I grew up in the secular Pacific
Northwest. I never pride myself on this because I identify myself more with my
hot-headed, superstitious Cajun heritage. That is probably the number one reason I was
attracted to New Orleans. So the minute I had a chance to leave my dreary
enclave of a hometown, I chose to come to New Orleans, for college. I went to
the Historic Voodoo Museum, which, before I went I thought “what a novelty” or
“how kitsch,” but it was actually quite a destination. To support this tiny
little gem of a museum I surveyed the gift shop. I paused on the gris gris.
Gris gris are a West African tradition that transformed into voodoo tradition.
They are little pouches, amulets, or charms that you wear on your person for a
variety to intended outcomes. I bought one for creativity, because I had been
feeling a little too academic the last few months, and one for love, because
what the hell, I had been unlucky ever since I got to college. They were just
little trifles, souvenirs, memories, or so I thought.
On
car ride back to campus, I got a phone call from the residential life office
telling me that I had flowers waiting for me at the office. I was astonished,
and if you knew me, you’d know that things like this don’t happen to me. I was
all excited about this prospect of a secret admirer. But when I opened the
note, the result was even better. The flowers from my father, who I hadn’t
talked to for the last 3 months, and he sent them to wish me good luck for the
play I was in. Love, in a very expected and wonderful way.
That
night in curiosity, I placed the creativity gris-gris on my desk. I then
proceeded to break a writer’s block that had swamped me since I had arrived at
school. I don’t know what to think about these occurrences. Other but take
caution about where I take these gris gris with me now.
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