Month / June 2022

by BiSKITs & Gravy

Religitually

by S.L. Jordan

Write about a moment in your life in which you felt connected spiritually. Where were you? What happened and what came of that moment?

I am a black woman, who was raised by a good ole fashioned southern black woman, who was also raised by a good ole fashioned southern black woman, and so on, and so on, or at least until my 1st maternal ancestor stepped foot on American Soil. So, it should go without saying or reason that I was raised in the church. The Baptist Church. There is a story my mother used to love to tell. I was 3, and my older brother was 4. It must have been sometime between my late winter birthday and his late summer/early fall birthday as we are 18 months apart. Almost step ladders. We were at church, I can’t remember the name but it’s kind of in, or was in, Midtown Detroit, not far from 75 N/S. We were sitting in a pew, my mother, my older brother, baby brother, and I. My dad only went to church when my maternal grandmother requested it, when the pastor made a call for baptisms. Now, according to my mother, my brother and I got up of our own accord and walked up to the front of the church holding hands. Of course, I have absolutely no recollection of that day. I remember the church, massive and gray, but that’s all about all. The majority of the early church memories consist of being dragged with my grandparents to their church. First, it was a church that was attached to a house somewhere on the Westside of Detroit. There was nothing fun about those Sundays. At church early for Sunday school, which transitioned into the regular afternoon service before finally going into the NIGHT service. I spent all 3 services sitting next to my grandmother trying hard to not let the devil get me.

“Granny, I’m sleepy” I would whine.

She would lean in close to my ear and whisper, “hush girl. If you were at home you wouldn’t be tired. You’d be ripping and running and I wouldn’t be able to hear how to listen! That’s just the devil tryna distract you from God’s word”, in a tone that let me know the issue wasn’t up for debate unless I wanted to talk to “Mama Sarah” when we got home. 

My brother, on the other hand, had the freedom to come and go as he pleased, and he loved sitting up front with Bubba and the rest of the Deacons. I was just there as the dutiful daughter, granddaughter, or niece. Blindly reciting scriptures for the Easter and Christmas programs.

“None of my grandchildren are going to STAND up in front of the Church and the Lord READING from the bible. Yawl gone memorize your verses. You need to know God’s word anyway.” Granny would fiercely declare.

By this time, my mother’s older sister had found, became a new member and was a Sunday school teacher at New Mt. Sinai Missionary Baptist Church, off Wyoming between 7 and 8 mile but closer to 7, led by Pastor Joseph Lanning. Every summer, for 2 weeks we spent Monday –Friday at New Mt. Sinai from 8am -12pm in Vacation Bible School pledging eternal allegiance to something I didn’t quite understand. 

“Are you a child of God?”

“Yes”

“What if someone asks you to denounce God?”

“What does denounce mean?”

“To deny”

I am a child of God”

“What if they threatened to kill you?”

“I am still a child of God?”

When school started it was more of the same, just different. Catholic different. More rituals. Every morning we pledged allegiance to the Christian Flag, and said our prayers. Wednesday mornings, it was mandatory for the WHOLE school to attend morning mass, for which my brother and I were habitually late. Look, Baptist churches had a lil bit of a Grace period with announcements and such. Catholic churches?? The organ started RIGHT on time.

Even with that level of indoctrination I never really had a spiritual moment. A moment when I could for sure feel the warmth and presence of the Holy Spirit.

Authors Note:

In 2018 I did a 30 Day Writing Prompt Challenge. This was the prompt from May 2nd, and my 1st attempt at a personal essay narrative.

by BiSKITs & Gravy

When You Don’t Know Your Ancestors

By: IO

You have an altar, but it’s bare. So, not really an altar, just an empty table top you occasionally use for your own tarot readings. 

When you read cards, you ask for guidance from Spirit, but you don’t know who that is. The silent disconnect you feel tells you Spirit doesn’t know you either.

Eventually, the altar fills with crystals, Florida water, an athame, and unlit candles, all covered with a thickening layer of dust.

You feel lonely but the cards drop the Three of Cups in the space representing your present. Over and over, you ask about your future and you get The Tower, The Devil, or the 10 of Pentacles, but reversed. Knock on the deck, ask to speak to Spirit. Wait for an answer.

Wait. Listen.

The a/c clicks on, runs for a while, then clicks off. 

Wait. Listen.

Look at your family tree for inspiration, a name you can recall. But half the tree is missing. The other half, littered with dead branches, falling away faster than the springing of new growth. The roots are dry and thirsty.

It is said that blood is thicker than water, but yours is anemic and too depleted to nourish the dried out roots. You don’t even know on whose head to lay the blame for that. 

Look beyond the tree to the forest in which it resides. 

Recall Ntozake Shange and Maya Angelou when you dance.

Recall Jamaica Kincaid and James Baldwin when you travel. 

Recall Octavia Butler during instances of the bizarre.

Recall Zora Neale Hurston when you take deep breaths, making ritual out of the mundane.

Recall Audre Lorde when reaching for love. 

Recall Gisèle Pineau and Alain Mabanckou when learning from the Diaspora. 

Plant a new tree with seeds from ancestors and elders of the collective. 

Call their names, feel them become Spirit. 

Sit at your altar, cleaned and cleansed. Smudge yourself and your cards with the smoke of a cedar candle. Shuffle. Knock on the deck, ask to speak to Spirit.

Wait.

Listen