth. There were the family members who had passed already who came back sometimes in dreams to speak, or sometimes with the mouth of a family member who got the look now and then. Sitting by the cooking fire, someone would go still for a moment and if someone were watching them, they would see the look pass through their eyes. Something would change and then a voice would come. Maybe they would talk about an illness someone had that the medsen fèy was having problems treating or maybe they would ask for a bit of bread and coffee.
Sometimes the voices were bigger and bolder. If the family sang the right songs and someone clapped out the right beat, the air would get heavy and then a cousin or a sibling or a grandmother would yell and lean into the fire, sometimes dragging themselves into the flames while other family members tried to hold them back. They wouldn't burn, of course, and then another voice would speak and the family would know Ogou had come to admonish them or the gad kay la was there to warn against treachery to come in the community. Voices were part of the fabric of life.
This was a new voice, though, and it spoke quietly. Someone heard it while tending the yard and sweeping in front of a particular tree.
This is my tree, the voice said.
Okay, said the sweeper. This is your tree. When they swept or children played, the family would relate to each other that this tree was for the voice who had spoken. Life continued and the tree belonged to the voice.
Not too long after the family had learned that this tree belonged to that particular voice, someone heard the voice again.
Put a cup here for me, the voice said, and the person who heard found themselves looking at a spot between two big roots. Put a cup here for me and make sure it is a big cup. Don't put it where it can get covered up, though, but put it here.
Okay, said the person who heard. We will get you a big cup.
Someone found a big cup; maybe it was already in the lakou and used for boiling leaves to make tea, or maybe someone descended the mountain to the weekly market and found a big enameled cup. The family gathered by the tree and the person who had heard the voice placed it between the roots where it could always be seen. They waited.
After a moment, the air changed and the voice spoke again, this time from an uncle who had sat down heavily on a root.
Thank you, said the voice coming from the uncle and looked down at the hands of its host, taking in the hands that had cleared trees and built gardens. Sometimes, I would like coffee in my cup but I only want it bitter and strong, just like me.
Okay, said the family. When we drink coffee, you will drink coffee, too.
Good, said the voice sitting on the root. But only coffee; I don't want anything else in my cup, because it is my cup.
We understand, the family agreed. Only coffee.
Yes, said the voice, rubbing their hands together. If you need me, you can take my cup and roast the coffee beans in it over the fire before you make the coffee. I'll come and help.
Okay, said the assembled family. But, if we can ask, what should we call you?
The voice looked at his hands and looked at his cup. You can call me Gwo Godye.
The family lived in happy balance. Life could be hard up the mountain, but life was abundant there and they had each other, as well as their ancestors, lwa, and, of course, Gwo Godye. They would call him when there was sickness that was having trouble leaving the lakou, and he would come when the smell of the kafe griye was strong. He would walk into the forest and come back with his hands full of leaves, and would rub the sick with them from head to foot or foot to head, and they would get better.
When there wasn't a lot of food, Gwo Godye would come and then disappear into the woods or down the mountain and return with malanga or potatoes or fish from the ocean and the family would eat. Gwo Godye would watch from his seat under his pyebwa, and he would sip his coffee from his cup before he left his chwal. Thank you, he would say after he drank a few swallows. You remembered me.
The lakou had a lot of space and when a friend arrived at the lakou with his family in tow and asked if they could stay there for awhile after losing their home, the family didn't hesitate. Of course they could, because there was space and because why should anyone struggle when there was a place to shelter?
So, this other family came to stay. The lakou members showed them everything, from where they harvested honey to the kay lwa and the trees where the family tended their spirits. They told the visitors about Gwo Godye and his cup, and the visitors took it all in and nodded their understanding. They didn't serves spirits, but they understood that the lakou was filled with them.
Life continued, until one night when the family and their friends were in their respective houses and almost in bed. There was a shout in the lakou that tore the darkness and te fè kè yo sote/made their hearts jump. The family poured into the yard, save for the sleeping children and babies.
They found the uncle who Gwo Godye favored as his chwal doubled over and rocking back and forth while sobbing. Tonton, a family member said while standing close to him, what's wrong?
The uncle ignored her and his body shook, and it was then the family saw Gwo Godye's cup overturned, between the uncle's feet. My cup, Gwo Godye keened. I told you all that I only wanted coffee in it.
We've only put coffee in it, said the family member. Only coffee, and bitter just like you said. Other family members chimed in, too, and repeated that there had only been coffee and usually on Saturdays, but always coffee or coffee beans.
No, no, no, Gwo Godye insisted, weeping. They didn't respect my cup, he said, and jutted his chin at the house of the family that had come to stay at the bitasyon, who were now all peering into the darkness from their doorway. You let them stay here and they put leaves and water in my cup today. Why didn't you listen?
But we did, cried members of the family. We told them it was your cup and told them not to touch it.
You all let people stay here who don't respect me, Gwo Godye said mournfully, his gaze fixed on his overturned cup. You all wanted them here more than me.
Again the family insisted this was not true, and several of them turned and walked towards the house of the long-staying guests to the bitasyon who had by now slid back into darkness and let redo cover the doorway once again.
You don't want me here.
The granmoun in the lakou knew what was happening, and one fell to her knees. Don't go, she said in the shaky voice of someone who had seen many things come and go.
Gwo Godye shook his head and clutched his arms to himself, still rocking back and forth. I can't stay here anymore.
The family raised their voices all at once, pleading with Gwo Godye and directing explanations to each other. Promises were offered of evicting the guest-family and of a new cup that would be guarded by the family to make sure it always was Gwo Godye's and only held coffee. The spirit sighed, shook his head, and rose to his feet.
I won't come back.
With nothing left to stay, Gwo Godye in the body of the uncle walked past the family and into the deep jungle darkness of the trees. The family stood silently and looked to where he had disappeared and then looked at each other. Someone picked up the cup that was tèt anba and placed it back in the roots of the tree. It had suddenly rusted where the enamel had cracked and flaked off. The family knew why.
The next day came and when the hot sun was high in the sky and sweat beaded on the brows of the family tending the garden, the uncle's son went down the mountain to look for his father. The uncle had not returned and worry spread through the family. Gwo Godye had gone, but where was he going and where was the uncle? The granmoun who had fallen to her aged knees peeled beans and worried to herself, knowing that displeased spirits sometimes did unmentionable things. The children laughed and poked at each other with sticks and had the blessing of not understanding the seriousness of a lwa bitasyon departing the family.
The uncle's son returned just as the sun started to descend and the light began thin. He was alone and had no news of his father. He had gone through the town below asking his father's friends if they had seen him and stopping amongst the vendors of the mache, extracting promises that, if the uncle was seen, they would send someone up the mountain to tell them. So far, no one had seen his father.
Late in the night long after the babies and the granmoun were asleep and the mothers and fathers sat in the corners of their homes speaking by candlelight, there was a crashing in the lakou and they all hurried outside, huddling together for the feeling of safety under the light of a pale moon. Was it one of the cows from the lakou not so far away, having broken its halter and, afraid like all cows when presented with something unfamiliar, running full tilt trying to get home? Or, was it a lougawou intent on tearing through the lakou? Nothing good came in the night this far up the mountain.
The bushes shook and there was a tearing of the lyann mòl that covered the tree claimed by another lwa bitasyon. Suddenly, as if spit out by the mouth of the mountain itself, the uncle was dumped unceremoniously in the dirt, arms askew and shirt torn in several places. His son and wife rushed forward and pulled him to his feet, asking rapid fire questions and calling for a chair for him to sit down in. One of the younger boys came running from behind the tree with a chair on his shoulder, and the uncle sat down heavily with his head in his hands. An almost-empty gallon of kleren was produced and offered to the uncle to brace him, and he took a long swallow before wiping the back of his hand across his mouth.
What happened, asked his wife.
He shook his head, wiped his mouth again, and told the gathered family that he had woken up on the ground beside a kafou while the sun was still up. He didn't recognize the area he was in, so he followed the sun until he found a roadside vendor selling lam and banan and mango and asked where he was.
M te sezi, wi, he said, rubbing his hands over his head. He was almost in Lasous, just over a 5 hour walk from the lakou. He had wanted to take a moto to get him back closer to the lakou to where he could walk up the mountain but when he check his pockets, they were empty. Gwo Godye had taken what little money his chwal had with him, so he walked and he walked and he scaled the mountain in the dark.
Life returned to a rhythm, albeit a bit different than before. The guest-family was unceremoniously removed from the lakou. They had protested, but several of the older men made clear they were no longer welcome and, if they chose not to leave, they would find their belongings, their roof, and even themselves tossed down the mountain like refuse. They went.
Coffee was still made for Gwo Godye, though, in the hopes that he was only angry and could be lured back. The beans were toasted over a fire in a new cup and strong, bitter coffee left under the tree, but the voice and the presence that had sustained them for so long didn't speak again. Disa, another lwa bitasyon, visited and would shake his head when the family asked after Gwo Godye. Gone, he would say. Gone, gone, gone.
Months later, after the memory of the night Gwo Godye departed had softened, another voice was heard. One of the young girls was supervising the babies playing under the tree in the waning light and she heard a voice. She stood stock-still and listened, knowing already that when a voice spoke without a mouth, it was important. The voice spoke quietly and told her to fetch the adults, and she tore herself away from the tree and ran for the house.
Mama, mama, mama, she shrieked while almost crashing into her mother, who was pulling the day's laundry from the bushes where it had been drying.
Her mother looked her up and down. What is it, pitit mwen, she asked, casting a critical eye on the girl's dress, dirty from preventing the babies from crawling into the underbrush.
The tree, the little girl said breathlessly. I heard it. It said to bring you and Gran and Ti Lou and Pushon and Junior and everyone. Her mother, remembering the last time a voice spoke near the tree, paled and threw the laundry back onto the bush before turning and heading towards her mother's house.
Soon all the family was assembled at the tree, and they waited again like they had before. The silence was longer this time, and one of the cousins sucked his teeth and insisted that the young girl had told a story to get out of watching the babies. He was elbowed in his ribs and told to fèmen djòl li, because the memory of the voice that had gone was very much alive.
After a time, the cousin who had been insisting the girl was lying jerked and sat down heavily on the ground before rolling down onto his side, eyes closed to the remaining light. The family stared and soon enough he opened his eyes and coughed. His brother went to help his sit up, but he slapped his hands away and pushed himself up to sit, looking at the assembled family with eyes they did not recognize.
What should we bring you, said Gran, seated in chair with a baby in her lap.
The voice in the cousin coughed again and frowned, looking at the ground in front of him. If you bring me something, will it be mine or will you let them disrespect me like they disrespected my brother?
No, Gran said. Whatever we bring you will be yours and your only. They have gone and they won't be back.
The voice nodded slowly and looked at the little girl and then the others one by one before lifting his hand to point at the roots of the tree where Gwo Godye's cup was slowly being overtaken by leaves and rust.
Put my cup there, he said, by my brother's. But, he lifted his finger and then pointed at the assembled family one-by-one. If you put anything in it besides my coffee I won't leave, but all of you will. He folded his arms over his chest and stared at them.
Gran nodded slowly. What should we call you, mon konpè?
The voice looked at the tree, then to the cross in the lakou, and then looked back at them. I am called Ti Godye.
--
More than 150 years later, I am sitting in our lwa room on a hot and humid August night, looking at Ti Godye splayed on the floor.
My husband S had gone to Haiti for almost a month to work in his various bitasyon to do work necessary for our future stability. It was the worst possible timing for the trip; money was tight, kiddo was almost 6 months old and feeling her (baby) oats, I was dealing with the bystander trauma of watching my spiritual community turn inside out in the aftermath of the death of a sibling, Haiti was as chaotic as had become the norm, and it was Hot As Fuck in the city. Me and the kiddo hid in the air conditioning and went for walks when the sun went down, and S called us regularly to get video call baby snuggles and to update me, show me around the various bitasyon, and introduce me to family members who cooed at the baby and were generally shocked that I could speak with them in Kreyòl.
Before he flew back to Boston, S had called me and asked for me to have a few items ready for him at the door so those were prepped when we arrived back from the airport. I say 'we', but it was me with the kiddo in her stroller and a then-unknown spirit in my husband's head, pushing suitcases. As we had gone around the side of our building to use the ramp to enter, I had glanced back at S to make sure he was okay with the multiple suitcases and had the luck to catch the change in his eyes. Not all spirits come with a lot of bluster, particularly when not in ceremony and when they are spirits of the family.
So, we entered our apartment, me with the baby and this spirit pushing suitcases filled with leaves and remedies and everything we usually bring back from Haiti. I pushed the baby out of the way into the kitchen, and gave this spirit the bouji and the water and the siwo, so they could appropriately enter our household.
They made their way to the lwa room and I freed the baby from her stroller and followed, to find this spirit seated on the floor, looking into the lamp I had kept lit the entire time S had been out of the country. He introduced himself and he was not Ti Godye, but another lwa bitasyon who had made the long, long journey from his land up a mountain in rural Haiti to our apartment in Boston.
We talked a long time, about things that had recently happened and things that were going to happen, and he bounced the baby on his knee. She took one look at her papa who was not quite her papa in that moment (or, at least, a different papa) and burst into tears. Babies and young children know things and see things that we cannot. He handed her back to me with a laugh, and told me that this was the first time he had ever left his bitasyon. I asked S later how long he had been with the family, and he counted the generations on his fingers. Longer than memory could remember.
He eventually told me was going to go, but someone else was coming. He said the name and I missed it while the kiddo attempted to crawl over my shoulder. S's body flopped to the floor, eyes closed as if he had gone to sleep.
After a moment, S's body curled onto it's side and turned it's head to look at me with one eye open, arms tucked into his armpits. There was a cough and whomever was coming to visit batted away my offered hand and sat up on their own.
We sat in silence while this spirit examined our lwa room, peering at my table and my husband's table and then twisting around to look at Gede. They turned to look at me, and asked if I knew who they were.
I did not, and I told them so. They told me to put the baby down and let her crawl around, and I did. Then, they held out their hand.
Ti Godye m ye, he said, and offered me one hand and then the other to shake. He asked me if I knew where he was from, and I named the bitasyon that I remembered seeing pictures of, his cup next to Gwo Godye's ruined cup under his tree. I had hoped I had remembered correctly, and I did.
He peppered me with questions, asking why I didn't have anything for him, why I didn't let the baby crawl wherever she wanted, and if I knew how far he had walked to be here. I didn't have anything for him because I didn't know he was coming, and he told me what to prepare for him for when he comes (black coffee and some traditional snacks). I didn't want the baby putting things she shouldn't in her mouth and he told me to let her play because they (the lwa) wouldn't let her get hurt on their domain. I did know he had walked a long time to come here, as the 'road' from the bitasyon to the bigger road was only the width of a moto tire. He had never left his bitasyon before, too.
We talked and talked, and, while eyeing the baby rolling around on the floor, Ti Godye told me how much he didn't like children.
They make too much noise when they play under my tree, he said, and they don't drink coffee. He told me of work S and I needed to do now that S was back, and told me about difficulties that were coming and how to deal with them.
After awhile, the baby yelled a bit and Ti Godye snapped his fingers at me. She's hungry, he said. Give me her bottle.
I gave him the baby's bottle and he snatched her up like granmoun always grab children who are flailing in their own discontent. The lwa who does not like children settled her across his lap and stuck the bottle in her mouth, rocking her back and forth until she fell asleep.
Before there was the lakou and the family within it, there were trees and leaves and earth. The mountain was green and teeming with it's own life; birds and bugs and snakes and mice and all other manner of beasts, big and small, called the shaded groves and towering trees home. The green canopy sheltered the rich, black earth and in return the earth was full of roots and shoots that promised more shade when the elder trees gave their final breath.
Where there was stillness up on the mountain, revolution had begun to rage in plains and the valley. Buildings and fields burned and those who had not yet been considered people fought and then fled. Some fled further west towards the great arm of the island. Some fled east towards larger forests where they would be difficult to pursue. Others fled into the humid canopy of the mountains where colonizers in wool uniforms carrying heavy guns were reticent to go.
These mountains were not strangers to sheltering those with a thirst to live without chains. When the colonizers arrived, those who loved the island first saw what guns and greed did and ran into the jungle and up to the peaks and plateaus where they could not be reached. They watched what happened below, and so did the land that would become the lakou.
At some point, in the midst of change happening at the points of machetes and bayonets, a trajectory below aligned with a trajectory above. A free man of color, the child of a French colonizer and an enslaved African woman, and his partner, an enslaved woman of African descent, knew that it was only a matter of time until their relationship was discovered and both would feel consequences, the severity of which did not need to be made explicit to either of them. They made a plan to meet after the early Caribbean night fell and to flee towards the rainforest-covered mountains. They knew others who had fled, but to where they were unsure so they were to head into night and up the mountain with no map and no sure destination.
And so they did.
Did the land that would become the lakou know that they were coming? Was it waiting for them and taking the deep breaths that forests take when alone? Did it know that it would not just be two but generations of a family that would be birthed there and then stretch out into the world? Or, was it surprised when those two ancestors arrived that night, not so long before the sun rose on what would be a new beginning for both the land that was now the lakou and the two ancestors who dreamed it into existence?
To get to the lakou now is a battle. If you can find a moto with gas and a driver who isn't scared, you can putter up to the top of the mountain slowly and then descend to home on foot. If not, you can climb up the side, over roots and fallen trees and rocks and yards long emptied of their families, until you reach the clearing and the cross and the open sky above. If you're up for the physical exertion, it's three or four hours up the side. If you're not...well, the sun comes up early and sets late.
The family is still there, though not in force as it would have been when Haiti became Haiti and the colonizers were removed by sea or by blood. Family has left the lakou to descend to other, newer family land closer to the town nearby or to the big cities of Haiti and beyond, out into the world that still fears the revolution that birthed the island. When you ask the family in the lakou now about what happened then, the stories flow and meander through a history of a family that has grown hand-in-hand with the land that received their ancestors so well. Stories move, too, when family members show you the important places in the lakou; the remains of the first kay lwa, built up several generations before and then swallowed by the lakou bit-by-bit, the bees in natural hives who are used to determine the health of the family and difficulties to come, and the cross.
The cross is old and weathered and out of the way, yet is in the middle of every path. The rocks are spotted with the spent wax of hundreds of candles lit over the years. The cross doesn't have the answer of what year the family came, but beneath it are those two ancestors who first fled and made a space that they lived out their lives in, followed by generations of descendants whose feet pressed that same earth. Family history is not complete without the stories of the family and of the spirits who live there, and those stories come easily by the cross, with the ancestors sleeping beneath your feet yet listening to every word.
When the ancestors arrived, the lakou was wild. It still is to those used to the more settled areas of Haiti, but then it was a wall of trees and green. The family cut that back little by little, first to create space for a small wooden house with a dirt floor and then to create a place to plant seeds for food and a place to have a fire to cook and space for the babies to roll around and be children.
As the lakou took shape and the family grew, someone heard a voice.
This wasn't shocking or out of place for the family; after all, there were many voices that spoke without the benefit of a mouth. There were the family members who had passed already who came back sometimes in dreams to speak, or sometimes with the mouth of a family member who got the look now and then. Sitting by the cooking fire, someone would go still for a moment and if someone were watching them, they would see the look pass through their eyes. Something would change and then a voice would come. Maybe they would talk about an illness someone had that the medsen fèy was having problems treating or maybe they would ask for a bit of bread and coffee.
Sometimes the voices were bigger and bolder. If the family sang the right songs and someone clapped out the right beat, the air would get heavy and then a cousin or a sibling or a grandmother would yell and lean into the fire, sometimes dragging themselves into the flames while other family members tried to hold them back. They wouldn't burn, of course, and then another voice would speak and the family would know Ogou had come to admonish them or the gad kay la was there to warn against treachery to come in the community. Voices were part of the fabric of life.
This was a new voice, though, and it spoke quietly. Someone heard it while tending the yard and sweeping in front of a particular tree.
This is my tree, the voice said.
Okay, said the sweeper. This is your tree. When they swept or children played, the family would relate to each other that this tree was for the voice who had spoken. Life continued and the tree belonged to the voice.
Not too long after the family had learned that this tree belonged to that particular voice, someone heard the voice again.
Put a cup here for me, the voice said, and the person who heard found themselves looking at a spot between two big roots. Put a cup here for me and make sure it is a big cup. Don't put it where it can get covered up, though, but put it here.
Okay, said the person who heard. We will get you a big cup.
Someone found a big cup; maybe it was already in the lakou and used for boiling leaves to make tea, or maybe someone descended the mountain to the weekly market and found a big enameled cup. The family gathered by the tree and the person who had heard the voice placed it between the roots where it could always be seen. They waited.
After a moment, the air changed and the voice spoke again, this time from an uncle who had sat down heavily on a root.
Thank you, said the voice coming from the uncle and looked down at the hands of its host, taking in the hands that had cleared trees and built gardens. Sometimes, I would like coffee in my cup but I only want it bitter and strong, just like me.
Okay, said the family. When we drink coffee, you will drink coffee, too.
Good, said the voice sitting on the root. But only coffee; I don't want anything else in my cup, because it is my cup.
We understand, the family agreed. Only coffee.
Yes, said the voice, rubbing their hands together. If you need me, you can take my cup and roast the coffee beans in it over the fire before you make the coffee. I'll come and help.
Okay, said the assembled family. But, if we can ask, what should we call you?
The voice looked at his hands and looked at his cup. You can call me Gwo Godye.
The family lived in happy balance. Life could be hard up the mountain, but life was abundant there and they had each other, as well as their ancestors, lwa, and, of course, Gwo Godye. They would call him when there was sickness that was having trouble leaving the lakou, and he would come when the smell of the kafe griye was strong. He would walk into the forest and come back with his hands full of leaves, and would rub the sick with them from head to foot or foot to head, and they would get better.
When there wasn't a lot of food, Gwo Godye would come and then disappear into the woods or down the mountain and return with malanga or potatoes or fish from the ocean and the family would eat. Gwo Godye would watch from his seat under his pyebwa, and he would sip his coffee from his cup before he left his chwal. Thank you, he would say after he drank a few swallows. You remembered me.
The lakou had a lot of space and when a friend arrived at the lakou with his family in tow and asked if they could stay there for awhile after losing their home, the family didn't hesitate. Of course they could, because there was space and because why should anyone struggle when there was a place to shelter?
So, this other family came to stay. The lakou members showed them everything, from where they harvested honey to the kay lwa and the trees where the family tended their spirits. They told the visitors about Gwo Godye and his cup, and the visitors took it all in and nodded their understanding. They didn't serves spirits, but they understood that the lakou was filled with them.
Life continued, until one night when the family and their friends were in their respective houses and almost in bed. There was a shout in the lakou that tore the darkness and te fè kè yo sote/made their hearts jump. The family poured into the yard, save for the sleeping children and babies.
They found the uncle who Gwo Godye favored as his chwal doubled over and rocking back and forth while sobbing. Tonton, a family member said while standing close to him, what's wrong?
The uncle ignored her and his body shook, and it was then the family saw Gwo Godye's cup overturned, between the uncle's feet. My cup, Gwo Godye keened. I told you all that I only wanted coffee in it.
We've only put coffee in it, said the family member. Only coffee, and bitter just like you said. Other family members chimed in, too, and repeated that there had only been coffee and usually on Saturdays, but always coffee or coffee beans.
No, no, no, Gwo Godye insisted, weeping. They didn't respect my cup, he said, and jutted his chin at the house of the family that had come to stay at the bitasyon, who were now all peering into the darkness from their doorway. You let them stay here and they put leaves and water in my cup today. Why didn't you listen?
But we did, cried members of the family. We told them it was your cup and told them not to touch it.
You all let people stay here who don't respect me, Gwo Godye said mournfully, his gaze fixed on his overturned cup. You all wanted them here more than me.
Again the family insisted this was not true, and several of them turned and walked towards the house of the long-staying guests to the bitasyon who had by now slid back into darkness and let redo cover the doorway once again.
You don't want me here.
The granmoun in the lakou knew what was happening, and one fell to her knees. Don't go, she said in the shaky voice of someone who had seen many things come and go.
Gwo Godye shook his head and clutched his arms to himself, still rocking back and forth. I can't stay here anymore.
The family raised their voices all at once, pleading with Gwo Godye and directing explanations to each other. Promises were offered of evicting the guest-family and of a new cup that would be guarded by the family to make sure it always was Gwo Godye's and only held coffee. The spirit sighed, shook his head, and rose to his feet.
I won't come back.
With nothing left to stay, Gwo Godye in the body of the uncle walked past the family and into the deep jungle darkness of the trees. The family stood silently and looked to where he had disappeared and then looked at each other. Someone picked up the cup that was tèt anba and placed it back in the roots of the tree. It had suddenly rusted where the enamel had cracked and flaked off. The family knew why.
The next day came and when the hot sun was high in the sky and sweat beaded on the brows of the family tending the garden, the uncle's son went down the mountain to look for his father. The uncle had not returned and worry spread through the family. Gwo Godye had gone, but where was he going and where was the uncle? The granmoun who had fallen to her aged knees peeled beans and worried to herself, knowing that displeased spirits sometimes did unmentionable things. The children laughed and poked at each other with sticks and had the blessing of not understanding the seriousness of a lwa bitasyon departing the family.
The uncle's son returned just as the sun started to descend and the light began thin. He was alone and had no news of his father. He had gone through the town below asking his father's friends if they had seen him and stopping amongst the vendors of the mache, extracting promises that, if the uncle was seen, they would send someone up the mountain to tell them. So far, no one had seen his father.
Late in the night long after the babies and the granmoun were asleep and the mothers and fathers sat in the corners of their homes speaking by candlelight, there was a crashing in the lakou and they all hurried outside, huddling together for the feeling of safety under the light of a pale moon. Was it one of the cows from the lakou not so far away, having broken its halter and, afraid like all cows when presented with something unfamiliar, running full tilt trying to get home? Or, was it a lougawou intent on tearing through the lakou? Nothing good came in the night this far up the mountain.
The bushes shook and there was a tearing of the lyann mòl that covered the tree claimed by another lwa bitasyon. Suddenly, as if spit out by the mouth of the mountain itself, the uncle was dumped unceremoniously in the dirt, arms askew and shirt torn in several places. His son and wife rushed forward and pulled him to his feet, asking rapid fire questions and calling for a chair for him to sit down in. One of the younger boys came running from behind the tree with a chair on his shoulder, and the uncle sat down heavily with his head in his hands. An almost-empty gallon of kleren was produced and offered to the uncle to brace him, and he took a long swallow before wiping the back of his hand across his mouth.
What happened, asked his wife.
He shook his head, wiped his mouth again, and told the gathered family that he had woken up on the ground beside a kafou while the sun was still up. He didn't recognize the area he was in, so he followed the sun until he found a roadside vendor selling lam and banan and mango and asked where he was.
M te sezi, wi, he said, rubbing his hands over his head. He was almost in Lasous, just over a 5 hour walk from the lakou. He had wanted to take a moto to get him back closer to the lakou to where he could walk up the mountain but when he check his pockets, they were empty. Gwo Godye had taken what little money his chwal had with him, so he walked and he walked and he scaled the mountain in the dark.
Life returned to a rhythm, albeit a bit different than before. The guest-family was unceremoniously removed from the lakou. They had protested, but several of the older men made clear they were no longer welcome and, if they chose not to leave, they would find their belongings, their roof, and even themselves tossed down the mountain like refuse. They went.
Coffee was still made for Gwo Godye, though, in the hopes that he was only angry and could be lured back. The beans were toasted over a fire in a new cup and strong, bitter coffee left under the tree, but the voice and the presence that had sustained them for so long didn't speak again. Kwisa, another lwa bitasyon, visited and would shake his head when the family asked after Gwo Godye. Gone, he would say. Gone, gone, gone.
Months later, after the memory of the night Gwo Godye departed had softened, another voice was heard. One of the young girls was supervising the babies playing under the tree in the waning light and she heard a voice. She stood stock-still and listened, knowing already that when a voice spoke without a mouth, it was important. The voice spoke quietly and told her to fetch the adults, and she tore herself away from the tree and ran for the house.
Mama, mama, mama, she shrieked while almost crashing into her mother, who was pulling the day's laundry from the bushes where it had been drying.
Her mother looked her up and down. What is it, pitit mwen, she asked, casting a critical eye on the girl's dress, dirty from preventing the babies from crawling into the underbrush.
The tree, the little girl said breathlessly. I heard it. It said to bring you and Gran and Ti Lou and Pushon and Junior and everyone. Her mother, remembering the last time a voice spoke near the tree, paled and threw the laundry back onto the bush before turning and heading towards her mother's house.
Soon all the family was assembled at the tree, and they waited again like they had before. The silence was longer this time, and one of the cousins sucked his teeth and insisted that the young girl had told a story to get out of watching the babies. He was elbowed in his ribs and told to fèmen djòl li, because the memory of the voice that had gone was very much alive.
After a time, the cousin who had been insisting the girl was lying jerked and sat down heavily on the ground before rolling down onto his side, eyes closed to the remaining light. The family stared and soon enough he opened his eyes and coughed. His brother went to help his sit up, but he slapped his hands away and pushed himself up to sit, looking at the assembled family with eyes they did not recognize.
What should we bring you, said Gran, seated in chair with a baby in her lap.
The voice in the cousin coughed again and frowned, looking at the ground in front of him. If you bring me something, will it be mine or will you let them disrespect me like they disrespected my brother?
No, Gran said. Whatever we bring you will be yours and your only. They have gone and they won't be back.
The voice nodded slowly and looked at the little girl and then the others one by one before lifting his hand to point at the roots of the tree where Gwo Godye's cup was slowly being overtaken by leaves and rust.
Put my cup there, he said, by my brother's. But, he lifted his finger and then pointed at the assembled family one-by-one. If you put anything in it besides my coffee I won't leave, but all of you will. He folded his arms over his chest and stared at them.
Gran nodded slowly. What should we call you, mon konpè?
The voice looked at the tree, then to the cross in the lakou, and then looked back at them. I am called Ti Godye.
--
More than 150 years later, I am sitting in our lwa room on a hot and humid August night, looking at Ti Godye splayed on the floor.
My husband S had gone to Haiti for almost a month to work in his various bitasyon to do work necessary for our future stability. It was the worst possible timing for the trip; money was tight, kiddo was almost 6 months old and feeling her (baby) oats, I was dealing with the bystander trauma of watching my spiritual community turn inside out in the aftermath of the death of a sibling, Haiti was as chaotic as had become the norm, and it was Hot As Fuck in the city. Me and the kiddo hid in the air conditioning and went for walks when the sun went down, and S called us regularly to get video call baby snuggles and to update me, show me around the various bitasyon, and introduce me to family members who cooed at the baby and were generally shocked that I could speak with them in Kreyòl.
Before he flew back to Boston, S had called me and asked for me to have a few items ready for him at the door so those were prepped when we arrived back from the airport. I say 'we', but it was me with the kiddo in her stroller and a then-unknown spirit in my husband's head, pushing suitcases. As we had gone around the side of our building to use the ramp to enter, I had glanced back at S to make sure he was okay with the multiple suitcases and had the luck to catch the change in his eyes. Not all spirits come with a lot of bluster, particularly when not in ceremony and when they are spirits of the family.
So, we entered our apartment, me with the baby and this spirit pushing suitcases filled with leaves and remedies and everything we usually bring back from Haiti. I pushed the baby out of the way into the kitchen, and gave this spirit the bouji and the water and the siwo, so they could appropriately enter our household.
They made their way to the lwa room and I freed the baby from her stroller and followed, to find this spirit seated on the floor, looking into the lamp I had kept lit the entire time S had been out of the country. He introduced himself and he was not Ti Godye, but another lwa bitasyon who had made the long, long journey from his land up a mountain in rural Haiti to our apartment in Boston.
We talked a long time, about things that had recently happened and things that were going to happen, and he bounced the baby on his knee. She took one look at her papa who was not quite her papa in that moment (or, at least, a different papa) and burst into tears. Babies and young children know things and see things that we cannot. He handed her back to me with a laugh, and told me that this was the first time he had ever left his bitasyon. I asked S later how long he had been with the family, and he counted the generations on his fingers. Longer than memory could remember.
He eventually told me was going to go, but someone else was coming. He said the name and I missed it while the kiddo attempted to crawl over my shoulder. S's body flopped to the floor, eyes closed as if he had gone to sleep.
After a moment, S's body curled onto it's side and turned it's head to look at me with one eye open, arms tucked into his armpits. There was a cough and whomever was coming to visit batted away my offered hand and sat up on their own.
We sat in silence while this spirit examined our lwa room, peering at my table and my husband's table and then twisting around to look at Gede. They turned to look at me, and asked if I knew who they were.
I did not, and I told them so. They told me to put the baby down and let her crawl around, and I did. Then, they held out their hand.
Ti Godye m ye, he said, and offered me one hand and then the other to shake. He asked me if I knew where he was from, and I named the bitasyon that I remembered seeing pictures of, his cup next to Gwo Godye's ruined cup under his tree. I had hoped I had remembered correctly, and I did.
He peppered me with questions, asking why I didn't have anything for him, why I didn't let the baby crawl wherever she wanted, and if I knew how far he had walked to be here. I didn't have anything for him because I didn't know he was coming, and he told me what to prepare for him for when he comes (black coffee and some traditional snacks). I didn't want the baby putting things she shouldn't in her mouth and he told me to let her play because they (the lwa) wouldn't let her get hurt on their domain. I did know he had walked a long time to come here, as the 'road' from the bitasyon to the bigger road was only the width of a moto tire. He had never left his bitasyon before, too.
We talked and talked, and, while eyeing the baby rolling around on the floor, Ti Godye told me how much he didn't like children.
They make too much noise when they play under my tree, he said, and they don't drink coffee. He told me of work S and I needed to do now that S was back, and told me about difficulties that were coming and how to deal with them.
After awhile, the baby yelled a bit and Ti Godye snapped his fingers at me. She's hungry, he said. Give me her bottle.
I gave him the baby's bottle and he snatched her up like granmoun always grab children who are flailing in their own discontent. The lwa who does not like children settled her across his lap and stuck the bottle in her mouth, rocking her back and forth until she fell asleep.
I'm curious about something you mentioned briefly awhile ago about how possession happens kind of randomly in every day living. I was under the impression that there were conditions that need to be met for the lwa to come, like saluting them and singing and drums, and that they don't really come without those conditions in place and that you can't predict what person they will come down on. Are these things not true? Why?
Hi,
This is a good question that requires some framing to answer!
One of the big differences in how Vodou is conceived of inside and outside of Haitian culture and community is the place Vodou has in day-to-day life. Outside of Haiti, many of us are most familiar with a spiritual practice that takes place in kind of a compartentalized way: we go somewhere once or maybe twice a week and participate in a service, and then we go home. Maybe, if we are super adherent, we pray at home with our families or hit up some midweek events at our particular somewhere. We largely view holy figures (whether they are a god or saints or whatever) as outside of us and something that we go to, versus something that comes to or with us.
Vodou is different. Vodou is a cultural religion that is very much entwined with daily life in Haiti and in Haitian communities to the point that trying to remove what is Vodou would leave holes in every day life. The lwa are like that, too; they are deeply entwined in daily life because they are literal ancestors (in some cases; many stories, all have the possibility of being true) and have a deep investment in the lakou and the family unit.
They show up all the time, for any number of reasons. Maybe someone is sick or otherwise suffering. Maybe it's someone's birthday and they are getting a bath applied to them. Maybe there is a disagreement among household members. Maybe there are some things that need to be communicated in a face-to-face manner. Maybe they just come by to chat, even at inopportune times like 3AM. They want the best for folks, so they invest and are present with us.
Ceremonies are certainly part of the life of Vodou but it's almost that they are the break from normalcy. Many lakou do not do regular public ceremonies that folks from outside Haiti are used to; sometimes there is a yearly obligation that needs to be met and there is a single dance or a single weekend of ceremonies done. Sometimes it only happens every few years or when the lwa specifically ask.
Otherwise, life happens with the lwa. They come and eat or drink coffee and hand out advice or tasks or directions for whatever. They are valued family members, spouses, close friends, and life goes along with them. They will also come in different manners than they do during fets.
Saluting and singing and drums are great and good things to offer the lwa, but if the presence of a lwa is needed, they're not absolutely necessary. Whole ceremonies can happen without drums, whether the community doesn't have a drummer or can't pay one or whatever. Sometimes folks clap their hands, sometimes the songs are just sung with voices only, or sometimes it's the asson or the tchatcha or just the kloch that calls them in.
There is a fine line with how possession can be assigned or predicted. When there is a fet kay, it's usually expected that the lwa of the lakou will arrive in the heads of the mèt/metrès kay and special preparations, like clothes made to fit those folks, are made. When someone is seeking to speak with a lwa and is working with a manbo/houngan/sèvitè, that lwa can be called into the head of that manbo/houngan/sèvitè to speak with the individual and do any needed work. In ceremonies when the presence of a particular lwa is wanted or needed, someone who is known to be easily and/or frequently possessed by that lwa is often asked to salute that spirit. Houngans/manbos asogwe have (or should have...) the knowledge and skill to call lwa into heads during ceremony or for work as needed.
The lwa can of course refuse to come but a talented priest can often negotiate that to a mutually satisfying outcome. The red flags around possession aren't really things to be discussed publicly, but folks with eyes opened to see will know what they are looking at, good or bad.
All of this is something that took me quite awhile to understand because it isn't something that gets communicated a lot of the time, I think, and often gets put to the side for folks who aren't Haitian, with the assumption there isn't interest or capacity to understand. I started getting remedial lessons from the lwa (so to speak) before our kiddo made her entrance into the world and things have grown exponentially from there with my own understanding and practice.
Hoping this helps; please feel free to ping me with more on this if needed.
hello! i’m hatian creole with my grandfather being from new orleans along with my mother and my uncles and aunt. i don’t believe they fully let voodoo into their lives other than doing things they believed to work/having superstitions (sweeping people and salt out the door, not wearing outside clothes on the bed because your inviting things to where you sleep, etc)
i’ve been told that someone else on my moms side apparently practiced but she never knew her to really confirm that for me
however, i want to connect with them and start practicing louisiana voodoo, though i’m aware you practice vodou.
i wanted to ask if there was anything in particular i could do to connect with them, if you’re actually able to conjure things for yourself (my research unfortunately wouldn’t give me a straight answer), and is the worship of one god only specific to vodou and not voodoo
Hi,
So, a few things:
There's a lot that goes on down in New Orleans, and what is presented as 'Louisiana voodoo' is very different from the real deal Louisiana traditional stuff passed among families in various parts of the state. If your family is from the area and has been there awhile, it's likely that what they did is more on the traditional side than what is publicly available.
That being said, if you have Haitian ancestry, the lwa of Haiti are literally in your blood and it's much easier to get in contact with what you know for sure is there. As I am sure you know, enslaved Haitians were brought to the Louisiana area and free gens de couleur fled as the island moved towards revolution and revolution took root.
There is no African derived religion where folks act totally alone; these cultural systems of relating to the sacred always bring us back to community in some way. Learning spiritual work within these systems requires relationship with an elder or a teacher that can show someone the appropriate ropes and keep you from blowing yourself up or writing spiritual checks that your butt can't cash.
Likewise, being relationship-based, your abilities are often very tied to the relationships you have with spirits as vodouizan don't do spiritual work just with their hands. The lwa are intimately involved in directing and powering the work,
So, long answer short: no, nothing is done alone. For folks who want to focus on magic itself, there are dozens of easily accessible systems of magic that don't require the same kinds of commitments or carry the same risks that African derived systems do.
To contact your ancestors, you can light a white candle and place it in a space for them, with some fresh water. You can talk to them and call them by name (if you know names), and listen in response. If you haven't done ancestor work before or for awhile, it can take time and effort to learn to listen so give yourself grace. Ask them what they want for you and what they have for you, and be open to the response!
You can also get a reading with a priest to check in with the lwa and hear what they and your ancestors have to say. I do those readings; feel free to reach out if you're interested.
What's the name of the pwason dish that is served to Rada lwas like Freda, Agwe, etc.? Any tips about making other such red snapper dishes? And any tips about trying to get banan peze nice, thin, and crispy rather than being a lil' too thick?
Hi,
It's called pwason gwo sèl, and it's a simmered or stewed whole red snapper in sauce. It's not salty or anything; the gwo sèl refers to the large grained sea salt usually used in cleaning the fish.
Getting the fish as fresh as you can or frozen, since frozen fish are often flash frozen at sea when caught, is key; if you are buying fresh, they should have clear eyes and not smell really fishy. Where I am, they are sold already cleaned (guts/gills/etc removed and usually fins clipped), but cleaning after that is important--remove the scales, clip the fins if not done, and make deep cuts on each side so it cooks evenly and doesn't curl up too much, and then clean with sour orange and salt. If you haven't cleaned fish or meat the Haitian way, check out recipe videos on YouTube. Fish cleaned the Haitian way has a different taste to it than uncleaned fish!
For good banan peze, you cut up your peeled banan into chunks (you'll get a feel for the correct size over time) and fry those chunks in oil you have heated up. When they are softened, you remove them from the oil and press them into the flat shape. A tostone press is helpful to get an even thickness but you can use a glass or whatever to press them to the thickness you like. Some folks like them a little thicker, and some folks like them thin and pretty crisp.
After you press them, you pass them through salted water and then back into the oil to fry again, which helps get them extra crispy. 'Pass them through salted water' means different things for different folks; sometimes it's a quick dip, sometimes folks will plop all their pressed banan in the water and then put them into the oil again one by one. Be careful putting them back in, water going into hot oil will make it pop and spit.
Do the lwa take any head or only particular heads? Is possession taught or is it something innate? I'm most familiar with Orisha traditions, is it like there are only particular people who have the ability and the status to hold lwa in their head or are initiated to be able to be possessed? Can anyone mount any lwa? In Wicca traditions there are grades of possession, is that found in Vodu?
I've got a few questions about possession hanging out and some of them are a bit easier or at least less complicated to answer!
The lwa can take any head they like, but they tend to stick to folks who are familiar to them. They don't stick only to people who are initiated, but it is extremely unlikely for them to take the heads of visitors who don't have a relationship or are taking the first steps towards the lwa (a common question). If/when they do take the heads of folks who don't have a broader connection with the lwa, it is often to deliver a message about that particular person or person's family; in Haiti it is quite common that the lwa arrive on the heads of folks who the lwa really want attention from but who may not be invested in that yet.
Possession can be innate, in that someone does not have to do a lot of work to make that happen and/or are born with the ability (sometimes referred to as a sèvitè/houngan/manbo ne or reklame, or it is something that someone can be instructed in or assisted in understanding the mechanisms of.
No, there isn't a special status assigned to folks who can mount lwa in their head. In general, it's kind of like someone is a tool and the lwa seek out the best tool for what they want to do in the moment (during a ceremony). No one is initiated specifically to be able to mount lwa in their head, but part of initiation can be dealing with issues someone may have with possession, whether it is not happening fully or the lwa are having issues seating properly.
I think it's worth mentioning that I think the ideas about possession being a special thing or communicating a special status stem from ideas born outside of Haiti. Sometimes the exposure people have to possession outside of Haiti are from other Diasporic religions like Orisha traditions that may have more regulations around possession or that have a special status for folks who mount Orisha in their heads, like Candomble. Folks with experience in things like Wicca may only be used to a head priest aspecting or drawing down a deity, so these conclusions are natural when folks are coming from those understandings.
A lot of vodouizan avoid possession like it's the plague. It's not a comfortable or gentle process to have lwa take over your consciousness and body, and can be kind of scary if you're not used to it. And, you often 'wake up' having had your body collapse to the ground, sticky with rum, and/or with a whole lot of people staring at you. There's also what happens when you aren't in your head; it's not a fun time when the lwa say or do things that may not be popular using your mouth/body. I've watched people get up and leave the temple when salutes for spirits that they know come in their heads easily are begun because they want no part of it.
The mark of true or 'clean' possession in Vodou is the consciousness of the chwal not being present; Vodou does not include things like aspecting or partial possesion as appropriate. What makes you yourself is pushed out of the way for the lwa to fill that place, and if you aren't out of that place, it's considered that you are still in some kind of control. This is not usual, in that being able to be open to having that happen can be a fight for folks not used to the process. The lwa being unable to seat fully can indicate spiritual issues that may need to be addressed, but it's also inexperience. If folks can see or believe that someone may not be fully possessed but is acting as if, it can have social consequences, particularly if someone is acting as if, and spiritual consequences. There's been a video circulating of a houngan who purported to be possessed by Gede, and his whole body becomes engulfed in flames, which is an indicator that the lwa is not present. That's a consequence, albeit a rather severe one.
If someone is struggling with the lwa passing their head (pase lwa or kriz lwa) and not staying, not seating well or fully, or the lwa arrives in such a way that they cannot be hosted in the space, there are things done in the moment to dismiss that struggle so that the person can not be caught up in that struggle without the skill to deal with it on their own.
I will say that some of what folks consider possession, like feeling like the lwa are speaking through you or assisting your actions, are a common state of being for a priest, in all honesty. That is a lot of what traditional divination is and some of the ways divination is described in Kreyòl indicates this state of the lwa being partially manifested (for lack of a better english description). That is not considered possession, though.
I hope this answers your questions, please feel free to ask more if this is not getting at all of what you were wondering.
What does your day to day schedule for the week look like as an houngan? Do you rest on Sunday, say the Priye Ginen every morning with libations followed by singing to the lwas, do you sing for the whole Rada nasyon on Thursday, do you simply say the Priye Ginen and then pray, or what does your schedule look like day to day with Mondays, Petwo Tuesdays, Nago Wednesdays, Rada Thursdays, etc.? Or do you start with Papa Legba, then go straight into singing and praying to a specific lwa of the day?
Hi,
Things are much more laidback, for myself and for many of the houngans/manbos I know! We assign the lwa days, but the lwa don't only speak on those days or can only be approached on those days. Any of the lwa can be spoken to at any time if there is a need. Days associated with particular lwa also vary; different lakou do different things.
I don't sing the priye ginen on a regular basis. While it certainly can be sung on the regular, it's a big(ger) prayer often reserved for particular work or ceremonies. There are lamps that 'ask' for prayers on a daily basis which I might sing it for, or I might sing pieces of it just because I want to...I walk around humming songs that pop into my head.
I am absolutely not a morning person, but if I have work like lamps going I check in on that and do any maintenance necessary. My lwa would love it if I poured water and kleren for them in the mornings, but I am usually pushing to get to work before people start eyeing the clock.
In the evenings, I look at what work I have going again and do whatever is needed to maintenance that. If I am going to sit down at my table to chat with my lwa, it happens at night (for regular chats, if I have a sudden need, I sit down whenever). This is usually when I pour our water and kleren or rum.
My relationships with the lwa are as partners (with my husbands), bosses, and family members (with the inherent understanding that they are bigger than me), so that is how I approach them for prayers. I sometimes will start my prayers with actual prayers (3 Hail Marys, 3 Our Fathers, and an Oh My Jesus or whatever else feels right are a good place to start, if you like those things), but often for me, prayers are sitting down and talking with them about what is going on, what I need, what I want, questions I have, and whatever else is on my mind. I want them close to me and enmeshed in my life, so I sit with them with that in mind. Someone once said the best way to start and end prayers is with 'thank you'; sometimes I remember that and sometimes I don't!
I don't start with Legba unless he is indicating he would like attention of some sort in particular, though he is always able to listen in to what I say as are they all. Ceremony is different, though, and Legba is always tended to after Ountò/Gran Chemin/Avadra etc.
I don't usually formally sit down every day, often because I am either running around busy or am just flat out tired. Talking to my lwa isn't limited to my table, though; going to the table is like going to their hangout, but honestly my best 'conversations' happen while I am on the train/bus, making art, in the shower etc. Over the years, I have learned what is my internal voice and what is their collective voice, and it jives with my desire to have them enmeshed in my life. We are not limited to formality.
Sundays are days that I do a lot of client work; I usually have readings and consultations happening, or am tying paket or some other type of work. Some folks take that day as a day off (kind of), but in a lot of lakous Sundays are a great day for Rada work. Lots of folks will go to church, too, and then get to lwa work later.
Mondays, I usually tend my ancestors. If Legba is asking for something, this is the day I would do that work. Marassa, too.
Tuesdays, I will tend Petwo lwa if needed.
Wednesdays and Thursdays are the days set aside for my lwa husbands, and I make an effort to sit down on those days and spend time with them.
Fridays are the day I usually spend time with Gede and sometimes Kouzen.
Saturday is the day I usually catch up on things and tend all the lwa, especially if I haven't had time to sit down during the week. Saturdays are also the most common day for ceremonies, particularly in the US since most folks are off work. Otherwise, they are a day off for me.
In general, I have tried to cultivate my relationships with my lwa as close and comfortable, versus holding them at arm's length. Formality doesn't work for me because it feels like I hold them at arm's length, but your mileage may vary, of course. I also think it's important to create relationships that are maintainable and that fit within the flow of our lives.
I am creole on both sides of my family, over a hundred years in New Orleans. My family were catholic and didn’t invite voodoo into their lives. Now as an adult I’m searching for family where I’ve had none. I don’t know where to start but I want to feel connected to my ancestors. I may not have blood family but I know there must be someone who cares for me, watching over me. I’m tearing up writing this but I would be extremely grateful to know if I could please know them. On your page it says you do readings, I would love to know if I’m cursed, if they don’t know or care for me, or if I must atone for bad things my bloodline has done.
Hi there,
Regardless of your past or present relationships with family, your ancestors are still there and there will always be ancestors that care for you. There is also always the opportunity to connect with them; sometimes it's easy and sometimes it's harder but the opportunity is always there. Find a space within your space and give them cool water and a white candle, and sit down and talk with them. Tell them about you and your life and your successes and struggles. They want to hear from you, even if it doesn't feel like that and even if they are challenging.
Go easy on the ideas about atoning; while we are our ancestors descendants regardless of whether they were great people or fell short, our doing better than they did is our primary responsibility, versus beating ourselves up on the regular.
You don't need a reading to be able to speak with and learn who your ancestors are. At the same time, it can be helpful to have a reading open the door when you aren't sure which direction to go in and get some clarity and jumping off points.
I'm sorry that this process of awakening is painful, but there are ways to move forward that are ultimately a relief and take the sting away. Hang in there, and I'm happy to chat more if that would be helpful.
Seeing how the drummers have their own initiatory processes, do the ougenikon have their own unique initiations for blessing their voice or something like that? Or is it a sou pwen who just happens to be really skilled at singing, and so might be designated to be in charge of the melodies?
Great question!
An oungenikon/adjenikon (same position, sometimes referred to as one or the other) is a sou pwen initiation, which brings its own blessings, but there is not a particular lwa who oversees singers like there is for drummers, and thus no particular secrets, langaj, etc given in particular. They are trained in chante lwa from another adjenikon or talented singer, and know what songs to sing when, like to address what is happening in the temple or with the spirit present or how to sing the spirit down into someone's head or bid them adieu. A good adjenikon works very closely with the drummers and knows how to direct them as well.
Like drumming, it isn't necessary to go through ceremony to lead singing for the lwa but many of the folks who do sing are houngans and manbos who know the flow and structure of the ceremony and how to sing to keep it moving. In general, singing is the responsibility of all the hounsi of the lakou as well as folks attending...we all have a part in the songs.
In many lakou, the responsibility of an adjenikon and an ountogi are also to train their replacements, if they are entering the djevo again to make asogwe or something else is taking them away from their duties, so that there is always someone to assist.
Does haitian Vodoun have an initiation for drummers like Lukumi does for aña and are the drums sacred themselves?
Hi,
Yes, there is a specific initiation for drummers in asson lineages and I've heard various bits about things for drummers in non-asson lakous.
In an asson lineages, someone who passes through the djevo specifically for the drums is called an ountogi, and they are made as an sou pwen priest. If possible, a battery of drums is consecrated at the same time; in many lakou, those drums kouche in the djevo as well and are baptized and sometimes named in ways similar to how priests are.
It is not required to be an ountogi to drum for ceremonies and I would say that the majority of drummers that I know are not ountogi, but have spent a lot of time learning and playing in ceremonies. Ountogi are taught the secrets of Ountò (sometimes written Hountor) and specifics about drumming that are a little more specialized, the lwa who is associated with the drums and is THEE master drummer.
While my understanding of how Lukumi folks do drums and drumming is limited, ountogi are not only committed to the drums. They can mount lwa in their heads besides Ountò and can function as sou pwen normally do.
Drums are sacred objects, yes. They can go through similar ceremonies to be consecrated, and how they are made and by who is very specific, from what kind of tree drums can be made from and whether is bears fruit and what kind of animal can have it's hide used and whether it has even been bred or had children to the person who is allowed to cut a tree for a drum and what spiritual work is done around that. For that reason, having a fully battery of drums in a temple/lakou is quite the commitment!
Drums are also sacred in that they reflect our existence; the first drum we know is the heartbeat of our parent who carries us in their belly and our own heartbeat once we emerge. The first way we interact with the world outside of our body is often beating our hands or feet against something to make a noise. The drums follow us in that way, bringing us forth into life and marking our independence and then marking our entrance to the lakou, both physically and in the spiritual realm. The drum is our connection to opening the way (though not the only way), and so here we are.
Why might the vévés for the same lwa look so different every time in different ceremonies run by the same house? Was at a house where I noticed they used the same veves, but in another house, I noticed the veves looked different every single time (including the veves for Milokan). Is it a matter of lwas determining nan dòmi, the "mood" and messages received during the tracing, or what might cause a house to use different looking veves for the same lwa?
Hi,
Veves vary from lineage to lineage, and different lineages conceive of them differently. It plays out like you see; some houses will use the same ones, and some houses have differences.
The differences sometimes usually come down to who is tracing them; sometimes it's not folks from the lakou who are tracing them for ceremony and they have their own impressions.
Sometimes it's that lwa are kind of whispering in the ear of the person doing the veve and telling them what they want where. S, my husband, is known for his ability in tracing veve, and I have never seen him trace the same veve twice for a particular ceremony. They are always related to each other with some standard parts, but it differs based on what he hears and how he feels doing. I've watched him get part way through and then scrap the whole thing because it doesn't feel right, and then re-do.
There's also a 'language' to veves, so priests or other folks who may trace them know what needs to be included and what is a bit malleable.
