“Decolonized ancestor worship.”
That was my first and immediate response to a partner’s questions about my altar. A single candle was lit, fresh flowers and water, and the tablecloth recently replaced. It cast a soft light in my bedroom.
If I felt something, I kept it to myself.
He asked to approach it, so he could see it better. Maybe ask some questions. The guarded in me said, “from a distance.” At first.
I’m not used to others wanting to know.
Nor am I used to someone not wanting my succinct answers. He wanted to know details. The “whys.” The “how I got here.”
I’ve a certain post that would be a good companion piece for this entry (and vise versa), so I guess this is as a good time as any…
Like most kids, I had my obligatory Wiccan phase in high school. And, like most adults, I look back upon it and cringe– not because of Wicca itself, but I fell into the tunnel of misinformation and fluffybunniness that was Silver RavenWolf. I’ve had a lot of serious unpacking to do when I revisited Wicca in my late 20s. I don’t consider myself Wiccan, mostly due to it being a slippery slope for cultural appropriation.
At best, my spiritual relationship is “complicated“/”vaguely pagan”/”probably a Satanist,” with ancestral religions of the Black diaspora.
In addition, what I believe:
- There is no God, just personifications of forces and energies we can (and cannot) name. And they don’t care if I cheat on my taxes. (I’ll note that this is metaphysics-friendly.)
- And in direct response to undoing the damage RavenWolf did: My practice is decolonized, anti-appropriative, and anti-oppressive. If it isn’t of my culture (Black American) or “open,” then I keep my hands off of it. I’ve also a particular dislike for Christianity as it was used as a tool to colonize most of the world.
- Due to the previous point, what I do would be considered eclectic. I do a lot of reading to be sure something is acceptable for me, as well as reclaiming my roots. I pick up what works and discard the rest, for preference and practicality/flexibility.
- My focus is on Black diasporic / Black American spirituality. Considering I’m descended from slaves, it is a lot to digest. Herbalism as well as the more scarier (according to Hollywood) things.
- I am picky about my “woo.” I’m still pretty allergic to cisheteronormativity, even in witchy circles– I run into the gender binary a lot via the whole “male/female energies” thing; and I’m certainly not substituting crystals to a trip to the doctor. Also refer back to Point 2.
I’m also influenced by my parents, who were ostracized from their church for daring to voice concern over their money consumption; they’ve shown me different ways to be religious and/or spiritual without the requirement of an overpriced building. They’ve always done their own thing and their offspring followed in that regard. I got my love for sleeping in on Sundays from them!
But what do I do? It is not much, but I’ve altars (one personal, one for my Ancestors), I may wiggle my fingers and meditate at the same time, do some decorating, and I make time for Juneteenth and other Black American holidays.
…So I was flippant just a tiny bit, but I’m a bit private about this, and, to quote another practitioner when we were still in contact: “stop telling white people our shit.”
And I get enough weird looks from Gold Star Atheists.
So that’s the setup as to why it would be so damn weird for me to step into a church of any sort. Except for weddings, knightings, and funerals.
So, yeah. On a rainy Saturday evening way back in February, I went to church.
It was the movie trope of the scene mirroring depression: rainy, and cold, and in a desolate parking lot browsing Facebook. I saw a post about a gospel event. I decided to go. Because isn’t that what people do when they’re sad? They go to church, right, on a Saturday night? And nothing had worked that day– might as well give it a shot– I’ll try (almost) anything once.
For in that quest to squash the sadness and find another part of Me that’s My Thing, something out of character may have been in order.
I was decidedly very uncomfortable in that crowded church.
I didn’t belong.
And when the singer announced they were there not to be entertained, but to worship, I was rightfully embarrassed for my spectatorship and left (and to add to that embarrassment– I was blocked in, so they had to make an announcement for someone to move their vehicle).
I’ll just skip to this part: I didn’t get the epiphany that there was a God that cared about me. Nor did I receive an embrace of a religious community of “you belong here.” And I certainly didn’t feel enough spirit to stand up and sing or hum the tune very badly. And ultimately, I left the event not feeling much different than from when I arrived.
Maybe I went, anyway, on a hunch that such a shock to my system would jog things for me. And that hunch turned out to be correct, for I did come away with an epiphany:
People can be like negative space: when you’re unable to be defined by what you are, you can be defined by what you are not.
