Three Hirstories

The following article contains anti-gay slurs.

Ivory Black

As a child, I looked for meaning in the world by consulting with and listening to adults. I rarely had to ask for clarification. It was spelled out for me since I liked to be in grown folks’ business and hang out in the kitchen.

For many Southern African-American women, the kitchen represents comfort, nourishment and community. A safe haven of sorts, it’s a place to speak your mind on the things happening in the world, as well as experience the wonder of creation. However, there is a side to the kitchen where opinions and gossip become sessions for self-hatred. Perhaps this is why we get nervous when it is time to straighten the hair by the nape of the neck, referred to as the “kitchen.” You never know when you’re gonna get burned.

It was in my grandmother’s kitchen that I began to see myself in my aunts, my grandmother, my mother, my great aunts, and cousins on Sunday afternoons after morning worship. They spoke about the community, schools, politicians, soap operas, history, family and family secrets. However, I sensed changes in the vibration of the kitchen when one of the biggest secrets was discussed: a queer relative.

The preferred term was “those people.” Occasionally dyke and faggot would pierce the air of the room. In the 80’s when the AIDS virus became a “plague,” one of my aunts said that they should take all “those people” and put “them” on an island to die.

The worst was when they would talk about one of my mother’s cousins. I could feel the fear and hatred in their voices. It made me uncomfortable and afraid. They said being gay was the worst thing a person could ever be and cited it as a sexual, psychological, and emotional deformity. They said it was a choice. They said that the woman just had low self-esteem and couldn’t get a real man. They then would say that someone “like that” could forget about making it into heaven. I wanted to go to heaven and these were the people I thought knew how to get there.

Since I did not want to be the cousin they whispered about in the kitchen, I repeated their hurtful words and I began to verbally assault myself and those like me.

My world tumbled down one spring afternoon in the 6th grade. I had just finished talking to my best friend, and as she walked away after our discussion, I found myself watching her. She had on a denim skirt, the kind that snapped a long way up the back. As she sashayed down the hall I was in a freeze-frame-slow-motion-kinda-view.

I watched her hips sway as her bootie rocked from side to side, and just as I was about to smile to myself I hear, “YOU’RE GAY, YOU’RE LOOKIN’ AT HER BUTT!” It was a boy from my class. Immediately, I gathered my composure, and in my best, best-girlfriend voice, I called to my girl to snap her skirt one more time.

By addressing her skirt’s buttons instead of him, I made it seem like I was protecting her from all the “fast boys,” the ones who’d be looking at her bootie as she walked down the hall. At that moment I had to face the reality that I might just could be queer.

It did not help that I was overweight and a bookworm. My self image and feelings about myself were shaped by conversations in my relative’s kitchens. I believed because I was fat I was not beautiful. I felt I was not beautiful because I was not attractive to boys my age. I built a wall around myself.

My self-esteem was not any better in college. I used sex as a crutch to support my all too fragile self-image. I was still overweight and thought as long as I was attractive enough to boys and girls that I was okay. Unfortunately, sex did not heal the void I felt inside myself. I was looking for love everywhere but inside. As a queer in this society, I am realizing that a positive image of self is instrumental to personal health and well being. I say this because I feel that my self image as a sexual minority was shaped for me even before I knew who I was.

I no longer look to others to validate my existence in this world. I’m putting my trust in the One who created all things. If S/he decided to tweak the genetic pool a bit and make a me, I should build my relationship with Hir.¹ It’s liberating to know I have nothing to fear, and I’m okay being queer.

¹ A non-specific, all-inclusive genderless term found on the SMYAL — Sexual Minority Youth Assistance League — web page www.smyal.org.

Pathways

by Akiba Onada-Sikwoia

I was fourteen years old when I first recognized my life was being informed by a presence much greater than myself. This quiet realization led me to know I was here in this body, this lifetime for a reason. I would overcome obstacles, become conscious, then share what I learned with others.

Born in El Paso, Texas, in 1943, I grew up, from the age of four, in Denver, Colorado. Middle of the road and middle of the country, surrounded by Nebraska, Wyoming, Kansas, New Mexico and the most profound mountains, Denver was a place very much in denial of its impoverished black, Latino and Native communities.

My mother worked hard but in those days there were few choices of jobs available to Black women. Her two years of Junior College weren’t able to bring much more than low-level and low-paying governmental work. During the week she worked for the Air Force Finance Center. On weekends she supplemented her income by cleaning the homes of white people. I hated knowing she had little choice but to clean the homes of white people in order to feed us — day work, we called it. Why were our lives so hard? I never understood it. Why was my life so hard? A question I’ve visited often throughout my life.

Both my biological father and the second man she married were more interested in gambling and hustling than in the financial support for the children they fathered. My mother was left to shoulder the bulk of the responsibility for myself, my two brothers and my sister which, left her angry and trapped with very little nurturing to give us.

The oldest of four children, with the responsibility of caring for my younger siblings, my first fifteen years were a slow descent into hell. Incest, battering, alcoholism and gambling were all part of the web permeating my home. Still, my inner life was full of déjà vu’s, out of body experiences, angels and deep thoughts of having been here before.

During those times I developed a fierceness for freedom and survival. I also developed insecurity and asthma. Poor grades got me on punishment for months at a time. Determined to have a life, I’d sneak out of the house, get beat and have longer punishments. At the school I was bussed to, I fought every day. Depressed, angry, scared and abandoned by father and mother, I had no adult allies growing up.

Both my mother’s parents were dead by the time she was six. My paternal Grandmother lived in Kansas City, Missouri. I would get to visit her during the summers but after the age of ten that changed. My Grandmother was the only adult whom I felt gave me unconditional love but she never knew what went on in my house.

I was fifteen when my power emerged. I “came out,” and hit my mother back. She was my batterer, her husband was hers. Strange how events occurred for me then. I had my vision at fourteen and at fifteen, I took my power. “Coming out,” was such an act of empowerment for me. I have struggled since to be out in all places.

Healing from my childhood and the tendency to project those wounds onto subsequent relationships and all else I encounter has been a life long journey. Even though I had a vision at fourteen (and several others afterwards) it was often hard to accept the truth of those visions within the context of my life.

In my early twenties I was a wild, wounded woman — experimenting with everything, including every drug — attempting to capture my missing childhood with the freedom to choose. No longer required to be mom to my brothers and sister, no longer available for abuse — I pushed life to the very edge. Sometimes hidden within the harshest of experiences, I could sense Spirit grabbing my attention but the pain of the experience would often confuse the message. A clear thread permeating my life then was the deep feeling of just not being enough. There was always something wrong. Still, somewhere inside I believed I could do anything.

By the age of twenty-six I was living in Los Angeles, studying Metaphysics and attending Science of Mind Church on Sundays. I was also using a number of drugs every day. On one of those days I started reading a book, Think and Grow Rich, recommended by a Science of Mind Practitioner, as a way for me to address, what I thought were, my “abundance issues.” The very first page read, “One of the hardest things for people to do is to love themselves.” I closed the book. I still remember the absolute hopelessness I felt in those moments. Loving myself was beyond comprehension. Not only did I not love my self, I realized, I didn’t even understand the concept.

This new truth — and the not knowing of how to grasp it — caused me to feel trapped. If I had to love me in order to have money, a good relationship, a good life, I would never make it. I was doomed — like all of my life, it was just too hard, too much work. I felt as though I were riding a roller coaster, at top speed, through a tunnel. I couldn’t stop, get off or turn around. I couldn’t see where I was headed; all I had was my past. My life was a mess. Relationships totally out of balance. I detested my job, used drugs every day and was suicidal. I was seeing a therapist — white and male, he never knew how to help me. He asked many questions but was unable to help me create solutions, other than tranquilizers.

I’d always ask my Self, what about the visions I had? Where is God? Maybe I made them up . . . if I had to love myself. What about my pain, what about my rage and all of the things I’d done that I was ashamed of? What about my mother?

This is when I suffered a nervous breakdown and had to figure out how to heal myself. No one in my community was much able to support me — they were as “out there” as I was. I had to create my own healing. First I had to rescue my mind because I was losing it.

I tried to get my mother to help me by acknowledging how she’d battered me; instead she blamed me. I wanted to die; I needed help to live. I had to see how wounded I was.

Step by step, I learned how to heal myself. It was at this time I found meditation, the beginning of a lifelong process of healing. This was my life thirty-two years ago. I’ve climbed mountains, soared plateaus and crossed many rivers since the day I felt my mind slipping away. The day I sat singing a song to my self about numbers — 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10 — over and over until form came and my mind returned back home.

Through meditation I began to find the way back to my Self, the quiet voice, I used to hear as a young person. The voice which told me I could do it, the voice that assured me I had a purpose for living. As I healed myself I was able to be a catalyst for the healing of others.

My concept of Spirit/God/Divine Creator has changed many times since my first vision. The most profound change came when God stopped being a “he” outside my self and became a living entity inside me. Thus, I began to feel empowered with Spirit, to love my self and to understand the roll of my ancestors. In 1980, at fifty-five, my dear mother made her transition into Spirit world. The mother who crossed over was a very different person from the mother who birthed me. I was gifted to be the one, within our family, to care for her during her transition into the Spirit world.

I fell in love with her, witnessing the process and assisting her preparation to exit this plane. Love and acceptance helped open the door for the healing of our relationship. Again, my life shifted. The healing between she and I took years, but from the other side, she gave the little girl inside me the love she’d always needed from her mother. Last year I was fifty-five. Crossing my mother’s death line, I gave much thanks for my life.

My mother’s death showed me the profoundness of the ancestors, which led me to the practice of Yoruba and the consideration of ancestors as guides. This in turn led me to the practice of Native American Traditions. Thus, I began to honor and claim all the bloods within, which led me to the acceptance of my Irish ancestors. I saw this acceptance of all my ancestors as an acceptance of my whole self.

My African ancestors taught me to honor the ancestors as they live within me. My Native ancestors taught me to honor the earth and all of her relations for they too live within me. One of my Great, Great Grandmother’s was Irish. She has come through to me as a guide and a warrior. This way has helped me to heal from the shame of the parts of me that I didn’t like. I am so blessed.

In September, 1998, I was able to participate in the Interfaith Pilgrimage of the Middle Passage. A year-long journey, beginning May 31, 1998, the pilgrimage retraced the triangular slave trade from Leverett, Massachusetts, all the way to South Africa. A walking prayer, this journey was envisioned, by Sister Claire Carter and Ingrid Askew, to address racism through healing the legacy of slavery — reverse patterns by going backwards. Many of us needed to take the Spirits of our enslaved Ancestors back home. We prayed to acknowledge the enormous price people of the African Diaspora have and still are paying for freedom. We came together, from all over the world, to honor, witness and give voice to the Diaspora of Africans who suffered the unspeakable cruelties of slavery, before, during, and after the Middle Passage. We walked together as diverse people healing. It was hard, but most of us found love and compassion for one another. We were the world trying to heal the world.

Through this process, again I was reminded of the enormous power of the Ancestors/Spirit for time after time, as we were willing to heal ourselves, they opened doors unattainable by us alone. On this journey of grief and greed, the importance of living one’s truth became crystallized within me. Had those before us lived their truth, perhaps this most devastating crime against all of humanity might not have occurred. On this journey I was able to heal the shame I’d held regarding the enslavement of my Ancestors. I came to celebrate the enormous gift of courage and determination given to me by my people. As we walked back through the doors of no return, in the “Slave Castles” along the coast of West Africa, my shame transformed into dignity and the slavery within my Self was healed.

The opportunity to walk upon the Earth, day after day, allowed me to listen to she who has bore witness to and suffered from the torture of so many of her children. I experienced immense joy to be able to touch her depth and see her beauty, in so many different locations, with the intention to give her a tiny grain of the compassion she has given. Profoundly I felt the suffering and love of those gone on before me. In the places where people were giving love and caring to the Earth and themselves, I felt abundance. In the areas where people were full of hate and anger, I felt her sadness. So incredible it was, to be with people, unknown to me before, focused on healing so intently. It was in Benin, West Africa, while walking when I finally knew everything is God and we are One.

Aho, Mitakuye Oyasin

Aché

To Those Who Have Come Before Me

by Jurina Vazquez

It wasn’t until my Grandmother passed away ten years ago that I really opened myself to understanding and knowing myself and developing my spirituality. It took her passing into the Spirit world to heal the stored pain that had accumulated for so many years of my life. Being a woman, a woman of color, and a woman who loves women, hasn’t always been easy, but my ancestors paved the way through their struggles and pain.

I am grateful to them for creating and manifesting the pathway so that I can move forward. I give thanks to the women before me who refused to be conquered. I am not a woman who has to be in the kitchen, domesticated day and night. I am not a woman who fears or runs from slavery. I am not a woman who has to be forced to love a man when I want to love a woman.

I am Judy, the birth name my Father gave me, Jurina, the name my Grandmother gave me, which means Pure Spirit, and Cedar Woman, she who works with cedar, sage and other herbal medicines. I am White Shell Woman, which was given to me by my adopted Lakota Family because my ancestors are Caribbean Indians who are a peaceful, loving and powerful nation, like the ocean. I am also Braveheart, which was given to me by my sister, Akiba, because she says that I walk into the unknown with an open heart to see what the universe unfolds for me.

My grandmother is my father’s mother. Her name is Carmen Maria Ramos Vazquez and she taught me about unconditional love. She also taught me about strength, particularly how to be a strong woman. She was a matriarch and she stood up for her rights as a Puerto Rican woman. Matriarchy in Puerto Rico is rare, but she didn’t let anyone rule her, not even her husband or her three sons.

She was a short, round, bowlegged woman, and almost looked like a shaman with Indian features, white hair and strong arms. She worked in the house and grew roses. She tended and nourished them so beautifully — just as well as the people she touched in her life. Even when she was stern we knew it was coming from a place of love. She nourished us by giving us reasons for her sternness and we learned quickly — it was for our protection. I never had a need to come out to her — she always knew — because I always brought my partners over and she was very loving and accepting of them. She never asked me about boyfriends, like many Puerto Rican grandmothers would.

My grandmother also taught me how to protect myself. Our relationship deepened when she found out a family member abused me. When I was seven she kicked his ass in front of me and knocked him over — he was twice her size. That’s when I knew women could do anything and size didn’t matter. From that point on, I knew no one was ever going to fuck with me.

When my grandmother was a child, her family couldn’t afford to send her to school so she sat outside the school and listened through the window using rocks as pens and the ground as her paper. Later, I would teach her how to read and write in English. Every day after I came home from school, she asked me what I learned that day. I taught her whatever I learned.

She was an eager self-learner and she had a lot of confidence in herself. When she walked through the pueblo, her head was raised with integrity and dignity. She gained so much respect of the people in the pueblo they asked her to be mayor. She said no, she had a family to raise and take care of. When she died, three funeral parlors fought to be the one to do the funeral. Not because of the money, because they were willing to do it free, but because Carmen Maria Ramos Vazquez passed. She died on the fourth of July, and I say she went out with a bang.

Even though we lived miles apart when I was older, I felt protected by her presence knowing she was on the planet. When she passed, I freaked out. I was lost and very afraid. My grandmother, the strong matriarchal woman who had taught me about unconditional love and strength, was gone. I had to quit both my jobs and I could not sleep or eat. Her death was very sudden. She was diabetic, had an attack and went to the hospital. She passed, but our family does not have many details and we still want to investigate it.

In that year, I discovered Sundance. I was going to pray for my Grandmother because we had just discovered her diabetes. Sundance is a ceremony that takes place in the summer time, and we pray to the sun for life’s continuation on the planet earth. People go to Sundance for many things. It is a ceremony for renewal, healing, and abundance to celebrate the Sun’s energy, which gives life to everything on planet earth. Some go to dance for themselves, or a loved one, or their nations, or the earth.

The day I was supposed to go to Sundance, my car was packed and I was ready to leave after work. I had been trying to go to it for three years, but I always created something to prevent myself from going; it was really big and I knew it. I went home and I heard a message from my brother on my answering machine. We spoke and he said she passed. I went to Puerto Rico and word got to the chief of the Sundance that I was not attending because of my grandmother. After the dance, she made her way to my home in Santa Fe and found me. There was an instant connection — I was miserable and needed healing. She took me into the sweat lodge and that’s when my healing began.

The next year I prepared to be a Sundancer so I could dance for my Grandmother. There I met Charlene O’Rourke, who adopted me and taught me the ways of the Lakota people. As I learned the Lakota ways, I also started to connect to the roots of my people. I began to realize how similar our nations were and how much suffering our nations (Caribbean Indian, Native American and African people) had gone through. And as I started to learn more about my ancestry, my Grandmother’s spirit began to come to me. She was letting me know that she was still with me and would begin to guide me.

I developed a new relationship with myself and my grandmother in the Spirit world. The more I connected, the more intrigued I became with my own spirituality. Before my spirituality deepened, I identified as a lesbian and woman of color and accepted that within myself, but as I began a process of healing, I developed a broader understanding of why I am a woman of color and a woman who loves women.

When I decided to be in and walk in my total truth as a lesbian and woman of color my Spirit grew. I began to feel so whole and complete that even my family members who had issues and concerns with my life opened up to being more peaceful, loving, and complete with me. I thought to myself, “What did I do differently to make them turn that leaf?” I knew the answer. I stood in my truth.

I have learned much these past ten years — have read much, have researched plenty, and it is still endless. I know it really doesn’t matter what religion I have chosen for myself, for religion is only a tool to assist me in reaching my highest self, my truest self, my spiritual self. I have learned it takes bravery to heal. What motivates me is my desire to heal from all of the pain that I have been carrying and weighing me down — preventing me from being light, loving and free.

My spirituality is my connection to Mother Earth, Father Sky, Grandmother Moon, Grandfather Sun, Brother Wind and Sister Water. My spirituality is my connection with the four-leggeds, winged ones, finned ones, and creepy crawlers. It is my connection with the songs of my ancestors, with all of my sisters who are in similar pathways and walkways, with all my brothers who are the left and right, yin and yang, with all the children who keep me light, make me laugh, bring happiness and joy and remind me of my innocence, with all the elders who bring me ancientness, tradition, stories, and wisdom into my life.

I can only be whole and complete in my Spirit when I am in my total truth. It is being impeccable with my word, always doing my best, never making assumptions, never taking anything personally, forgiving myself, and loving myself. My spirituality is an energy that creates my life force which balances my mind, my body and my Spirit.