Category: Eulogio Ramiro Verdecia Rivero

Burning Pepe with Ritual.

A little bit of knowledge can be dangerous… as this story proves out.

I don’t know where to begin because I don’t think that I’ve told you enough about my past with Santeria, Palo and Vodou, but this memory came to mind this afternoon and I wanted to write it down. Perhaps, I’ll even publish it without giving you the proper context. To help a little you could go into some of my blog posts that are tagged with Santeria, Palo and Ramiro and the like… yet it might not help at all. But let’s get right into it, anyway.

Without going into any great detail, suffice it to say that I had been living with a Santero (a practitioner/priest of Santeria. My break with him was tragic. After being with him for several years, to better understand him and the culture of Cuba and its people, I studied Cuban spirituality and simultaneously, Haitian spirituality which, of course, both derive from African roots.

In my studies, I came across primary resources written by priests. Primary resources, of course, are documentation that record first hand experiences. These books or pamphlets or diaries recorded the rituals of their religion. I had watched many rituals performed in the years spent with the Cubans. I always felt though that I was standing at the door with the door just barely cracked open and me, I was peeking inside of a room not truly being able to enter, to participate or to even understand what I was seeing.

This new found knowledge, accompanied by my first hand experiences with Santeros and practitioners of Palo and Vodou, proved to be dangerous weapons in my hands.

After my break with Ramiro, I was left with many accoutrements, but this is another story. My heart had been broken and I had seen too many things. I wanted to relieve my broken heartedness and I also wanted to affect others with what I knew. I didn’t really want to hurt anyone, that was not my intention. But these two things alone are a dangerous combination. I wasn’t looking for revenge but this is how it was perceived.

Pepe was a friend of Ramiro’s and appeared on the scene to “soothe my pain”. I didn’t want a boyfriend, I wanted Ramiro back but I wasn’t getting him back, so Pepe became a friend. But this was not how Pepe saw it.

Pepe would not go away. He tattooed my name on his arm. He led his friends to believe we were lovers. That, we never were. My mistake was to allow him to continue to be my friend even when I realized that he was unreasonable.

My reasoning was that Pepe was nice enough. Pepe cared for me. He was willing to tolerate that I was still in love with Ramiro and that I didn’t love him. In a selfish way, Pepe was my connection to the Cuban community and vicariously to Ramiro. In some odd way this helped to ease the pain, to have somebody familiar around.

This is how the problem started and I am the only one to blame. Pepe was insistent and I suppose you could say that I allowed it, I left the door open, I was too tolerant. But as he became demanding, I became frustrated at first and then afraid. I didn’t believe he would hurt me but he had become frustrated, too. There was an element of him being out of control. Here again, I won’t go into unnecessary detail about his fits of frustration. He was refusing to just be my friend. Though I would lose my connection to him, to the Cubans and to Ramiro, it was time for him to go.

I wanted him to know that I was serious. I wanted him to know that I could make him go away. I knew in no uncertain terms that it had to be final and permanent. I thought that my most powerful ability was to use his own beliefs against him.

I knew too much and yet I knew too little. I never should have done this but I did. This wasn’t the first time, nor was it the last that I used what I had learned, that I used ways that I had no business using.

Whether you believe this or not is neither here nor there to me. I don’t care. But this is what witnesses have reported. These are the consequences of my actions. I followed the directions to the letter. There are times that I regret what I did, but they had the results I was looking for. I never heard from Pepe again.

I wrote Pepe a letter simply asking him to leave me alone. I sprinked into the envelope, powders and ashes of certain and specific animal bones, crushed plants, rocks and metals procribed in the books of priests. I carefully copied, by hand, certain ancient symbols drawn in the books. I sealed the envelope and drew certain other symbols that crossed over the seal, so that when opened, the symbols would be torn in two.

Pepe recieved the letter. According to witnesses, when he tore open the seal, a cloud of dust rose into the air covering his face and flew into his eyes. He was blinded momentarily and had trouble breathing. The dust caused sores on his face and neck that lasted for weeks.

Pepe was out of my life for good. I haven’t heard from him or about him for years. I hope he’s OK.

A Story of Possession

I stood trembling in front of the double doors in the living room, shaking not from cold but for reasons I could not understand.

I was dripping with water that had been generously sweetened with honey and had been poured over my head. I really did not want to hear anything more but I knew that I had to keep my ears and eyes open even though right then, I had them firmly shut.

Oshun was standing on the other side of the room and I knew she was not through with with me yet. At any rate, I was assuming it was she.

The singing continued and so did the beat of the drums. The room was dark except for the evening light that shone through the trees and in through the open doors. The light of the candles added little to dispel the dimness.

Ramiro was speaking but I couldn’t understand what he was saying. His head fell back as he laughed and when he opened his eyes to look at me it was as though I had never seen him before.

He stood up from where he had been sitting, petitioning the deities, barefoot and shirtless in a pair of khaki shorts. He stood very close to me as he pulled his pants up high around his waist, lifted his head and looked down his nose at me.

“Do you know who I am?” He appeared very feminine as he began to move around the room, sashaying and swaying his hips sensuously and moving his shoulders very coquettishly. He held his head high, pushing his chest out, then he asked again, “Do you know who I am? I said yes, thinking I was standing in the presence of Oshun.

“Who told you to light candles to Chango? I did not tell you to. He does not like putas and you are very puta. I am his and he is mine.” He collapsed on the floor with his legs wide apart and demanded loudly “Please, bring me water and honey.”

I brought him water in a glass and the plastic bear containing honey that I used for tea. He dismissed them with disgust, waving his arms arrogantly and laughed loudly saying, “No, I want water, water, lots of water…

Make it sweet and set it here in front of me.” At this I found the biggest container I could find and filled it to the brim, emptying all of the honey into the water.

As I set it on the floor, he first bathed himself starting with his head, splashing it on his body and taking large mouthfuls of it and spraying it into the four corners of the house and then out both of the doors.

Then finally, he came over to me and washed me roughly with the sweet water from head to foot, splashing it all over. He sprayed it from his mouth in my face and all over my body, washing my arms and my breasts and stomach. He turned me around as he washed my buttocks and my legs and feet. “I will cleanse you”, she said. “You have not been living clean. You say that you love your man, but you are very puta. Why? answer me”, she demanded.

I began to cry and said, “Only to take away my loneliness.” With his hands on his hips, he sashayed over to the farthest corner of the room.

As he walked, his movements, though feminine were somewhat stiff. He lurched, nearly knocking over the table and lamp. As I reached out to grab the table he whirled around and snapped, magically as though he had eyes in the back of his head, “Do not touch me. You are an angel but you are dark. I can hardly see you. Stand over there.”

I moved to the farthest corner, next to the double doors. “You need to buy new clothes. Do not wear black anymore. Come here.” I walked over to him and he clamped his hand over my ears, pounding them with his open palms. She said, “I’m going to cleanse you.”

As he spoke words that I couldn’t understand, he rubbed my body, my arms, my legs in forceful downwards movements. He then told me to sit on the floor.

“There’s a woman that you hate. Yes? No? She has the man that you love. So you know who I am? Yes or no? Papijim, he is mine. I have taken him from you. You do not have what he needs. He does not want to dance with you. I have taken him from you. He does not want sex with you, papijim. I have what he needs”, she says, pulling his pants up and he begins to sway his hips sensually. He looked at me out of the corner of his eyes and turned his head from side to side mockingly. “You have committed many errors and now, papijim, he is mine. You do not know how to live. You do not know how to enjoy life.”

He was snorting and scoffing. She was so sure of herself as she so cruelly mocked me. She laughed out loud and I knew she was right. I was alone. I was broken. Chastised.

Several minutes later, another orisha arrived. He looked as though he saw another person in the room. He dropped his pants and grabbed his genitals. “You have preferred this. You must change.

“Buy girasoles (sunflowers). Buy white flowers that have no pink or yellow. Put the petals in a bucket of clear water. Wash your hands and arms in the water as you crush the petals in your fingers. When you are done, throw the water out the door of your house.” He left me reeling.

Before he left, he sprayed rum into the four corners of the house and around the doors to keep evil away. He moved my image of Eleggua to face the front door to guard against whatever might wish to pass to do me harm.

Post script:

This is just a small example of what I witnessed while I lived with the Cubans. I learned so much about the way they think and about the way they view sickness and ways that they heal. Because they were refugees and lived in a city where items that they needed to perform certain rituals were not readily available, I saw a great deal of adaptation, accommodation and ingenuity. This lack did not affect how they lived any more than the slaves were disabled because they arrived in the new world without the necessary paraphernalia to carry on.

I will not go into descriptions of the orishas (gods), in this instance, Oshun and Chango, or what this experience was all about. I will let it stand but I will tell you more as these stories emerge on this blog.

I lived with Ramiro, a santero (priest in Santeria), for three years and was immersed in his religion. Later, I studied Cuban folklore and spirituality with other priests in both Santeria and Palo and at UCLA.

This story took place when we were no longer together but still very close.

This is one story of many that I will share with you.

New Year’s Eve Musings of a New Year’s Eve Anti-Climax Long Ago

It’s New Year’s Eve, 2017. I’ve been sleeping in my chair. I just moved to the bed. Everyone is sick here. Hannah and Enora are in a terrible state; they’re in mortal combat with the flu with body temperatures over 100 degrees. Both have painful coughs. Neither has eaten for at least two days. Ancel is at his dad’s New Year’s party, meeting with his friends for an intense game of Dungeons and Dragons. I made a delicious dip but no one wants it. I drank a huge glass of fresh orange and lemon juice with rum and I guess that’s why I fell asleep. Big, big exciting night approaching.

This is nothing new. If I had somewhere to be, it would be a miracle. I’m usually disappointed in New Year’s Eve, anyway. I’ve never been to a party. I’ve never shared my life with anyone who’ll stay, up. I can’t tell you how many years I’ve watched the ball drop in New York City, watching TV while huddled on the couch alone, while Jack slept in the bedroom. And me? Wondering if the rest of the world was dancing. I’d stay there watching the entertainment, then I would dejectedly drift into bed wondering what exciting time I had missed. After thirty some years with Jack, I really never got used to not celebrating the leaving of one year and the coming in of another.

Once I met Ramiro, I must have been out on New Year’s Eve. He wouldn’t have stayed home. He was a young Cuban man. A tremendous dancer with an unquenchable thirst for life. Why can’t I remember? I can’t remember. I’m sure we were either out dancing at Andrea’s Cha Cha’s Club or at Guave and Natasha’s house where there was always a party. Maybe that’s why. Maybe it was because we were always out dancing or at a house party.me-ramiro_1996-1

My saddest New Year’s Eve was when the Gregorian calendar turned to the year 2000, my first year without him. After three years, it was over, but it was a slow death. He wouldn’t come home. I had been too mean. A menopausal mean. The worst kind of mean. I didn’t know what had turned me into a dissatisfied screaming ‘jeemy’, and he had decided that if I kicked him out one more time, he wasn’t coming back. This was the last time. Though I begged him to come home and though we still loved each other, he was cold, like a stone. My pleading was useless, so I moved on. I tried for eight months. I dated others, but I wasn’t forgetting. I made plans to leave Portland to try to start over. To try to forget him. If he didn’t know where I was, he might leave me alone, might not call, might not come over every night.

So, I moved. I didn’t tell him where I lived. I house sat for Casey and Karen while they went to spend three months in an ashram in India. That should do until I left for Tallahassee, Florida having accepted a graduate fellowship at Florida State University. I would start winter semester. I decided to leave in December so that I could take the train to regroup, to try to pull myself together. While staring out the windows, I watched as each state flew by. How much farther away could I move while staying on the continent of contiguous states. How many degrees of separation would it take to get over him?

I planned to stop in Nogales, Arizona for a couple of days, to visit my good friend, Mary Beth. Mary Beth had traveled with me to Mexico. She had spent days and nights with Ramiro and me… cooking dinner, bringing sacks of food and liquor to the house, dancing and laughing and loving the nights and days away. After Ramiro left, she spent days, nights and weeks trying to console me but I was sick nearly to death from heartbreak. Between Mary Beth and Tannis, I didn’t die, though there were days that I couldn’t breathe. I would arrive in time to spend New Year’s Eve with Mary Beth and then on to Tallahassee. Good plan, I thought.

In those months, I never stopped crying. Mary Beth met me at the train station where we caught a taxi to her apartment. I came as she had left me months before. I was lost, but she was kind. We dropped off my bags and caught another taxi to the restaurant/bar where she worked. She was going to have to work on New Year’s Eve, she told me. I was going to be alone. This was what I dreaded. We bought liquor, then stopped at a taqueria where we gorged on tacos. Then back to the house where she dropped me off so she could head back to work. I busied myself cleaning. listened to music and felt miserable.

The next day we crossed the border to explore Nogales, Mexico. We ate, did a bit of shopping and then home again. I was terrible company. A broken record, a swollen-faced gargoyle, a fountain of salty water and grief. Mary Beth was strong like a giant sequoia tree. She never would have fallen prey to drowning in sorrow. She knew her strength. She had left many loves behind. I wanted nothing more than to drown. New Year’s eve came.

I was home for the evening while she worked her shift. She had moved away from Portland months before. She was always wandering. She had closed her eyes and dropped her finger onto a map. Wherever it landed, she decided, would be her next move. She packed up, got on a bus and rented an apartment as far south as one could travel. She settled on the Mexican border. The front of the apartment faced south with a view from the depressed US town of Nogales, Arizona, to its sister city, the even more depressed city of Nogales, Sonora, Mexico. The kitchen’s plate glass windows ran along the full length of the south side of the building, looking across the border, a wall of steel, into Nogales, Mexico.

Nogales-Wall

As night began to fall, I stood at the windows. I wasn’t hungry. I was beyond lonely so I would wait for Mary Beth to get off work when the bar closed. There would be no buses. Taxies would be few and far between. Her plan was, as it was every night, to walk home, alone, keeping to the gravel shoulder along the highway. She walked towards the border, for miles and miles, to reach her apartment. Never afraid.

a-stunning-photo-of-the-border-between-nogales-usa-and-nogales-mexico

I watched fireworks and listened to gunshots, watched the flares and the blue and red flashing lights of police vehicles and wondered what Ramiro was doing. At some point, I realized that bullets could come through those windows and kill me, so I spent the evening crawling around on the floor between the living room and the kitchen, standing just long enough to make another drink, hoping the walls were thick enough to stop a bullet. What did I know? When Mary Beth got home after a night on her feet, we drank until 4:00 in the morning, listening to ballads in Spanish. I needed to leave to catch my train though the sun was hours from bringing the light.

night in Nogales

The scheduled taxi driver refused to wake, so we drug my suitcases through the black streets; I was carrying $600 in cash, all the money I had to start my life on the panhandle. I was paranoid, hung over, or more likely still drunk, but still, I had to catch the first train out of Nogales. I was running to Florida but really, I was trying to run from my broken heart.

Eighteen years later, I’m still running from that broken heart and New Year’s Eve hasn’t gotten any better. I don’t cry anymore and I don’t watch the ball drop alone anymore but like all the new year’s eves in my life, I wonder what I should be doing.