I moved to Austin from the Shawangunk mountains of Upstate New York, during what we thought was the end of the pandemic but was actually just the denouement of the first wave, in August 2021.
People often ask me "Why Austin?" Admittedly, it seems like a random choice for someone who had no connection at all with Bat City before moving here. Depending on the querent and/or my mood, my answers will vary.
"I had always wanted to live in a city, and this one seemed like a good choice for me and my kid!"
"It's warm, there are breakfast tacos, and people paint houses actual colors!" (muted colonial maroon is about as colorful as it gets in the cold, Dutch wilds of upstate)
"Seemed like a great place to tattoo, and Texas Trad is a style all its own."
All true. But in reality, I moved to Austin because of a literal dream.
I won't reveal every detail, because even though I could claim that "any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidence," we all know dreams don't work that way. But I will share that it involved boarding a bus full of Vodou manbo and houngan (priestesses and priests), including my godmother, and leaving New York City for a southern, sunny, brightly-colored dream destination. Shortly after waking up, I realized Austin, TX fit the vibe.
In Vodou- the spiritual tradition of Haiti that made its way from Africa to the Caribbean and, along the way, became deeply entwined with Catholic imagery, indigenous and European herbalism, and a profoundly urgent liberation theology- dreams are important. A cultivated remembrance of dreams, together with a practice of ancestor reverence that specifically asks for messages through dreams, urges us to pay close attention to the life-shaping narratives therein.
I had received my first lesson in dream recall and interpretation from my godmother nine months earlier. Maggie Champagne-Gomez-- daughter of Mama Lola, the titular figure of Karen McCarthy Brown's ethnography-turned-memoir Mama Lola: A Vodou Priestess in Brooklyn-- had taught me how to pray over a candle every night to communicate with the ancestors and the Lwa nan domi- in sleep. I had gotten in the habit of writing in a dream journal immediately upon waking, before the swarming fizz of the dream went flat. So by the time this one came, I was ready to catch it.
It was clear I needed to go somewhere, move somewhere, to continue my journey into the heart of Vodou.
The dream launched me into action, which, for me, always entails obsessive research. The more I learned about Austin, the more it seemed like a great fit; a warm climate analagous to the Caribbean roots of the religion I practice, without being too on the nose. Resonant with my hispanic heritage (I am of Puerto Rican and Spanish descent), with new dimensions to explore through the strong presence of Mexican culture. Swarming with images of saints and Virgencitas, and with a population that understands they're not just for institutional Catholics... not Vodou exactly, but a similar hybrid of hands-on mystical sensibilities and Catholic iconography that drapes neatly over the contours of indigenous cosmologies. I reached out to a Texan client on whom I had tattooed the Mater Dolorosa-- recognized in Vodou as the lwa (spirit) of love, luxury, and perfection Ezili Freda-- about Austin specifically: would there be a market for tattoos based on these beloved Catholic icons? They assured me that even the candle aisle of HEB featured a multitude of candles featuring compelling religious art.
In six months, I was living here. The climate favored me, and my garden was soon bursting with plants essential to my Vodou practice: basil and roses for the Ezili (powerful radiations of the Divine Feminine), habanero peppers for the Gede (the rollicking, lewd, hard-partying spirits of the long-forgotten dead), and strong herbs like oregano and sage for the Ogou, the warrior lwa. I even planted a short-lived lime tree and a parsley seedling (which now, surviving over three winters, has an inch-thick trunk) for spiritual cleansing. On a visit to New Orleans, my godmother gave me a plant to propagate; an indefatigable tropical succulent called Leaf of Life or Fey Lougawou ("werewolf leaf" in Haitian Kreyol), lauded throughout the Caribbean as a cure-all and repellant of negative spirits with a tendency to sprout tiny babies from around the leaf margins whenever part of it falls to the soil. It took off in the Texas heat. While my plants put roots down, so did I.
Vending prints of my handpainted spirit icons at outdoor markets, I noticed which spirits people recognized with excitement: the Virgin of Guadalupe, which some see as a manifestation of the Mexica earth goddess Tonantzin; Santa Muerte, the personification of Holy Death whom everyone must confront sooner or later; the ever-popular San Miguel holding the Devil at swordpoint; even La Virgen de San Juan de los Lagos, nicknamed "La Castigadora" by Norteños for her propensity to punish those who petition her but don't follow through on their promises (or so someone I met at a market learned from their abuela).
I also noticed the confusion and curiousity of folks confronted with figures less familiar to Tejano folk catholic practices; for example, the Black Madonna of Częstochowa, who is the face of the fierce mother lwa Ezili Danto in Vodou. Being a giant nerd, I would spout her backstory to anyone who gave her a second glance: her image came over from Poland with the mercenaries the French hired to fight the slave revolts, many of whom changed sides and fought along the slaves once they got to Saint Domingue... no matter how many times they scrubbed the original icon white in Poland or repaired her damaged cheek, she went back to being dark and wounded the next day... she herself fought in the Haitian Revolution, in which it's said she had her tongue cut out... she's the patron of lesbians and single mothers. More than one curious browser eagerly purchased her image after hearing that tidbit.
In my conversations vending at markets, I felt I was among extended spiritual family, but still an outsider. I wondered, where are all the Austin vodouisants? After all, as my Haitian godmother proudly proclaims, Vodou is now a worldwide spiritual practice, with active communities as far off as New Zealand. Granted, I am not the most socially engaged person. But I felt a longing for community, even a desire, eventually, to teach and lead ceremonies that are both deeply traditional and connected to this specific place, its spirits of place, its character, and its inhabitants.
And so, I start this blog. Perhaps another vodouisant- Vodou practitioner- in Austin will come upon it and we can form a connection! Or perhaps someone will simply stumble upon it, find it interesting, and want to know more... or join me in learning more.
Either way, welcome! I hope you draw something beautiful from it, or that it draws something beautiful from you. We all need that.
In The Spirit,
Nixie
