And In My Darkness I Am Free
This place was hers and hers alone. No one else knew about it, no one else would know about it. This was space for thoughts and sacred prayers, to clear her mind and focus, to give thanks for the blessings of her life and ask help with the troubles. It was the place she went to breathe when things became suffocating, when she wanted to celebrate and give thanks for a happy moment in time, when she needed guidance, when she felt lonely or angry; it brought the comfort of home and the peace of mind she needed.
She found the door and quickly jimmied the lock, pushing it open, closing it behind her and setting her honey on the floor before she pulled out her box of matches from one of her pockets, the hiss of the struck match the only sound in the room. Despite the chill she felt warm and welcome, the only home she had away from home, where she knew every inch of space that was as much a part of her as her own skin. She picked the honey back up, holding it firmly by the body of the jar and moved towards the back, her bare feet not making a sound as she walked. In the small light offered by the match she found in the back corner her altar, getting to her knees on the bare floor.
'We do not take luxuries of comfort.' Her mamou had told her. 'When we pray, we do it propa, on our knees wit' hands folded, child. De merciful Loa see us so honest an' truly offa'ed to dem an' take pity on our pleas. We shame dem when we do not suffa a littal for deir gifts.'
On her knees, she watched the match burn, the beautiful golden glow turning her skin a warmer brown, faintly illuminating her altar until she felt the severe heat on her fingers and then blew it out before picking up another match and striking it.
First, she lit her incense, the sweet heavy smell bringing back endless memories of home and prayers past, of wise words from her grandmother, of gifts bestowed and blessings taken. The smoke purified the air, the energy, and her. All her burdened thoughts and fears drifted away like the curling, white smoke to the ceiling and disappeared without another trace. In this room, in front of her altar, she was safe. She needn't fear judgment; her smallest requests were heard, the smallest of her problems gently considered.
She moved to light her candles, the white candle and then the black candle, one for positive energy the other for negative, a symbol of balance in herself and her surroundings. The world couldn't function without a positive and negative, too much positive meant a rose colored world and a too much negative meant a drowning sorrow. Without the negative, people could never appreciate their happiness. Without the positive, people could never grieve.
She shook the flame away and sat on her ankles, smiling as the flames flickered their greetings in the hollowed cusps of the candle, the light falling on the light blue of the cotton that covered the small wooden table that everything was placed on. The flames left streaks of light across her mama and mamou's pictures and as always she felt the twist in her heart. She pressed a kiss to two fingers and gently touched her mama's frame and repeated the same action for her mamou, the replacement ritual she had come to do instead of kissing their cheeks before leaving for school or for groceries or before bed. No more teaching, no more stories, no more physical bodies she could run to when she needed to cry or share her joy. There was no one to turn to when she felt so lonely the ache in her heart was unbearable. She had watched them both die; had watched her strong, beautiful mama wither away bit by bit, piece by piece until she was nothing but a shell of a woman. At seven she had to learn her mama wouldn’t be there to teach her to cook, to walk her to school, to hold her up to catch the pretty beads at Mardi Gras, to be there and teach her that the terrifying stain was the sign she was entering woman hood. She wouldn’t dance at any more of the neighborhood parties, wouldn’t fill the house with her voice as she sang while she cleaned and cooked, would never sing Tia to sleep when the nightmares trapped her in darkness. And it had hurt to go through life without her.
But she’d had her mamou and she had taught her everything: How to cook, how to clean, how to dance, how to meditate, how to make every little concoction and salve and poison she knew, taught her how to stand on her own. ‘Jus’ because we might be de only ones standing does not mean we are wrong.’ Her grandmother had loved her and cared for her and kept her safe, giving her continuous support and knowledge. And then came the news she would leave Tia the same way her mother had. And for the second time she watched a woman she had depended on and loved die. It wasn’t a short process, it took a few years to draw out the pain and unfairness, for her skin to become too loose for her body, for her body to fail her, before her mamou couldn’t get out of bed and then finally didn’t open her eyes one morning in the spring.
What Tia had been left with was a house, a shop, and the knowledge left behind by her mother and grandmother.
And bills and debts and emptiness.
She touched the pendant around her neck, passed from her grandmother to her mother and then to Tia. It had been made by her grandfather as a present to her grandmother before she fled the Caribbean, a tiny pendant that when opened played a faint melody. It was meant to be a reminder for her when she missed him and it had come that she had opened it so often the music didn’t play anymore.
But the weight was a constant around Tia's neck, an anchor for her when she felt too tight for her skin or her thoughts were too scattered. And it had become part of the ritual at her altar, her own little touch that let her feel closer to her mama and mamou as she sat on her knees and opened the jar of honey, raising it to the four corners: north, south, east, west and setting it with a gentle sound back on the altar. She reached for the pink candle and slowly let it sink into the golden mass, striking another match to light it, and opened her palms towards the ceiling.
"Odu Legba, Papa Legba, ouvre la porte," she sang. "Vos enfants sont en attente. Papa Legba, ouvre la porte, vos enfants attendent."
She waited a moment, basking in the energy of the room, breathing in and out at a measure pace before took a breath to begin her petition.
"Merciful Erzulie, grant me halp, not for myself but for anotha." Her voice was a whisper in the room, reaching for all corners. "I am in need of ya protection, de strength of ya strongest hand aroun' my littal monsta." She reached into her pocket and pulled out the smallest vial she owned that contained a single hair she had plucked from her shirt earlier. It caught the light of the fire and turned it a brighter shade of red. Taking the hair between her fingers, she continued, "I worry about 'im," she gently held it into the flame of the pink candle and dropped it in the honey when it caught fire. The faint singed smell drifted and melted into the incense where her plea would be carried and delivered. "An' it would bring me a certain peace ta know you watch ova 'im."
She hadn't expected to care for the little beast. And judging by the reactions of others on board, it seemed he had a talent for sneaking in and not letting go when he wanted; though she didn't think he was aware of it. There was an imbalance in him, something she wasn't sure how to go about. A piece of himself lost, perhaps, or an unbearable confusion. Maybe both, maybe neither. But it made her feel better to think he had protection and guidance when she couldn’t be around for him. Because she loved the little monster as her own; how smart he was, how loyal he was, how sweet he could be. There was a strength about him that a child of fifteen shouldn’t have to know and though she was aware he could handle himself, it put her mind at ease to do this.
She tucked the vial away in her pocket and reached under her altar for the paper and pen she kept stashed under. The paper and pen had been blessed with holy water and purified with the smoke of incense and were used only for prayers. With the most important request done and gone, she could ask for her own personal plea from the Loa she had served since she was five. She flipped the pen between her fingers for a moment in thought, being sure she knew exactly what she wanted to say before she wrote it down. Ink was permanent and a mistake on the paper could mean a mistake in the request. Uncapping the pen and in her best and most patient script, she wrote: I am but a vessel for your work, Mother Erzulie. Show me the way to peace. To the inner strength that carried my mother and grandmother. Show me how to keep strong when there is so much that would break me.
So much had happened in such a short amount of time and she had given thanks every day and every night that she was her mother’s daughter. She hadn’t wanted to be alone in the world, she hadn’t wanted to struggle through bills and payments, she hadn’t wanted to finally get it all right before she was ripped away from the only home she knew by a man she had never met. She hadn’t wanted to be criticized for how she had lived, for how she had been raised, for her dress or her hair or the way she spoke. Not by some man who claimed to be her father but had never even set eyes on her until he had been notified his underage biological daughter was now living on her own. Not by the same man who hadn’t shown an ounce of respect to her mother or grandmother or what they did; what had been in their blood for generations. And then for him to send her off, to wash his hands of her and put her on a ship simply because he couldn’t grasp and understand who she was, onto a ship where she had been mocked and disrespected - but there was the catch. What didn’t kill her just made her stronger. Words couldn’t hurt her and vague threats didn’t scare her. She’d been through enough and had seen enough to know this ship was full of nothing but children. Some broken, some sad, some angry, and some deluded but no one was better than another, no one was worse off. Oh, there were some who thought they were just the cream of the crop, who wanted to be seen as big and bad but it was just… sad. They were lost, they didn’t know who they were, and Tia felt nothing but pity for them.
With the tip of the pen she pricked her finger and smudged the blood right under her words before she picked it up and began folding it away from her: once, twice, three times. She held it by the corner and let it sit in the dark orange of the flame from the pink candle and watched as the flame caught with a small jump and then began to slowly burn and consume the paper.
The fire curled the edges as the ash fell to gently dust the blue cotton, the heat of the fire warming her face and fingers and playing shadows across her features as she watched the entire thing be consumed by light. And when she could no longer bear the heat, she dropped it, watching the last bit singe the blue cloth as the fire burned itself out, a permanent blemish that ticked off her prayer count. Her mother’s and grandmother’s had been filled with them.
“I t’ank you for takin’ de time ta listen to my prayers,” she said, staring into the steady flame. “An’ I know dat whateva you choose ta do for me will be what is needed most.” She pressed her fingers to her forehead, her sternum, the right of her chest and to the left, opening her palms to the ceiling again. “Vous êtes bon d'ouvrir les portes pour mes prières, Papa Legba, et je vous remercie.”
With it all done, she slid her ankles out from underneath her so she sat on the floor in front of her altar, her eyes going back and forth between her mama’s portrait and her mamou’s.
“Tu me manques tous les jours.” She said softly. “Il n'ya pas un jour qui passe sans que je ne pense pas que de vous. Et j'espère ... J'espère que je pourrai vous rendre fier.” Ten years without her hadn’t lessened her love for her mother or the drive to make her proud. A year without her grandmama hadn’t made her forget where they had come from, where they had started. What honesty and hard work meant. What it meant to stay true to her history and not back down from any threat.
“Tu me manques. Je t'aime.” She whispered, pressing a kiss to two fingers and touching them to the portraits again before she leaned forward and blew out the black candle and then the white, dousing her corner in almost darkness. The pink candle and incense would burn until they couldn’t anymore, a small beacon in a dark corner of the ship.
Getting to her feet, she turned on her toes, the small charms on the sash around her waist chiming in the silence. She opened the door just enough for her to get through, twisting the lock on the knob before she slipped through and shut the door tightly, checking to be sure the door was securely locked. And then she went back the same way she came, heading back to her room.
