Why We Can't Talk to You about Voodoo

Abstract

We who are natives of this City and count ourselves among Faithful cannot talk with you, outsider, about Voodoo. And that is unfortunate. Because in this highly complex, deceptively simple set of principles, beliefs and what-have-you, is much that could heal you of whatever it is in your life that needs healing. Could heal your whole life, probably. Because that's what it really is all about. Your whole life. Not you personally, of course, but how wholeness anyone and everyone should have can be restored, can restore one to oneself. But very fact that you come asking after it means that you will never possess it, at least not in this lifetime. And certainly not from anything you might learn here. And besides, we honestly cannot talk with you about it anyhow. You, of course, will tell us about books you have read and research you have done. None of which has anything to do with us or our beliefs. We will smile sympathetically as we always do at such defenses, which we recognize as pleas for belonging that they are. Or perhaps you are a modern-day Latin--by which we mean that you are descended not from our oppressors of past centuries, but from same oppression wreaked throughout islands and inlands of what is now called Latin America. In other words, a cousin of sorts. In which case you will go on about Santeria, which you will not call by its name, Santeria, but, in hushed tones, the saints--as if pope might have his spies nearby. As if pope's spies had nothing better to do than loll about eavesdropping over iced coffees in New Orleans. You will go on about it and about your love of Africa; but what we will notice is your affection for things European. And how you use that word European as an adjective for all that is good not only about our City but about yourselves. You drop it like a compliment, without warning. We notice that although you come from race-less, class-less worlds just next door to us, you will go on, at length, about color and texture and shapes of skin and hair and lips and noses. We will note with not a little shame specific physical transformations you have foisted upon yourselves and freely recommend to us. By time you return to the saints, in other words, we will have begun to wonder if pope's spies might not be needing their coffees topped. (Perhaps, for sake of good manners, we ought to invite them to join us at club this evening to hear our favorite bassist and his new trio.) You will notice our attention waning and become defensive. another age we would say, why not?) You will attempt to lure us with comparisons. The drums! (your voice rising now) where are drums?! (In Congo Square, we might offer, every Sunday for last few centuries.) But we have heard all this before and so will offer more coffee--water? rum? sweets perhaps? Anything to take edge off your confusion. And shut door on that endless yammering. None of this, of course, will satisfy you. Still, we will do whatever we can to put you at ease. You are, after all, a not too distant relation, and we feel for your discomfort. In end, however, we will tell you nothing you care to hear. You will leave perhaps a little triumphant. But in a matter of hours, perhaps a day or two, some dis-ease will come over you and you will seek us out again. You will be calmer but no less unhappy. And we are sorry, truly sorry, for your distress. But we cannot help. We really cannot talk to you about it. Perhaps you should, finally, go home. And indeed, wouldn't that be very best thing for you, all of you, no matter who you are and how distantly or not so distantly related you might prove? Wouldn't it be better all around if you just turned about and went back home? We, for our part, would be quite content to see you go. We would like to imagine you, from time to time, lodged in some place as completely your own as this is ours. …