Culture Clash (9 page)

“Me and Mama had something to do first,” I say, starting the car. Daddy looks down at me and closes my door while I fasten the seat belt across my body. A girl can never be too careful.

“You should come visit the church again, Jayd. I think you have a lot of talent, especially with the way you handled yourself at the memorial service,” Daddy says, reminding me of Tre’s death. “You might even want to consider giving a speech on Easter Sunday a few weeks from now. It happens to fall on youth Sunday this year, and we’re letting the young people take it over.” I wonder if that’s because all of the adults are too busy sinning.

“I’ll think about it,” I say. “But right now I have to get to work.” Daddy smiles at me before walking back across the street and letting me go. Through my rearview mirror, I can see him looking toward the backyard. I can’t read his mind, but if I could I’d bet he’s counting his blessings for Mama not coming out of the backhouse—where the spirit room is housed—while his side trick was there.

I will never understand why Daddy cheats on Mama or why Mama has stayed married to Daddy all of these years, knowing how he rolls. But there are a lot of things Mama does that I don’t fully understand, nor do I try to anymore. I just do what I’m told and trust her—period. The rest of it, as Mama says, is grown folks business and I’m not that grown yet. Being the youngest in Netta’s shop reminds me of that every time I’m at work. And today will be no exception.

Just as I expected, the shop was full all day long. We barely got a lunch break, taking ten minutes here and there to nibble on the food Mama or Netta brings for our long workdays every weekend. Now that the day is almost over, all except for one of the clients is done for the day. Netta had to do some serious heat repair for this sistah’s hair. She went to another stylist while out of town and the lady jacked her up. The sistah cried through the entire story and vowed to never let another beautician touch her head—ever.

“Come on, Jayd. We have to go shopping for spirit supplies. There’s a lot of work to be done and I need to stock up,” Mama says, hanging her work apron on the hook next to the lockers. Is she serious? It’s almost seven and any botanica we go to is going to be at least a half hour away. By the time we’re done it’ll be after nine, leaving me hardly any time to myself this evening. What the hell?

“Mama, can’t we go tomorrow? It’s late and I’m tired,” I whine, following Mama’s lead and getting ready to go, even though I hope we’re going in two different directions. Netta’s in the back on the phone with her husband, making big plans to go stepping tonight. Netta loves to dance and bowl almost as much as she likes doing hair. And with Sundays being her slowest day, there’s no need to worry about coming in early tomorrow. I rarely work Sundays because there’s so little to do. And I think Netta likes having her shop to herself for one day a week.

“No, we can’t, Jayd, and stop whining. Botanicas are closed on Sundays because most of the owners and practitioners still attend Sunday mass,” Mama says, grabbing her large overstuffed hobo bag from the coatrack and opening the front door of Netta’s shop. It was a warm day and it’s still a nice evening. The sun hasn’t completely set, leaving an orange hue across the darkening blue sky. Today would have been a perfect beach day and I know my friends both in the hood and in the South Bay took advantage of the gift.

Netta comes to the front of the shop and waves at us without pausing her phone conversation. She’s got the truck today and as soon as she’s done here, she’ll go home and pick up her man. I’m glad someone’s relationship seems to be working out.

“See you tomorrow and odabo,” Mama says, waving goodbye to her best friend. Even if they don’t know the language that well, they still speak Yoruba every chance they get, especially when greeting each other. Mama says it’s important to speak whatever African language you know, to retain the tongue and the memory that intrinsically comes along with it. We pray and sing in Yoruba, too, for the same reason.

“Odabo and be safe, sis. See you Monday, lil Miss Jayd,” Netta responds, returning to her office before I can say goodbye. Whatever stepping competition they’ve got going on tonight must be fierce. Netta’s hella fit for a woman in her thirties, let alone her fifties. She stays on her feet and that keeps her looking young, just like Mama.

“We’re going to The Path off Broadway and Main,” Mama says. That’s her favorite botanica and is owned by a friend of hers. Mama stops outside the front door and gives some coins to the Legba shrine for the shop. “You’re driving.” Mama walks to the passenger’s side of my mom’s car and waits for me to unlock the doors. Astonished, I clumsily look for the keys in my purse, which are buried at the bottom of the damned thing. That’s the problem with upgrading the size of a purse: no matter how big it is, you can always fill it up with junk.

“I’m sorry. I know they’re here somewhere,” I say, frantically searching through old receipts, hall passes, and candy wrappers. Why do I need all of this garbage hanging off my shoulder? I’m going to have to see about downsizing my summer handbag. This is too much for a sistah to go through every time I need something.

“Part of being a responsible driver is knowing where your keys are at all times,” Mama says, rolling her eyes at me impatiently.

“Here they are,” I say, proudly pointing the remote at the car and unlocking the doors. For the first time, Mama’s getting in the car with me behind the wheel. I just hope we make it to our destination in one piece or I’ll never hear the end of it.

When we finally arrive at the store, the parking lot is packed with people coming and going. It doesn’t help that there’s a Taco Bell right next door, sharing the tiny lot with the spiritual supply megastore. We find a parking space at the very back of the store and claim it quickly before someone else does.

“Here, Jayd, you push the basket. We have to stock up,” Mama says, walking down the wide aisles of the warehouse. There are several botanicas Mama likes to patronize, but this one is by far her favorite.

Each aisle is color coded according to the orisha it represents, offering incense, candles, cloths, sacred objects, and anything else needed to get the work done. The owner even made sure to group the orishas according to personality and preference. Oshune is on the same aisles as Yemoja and Olokun. Ochosi, Ogun, and Legba are together while Sango is on the same aisles as Oya, Oba, and Orunmilla. Obatala and the ancestors are located on the two middles aisles between the other orishas. Then there’s an aisle at the very front of the store, next to the cashiers for other deities who are not as well known.

“Alaafia, Queen Jayd!” the owner, Miguel, says to me, then also greets my grandmother in Yoruba. Bowing and blowing kisses to her as he walks toward us, down the aisle for Oshune, he smiles and looks around to make sure no one sees him. Mama hates an audience, even if her crown makes it impossible for her to walk around unnoticed in the voodoo community.

“Alaafia, Miguel.
Cómo estás?
” Mama replies, gently tapping his shoulders, indicating he may rise and give her a hug. Miguel is one of Mama’s oldest initiates into the religion. I’m ever amazed at Mama’s connections in various hoods.

“
Muy bien. Y tú? Tu familia es bien, sí?
” His Spanish accent makes the words roll right off his tongue, much like when Emilio and Maggie speak in their native language. But their accents are different, making their dialects sound like a different language to me, even though I know they’re all speaking Spanish.

“Sí, mi familia es bien, gracias,”
Mama says, her Spanish perfect but without the accent. Mama speaks a little bit of the various languages that come with the devotees in the religion. She can converse in multiple Creole languages and Portuguese, too, which always trips me out. I hope to inherit Mama’s talent for picking up different words here and there.

“And little Jayd. You’re looking especially lovely this afternoon in your Yeye’s favorite color, yellow,” he says, complimenting my mother Orisha before crossing both arms across his chest and slightly bending his right knee before hugging me tightly. He does this to honor my lineage even though I’m not initiated yet. Nor am I his elder, so a bow would be inappropriate. I love the reverence and respect I receive when I’m around Mama because I am her grandchild. If I’m going to be a part of any clique to get props, it’s got to be Mama’s crew.

“
Gracias,
Señor Miguel.” He’s got to be at least Mama’s age, but I can never tell how old my elders are in our community. Most of them appear to be ageless. They seem to stop aging around fifty or so years. On the other hand, the elder sisters and brothers at Daddy’s church seem to age more rapidly.

“Can I help you find anything, Iyalosha?” he asks Mama while escorting us farther down the aisle. Mama checks her list and begins reading it off to Miguel. I’m glad he’s here. His assistance will make the shopping go by faster and with little effort from me. I want to get back to my mom’s apartment, watch reruns of
The Game
and finish reading another chapter or two in my novel. I’m about halfway through the text and it’s really getting good.

I follow Miguel as he moves expertly through Mama’s list, organizing it according to the various rows of orisha goods. I can tell by the way he says each item’s correct name that he loves what he does.

“Señor Miguel, how did you start this store?” I ask as he fills the basket. Mama’s slightly ahead of us, adding to her already long list.

“That’s a good question, Jayd,” Miguel says, inspecting his products. He sees a candle for Legba turned the wrong way and immediately aligns it with the rest of the row before answering my question. “When
mi familia
first opened this botanica, it was much smaller. We rented a storefront around the corner from our home in Lynwood. When it opened, we had a huge fiesta and invited all the neighbors to come and visit the store. We had plenty of food and gave away candles and incense. The drummers and dancers kept the party going all night. I mean, we had a really good time.”

“We sure did,” Mama says, continuing her shopping while strolling down memory lane with Miguel. I didn’t even think she was listening, the way she’s carefully inspecting each item before passing it to Miguel. She bends down to pick up a case of white candles, but Miguel spots it and insists on getting it for her.

“Unfortunately, the only thing the neighbors remembered about that store was the fact that we had live chickens in a cage in the back. For years to come, they would whisper about what we did when we held ceremonies, even though none of them ever stepped foot in our store again.”

“They made your lives a living hell, but we fixed them,” Mama says, smiling knowingly at Miguel, who shares the same spark in his brown eyes. I’m curious to know the details, but I know better than to interrupt when Mama’s speaking. She picks up several boxes of coconut incense, a favorite of both Obatala and the ancestors. It’s also good for general shrine use.

“Yes, we did. But we suffered through years of police raids because of the vicious accusations by our neighbors. They said we were eating chicken hearts whole and sacrificing our young. It was awful.” We turn the corner, almost running into a lady and her basket. There are several customers shopping and in line for the cashier. Like at Netta’s salon, Saturday’s a profitable day for this store.

“Ignorance is harmful, Jayd. Remember that.” Mama’s got that right. The past week in school has proven that point well.

“When clients would come into the store sometimes they would be harassed and called devil worshippers by people on the street. One client told me that one of the oldest and bitterest of all the neighbors would feign ignorance that the store existed when asked for directions. One time she even had the nerve to ask the client why he wanted that kind of store. Didn’t he know they sold live chickens in there? The client responded by saying he likes his meat fresh and the old lady went on with her gardening, without saying another word,” Miguel says, getting a good laugh at the thought.

“Yes, thank God some of our devotees are strong in their faith,” Mama says, checking her list one last time before heading to one of the three cashiers at the counter behind the bulletproof glass.

“Yes, little Jayd, when Legba opened the road for us to get a bigger, more centrally located space, we decided to name it for our collective walk as orisha worshippers and keep botanica out of the name. We can’t argue with ignorance, nor do we want any of our clients harassed while shopping for supplies,” Miguel says, securing Mama’s place in line. He would take her to the back and ring her up ahead of the other customers, but Mama refuses to accept special treatment.

“And we’re glad, too,” Mama says, pushing the basket up to be third in line. “Because of your dedication we have one of the best botanicas in Los Angeles County—run by a true devotee, not a mercenary like most of the other shops I visit.” Watching Mama and Miguel continue their chatter, my thoughts drift off to what the people outside are saying about The Path. There’s a church across the street that looks like it’s just ending or beginning Saturday night service. Some of the church folks are outside staring and pointing across the street. I’m sure Miguel and his regulars are used to the gawking by now, but I’m not. It makes me uncomfortable having vehement hate directed my way, no matter where it’s coming from.

Most of the patrons of any botanica are Hispanic, with black clientele taking a distant second place. And the people in most neighborhoods in LA County realize the tension between the two cultures. I don’t understand why so many black people hate Mexicans. If it weren’t for stores like this one, there would be very little representation of our traditions around. By having botanicas and practitioners of the faith in our neighborhood, they bring a little bit of Africa to the hood, and I’m grateful for it, no matter what country they’re from or what language they speak.

Mama finally makes it to the front of the line and pays for all of the supplies. Miguel walks us to the car and helps us load the trunk and backseat before saying good-bye to Mama and hello to the haters across the street. As they hiss at us, Mama looks at them and smiles, all the while holding on to the multiple eleke—each beaded necklace representing a particular Orisha—hanging around her neck.