That is Some Weird Shit Dude
- By Vital Germaine
- Published 01/22/2008
Vital Germaine
Vital is a multifaceted individual who was born of biracial parents in the former Belgian Congo during a horrific civil war. He was raised in London before moving to Belgium during his late teens where he was introduced to the world of entertainment. Vital soon moved to New York to further his entertainment career. After two years in the Big Apple, he auditioned for Cirque Du Soleil. He performed for over 5 years in Cirque’s productions of Mystère and Quidam. A tragic injury forced him to prematurely end his acrobatic career. He has since become a published artist, a business owner, and an author with his first book on the verge of publication. For more on Vital log onto artofvital.com
That is Some Weird Shit Dude
Endless candles burn in the sun-filled room as the white pigeon briefly shudders one last time. A warm dark fluid flows from its neck into a bowl, completing the ritual animal sacrifice of Santeria (suhn-teh’-ri’-ya).
Santeria dates back to the slave trade, when Africans were being imported to the Americas. It is a culture deeply rooted in the traditions of West Africa, yet combined with the beliefs and ways of Christianity that were imposed on the African imports. This Afro-American religion is predominantly practiced in the Caribbean by what one might consider as, a poor uneducated people. The belief is highly frowned upon by the Catholic Church. The late Pope John Paul II, even went as far as visiting the Santeria-practicing island of Cuba in 1998. The Pope’s mission in Cuba was to urge the natives to completely reject the practice of Santeria and fully embrace the Catholic faith. He did not succeed.
What was once a clandestine practice in the United States, Santeria has been more readily accepted into American culture in recent years. Stores like Wal-Mart now carry literature on the subject. Wal-Mart’s selection of books includes titles such as: The Altar of My Soul: The Living Traditions of Santeria, by Vega Marta Moreno, and Cuban Santeria: Walking with the Night, by Canizares Raul. It is possible that the availability of such literature at Wal-Mart has more to do with the company catering to its increasing Hispanic demographic than it is about embracing the questionable faith. The religion of Santeria is not publicized, and the doors are not open to everyone. One must seek out the practicing members and be invited to partake. I was once honoured and invited to participate in such a rare, surreptitious event for someone of my religious persuasion. It was one of the most surreal moments I have ever experienced, yet I respectfully submitted to Santeria and was, strangely enough, at peace in the unfamiliar spiritual surroundings. In compliance with their ways, I came prepared--strictly clothed in white garments.
In front of me is a homemade altar in honour of numerous dead spirits. These spirits are worshiped by the followers of this religion. The ceremony begins when the hostess, or white witch, places an instrument with feathers and leather strands on it into my hands. She sprinkles me with water from a small silver bowl and then showers me with white flower petals. The ceremony continues in her broken English as she instructs me to kneel, which I do, onto a mat before the altar. I am asked to pray to Obattala (Oh-bu’t’a-lah). He is God's right-hand man in the Santeria belief system. I am to move the instrument that she placed into my hands up and down, as I concentrate on my desires and wishes. In honour and respect for these newly discovered beliefs and ceremonial customs, I fully comply with all the requests. I have already knelt down and now automatically bow my head, close my eyes, and begin to pray. All the while, I am moving the instrument up and down.
In the darkness, I hear the white witch chant. Her voice is glorious. The operatic reverberation resonates with beauty and sophistication, and I am deeply touched. I listen from within the darkness of my eyelids. Without sight, the sense of hearing becomes heightened and I feel chills from her music. I am unable to understand the words of her native language of Cuba but am able to comprehend the emotion of the moment. I am filled with a rush of energy that is uplifting, yet fear-provoking--perhaps due to my ignorance. The chanting soon comes to a sustained ending, and her voice gently fades into the autumn breeze. Once again, I can hear the wind chimes and the rustling leaves through the open window. I want to open my eyes, but I do not. During her silence, I begin to wonder what she could be doing. What is happening?
Where is she?
I am conflicted. A part of me feels like an intruder--a traitor to my distant Catholic faith. Will God condemn me? Will God forgive me for being an accomplice to the crime of slitting a pigeon's throat? Or will God embrace me all the more for being open-minded and willing to respect a belief other than mine?
With an empowering voice, the white witch begins to speak. She is summoning spirits. She is inviting guests from beyond the grave. My blood flows with a hint of trepidation. I recognize my name midst the Spanish vocabulary. I feel her hand upon my shoulder and am comforted by her touch. There is a quiet moment of reflection. The wind chimes now seem louder. The rustling leaves become stronger; I can hear my heartbeat, my breathing, my thoughts. I listen and can truly hear myself. However, I’m not sure what I really want in life. What should I have prayed for?
My inner reflections are gently interrupted as the hostess of the ceremony tells me that I can now open my eyes. My hazel eyes are greeted by a radiant smile, coming from the wise old lady, who looks so much more angelic than her title of white witch suggests. She appears to be proud of me, and I in turn, am proud, too. I am proud to have not shit my pants at the thought of being surrounded by a bunch of dead spirits who, in being disturbed, would perhaps be ticked-off. Was I anticipating a scene from some cheap horror movie where ugly, white-powdered demons are in search of revenge? One can never know what to expect in the presence of witches, even if they are pure and white like the one before me. She leaves the room and tells me she will be right back. I have trouble not looking down at the dead white pigeon, whose throat, only moments ago, had been slit before my very eyes. It is motionless and bloody. There is a small pool of blood in the bowl and several small trinkets next to it. At the centre of the altar is a large statue of Jesus with an array of necklaces around it. The walls of the room are ornamented with religious images of halo-bearing saints, immaculate women, and crucifixes. The juxtaposition of cultures is mind-boggling: sacrificial pigeons, Jesus, Obatalla and a witch! Nonetheless, that is what defines this incredible moment.
Santeria's roots are much deeper and more profound than those I experienced. Santeria takes on numerous names such as: voodoo in Haiti, shango in Trinidad, and kuminia or pocomania in Jamaica. Regardless of all the varied names, the practice remains similar, if not identical in all the above mentioned locations. The word Santeria stems from the Spanish, sangre, which means blood. Perhaps rightly so, the universal image of voodoo is commonly associated with witchcraft and other evil, bloody acts of the occult. It does indeed claim a very dark side that has resulted in numerously documented, sacrificial human deaths. One such incident happened in the village of Sayville, New York, where a young cheerleader was murdered during a demonic ceremony. The village apparently suffers from a curse inflicted by a man known as Father Divine who claimed "Sayville sowed seeds of its own destruction."
Is the practice of Santeria always of a bloody sacrificial nature? No. It is not that one-dimensional. There is also a very positive and bright healing aspect to it, in which herbs and natural medicines are used homoeopathically for physical and spiritual well-being. As in all religions and cultures, there is a dichotomy of good and evil that struggles for domination. The good can sometimes be misinterpreted if it is misunderstood. Is Santeria witchcraft? Was Joan of Arc a heretic or a heroine?
Overall, I can neither sum up what the religion of Santeria says about the people who practice it, nor can I justly understand it. All I can do is respect it. What I can say is that I am a better man as a result of this mind-opening voodoo experience. Do I now posses a doll and needles? No, I do not. That would be some weird shit. Needless to say, I obviously know somebody who does, so one might not want to f%$#k with me, or I will have one turned into a hideous, wart-infested, Santeria-practicing, castrated, African, bloody toad. In addition, I expect to win the lottery very soon.
Endless candles burn in the sun-filled room as the white pigeon briefly shudders one last time. A warm dark fluid flows from its neck into a bowl, completing the ritual animal sacrifice of Santeria (suhn-teh’-ri’-ya).
Santeria dates back to the slave trade, when Africans were being imported to the Americas. It is a culture deeply rooted in the traditions of West Africa, yet combined with the beliefs and ways of Christianity that were imposed on the African imports. This Afro-American religion is predominantly practiced in the Caribbean by what one might consider as, a poor uneducated people. The belief is highly frowned upon by the Catholic Church. The late Pope John Paul II, even went as far as visiting the Santeria-practicing island of Cuba in 1998. The Pope’s mission in Cuba was to urge the natives to completely reject the practice of Santeria and fully embrace the Catholic faith. He did not succeed.
What was once a clandestine practice in the United States, Santeria has been more readily accepted into American culture in recent years. Stores like Wal-Mart now carry literature on the subject. Wal-Mart’s selection of books includes titles such as: The Altar of My Soul: The Living Traditions of Santeria, by Vega Marta Moreno, and Cuban Santeria: Walking with the Night, by Canizares Raul. It is possible that the availability of such literature at Wal-Mart has more to do with the company catering to its increasing Hispanic demographic than it is about embracing the questionable faith. The religion of Santeria is not publicized, and the doors are not open to everyone. One must seek out the practicing members and be invited to partake. I was once honoured and invited to participate in such a rare, surreptitious event for someone of my religious persuasion. It was one of the most surreal moments I have ever experienced, yet I respectfully submitted to Santeria and was, strangely enough, at peace in the unfamiliar spiritual surroundings. In compliance with their ways, I came prepared--strictly clothed in white garments.
In front of me is a homemade altar in honour of numerous dead spirits. These spirits are worshiped by the followers of this religion. The ceremony begins when the hostess, or white witch, places an instrument with feathers and leather strands on it into my hands. She sprinkles me with water from a small silver bowl and then showers me with white flower petals. The ceremony continues in her broken English as she instructs me to kneel, which I do, onto a mat before the altar. I am asked to pray to Obattala (Oh-bu’t’a-lah). He is God's right-hand man in the Santeria belief system. I am to move the instrument that she placed into my hands up and down, as I concentrate on my desires and wishes. In honour and respect for these newly discovered beliefs and ceremonial customs, I fully comply with all the requests. I have already knelt down and now automatically bow my head, close my eyes, and begin to pray. All the while, I am moving the instrument up and down.
In the darkness, I hear the white witch chant. Her voice is glorious. The operatic reverberation resonates with beauty and sophistication, and I am deeply touched. I listen from within the darkness of my eyelids. Without sight, the sense of hearing becomes heightened and I feel chills from her music. I am unable to understand the words of her native language of Cuba but am able to comprehend the emotion of the moment. I am filled with a rush of energy that is uplifting, yet fear-provoking--perhaps due to my ignorance. The chanting soon comes to a sustained ending, and her voice gently fades into the autumn breeze. Once again, I can hear the wind chimes and the rustling leaves through the open window. I want to open my eyes, but I do not. During her silence, I begin to wonder what she could be doing. What is happening?
I am conflicted. A part of me feels like an intruder--a traitor to my distant Catholic faith. Will God condemn me? Will God forgive me for being an accomplice to the crime of slitting a pigeon's throat? Or will God embrace me all the more for being open-minded and willing to respect a belief other than mine?
With an empowering voice, the white witch begins to speak. She is summoning spirits. She is inviting guests from beyond the grave. My blood flows with a hint of trepidation. I recognize my name midst the Spanish vocabulary. I feel her hand upon my shoulder and am comforted by her touch. There is a quiet moment of reflection. The wind chimes now seem louder. The rustling leaves become stronger; I can hear my heartbeat, my breathing, my thoughts. I listen and can truly hear myself. However, I’m not sure what I really want in life. What should I have prayed for?
My inner reflections are gently interrupted as the hostess of the ceremony tells me that I can now open my eyes. My hazel eyes are greeted by a radiant smile, coming from the wise old lady, who looks so much more angelic than her title of white witch suggests. She appears to be proud of me, and I in turn, am proud, too. I am proud to have not shit my pants at the thought of being surrounded by a bunch of dead spirits who, in being disturbed, would perhaps be ticked-off. Was I anticipating a scene from some cheap horror movie where ugly, white-powdered demons are in search of revenge? One can never know what to expect in the presence of witches, even if they are pure and white like the one before me. She leaves the room and tells me she will be right back. I have trouble not looking down at the dead white pigeon, whose throat, only moments ago, had been slit before my very eyes. It is motionless and bloody. There is a small pool of blood in the bowl and several small trinkets next to it. At the centre of the altar is a large statue of Jesus with an array of necklaces around it. The walls of the room are ornamented with religious images of halo-bearing saints, immaculate women, and crucifixes. The juxtaposition of cultures is mind-boggling: sacrificial pigeons, Jesus, Obatalla and a witch! Nonetheless, that is what defines this incredible moment.
Santeria's roots are much deeper and more profound than those I experienced. Santeria takes on numerous names such as: voodoo in Haiti, shango in Trinidad, and kuminia or pocomania in Jamaica. Regardless of all the varied names, the practice remains similar, if not identical in all the above mentioned locations. The word Santeria stems from the Spanish, sangre, which means blood. Perhaps rightly so, the universal image of voodoo is commonly associated with witchcraft and other evil, bloody acts of the occult. It does indeed claim a very dark side that has resulted in numerously documented, sacrificial human deaths. One such incident happened in the village of Sayville, New York, where a young cheerleader was murdered during a demonic ceremony. The village apparently suffers from a curse inflicted by a man known as Father Divine who claimed "Sayville sowed seeds of its own destruction."
Is the practice of Santeria always of a bloody sacrificial nature? No. It is not that one-dimensional. There is also a very positive and bright healing aspect to it, in which herbs and natural medicines are used homoeopathically for physical and spiritual well-being. As in all religions and cultures, there is a dichotomy of good and evil that struggles for domination. The good can sometimes be misinterpreted if it is misunderstood. Is Santeria witchcraft? Was Joan of Arc a heretic or a heroine?
Overall, I can neither sum up what the religion of Santeria says about the people who practice it, nor can I justly understand it. All I can do is respect it. What I can say is that I am a better man as a result of this mind-opening voodoo experience. Do I now posses a doll and needles? No, I do not. That would be some weird shit. Needless to say, I obviously know somebody who does, so one might not want to f%$#k with me, or I will have one turned into a hideous, wart-infested, Santeria-practicing, castrated, African, bloody toad. In addition, I expect to win the lottery very soon.
