Why We Can't Talk to You about Voodoo

We who are natives of this City and count ourselves among the Faithful cannot talk with you, the outsider, about Voodoo. And that is unfortunate. Because in this highly complex, deceptively simple set of principles, beliefs and what-have-you, is much that could heal you of whatever it is in your life that needs healing. Could heal your whole life, probably. Because that's what it really is all about. Your whole life. Not you personally, of course, but how the wholeness anyone and everyone should have can be restored, can restore one to oneself. But the very fact that you come asking after it means that you will never possess it, at least not in this lifetime. And certainly not from anything you might learn here. And besides, we honestly cannot talk with you about it anyhow.

You, of course, will tell us about the books you have read and the research you have done. None of which has anything to do with us or our beliefs. We will smile sympathetically as we always do at such defenses, which we recognize as the pleas for belonging that they are. Or perhaps you are a modern-day Latin—by which we mean that you are descended not from our oppressors of past centuries, but from the same oppression wreaked throughout the islands and inlands of what is now called Latin America. In other words, a cousin of sorts. In which case you will go on about Santería, which you will not call by its name, Santería, but, in hushed tones, "the saints"—as if the pope might have his spies nearby. As if the pope's spies had nothing better to do than loll about eavesdropping over iced coffees in New Orleans. You will go on about it and about your "love of Africa"; but what we will notice is your affection for things European. And how you use that word "European" as an adjective for all that is good not only about our City but about yourselves. You drop it like a compliment, without warning. We notice that although you come from the "race-less, class-less" worlds just next door to us, you will go on, at length, about color and texture and shapes of skin and hair and lips and noses. We will note with not a little shame the specific physical transformations you have foisted upon yourselves and freely recommend to us. By the time you return to "the saints," in other words, we will have begun to wonder if the pope's spies might not be needing their coffees topped. (Perhaps, for the sake of good manners, we ought to invite them to join us at the club this evening to hear our favorite bassist and his new trio.) You will notice our attention waning and become defensive. (In another age we would say, "why not?") You will attempt to lure us with comparisons. "The drums!" (your voice rising now) "where are the drums?!" ("In Congo Square," we might offer, "every Sunday for the last few centuries.") But we have heard all this before and so will offer more coffee—water? rum? sweets perhaps? Anything to take the edge off your confusion. And shut the door on that endless yammering.

None of this, of course, will satisfy you. Still, we will do whatever we can to put you at ease. You are, after all, a not too distant relation, and we feel for your discomfort. In the end, however, we will tell you nothing you care to hear. You will leave perhaps a little triumphant. But in a matter of hours, perhaps a day or two, some dis-ease will come over you and you will seek us out again. You will be calmer but no less unhappy. And we are sorry, truly sorry, for your distress. But we cannot help. We really cannot talk to you about it. Perhaps you should, finally, go home.

And indeed, wouldn't that be the very best thing for you, all of you, no matter who you are and...