Home Is In The Heart

What does it mean to belong?

This is my final paper for the English class I took this semester.

I shared this with the good people of Twitter and they asked me to share my paper when I was ready. I said as soon as it was graded - I’d post it. So here it is - I got a 95! 🥰

In their respective writings, authors Evelyn Asultany, an American professor of Iraqi-Cuban heritage, and Rabbi Sharon Brous’ are on opposite ends of the spectrum when it comes to the essence of finding community through shared identity. Alsutany’s essay “Los Intersticios: Recasting Moving Selves” speaks to the conflict that arises when people of multicultural or multiracial identity try to find their place in the world. A world that insists that they compartmentalize and flatten who they are to become easier to digest. Rabbi Brous’ essay “Train Yourself to Always Show Up”, a piece about the traditional Jewish pilgrimage to Jerusalem, shows what it looks like when community members come together, from all corners of the globe, to embrace their shared beliefs in the hopes of offering comfort to those in need or to be comforted by those who have shown up for that purpose. As a practitioner of Lucumi, an Afro-Cuban religion from the Yoruba people of modern-day Nigeria, and as a person of multiple cultural identities, I can see myself in both Alsultany and Brous’ lenses of being “other”. I know what it’s like to be questioned about my place in a community that I belong to. I have also had the privilege of being in a healing religious space with others who share a common identity. Communities based on shared identity alone aren’t enough to create spaces for connection. In order for people to truly receive the benefits of said shared identity, be they cultural, spiritual or social, they need to be seen, heard and affirmed in communal spaces as well.

There is no perfect religious or spiritual practice but at the core of any healing modality there is a belief that what we are doing, together, is for the greater good. In her essay Brous states “I can’t take your pain away, but I can promise you won’t have to hold it alone” and I think that is a beautiful way to describe what having access to community can do for an individual. In Lucumi we are constantly reminded of the elders and practitioners that came before us in the religion. We have prayers that are done at the start of every ceremony, no matter how big or small. The mojuba is a prayer that involves saying the names of the elders that have transitioned. We learn the names of our godparents, their godparents and the godparents before them. Each time we pray the mojuba we are reminded of the community that we belong to, one that has existed on this side of the hemisphere for at least 400 years. Understanding that every prayer we offer up in search of assistance or gratitude, has probably been prayed at least once by every member of the spiritual lineage. There are no solitary practitioners in Lucumi and praying the mojuba brings that to the forefront. We are all a part of the collective spiritual experience and each member of the ile is vital in the preservation of the tradition simply by learning the names of the ones who came before us.

When Alsuntany states “My identity fractures as I experience differing dislocations in multiple contexts” (107), my heart breaks for her because I understand the weight of having multiple ethnic identities as well as the type of internal conflict that can happen when you are being forced to choose one. There is no one identity that is more prominent than the other because they are all a part of you. One of the things that really spoke to my spirit regarding Lucumi, and whether or not I should become a practitioner, is how the religion allows room for the entire history that a practitioner carries in their blood. Alsultany expresses how, depending on who she engages with, she is routinely accused of being not Arab enough (107) or Latina enough (107), sentiments that leave her with a bitter taste of confusion and rejection. Lucumi is a diaspora religion that was cultivated during the transatlantic slave trade by enslaved Yoruba people that were brought to Cuba. Over the course of many generations, the religion was syncretized with Catholicism as a way for the enslaved to continue to practice, under the iconography of Christianity, without persecution. The evolution of the religion in the diaspora has been greatly influenced by its ability to shift and grow within the conditions and the cultures of the people who kept it alive. As a child of a Black American mother and a Jamaican father, I have a blend of African descended ancestry that is rich in culture and ethnicity. Lucumi doesn’t require me to leave any of my identities or ancestors out of the equation because there is a universal understanding that we are an amalgamation of all of the people who came before us. I wonder if Alsultany had at least one safe space, a place where she can wholly be herself, if she would have such adverse reactions to being criticized as harshly as she has. Having an outlet to honor and venerate all of the identities within me has been very healing. This spiritual connection has had an impact on my ability to be comfortably rooted and grounded in my personhood.

In Lucumi we have wide range of celebratory events, from initiatory anniversaries, to drum ceremonies honoring the Orisha. A key component of these gatherings is the intersection of sound and motion. Much like Rabbi Brous illustrates in her essay where Jewish congregants rotate clockwise while mourners move counterclockwise, Lucumi rituals use physical action to activate spiritual connection. During a religious drumming, commonly referred to as a bembe or a tambor, it is imperative that all the attendees sing in a call and response fashion. The akpon, singer, leads the drummers in an oriki, a traditional Orisha song, and the congregants complete the verses. Just as Brous’ describes people walking with the current can easily identify those who are walking against it, Lucumi ceremonies require everyone in attendance to be active participants. The act of singing and even dancing in unison acts as a calling card that prompts the Orisha to come down and physically manifest on their devotees. In both traditions, physical motion acts as the spiritual conduit for healing and connection, as well as serving as an identifying marker of a member’s role within the community.

One of the examples of connection that is referenced is the concept of home as a place that we carry with us and seek out in others. In her essay “Los Intersticios”, Evelyn Asultany speaks to the idea of becoming home for strangers, even those who mistakenly categorize her, because she understands that people seek comfort in familiarity (107). Unfortunately, Asultany expresses how these erroneous attempts to pigeonhole her identity into one that puts the receiver at ease, cause her discomfort. When I think about my own experiences at my current religious home I’m reminded of this sentiment, in the reverse. A few years ago, when I was new to my ile (the Yoruba word for home), I still hadn’t developed many relationships and I felt like an outsider. My ile, primarily made up of Puerto Ricans and Dominicans, who speak rapid fire Spanish with a sprinkling of English for emphasis. My Spanish is elementary, at best, and I’m one of the few Black Americans in the ile. There was a part of the service where I found myself overcome with emotion and it was at that moment that an elder pulled me to the side to speak with me. “You don’t feel like you fit in with people but look around - here you are surrounded by people who are just like you.” Despite appearing and sounding different from most of the people in the room, I was still acknowledged. Being seen in that way was very comforting and it put my nerves at ease and that was the moment I knew I was finally “at home”. The act of being recognized by others in the community can have a tremendous effect on someone’s desire for safety and intimacy if it is coupled with the intention to connect with the individual at a foundational level.

In a world that often demands we fragment ourselves to fit in, the works of Alsutany and Brous, alongside my lived wisdom of Lucumi, remind me that true belonging is not about reduction, but expansion. Alsultany’s “Los Intersticios” teaches us that while identity thrives in the unseen spaces, if we are not allowed the fullness of self we can become fractured. If left unchecked, those fractures can allow resentment, bitterness and isolation in the place of true connection and intimacy. Brous’ call to “show up” highlights the responsibility that community has to hold us tenderly at our most vulnerable. My Lucumi practice has been a testament to these truths. In the mojuba of prayers that connect me to centuries of ancestors, in the drumbeats that sync my body to the heartbeat of my ile, and in the elders who saw me when I didn’t quite feel like I belonged; I am constantly in a space of reflection and appreciation for what having a place to call home has done and continues to do for me. I don’t see my experiences as unique but I see them as the blueprint for how communities everywhere can do the work to become sites of healing. Places where no one has to dissect themselves in order to be accepted. When we create spaces that honor the complexity of our identity we aren’t just building community - we become home for one another.

Works Cited

Alsultany, Evelyn. “Los Intersticios: Recasting Moving Selves.” this bridge we call home,
edited by Gloria Anzaldua, Analouise Keating, Routledge, 2002, pp. 106-110.

Brous, Sharon. “Train Yourself to Always Show Up.” The New York Times,

www.nytimes.com/2024/01/19/opinion/religion-ancient-text-judaism.html