words heard while meditating...
Yes, they will talk about you. Laugh at you behind your back and judge, but the one thing that they will not be able to deny is the fact that they love you and are fearful of your light. Without compromising yourself, your job is to help them recognize the light that exists within so that they are not as afraid of the light that emanates from you.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Thursday, September 18, 2008
An issue of Blood
I woke up this morning craving a heavy breakfast: a bowl of grits with lots of butter, garlic and salt, salmon croquettes, hash browns and wheat toast or maybe a stack of pancakes with maple syrup and turkey bacon…I was able to fight of my taste buds and settle for my normal, health conscious bowl of steel cut, whole grain oats with almond milk but the cravings followed me through the day. Why am I so voracious ? A glance at the calendar answered that question. It’s the 18th day in my 21-28 day erratic menstrual cycle. This poses a bit of a problem because the Akan festival that, I’ve been excited to attend, falls on day 21.
Similar to other African Traditional Religions the Akan have a serious blood taboo. According to sister friends who practice the tradition in the New World, a woman who is cycling is excused from her normal household chores. Entering the kitchen and handling food, sexual contact and any religious or ritual items are off limits. Her attendance at spiritual gatherings like an Akom (the event I plan to attend this weekend) also has limits, as it is taboo for her to touch any of the Okomfo (priests), participate in the ritual dances performed to evoke the Abosom (deities) or approach any shrines where offerings are placed.
In the event that my cycle does appear, I would be relegated to the perimeter of the festival and forced to just observe.
While I fully respect the traditions, taboos and beliefs of others, the anthropologist in me wants to know why. How and why did these ideas about menstruation form? What social, spiritual factors were involved in the creation of this taboo?
I am not being critical. I recognize that I as an African in America conform to a set of unspoken taboos related to menstruation. In our culture women are regarded and unpredictable and emotional. Even I refer to my menstruation time as erratic, which implies some level of deviancy. But ideas about menstruation should be expected in a Eurocentric, male driven society like ours, right? How does a tradition like Akan, where women are expected to perform ritual and hold spiritual titles and matrilineal descent governs inheritance, succession, and land tenure develop a belief that women are unclean when menstruating?
In his anthological article titled Menstruation as a Verbal Taboo among the Akan of Ghana Kofi Agyekum examines the semantic and metaphorical relations between the euphemisms for menstruation and what they denote. Among the Akan, euphemisms for menstruation follow two basic models: (1) negative (indisposition and seclusion of the woman) and (2) positive (transition and fertility and the arrival of a protective visitor).
According to another account bad magic is thought to be possessed by all menstruating women. It is even believed that water or cloth which has been in contact with menstrual blood can be used to destroy supernatural influences and to cause harm. At the same time the menstruating woman is thought to have special powers so that no ghost, bad medicines or witchcraft can harm her (Field, 1948).
As a Yoruba / Ifa practitioner I’ve run into this issue before. In certain Orisha houses women who are cycling are also expected to follow a certain protocol. I’ve heard several suggestions, mostly from men, as to why these taboos exist:
a) if you approach a shrine while you’re bleeding, the orisha may think you’re the offering and attempt to consume you
b) women are in a fragile state during menstruation and the energies present during a ritual could be detrimental to her spirit
c) because, that’s just how it is.
While some of these suggestions seem a little far fetched, I respect the rules, even though I am not totally comfortable with them.
I am of the opinion that menstruation taboos have little to do with spiritual or physical fragility. Most of us have overheard our uncles talk about how they refuse to eat a woman’s food that was not prepared in their presence, we are familiar with amulets and juju that include a dash of menstrual blood for strength, and although they call it PMS, we all know that our sensitivities are heightened around that time of the month and that we cycle along with the gravitational pull of the moon. Could it be that these taboos have more to do with a patriarchal fear of women, our sexuality and our power?
Similar to other African Traditional Religions the Akan have a serious blood taboo. According to sister friends who practice the tradition in the New World, a woman who is cycling is excused from her normal household chores. Entering the kitchen and handling food, sexual contact and any religious or ritual items are off limits. Her attendance at spiritual gatherings like an Akom (the event I plan to attend this weekend) also has limits, as it is taboo for her to touch any of the Okomfo (priests), participate in the ritual dances performed to evoke the Abosom (deities) or approach any shrines where offerings are placed.
In the event that my cycle does appear, I would be relegated to the perimeter of the festival and forced to just observe.
While I fully respect the traditions, taboos and beliefs of others, the anthropologist in me wants to know why. How and why did these ideas about menstruation form? What social, spiritual factors were involved in the creation of this taboo?
I am not being critical. I recognize that I as an African in America conform to a set of unspoken taboos related to menstruation. In our culture women are regarded and unpredictable and emotional. Even I refer to my menstruation time as erratic, which implies some level of deviancy. But ideas about menstruation should be expected in a Eurocentric, male driven society like ours, right? How does a tradition like Akan, where women are expected to perform ritual and hold spiritual titles and matrilineal descent governs inheritance, succession, and land tenure develop a belief that women are unclean when menstruating?
In his anthological article titled Menstruation as a Verbal Taboo among the Akan of Ghana Kofi Agyekum examines the semantic and metaphorical relations between the euphemisms for menstruation and what they denote. Among the Akan, euphemisms for menstruation follow two basic models: (1) negative (indisposition and seclusion of the woman) and (2) positive (transition and fertility and the arrival of a protective visitor).
According to another account bad magic is thought to be possessed by all menstruating women. It is even believed that water or cloth which has been in contact with menstrual blood can be used to destroy supernatural influences and to cause harm. At the same time the menstruating woman is thought to have special powers so that no ghost, bad medicines or witchcraft can harm her (Field, 1948).
As a Yoruba / Ifa practitioner I’ve run into this issue before. In certain Orisha houses women who are cycling are also expected to follow a certain protocol. I’ve heard several suggestions, mostly from men, as to why these taboos exist:
a) if you approach a shrine while you’re bleeding, the orisha may think you’re the offering and attempt to consume you
b) women are in a fragile state during menstruation and the energies present during a ritual could be detrimental to her spirit
c) because, that’s just how it is.
While some of these suggestions seem a little far fetched, I respect the rules, even though I am not totally comfortable with them.
I am of the opinion that menstruation taboos have little to do with spiritual or physical fragility. Most of us have overheard our uncles talk about how they refuse to eat a woman’s food that was not prepared in their presence, we are familiar with amulets and juju that include a dash of menstrual blood for strength, and although they call it PMS, we all know that our sensitivities are heightened around that time of the month and that we cycle along with the gravitational pull of the moon. Could it be that these taboos have more to do with a patriarchal fear of women, our sexuality and our power?
Friday, August 8, 2008
Thursday, May 15, 2008
Quote of the day (month, year, decade)
You would rather have a Lexus? or justice?
a dream? or some substance?
A Beamer? a necklace? or freedom?
Still a ni**a like me don't playa-hate, I just stay awake
This real hip-hop; and it don't stop 'til we get the po-po off the block
- dead prez
a dream? or some substance?
A Beamer? a necklace? or freedom?
Still a ni**a like me don't playa-hate, I just stay awake
This real hip-hop; and it don't stop 'til we get the po-po off the block
- dead prez
Thursday, May 8, 2008
who i be
I AM....
poet
writer
journalist
anthropologist
intellectual scholar
thinker
activist
dancer
creator
ju-ju mama extraordinaire
poet
writer
journalist
anthropologist
intellectual scholar
thinker
activist
dancer
creator
ju-ju mama extraordinaire
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
Sun rays sneaking through an open window warm my right shoulder blade as I gaze at my reflection in a full length mirror. Loose fitting, white linen pants and a white cotton top crinkle and contort while my reflection pirouettes, turning to the left and then back to center, adjusting and tugging fabric into its proper place. With a handful of my course locks in one hand and a piece of cloth in the other, I wrap my hair into the folds of white fabric, making certain to cover the crown of my head. The children and my husband are out for the afternoon and the chaos in my home has been replaced with more than enough space to think and breathe. I almost want to stay home and enjoy being alone but something is pushing me to leave. I have to rush. It’s already 3:45 pm.; the ceremony is scheduled to begin in 15 minutes.
Keys, purse, sandals, money, I gather everything I think I need seconds before a green and white cab glides to a stop in front of my door. “Where too doll?” the driver, wearing a pair of red-rimmed, bifocal glasses, asks while peering over his shoulder. I give him the address to a small house located on the north side of Philadelphia and we drive away from my bustling block. I can tell we’re getting close to the north side so I roll down my window and tilt my head to the side, straining my ears to catch the unmistakable rhythm of solid hands pounding the head of Afro-Cuban drums. Instead all I hear is a chorus of despair; bottles breaking against pavement and babies crying, junkies hustling for their next fix, shopping cars filled with rotting food rolling across the pavement, nothing as beautiful and mystical as the sound of African music and the chants to the gods the protected my ancestors during their travel across the Atlantic.
“Is this where you’re going,” the driver asks while slowing down in front of a coco colored row house. The numbers match the address I was given, but the place seems lifeless, abandoned. I look toward the meter, glowing crimson. I’m $11 away from home, alone in an area of the city I’ve become familiar with through reports on the evening news. Did I write down the wrong address? Did they cancel and not tell anyone? No. This has to be the right place. The voice inside my head, which I’ve learned to call spirit, tells me to get out of the cab, knock on the door and leave my fear on the curb.
The first two commands come easy; but the fear sticks to my soul like chocolate on warm fingers. I’m nervous, a host of thoughts flood my mind and my stomach begins to knot as I pass the driver a hand full of crumpled bills before exiting the backseat. Heavy spices hang in the air and I can hear the faint sounds of pots hitting stove tops as I approach the front door. I ring the doorbell and strain my eyes through the wire screen, but I can’t see anyone inside.
A few seconds pass before a heavy-set woman appears in the doorway. She’s wearing a blue and white dress with a sarong decorated with seashells and starfish tied around her thick waist. She must sense my nervousness because her eyes soften as if to ask "what’s the matter baby?" "I was invited to a bembe," I blurt out, letting the tension in my throat tumble from my mouth and fall at my feet."Come in, come in," she says while stroking my shoulder. “You’re in the right place.”
Keys, purse, sandals, money, I gather everything I think I need seconds before a green and white cab glides to a stop in front of my door. “Where too doll?” the driver, wearing a pair of red-rimmed, bifocal glasses, asks while peering over his shoulder. I give him the address to a small house located on the north side of Philadelphia and we drive away from my bustling block. I can tell we’re getting close to the north side so I roll down my window and tilt my head to the side, straining my ears to catch the unmistakable rhythm of solid hands pounding the head of Afro-Cuban drums. Instead all I hear is a chorus of despair; bottles breaking against pavement and babies crying, junkies hustling for their next fix, shopping cars filled with rotting food rolling across the pavement, nothing as beautiful and mystical as the sound of African music and the chants to the gods the protected my ancestors during their travel across the Atlantic.
“Is this where you’re going,” the driver asks while slowing down in front of a coco colored row house. The numbers match the address I was given, but the place seems lifeless, abandoned. I look toward the meter, glowing crimson. I’m $11 away from home, alone in an area of the city I’ve become familiar with through reports on the evening news. Did I write down the wrong address? Did they cancel and not tell anyone? No. This has to be the right place. The voice inside my head, which I’ve learned to call spirit, tells me to get out of the cab, knock on the door and leave my fear on the curb.
The first two commands come easy; but the fear sticks to my soul like chocolate on warm fingers. I’m nervous, a host of thoughts flood my mind and my stomach begins to knot as I pass the driver a hand full of crumpled bills before exiting the backseat. Heavy spices hang in the air and I can hear the faint sounds of pots hitting stove tops as I approach the front door. I ring the doorbell and strain my eyes through the wire screen, but I can’t see anyone inside.
A few seconds pass before a heavy-set woman appears in the doorway. She’s wearing a blue and white dress with a sarong decorated with seashells and starfish tied around her thick waist. She must sense my nervousness because her eyes soften as if to ask "what’s the matter baby?" "I was invited to a bembe," I blurt out, letting the tension in my throat tumble from my mouth and fall at my feet."Come in, come in," she says while stroking my shoulder. “You’re in the right place.”
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
