The Innocence of Voodoo

by Casey Hartnett (United States of America)

Making a local connection USA

I was standing anxiously in the dark storefront of a voodoo temple when the bell on the door rang and a group of young college students wandered in. The priestess slowly made her way out from the temple and stood before us. She appeared to be taking us all in as we tried not to gawk at her too much. At 76 years old, Priestess Miriam was in no rush. Her quiet presence was so powerful and awe-inspiring that words were suddenly lost to me. I attempted a discreet glance at my phone. I’d been waiting thirty minutes already and now the priestess had lent her undivided attention to this new group of visitors. My impatience was growing. I had been warned about the dangers of voodoo by friends and New Orleans locals. “Don’t go alone,” they said. “Respect the spirits. Same with voodoo. Respect it but never invite it in.” After a “trickster” ghost messed with my Instagram locations in the séance room of a French Quarter restaurant, forcing me to post that I was in Fez, Morocco, I felt like I had nothing to lose in meeting Nola’s most legendary living voodoo priestess. Finally, the young admirers left and the priestess glanced at me, smirking through a tired sigh. “Come on.” She led me into the temple and sat herself on a colorful throne. Entering the voodoo temple was like being smacked in the face with a menagerie of color. Items were stacked from floor to ceiling, wall to wall. Prayer beads, Mardi Gras beads, lamps and strings of lights. Holy statues, a Pope doll, wooden African figures, flags from around the world, and other religious and spiritual trinkets all interspersed with money. Lots of money. $1, $2, $5, $20 dollar bills tucked among the priestess' collection with coins scattered about. “Just in case,” the priestess shrugged. “We all have to pay our rent.” I’m not sure what I was expecting, exactly. Readings related to a psychic or some spiritual exorcism of sorts? Instead, she lit a large wooden stick of incense and placed it in a metal bowl, the smoke rising. “What’s that for?” I tried not to sound nervous. “Cleansing. It rids the temple of bad energy.” She, herself, also seemed to be trying not to appear nervous. For two hours, Priestess Miriam spoke as I sat in awe. I would throw on a smile every now and then when I found myself staring for too long, particularly around the time she started talking about “smelling the poop.” She explained that if you love what you do, you have to smell it; the good and the bad, I suppose. She laughed. I laughed because I didn’t want her to know I didn’t get the joke. Her focus was directed towards acts of discrimination and equality. “Who wrote the book of love? The discriminators.” She spoke of activists not looking at the full circumstance of an issue and the belief that we are on the right path only to develop a selfish illusion that will blow up in our faces. She explained the origin of voodoo being African and one of the oldest religions still in existence, yet filled with many myths and misconceptions, primarily being confused with Satanism and other racist views. Go figure. “That’s the way it goes, little girl,” she would add with a slight head nod, quickly becoming her catchphrase of the afternoon. So, if everything we know is a myth, then what is voodoo? “Voodoo is an experience,” she explained. “Experiences can activate you in many ways. No experience, you have no game. The experience will direct you.” Huh. As I was leaving through the shop, Priestess Miriam automatically retreated to her spot behind the register. “What do I owe you?” I asked, reaching for my purse. She waved me off. She allowed her air of mystery, of higher-being, to leave her as she prepared to close up shop and go home for the day. We shared a smile as I said goodbye to the woman from Mississippi who has spent her life teaching others about the innocent spirituality buried deep within her African roots. That's the way it goes, indeed.