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11 The Research Begins, 1995 I grieved Aunt Marjory’s death for months. She had been my living history book; she made me feel I was attached to something larger than my immediate family. Other family members were hurting, too. My brothers and I talked fondly of the big Thanksgiving dinners she used to give. From time to time at family gatherings, we would all burst out singing “We Are Family” in Aunt Marj’s memory. As the weeks following her passing stretched into months,everyone returned to their own busy lives. My brother David, a professor at Harvard Law School, was soliciting funding for a new center he’d created for the study of global legal issues. My brother Timothy was a partner at a high-powered law firm in New York City. My brother Stephen ran the elementary school sports department for the Chicago public school system. As a music teacher and semi-employed jazz musician, I was the one with the most time to brood. When Thanksgiving came and went without the usual visit to Aunt Marjory’s Brooklyn brownstone, I sat down and made a list of all the questions I should have asked her while she was alive: Who were my father’s people and how did I come by the name Wilkins? Were they slaves on a plantation? If so, where? What did they do? What part of Africa had they come from? Were there white people in my family tree, and if so, how did they get there? Were there Native Americans? If so, what tribe? The list went on in this vein for several pages.When I was finished writing,I put my head down and cried. With Aunt Marjory’s passing, the last and maybe the only person who knew the intimate details of our family’s history was gone. I spent hours at the piano, trying to work through my grief. I would play Aunt Marj’s favorite spirituals over and over again while I pondered. Humming Chapter Two 12 Damn Near White along as I played “Balm in Gilead” or “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot,” I would wonder, what was the world like when she first heard these songs? Who sang them to her as a child? Aunt Marjory had loved to talk about her father, Rev. John Wallace Robinson, who had pastored St. Mark’s Church in Harlem during the 1920s. She had been so connected, so rooted in her world, her heritage, and her religion. Sadly, I contemplated my own spotty relationship to the Christian church. The last time I could remember even going to church other than to play a gig had been for an Easter service more than five years before. Lately I had found myself yearning for a deeper connection, both to my Christian heritage and to my African roots. More months passed. I joined a group of Cubans who practiced Santeria, an amalgam of Catholicism and African animism. We dressed in white, danced to pounding conga drums, and practiced animal sacrifice. We spent hours in the woods connecting with nature spirits, bathed naked in the river at midnight, and collected dirt from graves in the local cemetery. My family and friends were appalled at my new activities. My husband, John, seriously considered a divorce. It was a time of intense spiritual and personal questioning for me. Surely there was a larger purpose for my presence on this earth than simply to pursue my own selfish desires? Who was I really? What was my purpose in being here? Despite the adamant objections of my family and friends, I felt strongly drawn to African spirituality. In Santeria, as in many traditional African religions , God is not in intimate contact with His creation. Santeria’s practitioners believe that there are seven major energy forces, called Orisas, that govern the material world as God’s intermediaries. Every Santeria initiate is believed to have a special relationship with one of the Orisas. This Orisa is that person’s Guardian Angel, guiding them and protecting them through life. When I announced my intention to learn more about my Guardian Angel , a wizened Cuban divination specialist was brought up from New York to do a “reading” for me. After a brand new one-hundred-dollar bill ritually wrapped in aluminum foil had changed hands, a white dove was sacrificed, and I was washed in a special bath made from secret herbs. Then, dressed in a brand new white gown, I was...

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