pepper and seasoning salt with minced garlic on the inside and outside of the turkey. Then we'd put the unbaked turkey in the refrigerator for a few hours to “let the seasoning settle in.” We referred to him as “Mr. Turkey” and told him how good he would look and taste when cooked. The unleavened cornbread and chopped seasoning would be mixed together with oysters, shrimp, or sausage, moistened with turkey stock, and sprinkled with sage. Voilà! This was homemade dressing. The dressing would be stuffed in the belly and neck cavity of the turkey, and then the bird would be drizzled with seasoned butter and covered with a wet tea towel. The pot was covered and placed in a slow oven so that the turkey cooked overnight. Several times this pot would be opened to the sound of oohs and aahs and the smell of wonder.
This journey into the world of holiday cooking began on Thanksgiving with the turkey and ended on New Year's with Creole cabbage. Holiday cooking usually took about three days for each holiday. What a ritual it was! There was the business of how fine or how coarse to chop this or that vegetable. We watched yeast dough rise and get punched down again. At some point Aunt Marybelle Reed, (“Ibae,” a salutation of blessing for those who have passed over) or Miz Theresa would come by to debate the virtues of butter versus oleo or try their best to get my mother to eat something that she considered taboo. It never worked. A large pot of hot eggnog was made; neighbors dropped by to have a glass (with brandy or rum), report their cooking progress, fuss about something in the news, or recount stories that had changed some small but significant thing about their lives.
I remember the food and the socializing as the great things about the holidays—seeing Aunt So-and-So and tasting her allbutter pound cake, smelling the cigar smoke in the next room where the uncles exaggerated their exploits and the aunts laughed about how fast the children were growing and what a cute thing Johnny, Jr., did the other day, holding the new baby and feeling the soft warmth of her touch, being inside where it was warm with food and friends.
We children knew that the packages under the Christmas tree would be clothes. In low-income families clothes were the good gift. In fact, I remember a year when a local Catholic group gave toys away. Each child walked down a long assembly line of things and was allowed to choose an item. I selected a hula hoop, and my friends made it clear that they thought this toy was a silly choice.
The holidays were also a time to extend ourselves to those who were less fortunate, because we did, after all, have food, shelter, and each other. So we looked in on the old folks, forgave the people who'd offended us, and resolved that something was going to be different somehow. Somewhere in this agenda church fit in: a midnight mass, a sunrise service, listening to the choir wail, and watching the appropriate Bible movie on television.
When I grew older and left home, I was thrown into circles of people who treated the holidays differently. There was less emphasis on food and clothes, more emphasis on money and things. Being at home together was not as important as being in the “right” place, being seen with the “cool people.” As adolescence stretched out into young adulthood, I watched the holidays become a time of false piety, social snobbery, and conspicuous consumption. By the time I reached college I'd taken a political position against the holidays—period. They were just another excuse to beat people out of their money, lay somebody off a job, tell another lie about the past, bow down to a White baby boy, look up to a bleeding statue, or act out strange behaviors without understanding what they meant. This was followed by my “Black pride and awareness” period. To give meaning to an otherwise meaningless year, I turned everything Black. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph became Black, even Easter became Black. That winter holiday was now spelled Xmas to indicate the unknown truth. New Year's remained nebulous, while Thanksgiving became the “Criminals' Holiday,” on which I railed against exploitation of Native Americans.
In the late ’60s my quest for spiritual liberation began with Egypt, the wonderful, mystical cradle of civilization. I joined the Fahamme Temple of Amun-Ra in St. Louis, where I learned Egyptian beliefs about the Solstices and Equinoxes, was taught to analyze the symbols associated with holidays, and was made to understand that the daily rising and setting of the Sun make each day a “holy day.” I felt a little better.
The quest for cosmic joy took me to Africa, where the deities walk among human beings and dance is worship. In studying Africa I learned that the strength of a culture will endure even the greatest hardships and still retain its beauty and power. Centuries ago the transatlantic slave trade, which was sponsored by the Catholic Church, brought millions of Black people from their Motherland, Africa, to the so-called New World. We were dispersed throughout the Western Hemisphere, with large concentrations in Brazil, the Caribbean Islands, and the North American colonies. Slavery required that these Africans be baptized, take Christian names, and worship the saints. At the same time the Black Codes, which regulated plantation behavior, forbade slaves to marry, to own property, to speak their own languages, or to worship and celebrate in their own fashion. However, the attempt to destroy African culture did not succeed. Like most people, we managed to acclimate ourselves to the land, people, and culture around us, and in the process we created rituals and celebrations that are both old and new. This is the creative gift of African American culture.
Later I was blessed with the opportunity to experience some of the ceremonies of Native American spiritual culture, which call us to walk in balance upon the Earth, to regard Her as our Mother, and to take care of Her. This point of view resonates with the African belief that we are children of Nature who can and must turn to the Water, the Thunder, and the Mountains for strength, guidance, and joy. I came to realize that the African and Native American traditions are blessed with elders who could teach me the stories and rituals that have been preserved in spite of centuries of oppression.
As I became more involved in the Women's Spirituality Movement, my friend and sister Starhawk introduced me to the pagan tradition. At last what seemed to have been mere nonsense began to make real common sense. I came to understand that paganism is the ancestral tradition of European culture, from which the traditions of Christianity were born.
I now live in a racially diverse neighborhood in Oakland, California—a community in which I am dedicated to living joyfully. With the help of imagination I have created a wonderland in my own home and life. My work as a performer, writer, and ritual designer also takes me to sacred sites al over the world. The blessing of my experience is that I have found kindred spirits to jump up with everywhere. I have learned that every day is a Holy Day. And the Earth is a sacred place where the power of the Sea and the beauty of the Sky express Mother Nature's love for humanity and the wonder of Creation. I feel so very blessed, and in sharing this blessing with you, I invite you to create a beautiful world every day of your year, every day of your life.
I have stood silently in awe of the rainforest
in Africa, the South Pacific, and the Caribbean.
I've walked down dusty roads in Mexico and
said prayers to the Pyramid of the Moon.
I've watched the volcano erupt and
followed Her lava flow to the sea in Hawaii.
I've swung from ancient vines in the caves of Jamaica and buried the dead in Dakar.
I've danced with delight around totem poles and pressed my forehead to that of Maori warriors.
I have eaten strange fruit and wild flowers in Australia and bathed in the waters of the Rhine.
I've joked with the pale fox in the crossroads, then wrestled with the Jaguar and won.
I have embraced great trees between my thighs, spoke words
