The name her masters gave her was Margaret. I haven’t been able to find the last name. If her descendants were any indication, she was piss and vinegar until they beat it out of her. They probably trying using rape as coercion but that would only piss her off more. So they beat her until she realized she would never get home.
Instead, she made sure to breed insubordination and unquenchable drive into the bastard children they forced on her.
Like most zero-generation slaves, she would not let go of the religious practices of her homeland. She, like the others, would dress it up “real pretty like” using the images of their Christian masters. But under the veneer, they continued honoring their gods and spirits just as they did before.
She hid her ways in plain sight. From the whispered tales told by the fading generations, she appeared to her masters as a broken mule. Compliant. Docile. Submissive. But she called on the spirits even as she was mounted. Her children would cost their masters plenty. The whispered tales spoke of those buying her children running into all sorts of bad luck. To own one of her blood was to lose prosperity.
Somewhere in the lineage, Margaret’s daughters forgot the tales of their mother. They mistook her religious veneer for solidity. Maybe the children were sold too soon for Margaret to teach them her ways. Maybe the masters figured it out and killed off the older slaves as a lesson for the younger.
The stories of the following generations are not whispered, but trumpeted. A daughter of Margaret seeing the heavens open and the voice of Jehovah himself instructing her how to pull the broken glass from her son’s throat. Another daughter waking up in the middle of the night, screaming for her son not to take a certain action. Her son, over a thousand miles away, heard his mother’s voice and complied, saving his life from a horrific explosion. But these tales are all spoken of in Christian garments. Recounted and testified in the southern black churches while the well honed voices of the choir sang ‘Hallelujah’.
Even these tales are fading, as the current generations want nothing to do with the silly superstitions of those who know. Fewer and fewer know of the miracles. Even less know of Margaret. It has only been 145 years between Margaret setting foot in America and now. Of the ten generations she has spawned, only 4 remain walking. Of those four, three want nothing to do with what they consider “shameful history”. (I counted generations as 14 years. I was being generous. Look up the history. You’ll understand.)
My maternal family would burn the past. Because Margaret was both a slave and non-Christian, she is relegated to the fires of hell as a shameful relic deserves. They don’t want to hear the workings she did. That’s witchcraft, and is considered why she was made a slave in the first place. They don’t want to hear about the rumors of a Madonna statue her fellow slaves had colored black and wrapped in yellow cloth. That’s demon worship.
She wasn’t one of them, they say. Listen instead to the proper Christian miracles that have happened in the family. Not the dark rites that should have stayed in Africa. They ask me why I want to know, I say I am recording the family history.
“You aren’t even full black, this is not your history. Stay out of it.”
When I realized my mother’s kin had rejected me because of my father’s blood, I returned the decision. I vowed not to do anything for them, not even advice over the phone. They have called, often, asking for this or asking for that. I politely refuse. When they insist because of our shared blood, I remind them of their rejection of me. They berate me and curse me out, hang up swearing viciously against me.
Wait a month, and they will call again, asking favors because “family should help family”.
When I said my farewell to Christianity, I thought for sure that would be the final break between me and my maternal lineage. The past five generations were viciously Christian, from dedicated ministry to backsliding Sunday attendee. But even the most lax (and delightfully sinful) of my maternal relatives considered Christianity a requirement for inclusion in the family.
I no longer had a maternal lineage. Outcast, and cast out.
After some (guided) wandering through different pantheons and paths, I would up being grabbed by Loki. When his bullying ceased to move me, he snared me with a sworn debt. While it can still be argued the debt is invalid, I choose to uphold what I gave in promise.
In a way, I looked at it as the ultimate break from my maternal bloodline. Here I am, not just on a pagan path, but one that is portrayed in mainstream media as viciously racist. And of all the gods I could have wound up with, I’m bound to serve the Destroyer of All Things Good, the Betrayer, the Keeper of Falsehoods, the Norse Satan. Talk about rebellion!
It has been over a year since Loki grabbed me by the scruff of the neck and shook me out like a rumpled blanket. He has pushed me in ways I didn’t want to grow. I won’t admit it to his face, but he’s making a better person out of me. (Nyah!) Working with the runes, learning more about the Norse pantheon, is causing me to challenge my weaknesses and insecurities.
In August, a throwaway remark from him pricked my ears. “How well do you know your bloodline? Ah, it doesn’t matter, I suppose, you’re cast out anyways.”
In early September, he took me to task for writing off my entire maternal bloodline. He made it clear my decision to completely ignore the family lore because of the actions of the most recent generations was a big mistake. When I complained that I chose to abandon the lore because I had been cut off by them, his response was to the point. “You would not even have the chance to access the Tree if it were not for those that came before you. Yes, the Christian elders in your bloodline will not be happy to see you. But surely, you know of someone that came before the Christians did!” Margaret came to mind, but I did not speak up. I know so little about her, how could I approach her? I live ‘undercover’, how could I have a shrine for her? I hung my head in shame, thinking she would not want to acknowledge me as her descendant anyway, having rejected the others.
In late September, that blond fucker grabbed me and dragged me to a favorite hideaway of his in the Nine Worlds. “I have a challenge for you. You need to meet and greet others in the Nine Worlds. You’ve already met Thor on a few occasions. And Ol’ One Eye has been keeping an eye on you. You’ve been very formal when you run into Skadhi. I see your sense of survival is not dulled as you travel.” (I had to get Skadhi’s permission to use the Isa rune. To say she is ‘unkind’ towards my master is to say water is ‘somewhat’ wet.) “It’s time to stop meeting everyone haphazardly. I want you to start making the rounds. Start with my daughter.” Start with who? Hel? I protested I didn’t know how to enter her realm. This was beyond my experience level. I’m brazen but not that brazen. Loki laughed aside all my complaints. He taunted me with my bloodline again. “If only you had an ancestor that you could speak with through the wall.” I only mumbled that Margaret was Yoruba if anything, certainly nowhere connected to the Norse. He only chuckled.
October was one big month of synchronicities. I had told only one person of my personal quest. He offered his support, and promised me he would stay out of it. The rest of the multiverse, however, jumped in my shit with both feet.
Despite learning more about Hel, I never did enter her lands. I did make it to the fence that surrounded it, but never attempted to go past it. I was afraid. I didn’t want to offend her by ignorance. I knelt by the wall and cried out my cowardice. Before I left, however, I heard a noise. The sound of a woman, humming a tune. Through a hole in the fence, I could see a black woman tending a garden. She looked at me, and I recognized her immediately. Margaret. She spoke no words to me, instead she trailed her hands through the plants she was growing. Daisies. It was clear, she loved the flower. She plucked one, and pushed it through the hole in the fence. I pulled the flower through, and held the large head in both hands. She plucked another of her flowers, and held it close to her chest. I mimicked her action, and felt like she was standing before me, holding me in her arms.
Margaret accepted me, without complaint. Without words, my ancestor consoled me as I cried openly for hours and hours. I was of her lineage. I was one of her Daughters. She understood that I couldn’t have an open shrine. She understood that I had to wear a false veneer. She knew of my rejection by her other descendants, and she did not care. Without words, her heart spoke to mine. “I claim you. You are of my blood. You are my daughter. What the others think of you doesn’t matter. I am your Mother. You are my Daughter.” I had so many questions, but I was unable to remain any further. I have not been able to retrace my steps to that wall. But Margaret has spoken to me in other ways.
In mid October, two good friends of mine, that did not know about my personal quest, were talking with me about their dreams and visions. They both became strangely silent, then each spoke of a sight they had just received. One friend spoke of daisies, how someone had grown one just for me. The other friend spoke what seemed to be a disjointed series of items. I knew then what my offering to Margaret would be, and how to have it in plain sight without causing problems.
October 28th, Gordon at Rune Soup gave me another synchronous swift kick in the ass. It wasn’t just enough to know that Margaret had accepted me. It was time to start living up to my duties as her descendant. His post read as if addressed directly to me. It blew away every last excuse I had for not honoring Margaret.
October 31st, I gave reverence to Margaret. That night I dreamt of her walking in a meadow full of blooming daisies of every color combination imaginable. She only plucked the yellow ones. I heard her singing a song of praise, to a goddess of beauty and life and living and love of living. Margaret came to me, her arms full of yellow daisies. “If you wish to show reverence to me, do the thing I can no longer do.” She filled my arms with the yellow flowers. “The goddess I sang to, give offerings to her. Do this for me, and I will be pleased.” As she walked away from me, night fell onto the meadow. Most of the blooms faded into the approaching shadows, including the blooms in my arms. As the night embraced me, I noted that only five flowers remained in my arms, and each flower had five unnaturally large yellow petals.
She left without telling me who her goddess is. My only clues, yellow, the number five, and the goddess was a bountiful woman full of life, and the love of living. After much, much reading, both online and offline, I surmised that Margaret’s goddess is Oshun[1]. I asked Loki (after all, that tweaker is my master) for permission to complete Margaret’s request. He only smiled and nodded.
On my dresser is a wood bowl. In that wood bowl are rose petals gathered from the myriad of rose bushes around my house. My family thinks I am collecting them to add a feminine touch to a sterile geek’s room. The rose petals are for Margaret. What they do not know, is at the bottom of all the rose petals, are five shiny, new, copper pennies. I have five pieces of red coral to add to it.
I also now consider, when I am dressing and adorning myself for the day. It is not only my duty to Loki to look my best, but also to Margaret, and by extension, to Oshun. It sounds so vain, I will admit. But right now, it is all I can do.
Margaret survived her ordeals. The least I can do is survive mine.
[1] So. Many. Links. for Oshun & company. I can’t really point to any one website and say ‘Read this!’. I can only say, I did not hit up Wikipedia.