Caribbean Diaspora in the USA (Vitality of Indigenous Religions Series)

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CARIBBEAN DIASPORA IN THE USA Caribbean Diaspora in the USA presents a new cultural theory based on an exploration of Caribbean religious communities in New York City. The Caribbean culture of New York demonstrates a cultural dynamism which embraces Spanish speaking, English speaking and French speaking migrants. All cultures are full of breaks and contradictions as Latin American and Caribbean theorists have demonstrated in their ongoing debate. This book combines unique research by the author in Caribbean New York with the theoretical discourse of Latin American and Caribbean scholars. Focusing on Caribbean religious communities, including Cuban/Puerto Rican Santería (Regla de Ocha), Haitian Vodou, Shango (Orisha Baptist) from Trinidad and Tobago, and Brazilian Pentecostal church, Schmidt’s observations lead to the construction of a cultural concept that illustrates a culture in an ongoing state of change, with more than one form of expression depending on situation, time and context. Showing the creativity of religions and the way immigrants adapt to their new surroundings, this book fills a gap between Latin American and Caribbean Studies.

VITALITY OF INDIGENOUS RELIGIONS Series Editors Graham Harvey, Open University, UK Lawrence Martin, University of Wisconsin Eau Claire, USA Tabona Shoko, University of Zimbabwe, Zimbabwe Ines Talamantez, University of California, USA Ashgate’s Vitality of Indigenous Religions series offers an exciting cluster of research monographs, drawing together volumes from leading international scholars across a wide range of disciplinary perspectives. Indigenous religions are vital and empowering for many thousands of indigenous peoples globally, and dialogue with, and consideration of, these diverse religious life-ways promises to challenge and refine the methodologies of a number of academic disciplines, whilst greatly enhancing understandings of the world. This series explores the development of contemporary indigenous religions from traditional, ancestral precursors, but the characteristic contribution of the series is its focus on their living and current manifestations. Devoted to the contemporary expression, experience and understanding of particular indigenous peoples and their religions, books address key issues which include: the sacredness of land, exile from lands, diasporic survival and diversification, the indigenization of Christianity and other missionary religions, sacred language, and re-vitalization movements. Proving of particular value to academics, graduates, postgraduates and higher level undergraduate readers worldwide, this series holds obvious attraction to scholars of Native American studies, Maori studies, African studies and offers invaluable contributions to religious studies, sociology, anthropology, geography and other related subject areas.

OTHER TITLES IN THE SERIES Mi’kmaq Landscapes From Animism to Sacred Ecology Anne-Christine Hornborg ISBN 978-0-7546-6371-3 From Primitive to Indigenous The Academic Study of Indigenous Religions James L. Cox ISBN 978-0-7546-5569-5 Karanga Indigenous Religion in Zimbabwe Health and Well-Being Tabona Shoko ISBN 978-0-7546-5881-8

Caribbean Diaspora in the USA Diversity of Caribbean Religions in New York City

BETTINA E. SCHMIDT Bangor University, UK

© Bettina E. Schmidt 2008 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior permission of the publisher. Bettina E. Schmidt has asserted her moral right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work. Published by Ashgate Publishing Limited Gower House Croft Road Aldershot Hampshire GU11 3HR England

Ashgate Publishing Company Suite 420 101 Cherry Street Burlington, VT 05401-4405 USA

Ashgate website: http://www.ashgate.com British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data Schmidt, Bettina E. Caribbean diaspora in the USA : diversity of caribbean religions in New York City. – (Vitality of indigenous religions Series) 1. Caribbean Americans – New York (State) – New York – Social life and customs 2. Caribbean Americans – New York (State) – New York – Intellectual life 3. Caribbean Americans – New York (State) – New York – Religion 4. New York (N.Y.) – Social life and customs 5. New York (N.Y.) – Intellectual life 6. New York (N.Y.) – Religious life and customs 7. New York (N.Y.) – Ethnic relations I. Title 303.48’2729’07471 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Schmidt, Bettina E. [Karibische Diaspora in New York. English] Caribbean diaspora in USA : diversity of Caribbean religions in New York City / Bettina E. Schmidt. p. cm. – (Vitality of indigenous religions series) Includes bibliographical references (p. 175) and index. ISBN 978-0-7546-6365-2 (hardcover : alk. paper) 1. Caribbean Americans – New York (State) – New York – Social life and customs. 2. Caribbean Americans – New York (State) – New York – Intellectual life. 3. Caribbean Americans – New York (State) – New York – Religion. 4. Popular culture – New York (State) – New York. 5. New York (N.Y.) – Social life and customs. 6. New York (N.Y.) – Intellectual life. 7. New York (N.Y.) – Religious life and customs. 8. New York (N.Y.) – Ethnic relations. I. Title. F128.9.C27S3613 2008 303.48’272907471–dc22 2007042393 ISBN 978-0-7546-6365-2 Printed and bound in Great Britain by MPG Books Ltd, Bodmin, Cornwall.

Contents List of Figures Acknowledgements

vii ix

1

The Multiple Dimensions of Caribbean Culture

1

2

Variations of Caribbean Culture(s) in New York City

7

3

Caribbean Religions in New York City

33

4

Cultural Theories from Latin America and the Caribbean

87

5

A New Composition of Culture

145

6

Caribbean vs. Monologue Europe?

169

Bibliography Index

175 195

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List of Figures 2.1 2.2 2.3 2.4 2.5 2.6 2.7 3.1 3.2 3.3 3.4 3.5 3.6 4.1 4.2 4.3 6.1

The Columbus Day Parade (1998) 14 A typical crowd at the Caribbean Carnival in Brooklyn (1999) 15 Struggling with the wind at the Caribbean Carnival in Brooklyn (1999) 16 The Children’s Carnival Parade in Brooklyn (1999) 17 J’ouvert in Brooklyn (1999) 18 Participants at a dance school in Manhattan 28 Báta drums in Spanish Harlem 30 The Iglesia Universal in Brooklyn 42 Yoruba-Orisha Baptist Church in Brooklyn 47 The Altar, Yoruba-Orisha Baptist Church, Brooklyn 48 Leaders of the Yoruba-Orisha Baptist Church, Brooklyn 49 Inside the Société la Belle Venus II, Brooklyn 60 Consultation room, Société la Belle Venus II, Brooklyn 61 The Virgin of Lourdes in Brooklyn 88 Ocumicho pottery (Ethnographical Collection, Philipps-University of Marburg, 2001) 99 Drums in a restaurant, Brooklyn (1998) 142 Participants at the J’ouvert (1999) 170

With the exception of Figure 4.2, all photographs were taken by the author.

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Acknowledgements My interest in Caribbean migrants arose from my own family history: one of my ancestors was a wanderer too. He left his home and travelled to the New World. Like so many migrants before and after him, he could not fulfil his dreams and so returned home. Decades later his descendants and their neighbours had to leave their homes for good. A farmer became a building worker behind a tar machine and a family of eight lived in a small flat. Despite all odds, their migration has come to a successful end; their stories symbolize the successful integration of a generation of refugees. With my book I want to honour them. But before I start telling the stories of the Caribbeans in New York I want to thank those who have helped me on my own journeys. I am deeply indebted to Lois Wilcken who not only opened up the Caribbean world in New York to me, but also became a friend. My warm thanks go to Hector Carrasquillo, Carolle Charles, Lynda Day, Karen Brown, Felix Sanabria, Virginia Sánchez Korrol and my colleagues in the Department of Puerto Rican Studies in Brooklyn who supported me in various ways during my time in Brooklyn. I am very grateful to Selwyn Wilkinson, Edeline Saint Armand, Awílda Sterling and Susan Richardson who offered me their time and hospitality. Back in Europe I want to thank Gisela Welz and Sylvia Schomburg-Scherff for their help and Karl Wernhart and Mark Münzel for their support. I also am grateful to Graham Harvey and Ashgate who offered me this opportunity to publish my book in English. My research outcome was originally published under the title Karibische Diaspora in New York: Vom »Wilden Denken« zur »Polyphonen Kultur« (2002) though this English publication is not simply a translated but an updated edition. This book would have been not published without the support of Peggy Morgan. Thank you, Peggy. You opened your home to a stranger and guided me through my first steps in Britain. Finally, I would like to dedicate this book to my late father, who told me the story of his grandfather leaving his village (for a while) to reach a land beyond the borders.

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Chapter 1

The Multiple Dimensions of Caribbean Culture What is a Caribbean person, and consequently what is a Caribbean writer? Are they always Creole? Where are they born, and where do they live? Cannot the Creole culture – I mean the culture of the Caribbean islands – be transplanted and survive just as well through the use of memory? In other words, aren’t there new and multiple versions of créolité? (Condé Condé 1998: 109)

Maryse Condé’s questions draw our attention to the ongoing debate about the meaning of Creole identity and Creole culture. Thousands of emigrants from islands in the Caribbean – even rather removed ones – have to face the problem of identification and demarcation every day. Does the young novelist Edwidge Danticat, who left the Caribbean, grew up in the USA and publishes in English, still represent Haiti? She tells stories about Haitians, about a Haitian girl in New York and also about the Haitian massacre in the Dominican Republic. Her decision to write in English instead of French or Kreyòl separates her from other Caribbean authors. Nevertheless, she is still a Caribbean – though one with a new perspective, as she is able to identify problems with the objectivity of a distant view, problems which are often unchallenged by people on the islands. Both perspectives represent Caribbean culture, each being one of multiple versions. Since the 1990s, when I started my fieldwork in Puerto Rico, the Caribbean islands and their peoples have fascinated me. The cultures of the Caribbean do not fit into a pigeonhole; they exhibit all kinds of demands and assumptions. At one moment people define themselves on the basis of national language, and then they praise the common history of their own and other islands. Sometimes they agree to a common definition of Caribbean identity, sometimes they argue against it. The representatives of the Caribbean cultures seem to be too diverse to agree in even one aspect. And the picture gets worse when we include the Diaspora. Many Caribbeans migrated to Panama in order to find jobs during the time of the construction of the Panama canal. Consequently, today most Panamanians feel a sense of belonging to the Caribbean, where most of their ancestors came from. Some of their descendents live now in the USA, where they have become part of the Caribbean community. The poetry of Carlos Guillermo Wilson illustrates the sense of disruption which many feel today. His great grandparents came from St Lucia, Barbados, Granada and Jamaica to Panama. Today he lives in California though he is indeed a Caribbean person. In his works he argues against the rejection of African heritage in the process of creolization (see, for instance, his poem Uprooted; Wilson 1998: 42–3).. Wilson defines the Caribbean culture as the result of the violent

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mixture of indigenous people from Quisqueya, Xaymaca, Borinquén and Cuba, European immigrants who invaded these territories and African slaves brought to work in the gold mines, sugar plantations and sugar mills (1998: 1998: 43).. Despite his reduced perspective – he ignores, for instance, the Panamanian history as well as all new influences – he illustrates one central aspect of Caribbean culture: the ambivalent relationship to the African heritage. While some – such as Wilson – stress their African heritage, others explain their dark skin colour with reference to Moorish or Indigenous ancestors and even react in offence when addressed as from an AfroCaribbean background. The same can be said of the Asian influence in the Caribbean, which is ignored by some and praised by others. However, while searching New York City for a Caribbean restaurant, I was invited to a Chinese-Cuban one where all of the servers – with Chinese faces – spoke Spanish. Particularly in the Diaspora there is an ongoing debate about the ontological essence of ‘Caribbean culture’. The Carib News, a well-known New York-based weekly magazine, reports on social, cultural and political events on the islands but Puerto Rico is rarely mentioned. And at the Caribbean carnival in Brooklyn, the largest to take place outside of the Caribbean, Haitian migrants are not well received. Nevertheless, all these groups belong to the Caribbean and represent the Caribbean. The Caribbean cultures illustrate new demands on cultural theory. With regard to the multiple dimensions of Caribbean culture(s) one has to accept that culture can no longer be defined as a self-contained entity but as something full of discontinuities, repetitions and contradictions. Not only is Creole defined in a different way on every island, but the reflexive interpretations of Creole are distinguishable according to age, social belonging, gender, living conditions, social situation, time and location. And let us not forget all the new influences. These processes, which are often described as creating impurities, do not fit into the image of a homogeneous culture but remind me of the ‘Savage Mind’ of Claude Lévi-Strauss. Latin America had similar problems approaching cultural categories. The definition of the Indigenous is as difficult as that of the Mestize because both categories represent more social than ethnic characteristics and social characteristics change continuously. Hence previous debate about cultural theories in Latin America left the notion of homogeneous entities behind some time ago and began to focus more and more on mixtures. The European schema of pure culture does not exist in Latin America, and neither does the North American dream of a melting pot. Latin America as well as the Caribbean needs categories that break with established definitions. The cultural theoretical debate in Latin America and the Caribbean, which has been a multidisciplinary field from the beginning, has taught me as an anthropologist that we should not only look beyond the border but also include the borderline in our way of thinking. Literature studies, for instance, started to investigate new media and other communication technologies in Latin America much earlier than other disciplines began to conduct research. Their reflections about literature represent an interior view of societies which is similar to the anthropological effort of an emic understanding of other cultures. Hence we should not ignore their theoretical studies. Nevertheless, these studies lack an ethnographical view that enriches our discipline. Ethnographical description should imply snapshots of social lives, presenting individuality instead of abstract concepts, and general assumptions should

The Multiple Dimensions of Caribbean Culture

3

always be construed on the basis of ethnographical data. Otherwise the distance between the two central positions of every anthropological study, the participant’s observer and the acting subject, would be too large. We need, of course, a certain kind of distance if we do not want to reduce anthropology to ventriloquism (see Geertz 1993b).. Nonetheless, ethnographical research should not create mute objects; human beings are the centre of all ethnographical research, not objects. The interpretation of individual data often creates problems. Because anthropology is frequently focused on groups, whether ethnic or social, it is in danger of losing sight of the individual or generalizing too quickly. The broad expressions ‘Haitians’, ‘Cubans’ and so on are often spoken while forgetting that individuals gave us their time in order to explain their world to us; individuals allowed us to intrude into their private worlds; individuals invited us in to be with their families. Literature studies, on the other hand, concentrate on authors, novels or poems, and hence on singular works or persons. Literature studies could therefore teach anthropology something about the conservation of individuality, if we allowed them into our field. On the basis of these considerations, when I describe Caribbean religious communities in New York City I will present only individual versions, never those of the whole religion or the whole Caribbean community. I allow myself the luxury of presenting the particular, on which I will base my theoretical debate. Thus the ethnographical research does not present a contextualization of a theory but rather the ethnographical data inspires theoretical debate. Any ethnographical research presents a multiple reading of reality (daa Matta 1991: 241),, and should preserve the ‘voice’ of the actors (even in a non-verbatim way). The responsibility of the anthropologist is to extract the perspective of the partners and hence to present their story, their reality and their cultural context (Geertz Geertz 1993b: 140).. In doing so the other reality loses the exotic image and becomes familiar. Dealing with foreign realities includes the danger of construing them with smoothed out contradictions and breaks. However, the particularity of ethnographic research is to show the contradictions and not to palliate them in spite of all the pressure.1 Hence throughout this book I will hint at problems in finding common categories, for instance common names or common ways of self-representation. As illustration I will include some snapshots which allow some insights into Caribbean diversity. These snapshots are, of course, subjective impressions which I got during my ‘observant participation’ and which reflect the debate with Otherness. According to Michael Pye, observant participation is a particularly necessary supplement in the study of religions (2000: 2000: 78–9).. Small contradictions and ambivalent moments are visible only during daily situations, observable only through participation. Small gestures and interpersonal interaction sometimes allow us better insight than long interviews. For example, people often cannot suppress a harsh word or a rude gesture – though they are often more reluctant to verbalize their disapproval towards strangers. These small and very human situations show how cultures are lived. Hence I will ‘illustrate’ my theoretical debate with such situations. However, these ‘pictures’, the descriptions of the situations, are not only illustrations but also characterizations of certain aspects which contradict 1 See, for example, Kohl 2000: 80–81 about the problematic position of anthropologists in legal cases..

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theoretical discourses. I use them as metaphors to clarify the theoretical discussion: they point to theoretical standpoints and demonstrate the processual dimension of the debate. I understand the different concepts in the cultural theoretical debate as being part of an ongoing dispute. They often contradict themselves, dispute on minor or major points, or they add important aspects to each other. The described situations illustrate with their multiple readings that no theory is unimpeachable because there is not only one reading of reality. The metaphors have another use, namely that they connect the ethnographic part with the theoretical, preparing the reader for the last chapter where I will present a new theoretical contribution to the debate. These scenes add a further dimension to the descriptions, as they contain additional ethnographical data. As Aleida Assmann writes, culture can be separated into two categories: the everyday life and the festival life, the fluent and the static. The scenes demonstrate the ‘fluent’, the part which the day produces and consumes, while the ethnographic descriptions focus on the ‘festival’, that part of life which generations conserve as their common property (Assmann Assmann 1991: 11).. Both parts belong to one culture together, hence the fluent adds to the static which nevertheless is in a dynamic process of change. To come back to the quote at the beginning of the introduction: Maryse Condé’s question ‘Where are they born, and where do they live?’ already hints at the central aspect of this book. Instead of studying Caribbean culture in the Caribbean I will investigate Caribbean culture among migrants from the Caribbean in New York City. New York City is still the most preferred migration target and hence meeting point of various migrant groups. The Caribbean New York I will focus on is located mainly in Brooklyn, though some part of my fieldwork was conducted in Manhattan. My research was divided into three parts: a small preparation phase, a main research period and a smaller follow-up phase. During my main research period I lived in Brooklyn, where most of the Caribbean migrants live. I was teaching at the Brooklyn College of the City University of New York and learnt about the cultural diversity of Brooklyn from various perspectives from my students and colleagues in the department of Puerto Rican and Latino Studies. In Chapter 2 I will present the background of my fieldwork and explain the methodological framework. During my investigation I focused on travelling people whose cultural repertoire changes during the migration movement. In this process religion develops important functions, integrative as well as demarcating. Religious communities of Caribbean migrants were at the centre of my research. They demonstrate the flexibility of cultural phenomena; they are not compasses but sextants that measure the position of the navigator in every situation and refer every measure to the position (see Baumann 2000: 163).. In New York City the borderline between the various religious communities seems to diminish and develop new syncretism out of the contact of religious traditions. In the Chapter 3 I will present these new religious creations. With reference to Vodou, Santería and the Spiritual Baptists, as well as the Iglesia Universal (which fights harshly against African spirits), I will demonstrate the dynamic changes that can be transferred to cultural designs. New York City seems to be more open to creating new religious systems than the Caribbean, while Latin America is more open to including new influences in theoretical debate. Chapter 4 gives an overview of various debates in Latin America and the Caribbean

The Multiple Dimensions of Caribbean Culture

5

about cultural theories. Starting with mestizaje and hybridization I will present the Brazilian debate before explaining the different positions in the debate about creolization. My focus in this chapter will be on contributions from Latin America and the Caribbean, hence I will touch North American and European contributions only on the surface. In the last few decades a new metaphor has permeated debate about cultural and religious mixtures, which was introduced by Claude Lévi-Strauss in the 1960s: the bricolage. Inspired by his elaborations I have developed my own contribution to the theoretical debate which I will explain in Chapter 5. Throughout the book I will never touch the question that has concerned AfroAmerican studies since Melville Herskovits: the question of authenticity. I regard every element of a culture or a religion authentic when its creators, the believers of the religion or the person living the culture, believe in its validity. The novelist Lourdes Vázquez describes, for instance, the Creole culture as follows: We began to invent a homemade Creole manner of expression when the Tainos left us an island with a few gods perched atop the tallest mountain, a list of words that continue to form an active part of our vocabulary, and a territory organized by regions and towns with clearly and fully identified names. (1998: 76)

As she declares, creolization is only the beginning of the process that started with the invasion of new cultures in the Caribbean. Inventions are therefore not secondary processes but necessary ones, as she illustrates with reference to her own family story. Her great-grandfather migrated from Eastern Europe to Venezuela where he met his Puerto Rican wife-to-be. Together they moved to Puerto Rico. Two generations later Vázquez’s father moved to New York but his wife could not stand the cold and moved back to the island. Today, the novelist lives in New York, a city which is of more importance for Puerto Ricans than San Juan, the capital of the island. In the Puerto Rican parts of New York people have created an idealized image of Puerto Rico and of the Caribbean, which is not based in reality but which is important for the selfconfidence of the society. Vázquez therefore identifies herself proudly as Puerto Rican as well as representative of Creole culture, because New York is part of the Caribbean. I started this chapter with the question of what a Caribbean person is. I have mentioned three different novelists who all represent different types of Caribbean people: A Haitian American, who was born in Haiti but grew up in New York, a Panamanian with Caribbean ancestors, and a Nuyorican, that is a Puerto Rican living in New York. The list could be continued forever. A Caribbean person can live anywhere in the world, can speak various languages and hence cannot be described with one characteristic in an essentialist manner. Apart from a (sometimes very distant) Caribbean ancestor they have in common only one aspect: their own image of the Caribbean and a kind of relationship to a place within it.

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Chapter 2

Variations of Caribbean Culture(s) in New York City A journey on the subway in New York City resembles a journey through the ethnic structure of the metropolis. The change from one neighbourhood to another is reflected in the composition of the passengers in a compartment. The journey from Manhattan to Brooklyn is therefore a journey into a different world. As the train clatters over the bridge, we are leaving Manhattan, the centre of the city and the symbol of power, wealth and success. Slowly the train reaches the other side of the bridge and we are in Brooklyn, the largest part of New York City. The passengers are as ethnically diverse as the inhabitants. After the bridge the subway passes underground again. At the first stop many Chinatown workers – from Manhattan’s Chinatown, that is – leave the train because we have reached Brooklyn’s Chinatown. Some stops later we are in Prospect Park, the favourite place for those who cannot afford to live in Manhattan. The area became quite fashionable after the rents in Manhattan became far too expensive for people working in Manhattan. After Prospect Park most of the passengers have a darker complexion. We reach Flatbush, the primary living area for migrants from the Caribbean. * In his description of the fragmentation of the world at the end of the twentieth century Clifford Geertz concludes that the more things move together, the more they remain separate (1996: 1996: 71).. The relevance of this superficial statement becomes significant as soon as one challenges the dominant assumption of a homogeneous concept of culture. New York City is a meeting point for migrant groups but not a melting pot: every group arrives with its own heritage. Hence, one can notice an increasing tendency to diversification, for instance with regard to the labels Latino and Hispanic. Migrants from Latin American and their descendants refused to be identified with these labels because of the negative connotation. ‘Latino’ indicates that someone’s ancestors came from Latin America, whether they arrived last week or a hundred years ago. The label ‘Hispanic’ even includes people from Spain just because of the language, ignoring the local variations of Spanish in Latin America as well as the fact that migrants from Latin America sometimes speak an indigenous language as their first language and not Spanish. New migrants from Latin America therefore prefer to be identified as Latin Americans or with reference to their home country or ethnic identity.1 1 Puerto Ricans sometimes stress their indigenous heritage by presenting themselves as Boricua, while Mexicans in the USA regard Aztlán as home. See Klor de Alva 1995: 251–2.

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A similar problem is involved in creating a definition of the Caribbean. In English literature we can see a distinction between the use of the terms ‘West Indies’ and ‘Caribbean’; the first refers to the Anglophone islands and the latter to a more diffuse geographical area. Some authors even use the term ‘Afro Creole Caribbean’ to describe ‘non-Hispanic Caribbean basin societies in which the descendants of enslaved Africans have generally been demographically and culturally dominant’ (Kasinitz Kasinitz 1995: 3). However, even Philip Kasinitz, the author of this definition, stresses a strong African influence on the Spanish-speaking Caribbean. Because of fundamental differences between Spanish and non-Spanish colonies during colonial times, scholars sometimes ignore the common characteristics of the Caribbean societies. I therefore use the term ‘Caribbean’ for people from all Caribbean islands, whether they belonged to the Spanish Empire, the British, the French or the Dutch. In this chapter I will introduce the ethnographic setting, Caribbean New York. I will begin with some figures which explain the influence of the Immigration and Nationality Act (1965) on the ethnic composition of Caribbean New York before explaining the methodological framework. The next section concentrates on the concept of urban culture and describes the Caribbean carnival as an important phenomenon of Caribbean New York. In the last part of this chapter I discuss some representations of Francophone and Hispano-phone Caribbean New York with reference to the French school of ethnoscénologie and explain my own approach to the field. New York as Living Space for Caribbean Migrants Ethnographic Setting Urban areas are predestined locations for cultural cross-cuttings and disruptions. The complexity and dynamics of the Caribbean lifestyle are part of New York City, but in a permanent process of change. In 1998 New York City celebrated the 100th anniversary of various events which have affected the structure of the city to the present day: the end of the Spanish-American war, the conquest of the last Spanish colonies in the Caribbean and the Pacific, which brought about the occupation of Puerto Rico, and also the fusion of the five boroughs of New York and the inclusion of the former independent town Brooklyn into New York City. Though some people in Brooklyn still regret that Brooklyn is not an independent town despite its 2.5 million inhabitants, Brooklyn is very popular among migrants from Asia, Russia, Latin America and the Caribbean. Brooklyn, together with Queens, is the target of most migrants arriving in the city. New Yorkers still consider Manhattan the most prominent part; nevertheless 35 per cent of migrants prefer to live in Brooklyn (New New York City Department of City Planning 1996: 51).. Brooklyn is therefore the most ethnically diverse part of New York City, and I will speak mainly about Brooklyn though I will include later some observations made in Manhattan about different aspects of Caribbean New York. New York City is, with its airports and harbour, the most important point of entrance into the USA: 15 per cent of all immigrants into the USA enter the country in New York City (New New York City Department of City Planning 1996: xi). However,

Variations of Caribbean Culture(s) in New York City

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the composition of migrant groups has changed in the last decades, as has the ethnic composition of New York City. In former times Italians topped the list of the largest immigrant groups in New Yorker statistics; since the 1970s Dominicans have been at the top of the local list (though Mexicans are ahead in national statistics). Emigrants arrive in New York City from other Caribbean islands too. In sum, 33 per cent of all immigrants in the 1990s have been from the Caribbean (though in the national statistics immigrants from the Caribbean amount to only 12 per cent; New York City Department of City Planning 1996: 7),, and most of them find a place to live in Brooklyn.2 The change is a result of the Immigration and Nationality Act (1965), which reconsidered the quota for immigration visas (Kraly Kraly 1987: 41ff.). 41ff.) The Caribbean in particular, with its high number of small but independent countries, gained from the new Act. Before 1965, the immigrants were overwhelmingly European and male, often without any training. After 1965, the majority arrived from new countries, especially from the Caribbean, Latin America and Asia, consisting of more women and a higher percentage of educated and trained people than before (Foner Foner 1987: 2–3).. However, we have to consider that these statistics only refer to people getting immigration visas, excluding, for instance, people arriving with tourist or student visas as well as Puerto Ricans who are US citizens and do not count as immigrants. Nevertheless, there are important characteristics of the New York Caribbean community that we can learn about from the statistics. One relates indirectly to the New York Caribbeans, referring to the changed racial composition of the population of New York City: because the number of people belonging to the group of nonHispanic Whites fell from 63 per cent in 1970 to 35 per cent in 2000 (New New York City Department of City Planning 1996: 3),,3 Caribbean people who are generally counted as Black or Hispanic already belong to the majority in New York City. Another aspect refers to the place of birth: the majority of people in the Caribbean community in New York City were born outside the USA, which influences the stratification of New York City which becomes (again) a city of immigrants. In 1990 30 per cent of the inhabitants of New York City were born outside the USA, and this statistical tendency is increasing.4 The only group that represents a different development is the group of Puerto Ricans. In 1990 the majority of Puerto Ricans in New York were born in one of the US states and not on the island as before (Department Department of City Planning 1994: 21).. Another interesting aspect of these statistics refers to the next generation: every second child of Caribbean migrants is born in the USA, and therefore has US 2 While the first groups of immigrants from the Caribbean settled in the neighbourhood of African-Americans in Harlem and Bedford-Stuyvesant, since the 1970s they have looked to Crown Heights, East Flatbush and Flatbush for a place to live, in the centre of Brooklyn (Kasinitz 1995: 55). 3 According to another statistic these numbers had already been reached. Before 1965 non-Hispanic Whites accounted for 73.1 per cent of the population of New York, in 1980 the figure was only 25.7 per cent; meanwhile the number of non-Hispanic Blacks increased from 8.4 per cent before 1965 to 23.4 per cent in 1980, while the group of Asians increased from 4.3 per cent to 22.7 per cent and the group of Hispanics from 13.9 per cent to 27.4 per cent (see Bogen 1987: 40). 4 For instance, 82 per cent of people with Jamaican descent and 88 per cent of people with Trinidadian descent were born outside the USA in the 1980s (Youssef Youssef 1992: 6, 62).

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citizenship (Bogen Bogen 1987: 6; excluding Puerto Ricans).. This number is particularly important because it indicates that the second generation is relatively highly socialized and part of the USA, a point which is often ignored. Caribbean New York exists. Methodological Frame The ethnographic setting leads me to the methodological framework of my research. Though I write about Caribbean migrants in an urban area my work is not a typical contribution to migration studies or to urban studies. I do not discuss, for instance, pulland-push factors leading to migration, nor do I present a community study in an urban context. I ignore most of the typical elements of these studies and focus instead on the urban area as living space for migrants. I argue that migration is much too complex to be investigated from one perspective only. An investigation about the reasons for migration says nothing about the lives of the migrants; an ethnographic description of a migrant community says nothing about their home; a study about social problems of the migrants says nothing about their culture. There are, of course, already some excellent studies about Caribbean immigrants focusing on important aspects such as language (for example the use of Spanish, or Kreyòl), social conflicts (for example racism) or performative aspects (for example carnival or music).5 Nevertheless, they often fail in presenting migration as a collective process of multiple factors. Migration is not a ‘tidy’ story; it is not possible to structure and present migration consistently in the same way as other cultural institutions, even if scholars would like to do it (see Welz 1996: 223–30).. Hence my research focuses on the process of change. Instead of studying the complex Caribbean migration and construing artificial structures, I will describe the diverse phenomenon of Caribbean New York. My focus will be on the religious communities of Caribbean migrants and the way they interact with members of the group as well as with outsiders. Though I will include data about origins, history and religious content, I will mainly demonstrate that living in the Diaspora6 follows its own rules and cannot be explained by static structures. Hence I will not present a community study of Caribbean migrants in New York City or a community at all. Though most of the participants of my study live in Brooklyn, they do not constitute a community because they live in the same part of the city, but because they practise the same religion and attend ceremonies of the same religious community. Religion is one of the most important aspects that enables the re-arrangement of institutions in the Diaspora (see Kremser 1992: 51).. While Kremser points to the continuity of religious cultures in the African Diaspora, my aim is not the presentation of continuity

5 See, for instance, Allen and Wilcken 1998 and McAlister 2002 about music; Kasinitz 1995 about carnival and racism; Henze 2000 about code-switching; Buchanan 1980 about Kreyòl; and Welz 1991 and Bourgois 1997 about social problems. 6 I use the term Diaspora according to the definition of cultural diasporas offered by Robin Cohen in his book Global Diasporas (1997), though I extend it by including Spanish-speaking Caribbean migrants. Hence the term ‘Caribbean Diaspora’ characterizes in my book people from all Caribbean islands and their descendants, whether they speak French, Spanish or English.. For practical reasons I excluded one group from my fieldwork – Asian Caribbeans – though they are also part of the Caribbean diasporas.

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7

or of a structural system. After describing the religious communities I will leave the ethnographic level and move on to the theoretical debate. In doing so, I follow Ulf Hannerz in using research in an urban area to inspire cultural-theoretical debate. New York’s Urban Culture The cornerstone for my portrayal of New York as living space for migrants from the Caribbean is Werner Schiffauer’s concept of urban culture which he elaborates in a small collection of essays based mainly on his investigations in Berlin and Turkey. He describes the dynamic, fluid culture of a metropolis in a particular way. Searching for the social logic behind the vibrancy of urban culture and the factors influencing the cultural current, creating complex fluid patterns, he turns to Exploring the City by Ulf Hannerz (1980) and La Distinction: Critique social de jugement by Pierre Bourdieu (1979, English translation 1984). Though Hannerz focuses on communication modes and Bourdieu on social stratification and power structures in urban areas, Schiffauer regards the two ideas as complementary. Together they describe – according to Schiffauer’s interpretation – a complex process: Hannerz the horizontal movements and the whirls of interaction and Bourdieu the vertical movements of hierarchy creation. Though this process does not only exist in urban areas, it develops more easily when the environment is larger, more complex and more anonymous. According to Schiffauer the culture of a metropolis is therefore a radically well-timed culture, a culture where everything is fluid and where any increase in fluency creates opposite currents, whirls, variations and even turbulences (Schiffauer Schiffauer 1997: 99).. This process does not take place in an empty environment but relates to people connected to a social area and divided into social groups. In his characterization of urban culture Schiffauer refers to three aspects: the meaning of interurban networking, the development of the division of labour and the conception of urban law and order. Schiffauer argues that the third aspect in particular characterizes different cities. While French cities, for instance, locate problematic zones in suburban areas, British cities associate these areas with the city centre. While European cities developed in a circular, organic process and are structured according to class division, American cities are constructed on the idea of a grid which incorporates the vision of controlling the natural and social environment. Schiffauer interprets this grid as a Calvinistic counter-concept to the (European) circle and connects it to a high degree of mobility where a citizen prefers to move to a new location instead of investing time and power in changing the old one (Schiffauer Schiffauer 1997: 116–18).. This system describes New York, too, though I have observed a higher degree of identification with New York than with any other city. Nevertheless, the ethnic stratification of New York is always changing. Neighbourhoods occupied by Puerto Ricans during my first visit to New York in 1991 are now dominated by Mexicans, who in their turn replaced Dominicans. But, as will be explained later, the sense of belonging to a religious community lives on. The urban culture of New York City is characterized by two different but interconnected systems. On the one hand New York is – in Schiffauer’s view quite similar to Berlin in

7

See, for instance, the crack house as structural system presented by Bourgois (1997).

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this respect – boundless (place-less), without reference to its surroundings. In particular, Manhattan, the central part of New York, lacks a sense of belonging to the other parts of the city. Its neighbour Brooklyn already represents another town, ‘on the moon’ for people living in Manhattan. Several people complained to me about having to move to Brooklyn, which to them is only worse than leaving New York City altogether in order to move to New Jersey. For people living in New York City their town is something special. New York is not the centre of the United States but the exception, the living space for dropouts, marginalized groups and alternative movements. On the other hand, New York City is also a symbol of mobility. Social uprising, acculturation and final integration are often connected to a change of residence; migrants, for instance, move to Long Island or even upstate as soon as they become successful. This double system even influences the traffic system as one can see by looking at a subway map. New York City has one of the world’s best public transport systems; mobility is possible without a private car. In the centre is Manhattan, almost completely without any parking space for private cars. Most of the subway lines lead through Manhattan; hence it is nearly impossible to move from one part of the city to another without going first to Manhattan, even though Queens and Brooklyn are on the same side of the river. And in some areas, in particular in the suburbs, people have to buy a private car. Some communities even organize a local transport system (with small buses) in order to reach the public transport system of the city. In sum, this (sometimes quite chaotic) interaction of two contradictory systems – one inclusive and the other exclusive – characterizes New York City. Nevertheless, the system of two opposite movements creates tension, which increased after the election of Rudolph Giuliani in 1992. His zero-tolerance policy appeased the demand for more security but ignored the need for prevention, investigation and the social integration of offenders. As a result prisons are predominantly filled with non-White people, African-Americans, Latinos and Caribbean Americans – and nearly nothing was done to prevent it. When he left office, non-European immigrants were viewed as threats rather than as enriching the diversity of the city. The paradise of migrants became a safe paradise for tourists but the economic success that ensued did not affect most of the migrants. However, to describe the urban culture of New York City one needs to look beyond its structure. Schiffauer lists three characteristics of urban culture: an internal heterogeneity, openness towards the outside and the phenomenon of what he calls critical masses (Schiffauer 1997: 128–9). Hence one should investigate heterogeneity within an urban culture, the means through which groups integrate and exclude cultural elements, and the framework within which subcultures emerge. Based on these characteristics Schiffauer discusses the distinction between European and Turkish cities, while I will use them to characterize the urban culture of New York City. Schiffauer distinguishes, for instance, between urban culture performed in the public sphere in European cities and the urban culture pointing to the inside, the private part of society, in Turkish cities (Schiffauer Schiffauer 1997: 134ff.).. In New York City one can observe how both types exist at the same time. Public parks are, for instance, very important for all inhabitants of New York City. Central Park in Manhattan and Prospect Park in Brooklyn are arenas for sport, social and cultural events, social meetings and so on. And even streets and squares are used for cultural events, sport and other activities, beyond any ethnic, social, age and gender barriers.

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Apart from these public stages in New York City there is also a private dimension of public social life. Access to this is granted only to those who are invited, to relatives or friends of the host. In particular religious communities observe the strict rule of ‘controlled otherness’, but other groups also follow this rule. Whoever behaves badly or prefers individuality and freedom to community and bond is excluded from this kind of urban culture. This observation seems to be in opposition to the image of New York as a symbol of individualism. However, New York City is more than a city for the marginalized. A characteristic of many if not all migrant communities is the high number of social activities, of social and cultural groups and organizations. Some institutions are identical to those in the home country, other are founded in particular for migrants in the Diaspora. As a consequence, leisure time activities remain ethnically divided. Caribbean Culture in New York City I: Carnival At this point I will turn to the most striking public performance of the Caribbean community directed to the outside world: the West Indian American Day Carnival in Brooklyn. Similar to the Caribbean carnival in London and Toronto, the Labor Day Parade in Brooklyn is based on the Trinidadian version of carnival which has led to the development of a pan-Caribbean identity, with the exception of the Spanishspeaking Caribbean. For this reason the carnival cannot be seen as representative of all Caribbean migrants, as Anglophone migrants remain the dominant part. Nevertheless, it has influenced the representation of Caribbean immigrants in New York City (their public image, that is), and continues to do so today. The first Caribbean festivals were celebrated in New York City in the 1920s, during the first major phase of Caribbean immigration. Though the first migrants from the West Indies arrived in the USA shortly after the abolishment of slavery, immigration increased at the turn of the century: in 1899 only 832 migrants lived in New York City, in 1924 this number had already grown to 12,243 (Kasinitz Kasinitz 1995: 24).. The relatively large number of Caribbean immigrants arriving in the USA during the first decades of the twentieth century integrated with African-Americans in an almost problem-free manner, settling in their neighbourhoods, for instance in Harlem where the first carnival festivals were celebrated (celebrations took place indoors due to the weather conditions; Kasinitz 1995: 140).. Because of the outstanding economic success of migrants in this first phase, people often stereotypically consider migrants from the West Indies as very good at business. During the second phase of Caribbean immigration (from the depression until the change of the immigration act in 1965), only a few migrants from the Anglophone Caribbean arrived in the USA. They were predominately educated middle-class people, speaking better English than other immigrants. Like other migrant groups (see, for instance, Figure 2.1) Caribbean migrants organized an ethnic parade to celebrate their identity, in the case of the Caribbean migrants a carnival parade. The first one took place on Labor Day in 1947 in Harlem. These Caribbean migrants insisted on keeping their British passports instead of applying for US citizenship.

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Figure 2.1

Caribbean Diaspora in the USA

The Columbus Day Parade (1998)

The start of mass migration from the Caribbean to the USA after 1965 changed the Caribbean community in New York City. Large Caribbean communities developed during the 1970s and 1980s, for instance in Brooklyn, where the carnival parade has been celebrated during Labor Day weekend since 1969. Affirmative Action programmes at public schools and in particular the effort of the City University of New York – which founded its own college for the economically weaker population in every district – supported higher education for migrants. Hence, work opportunities for migrants during the third phase increased, especially in the service industry (Kasinitz Kasinitz 1995: 93ff.).. Brooklyn College in Flatbush is particularly important for the Caribbean community, not only to Anglophones but also to the Hispano-phone migrants. Nevertheless, the latter have not participated in the Caribbean carnival from the beginning. Kasinitz’s study demonstrates that the Labor Day Parade is not a typical ethnic parade, which would normally be celebrated in New York City on Fifth Avenue. The attempt to move the parade to Manhattan failed at the beginning of the 1980s. Kasinitz explains this by comparing the carnival with other ethnic parades in New York City such as the Puerto Rican Parade or the St Patrick’s Day Parade, which are events based on military metaphors and leadership. ‘The dramatic structure of [such] celebrations … serves to interweave the interests of the group with the careers of individual politicians.’ He further argues that ‘the Parade presents the image of a unified people marching behind their leaders’ (Kasinitz Kasinitz 1995: 147). The carnival in Brooklyn is totally different. Remco van Capelleveen even describes the Caribbean carnival as a big chaos (1993: 1993: 139).. With more than 3.5 million spectators (in 1999) arriving from all over the USA and Canada, the carnival parade is the largest gathering of Caribbean migrants in North America (the audience is predominately Caribbean).

Variations of Caribbean Culture(s) in New York City

Figure 2.2

15

A typical crowd at the Caribbean Carnival in Brooklyn (1999)

Like other ethnic parades the carnival parade is led by the elected beauty queen of the parade together with political representatives and, in election years, by candidates of the political parties. Despite their popularity the audience remains quiet until the arrival of the first music groups. They mark the real start of the carnival. Until their arrival the spectators stand and chat with each other and eat the Caribbean delicacies that can be bought at several stalls nearby but pay little attention to the parade. When the music starts, the audience begins dancing. The parade often has to stop because spectators break through the barricades and dance round the music trucks (see Figure 2.2). When the parade reaches the VIP lounge hosting the judges of the competition at the end of the Eastern Parkway, the march has already had several breaks. Some trucks never even reach the end but get lost together with dancing spectators in some of the side streets. The music (nowadays usually recorded music) delights everyone in the audience regardless of social, ethnic, age and gender barriers. The grandmother dances with her grandchildren and cheers the DJs whether they play calypso, reggae or the latest chart music. Apart from the music the spectators discuss the colourful costumes and cheer loudly. They recognize every detail of the costumes and criticize, for instance, someone having problems with his or her costume in the wind (see Figure 2.3). Most of the trucks are sponsored by large companies and some distribute presents to the spectators, from sweets to cups, t-shirts and even CDs. The pushing and shoving is incredible. The parade lasts for hours and ends with several parties, outside and inside. In addition to the parade the West Indian American Day Carnival includes several other events, for instance competitions for the best costume, the best performance and the best music, as well as a children’s carnival parade (Figure 2.4), but the main event is the parade on Labor Day.

Caribbean Diaspora in the USA

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Figure 2.3

Struggling with the wind at the Caribbean Carnival in Brooklyn (1999)

There is a certain degree of order in the course of the parade, but in practice this order breaks nearly immediately (see Kasinitz 1995: 147).. But, while Kasinitz interprets the carnival positively, van Cappelleveen’s description implies a negative impression of the carnival. He notes, for instance, an enormous police presence creating an explosive tension which can engender a non-ritualistic, anarchic, rebellious mood (van an Cappelleveen 1993: 141).. His impression is probably influenced by the social unrest of the 1980s, and I do not share his interpretation. In 1999 I observed a very joyful crowd, not rebellious at all though the situation in the 1980s had repercussions on the carnival and fostered negative stereotypes. Nevertheless, the harsh interpretation of van Cappelleveen is a surprise. Looking at the carnival in Barbados, Josep R. Llobera argues that the researcher during fieldwork sometimes reacts in an emotionally negative way without consciously knowing the reasons for this reaction. During the 1970s two images of African-Americans conspicuously circulated in the US media: the image of an obedient servant and the image of a violent aggressor. While reason can control emotion during a superficial interaction, diving in a crowd as large as the carnival spectators can rouse stereotypes and fears dating back to childhood (Llobera Llobera 1990: 66–76).. Today, the carnival is not rebellious; on the contrary, it contributes to the establishment of a pan-Caribbean identity. At the beginning migrants from Trinidad and Tobago – who are not even the largest group from the Caribbean but the one with a long carnival tradition – dominated the carnival organization.8 Together with migrants from Grenada, they still control the West Indian American Day Carnival Association (WIADCA) as well as music groups and costume production (Kasinitz Kasinitz 8

See Wüst 1991 on the social meaning of the carnival in Trinidad.

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1995: 150).. Though migrants from Jamaica represent the fastest-growing migrant group from the Anglophone Caribbean in the USA, they are still under-represented at the carnival in New York City. According to Kasinitz this is because of the different music style – though I observed several Jamaican reggae groups during the parade in 1999.9 Nevertheless, in spite of all the arguments between Jamaicans and Trinidadians, both groups identify with the carnival in New York City. Even the Haitian community manages to use the carnival as a forum to present its problems to a wider audience. In 1998, for instance, Haitian participants made the brutal mistreatment of a Haitian migrant in a police station in Brooklyn a topic of the carnival parade.10 On the other hand, Trinidadians reacted in an increasingly negative fashion to the possibility of opening the carnival to other groups (though I was told that their exclusive attitude against other Caribbean groups has changed recently), and in particular towards the commercialization of the parade. The result was the introduction of j’ouvert, another Caribbean tradition. Since the 1980s this has been a kind of counter-event in the early morning before the main parade (j’ouvert is derived from the French ‘jour ouvert’, ouvert welcome the day; traditionally it is celebrated as the farewell of carnival at dawn on the last day of the carnival, not in the middle, before the main event). In contrast to

Figure 2.4

The Children’s Carnival Parade in Brooklyn (1999)

9 Abner Cohen describes in his studies of the Caribbean carnival in London a separation between calypso and reggae, though he does not explain the division with ethnic stratification but with different generations of migrants (1980, 1982). 10 Paper by Karen McCarthy Brown in the American Museum of Natural History 15 October 1998. See also Brown 1995.

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Figure 2.5

Caribbean Diaspora in the USA

J’ouvert in Brooklyn (1999)

the main parade, only steel bands are allowed to play during j’ouvert. The participants do not wear colourful costumes, and the spectators are not separated by barriers from the musicians (see Figure 2.5). The organizers try to bring the New Yorker carnival back to its original Trinidadian features. Hence, they seem to overlook the fact that Caribbean migrants are not only from Trinidad and Tobago, but from various islands. Even though j’ouvert is also traditionally celebrated in Haiti, the New Yorker organizers insist on its Trinidad/Tobago roots and prevent other music groups from participating, not because of the quality of their performance but because of their nationality – as I was told by the manager of a well-known Haitian band in New York (though this again has changed: in 2004 a Haitian group was allowed for the first time to perform at j’ouvert). Despite the exclusive attitude of the organizers, many Haitians go to the morning event and participate as it is also the custom in Haiti. Something that is prohibited by the organizers is cheered by the participants. In sum, one can argue that despite all divisions and tensions the main aspect of the Caribbean carnival is indeed the performance of a pan-Caribbean culture. At this point I will turn back to Schiffauer’s remarks about urban culture. Because the Caribbean carnival can be characterized as a nearly ‘headless’ event that ends in a chaotic party, people tend to ignore the structure of the Caribbean community in New York City, and hence the dynamics of subgroups. But, on the contrary, the non-existence of a leadership does not imply anarchy. While the public impression is one of chaos, there is strong control inside the carnival though it does not become visible to the public. One example will serve to demonstrate this: the increasing politicization of the carnival which is one of the main aspects discussed by Kasinitz in his studies on the carnival. He argues with reference to the political fight in the 1980s that the central function of the carnival was at that time the construction of a borderline between the Caribbean community and the African-Americans. In 1984 Jesse Jackson participated for the first time in the carnival parade in Brooklyn, but

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despite his popularity it was not a success. He was accused of neglecting several conventions and of snubbing his audience. Kasinitz cites a journalist’s reaction: It was an abortion. I mean here was Jackson speaking to the largest crowd he had ever addressed, and if ever they wanted an opportunity to do something for black unity, this was it. Instead they insulted people … If they wanted to demonstrate unity, Rainbow Coalition or whatever, he would have had a Caribbean person introduce him, he would have a sense of recognition of the community … I mean, Jesse goes to Moscow, he is briefed, right? He knows who he is going to speak to and what to speak about! But with us no one saw the need to brief him at all … It was a real insult. (Kasinitz 1995: 155)

Another politician, New York’s Mayor Edward Koch, participated at the carnival in 1985 but with a different strategy. In order to gain support for his re-election he made an effort to court all the leaders of the Caribbean community. The result was his re-election. A Haitian priest’s reply to the question of why he had supported Koch instead of the African-American candidate was the simple phrase ‘he asked us’ (Kasinitz Kasinitz 1995: 233). Koch managed to bind the diverse Caribbean leaders together, while Jackson presented himself as leader without taking the Caribbean leaders into consideration. The following time, when Jackson needed support for his national campaign, he acted more carefully and (though in the end he was unsuccessful) he gained the votes of the Caribbean community. Hence, despite the public appearance of the Caribbean carnival which is openly structured and can integrate new elements, the private spheres contribute largely to the urban culture of Caribbean New York. Ethnoscénologie as interpretative method Cultural events such as carnival often do not fit into categories. In his study about hybrid cultures Néstor García Canclini examines similar manifestations which cannot be described as ‘popular’ or ‘cultural’ because they represent a mixture of both (1990: 263–4). But how can we interpret these ‘bulky’ events? Or how can we interpret religious and cultural mixtures which continuously develop and change? In order to explain the diversity of Caribbean cultures in New York City I will now turn to other aspects of Caribbean urban culture which are perhaps not as visible as the carnival, but are nonetheless important for the representation of the community. One can find performances of Caribbean culture in cultural centres, in museums, on stage, in dance schools as well as in music workshops. New York urban culture is nowadays highly influenced by Caribbean music and dance styles as I will demonstrate with reference to migrants from the French (Kreyòl) and Spanish-speaking Caribbean. Similar to my presentation of the (Anglophone) Caribbean carnival my focus will not be on cultural centres of the immigrant groups but on public performances in the public arena and on the interpretation of the relationship between participants and spectators. The events which I will present have a connection to Caribbean religions whose belief system and communities I will present in the next chapter. While the performative events are part of the public sphere of religions as well as of Caribbean culture, the descriptions of religious communities in the next chapter represent the private sphere of urban Caribbean culture. As already mentioned,

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New York urban culture includes both a private, controlled place and an open, free one – and both are intertwined. Nonetheless, the interpretation of cultural events presents a methodological problem. While I will portray the religious communities according to the anthropology of religion, the interpretation of cultural events as an exhibition or a performance on stage is unusual in anthropology of religion. Hence, I had to look for a different perspective in order to include this important aspect of urban Caribbean New York. Performances are, of course, part of anthropological research. Most scholars who study such events refer to Richard Bauman, who defines performance as a mode of communication (1986: 3).11 As I did not want to limit my research to cultural events such as the Caribbean carnival parade, while I was living in New York City and participating as much as possible in urban Caribbean New York I realized that I needed a broader frame for my research without resorting to an ethnocentric concept of ‘theatre’. The collaboration of, for instance, Richard Schechner and Eugenio Barba with anthropologists such as Victor Turner opened the way for understanding other cultures and their theatrical performances, but also limited such understanding (Mandressi 1996: 91–3). Visiting exhibitions and participating at dance and drum workshops allowed me valuable insights into Caribbean urban culture, but these events are not performances according to the European definition of theatre. Christopher Balme draw my attention then to the French school of ethnoscénologie which – similar to the North American school of performance studies – was born out of collaboration between anthropologists and theatre scholars with people of other disciplines (Balme 1998: 34–6).12 But unlike the North American school ethnoscénologie is concerned with all body movements, whether they are connected to theatre, ritual or dance. In his definition of spectaculaire (performing), which is at the core of the new field of ethnoscénologie, Jean-Marie Pradier insists 1) that one should not reduce it only to visual items; 2) that it does not only refer to ensembles of modalities of human perspective; 3) that it embraces all different human manifestations, including somatic, physical, cognitive, emotional, and spiritual dimensions. [1) ne se réduit pas au visuel; 2) se réfère à l’ensemble des modalités perceptives humanes; 3) souligne l’aspect global des manifestations émergentes humaines, incluant les dimensions somatiques, physiques, cognitives, émotionnelles et spirituelles.] (1996: 17, my translation)

Pradier’s definition allows me therefore to include my observations in the American Museum of Natural History or at workshops organized by the Caribbean Cultural Center in my interpretation of urban Caribbean culture. Rather than limiting the research to the study of Western forms of entertainment such as carnival and other 11 ‘Performance thus calls forth special attention to and heightened awareness of both the act of expression and the performer. Viewed in these terms, performance may be understood as the enactment of the poetic function, the essence of spoken artistry. Accordingly, performance may be dominant in the hierarchy of multiple functions served by speech … or it may be subordinate to other functions – referential, rhetorical, or any other’ (Bauman 1986: 3). 12 The foundation of ethnoscénologie was the publication of a symposium where scholars from various disciplines discussed their approach (Maison des Cultures du Monde 1996).

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parades, Pradier argues for the inclusion of dance movements, art, street dance, rituals, shamanism, ceremonies, music and so on (1996: 37). Hence, even spirit manifestations can become part of the research, though scholars in ethnoscénologie have different opinions when it comes to the question of ‘authenticity’. Gilbert Rouget, for instance, distinguishes between different degrees of trance and regards the spirit manifestation in the Afro-Brazilian Candomblé as minor in comparison to the Yoruba spirit manifestations in Nigeria, Benin and Togo because he disqualifies the Brazilian form as mixed (hence, impure) and as a tourist attraction (1996: 1996: 52–3).. In contrast Armindo Bião insists on the investigation of Candomblé and trance as central cultural elements in Salvador da Bahia (1996: 1996: 149–51).. He argues that ethnoscénologie arises out of a critique of ethnocentrism by European intellectuals, and hence is a confrontation to ongoing intercultural conflicts (Bião Bião 1996: 145).. Ethnoscénologie should therefore distance its research from the European idea of entertainment and consider all forms of performance. Following this argument I include performances in my presentation of the public sphere of Caribbean New York without distinguishing between ‘authentic’ and ‘tourist’ events because this distinction is to be made only by the performers and not by the scholar. An interpretation of the relationship between performer and spectator grants us in every case a valuable insight into the insiders’ view.13 In sum, the aim of ethnoscénologie is to look at activities which are usually ignored by anthropologists but could offer new insights into a culture. Central to the method is the observation of behaviours in their cultural context.14 Based on the French school I argue that an interpretation of behaviours in daily situations, ordinary ones without self-evident relevance, extracts information about cultural meaning. Even ‘unimportant’ actions can be regarded as ‘comments’ on the dominant culture or as political self-manifestations.15 I want to demonstrate with the selection of events that they are a good source of non-verbal information. Body language informs us about a hidden attitude similar to information obtained in an interview. The problems are that it is difficult to record, and we cannot quote information based on an attitude expressed through body language in the same way as we can quote information given in an interview. Nevertheless body language can carry important information that is otherwise difficult to get. It is possible to hide one’s opinion in an interview but often impossible in body language. We should therefore observe physical reactions and movements during an interview as well as during an observed situation. In any case, all kinds of information have to be contextualized during 13 See also the interpretation of various performances of Berber music in Morocco by Philip D. Schuyler 1984. 14 Ethnoscénologie has therefore more in common with cultural studies which draw our attention to parades, competitions and sport activities in North American cities, than with the anthropology of theatre in the tradition of Richard Schechner, for example. Frank E. Manning, a representative of cultural studies, defines celebration, for instance, as ‘a vivid aesthetic creation that reflexively depicts, interprets and informs its social context’ (1983: 4). His edited collection demonstrates quite clearly that Manning and the other contributors investigate similar phenomena to Pradier and his colleagues. Look, for instance, at Manning’s description of celebrations which starts with ‘First, celebration is performance; it is, or entails, the dramatic presentation of cultural symbols’ (1983: 4). 15 See Fuchs and Berg 1995: 47, with reference to Geertz 1993b.

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the interpretation process. This aspect is central particularly for the debate about authenticity, for instance in the case of trance and spirit manifestations, which I will approach in a different way. Instead of deciding whether some things are authentic or not, I will interpret them as self-representations. Self-representations are always ambiguous; they make sense only when they can evoke a certain reaction from the spectators. Successful self-representations manage to produce a polyphony of meanings through creative means; repetition would introduce stylization, typification and in the end formalization (see Reizakis 2002). In performative representation actors negotiate their identity with the community, though the community can always deny its support. Hence, the interpretation of the relationship between spectators and performers allows us valuable insights into Caribbean urban culture. The study of the participation of spectators supports, for instance, an understanding of the cultural meaning of a performance (see Wade 1984: 16). By observing the relationship between spectators and performers one can often notice cultural misunderstanding, which enables a scholar to understand the cultural meaning of a performance. Every performance is culturally and community bound; hence, scholars such as Béhague insist that in order to assess a performance one should find first the emic concepts (hence, the native perspective) and secondly refer to etic categories (the external view) (Béhague 1984a: 5, with reference to Bauman 1977).16 Apart from gaining valuable insights about Caribbean urban culture, the inclusion of these events relates to the possibility of including my own perspective. My former research, in particular my research about spirit manifestations in Puerto Rico, drew my attention to the difficulties of handling religious phenomena such as trance, spirit possession and reincarnation. Because they have no traditional place in the European imagination, interpretation is often difficult, if not impossible. How can I interpret something I have not observed nor shared? While I describe the phenomenon as I have seen it and include my own perspective, like a drama critic, I avoid any decision about truth or authenticity but nevertheless include the emic perspective. Understanding implies a process of creative and inter-subjective observation, while it helps to include my own experiences as well as new approaches such as ethnoscénologie. Instead of struggling with my fascination for Caribbean religions, I allowed them to overwhelm me. Understanding Caribbean religions leads me to an understanding of the Caribbean world. In a similar way to Vernon Boggs (1989), who describes how Afro-Hispanic music has opened up for him an approach to cultural mixtures, I have found that my fascination for Caribbean religions is my own way into the creativity of Caribbean New York and cultural mixtures. As Jensen wrote, academic knowledge arises from a creative act itself; one has to become overwhelmed (ergriffen) to create something new, even academic understanding (1992: 23). Nevertheless, the inclusion of my own impressions should not lead to a mere self-centred account. This book is not about me but about Caribbean people in New York City. Nonetheless, the interpretation can start from my observations, my experience in the presence of Shango and Erzulie whose meaning arises where questionnaires and interviews end. 16 The categories emic and etic refer to a distinction coined by Kenneth Pike analogous to the linguistic terms ‘phonemic’ and ‘phonetic’ (1954: 8–28); see also McCutcheon 1999.

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Caribbean Culture in New York City II: On Stage and in Exhibition The cultural events that I will describe in the following pages took place in Manhattan. Though most Caribbean people live in other parts of New York City, predominately in Brooklyn, most of the public performances of Caribbean urban culture are celebrated in Manhattan where they reach a much larger audience. These public events are directed, as already mentioned, to the outside world, hence to non-Caribbean people. Apart from being a symbol for the fascination of New York City, Manhattan is also the perfect meeting point for different cultural and social groups that like to present themselves to themselves and to others in Manhattan. Every social group can find a certain space in Manhattan and can benefit from it (see Raulin 1997: 11).. The Caribbean community is not the dominant group in this part of New York City; Caribbeans are nearly invisible in public, especially in the political arena. Another characteristic of Manhattan is the individuality and the strong sense of dépersonnalisation (Raulin 1997: 13) that stands in remarkable contrast to the collective foundation of the religious communities of Caribbean migrants. An Exhibition: Sacred Arts of Haitian Vodou On 10 October 1998, the American Museum of Natural History hosted an unusual exhibition, just two floors above the collection of artefacts from the Northwest Coast collected by Franz Boas nearly a century ago. The exhibition ‘Sacred Arts of Haitian Vodou’ was organized by the Fowler Museum of Cultural History (Cosentino Cosentino 1995) at the University of California in Los Angeles in 1995 and since then has been displayed in several cities in the USA. The aim was to present a little known aspect of Haitian culture, Vodou. Most of the objects, particularly the collection of Haitian art, belong to the Fowler Museum. As shown by García Canclini with reference to the Museo Nacional de Antropología in Mexico City, a museum can be regarded as sign as well as constructor of signs, depending on the meaning of the material culture, because objects are both products of a specific culture and material sources from which to learn something about this culture (García Canclini 1997: 117–32; see also Feest 1993: 143).. Nonetheless, one should not ignore the existence of a variety of semantic layers as well as their flexibility. A museum often presents its collection as representative of a specific culture by contextualizing its objects without explaining to the visitors that a collection projects only a distorted image of reality, not reality itself. Visitors are unaware that an exhibition presents only one possible presentation of a culture and not its polyphonic layers. The Museo Nacional de Antropología, for instance, shows in its exhibition the politically dominant interpretation of national history and contemporary cultures, the staff focus therefore on presenting only the part of the cultures that are regarded as important for national society – often without including representatives of ethnic minorities in the process. Another problem is that exhibitions and museums tend to present objects as unchangeable witnesses of a culture, ignoring the transformation of such a culture. The two main limitations of museum exhibitions are therefore the ethnocentric representation of other cultures and the representation of cultures as static.

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Nonetheless, I will not discuss the various levels of meaning of material culture that are presented in the exhibition but the visitors’ interpretations of and reactions to it. The exhibition ‘Sacred Arts of Haitian Vodou’ welcomed its visitors with these words: ‘Vodou is Haiti’s mirror. Its arts and rituals reflect the difficult, brilliant history of seven million people, whose ancestors were brought from Africa to the Caribbean in bondage’ (Room 1). This text illustrates the concept underlying the exhibition. Starting with several paintings as an introduction to Haitian history, the exhibition presented the multiple features of Vodou, the Haitian religion derived from African traditions, elements of Indigenous belief and its European aspects such as Catholicism and freemasonry. Certain aspects of the religion were presented in colourful ensembles, in particular the impressive altars of various ‘nations of lwa’ (categories of Haitian spirits) in the middle of the exhibition attracted much attention, as well as the colourful Vodou flags and the examples of Haitian art at the end of the exhibition. Two sections of the exhibition that impressed me in particular aroused different reactions from the visitors. Going from the introduction of the exhibition to the room with the presentation of the spirits the visitors had to pass through a small tunnel of mirrors which surprised but did not overwhelm them. When I asked one of the guides about the meaning of it, I was told that the visitors should dive into the world of the spirits; by going slowly through the tunnel the visitor should feel the cool atmosphere of the world under water and the following warmth of rebirth. I was the only person who asked. The majority just passed without any reaction to the next room. The last room, however, aroused stronger reactions. The exhibition ended with a (reconstructed) Vodou temple from Port-au-Prince, the walls of which reflected a video recording of a Vodou ceremony. While the other rooms presented written information and visual effects, this room addressed other senses with the loud music and songs; the dim lights, and even smells, as well as the film suggested the presence of colourful people. Some visitors sat on small stools typical of a Vodou temple; others went to the small stall and asked the guides to explain the meaning of the paraphernalia. During my various visits I got the impression of entering a different world, certainly not a traditional museum of natural history. The extraordinary large audience was too much for the employees of the museum, who were used to dinosaurs and stuffed animals. Not only Haitians came to visit the exhibition but also people interested in Haitian music and dance and the Caribbean in general. The American Museum of Natural History organized a diverse supporting programme with performances by Haitian groups such as the famous Jean-Léone Destiné and his Afro Haitian Dance Company and other events. The opening even included a ceremony for the well-being of the exhibition. When Mama Lola, the most famous priestess living in Brooklyn, declined, the organizers discussed inviting someone from Haiti to come to New York City to perform the blessing; they ignored the fact that there are several Vodou priests in the boroughs. Scholars, especially those working among Haitian immigrants and Vodou, voiced their criticism; they regarded the invitation of a Haitian priest from outside New York as an exclusion of the large community of Haitians in New York City: ‘As if only Mama Lola was famous and important enough to be invited by the Museum.’ The main target of this debate, the Haitian vodouisants (Vodou practitioners), ignored the discussion and made jokes about it. They just laughed and regarded it as typical New Yorker attitude. They know themselves that Haitians

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living in New York City practise Vodou as ‘authentically’ as in Haiti, although they distinguish between life in the Caribbean and in the metropolis. Only non-Haitian New Yorkers are unaware of the presence of Haitians in their own city. In the end, another priestess living in New York City performed the ceremony. Mama Lola came one week later together with Karen McCarthy Brown, whose research made the priestess famous. Brown started her research on Vodou at the end of 1970s and presented the first results in 1979. During this investigation she met the Vodou priestess for the first time and she later gave her the fictitious name of Mama Lola. Brown, a European American with a Protestant background, developed an intense relationship with Mama Lola over time, which became almost a mother– daughter relationship. Brown published (and still publishes) several articles in academic journals and books about Vodou (with special reference to Mama Lola), in 1991 she even published a portrayal of Mama Lola in the form of an academic monograph. During the exhibition she gave a lecture on Vodou which was announced in the leaflet as ‘Mama Lola, a Vodou priestess who maintains her temple in Brooklyn, and Karen Brown, Professor of Sociology and Anthropology of Religion, Drew University’. Hence the aspiration for the evening was set: the majority of the visitors came (and paid the additional entrance fee) to see Mama Lola. The theatre in the museum was absolutely crowded. Brown’s excellent lecture about ‘Ties that Bind: Race, Memory, and Historical Consciousness in Vodou and Beyond’ interested only a small part of the audience. Brown spoke about her journey with Mama Lola and her daughter to a Vodou festival in Benin where Mama Lola was guest of honour. Brown discussed the experiences in Benin with reference to the Vodou concept of memory, in particular the memory of slavery, and presented fascinating ideas and inspirations throughout her paper. Nonetheless, I will not discuss her lecture but the reaction of the audience. The theatre was occupied by people from different ethnic backgrounds waiting patiently for the beginning of the lecture. When Brown entered the stage, a White middle-aged woman with blond hair, it became obvious that she would not be the main attraction of the evening. Nevertheless, she was the speaker. At the beginning of her talk Brown announced the presence of Mama Lola among the audience and explained her relationship with her: Mama Lola was the teacher and Brown the student. Brown’s short presentation was followed by questions from the audience. Though some of the questions were related to issues discussed in the paper, most of them were for Mama Lola. Hence Brown asked her to join her on stage, and later she was joined by some of her children. The discussion focused on the exotic side of Vodou. People asked about zombies, Vodou dolls and black magic (the dangerous aspects of Vodou). At the end some of the Haitians in the audience thanked Mama Lola for her contribution to the establishment of Vodou as an important religion. The evening ended as an event with Mama Lola. While the exhibition was running in New York City, I participated in several events and noticed in particular a great interest in Vodou among non-Caribbean spectators. However, such interest was flawed by a number of misconceptions about Vodou and Haiti. Such misinformation persisted despite the large attendance at the Vodou exhibition.

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In addition to the activities organized by the Exhibition Board, the Margaret Mead Film & Video Festival which is regularly organized in collaboration with New York University also focused on Haitian culture and religion in 1998. The programme included, for instance, a classical ethnographic documentary by Melville Herskovits from the 1930s, the legendary film Divine Horsemen by Maya Deren and Cherel Ito (first publicly presented in 1977), two documentaries about Vodou in Haiti by Elsie Haas and in New York by Karen Kramer (from the 1980s), and an overview of productions by the Haitian filmmaker and former Minister Raoul Peck. The film Divine Horsemen – announced as an avant-garde film – attracted the largest number of spectators, perhaps because it presented the dimension of religious praxis rather than that of daily life (Herskovits). The fascination for the exotic representation of Vodou continued during the time of the exhibition; it was not possible to refer the interest to the ordinary aspect of the religion (presented, for instance, by Haas and Kramer). Another aspect that was reflected by the exhibition programme tells us more about the attitude of the organizers than that of the spectators. The main focus of the organizers was the representation of Haitian Vodou (in Haiti), not Vodou in New York. The Vodou communities in New York City were largely ignored though they, too, represent Haitian Vodou. Even the programme leaflet made this attitude visible. While it contained information about all the main events during the exhibition – lecture series, educational panels and performances – the performances of a New York Vodou band organized by the museum’s Education Board instead of the Exhibition Board was left out. I got the impression that it was easier for the organizers to present a foreign worldview outside their own neighbourhood than one at home, in New York City. Hence, the original aim of the exhibition, the approach to Vodou as a normal religion and the increase in understanding, failed. The exhibition did not contextualize Vodou flags as religious objects but as art. The programme organized by the Exhibition Board as well as by the Education Board of the museum accentuated the aesthetic side of Caribbean culture, particularly music and dance performances. The museum became the main arena for cultural mixture. On the one hand, it granted access to Caribbean culture to non-Caribbean people and, on the other, it allowed people interested in Caribbean culture to experience its different sides without developing a sense of belonging to a community. Gloria D., an African-American high school teacher, whom I first met at a dance workshop organized by the Caribbean Cultural Center in Manhattan,17 also attended one lecture where she told me about her various trips into the world of African-American religions, some even to Cuba and Trinidad. Nonetheless, the exhibition influenced the attitude towards the Haitian community in New York City which is associated with these exotic (and wrong) aspects. The open discussion about zombies and Vodou dolls and the presentation of the religion in such an important museum improved the image of Haiti, hence the image of Haitians in New York City. Even the New York Times published an article about Vodou, though in the section House & Home. Vodou had become part of New York folklore. Music and Dance as Cultural Expressions The Caribbean Cultural Center (CCC) in Manhattan is a small Puerto Rican non-profit institution founded by Marta 17 The workshop taught dance movements connected to Cuban orichas (gods of the Cuban religion Santería).

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M. Vega in 1976. Its aim is to present ‘the best of African world culture in exciting, entertaining and enriching programs’ and to ‘Celebrate the vibrant culture and rich creative and spiritual expressions of people of African descent worldwide – from Brooklyn to Bahia, Haiti to Harlem, Benin to Britain, New Orleans to Nigeria – through The Franklin H. Williams Caribbean Cultural Center African Diaspora Institute’ (CCC leaflet). Vega, a Puerto Rican woman who grew up in New York City, argues that ‘an African-based aesthetic … could serve as a unifying link for Africans in the Diaspora’ (CCC leaflet). Hence she devotes her academic publications and her non-academic work to promoting the aesthetic side of Caribbean culture. The CCC organizes talks, exhibitions, concerts and workshops to inform people about Caribbean culture. The intended audience are people of African descent, though the majority of visitors are Spanish-speaking people, in particular Puerto Ricans, Cubans and Dominicans (as demonstrated by the fact that most of their events are in Spanish – though the bookshop offers publications both in Spanish and in English). The centre displays religious paraphernalia (much more expensive than in a botánica),18 art objects and jewellery. Sometimes, the centre organizes international conferences with invited participants from various Caribbean islands, Brazil and other Latin American countries, sometimes even from Africa. Vega, who became president of the centre, treats visitors with non-African background a bit reluctantly though other members of the centre are more open to outsiders.19 The workshops organized by the centre – as well as by other dance schools in Manhattan – are often taught by Cuban dancers accompanied by New Yorker (Latino) musicians who also play at religious ceremonies at weekends. Sometimes they have to translate the instructions from Spanish into English. The dance teachers explain some movements of the orichas together with the symbolic meaning of these movements so that the students can understand the religious context of the dances – the movements of Ogún represent, for instance, the powerful warrior while those of Ochún represent the seductive goddess of love. Participants in workshops organized by ballet schools often prefer the physical movements, ignoring the symbolic meaning of the gestures. Another distinction between the Caribbean Cultural Center and the dance schools is the gender relation; while the CCC workshops attract men and women, workshops of dance schools rarely attract men (see Figure 2.6).20 One dance workshop reflected a different intention. The Department of Puerto Rican and Latino Studies of Brooklyn College offered students a small workshop in connection with a class in Afro-Caribbean religions entitled ‘Santos en Salsa’. The workshop focused on the symbolic meaning of dance movements ranging from the orichas to Latin American rhythms such as salsa. The teacher, Marta S. – a professional and very talented Puerto Rican dancer – was able to demonstrate the choreographic interaction between religious movements and profane music style. The interaction 18 A special shop for religious objects used in Caribbean religions. 19 Vega is, of course, not alone in her behaviour towards people of non-African descent. Rex Nettleford is the most prominent scholar openly expressing such an attitude; see for instance Hyatt and Nettleford 1995. 20 The participants are mainly (but not exclusively) agedbetween 20 and 50 years old, with diverse ethnic backgrounds.

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Figure 2.6

Caribbean Diaspora in the USA

Participants at a dance school in Manhattan

between different orichas in profane dance movements was also explained – the interaction between two dancers, for instance, represents the story of Ochún and Ogún. In contrast with other workshops, Marta’s included references to Puerto Rican culture. Hence, her intention was not the promotion of African aesthetics but an understanding of Puerto Rican heritage which, of course, includes African elements. In sum, all dance workshops differ in their ethnic and gender stratification and in the preparation of the participants concerning the cultural background of the movements. There is a close link between the background knowledge of workshop participants and the relation between performers and spectators at a drama performance. According to Schuyler (1984: 137), lack of cultural background destroys the relation which normally develops between a teacher and the students during a workshop. Even a little or flawed information about the (presumed) cultural context may constitute a ‘bridge’ between the two and facilitate the contextualization of the movements. Even when students initially have no interest in the symbolic meaning, after a while they start to observe some conventions such as the dress code for the dances of the orichas. Even a limited interest in physical experience can therefore open the door to a world of other experiences. The same observations can be made with reference to music workshops and drum classes, such as those offered, for instance, by some colleges at City University of New York, or those organized by the Department of Music of New York University. The teachers are exclusively Caribbean drummers, usually professional musicians who are also ritual specialists and perform at ceremonies. Sometimes they invite their students to accompany them to religious ceremonies where students often focus more on the music than on the ritual. Depending on their background it is possible

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to distinguish music students in the same way as dance students. If they have some previous knowledge about the cultural context of the rhythms, the relationship with their master drummer is likely to become much stronger. This in turn affects also the degree of involvement of students in their religious communities. While some are interested only in music styles (and join the music group of their teacher after a while), others start to learn more and more about the religious background and some even convert. The ethnic affiliation of the participants in the drum workshops were, as in the case of dance workshops, quite diverse. Caribbean migrants already know the music and do not need to participate at these workshops. Participants were mostly second generation Caribbean migrants interested in learning more about Caribbean music through these classes. Music classes are crucial to those migrants. The story with the diaspora is that a guy is living far from his country, far from all his habits, his family, his music, his foods, all those things that he’s used to. He’s living in a place where things are totally different. The way of living is completely upside down for him. He’s not used to the winter or living like a number. He’s used to a very warm way of living. He’s coming from a small town where everybody knows everybody, going to a subway in a big city where nobody knows anybody. That’s very hard for him. That’s why the music of groups like Tabou has such an appeal for him. (Averill 1998: 138, quoting from his interview with Bobby Dennis in 1988)

In contrast to this Haitian musician, Toni S., a Puerto Rican drummer who grew up in New York City, does not search for home through music because his home is New York City. The rhythms fascinate him; he regards them as his roots in Latino-New York. And they led him to the discovery of Cuban Santería as part of his cultural identity. He became interested in Latin rhythms as an adolescent living in a Puerto Rican neighbourhood in New York City. Since then he has wanted to become a professional musician though this was still not possible at the time of my interviews. He worked during the day in an office but performed regularly with different groups, from Latin Jazz in some clubs in Manhattan, to Caribbean rhythms in pubs and in cultural centres, and ritual music at Santería ceremonies. Being initiated into Santería Toni takes the religious commitment very seriously. John A., a European-American drummer, also became interested in Latin music. He began to study drums in the late 1950s. Soon he became involved in the then small Santería communities in New York City. Although his main attraction remains music and not religion, he became increasingly fascinated with religion to the point where he took one step after another towards initiation into Santería. Despite his initiation he began to take drum classes with a Haitian drummer and started to accompany his teacher to Vodou ceremonies in the late 1970s. He then began to play at ceremonies and performed on stage where he met his wife, a Haitian dancer. He has now forty years of experience in different drum styles. Apart from performances he teaches drums in both the Latin and the Haitian style because he wants to broaden the perspective of his students. He states that Haitian rhythms are more difficult to play than Latin rhythms, especially because the latter are much more accessible in New York City. John describes Haitian rhythms as being full of ‘energy’ and ‘power’. Consequently, he participates nowadays only in Vodou ceremonies and no longer in Santería ceremonies.

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Figure 2.7

Caribbean Diaspora in the USA

Báta áta drums rums in Spanish Harlem

Both musicians, John and Toni, demonstrate how music opens a path to Caribbean religion, for people of Caribbean as well as non-Caribbean descent. Workshops and classes have great significance for the expansion of Caribbean religions but they also enrich New York’s cultural scene. However, performances lose their meaning when the gap between performers and spectators is too large, as I observed at the inauguration ceremony of a small community centre in Spanish Harlem. The organizers had hired Puerto Rican and Cuban musicians to perform a ceremony in order to bless the new centre. However, instead of performing on sacred báta drums the musicians came with large conga drums (see Figure 2.7). The organizers intended that this ceremony revitalize and celebrate a Puerto Rican-Cuban community in this part of New York City. But the majority of the spectators came especially for the presentation of the painting and did not live in this part of the city. Their reaction to the songs in honour of the orichas demonstrated that they had no idea of what they had been listening to. Only the second part, the performance of son and salsa rhythms, was greeted with applause, some even joined in the singing. It seems that the organizers totally ignored the fact that Puerto Ricans and Cubans no longer live in this neighbourhood that is now occupied by Mexicans. And they stayed away from this event. While the Museo del Barrio, a large Puerto Rican museum in the neighbourhood of this centre, has acknowledged this demographic change and has tried to include people living in the area in its activities, together with Puerto Ricans living all over the city, this centre presents itself as a Puerto Rican institution that wants to offer a meeting point for a Puerto Rican-Cuban community. However, the establishment of a community needs

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more than one ceremony. A performance is defined very generally as a situation with a performer and a spectator; it only receives symbolic meaning when the relationship between the two poles has cultural substance, when there is communication between them. During the inauguration ceremony the groups had no common cultural basis, hence there was no communication.21

21 See Wade and Schuyler’s notions of ‘disturbed relations’ between audience and performer, in Wade 1984: 16, and Schuyler 1984: 137.

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Chapter 3

Caribbean Religions in New York City Line 2 of the subway ends in the centre of Brooklyn, at the junction between Flatbush Avenue and Nostrand. While during the week students from Brooklyn College dominate the street, the weekend offers a different impression. The exits of the subway station lead directly to a site where both avenues meet smaller streets. Passengers emerging through the exits are welcomed by loud calls from shops and street sellers, each of them trying to shout louder than their neighbour to offer their product as the best and the cheapest. One group is the loudest of all. On a small island between the two avenues a number of young men preach God’s Word every Saturday. They shout that God is not only there for the wealthy, for the Whites; he speaks to the Blacks, too, but in a different way. Supported by loud music, they attract a lot of attention from people living in this area, predominantly migrants from the Caribbean. In some buildings it is possible to rent rooms for weddings, birthdays and other celebrations such as the festivals of Caribbean religions. Hence, one can listen during the weekend to drums calling down Caribbean spirits and gods to celebrate with the community on earth. Several small shops in this area offer everything one would need for such a celebration: aromatic water, candles, oil, even religious objects and pictures. This was the area where I lived. During the day I was teaching at Brooklyn College, and at the weekend I went to religious festivals and other events, visited priests and priestesses of Caribbean religions and spent most of my time speaking with the participants about their religions. * Religion was important from the beginning of the European colonization of the American continent. America – the European America – was conquered and occupied by religious fanatics: from Columbus – who arrived with the Bible in hand – and the pilgrims – who had to leave England for religious reasons – to the Summer School of Linguistics, whose members study indigenous languages in order to translate the Bible into more languages. Everyone arrived with their own interpretation of the Bible that became not only the rule for themselves but also the rule according to which others had to live. To understand the current situation it is important to grasp the differences between the Christian traditions that have influenced the religious structures in America up to now. Virgilio Elizondo, for instance, a Mexican-American theologian, describes the situation as follows:

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Caribbean Diaspora in the USA The United States was born as a secular enterprise with a deep sense of religious mission. The native religions were eliminated and supported by a new type of religion. Puritan moralism, Presbyterian righteousness and Methodist social consciousness coupled with deism and the spirit of rugged individualism to provide a sound basis for the new nationalism which would function as the core religion of the land. (1994: 1994: 119)

About Latin America he continues: It was quite different in Latin America where the religion of the old European world clashed with native religious traditions. In their efforts to uproot the native religions, the conquerors found themselves assumed into them. Iberian Catholicism with its emphasis on orthodoxy, rituals and the divinely established monarchical nature of all society conquered physically. But it was absorbed by the pre-Colombian spirituality with its emphasis on the cosmic rituals expressing the harmonious unity of opposing tensions: male and female, suffering and happiness, self-immanence and transcendence, individual and group, sacred and profane, life and death. (1994: 1994: 119)

This simplistic comparison from the perspective of a Catholic priest indicates the importance of religion from the beginning of the colonization of the continent, but also the tensions between the different Christian traditions. Though no country in any part of the Americas is so homogeneous in its religious structure as Elizondo assumes (he ignores, for instance, conversion to Pentecostalism in Latin America), the migration process even increases the diversity because it brings the various interpretations of Christianity together in new environments. Another development that adds to the tension between the religious traditions is the arrival of new versions of Christianity that not everyone accepts as Christian traditions. In particular the increasing presence of Creole religions which were created in the Caribbean during the time of slavery and have now reached the USA are often regarded with suspicion. The systematic suppression of differentiated African identities which are often expressed in religious contexts has led to the construction of new religious traditions in various Caribbean societies. Below the cover of Christianity (mainly Catholicism, but also Protestantism) suppressed and enslaved people managed to create new African religions. Decades after the end of slavery and influenced by the Civil Rights movements, some of these religions have started to abolish the Christian frame as a symbol of oppression in order to re-establish their African heritage. Caribbean migrants belong to a Christian tradition which is neither purely Catholic nor purely Protestant, and also to a new African tradition which is (again) not purely African but has incorporated other influences. The prayers after arrival are still addressed to God but to a god with a polytheistic image. This ambiguous situation is difficult to grasp. Scholars in anthropology of religions often start their books with the question of the nature of religion but only to conclude that religion is indefinable. I regard religions not only as part of culture but as a prism of culture. I am not interested in the search for ‘authentic’ religions or in the debate about syncretism but in religions which are living, dynamic and continuously being created anew. At the centre of my study are therefore religious communities that demonstrate the individuality as well as the diversity of religious traditions experienced by migrants. I agree with Stephen Warner who argues that ‘our task was to discover what new

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ethnic and immigrant groups were doing together religiously in the United States, and what manners of religious institutions they were developing of, by, and for themselves’ (1998: 1998: 9). In consequence, I will not limit my observation by presenting only the history and phenomena of the religious traditions; I will describe the life of the religions by including short descriptions of some of the events I observed and look at the meaning of the religions for the practitioners. The focus will be on specific religious communities and their meetings. There will probably be hundreds of examples that contradict the information I gathered from these communities. A case study can never have representative character. Nevertheless, it shows a way (out of many) of how migrants deal with their situation in a new environment: New York City. In order to show different strategies I will present three religious ways in this chapter, each connected to the three major languages in the Caribbean: Santería (la regla de ocha and la regla de ifá) for the Spanish-speaking communities, Vodou for the French- and Kreyòl-speaking communities, and Orisha Baptist (Shango) for the English-speaking communities.1 My focus is on migrants and the next generations, hence on ‘ethnic’ religions (Greschat 1996) though I will include practitioners with other ethnic backgrounds and their relationship to the migrants. Migration marks an exceptional moment in the biography of a person. Religious identity abroad is often more important than at home where belonging to a religion is often regarded as normal, without the need to reflect upon it. Living abroad creates new demands which sometimes cannot be satisfied by institutionalized religions. Hence, non-institutionalized religious practices that deal in particular with the wishes and needs of the migrants and that can easily adapt to their wishes start to grow.2 These new customs do not represent a total change of cultural patterns for the migrants but a reinterpretation of established religious practices in a way that matches the demands and experiences of the migrants.3 Even established religions can change as Elizabeth McAlister (1998) for a Haitian community and Ana María Díaz-Stevens (1993) for a Puerto Rican community in New York City have shown. Both communities succeeded in expressing conflict with society by presenting their perspective during a religious procession for a Catholic saint on the streets of New York City. The believers voiced in a performative way their own individual opposition to the dominant will of the Roman Catholic Church.4 Given the discrepancy between the religious institutions 1 Unfortunately, this his limitation implies the exclusion of the Dutch-speaking communities which are also present in New York City but not yet in large numbers. 2 For or information about the connection between biography and religion, see WohlrabSahr who distinguishes between two main functions of religion with reference to biography: a biographical-structural function and a reflexive function (1995: 9–13). I will focus on the latter, the individual-biographical, which is particularly important for conversion but also for migration. According to Wohlrab-Sahr, conversion includes individual processes of metamorphosis, either the radical metamorphosis of a person or of her or his cognitive pattern. 3 This process is similar to the one during the conquest of America, in particular to the experiences of the people in Latin America where the dominant religion, Catholicism, was also reinterpreted according to the local experiences of the people. 4 Leo Frobenius recognizes while observing children playing the original source of creativity and culture in the games of children. He concludes that in a game one gets access to another ‘reality’ by becoming overwhelmed by a phenomenon outside its natural context

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and the religious feelings of the migrants the question arises why certain religious communities of migrants remain while others decline, why certain churches successfully include migrants while others fail, and why some religious communities have no problems finding religious leaders while others decline after the death of a leader. In order to answer these questions I will begin by explaining the attitude of institutional religions such as the Roman Catholic Church with its Hispanic Ministry Office in Brooklyn and the Iglesia Universal, a Pentecostal Church with centres in Brooklyn and Queens. The focus is on the Spanish-speaking migrants from the Caribbean who represent the largest community in New York City. Latino Christianities in New York City When one considers the numerous Catholic settlements in the Southern part of the USA during the time of the Spanish colonial empire, the Roman Catholic presence in North America is older than that of Protestant churches. Nonetheless, the foundation of the USA was a Protestant enterprise with just 35,000 Catholics out of a total population of 3,172,0005 (Shaughnessy 1925: 73). During the next centuries the numbers of Catholics rose dramatically and today the Roman Catholic Church is the church with the highest number of members in the USA (Hargrove, Schmidt and Davaney 1985: 121). In spite of the ongoing impression of it being a European church the radical increase is based on the inclusion of territory which was occupied predominantly by Catholic people such as New Mexico and California. Nevertheless, the history of the Roman Catholic Church in the USA was connected to the European migrants while the so-called Hispanics were excluded. Until the middle of the twentieth century the experiences of the African-Americans and the Latinos within the Roman Catholic Church were very painful (see Liptak 1989: 171). The first changes occurred only after the Second World War as the history of the archdiocese of New York shows. The Catholic Church in New York City was relatively unimportant until, at the end of the eighteenth and the beginning of the nineteenth century, a large number of Irish migrants arrived in the city. At this time the USA was a missionary area under the European leadership of the Roman Catholic Church, which sent priests to take care of the European settlers and the indigenous population (Ciesluk 1944: 28). Characteristic of this period was the foundation of National Parishes, ethnically homogeneous communities with a priest from their own country (Stern 1989: 312ff.). One hundred years later New York experienced the arrival of more and more Catholic migrants from Mexico and other Latin American countries. As a result, the first parish for Spanish-speaking migrants was founded in 1902 (the chapel Our Lady of Guadalupe on 14th Street in Manhattan). The arrival of large numbers of Puerto Ricans created problems for the Catholic Church because they arrived without their own priests, which was not the case with (1993: 24). Applied to the New York processions this means that the believers who became overwhelmed by the meaning of the saint suddenly started to recognize something that was hidden before, such as cultural modes of an individual but also their own opposition to institutionalized regulations. 5 The numbers refer to just part of the real population because only white settlers were counted.

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earlier European migrants. The church reacted by supporting integrated parishes that offered the congregation a service in Spanish after the main one in English, often in the basement as Reverend John Brogan, the director of the Hispanic Ministry Office of the diocese of Brooklyn, explained to me. Instead of ethnically homogeneous congregations more and more mixed-ethnic ones appeared. At the beginning of the 1970s most national parishes that were accused of racial segregation by the Black Power movement (Liptak 1989: 193) were transformed into integrated parishes (Greeley 1972: 7). At the beginning of the 1980s 25 per cent of all parishes in New York offered mass in English and Spanish, and half of these congregations had Spanish-speaking priests (Stern 1989: 378). Nonetheless, despite all these efforts the Catholic Church was not prepared for the structural changes in the migration process following the introduction of the new immigration act in 1965. At the time, when more and more migrants were arriving in New York City, members of the congregations were moving to the suburbs, and hence many integrated parishes became Spanish-speaking congregations. But they did not develop a strong sense of belonging. One reason might be the lack of their own priests who could have helped members of the congregation to integrate into the community. The other reason is probably financial poverty, because earlier communities developed a sense of belonging through the organization of fund-raising projects, but this was impossible for the poor new arrivals. The failure to build a community structure led Puerto Ricans into the arms of Protestant churches (see Torres 1995: 71–2), though Puerto Ricans have been the focus of attention of the Catholic Church in the USA since 1955.6 Some years later, in 1971, Joseph Fitzpatrick concluded that Hispanics still cling to the basic beliefs of the Catholic Church, but do not practice as Americans do. Regular attendance at mass and sacraments is not the sign of a ‘good catholic’ as it is among Americans. Folk practices are still strong and important even among youth. (1987: 1987: 133)

As a result of his findings the church founded a Secretariat for Hispanic Affairs in 1974 and in 1983 the office of Pastoral Care of Migrants and Refugees. Brooklyn, declared by its bishop as the diocese of immigrants (Liptak 1989: 197), belonged to the central office until 1991, when the independent Hispanic Ministry Office was founded. The main function of the office, according to its director, was the coordination of the various activities of the separate parishes in Brooklyn, hence not the help of migrants. This focus is contrary to the wishes and demands of the migrants who often approach the staff of the office in order to get help. However, the office can look proudly on another development. After labelling immigrants from Latin America Latino or Hispanic, they are now treated according to their national identity. The Catholic Church in New York City offers mass in twenty-one languages, and distinguishes between the various Catholic traditions of Mexicans, Dominicans, Cubans, Puerto Ricans and so on, with the celebration of national religious festivals and processions. Brogan stated during the interview: ‘We have [organized] various national festivals … that allow people to be themselves. And for themselves, it is rather important to share 6 In 1955 the first ‘Conference on the Spiritual Care of Puerto Rican Migrants’ was held in San Juan, Puerto Rico (Liptak 1989: 196).

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with others what they are … Ecuadorians [for example] do not know anything about Dominicans.’7 Through the inclusion of diverse national faith elements the church tries to integrate people living in the neighbourhood of the church building into the congregation. Apart from identifying the diverse national heritages the church has to understand the different demands of the generations. While the first generation of migrants needs help with their first steps and often came searching for legal advice, Puerto Ricans who are now third and fourth generation New Yorkers are worried, for instance, about the disruption of family ties to the island. Therefore the office has to adapt continuously to the new demands of the migrants who approach the staff, as Brogan explains. In order to respond to the increasing requests, the office now hires Latin American priests for the care of the migrants. After a period of integrated parishes the diocese seems to have returned to the idea of homogeneous congregations separated by languages instead of nationality or ethnicity. After the dissolution of national borders the new congregations became Spanish parishes. Under the roof of one church building priests often have to care for various ethnic communities whose members speak Spanish. While in the integrated parishes English dominated, the new Spanish congregations have adapted to the local environment and its inhabitants.8 Nonetheless, one problem remains as Brogan discusses. It is still difficult to include the migrants in the community. Brogan explains this lack of cooperation with reference to the situation in Latin America where the Catholic Church still dominates society. It is therefore not necessary for the practitioners to support their own congregation. They can attend mass wherever they are and whenever they want without feeling responsible to a community. In the USA belonging to a religion is connected to a specific community which the members have to support financially and actively. The migrants are not aware of this commitment and ignore therefore this part of religious practice. They feel a strong sense of belonging to their community at home but not to the community in New York City. Only after years can a relationship grow. I gained the impression that the Roman Catholic Church has tried to learn from its mistakes but still ignores the increase in popularity of the Pentecostal movements among Latin American migrants. In particular the Brazilian Igreja Universal, known in New York City under the Spanish name Iglesia Universal, is growing larger and larger. Nonetheless, Brogan says calmly: ‘You have one church in Brooklyn, one in Manhattan, but you have 110 Catholic churches.’9 He ignores the fact that the few churches of the Iglesia Universal collect more money than a hundred Catholic churches and each attracts more people than St Patrick’s cathedral. As Brogan himself says, migrants need help in more than one way: ‘Many immigrants are in great need. You offer them 7 Brogan, personal communication, 5.1.1999. 8 During my time as visiting professor at Brooklyn College I was twice invited to speak to members of a Lutheran congregation about my German perspective. The church was originally founded by Norwegian migrants who moved out of the neighbourhood some time ago. Nonetheless, they still dominate the congregation though the people living in this neighbourhood today are Spanish-speaking. Applying the model of an integrated parish the church offers services in English, Norwegian and – in the basement – in Spanish. Even the hierarchy of the pastors is structured according to the language barriers though most of the members are Spanish-speaking. 9 Brogan, personal communication, 5.1.1999.

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a sure solution of problems that they have – separation from the family, immigration, sickness – and money … They don’t have a social network.’10 Nonetheless, while some churches such as the Iglesia Universal advertise that they offer support, the Catholic Church does not change its attitude and still refers to spiritual care as its first duty. On the other hand, the church has increased its importance for the migrants by addressing the emotional dimension. The worship of saints is the central religious practice in Latin America; hence the decision to import it to New York City has augmented the image of the church. At the moment the cult of the Virgen de Guadalupe from Mexico is getting more and more attention in the Spanish-speaking communities in New York City, even outside the Mexican neighbourhoods.11 Another change is the charismatic movement that has affected the Catholic Church in New York City. Brogan categorizes it as a style and not as a movement because it manifests itself in a certain style of preaching and singing in the evangelical churches. Starting in Pittsburgh, it has since created a revival in the Catholic Church in the USA. According to Brogan it also facilitated the movement of believers between the charismatic churches, the Pentecostal churches, Jehovah’s witnesses, Seventh-Day Adventists and Mormons, though in the end, after a period of instability caused by migration, believers will come back to the Catholic Church. Brogan explains it by referring to the Catholic identity of the migrants, which they will keep in spite of all their movements between churches. Latin American migrants are not so attracted to the charismatic churches as Caribbean migrants because of their lack of African roots (all according to Brogan).12 On the other hand, Brogan says, Latin American and Caribbean migrants help ‘Americans’ (Brogan refers here to US Americans) to return to the Catholic religion or to re-find it. Corpus Christi, for instance, is a totally unimportant event in the USA but is now gaining attention. The faith that was limited to attendance at mass is increasingly newly experienced and lived. Nonetheless, Brogan himself acknowledges a threat to the Catholic Church from another corner: from the Mormons, who attract more and more migrants. With their middle-class appearances (suit, white shirt and tie) they address the hopes of economic and social success held by migrants in Brooklyn, Queens and the Bronx.13 Brogan predicts that in few years a third of the US population will be Mormon. Latinos themselves often stress their own kind of Latino religiosity which, for instance, Luis Rivera Pagán describes as representing ‘an alternative form of Christian belief and practice that responds to our particular circumstances as peoples still searching for self-determination’ (1994: 1994: 97).. Similar to Douglas’interpretation Douglas’ interpretation of the Bog Irishmen (1970), Elizondo distinguished two different ways of Catholicism: while US Catholicism focuses on the Word, Latino Catholicism focuses on ritual and the worship of saints (1994: 120). The Latino Religious Resurgence brought an end

10 Brogan, personal communication, 5.1.1999. 11 See also Zires for the symbolic meaning of the virgin as a pan-hispanic figure of identification (1994: 90–91). 12 Brogan, personal communication, 5.1.1999. 13 On the west coast a similar development has been reported, but among Asian immigrants (see A. Ong 1996).

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to the external position of Latinos in the Roman Catholic Church in the USA and helped to define Latinos as different but American.14 The Iglesia Universal is developing in a different way. Instead of trying to include migrants in established communities, the neo-pentecostal Church is addressing people separated by language and culture. In New York City the church owns three centres: the one in Manhattan preaches in English while the two larger ones in Brooklyn and Queens use only Spanish. I visited both Spanish centres and will shortly describe my impressions. Founded in Rio de Janeiro in 1977 by Edir Macedo, today the Igreja Universal belongs to the most important and fastest growing neo-pentecostal church in the world. Though its roots go back to a US American Pentecostal movement which reached Brazil in 1911,15 the Brazilian church is not an offshoot of but independent from the US American movement. Shortly after foundation the church spread through urban Brazil, and then during the 1980s Macedo started to send his missionaries into other South American countries, and, in the mid-1990s, to Europe and North America. Macedo leads the church from São Paulo in an authoritarian manner. Unlike most Protestant churches the Igreja Universal is not based on strong communities but on a hierarchical structure. Able members are encouraged to participate at seminars in order to move up the hierarchy. All important positions are filled by Brazilians and only rarely bypeople from other South American countries, though trained in Brazil. Though the lesser positions such as musicians, assistants and teachers are filled bylocal residents, the leadership comes from the outside and normally circulates from community to community, and from country to country.16 Hence it is not possible to build a strong relationship between a pastor and his community (the pastors are normally men). When I asked about the reasons for this, I was told that the Word (hence the sermon) is important, not the men. In Brazil sermons are broadcast on TV; in New York City they broadcast short announcements and advertisements accompanied by popular Latin American songs on the Spanish TV channels. These attracted attention in Spanish-speaking communities even from New Jersey and other states. Pastor Oliveira told me that the Igreja Universal started in New York with a small church in Manhattan, founded by a US American after his return from Brazil at the end of the 1980s. As the numbers of Latin American migrants continued to grow the Brazilian church decided to found a church in Brooklyn with services only in Spanish. Hence, instead of integration it 14 See Díaz-Stevens and Stevens-Arroyo 1998. 15 See Seeber-Tegethoff 1998 for information about the history of the church in Brazil; for the spread of the church in South America, see Pollak-Eltz 1998. For information about Pentecostalism in Latin America in general, see Stoll 1993. 16 During my initial visit I introduced myself to Pastor Oliveira who had been in Brooklyn for two years. He was in charge of all three centres and I needed his permission for my research. When I returned a few months later, he had moved and his colleague in Queens, Pastor Henrique, had been moved up in the hierarchy; hence, I had to get his permission, too. The hierarchical structure aggravated my research. Even with permission it was difficult to speak with members without interruption from some of the assistants who tried to stop me asking questions. Even after I was finally allowed to speak to the chief pastor (their normal excuse was that the reverend does not speak English though this was made obsolete by my Spanish reply) they still tried to put me off by giving me the telephone number of a German outlet of the church.

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decided to establish segregated churches for Latinos and non-Latinos. In 1990 the church bought a former theatre in Brooklyn for the first Spanish-speaking community (see Figure 3.1), and in 1997 it built a large church in Queens, also for Spanish services. In every centre there are three services a day with special functions. Apart from the main service on Sunday the Friday services are the most popular because they offer exorcism of bad demons. No pastor was able to tell me the size of their community because of changing levels of attendance. ‘The church is open for anyone’ said Pastor Henrique in reply to my question about the origin and domicile of the members of his congregation. He also evaded my question about the relationship to other religions with the short reply ‘All are welcome’, even when I mentioned Afro-American religions such as the Brazilian Candomblé.17 According to David Stoll, denial of conflicts with other religions is a common strategy of leaders of new churches because they want to reduce the antagonism of their members who are torn between loyalty to the new and old faiths (1993: 9). From my observations and the short conversations I was allowed to have with members I estimate that approximately 600 to 700 people attended each daily service, most of them well dressed – in particular at the Sunday services. Among them I could distinguish two groups. The majority come to the service in order to get help in specific situations. As soon as the problem is solved (by the church or by other means) they stay away. These people come to certain church services according to the problem they have, and often also consult one of the pastors after the service. They pay for the services they expect to receive. In return they get a symbolic pledge for the service such as the small red handkerchief I was once offered. In exchange for a certain amount of money all participants at a Friday service were urged to come to the front, and put the handkerchief in a bowl of oily water which they would receive back in one week’s time in return for a financial tribute. This handkerchief would then spiritually cleanse the house and the family, hence solving any problems at home. The minority of the participants at the service are the group of believers who stay with the church and become involved in the community. Though they also initially came in search of help, they now participate regularly at the Sunday service, with some even becoming assistants or going to seminars in order to get a post in the community (though to my knowledge mainly men occupy these positions). Sometimes they develop a relationship with the charismatic pastor despite the strategy of the Brazilian leadership to move pastors from one community to another. Perhaps even more important is the relationship with other members of the community. One Ecuadorian migrant told me how an Ecuadorian woman had helped him with his problems by showing him the way to the ‘true faith’. Though the relationship among the members is not intense, José’s short description of his experiences after his arrival in New York City made it clear that even the superficial support of another migrant from his own country kept him grounded in a problematic situation. Because of her help he felt at home in the community. It empowered him to cope with his problems.

17 Studies have shown that one main goal of the Igreja Universal in Brazil is the exorcism of the African deities, the orixás which are at the centre of Candomblé, see, for instance, Seeber-Tegethoff 1998: 92.

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Figure 3.1

Caribbean Diaspora in the USA

The Iglesia Universal in Brooklyn

This opportunity for networking is one of the reasons why the Iglesia Universal is so successful among Latin American migrants in New York City; another is probably the similarity with Catholicism and the incorporation of Latin American cultural aspects in the worship. But as I mentioned before, even the Roman Catholic Church or the Lutheran Church has similar things to offer to the migrants. Nonetheless, the Iglesia Universal is one of the fastest growing churches for migrants. The question remains therefore what distinguishes the Brazilian church from other churches. The promise of salvation on an economical basis seems to be central, hence the offer to buy salvation. Instead of a long-term commitment the Iglesia Universal demands a financial contribution in order to achieve salvation. To guard against failure the contribution has to become larger, with the result that the religion develops into a financial service. This quite pragmatic relationship between believers and God goes hand in hand with another attraction, the shifting of personal responsibility to a spiritual entity. Unlike Protestant churches the Iglesia Universal blames the devil or other evil spirits for the wrongdoing of human beings. The sinful human being is not responsible for problems, but rather demons are. The sinner becomes a victim of seduction and manipulations and is not culpable. This explanation gives an alternative when a situation seems helpless, as in the case of some family problems. A mother worries about her son who has become involved in criminal activities but she cannot do anything about it. She feels helpless and becomes sick. But if she hears that her beloved son was seduced by evil spirits, she might feel that she can do something about it (for instance, exorcism or a spiritual cleaning of the house), and hence she starts to feel better. The emotional approach is probably the main feature of the Iglesia Universal. The manifestation of the Holy Spirit and the exorcism of demons not only provide

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a spectacular performance but address an important dimension of religious feeling that is central for migrants. They are not only allowed to show emotion during the service but encouraged to scream, shout or weep in a safe environment where nobody laughs at them but where their needs are understood. It offers, therefore, an important outlet for suppressed emotions – and not in a basement but in a large church building similar to a cathedral. Interestingly the segregation does not worry the members or the people outside the church. Though the Iglesia Universal has distinguished radically between Latinos and non-Latinos, no one seems to protest against it; quite the opposite, in fact, with members seeming to appreciate that the Iglesia Universal is very obviously a Latin American institution, founded in Latin America in order to help Latin Americans in a difficult situation. It has done this not in the foreign US American way, which is often regarded as cold and hostile, but in a Latin American style, full of emotion and popular music. This enables the members to cope with difficult situations on their own terms, and hence leads in the end to self-empowerment. ‘Evangelical Protestantism can be regarded as a way for believers to alter their cultural inheritance’ (Stoll 1993: 14).. Instead of being treated as victims by some social charity they become active, though it is in a way that is difficult to understand from the outside. At this point I will move finally to the Caribbean migrants and their religious communities. I will focus on Afro-Caribbean religions which are very popular among the migrants as well as others. These religions can be characterized by a considerable sense of individuality with the experience of the Numinous central to religious practice. Nonetheless, being rooted in the group is also important because the community has to support the individual living through his or her experience. Individuality enables practitioners to influence the ritual practice though most communities are led in an authoritarian way. This ambivalence can create tension, even fragmentation because the leaders of a community, the priests and ministers, always control the theological and ritual side of the community. In return for subordination they offer help and support in all social and physical aspects of life. In addition, all religions include an aesthetic dimension which expresses the African core of these religions. The Yoruba-Orisha Baptist Church The Yoruba-Orisha Baptist Church can be compared with the national parishes in the early period of Catholicism in New York City: it is an ethnically homogeneous church with nearly all of its members from Trinidad and Tobago and a leader, Reverend W., who accompanied the migrants to New York City. The worldview of this religion is an impressive example of the mixture and the coexistence of different systems within a new one. The Spiritual Baptist church belongs to the Protestant churches, but it includes Catholic as well as African and even Kabbalistic elements. Though it is an institutionalized and registered church it still has the characteristics of an ‘undogmatic’ religion without a central structure and central dogma.18 In the anthropological literature 18 I used the term for the first time in 1995 in order to describe religions without central dogma and institutions to distinguish them from institutionalized religions such as Catholicism (Schmidt 1995).

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about Trinidad and Tobago there are several names for this religion, such as Spiritual Baptists, Shouters, Orisha-Religion and Shango, but it is very difficult to distinguish between them, in particular between Shouters and Shango believers. While it might be possible to find ‘pure’ forms in Trinidad and Tobago, it is not the case in New York City, where both forms join together with Kabbalah ceremonies under the roof of one church building. Hence I will call them Spiritual Baptists, realizing that this term represents just an approximation of a very complex reality.19 History of the Spiritual Baptist Church in Trinidad and Tobago The Shouter Baptist Church was founded in the nineteenth century in Trinidad and was influenced by English Baptists, who arrived in the English colonies in the seventeenth century.20 When Britain conquered the islands in 1797, in order to strengthen its position in the region, they were already inhabited by Spanish and some French settlers. The two islands had little political importance until they became a British colony in 1802. Since then the influence of the Anglican Church, which became the state church in 1844, has continuously increased despite the ongoing presence of Catholics among the French-speaking elite. Under first French and then British influence the demands of cheap labour increased, leading the government to import increasing numbers of enslaved people from Africa, in particular from the region of Nigeria. However, until 1813 only 1 per cent of these people were Yoruba, though one can notice even today a great Yoruban influence in the Trinbagonian culture.21 The ‘africanization’ of the Spiritual Baptists who incorporated elements from other religions into their belief system, in particular African elements, started at this time. According to legend the Shouter religion is rooted in the religious practices of African slaves who, at the beginning of the nineteenth century,22 celebrated their own worship in back rooms of churches in Port-of-Spain while their masters went to the regular services in the church hall. At this time the so-called merikins, AfroAmerican soldiers who fought against the USA on the British side, settled in Trinidad together with former slaves who were already Baptists. At the end of the nineteenth century Shouter Baptists had developed their own way of belief and practice that then 19 Houk uses the term Afro-American religious complex which includes the Spiritual Baptist, Orisha and Kabbalah religious traditions. He understands all three as separate forms which combine to a complex system but he then states that the reality is even more complex (Houk 1992: 27). Glazier, on the other hand, distinguishes between Baptist churches without a Shango connection, Baptist churches with a Shango connection, Shango centres without Baptist elements and Shango centres with Baptist elements (1983: 4). 20 This information about the history of the church in Trinidad is based on a monograph by C. M. Jacobs which was recommended to me by members of the New York community; see Jacobs 1996: 7–34. 21 Houk explains the Yoruba influence from the immigration of approximately 9,000 freed slaves from settlements in St Helen and Sierra Leone who were predominantly Yoruba (1992: 1992: 116). Pollak-Eltz, on the other hand, refers to Cuban Santería as an explanation for the strong Yoruba influence (1995:82). 22 Between 1797 when the island was conquered by Britain and 1838, the official end of slavery on the island.

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spread throughout the colony. After the end of slavery in 1838 many plantation owners hired labourers from India and later China so that in the middle of the nineteenth century the influence of Hinduism on Spiritual Baptists grew. In 1912 the Shaker religion in St Vincent was prohibited and many practitioners moved to Trinidad and Tobago where they joined Shouter communities. Shortly afterwards, in 1917, the Shouter religion was also prohibited in Trinidad and Tobago, and many church buildings were destroyed and members arrested. Nevertheless, the religion survived, as Melville and Francis Herskovits noted during their fieldwork in 1939: Baptism, proving, mournin’, the phenomenon of possession by the ‘Spirit’, the physical manifestation of such possession in the shaking, the dancing, the speaking in tongues, the bringing back of spiritual gifts are all at the core of the Shouters worship everywhere. The resemblances from group to group are significant, because each congregation is autonomous, and no supervisory body sees to it that in organization – or dogma – the separate churches maintain any degree of unity. (1947: 1947: 193)

In 1951 Elton Griffith, who had migrated from Grenada to Trinidad ten years before and became a major figure among Spiritual Baptists, succeeded in getting the church accepted by the government again. Today the religion is one of the major religions in Trinidad and Tobago despite its persistent negative image.23 In particular members of the upper class discriminate against Spiritual Baptists, as I was told by Reverend W. in New York City. Nonetheless the Spiritual Baptists have spread since the 1950s throughout the Caribbean, Europe and North America.24 When Trinidad and Tobago became independent in 1962, under the influence of their first prime minister, Eric Williams, they developed a national identity based on the Afro-American heritage which until recently dominated the state (40 per cent of the population today has Asian roots) (see Jacobs 1996: 66)..25 Hinduism has been practised in Trinidad and Tobago for 150 years and is today one of the most important religions on the islands and has even started to influence Afro-Caribbean religions. Another influence came from Kabbalah, originally a Jewish mystical movement that apparently arrived on the islands with Spanish and French Jewish settlers, and became in Trinidad the ‘esoteric corpus of mystical and religious knowledge that is thought by some to contain essential teachings regarding the spiritual mechanics of the cosmos’ (Houk Houk 1992: 112). According to James Houk, Kabbalah is regarded today as the White man’s magic. From this diverse religious history we can identify in the Spiritual Baptist Church various elements from other religions. It is an open system that does not necessarily exclude new elements but incorporates them (Houk 1995: 169–70). For this reason I cannot really portray the Yoruba-Orisha Baptist Church in New York City in its totality, but have to limit myself to some of its key elements.

23 Pearl Eintou Springer strictly divides Baptists and Orisha-worshipers, and states that there are 33,000 Baptists in Trinidad and Tobago according to the 1995 census though she also mentions 100,000 believers according to Bishop Thomas (1995: 1995: 103). 24 For information about the history of Trinidad and Tobago and its connection to the religious structure of the two islands, see Houk 1995: 27–9 and Houk 1992: 95–127. 25 See Schmidt 1998a for the construction of identity in the Caribbean.

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The History of the Yoruba-Orisha Baptist Church in Brooklyn The church is situated in the neighbourhood of Brooklyn College (see Figure 3.2), an area with many Caribbean migrants. A sign above the entrance of a small terrace house advertises the presence of the church, though the door is closed outside of service hours. The leader of the community, Reverend W., lives in a flat above the church. The building also includes storage for religious objects, a kitchen, bathrooms, a room for new initiates and, in the basement, a space for Kabbalah ceremonies. Apart from the main building there is a small patio where the minister keeps his dogs and also, occasionally, animals for religious sacrifices. The minister arrived in the USA more than twenty years ago after being trained as a minister in Trinidad, following the lead of his father. During the time of my fieldwork in New York City he held the position of archbishop and was in charge of several churches. However, the community which I will present is his own church, hence the main community. He presents himself as cosmopolitan, and his church welcomes, as he says, people of every ethnic and religious background. As he shows me his church, he draws special attention to the various symbols of other religions such as a Buddha statue as part of the Stations of the Cross and a figure of a Hindu deity on the altar (see Figure 3.3). The altar with the lectern on the podium dominates the church hall which is otherwise occupied by chairs and benches for the choir and the children of the Sunday school in the front. The church is decorated with the Stations of the Cross, with statues of Catholic saints and other religious symbols. A tree of life and Kabbalah symbols are painted on the wall at two corners. On special occasions the hall contains other decorations such as an enormous candle during the celebration of the 23rd anniversary of the foundation of the church. Though the first Black Baptist Church was founded in North America in 1639 in Rhode Island (Jacobs 1996: 38), the Yoruba-Orisha Baptist Church does not regard itself in this tradition but refers to Trinidad and Tobago. The first church in New York City was founded by a Queen Mother, Violet Smith, though Reverend W. insists that he was the one who established the presence of the Orisha Baptist Church in New York City: New York was very popular among people of the Caribbean … Everybody knew Violet Smith. She opened the first church in Fulton Street. In 1974, I started my own Church in Atlantic Avenue. We have people from Panama, different nations, even Italy. [Question]: ‘You started it?’ [Response]: I didn’t start it. I established it.26

Though he worked at the beginning very successfully with the Queen Mother, Reverend W. was inspired by a vision and decided to found his own church in honour of the saint. With the help of members of his church some years later he was able to buy this house in Brooklyn where he has lived and worked ever since. Some streets further on he has a small shop where he sells religious paraphernalia. But his main work is in the consultations for anybody who is in need of advice. Indeed, in his church I often met people from outside his congregation and with different ethnic backgrounds waiting for consultations with him. 26 Reverend W., personal communication, 22.9.1998.

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When they have a problem, they come to the Baptist Church … Sometimes they come when they have a problem that a normal doctor can’t cure. Or they have a great problem, when they have a child that is very sick. And when they have a child that is out of control, that doesn’t go to school … We pray for them … We have washes.27

During the time of my research his congregation had approximately 65 members who regularly attended the services and festivals and became responsible for the church by taking over certain positions. In addition to this relatively small group a much larger group attended specific ceremonies, so that the whole space in the church hall was always occupied by people. The majority were from Trinidad and Tobago, some came from neighbouring islands such as Grenada or other Caribbean islands such as Barbados and even Cuba, though there were no Caribbean migrants of Asian descent. Reverend W. mentioned the presence of US Americans and Europeans but I assume that he saw them in private consultation because I got the impression that everyone attending ceremonies had Afro-Caribbean backgrounds. Despite the large number of people attending his ceremonies the reverend worries about a possible successor. At the beginning of 1998 he introduced a Sunday school for children hoping that this would increase the numbers of the regular congregation. I gained the impression that the community was relatively stable financially; the members of the congregation seemed to be middle class or nearly middle class while among the other people in attendance I noticed some who appeared to be more financially restricted.

Figure 3.2

27 Ibid.

Yoruba-Orisha Baptist Church in Brooklyn

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Figure 3.3

Caribbean Diaspora in the USA

The Altar, Yoruba-Orisha Baptist Church, Brooklyn

The Congregation of the Yoruba-Orisha Baptist Church and its Worldview The congregation is hierarchically structured. Reverend W. is the leader of the community and controls the community within the church as well as in the outside world. His charismatic personality attracts new members and strengthens the church’s economic situation. But because one individual dominates the community, it is difficult for a potential successor to achieve an outstanding profile. No one can present himself in a leadership role in the community without causing fragmentation. The minister is supported by a Queen Mother, an elderly and highly respected woman who is not related to him. Together with other senior mothers (during the time of my research there were eight senior mothers) she is in charge of catering and decorations, including the cooking of the sacrificed animals and the cleaning of the church and other rooms. No minister can work without a Queen Mother I was told. When I asked about gender division, Reverend W. said that women can also train to become ministers but according to my impression that is a recent development. I was told once that there is a female minister in Queens though in the literature I have not been able to find any such references. The congregation seemed to be quite conservative and is divided according to gender. The position of Queen Mother seemed to be regarded as identical to the position of ‘reverend’ though some communities such as the one I visited regularly were quite patriarchal. The congregation esteems male and female members slightly differently, which was even expressed geographically: during the celebration of the anniversary of the church the reverend and his male guests of honour sat near the altar on the podium while the ‘queen mother’ with the other mothers sat on chairs in front of the platform (see Figure 3.4). Nonetheless,

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the position of these mothers serves as a form of empowerment for women in the community. It raises the prestige of the women, which is even visible through their dress code (for example the colour of their head scarves). Though they are below the male minister and other male leaders in the hierarchy, everyone else has to show them respect; even male family members respect the authority of a ritual mother even if she is in daily life ‘just’ a cousin or a younger sister. Even more attention is given to the age of a person and to the position they occupy in the congregation. The latter status is connected to their position within the community, for instance being a secretary, a musician, a teacher at the Sunday school or a butcher for the religious sacrifice28 carries certain prestige within the community. Every elder of the congregation, whether this is based on age or on religious position, expects and receives respect from younger members, even if this person does not have a high religious status. Reverend W. hopes that the members of this congregation show respect towards any elders, whether they belong to the ritual family or to the blood family, so that the members of his congregation become better human beings.29

Figure 3.4

Leaders of the Yoruba-Orisha Baptist Church, Brooklyn

Apart from these positions that are based on secular aspects, there is a way to receive a higher status based on a religious experience. Every believer who has experienced a vision during a spiritual rebirth, a so-called mourning, will 28 During the time of my research this position was unoccupied. 29 The members of the congregation belong to two different kinds of kinship networks, the blood kinship and the ritual kinship; both systems are not necessarily connected. The ritual kinship is based on religious rituals such as being godmother or godfather at a rite of passage.

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automatically receive a higher position. This religious baptism is the central individual experience among Spiritual Baptists. It is accessible for any believer and not connected to a certain position though afterwards this person will gain a different status despite their age or former position. The experience of a spiritual rebirth leads to the achievement of authority in any religious matter. Often my questions about the meaning or background of certain practices were directed towards the Queen Mother because of her religious authority, and she would then direct me to the reverend as the leader of the community. Despite a certain resistance to answering questions on religious matters, the members of the congregation reacted quite positively to my presence. After the minister introduced me during a service and informed the congregation that I would be asking questions in order to understand their religion, my presence was accepted. Despite being the only White person, I was treated as any other ignorant person who had to be informed about certain rules and regulations. For instance, when I arrived one very cold evening in clothes that the women regarded as inappropriate for the ceremony to take place that night, I was – very politely – asked to change into something a woman lent me. Apart from this incident I was often ignored but also observed and protected.30 During some of the breaks we spoke about personal things or about general aspects of their religion which all members were willing to discuss with me. Only the theological questions concerning the religious meaning of certain practices were always directed to people with more authority, because members were not allowed to speak about certain religious matters with non-members or non-believers. The central religious rite of passage among Spiritual Baptists is the mourning, though Reverend W. insists that it is not necessary to experience this in order to occupy a position in the congregation. To experience a spiritual rebirth is the free choice of an initiate whose experiences differ from those of other initiates. When I asked about any training he mentioned the study of theology at Medgar Evers College which is part of the City University of New York, though the vision during the spiritual rebirth is also important. For instance, the seven-day fasting which leads to visions enables the initiate to speak in tongues: ‘When somebody fasts, they speak in Chinese … [or] in Ibo.’31 The whole community participates at the mourning though only a few members are actively involved in the ceremony. This aspect is connected to the main characteristic of the religious worldview. Though Spiritual Baptists are Christians, their main feature is not the belief in a monotheistic God but in the ability to communicate with the divine through the Holy Spirit. As Reverend W. said: ‘Manifestation is part of the religion.’32 The Spiritual Baptists trace this ability as well as the baptism of adults back to John the Baptist. The term Shouter refers to the impressive practice of calling down the Holy Spirit, regarded as an independent part of the holy trinity, during a service. The monotheistic god gains a polytheistic expression because the divine can manifest in different ways. Apart from the trinity with God, Jesus and the Holy Spirit as separate entities 30 When during my first visit to a spiritual ceremony my glasses were accidentally dropped on the floor some women immediately came to me in order to protect me. 31 Reverend W. personal communication, 22.9.1998. 32 Ibid.

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with their own responsibilities, in this religious worldview there are several other divine beings who act. These are similar to Catholic saints and act as intermediaries between human beings and God. The Spiritual Baptists distinguish between several groups of spiritual beings who should (theoretically) manifest themselves in a certain order but, as Glazier has already stated for Trinidad, spirits do not always behave as they should (1983: 24.). According to my observations the believers in New York City celebrate separate festivals for the different groups of spiritual beings though they sometimes did not act as they were supposed to. The migrants do not consider the hierarchical order of spiritual beings to be as important as it is in Trinidad and Tobago. Every being has its positive and its negative aspects. Some believers are able to manipulate them because spirits have human characteristics. The target of salvation is oriented towards this world, the here and now. The believers are looking for solutions to worldly problems. Life after death and ideas about heaven and hell are of minor importance. Spiritual Baptists as well as other Christian groups in Trinidad and Tobago have quite a pragmatic attitude though they are – as Glazier confirms (1983: 33) – nonetheless Christians, though in a different way. Spiritual Baptists regard themselves as Protestants who emphasize the trinity and the interpretation of the Bible as God’s words, despite the incorporation of various elements of popular Catholicism such as the worship of saints, some in African or even Hindu images. The diversity of divine beings which is part of all the Baptist churches of Caribbean migrants in New York City (though to different degrees) is not part of the conventional Baptist belief system but typical for the Caribbean. However, the Caribbean Baptist churches in New York City do not fit into the religious schema of Trinidad and Tobago that is often portrayed as divided into orthodox and unorthodox, Protestant and Catholic, African and Hindu. Pearl Eintou Springer, for instance, denies the existence of Shango Baptists on the basis of theological arguments (1995: 100), though the ceremony that I saw in October 1998 in Brooklyn was precisely a Shango Baptist ceremony. At several consecutive evenings the congregation celebrated so-called Shango festivals inside the church hall. Every night African deities manifested themselves in the body of believers in order to be worshiped with offerings and music. I participated at colourful and vibrant festivals which took place until dawn. For the members of the congregation these festivals were as important as the Baptist services on Sunday. The church hall was filled with more people than usual. Every night the sacrifices for the deities who were called down with drums and singing became larger. The festivals also indicated that the belief system of the Caribbean migrants is open and not restricted by any theological doctrine. Whoever appears is greeted and asked for help if possible. The religious practice is a mixture of various elements which Reverend W. described as a religious mélange: ‘We use Catholic prayers … We use Pentecostal prayers. We put anything together.’ 33 Though fewer people attend the regular Sunday services, they are nevertheless important for belonging to the community. During the services, which are often followed by communal lunches, the members discuss important issues for the community, give out awards to some members and organize the following weeks. 33 Ibid.

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These services follow more or less the usual Protestant order though with Caribbean influences. Some members feel, for instance, the presence of the Holy Spirit who is called by loud singing and music, but rarely the manifestation of other divine beings. During the service the reverend is supported by other members of the church, often people who occupy certain positions in the church or want to gain them. Apart from the Baptist services and the Shango festivals, which are also celebrated for other orishas (African deities), there is a third category of ritual celebrated in the church, though in the basement: Kabbalah ceremonies. These are also important for the members of congregation though normally they do not invite non-members to attend. It was very interesting for me to participate at all three types of ceremony. The Sunday service was well attended but not as crowded as the Shango festivals to which several people were specially invited. The regular members prepared special food and decorations; there was even a specific dress code during these festivals. At the Kabbalah ceremonies people attended mainly in black clothes and only a few non-members were allowed to participate. Even the mood was different. The Sunday service was usually held in a holiday mood while the mood during the Shango festival was vibrant, euphoric and at the Kabbalah ritual dark, almost threatening. Common to all large ceremonies was the communal meal afterwards (often at dawn), as well as the great importance of music in the form of singing and drumming. Music can introduce spiritual experiences, the manifestation of deities as well as speaking in tongues. Hence, music is not ‘an ornamental, complementary yet essentially reinforcing element of certain religious practice’, but has ‘organic functionality’ as Gerard Béhague points out (1984b: 223). The Integration of the Yoruba-Orisha Baptist Church with its Surroundings The history of one church, in particular such an ‘undogmatic’ and flexible one as the Yoruba-Orisha Baptist Church, cannot be representative of the history of the religion in the USA. Nonetheless there are some general characteristics one can glean by looking at one community. Spiritual Baptists are difficult to categorize. They are extremely conservative in some aspects of their belief system, and at the same time flexible and rigid, heterodox as well as orthodox (see Glazier 1983: 33). I can make the same observation about the attitude of the believers in New York City, reinforced by the perspective of the migrants. All the elements of the belief system of the community in Brooklyn are from the islands, but their combination has been created because of migration. Some communities on the islands have included, for instance, Hindu or Kabbalah elements in their belief systems, though most of the time these elements occupy the boundaries of the system and are regarded as exceptional. In Brooklyn the community has strengthened the elements and incorporated them in the already heterogeneous system representing the experiences and needs of Caribbean migrants within a new environment. It has created a web between conservative moral attitudes and open-minded belief systems that has satisfied the expectations of the migrants as well as the needs of the environment. Influences are, of course, not included without consideration. Only elements that offered something to the migrants were included. If not useful, they are denied or later rejected. During the period of my research Reverend W. tried to cooperate with

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Puerto Rican santeros and santeras (initiated practitioners of the Cuban religion Santería), but this collaboration was still in the first ‘test phase’. Elements of Haitian Vodou were rejected as too powerful or even obscene, though during the nineteenth century several Vodou priests and believers immigrated to Trinidad and Tobago in the group of freed slaves, so that Glazier assumes certain Vodou influences in the Shouter religion.34 Despite the negative relationship between the two religions in the Caribbean there is still a possibility that this will change. In New York City both religions can operate much more openly than in Trinidad and Tobago, so that it is possible that Spiritual Baptists might include Vodou elements in their system in the future, as they have done with other elements when they offer help or healing. If the manifestation of a Rada-spirit promises success, its appearance can become accepted during a Spiritual Baptist ceremony. The community is also adapting at the institutional level. Despite a different attitude in Trinidad and Tobago, Reverend W. decided to proceed with official registration as a church, hence seeking state acceptance. He is proud that his religion is treated as a normal church in the USA, especially while it still suffers from a negative image in Trinidad and Tobago because of the colonial history. He mentioned that he has tried for a long time to establish a good relationship with other religions. He explained the difficulties in Trinidad and Tobago with the African elements of the religion that are still regarded in a negative way. But, as Pearl Eintou Springer says, ‘the recognition of African religion is the ultimate step in the reclamation of self for the diaspora Africa’ (1995: 1995: 91). In the USA the situation was changed by the civil rights movement, in particular in African-American neighbourhoods. Today, the presentation of an African identity in a predominantly European-American society is more highly regarded than in the 1950s. Despite the tensions between Caribbean migrants and African-Americans the common dream of a pan-African identity is the daily lived proof of common African roots. Nevertheless, Pan-Africanism has only minor relevance for the members of the congregation whose main intention is integration in the new environment combined with relationship to their country of origin. It is exactly this function that fills the church hall with practitioners. The church manages to build a bridge to Trinidad and Tobago emotionally through the use of the common language (Patios), music (in particular drum rhythm and singing) and of course the endless private conversations before and after the services and festivals. News from the islands, of political as well as private events, is discussed in nearly endless dialogues. The community offers migrants a network of connections as well as an emotional collecting point in a stressful time, particularly for newcomers. But it is not a replacement of the family, as with other migrant religions, because blood relationship is more highly valued than ritual kinship. If no relative lives in the new environment, and the problem cannot be solved from a distance, then the church can fulfil this function. Hence, despite the strong role of the leader the basis of the religion is the collective entity, the congregation. Without the 34 Glazier describes Vodou as a very rigid system. This is not true for Vodou in New York City as I will show later. Glazier also argues that both Vodou and Shango, the African form of Spiritual Baptists, are similar in regard to their non-respectable status in society. Hence, his argument that Baptists took over Vodou as a cover up, does not seen likely to me. See Glazier 1983: 34.

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collective religious experience the religion does not exist. The place of an individual in the divine cosmos is defined by the religious community. Spiritual Baptists cannot understand how a person can exist without belonging to a religious community, without participating regularly in ceremonies. They accept without any problems members of other communities, even those of other confessions, only people who do not belong to a community are regarded with suspicion. The main aim of the community is therefore the spiritual care of its members as distinct from the financial attitude of the Iglesia Universal. Though the leaders are financially supported by the members their main goal is not expansion or financial success. The organization of the festivals takes much of the profit; nonetheless they are important for the community. Reverend W. is open to outsiders and spends most of his time in consultation but he does not promote his activity. Even the handouts for the festivals are mainly for members of the congregation and their families and friends. The festivals fit well into the schedule of other festivals that are also celebrated for other defined communities in the USA. Apparently Spiritual Baptists, as Protestants, have fewer problems in adapting to the mainly protestant US society than the next two religions discussed. The Société la Belle Venus II The next religious community has not (yet) decided to register as a church but its leader was considering the possibility of doing so during the process of my research, mainly because of tax benefits. The community consisted of only one group, the Vodou temple La Belle Venus II that was founded some years before by a Haitian mambo, a Vodou priestess, in the basement of her house in Brooklyn. The temple’s name includes a reference to a temple in Haiti where the priestess herself was initiated. Though Vodou still has a negative image in the USA it has gained some acceptance in the last few years. The basis of the community is Haitian migrants and their children, but the number of non-Haitians is increasing. Vodou is one of the religions most open to non-Caribbeans. The History of Vodou in Haiti The history of Vodou reflects the ambivalent relationship of the first Black Republic to its surroundings and its internal problems. Though Vodou was already in existence before the successful slave uprising and independence from France, the connection to the rebellion influenced the reception of the religion and its worldview, which outsiders perceive as exotic.35 The term ‘Vodou’ describes a religion with roots in Africa but which was created in America, precisely on the part of the islands that is today called Haiti. In part of the West African state of Benin, the former kingdom of Dahomey, the term ‘vodou’ was used for ancestors or other spirits who were worshiped in specific cults. Every social group, hence every family, association,

35 In this part I refer mainly to Laënnec Hurbon and his books on Vodou. See, for instance, Hurbon 1972, 1995a.

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village, town and so on, worshipped its own spirit. Only through migration from the countryside to urban areas did the cult of a ‘vodou’ move into other regions, where it gained new worshippers. Later, the tribal religion developed into a complex system of beliefs and practices in Haiti because of its suppression during slavery. Nonetheless, it is regarded with suspicion by outsiders even today. Melville Herskovits, one of the first non-Haitians to conduct anthropological research in rural Haiti in the 1930s (during the end of the US occupation), wrote about Vodou: More than any other single term, the word ‘voodoo’ is called to mind whenever mention is made of Haiti. Conceived as a grim system of African practices, it has come to be identified with fantastic and cruel rites and to serve as a symbol of daring excursions into the esoteric. Not only has emphasis been placed on its frenzied rites and the cannibalism supposed on occasion to accompany them, but its dark mysteries of magic and ‘zombie’ have been so stressed that it has become customary to think of the Haitians as living in a universe of psychological terror. (1964: 1964: 139)

Because of many biased publications about Vodou it is difficult to understand the religious concept of Vodou or even to approach believers impartially. According to Sidney Mintz and Michel-Rolph Trouillot the main problem is that Vodou was created by many individuals from various cultures over centuries, and that Vodou has no written doctrines and no national institutional structure (1995: 123). The middle passage created an individualization of the enslaved Africans who were forced out of their social context, transported together with people from other groups under horrible circumstances over the ocean and then had to work together with other slaves under inhuman conditions until their death in a hostile environment.36 Though African people were transported to Santo Domingo, the Spanish name for the colony, as early as 1503, the beginning of Vodou can be traced back only to the French period of suppression which started officially in 1697. Under French rule the number of Africans increased dramatically. In 1685 the French government announced the Code Noir which officially regulated the treatment of slaves in French colonies. The Code Noir ordered, for instance, the baptism of every slave and prohibited the practice of any religions apart from Catholicism. Any meeting of slaves was also prohibited because of fear of slave uprisings. Enslaved Africans therefore started to adapt Catholic rites and reinterpreted them according to their own traditions. In this sense Catholicism acted as a masque for their beliefs and practices (see Hurbon 1972: 77). During the first part of the eighteenth century, shortly before the end of the slave trade over the Atlantic, a large number of enslaved people from the kingdom of Dahomey arrived in Saint Domingue, the French name of the colony, among them many Fon who were influence by Yoruba (Hurbon 1995a: 21). Despite the prohibition the enslaved Africans managed to practise some religious rites in secret so that some African traditions, in particular of the Fon and Yoruba, survived the time of suppression. From the start the enslaved Africans fought against their oppression vehemently, some passively, for instance by refusing to work or to obey, and some actively, by 36 See Mintz and Price 1992 for information about the birth of the African-American culture; for the individualization process, see pp. 42–3.

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running away, murdering their masters, or suicide. François Makandal, a maroon who disrupted the colonial powers by murdering several slave masters and civil servants with poison and by liberating a large number of enslaved people, is still celebrated in Haiti as a national hero. He handed out garde-corps (talismans) as protection against weapons, though unsuccessfully: in 1758 he was sentenced to death. But his death did not end the rebellion, quite the opposite; it only started an endless chain of insurgences that caused great alarm among the few White inhabitants. At the end of the eighteenth century there was somewhere between 400,000 and 500,000 enslaved people as opposed to 40,000 White (and free) citizens and approximately 25,000 free Blacks or mulattos. At that time Saint Domingue controlled one-third of the French trade, and therefore was one of the most economically successful of the French colonies. Though the French settlers founded freemasonic lodges in Saint Domingue, they made sure that the liberal doctrines did not spread to the suppressed people (Hurbon 1995a: 41–2). Nonetheless the enslaved people adapted some freemasonic elements and combined them together with elements from indigenous traditions and the worship of African deities, in particular the Dahomey spirits. At the end of the eighteenth century these spiritual entities were already divided into nanchos (nations), were called lwa instead of vodou, and also identified with the names of Catholic saints. Thus one can assume that already at the end of the eighteenth century a mixture of various African religions with popular Catholicism and other elements from indigenous religions and freemasonry existed (Hurbon 1995a: 31). However, one can doubt the existence of a homogeneous system of beliefs and practices at this early stage. After the French revolution and the declaration of human rights more and more resistance against slavery occurred. In 1791 the maroon Boukman Dutty called for a general uprising of all enslaved people, which in 1804 ended in the declaration of Haiti as an independent state. The Black Republic, as Haiti was often called, was the second independent state in the Americas, and represented the only successful slave uprising. Nonetheless its neighbours did not praise Haiti’s success but regarded the island with fear. From the beginning of the rebellion in 1791 fleeing Europeans spread rumours about ‘savage Blacks’ who were violent and cruel, greedy for revenge and blood, who would rape and slaughter White women and set plantations on fire, forcing harmless settlers to flee (Hurbon 1995a: 43). When the rumour was spread that the leader of the rebellion, Boukman, was an oungan (a Vodou priest) who conducted a Vodou ceremony to start the rebellion in Bois Caïman,37 settlers on all Caribbean islands became hysterical.38 As a result Black sailors, for instance, had to be chained when their ships were in harbour, without regard to their status or background; ships coming from Haiti were not allowed to anchor in any harbour in the Caribbean; and all reunions of enslaved people were radically prohibited.39 Today it is not certain whether the ceremony in Bois Caïman really took place. Léon-François Hoffmann, for instance, doubts its existence because the first written description was published in 1814 in Histoire de la révolution de Saint-Domingue 37 Several sources call the ceremony or the location Bois Caïman. 38 See Schmidt 2001a for information about the (imagined) connection between Vodou and cannibalism. 39 See, for instance, Götz 1995 for information about the consequences in Jamaica.

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and was based on the statements of prisoners taken days after the ceremony (1996: 36).40 The author of the book was the French medical doctor Antoine Dalmas who fled to the USA after the French defeat, where he wrote down his memories of the rebellion between 1793 and 1794, to be published in 1814 in France. Whether Dalmas spiced up his memoirs or not, his description spread the ‘knowledge’ about a bloody ritual before the rebellion, and succeeding authors included even more details of the story. Though Dalmas never used the term Vodou, his description was identified with Vodou later on and created an unbreakable connection between the rebellion and Vodou which came to be considered dangerous for outsiders. After the independence of Haiti the government, in particular the Creole middle and upper classes who were oriented towards French traditions, tried to separate Haiti from Vodou and its negative stereotypes. In 1835 president Jean-Pierre Boyer prohibited Vodou as superstition. Though the Catholic Church was rarely represented in Haiti until the concordat in 1860, the Haitian ruling class tried to proclaim Haiti a Catholic country. Nonetheless, the diffidence of the Catholic Church allowed Vodou to stabilize as a religion and the relationship between the two religions to settle (Mintz Mintz and Trouillot 1995: 139).. The massive land reform in the first decades after independence restructured Haiti, transforming it into a rural country. In the middle of the nineteenth century Vodou was established as a ‘familial system of ancestral belief, tied to the land and, through the land and through the lwa, to the past’ (Mintz Mintz and Trouillot 1995: 141). Countryside, kinship and cult seemed to become indestructibly connected. In the eyes of the educated urban Creoles Vodou became a symbol of the uneducated rural population until the occupation of the US marines in 1915, an event referred to, then and now, as le choc. This occupation, which lasted until 1934, radically changed the social structure of Haiti. One effect was the establishment of a Black middle class, which increased the image of rural culture. Despite the proclamation of equal rights for all people the urban elite was oriented towards the European intellectuals and rejected the rural tradition. But because of le choc some of the lay-ethnographers in the ‘indigenist movement’ started to investigate the rural culture and Vodou, and the image of the religion finally improved in Haiti. In particular the farmers suffered under the occupation of the US marines because they were forced to do unpaid work, sometimes even in US sugar plantations outside Haiti while the urban elite were saved. This unequal treatment increased the division between the urban elite and the countryside (Mintz Mintz and Trouillot 1995: 142).. Meanwhile the US marines spread negative headlines about Haiti and in particular Vodou, so that the religion again was viewed with suspicion outside Haiti. The basis of this campaign was another book which influenced the image of Vodou. In his Hayti or The Black Republic (1884), Spenser St John connected Vodou for the first time with cannibalism. Despite many unbelievable details this book was regarded as the standard book about Haiti for a long time.41 Between 1946 and 1950 President Dumarsais Estimé started a public campaign to proclaim the cultural and ethnic independence of Haiti. One issue was the 40 Despite Hoffmann’s doubt the ceremony is still presented as part of Haitian history today, and is a central component of the establishment of Haitian national identity. 41 On the reception of this book, see Bremer 1996.

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creation of a pure, ‘authentic’ Vodou. But instead of improving the image of Vodou the religion was declassified as folklore. During the 1940s and 1950s Vodou was only acceptable in the form of tourist performances.42 But it got worse. The dictator François Duvalier misused and nearly destroyed Vodou with his manipulations. Though it was never publicly acknowledged Duvalier was regarded as an oungan. Officially he increased cooperation with the Roman Catholic Church, and in 1964 he declared Catholicism the official religion of Haiti. His attitude towards Vodou was ambivalent because he wanted to get the support of the urban as well as the rural people. During his time Vodou received connotations of witchcraft despite his Vodou connections.43 After the end of the dictatorship, when his son had to leave Haiti in 1986, the fury of the oppressed people was vented on Vodou priests and many were killed as seeming supporters of Duvalier, until Catholic priests finally succeeded in protecting the Vodou priests.44 Afterwards the situation changed again. More and more Haitian intellectuals proclaimed their commitment to Vodou. Members of the middle and upper classes in Port-au-Prince even declared themselves vodouisants (initiated Vodou practitioners), hence improving the image of Vodou. In addition, associations in support of Vodou such as the ZANTRAY (Zenfan Tradisyon Ayisyen, children of Haitian tradition) were founded. In 1987 the new constitution acknowledged Kreyòl as the official state language together with French, and also deleted the negative entry about Vodou. Hence, for the first time the practice of Vodou ritual was no longer against the law. In 1991 President Jean-Bertrand Aristide even invited a Vodou priest to attend his inaugural ceremony. Unfortunately this peaceful time ended quickly and Haiti suffered a fast succession of putsches, US occupation, elections, street fights and so on. More and more Haitians decided to leave the country. Vodou again became the victim of a negative – though a slightly less vehement – campaign.45 Mintz and Trouillot judge the development of Vodou quite pessimistically: ‘What was once a people’s religion is now two other things besides: a political divertissement for Haitian political leaders, and a side show for tourist hotels’ (1995: 1995: 147). They ignore the creativity of Vodou believers in adapting their belief system to new circumstances. During slavery Vodou became established despite the suppression, and today it survives despite being regarded as a tourist attraction. Finally, in 2003, Vodou became accepted as a religion in Haiti. The Community of the Société la Belle Venus II and its Worldview Even as a child in Haiti the founder of the Société la Belle Venus II, Marie S., experienced the lwa manifestations in her body, but she fought against them. At 14 years old she started to receive information from spirits about people and she started to help to cure them. She recognizes, for instance, if there is a spell on someone and 42 See Anderson 1982 on the problematic relationship between tourist performances and ritual. 43 See Hurbon 1979 and Johnson 2006 for information about Vodou during Duvalier’s time. 44 See paper given at the BASR conference in Bath 2006, Schmidt 2007. 45 See, for instance, the tabloid picture of a US newspaper during the US occupation with Billy Graham saying: ‘Face of Satan rises over Haiti!’ in Hurbon 1995a: 194.

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can interact. Since 1982 she has lived in New York City where she moved in order to go to college. But again she was called by the spirits. Two years later, I got possessed by the guiding spirit … to serve them. But I didn’t want to do it. And I tried to fight them. Then I lost my job … I flew to Haiti. And I got initiated. By then, I was working as a priest.46

Only when her problems in school and work increased did she accept the call of the spirits and return to Haiti where she was initiated into the temple La Belle Venus in order to be healed. After her return to New York City she started to work as a mambo (a Vodou priestess), and founded her own temple. In the six years before my fieldwork she had initiated a large number of people, most of them migrants from Haiti and other Caribbean islands but also US Americans (European US Americans). With this remark she wanted to win my confidence in order to encourage me also to consider an initiation, but when I declined she accepted my decision without discussion. At the time of my research the temple had approximately twenty-five members who regularly consulted the mambo and (together with many other attendants) participated in the ceremonies. Among them were a small minority of non-Haitian people, some African-Americans and some European-Americans. Shortly before my research started the community suffered a setback when a member Marie had initiated started his own temple and persuaded some members of Marie’s temple to join the new one. But, as she explained to me, many of the renegades returned to her temple after a while. She has a power that no one can easily avoid, as she put it. For instance, a neighbour called the police because of the loud drum music during the night, but she successfully protected her community by making the police deaf to the music. She can protect her community against all evil, even against a police report of disturbance of the peace by night, she said to me. The temple is in the basement of a small terrace house in a quiet area of Brooklyn. She decided to buy this house because the floor in the basement had no concrete but is covered with clay. But after the first ceremonies it became obvious that the air becomes so dusty during a night ceremony that it becomes impossible for the musicians to perform. Hence, they put concrete in the corner where the musicians play but left most of the other floor in the basement uncovered. The clay is a reminder of Haiti where ceremonies are normally performed outside, in open spaces. The walls are decorated with colourful paintings of Catholic saints who symbolize the major lwa (see Figure 3.5). Marie is emotionally much attached to them as she declared to me: ‘We love all Saints. We have them all painted here … I love all of them.’47 At the front of the room is a long table where the members build an altar during the ceremonies for the various offerings for the lwa who will be celebrated during the ritual, its favourite food and drinks and other presents. In the middle of the room is a pole decorated with three drums. It symbolizes the poteau-mitan that connects human earth with the space of the lwa and the space of the ancestors. In order to allow spirits to manifest themselves and the sacrifice to soak into the ground the area on the floor around a poteau-mitan is not covered with concrete. 46 Marie S., personal communication, 7.12.1998. 47 Ibid.

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Apart from this ceremonial room there are several small chambers in the basement for storage, consultation (see Figure 3.6) and changing clothes, and also a room for people passing through their initiation. The rest of the house contains the living space for Marie and her family, though the kitchen is also used by the members of the temple and patients coming to consult Marie. For the community two aspects are important: the relationship to the mambo, who initiated most of them, and the relationship to the lwa who have to be honoured in various rituals throughout the year. During the festivals I noticed the great authority of the mambo over the members of her temple. Her orders are followed at once, whether she asks for more chairs, the drawing of ritual symbols, so-called vèvès, on the floor or other ritual assistance. While in the Yoruba-Orisha Baptist Church the leadership was divided between the minister and the ‘queen mother’, the mambo alone was in charge of the temple. During her religious activities she was always accompanied by a family member who protected her so that she did not harm herself during a spirit manifestation, for instance. I was very impressed to notice that even while she was possessed by a lwa she paid attention to ordinary things such as whether there were enough chairs in the room.

Figure 3.5

Inside the Société la Belle Venus II, Brooklyn

The close relationship between the members of the temple and the priestess is reestablished by regular private consultations in which they may discuss any problem with the mambo, social as well as religious ones. These consultations are strictly confidential and happen behind close doors. Karen McCarthy Brown, who was able to establish a very strong relationship with a mambo during three decades of research, describes private consultations in her publications, but always based on the

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Figure 3.6

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Consultation room, Société la Belle Venus II, Brooklyn

information the mambo gave her after the end of the treatment.48 According to Marie S. people consult her for various reasons, and not only members of her temple come to consult her. She has an answer for any problem or knows at least which lwa she has to address in order to get help: ‘If someone tries to hurt you and you want to stop it … if your child is sick, if someone keeps a curse on you … if you look for treatment … I have a charm.’49 During the consultations she does not only treat problems but also regularly investigates the relationship of the members of her temple to the lwa and the spirits of the dead, because each of them can influence human beings and has to be honoured in certain rituals. While Hurbon divides the worship of lwa into three areas, the private, familial and collective cult (1972: 88ff.), I observed that in New York City the focus is on the personal and the collective cult; family structures have been weakened in the process of migration. Migrants usually did not leave Haiti with family members and the religious community often takes over certain family functions for migrants. Though both areas are dominated by the relationship between priest and believers, the personal cult takes place in private and the collective one in the temple, and hence in public. Apart from consultations the private cult includes the worship of personal lwa at home where the believers normally build a small altar in a corner of a room. This altar is decorated according to the financial resources of the person and is dedicated to their main personal lwa and to spirits of the dead. Normally every day a candle is lit and a small offering is giving to the lwa and the spirits. The collective cult is only celebrated at specific festivals in the temple. The community has to honour 48 See Brown 1995: 484–8 and her portrait of the mambo in Brown 1991 (a second edition was published in 2001). 49 Marie S., personal communication, 7.12.1998.

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the major lwa with public festivals according to a fixed schedule. Though it is not possible to celebrate the festivals in New York City on the specific day as in Haiti, the temple always tries to celebrate them in the same week or at least the same month though sometimes in a smaller event. These events are public so that apart from the members other people interested in Vodou are allowed to attend by invitation. The festivals are ‘essentially social, religious affairs’ representing the culmination of a chain of religious events (see Béhague about similar Candomblé festivals, 1984b: 229).. Such a festival is an impressive event where every detail is fine-tuned. Not only the structure but also the decorations indicate at first glance which lwa will be honoured by this festival and how strong the community is financially. The lwa are central to Vodou, which is generally called ‘serving the lwa’ by practitioners. According to Marie S. learning more about them without initiation is prohibited. Nonetheless I will try to approach them as the central spiritual entities, though I need to present them from an outsider’s point of view. Hurbon characterizes them as ‘supernatural beings that can enter the human body, and they are thought to be present in all realms of nature: in the trees, the streams, and the mountains; in the air, the water, and fire’ (1995a: 66). In addition they are connected to human activities as he continues to explain: ‘The lwas of voodoo establish a web of linkages between human activities – agriculture, war, courtship – and various aspects of the natural world. They create the structure of time and space, and they take control of an individual’s life from birth to death.’ Outsiders have problems in understanding or even categorizing lwa with academic labels. Are they gods, deities or spirits? Alfred Métraux describes them as mystères (mistè) but also mentions that in Northern Haiti they are called saints or angels (1998: 71). He argues strictly against the translation of lwa as deities or gods because this term is not precise enough (Métraux Métraux 1998: 73).. According to my observation the term dieu is used in New York City only with reference to the Christian God who has minor significance in Vodou, while the term ‘spirits’ is indeed sometimes used to describe lwa (even Marie S. used this term sometimes), though this usage is different from reference to ancestor spirits and the spirits of the dead. Hence I use the Kreyòl term ‘lwa’ for the divine entities who exist between God and human beings and who can manifest themselves physically in the bodies of human beings in order to communicate with the physical world. Apart from this short physical existence in the bodies of human beings lwa are not regarded as physical beings, though they are also connected to Catholic saints as the decoration in the Brooklyn Vodou temple indicates. But despite the iconography lwa and saint are nonetheless two different entities. The statue of the Virgin Mary does not represent the Holy Mother of Jesus but Erzili, a very popular lwa who embodies beauty and grace and is associated with love. Saint Patrick is for vodouisants the powerful lwa Dãmbala, responsible for luck and prosperity and portrayed sometimes as a snake (Hurbon Hurbon 1972: 104–9).. In general people refer to the visual similarities between the two – St Patrick is known as the one who freed Ireland from snakes – though Joan Dayan (1995) argues that there are also similarities between the histories. During the time of construction of Vodou most if not all Haitian practitioners were illiterate, hence they probably would have been unfamiliar with the legends surrounding the saints but familiar with the pictures and statues. Analogies based on iconography are quite common among Afro-American religions such as the Cuban religion Santería and the Brazilian religion Candomblé

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where the thunder god Xangô is represented as Saint Barbara who is also associated with thunder though in different ways. While she protects people from thunder in European Catholicism, Xangô creates thunder if in a rage (Münzel Münzel 1986: 228).. Lwa are divided into several categories called nanchon (nation). Some are regarded as ancestors, hence are replacing the lineage which was destroyed by the slave trade. As Marie S. said, ancestors occupied central roles in African traditions. When these lineages were interrupted by the slave trade, the void was filled by lwa. But despite this role lwa are never regarded as individual beings, most of them are not even connected to a certain gender. Lwa are ambivalent, dynamic and fluid, some have various ways of representation. The three most important nanchons are Rada, Kongo and Petro, which are honoured in every ceremony in a fixed order though every ceremony focuses on one of the nanchons in particular. According to Hurbon nanchons reflect various African groups; some lwa are based on protecting spirits and others on divine ancestors (1995a: 70). Every nanchon has its own ritual with its own music, songs, dances, greetings and offerings. The Rada ritual honours lwas from Dahomey who are regarded as good spirits, lwa-Ginen, Kongo ritual refers to Bantu-spirits from the West African Bakongo region who are less popular but nonetheless important, and Petro refers to Creole spirits who are regarded in opposition to Rada as aggressive, envious and bitter. They are less individualistic and incorporate also some indigenous influences. I was told that they played a crucial role in the slave uprisings of 1791 and the establishment of Haiti in 1804.50 Apart from these rituals there is also the Nago ritual for Yoruba spirits but it is often included in Rada. Despite this classification it is not possible to divide them dualistically into good and evil. As I was told this is the custom only in Christianity, in Vodou good and evil cannot be separated. Every lwa has multiple aspects; even both genders are united in every lwa. Many Rada lwa have Kongo or Petro counterparts which express different aspects of their identity. According to Métraux it is not important to which nanchon a lwa belongs because the nanchon signifies the various characteristics which are shared by all lwa (1998: 77). Every ceremony starts with honouring Legba, the lwa for crossings who opens the door. Without Legba’s help no lwa can appear and no contact between human beings and lwa is possible. As an example of the various songs which are performed during a ceremony I will quote part of a song about Legba published by Alfred Métraux in Kreyòl (1998: 88): Atibô-Legba, l’uvri bayè pu mwê, Agoé! Papa-Legba, l’uvri bayè pu mwê Pu mwê pasé Lò m’a tunê, m’salié loa-yo Vodu Legba, l’uvri bayè pu mwê Pu mwê sa râtré Lò m’a tunê m’a rémèsyé loa-yo, Abobo. 50 Wilcken, personal communication, 3.10.1998. Desmangles (1992) states that the term Petro is derived from Dom Pedro, a mythical leader of a maroon rebellion in the late eighteenth century.

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At the end of each phrase the people present shout loud ‘AyBoBo’, as they do also during the ceremony in order to confirm what was said by the priest. After honouring Legba, rituals for various nanchons follow in a specific order and the first lwa ‘mounts’ a body to gain physical shape for a short time. Erzili, for instance, belongs to the Dahomey nation; hence she will appear when the drums beat the Rada rhythm, perhaps together with Ogou, a powerful lwa of the Nago family. Both lwa are very popular and regularly mount bodies of their believers. Their appearance is quite easy to detect, even for outsiders. Apart from the paraphernalia which they receive after mounting (such as sweet perfume and sweet dessert for Erzili and a long knife and cigar for Ogou) they are often dressed with their favourite clothes or at least decorated with scarves in their favourite colours (pink for Erzili and red for Ogou) to honour their presence. During a ceremony the body of a vodouisant can be mounted by several lwa, one after the other. Religious training and experience are important. During the ceremonies in which I participated, only the priest and some experienced vodouisants were mounted more than once while people with less experience had just one manifestation. At the end of the ceremony the Gédé appeared with Baron Samdi, their superior. The Gédé according to Hurbon represent an ethnic group that was conquered by the royal family of Abomey and in consequence sold to Saint Domingue (1995a: 74–5). Today they are generally connected to death and incorporate the spirits of the dead. Baron Samdi is portrayed wearing black tails and a top hat.51 November is regarded as the month of the Gédé. Every temple celebrates festivals in honour of the Gédé. While the first two days of November are treated in Haiti as national holidays, I noticed that in New York City the festivals are mainly celebrated at weekends, sometimes even weeks after the events in Haiti. Despite financial troubles every temple has to celebrate festivals in honour of the major lwa in order to enable them to make a physical appearance. Otherwise they would be angry and cause problems. Every person has a special connection to one lwa, hence every member has to honour its own lwa by supporting the organization of such a festival and with some private rituals. Lwa are regarded as having unlimited power, and they can even protect the dead. Vodouisants believe that priests can manipulate lwa. If someone suspects that an illness or a problem was caused by a lwa, the consultation with a priest can help because a priest can communicate with the lwa and find out who might be responsible for the problem. Sometimes it is possible to ask the lwa directly during this short physical manifestation in a body. In both cases the person has to pay for the service because the lwa demand an offering. Handling lwa can be dangerous. ‘One can never be too careful’ (Hurbon 1995a: 81), because their revenge can lead to death. The connection between a lwa and a human being is permanent. If a lwa calls someone to become initiated and the person rejects the call, it can lead to catastrophic consequences. Often lwa mount a person during a ceremony in church as, for instance, Elizabeth McAlister describes (1992/1993). According to Hurbon most lwa are inherited within a family (1995a: 80), but in New 51 The Gédé are the main target in the negative reception of Vodou but in reality they are less important than Hollywood suggests. Their role is equal to those of the Rada and Petro lwa, hence they represent one of many nanchons.

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York City I learnt stories about visions and sudden manifestations without warning. Normally lwa should mount only in a ritual where they can be controlled because uncontrolled manifestations are regarded as dangerous for the person, who loses control over body and consciousness; hence it can cause accidents to the body or worse. During a ritual the person is protected by members of the community who guard the body when falling or when the person gets too close to a candle. During the initiation a special lwa-mèt-tèt is ‘anchored’ in the head of the candidate in order to protect the body during spirit manifestations. Musicians pay an important role during the ceremonies because with their rhythm they can call a lwa; as Hurbon writes, ‘the drums play a central role, creating rhythms that bring the heartbeats of the faithful and lwa together’ (1995a: 109). In Haiti every large Vodou temple recruits its own musicians among its members. In New York City not all temples can even afford to hire musicians to perform during the whole night so sometimes the lwa are called just by singing. But if possible a temple will hire at least three drummers to play during the night-long ceremony. In New York City these musicians are sometimes not Haitian nor do they belong to a Vodou temple, rather they are pupils of the Haitian manman tambor, the master drummer.52 The conversation during a ceremony is mainly in Kreyòl, which is also the ritual language of the songs. Hence most pupils will not understand what is going on, and have to trust their teacher. The master drummer is a (male) vodouisant who can influence the ceremony with his creativity and competence. Apart from the priest he is the main figure during a ceremony. He knows all the rhythms and songs, and recognizes also the first signs of the appearance of a lwa so that he can react and change or enforce the rhythm.53 Apart from musicians every Vodou temple in Haiti also recruits among its members people who will take over other responsibilities, such as an ounsi who supports the priest and other assistants who carry the flag or lead the singing. Unfortunately this is often not possible in New York City so that most temples abandon flags at most ceremonies and use them only at special ceremonies such as an initiation. In the Société la Belle Venus II it is similar. Marie S. coordinates the organization of the festival, from the preparation, cooking, hiring of the musicians, buying of the animals for the sacrifice and even the collection of the financial offerings. Every member is called to support the festival though the members who have a ritual connection to the lwa who will be honoured have to carry the main financial burden. Nonetheless, the priestess complains of the lack of active support during ceremonies. While in Haiti more members would support the singing, she is in charge of the whole ceremony so that at dawn her voice is totally exhausted for days. But apart from this structural aspect she insists that there is no difference between Vodou practices in Haiti and in New York City. Most temples are ritually connected to temples in Haiti, 52 Many Vodou musicians earn their livings in New York City by teaching drums, often to non-Haitians. When the pupils understand enough they are invited to accompany the master drummer to a ceremony where they get more and more responsibilities. As soon as they are able to drum one of the main drums, they receive part of the money given to the master drummer. 53 For information about the role of the master drummer in Candomblé, see Béhague 1984b: 225–6 and Herskovits 1944.

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in particular in Port-au-Prince. A lifelong connection also exists between a vodouisant and the priest who initiated the person, similar to the relationship between parent and child. Consequently she is also responsible for them as she said once. ‘I have to be here for them. Anytime.’54 All vodouisants initiated by her are automatically members of the temple in Port-au-Prince where she herself was initiated. She insists therefore that only the organization differs because in Haiti Vodou believers would live together, while they are separated in New York City. Before I move on to the situation in New York City I need to address another aspect that is more important for external perceptions of Vodou than for its religious practice: zombies. I have not mentioned them yet because they play no significant role in the Vodou temple despite their great popularity among outsiders, in particular since the publications of Wade Davies (for example 1985). Zombies are connected to the Vodou perception of the soul. Every human being has two souls, the ti bon anj and the gwo bon anj, the little and the big good angel. After death gwo bon anj leaves the body while ti bon anj stays until the last day on earth or – according to another source – continues its existence under water where the dead exist (Métraux Métraux 1998: 229).. Powerful priests have the ability to steal the gwo bon anj and force the body under their control. The results are people without their own wills and minds. In the literature one finds several accounts of the existence of zombies but I had the impression during my research in New York City that zombies in Vodou are quite similar to hell in Christian stories: a committed believer fears it but no one has any personal experience of it. Nevertheless, Vodou does not exclude the evil side of humanity from its worldview. A priest is thought to be able to manipulate lwa in order to help people with their problems in the spiritual world; and with the same abilities a priest can also cause harm, though this would create problems because any harm caused by evil practices will come back. Vodou in New York City The perception of Vodou in New York City is mainly influenced by two elements, the social situation of the Haitian community in New York City and the negative image of Vodou. Though not all Haitians are vodouisants and not all vodouisants are Haitians, most US Americans seem to believe in the coherence of the two groups and in the evil connotations of both, despite all efforts to teach them otherwise. Marie S. once commented: ‘We have bad Saints. That is [why] they think Vodou is always doing cruel things: bad, evil, torture. But that is not true. Vodou is sharing love.’55 Many of the Haitians living in the USA migrated during the Duvalier oppression and afterwards, hence in a time when Haiti suffered political and economic regression. The majority of the first group of migrants belonged to the Haitian middle and upper classes who managed to establish their own ethnic community in New York City in order to integrate into society relatively fast. In 1972 the first boat refugees arrived in the USA, predominantly settling in Miami and the surrounding area. Only a few came to New York City. But since the 1980s Haitian migrants can be found in most 54 Marie S., personal communication, 7.12.1998. 55 Ibid.

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of the larger cities in the USA, according to Michael Laguerre. In cities such as New York City, Miami, Boston, Chicago and Washington DC Haitians successfully founded their own communities with shops, churches, restaurants, clubs and other things that are more or less connected to each other (Laguerre Laguerre 1996: 21–2).. In New York City the Haitian community includes US citizens, legal and illegal migrants, refugees, students and children of Haitian parents. According to Laguerre, it is not possible to establish the number of vodouisants among the migrants because many Vodou priests and their believers live illegally in the USA (1996: 29). Laguerre fails to explain why there should be so many illegal people among vodouisants. It could be that he is unconsciously influenced by a widespread prejudice among Haitian intellectuals. Many still think that Vodou is a religion for uneducated peasants but they ignore the changes in Vodou, in particular since its spread to the USA. According to my observations many people who regularly consult a Vodou priest and participate at Vodou ceremonies appear to be well educated and belong to the middle or even upper class.56 Despite the lack of empirical data the tabloids still connect Vodou with criminal activities, as Laguerre complains: Such innuendoes about voodoo-related crimes have never been proved to have any empirical basis. In fact, the community affairs officer of the 77th Precinct in Brooklyn, located in the midst of a very densely populated Haitian-American neighborhood, is reported to have said in 1979: ‘In my 26 years here, I have never come across any crime actually linked to Voodoo. Narcotics is still our biggest problem in this area.’ (1996: 1996: 29)57

Up to the present day the public has been inclined to trace any mistakes and criminal charges against Haitians to Vodou. The New York Times gave a police report against a Haitian more attention than usual because he was a Vodou priest who apparently harmed a woman during a ceremony with a candle (Pierre-Pierre Pierre-Pierre 1998: B5)..58 This event is quite symptomatic of the representation of the Haitian community, which still has to fight against stereotypes such as illegality, criminality and poverty. In contrast, Haitian communities are economically quite successful and have managed to establish a place in society despite racist stereotypes. Laguerre even argues that Haitian migrants have developed their sense of belonging because of the pressures of the wider society, not despite them (1996: 155–9). But any picture of the Haitian community as homogeneous is misleading; the reality is quite diverse. Even the religious area demonstrates tensions and breaks. Among the Vodou communities in New York City there exist disputes and jealousy between the temples. Many priests regard themselves as competing for members and patients. The community I have just presented encounters envy because of its effort to register as a church. Though many young vodouisants are trying to establish an 56 This development is quite similar to the development among believers of Cuban Santería in Miami where priests are consulted predominately by well-paid people. See also the film Legacy of the Spirit by Karen Kramer that demonstrates the beginning of Vodou in New York City and the way it spread to non-Haitian communities in the 1980s. 57 Laguerre refers to the New York Times Magazine from 2.12.1979. 58 Because of lack of any motive the police stopped the enquiry after a while.

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institutional structure for Vodou, they will probably remain unsuccessful because many elders reject this idea, as I was told. One reason could be the charismatic leadership of each community which makes the cooperation of priests irrelevant for believers. If they want to they can always consult another priest, or even join another community if they think another priest has more power, though usually the bond between priest and the members of the temple is very strong. The rivalry among priests indicates a struggle over members and economical resources. The loss of members of a community diminishes the status of a priest who is then regarded as weak. Fewer paying patients will come for consultations, hence bringing in less income. The rivalry among priests has been increased by the public attention given to Mama Lola, the mambo who became famous after the publication of her biography by Karen McCarthy Brown. Though she is often regarded as the public face of Vodou, representing the religion in the USA, to my knowledge she has never tried to develop a joint Vodou structure which could help to increase the status of Vodou in the USA. Her strength is drained enough in fulfilling her religious duties towards the many members of her temple and by other commitments. She serves the lwa with all her power and declines all demands for an institution. Other priests want to imitate her and try to establish a similar position but none has achieved it. Her position is still unique. Perhaps she would have the authority to unify the Vodou communities but she lacks the energy. Others would have liked to do it, but they lack the authority. Consequently, it is unlikely that the Vodou communities will adapt to the legal structures of US society, where only a registered association such as a church is regarded as representing the interests of a religious community, in the near future. The main purpose of Vodou communities is still their commitment to the demands of their members and not to the demands of the society as one can see from the Société la Belle Venus II in Brooklyn. In the film La ronde des Vodú (Voodoo Dance) by Elsie Hass a Haitian historian states that Vodou and Kreyòl belong to Haitian culture and that without knowledge of both it is not possible to understand Haiti. In New York City Vodou symbolizes part of home for the migrants, part of Haiti, and sometimes this is also true for subsequent generations. During my research I noticed that Vodou has gained more and more acceptance among children of Haitian parents who themselves have rejected Vodou as witchcraft and superstition (see, for instance, Brown 1998). Members of the second generation discover in Vodou their lost roots in Haiti and even in Africa because Vodou represents for them their African ancestors. Some of the members of the Société la Belle Venus II are also from the second generation who hope to find their lost identity through their participation in ceremonies. But, as some older members complained to me, they often ignore the fact that Vodou means more than dance steps and song texts. Because of their lack of respect towards older people or people with higher ritual status, they will remain outsiders despite all their efforts to learn the relevant movements. Though they are Haitians they seem to resemble Vodou enthusiasts who ‘discovered’ Haiti and Vodou during the Harlem Renaissance in the 1930s.59 Like Haitians of the 59 One of the most important members of the Harlem Renaissance was Maya Deren who became a vodouisant and created one of the most famous aesthetic approaches to Vodou. See Deren 1953 and her film which was released after her death.

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second generation, Vodou enthusiasts often put the religious level below the aesthetic one, contrary to believers and also in opposition to some anthropologists who have become so involved in Vodou that they became vodouisants.60 The reference to Haiti is important for all members of the temple, and is often the main reason for participation in ceremonies. Often the conversations are in Kreyòl though not all speak and understand it fluently. Nonetheless the ceremonies create (nearly) a Haitian atmosphere in their smells and sounds. For a few hours people can forget that they are in a basement in Brooklyn and step into a Haitian world where they are not migrants but people. The community creates a support network similar to the family in Haiti. The ritual connection – for instance based on the initiation – establishes bonds which last a lifetime and provide help in all situations. The mambo will leave everything behind in order to help one of her ritual children. Similar to most Vodou communities in New York City the Société la Belle Venus II also represents an urban form of Vodou, in particular the Vodou of Port-au-Prince, which is different from rural Vodou, as one can see in particular from the dominant position of the mambo. In most of the classic studies of Haitian Vodou the authors describe the rural version. Though they always mention the existence of mambos as well as oungans, they often focus in their description on the male priest. When Vodou became more and more prominent in urban contexts, the position of the priest and the gender relationship changed. According to Brown rural Haitian society is still traditionally divided along gender lines, and everyone occupies a special place with a special function in the society. Women can gain prestige and recognition in their area, for instance as midwives, herbalists or mambos. Nonetheless, male dominance still seems to be alive in rural areas and the large, patriarchal, extended family is still seen as the ideal in Haiti (Brown 1995: 482). Single mothers have limited autonomy because they remain part of a larger extended family with their fathers or grandfathers as patriarch, even when the women earn their own money.61 In urban contexts the situation is different. Women can even gain the position of the head of a Vodou community, which is regarded as equivalent to being the head of an extended family. Brown explains this development with reference to the economical authority of women as marketers in rural areas, where they are used to selling their own products. This position as bread winner for their families increased the influence of women and empowered them to adjust more easily to urban settings. As mambos they are head of the family and gain more and more self-confidence for religious positions. This is necessary because of the new demands. While rural Vodou priests are mainly occupied with healing and other services, urban temples have to compensate for the loss of family structures by creating a new religious network. Consequently the functions of a priest develop into those of a rural patriarch, the head of an extended family. An urban priest is in control of the members of the community but also has more responsibilities, as Brown argues. But even the style of Vodou in Port-au-Prince has changed because of an increase in female participation. Women favour a different, more familial way of handling the members. The women-led 60 For information about the problems of an initiated anthropologist, see McAlister 1998: 140–41. 61 See Charles 1995 on the emergence of a new feminism in Haiti in 1980–90.

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temples in Port-au-Prince have a more individual atmosphere and almost resemble a private house (Brown 1995: 483). This description also fits Vodou in New York City. There are, of course, some communities led by male priests. However, Vodou in New York City empowers women in particular to gain prestige by occupying religious positions. Hence it is not a surprise that the Société la Belle Venus II has a relatively high number of female members. By occupying a religious position in a Vodou temple these women increase in self-confidence; it empowers them to organize their lives better. The community is therefore much more than a compensation for a family or a bond to Haiti because it represents a way to find a place in society. Vodou offers a religious practice which is, on the one hand, individual and aesthetically appealing and can easily adapt to changes. On the other hand, the community is led in an authoritarian way which can cause fragmentation. Santeras and Santeros ‘Between Houses’ in New York City In contrast to the two religions already discussed I will not present the religious practice of the next Caribbean religion by focusing on a community. Though the temples, the casas de santos, are also important for the practitioners, New Yorker practitioners of the Cuban religion prefer individual practices and often refer only to the priest who initiated them, not to a community. Despite some early efforts this Afro-Cuban religion is far from becoming institutionalized and therefore offers its believers great freedom for individual creativity. In recent years, however, I have noticed an increasing fracture among santeros and santeras, the initiated believers. When I started working on Santería in the 1990s in Puerto Rico, I noticed tensions between practitioners of the regla de ocha and of the regla de ifá but I explained them more as problems between priests over a different interpretation of the authority of ifá than as a historically distinct system of cults, as David Brown (2003: 147) describes (Schmidt 1995: 301). It seems that the tensions have increased during the last decade though both systems still represent just two different but connected ritual systems. My focus is on the regla de ocha because this form is more popular among believers in New York City than the regla de ifá, though they also consult ifá if necessary. The term Santería, which I use to describe the Cuban system of beliefs and practices in spite of growing resistance on the side of the believers, is therefore just a construct. Whether it is labelled la religión de Lucumí, Yoruba religion, religión de los orichas or Santería, my aim is to describe the religious practices in New York City.62 The History of Santería in Cuba The development of Santería in Cuba follows a quite similar history to that of Vodou in Haiti and is connected with the slave trade. In contrast to most other Caribbean islands Cuba saw the development of various religious traditions, hence Santería is 62 Mason also uses the term Santería in his publications; see, for instance, Mason 2002.

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not the only Afro-Cuban religion on the island though it is the most visible and most popular. In a similar way to the Yoruba-Orisha Baptist Church, Santería is based on Yoruba tradition because of a large number of Yoruba who were enslaved and sent to Cuba at the end of the eighteenth century. George Bandon divides the history of Santería into five periods. The first phase, called by Brandon the African and Pre-Santería period (until 1760), includes the formation of Yoruba city-states and the beginning of the transatlantic slave trade. Shortly after the Spanish conquest in 1492 Cuba experienced an economic boom based on sugar production where enslaved Africans and suppressed indigenous people had to work side by side. After approximately three-quarters of a century Spain lost its interest in sugar and focused more on South America and its gold resources. Freed slaves as well as indigenous and White settlers were able to avoid public control and started to settle in the centre of the island. The result was the birth of a peasant population with a rural economy (Brandon 1993: 4). This period led to the existence of a relatively homogeneous Creole culture. The second phase, between 1760 and 1870, the early Santería period, started with a sugar boom that led to increased importation of enslaved people and as a result to the establishment of a racist slave system. Together with Africans a significant number of indigenous people from Yucatán were imported as well as Chinese workers, but Africans, in particular from the Benin area, constituted the largest group. The owners of large sugar, coffee and tobacco estates became rulers of the new society which was divided into classes. The Roman Catholic Church began to evangelize the enslaved Africans and an early version of Santería developed (Brandon 1993: 5). The Spanish government used the church to pacify the slaves and allowed the mixing of Yoruba deities and Catholic saints, which, in the end, led to the creation of new Afro-Catholic religions. Already in 1598 the first Black cofradía, a kind of lay brotherhood, had been founded. This was protected by the church in Cuba and enabled the enslaved Africans to gather together in order to worship saints with dancing and singing. In the second phase, these associations gained more importance under the pressure of the first massive slave imports. After a while the cofradías developed into cabildos de nación, social associations whose main function was the religious education of their members (see Sandoval 1975: 45, Palmié 1991: 106–8 and Schmidt 1995: 251–3). The third phase, between 1870 and 1959, is the transformative period in which Santería was finally construed as a predominant Yoruba-Spiritist-Catholic mixture (Brandon 1993: 5).63 Shortly before the abolition of slavery, when the resistance became stronger and stronger, the pressure on cabildos de nación increased until every public procession became prohibited. After the abolition of slavery in 1886 they lost their religious status and, as a result, the protection of the Roman Catholic Church. When most former slaves migrated from the countryside to urban centres, they transformed the cabildos de nación into small house temples, the casas de santos.

63 Spiritism is a French system of belief in spirits based on the beliefs of Allan Kardec, which spread among White Cubans during the nineteenth century before it started to influence the Afro-Cuban religion.

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After its independence from Spain in 1898 Cuba, as well as Puerto Rico and the Philippines, was occupied by the USA, though only for a few months (in contrast to Puerto Rico). Nonetheless the short occupation increased racism levels, as Brandon describes, and infected Cuba ‘with a racial virus even more virulent than the homegrown variety’ (1993: 81). Many White Cubans discriminated against their Black neighbours and denied their efforts during the war of independence. The White Cubans ignored the fact that for Black Cubans many sections of society were still closed. For example, they were excluded from elections because they were illiterate. The ethnic and racial situation became increasingly tense under US influence during the first decades of the twentieth century and led in the end to a denial of Afro-Cuban identity. Consequently the cabildos developed secret societies that had to hide their ceremonies because drumming was prohibited (Brandon 1993: 85). In order to establish a society with a White majority the government supported the immigration of European settlers, in particular from Spain, though on the other hand industrialists hired several Black workers from the British West Indies as well as from Haiti (Brandon 1993: 80) and these also influenced the Afro-Cuban religion. In the 1920s Fernando Ortiz’s work began to be influential. As a lawyer Ortiz focused at first on the assumed criminal activities of Afro-Cuban religions, but after a while he moved more deeply into the investigation of Afro-Cuban culture.64 His studies belonged to the first academic investigations into Afro-Latin American cultures and led in the 1920s to the creation of Afrocubanidad, an Afro-Cuban movement which inspired many Cuban artists and intellectuals such as Alejo Carpentier. Brandon regards this movement as ‘response to the political, social, and cultural problems of the Cuban Republic and as a response to international influence of the European artistic and intellectual avant-garde of the time’ (1993: 90). Important influences came, for instance, from the Harlem Renaissance but also from Leo Frobenius’s publications. In particular babalawos (ifá priests) still refer to Frobenius when they want to prove the African essence of their religion and its apparent Egyptian roots. A consequence of this movement was a stronger orientation to Afro-Cuban religions though only in the urban centres where in particular Santería became fashionable. More and more artists and intellectuals became santeras and santeros, and even the middle class eventually accepted Santería. As a consequence of Afrocubanidad, Santería was no longer regarded as superstition or criminality but as folklore (Brandon 1993: 93). This phase ended with the Cuban revolution, which fostered an ambivalent relationship to Afro-Cuban religions. Despite the revolution’s non-religious attitude the Afro-Cuban religions became accepted as part of national heritage, though mainly as part of the traditional Cuban popular belief system. However, Santería remained a secret movement because this was its custom and because most practitioners did not trust the government and feared further restrictions (Brandon Brandon 1993: 101).. Steven Gregory states that most santeras and santeros left Cuba after the revolution, hence 64 See, for instance, Los negros brujos published in 1906 (Ortiz 1973). For information about his work, see Bremer 1993, who mentions the influence of the Italian criminologist Cesare Lombroso on Ortiz.

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its public obscurity after that time. But I am reluctant to follow his argument. As Gregory also confirms (1986: 56–7), in the first years after the revolution most refugees – who came from a relatively high social status and were classified in the USA as White – had little connection with Santería in Cuba, while most practitioners in Cuba before the revolution were considered to be Black. The revolution led to the fragmentation of Santería into various sections that created different forms of worship (the fifth period). Brandon distinguishes two forms in the USA, the mixture with Puerto Rican Spiritism, called by Brandon Santerismo,65 and the mixture with Black Nationalism, called Orisha-Vodou. Similarly to Santerismo, the latter originated in New York City (between 1959 and 1969) but developed later in South Carolina (Brandon Brandon 1993: 6).. Inspired by the Cuban Santería, Walter Eugene King, an African-American from New York who later became known as His Majesty Oba Efuntola Oseijeman Adelabu Adefunmi I, constructed in South Carolina a village called Oyotunji (between 1970 and 1971), which was, according to Palmié, a replica of a traditional Yoruba city state (1989: 189). Apart from the two New York City developments Brandon focuses on, there have been other developments since the Cuban revolution, one among the migrants in other areas of the USA, in particular in Florida, one in Cuba itself and a third but younger development is the global spread of Santería outside the USA and Cuba.66 While before the revolution most migrants settled in New York and New Jersey, in the first decades after the revolution nearly all migrated to Miami, which became the centre of Cuban refugees. For Cubans of the middle class, Santería became a way to overcome terror and alienation (see Sosa 1981: 107–8). The former Afro-Cuban religion experienced a phase of blanqueamiento (becoming ‘whiter’) connected to a massive commercialization. In this period the price for consultation increased dramatically as did the price for the initiation steps. At the beginning of the 1980s the blanqueamiento had led to the exclusion of the so-called marielitos, the Cubans who fled in large numbers in the 1980s and came predominantly from the lower social classes (Palmié 1991: 201–2). The first refugees rejected the Black marielitos, and the marielitos rejected the commercialization of their religion. However, the numbers provided by Palmié demonstrate the spread of the religion among Cubans in Miami. He estimates that at the end of the 1980s (during the time of his research) at least 50,000 people were members of a casa de santo and that 10 per cent of all Cubans practised Santería in Miami though an even larger number participated in the festivals or consulted a priest regularly (Palmié 1989: 186). The commercialization of the religion in Florida was accompanied by a renaissance in Cuba. After years of the religion being regarded as folklore the government recognized its economic significance and created a special office in order to gain profit. Foreigners who wanted to get into contact with the religions had to go to this office that handled, for instance, the initiations of non-Cubans. In this period the religion spread more and more among non-Cubans. In addition to Puerto Ricans who had already become interested in Afro-Cuban religions in the 65 I prefer the term African Spiritism, see Schmidt 1995: 267. 66 Brandon’s book presents just the first part of his Ph.D. thesis, which could explain the limitation.

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1940s in New York City, African-Americans joined Santería communities. Santería also started to migrate to other countries such as Venezuela where it mixed with elements of the María Lionza cult (Pollak-Eltz 1995: 82). Since the 1990s Santería has spread via the internet to other regions, with Santería priests developing more websites daily, as Manfred Kremser describes. Through their own websites priests offer paraphernalia but also consultation, even initiation through the internet.67 Most priests reject the increasing commercialization, but not so much that of the priests as that of the clients. One babalawo once stated in a public discussion that ‘la religión no es un supermercado’ (the religion is not a supermarket). He would send people looking for psychiatric treatment to a psychiatrist because Santería is a religion and does not offer help for every problem. While no other priests rejected his claim during the discussion, I got the impression that this is exactly how Santería works. People start to go to a priest in times of trouble. All priests at this round table stated their responsibility to work together in order to prevent Santería becoming a fashion. But while they defend the Cuban version of Santería, including the worship of Catholic saints and Spiritism, a different group of believers try to ‘africanize’ the religion. In contrast to the babalawos they try to cleanse the religion of Catholic iconography and other elements that are regarded as impure (as I will show later). In sum the religion of the orichas represents a colourful picture with continuous changes in various directions and with conservative tendencies at the same time. The History of Santería in New York City There is only vague information available about early Santería practices in New York City. In the beginning Santería was practised by Cuban migrants in private ceremonies and only at small house altars. There is some information about the arrival of Cuban migrants in the city since the nineteenth century but no data about their religious orientation. The first proof of the presence of a Cuban babalawo in the USA dates from the 1940s, though there were probably a significant number of santeras and santeros in New York City before that (Gregory 1986: 55). In the first decades no large religious ceremony could be celebrated outside Cuba. Hence the arrival of the babalawo Francisco (Pancho) Mora in 1946 marked an important turning point in the history of Santería (Friedman 1982: 54–5). Though his efforts to reunite all practitioners in New York City into a federation were ultimately unsuccessful, the number of practitioners grew under his influence, in particular the number of non-Cubans among them. Marta Moreno Vega, the Puerto Rican founder of the Caribbean Cultural Center in Manhattan mentioned in the last chapter, describes Mora’s belief system in the following words: Mora’s belief in this ancient tradition and his desire to maintain his belief system motivated him to found the first Orisha community in the city. From his pioneering work, tradition has grown to include thousands of initiates from all walks of life and ethnic groups. He has initiated several thousand grandchildren from varied professions and international 67 See the paper by Kremser presented at the meeting of the working group Afro-America at the conference of the German Association of Anthropology in Frankfurt, 9.10.1997. See also Kremser 2003.

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backgrounds, and has traveled extensively to Latin America and nationally to perform rituals and spread the practice of Santería. (1995: 1995: 202)

According to information given by the musician Julito Collazo, who was hired with Francisco Agaubella as a member of Katherine Dunham’s dance troupe in 1952 and decided in 1955 to settle in New York City, there were only twenty-five people practising Santería in New York City when he arrived (Vega 1995: 202). I assume, however, that the number was much higher because of the individuality and diversity of the religious practices. As previously mentioned, not all practitioners refer to the central ifá cult but prefer to practise in a more personal, private way. Nonetheless, the arrival of Collazo changed the practice in New York City because for the first time an omo añya, a musician initiated to the cult of the oricha Añya, the master of the drums, was present in the city, hence available for ceremonies. At this time, when the community was growing, the centre of Santería practice was the Upper West Side in Manhattan, which was inhabited mainly by Cuban and Puerto Rican migrants. According to Vega it also became the place of the first initiation celebrated in New York in 1961 (1995: 203). The first group of non-Cubans attracted to Santería in New York City were Puerto Ricans who had been introduced to Santería by their Cuban neighbours in Spanish Harlem before the Cuban revolution. As mentioned above, they combined the Cuban religion with Puerto Rican Spiritism, espiritismo popular. Even today there are Cubans who occasionally accuse them of having ‘messed up’ the religion.68 Particularly in Puerto Rico, but also in the USA, Puerto Rican Spiritism and Cuban Santería have influenced each other and have, after a while, created a new form (see Schmidt 1995: 306). Even today Spiritism is valued as a way of entering Santería, and candidates are often sent to ask the spirits before going through an initiation. The second group of non-Cubans who approached Santería in New York City were African-Americans, who were English-speaking and predominantly Protestant-raised US citizens. In Santería they recognized a basis for a common African identity of Caribbean migrants and African-Americans (Gregory 1987: 322). Between 1960 and 1970 there was a Yoruba temple in Harlem, the predecessor of Oyotunji in South Carolina, which had a profound influence on the Black community. After King moved to South Carolina the remaining members of his temple joined Cuban houses that after a while transformed into Black Houses (Curry Curry 1991: 8).. The arrival of the marielitos changed the situation in New York City dramatically because for the first time a large number of ritual specialists decided to settle there, as Steven Harry Cornelius records. He distinguishes three phases in the development of ritual drumming in New York City. The first started at the end of the 1940s with the introduction of music at rituals by Cuban musicians. In the middle of the 1960s, during the second period, drummers developed their own quite unique style. They mixed various elements together and gathered information from books such as Fernando Ortiz’s publications, which became important sources. The arrival of the marielitos, the advent of the third period, changed the situation because suddenly 68 As George Brandon said, Cubans think that ‘Puerto Ricans have messed up the religion’, personal communication, 23.12.1998.

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musicians trained in ritual music were present in New York City. They restructured the music scene and set up a strict hierarchy (Cornelius Cornelius 1989: 53).. In doing so they excluded drummers without consecration, of the wrong gender or of the wrong sexual orientation from rituals. While during the 1960s and 1970s the exclusion of women and homosexuals from ritual drumming was mainly ignored, it was brought to light again in the 1980s (Cornelius Cornelius 1989: 66). Cuban priests are regarded as being ‘muy celoso’, which can be translated as being very ambitious or even jealous. Asking about the significance of this statement I was told, for instance, that they do not like it when people get initiated in Nigeria. In the middle of the 1990s the situation changed again. After decades of relatively unorganized and mainly private practice in New York City among Spanish-speaking migrants and later African-Americans, in the 1990s the new Cuban migrants started to incorporate Cuban structures and hierarchy. In addition they introduced new ways of institutionalization such as the foundation of the so-called egbes at the end of the 1990s. These houses focus on the cult of one oricha who is honoured regularly with religious festivals, even with its own music and songs. I was told that in spite of the African names these houses are not traditional African institutions. The traditional African structure is based on family organizations, a kind of ‘invisible egbes’.69 In New York City, however, often not everyone in a family practises Santería, hence the practitioners need an alternative organization for collective ritual practice. One aim of the egbes is to get enough money to buy property because one problem of the Santería communities in New York City is the lack of property for religious ceremonies.70 According to my information the egbes are trying to ignore the power struggle between the different Santería communities and focus on the worship of their oricha, but one egbe has already had to close because of internal power struggles. During the time of my research approximately one million santeros and santeras lived in the tri-state area of New York, New Jersey and Connecticut,71 but this number is only an estimation. The exact number of ritual houses and their members cannot be calculated because of the private and secret manner of the practice. Nonetheless one can observe an increase in Santería practices in New York City, even among European-Americans who have approached the religion in the last decade because of its aesthetic dimension; in particular its music and dance attract newcomers. I was told that there were even Asian-Americans practising Santería in New York City and beyond, though I cannot testify to this. According to my observation the majority are still Cuban and Puerto Rican believers who celebrate most ceremonies together. They reject the attempts of African-Americans to ‘clean’ the religion and continue to practise the Cuban style. Because they speak Spanish (with some songs in Lucumí) during the ceremonies, they – perhaps unconsciously – exclude most African-Americans who often do not speak Spanish.

69 Judith Gleason, personal communication, 23.12.1998. 70 At the time of my research the egbe Obatala had tried to buy a house for ceremonies,, according to information given by Manny Vega, 23.12.1998. 71 Felix Sanabria, personal communication,18.2.1998.

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Santeras and Santeros in New York City, their Worldview and Ritual Practice The description of the religious worldview of Santería is only possible if we ignore its inner fragmentations for a while. Generalizations are questionable in the anthropology of religion though unfortunately unavoidable in this case because of my decision to present more than one community. The following description is based on observations of ceremonies and interviews with various santeros and santeras and other people who practise some of the rituals without being initiated. In a similar way to Vodou, Santería is centred on the belief in divine entities, the orichas.72 Oricha is the term for Yoruba deities that together with the egúns – the spirits of the dead – influence human beings. In the religious hierarchy orichas are below Olofi, the almighty god, creator of the earth and all human beings, who is worshipped as the highest god though only a few people can approach Olofi directly. The orichas are equipped – quite similarly to the lwa – with human activities and human characteristics that allow human beings to manipulate the orichas. Ochún, for instance, the goddess of the river, loves sweets and can be pacified with honey. If she mounts someone, she appears beautiful and full of grace. Changó, on the other hand, the god of thunder, loves alcoholic beverages and manifests himself in loudness and arrogance. Every oricha is connected to a Catholic saint but as I have already explained in the section about Vodou, the analogy is mainly based on iconography. Changó, for instance, is identified as Saint Barbara because she is often portrayed with a thunderbolt. Practitioners today use the Catholic analogy quite differently. While the images of orichas are still important for many Cuban and Puerto Rican believers in New York City – the babalawo Elpidio Cardenas, for instance, stated that ‘Santos es la familia’ (Saints are the family), mother and father for the believers73 – African-American believers and others reject the analogy vehemently. But, as Manny Vega has said, ‘people have the choice whether they use Catholic images or not’.74 The communication between human beings and orichas is the central part of the religious practice, in particular during the short physical existence of the orichas on earth while they mount the body of a human being who has a special connection to the oricha. Every human being has a special relationship to one oricha though one is often not aware of it until a priest discovers the connection during an oracle consultation. The initiation confirms this connection and strengthens it by placing the oricha in the head of the candidate. This connection influences a human being from birth; it forms the character of a person and influences their destiny. Some problems are believed to be caused by an oricha who wants its ‘child’ to establish the connection. The oricha then forces the person to become initiated by causing problems, even by uncontrolled spirit manifestations. Santeros and santeras consider uncontrolled manifestation dangerous and therefore often prohibit the presence of untrained persons during certain ceremonies that attract orichas. Someone has to 72 For information about the worldview of Santería, see Schmidt 1995: 270–302, Sánchez Cárdenas 1978, and Canizares 1993. 73 Cardenas, personal communication, 3.10.1998. 74 Manny Vega, personal communication, 23.12.1998.

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learn to end a manifestation; otherwise the oricha could become too fascinated by its physical existence and could refuse to leave the body again. During one ceremony in the Bronx I observed that some women tried to stop the manifestation of Oya in the body of a pregnant woman but were unsuccessful. Only with the help of a priest did the woman recover control over her body. Though these manifestations are central for the believers in New York City, some priests, in particular ifá priests, regard them as secondary. Ifá is considered to be the most powerful and important oracle, which enables its priests to investigate the destiny of a person. Ifá occupies a central position in the religion, defining its essence and its philosophical concepts, as the Cuban babalawo Elpidio Cardenas has stated.75 In order to increase their prestige some babalawos even argue that the roots of ifá came from Egypt via Nigeria to Cuba. Because the babalawos are more open in discussing their religion and often represent the religion to outsiders, in particular scholars, the literature creates the image that ifá and other oracle consultations are more important than the physical manifestations of the orichas.76 But my impression is that both divination practices are regarded as important ways of communication with the orichas. While the consultation is limited to priests and the spirit manifestation is open to anyone, the preference of believers in New York City is with the latter. In addition to divination practices believers have to celebrate certain rituals, for instance rituals in honour of the orichas. Every believer, whether she/he is initiated or not, has a small altar at home with religious symbols and offerings. Because it is unwise to have the altar near a bed (the oricha could become jealous) or openly displayed in front of visitors in the living room, many santeros and santeras put the altar inside a cupboard that can be shut if strangers enter the room.77 But if they have enough space they prefer to build the altar in a corner of the living room or in a separate room. Apart from a porcelain soup bowl that contains the sacred objects, there is often a statue that resembles the Catholic equivalent of the oricha such as Virgen de Cobre for Ochún or Santa Barbara for Changó. Placed in front of it are flowers and other favourite offerings such as sweet wine, perfume or honey for Ochún. Every oricha has a special celebration day according to the day of the saint in the Catholic calendar. On this day every ‘child’ has to honour its oricha with special offerings, if possible a festival with a blood offering. Apart from the orichas the believers have to honour the egúns. In particular Puerto Rican santeros and santeras, who are familiar with Spiritism, often have small tables with pictures of their late friends and family members. In one house I even noticed four small tables with pictures and other souvenirs of dead ancestors. During every ceremony one part of the celebration is reserved for the egúns who always have to be honoured with a ritual. Julio Sánchez Cárdenas distinguishes between three groups of egúns: the egúns of dead people from the same ritual family, the egúns of late parents, and the personal egúns, which every human being 75 ‘Ifá es todo.’ Elpidio Cardenas, 3.10.1998. 76 See, for instance, Sánchez Cárdenas 1978: 43–4, Fichte 1988: 389 or Cabrera 1992: 29 where she defines spirit manifestation as illness. See also D. Brown 2003: 149. 77 Taking pictures of private altars is not allowed; hence I refer to Thomson 1993 for illustration.

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receives at birth for protection (1978: 29). According to information I gathered in Puerto Rico the ancestor cult concentrates on religious rather than personal lineage; hence the person to whom the individual is ritually connected, such as a godparent of the initiate, will be prayed to (Schmidt 1995: 276). In New York City I received a different impression. I noticed a strong orientation to parents and grandparents whose memory one should always honour, as I was told several times. These different points of reference may depend on the people I spoke with. In Puerto Rico my main contacts were priests who perhaps hoped to receive special devotion after their death; in New York City, however, I spoke mainly with santeros and santeras who did not work as priests and whose godparents were still alive. Nonetheless, in both cases the religious community is based on the ritual relationship between a santero or santera and his or her padrino or madrina (godfather or godmother), the person in charge of the initiation. Every santero and santera is connected to the ritual house of the padrino or madrina until death, even if the priest moves out of New York City. Everyone who is initiated by the same priest belongs to the same ritual family, and hence are ritual brothers and sisters. In addition they are connected to the ritual house in which their priest was originally initiated because they also belong to his or her ritual family. An unknown santero or santera can therefore be identified through the ritual lineage; members of the same ritual lineage can expect support even from an unknown person just on the basis of ritual kinship. A priest visiting a town can expect everyone who was initiated by someone she or he has initiated a long time ago to show respect and offer a ritual welcome. The respect to godparents defines the behaviour of every santero and santera, and creates a network of relationships that can help in any crisis. Even if some priests such as the Cuban iyalorisha (priestess) Zenaida Cardenas complain about the lack of respect and say that it is the cause of all evil, I cannot confirm this as I never observed any lack of respect. In same cases I noticed that the religious network even overcame tensions between groups, for instance in the case of African-Americans who were mainly initiated by Cubans. In addition to the ritual network that is particularly important for migrants, the madrinas and padrinos represent an important attachment figure for a newcomer. In a similar way to Vodou priests madrinas and padrinos are responsible for all the problems of their ritual children, whether they are physical, psychological or social. Even if they do not found a house or temple, their normal living area transforms into a sacred space where most of the consultations and treatment take place, even if it is only a small room as is the case with most flats in New York City. It is a bit problematic if someone moves out of the city, perhaps to Florida, which happens quite often in New York City. Some problems can be handled by telephone,78 but every santero and santera has to do a ‘registration’ at regular intervals in which the condition of the ashé, the spiritual essence of a human being, is controlled.79 In 78 Toni S., personal communication, 7.11.1998. 79 Ashé is the power, the force, that has created all and that keeps everything in harmony; ashé represents life, destiny and the divine; without ashé nothing can exist; ashé distinguishes between good and evil. Schmidt 1995: 278–9 based on an interview with Yrmino Valdés Garriz, the sadly already late priest.

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addition, the anniversary of the initiation – the ritual ‘birthday’ – has to be celebrated every year. If financially possible the priest visits New York City or the ‘godchild’ visits the priest in Florida. If this is not possible the priest suggests someone else who has his/her confidence, which also happens in cases of emergency.80 Often it is a priest of the same ritual lineage. Nonetheless, no priest likes it if the ‘ritual children’ consult other priests because it is considered leaving the religious family. Only if a priest cannot solve a problem may another priest be consulted, for instance someone with a more powerful oricha. But the priest remains the main reference person for every santero or santera until one of the two dies. Apart from this relationship that focuses on the private sector, Santería is also practised through participation at so-called bembés, large ceremonies which are often celebrated on the day of honour for an oricha, for instance the festival for Changó is celebrated on 6 December, the day of Saint Barbara in the Catholic calendar. The festival offers the opportunity to communicate with the oricha directly when the oricha mounts a body. The organization of a bembé can be demanded by an oricha in exchange for services, or it is the last part of an initiation or part of the anniversary. Members of the ritual kinship who give money or other offerings support the person in charge of the organization. Because people live in small spaces in New York City they have to rent rooms for such an occasion. On one occasion, for instance, I went to a party room in a car park and the next time to the basement of a house. In addition musicians have to be hired, offerings bought, meals cooked and people invited, in particular children of other important orichas because their presence will perhaps lead to the manifestation of other orichas. Hence, for a festival in honour of Ochún someone has to come who is a child of Oya, the mother of Ochún, and someone for Changó, her lover. The other participants of the festivals will be friends and family of the main sponsors, sometimes visitors, though the presence of strangers is often not welcome because of the ongoing negative perception of Santería.81 Strangers are often accused of being informants for the police or the ASPCA (American Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals) (Gregory 1986: 121). In New York City festivals are normally celebrated on a Saturday or Sunday and not on the usual day because a weekend ceremony is easier to arrange within the normal business schedule. The night before the festival the sponsors build an impressive altar for the oricha in one corner of the room. The main musician is responsible for the ceremonial order because the drums can call the orichas to mount a person. Normally people try to hire at least three batá drummers, but if possible more because the drummers have to take turns during the long hours of drumming. Other musicians will play the rattle. The musicians will receive rum and honey during the ceremony so that their throats do not get dry.82 In the first part of the bembé all will sing special songs in front of the altar for the oricha who will be celebrated during the festival. After a short break the second and main part will start with the songs for the warriors, a special category of 80 Carmen R., personal communication, 17.11.1998. 81 Information from a conversation at the Caribbean Cultural Center, 3.10.1998. 82 The description of a bembé is based on my observation as well as on Mary Curry’s description, in Curry 1997: 95–7.

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orichas. Afterwards the drummers will play the rhythms for the orichas in the order the drummers decide. The ‘children’ of oricha will give money when the rhythm is played. After a while the participants will start dancing. According to Curry, the priests dance directly in front of the drums while the other alejos (believers after the first step of initiation) dance behind the priests (1997: 95). As soon as an oricha manifests itself in a body, the mounted person will be led to another room where assistants will dress her or him in the colours of the oricha. Then the oricha welcomes all orichas who have higher prestige in a ritual way before the oricha will be welcomed him- or herself by minor orichas and then by santeros and santeras and other participants who have to lie down on the floor in front of the oricha and welcome the oricha in a strict form. Only afterwards can the oricha be consulted. The assistants translate the sometimes-incomprehensible instructions and also provide the oricha with its favourite food. When the oricha leaves the body, the person will be led again to another room in order to get some rest. At the end of the bembé more and more orichas appear, offer consultation to the participants, dance with their children and disappear again. It is quite chaotic while the drummers continuously call more orichas. At the end the sponsor puts a bucket of water in front of the drums that change into the rhythm for Elegba, the deity of the crossings and roots. Some water is sprinkled in the room and the rest on the street outside. Meanwhile the drummers play the last song in honour of the highest god, and end when the empty bucket is put upside down in front of the drums. Then the religious part is over and the common meal starts. Afterwards the musicians go to the house of the main drummer where the ceremony ends with a small animal sacrifice for the batá drums, often a chicken.83 Bembés are important festivals in Santería and are celebrated by various santeros and santeras together. For this occasion members of different houses come together in order to meet the orichas. Ceremonies such as initiation to become a priest, anniversaries or the ‘reading’ of the year are performed in a more private space though a bembé is often part of these ceremonies. The private dimension of Santería is also very important. A santero or santera has to honour the oricha and also the egúns on a daily basis. She or he has to observe strict regulations such as food restrictions. From the day someone receives the necklaces as the first step of initiation the oricha accompanies this person for the rest of their life. Santería Between African-Americans and Latinos in New York City Gregory distinguishes between the meanings of Santería for Caribbean migrants, in particular from Cuba and Puerto Rico, and for African-Americans whom he compares with migrants from the second generation: For Cubans and other Caribbean immigrants, the practice of Santería has meant maintaining important cultural links with their pasts, as well as actively shaping their immigrant

83 Animals are sacrificed in exchange for a service done by an oricha or as settlement for wrong behaviour. I did not observe an animal sacrifice during any bembés I attended in New York City. For an animal sacrifice a priest performs a special ceremony in a more private form.

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Caribbean Diaspora in the USA experiences. For second-generation Hispanic practitioners and Black Americans, many young and college educated, the practice of Santería has meant asserting a distinct cultural identity, rooted in African culture. Moreover, this conversion has led them to appraise critically and restructure major aspects of their values, beliefs and social relations. (1987: 1987: 322–3)

Puerto Rican believers recognize in Santería part of their cultural heritage, though the Yoruba influence in the Puerto Rican culture is smaller than the Bantu, which in turn has influenced the Cuban religion Palo Monte more. Nonetheless Puerto Ricans discover the traditions of their parents in Santería. Sometimes they explain these analogies with common indigenous roots and not with African ones. For instance, one believer once said to me that the common elements did not arrive with Columbus; a common basis had united the countries of the Caribbean and Central and South America since pre-Columbian times.84 In order to explain the attraction of Santería to Caribbeans and non-Caribbeans in New York City I will describe two women and their approaches to the religion. The Puerto Rican dancer Marta S. refers to four attractions of Santería. The music and the beauty of the religion have attracted her since the first time she participated in a ceremony in Puerto Rico with her brother. Her padrino, whom she met as an artist before he became her padrino, then showed her how the religion is connected to creativity because an ‘acto ritual’ (a ritual act) is always also an ‘acto creativo’ (a creative act). The altar of her padrino is decorated with various art objects, while his art is influenced by his religion. The third attraction lay in the performance. While the Roman Catholic Church suppressed festivals according to Marta, they are at the centre of the religious practice in Santería and embody the vitality of the religion. As a fourth aspect she mentioned the analogy between the religion and popular culture because in the religion she recognized many traditions of her family that were previously just familial customs. She said that elements of the religion were easily adapted to secular life because of the many festivals. Nonetheless, despite her complex examination of the religion she was not fully initiated during the time of my research; she had just passed the first steps. But she had already considered going through the last steps because an oracle had informed her that an initiation would empower her. She expected from an initiation new experiences that would support her in her artistic work as well as give her a revelation of secrets.85 Carmen R., an African-American dancer, did not see any analogies between her upbringing and the religion in which she was initiated five years before my meeting her. Born into a Protestant family who moved from a Black church into a predominately White middle-class church, she lacked any physical experience of the religion of her parents. Searching for a different way she discovered Santería through dance. Her madrina is also African-American who herself was initiated by a Puerto Rican woman. Through her, Carmen belonged to the Matanza lineage, a highly respected Cuban lineage, so that Cuban practitioners also accept her. But because her madrina has left New York City Carmen did not participate regularly at ceremonies but practised the religion privately as well as with participation in 84 Marta S., personal communication, 22.12.1998. 85 Personal communication, 22.12.1998. When I returned in 2001 she was passing the final step of initiation.

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bembés where her husband played the drums. She had read a great deal about the religion and similar topics because education is central for her. Her madrina supports her in this respect though she insists on having the last word in all questions. Hence the madrina makes the decision when Carmen wants to try new practices she has read about or if Carmen has any questions concerning the traditional doctrine.86 Both women mentioned tensions among santeros and santeras in New York City. Cubans would protect their privileges and would even regard Nigerian priests as rivals. While the Yoruba religion is accepted as the mother religion, Santería is seen as a Cuban religion created out of various traditions. Because of the increasing number of European and US American initiations the religion has become more and more open, despite the reluctance of Cuban priests.87 In New York City all believers depend on cooperation with Cuban priests because only they have the necessary consecration to perform certain rituals. On the other hand, they have to accept that the inclusion of non-Caribbean people, who question the tradition too much, has indeed developed the religion in a different way, in opposition to the orthodox Cuban direction. For instance, people in New York City started to organize joint festivals among practitioners of Santería and Candomblé and began to work together. There is also a growing presence of Native Americans though they are often not accepted, and a new influence from migrants from Guyana and Trinidad who bring a new Hindu influence to Santería. Only Vodou is rejected because it is considered to be too powerful. Santeros and santeras often criticize the apparent attitude of consumption among vodouisants because no oricha (or lwa) should be bought with money in order to carry out a task.88 Because of the different variations of Santería in New York City many believers are ‘between houses’ as Carmen said, and hence do not belong to a community but practise the religion individually. Some explain this in terms of problems with the godparents, who are said to treat members of the temple differently. Instead of accepting the religious hierarchy it is often regarded as unjust. In New York City a nucleus of a few believers meets with an initiated person in order to avoid conflicts within the houses, which are considered to be disturbing. Instead of belonging to a ritual house the lineage is regarded as more important. Among African-Americans the egbes increased their acceptance though there are still some well-organized houses, as Curry describes in her study (1997: 1997: 99ff. with reference to Peters’ House).. Most of the African-Americans came from a non-Catholic background and started to change the religion according to their own traditions. In addition to the rejection of saints they fought against the singing of hymns during the misa (a ritual service) before the initiation. Instead they prefer the singing of gospels and defend their decision by asking why orichas should understand only Spanish; Yoruba would be more appropriate. Despite all their differences the two women have in common the aesthetic attraction of their religion. As dancers they focus on the physical experience of the orichas, which they want to incorporate into their work as dancers and also teach to others. They always refer to the movements of the orichas, from the style of 86 Personal communication, 17.11.1998. 87 Marta S., personal communication, 22.12.1998. 88 Carmen R.,, personal communication, 17.11.1998.

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walking and gestures to posture. Both acknowledge the Cuban lineage and despite all controversies also the Cuban traditions, though the Cuban customs have different meanings for them. While Marta S. refers to the Caribbean background and speaks, for instance, about her experience with the Yoruba religion in Trinidad, Carmen R. describes her journey to West Africa and mainly refers to the Yoruba. In Cuba the term Lucumí as a synonym for the enslaved Yoruba is more used than Yoruba; in the USA, in particular among African-Americans, the term Yoruba has experienced a revival and Lucumí is defined as a ‘dialect of Yoruba spoken in Cuba. It differs from Standard Yoruba in that it has lost its tones and is influenced phonetically by Spanish’ (Curry 1997: 183). Instead of travelling to Cuba to discover their roots, most AfricanAmericans travel to Africa though Cuban and Puerto Rican practitioners declare that it was the Cuban religion that helped to conserve old African traditions. The ritual language in some of the songs is defined as an old Yoruba dialect, no longer spoken in Nigeria. African babalawos would therefore appreciate the knowledge of Cuban priests. On the other hand, Cuban priests often reject any changes by Nigerian priests such as the initiation of women into the ifá cult.89 In contrast, African-Americans who were introduced into the religion by Cubans explain the discrepancies between the Cuban and the African religion as the consequences of slavery and suppression by the Spaniards and prefer a ‘clean’ version of the religion, without the SpanishCatholic elements. Through religious practices they are hoping for a religious return to Africa, though not to the African continent but to a utopian, imaginary Africa. The interest in the Yoruba culture emerged in North America only because of the Cuban religion. During the time of the Atlantic slave trade just a small number of enslaved Yoruba came to North America and their culture did not influence the US prior to the arrival of the Cuban religion. Nonetheless, Yoruba receives today central meaning for the Black community. Béhague criticizes the re-africanization of local religions, which, as he observed in Brazil, undermines cultural dynamics. In particular the linguistic re-africanization has to fail ‘because its artificiality goes against well-established cultural dynamics, resulting from the whole complex of local cultural and historical contexts’ (Béhague 1984b: 249). Even in New York City the re-africanization attempts of African-Americans have changed the orientation of the religion. Instead of Caribbean migrants who try to keep in touch with their home through the religion, their offspring and people who have learnt about the religion only in the USA have become the primary reference. As a result, it is no longer important to speak Spanish or offer space for communication about home. Rather the religion is practised more individually and cannot any longer be embraced as one religion but rather as various religions. Another change is that there is much more literature available in New York City. Literature about Santería also exists in Cuba and Puerto Rico, but predominantly in the form of descriptive books; there are only a few analytical studies. In New York City in nearly all bookshops one can find various publications about Santería and other religions that support the expansion of the religious repertoire. While the level of education of the religious community of migrants more or less resembles the social structure of the country of origin, most of the new members have higher levels of education and prefer to call upon 89 Toni S., personal communication, 18.2.1998.

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written sources about their religion, and this is something that can annoy the priests. Most priests avoid competition with books and fear the challenge to their authority. Hence they often criticize publications and diminish their value. Even if they support the inclusion of other voices, they always claim the highest authority because of misunderstandings on the part of the authors. Santería presents therefore a fascinating and quite ambivalent picture. It attracts people because of what it offers visually and physically, but it also presents interplay between individuality and authority. Within this tension the religion can easily adapt to the expectations of the believers.

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Chapter 4

Cultural Theories from Latin America and the Caribbean First Scene: A Religious Celebration The blaze of colour was overwhelming. The whole church building was painted and decorated in honour of the 23rd anniversary of its foundation. In the background was the altar on a podium, with chairs for the most important members and the guest of honour. In front the benches for the singers and the children were lined up. I was fascinated in particular by the Stations of the Cross: side by side with Christian saints I noticed a figure of Buddha and of a Native American, important religious symbols in the pantheon of the Yoruba-Orisha Baptist Church. The congregation represented itself as a place for many religions. The celebration started only slowly. One by one the members arrived. The women and girls were dressed in brilliant white and blue dresses with matching scarves, the men in suits. On one side of the hall were two tables with food, and in front of the altar was a small table with a grotto made out of grapes that contained the statue of the Virgin of Lourdes, the patron of the congregation (see Figure 4.1). After an hour some women began to hum religious hymns. Finally one woman started the singing, soon joined by other women. A man began to drum and the service started. There was an impressive mood in the hall. The air became more and more muggy; the women, who had noticed and greeted every newcomer in the beginning, changed the hall into a sacred place with their voices. Their singing and the drum music seemed to rise to the sky or at least to the Caribbean, away from the cold and wet atmosphere of Brooklyn. Every time the music started to slow down, the minister or one of his assistants tried to push the women to sing louder. As I was told later, only music can create a successful service because the power of the music can call the Holy Spirit to Earth. The first part of the service contained the last part of a novena, a series of services. Two mothers in the congregation led the recitation of the rosary. There was repeated singing, followed by speeches, the welcoming of the guests and lectures from the Bible. Singing and drumming became louder and louder. Some members started to feel the presence of the Holy Spirit. They twitched and shrugged. When someone began to behave wildly, members of the congregation immediately attended to them so that they did not injure themselves or others. During a break the secretary read some letters to the congregation; more speeches were given, members were honoured with awards, and the children of the Sunday school sang some songs. Then the tables with the food were put in the central part of the hall. The second part began. The (male) minister had changed into a white

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and blue dress with a scarf. The room was nearly airless. The music was booming in our ears. The manifestation of the Holy Spirit intensified. Around me more and more women fell into trance. Some of them could barely stand despite the support of their attendants. They fell to the floor, pushed against each other and pressed others against the wall. It was totally chaotic. Even the assistants seemed to have lost the overview. The music became more and more powerful. Finally the minister fell into trance. In this state he anointed the congregation with his oily hands until he fell to the floor unconscious and had to be carried away to his flat above the hall.

Figure 4.1

The Virgin of Lourdes in Brooklyn

Then a woman was possessed by Saint Michael, that is Ogun. Someone gave her a lance, and she whirled through the hall despite the crowd of people standing in it. Even in trance she seemed to know what to do. At least this was what I hoped when she approached me. The assistants of the minister tried to end the service but the women ignored them. The two factions had started to argue about who was in charge of the event when the minister returned and took control again. Slowly the crowd became quieter. After another hour the service came to an end and the shared dinner started. * So Ogun visits a Baptist church in Brooklyn, which is decorated with Christian symbols and a Buddha statue that can also be integrated into the pantheon of the Caribbean members – a mixture par excellence! The service illustrates the topic of this chapter in a remarkable way: the mixtures and ‘contamination’ of existing systems. Latin

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American and Caribbean cultures are well qualified for the investigation of cultural mixtures and have often been used for developing theories of cultural blending. This was often explained with the remark that ‘no part of the world has ever witnessed such a gigantic mixing of races as the one that has taken place in Latin America and the Caribbean since 1492’ (Mörner 1967: 1). But cultural mixtures are not always the result of the most violent engagement of people. The process of cultural mixing that started during colonial times has not stopped: only the composition of the mixtures has changed. And one should be aware that not only has the colonial mixture of Indigenous, African and European cultures developed differently in every country, but that contemporary influences such as migration movements and new communication media have also changed every country in its own way. This dynamism can also be noted with regard to the cultural theories that were developed and discussed in Latin America and the Caribbean. Just as these religious practitioners include in their belief system whatever is available and makes sense to them, cultural theorists have also included their repertoire of ideas of various origins. My focus will be on the theories developed in Latin America and the Caribbean in the second part of the twentieth century and the beginning of the twenty-first century. Mestizaje The starting point of the theories about the mixture of cultures was a biological thesis, known under the term ‘mestizaje’ (miscegenation). According to this thesis the mixture of cultures was based on a mixture of races or, the other way around, the mixture of races resulted in a mixture of cultures. In 1925 José Vasconcelos was the first to use the term ‘mestizaje’ as a political concept portraying a national culture based on genetic or biological characteristics, as Ana María Díaz Stevens and Anthony Stevens-Arroyo note; after the Second World War ‘mestizaje’ became a central concept of populist movements (1998: 7). The ideology of mestizaje was therefore used to confirm the similarity – or hide the diversity – of different groups in a homogeneous national society. In this meaning mestizaje was a literary topos that played an important part in construing a nationalist ideology, which is even more important than its academic usage (Lienhard 1996: 66–7).1 In academic discourse Magnus Mörner is the leading opponent of this debate though he rejected the ideological usage of the term. His book Race Mixture in the History of Latin America (1967) led the way for subsequent academics. Though Mörner always stressed the difference between mestizaje and acculturation, between the biological and the cultural mixture, he was often portrayed as Mr Mestizaje (Mörner 1990: 29). Mörner’s observations marked an important step in the perception of Latin America in the second half of the twentieth century, which changed the negative connotation of mixture to a positive. At the beginning of the colonial era the European fantasy was maintained by the image of the existence of terrifying and 1 The literatura mestiza was nevertheless also able to support a local identity separate from a national identity as Antonio Cornejo Polar in his critique of the imagen mítica del mestizaje argues. Cornejo Polar: ‘‘Mestizaje, transculturación, heterogeneidad’, appendix to the article by Roberto Fernández Retamar 1996: 54–6, at p. 54.

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fearsome ‘mixed creatures’. Even before Colon’s voyage they had already occupied a place in the European imagination, as Peter Mason argues (1990: 7). The world outside the known regions had to be inhabited by terrifying creatures with gruesome customs; hence Colon had to return with stories about cannibals because he went to an area outside the known sphere, outside civilization, as Peter Hulme argues in his critique of the ‘colonial discourse’ (1986: 85). ‘Behind each landmark set in place by the march of European culture a savage is hidden, watching over the frontiers of civilized existence’ (Bartra 1997: 1). After the colonization of America ‘crossbreeds’ were given the task of the ‘savages’ because both were regarded as uncivilized and hence dangerous. Mestizos (the Spanish term for crossbreeds) were portrayed as weak, barbarous, uncivilized and also terrifying and beastly. Even the presence of a growing number of children of Spanish soldiers and (often violated) indigenous women did not influence this perception.2 Though the offspring were more oriented towards the culture of their fathers from the beginning, with paternal culture regarded as stronger, the negative perception of the mestizos increased. Nearly all of them were seen as illegitimate, without the rights of their Spanish parents, and as less important than the children of purely Spanish parents. The colonists should guard the limpieza de sangre (the purity of the blood), the Spanish government ordered. Even in the second half of the nineteenth century, mestizos were blamed for the social and political defects of the new republics because these problems were regarded as a consequence of their ‘weak character’ (Schumm 1994: 61). Only in the 1920s was there any change, when people started to look for alternatives to the Western concept of modernity. During the process of decolonization nonEuropean groups of the population were included in the process of the construction of a national and later even a continental identity for the first time, though the continental development would only happen later, as no one was interested in changing the situation at that point (Schumm 1994: 60–61). In the middle of the twentieth century, after the catastrophe of the Second World War, Latin American intellectuals began to praise the mezcla de sangres (the mixture of blood) as a utopian image for a harmonious mixing which was used by some populists as a national ideology. At this time Magnus Mörner published his research, which deprived the ideological construction of mestizaje of its basis. Mörner argued that mestizaje, which he defined as biological mixture, had only little academic significance. Only in combination with acculturation and assimilation did the biological mixture receive its importance. Though in Latin America miscegenation became the motor of acculturation, acculturation would have been possible without it (Mörner 1967: 5). Mörner regarded acculturation as more painful than the biological mixture, though he differentiated later this very simplistic interpretation when he analysed mixture in its historical dimension, in particular with regard to the violent treatment of indigenous women.3 Without going into detail, he then investigated the 2 A famous example was Inca Garcilaso de la Vega, son of a Spanish soldier and an Inca princess, author of an important document about the situation of the indigenous people in Peru, which he had sent to the Spanish king. For information, see, for example, Scharlau rlau 1985. 3 He described the Spanish conquest primarily as a conquest of women (Mörner 1967: 22).

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different categorizations and treatment of mestizos, the children resulting from these violent connections, and discovered a changing perception throughout time, from identification with Spain to segregation and prohibition (Mörner 1967: 47–8). The final stage was the Sociedad de Castas in which the ethnic stratification was connected to social attributes. As a result social positions defined the interethnic separation between the ethnic groups. While legally New Spain was divided into Spaniards, Indians, mestizos, free Blacks and slaves, the social status divided people into peninsulares (Spaniards born in Spain), criollos (Spaniards born in New Spain), mestizos/mulattos/ zambos/free Blacks, slaves and, finally, indigenous people (Mörner 1967: 60).4 The ethnic stratification based on social characteristics is still ongoing in parts of Latin America. Ronald Stutzman, for instance, describes an ongoing changing ethnic stratification of social categories, based on his investigation in Ecuador: Cholos may be considered by others and may regard themselves as either indios (indígenas) or as mestizos or blancos. Mulatos and zambos may be classified, alternatively, as either negros (morenos) or as mestizos or blancos. If the concept of el mestizaje is fully extended … then everyone who really wants to be a mestizo or a blanco can be one. (1981: 77)

Aspects such as clothing, housing and language can determine the social group with which someone will be identified, not only colour and other racial categories. Nonetheless, the amortization of ethnic categories in daily life is challenged by the emphasis on mestizaje within national discourse. Already in the period of national consolidation racial differences were no longer based on the genetic composition of an individual as during the colonial Sociedad de Castas (Mörner 1970a: 3). The ideological emphasis on race, which Mörner defines as a social construct, is contradicted by the Latin American reality and its miscegenation that resulted in the loss of somatic and genealogical differences between people (Mörner 1970b: 229). Mörner argues that hispanidad, indigenism, africanism or mestization (hence the emphasis on the Spanish, Indigenous, African or a mixed tradition within the Latin American culture) are only bridges to the idealized past without any understanding of the present and the future. Mestizaje as a national concept proclaimed the birth of contemporary Latin American societies out of the mixture of Indigenous, European and African traditions without regarding the actual situation of the marginalized groups. While looking at the process of mixture the social problems and the interethnic process of today’s societies were accepted almost without question. Mestizos were glorified as national symbols, but not as subjects. 4 During the eighteenth century the ethnic differentiation became more stringent and created a strange terminology as this hierarchically ordered list illustrates (Mörner Mörner 1967: 58): 1. Spaniard and Indian woman beget mestizo; 2. Mestizo and Spanish woman beget castizo; 3. Castizo woman and Spaniard beget Spaniard; 4. Spanish woman and Negro beget mulatto; 5. Spaniard and mulatto woman beget morisco; 6. Morisco woman and Spaniard beget albino; 7. Spaniard and albino woman beget torna atrás; 8. Indian and torno atrás woman beget lobo; 9. Lobo and Indian woman beget zambaigo; 10. Zambaigo and Indian woman beget cambujo; 11. Cambujo and mulatto woman beget albarazado; 12. Albarazado and mulatto woman beget barcino; 13. Bacino and mulatto woman beget coyote; 14. Coyote woman and Indian beget chamiso; 15. Chamiso woman and mestizo beget coyote mestizo; 16. Coyote mestizo and mulatto woman beget ahí te estás.

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This is also the result of an investigation of mestizaje by Jorge Klor de Alva in its colonial and postcolonial context. In the twentieth century mestizaje became a politically defined category to create a national identity. Analysing public speeches of Latin American politicians, Klor de Alva shows that mestizaje is used to describe a fruitful result of the encounter of different races, the essence of American reality and the unique expression of a synthesis in which Christianity, the Spanish language and a focus on Europe are at their meridian (1995: 250). Hence, while the European influence was glorified, the indigenous part was excluded. Klor de Alva explains it as the failure to really disengage from Spain, and hence the failure to create a sense of nationality independent from the motherland.5 Mestizaje remained a homogeneous concept despite its pluralistic foundations. The other, whether Indigenous or European, was integrated in a homogeneous unity and changed into oneself. But the fact was neglected that the Indigenous were nevertheless a marginalized group, on the boundaries of society. Like the melting pot discourse in North America, mestizaje never challenged the process of mixture and became instead the symbol of a ‘successful’ blending of culture.6 Looking back on the celebration I described at the beginning of this chapter, one would summarize the religious concept of the congregation based on mestizaje as follows: it is a Baptist church whose Christian concept has integrated foreign religious elements such as African gods and Asian symbols because of their colonial influences. At first glance, without contextualizing the religious worldview, this characterization seems to fit. But already my short description of the community in Chapter 3 illustrates weak aspects and exposes the characterization as an illusion. Despite the critique of colonization mestizaje implicitly supported the idea of cultural homogenization. The others, in the case of the religious example, the Buddha and the African gods, are adapted to the homogeneous entity and transformed into something homemade. But this is not how it works. Buddha is still Buddha and not a part of the Baptist worldview, the orichas are still African and not Christian; the indigenous are still a marginalized group of society. The intellectual movement of mestizaje did not try only to change the negative connotation of the mestizos but also to disguise the roots of the Indigenous and African past. As Eleonore von Oertzen criticizes, mestizaje implied the loss of marginalized people’s ethnic identity in order to gain the acceptance of their past (1993: 3). Indigenous cultures became folkloristic elements of nations of mestizos, and African gods became Catholic saints. 5 Only rarely has a postcolonial state managed to integrate indigenous actions as part of its new national identity such as the Shyri in Ecuador (see Salazar 1995: 48–68). Another interesting aspect of this debate is the discourse about indigenismo which stresses the indigenous heritage, though still from the non-indigenous perspective. Günther Maihold even describes indigenismo as the ideology of the mestizos because the indigenist position is based mainly on the process of acculturation, as he explains with reference to the Mexican scholar Gonzalo Aguirre Beltrán (1986: 10). Even Guillermo Bonfil Batalla (1992), who describes a pluralistic concept of society, reduces indigenous cultures to ideological constructs. Nonetheless, his publications prepared the way for the development of indianidad, a political movement among the indigenous population that worked for political changes. 6 See also the definition by Raúl Bueno, 1996: 28.

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The ideology of mestizaje nonetheless had a positive influence on Latin America because it strengthened the self-empowerment of Indigenous and even Afro-American groups that could organize themselves only because of the positive perception of mestizaje. The process can be compared to the influence of negritude on African and Afro-American intellectuals (see, for instance, Zea 1978),, though society without racial discrimination is still a long way away (see, for instance, Burdick 1993).. Mestzaje praised the indigenous soul but ignored the social conditions of the indigenous people. Cultural Heterogeneity and Hybridity Out of this critique of mestizaje, Latin American theorists construed new concepts based on an idea of cultural heterogeneity. In contrast to mestizaje, cultural heterogeneity pointed to the social situation of the Indigenes and questioned the theory of mixture. Instead of describing a future assimilation of the marginalized groups, more and more theorists praised the cultural diversity of Latin American cultures. Based on Antonio Cornejo Polar, who introduced the term ‘cultural heterogeneity’ in 1977, Raúl Bueno highlights in his definition the individuality and the ability to characterize the divisions that create a pluralistic culture (1996: 28). The term ‘cultural heterogeneity’ unified different theoretical concepts that all described a pluralistic image of society. Apart from literary studies, such as the one by Antonio Cornejo Polar, scholars started to write studies in the 1970s describing a ‘history from below’ in opposition to the ‘history from above’ that was created in the colonial context (see ee Pietschmann 1994: 105–6).. Like similar work in the USA and Europe, these new studies portrayed multicultural diversity instead of a unity, and this perspective was focused on the present in opposition to the glorified past of former indigenous cultures.7 Nonetheless, the result remained static because the result stayed in the centre of the investigation instead of being seen as part of a process. Consequently, the actors, the living people, were still deprived of their creative achievement. At the end of the 1980s Néstor García Canclini brought a new impulse into the debate, which changed the discourse radically. Though his concept also focused on the mixture instead of the mixing, it illustrated the futility of the conventional dichotomy of tradition and modernity by directing the perspective to the hybridity of urban societies. The term ‘hybridity’ was introduced into colonial discourse by Homi K. Bhabha, who used it as a substitute for mimicry. Bhabha describes hybridity as ‘the sign of the productivity of colonial power, its shifting forces and fixities … the name for the strategic reversal of the process of domination through disavowal (that is, the production of discriminatory identities that secure the “pure” and original identity of authority).’ And he continues that hybridity represents ‘that ambivalent “turn” of the discriminated subject into the terrifying, exorbitant object of paranoid classification’ (Bhabha 1985: 154, 155). Hence, in opposition to his Latin American colleagues,

7 Anthropologists started to produce ethnicity studies at that time; see, for instance, the contributions in Whitten 1981.

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Bhabha picks up a provocative reinterpretation of the British debate.8 Nonetheless, the Latin American debate has different roots, as I will show. The process of hybridization was intensified by urban expansion in Latin America: while at the beginning of the twentieth century only 10 per cent of the population lived in urban centres, the figure was 60–70 per cent by the end of the century (García Canclini 1997: 207). Hence most studies about cultural heterogeneity investigate urban Latin America. As distinct from the mestizaje studies, which were written by Latin American intellectuals in opposition to European concepts, studies about heterogeneity and hybridity focus on the consequences of the new communication media and the globalization of Latin American societies. The world changes so fast that understanding withdraws from the systematic theoretical formulations (Carlos Monsiváis, quoted in Rincón 1994: 29).. Mestizaje and cultural heterogeneity describe therefore different moments of cultural contact. While mestizaje had focused on New Spain and Spanish colonization, the new studies centred on McDonald’s and MTV society or, as Petra Schumm argues (1994: 59), on the horror scenario of the utopian society in Blade Runner. Hybrid Cultures The concept of hybrid cultures is connected to Néstor García Canclini though he did not invent the term. Born in Argentina, he has worked in Mexico since 1976, where he is professor for urban studies at the Universidad Autónoma Metropolitana. He investigates social changes such as those which have occurred in popular art in Mexico. His book Culturas híbridas: estrategias para entrar y salir de la modernidad (1990)9 presents a critical picture of Mexican society on its way to the global century in which the labour market in the USA will become more important than the one in Mexico. Latin American societies are in a process of transformation and are losing their focus on subjects. According to this evaluation he characterizes the postmodern culture as the staging of a double loss, of the script and the author (García Canclini 1997: 243). Postmodernity in Latin America is conceived by García Canclini therefore not as a style but as a special way of working, created on the ruins of modernity.10 8 In Britain the term hybrid was already used in the nineteenth century as a metaphor for a shattered identity and society, though with a negative connotation. Hybrid forms were regarded as threats to society. See Young 1995, in particular chapter 1, pp. 1–28. 9 Writing this book I used the original version (in Spanish) but the following verbatim quotes and references will refer to the third edition of the English translation by Christopher L. Chiappari and Silvia L. López, published under the title Hybrid Cultures in 1997. Though I will use most of the terminology used by Chiappari and López, there can be some discrepancies between the two texts. 10 In order to understand his concept I need to explain the differences between the Spanish term cultura popular and the English term ‘popular culture’ because both terms are sometimes confused. Lienhard defines the first as culture that is more or less autonomous and subordinated and the latter as culture that is produced by the dominant sectors for the masses (1996: 77–8, fn. 10). Nonetheless, cultura popular is not identical to traditional culture. Handicrafts produced by indigenous people to sell to tourists are not generally labelled traditional culture though their daily pottery is. The traditional patterns are often static, passed down through generations, and a fixed part of the material culture. Cultura popular, however,

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García Canclini argues vehemently against the dichotomy of modern and traditional or rural and urban because these cannot describe the cultural diversity of national culture and its decentralized structure. In order to emphasize his argument he starts by rejecting the terms mestizaje and syncretism because the first one refers only to racial mixtures and the latter characterizes the mixing of religious or traditional symbolic movements. In contrast to these terms he is looking at intercultural mixtures, including modern forms of mixing (García García Canclini 1990: 15/1997: 11, fn. 1).. In order to characterize this focus he uses a term from botany, hybridity, in the way Tzvetan Todorov used it before.11 Todorov was inspired by Mikhail Bakhtin, a Russian literary studies scholar, though Todorov interpreted the term slightly differently. While Todorov looked at the mixture of cultures, in particular at the time of the conquest of America (1982, see also Todorov 1989), Bakhtin’s ‘hybridity’ characterized the variety of speaking in novels, the mixing of styles and languages. Bakhtin argues that a novel includes various styles, different speeches and voices; hence it confronts a scholar with heterogeneous stylistic elements on different levels, following different orders. Nonetheless, despite the emphasis on diverse elements, Bakhtin insists that one should never confuse the elements with the aesthetic product because the combination of autonomous but subordinate units within a novel characterizes the particularity of a novel (1979: 156–7). The language in a novel can be a combination of different individual languages that are based on the socio-ideological horizons of particular social groups (Schumm 1994: 70). Every language represents particular worldviews that contradict, add or oppose each other, and hence refer to each other. A novelist can therefore use different styles and languages as ‘orchestration of his/her topics’. Language represents a specific attitude, an individual consciousness on the border between own and other (Bakhtin 1979: 185). Only when a term is connected by the speaker with one’s own semantic and expressive goals will the semi-foreign term become one’s own. Bakhtin recognizes in parody the oldest and most widespread form of expression of a foreign term. He argues with reference to the medieval parodia sacra that the term multilingualism does not only refer to national languages but also includes dialects. And in this context he uses the terms hybridization and hybrid with regard to the mixing of various styles and languages. Bakhtin regards every parody as is regarded as dynamic and often of short-term existence; its patterns are relatively new and can adapt easily to changes so that there is the problem of origin. Ton Salman describes cultura popular as ‘a historical and social, and by no means an ontological entity’ with regard to groups ‘that, virtually, have face-to-face contact’ (1996: 7). Popular culture on the other hand is defined as mass culture, hence as cultural products produced for the larger population, the masses. David W. Foster lists, for instance, products such as newspapers, journals, films, TV, postcards and even speeches and social rituals which all have a kind of folkloristic origin and different grades of authenticity, as elements of popular culture (1984: 27–8). There are therefore two different understanding of ‘popular’. One is an autonomous group within a state and the other is the large population of a state. Unfortunately both meanings are often confused in the literature. In order to avoid the confusion I will use the Spanish term cultura popular in contrast to cultura de massas (mass culture). 11 Though García Canclini did not quote from Todorov’s article one can assume that he was inspired by Todorov (see Rincón 1995: 207).

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a hybrid whose languages and styles actively illumine each other (1979: 1979: 331). Nonetheless, in the end Bakhtin sees the process of hybridization as an indented homogenization process (look, for instance, at his comments about Greek literature; 1979: 323), though most commentators ignore this aspect of Bakhtin in the reception of his work. Hybridization is defined with regard to Bakhtin as a mixture of styles where the borders are still visible but already in the process of transformation.12 Todorov then used Bakhtin’s concept in bicultural situations of interaction that took place in America during the Spanish conquest, where the coexistence of two different cultural and language systems became possible. Todorov distinguishes between two different kinds of cultural contact: one happens without reciprocal exchange and ends in war and genocide; the other starts a more or less successful interaction between cultures. For Todorov success is the integration of cultural elements that enrich the dominant culture, for instance the integration of Arabic influence into Spanish culture (1986: 17, 20). With regard to France, which Todorov considers weak because of its lack of curiosity towards other cultures, Todorov stresses the importance of the hybrid result of a successful interaction between two cultures (1986: 20). Instead of keeping traditions separated and preserving original cultures, Todorov examines complex systems such as an Italian-Cuban-Chinese restaurant in North America. The hybrid in Todorov’s concept no longer refers to Bakhtin’s dialogic principle but to a transdisciplinary method, so that the hybrid can be understood as reconversion (Rincón 1994: 24). And it is this meaning of hybridity that is used by García Canclini for characterizing urban societies. He defines hybridity as the mixture and interaction between mass culture, cultura popular and the so-called ‘high culture’. Looking at the re-establishment of social everyday life he stresses the dynamism of the process in which the local and the cosmopolitan meet (see Herlinghaus and Walter 1994: 33). García Canclini lists three key processes for explaining hybridization: ‘the break-up and mixing of the collections that used to organize cultural systems, the de-territorialization of symbolic processes, and the expansion of impure genres’ (1997: 207). Urban cultures that were created by social scientists as a substitute for something that can no longer be described as ‘cultural’ or ‘popular’ are good observation fields for hybrid processes. Latin American societies are transformed by the increasing migration from rural areas to urban centres, where there are continuous interactions between local and national or even transnational communication networks. Modern communication media such as television play an increasingly important role in this process. Public spheres such as squares and streets have lost, for instance, their traditional importance in Latin America. Nowadays politicians regard an appearance on TV or a note in the newspaper as a ‘public appearance’ rather than a Sunday walk around the main plaza of town. Urban culture has to become restructured because its leading function within the public sphere has been taken over by electronic technologies (García Canclini 1997: 211). Consequently there are difficulties understanding urban culture, in particular when we doubt whether urban culture can still be explained with reference to collections of symbolic goods. 12 See, for instance, Petra Schumm who describes hybrid as a term composed out of many languages (1994: 70, with reference to Frank 1991: 380).

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García Canclini stresses therefore the importance of understanding the (combined) processes of de-collecting and de-territorialization (1997: 223). Latin American societies learnt from Europe the separation and hierarchicalization of symbolic goods in specialized collections of high art and folklore. To know their order was a way to own them and to exclude those groups without a link to this order. But nowadays the separation is no longer obeyed. Art museums present a painting of Rembrandt in one room and industrial design in the next, and in between there are happenings, installations, performances and body art by artists not included in defined collections (García Canclini 1997: 223). Even the folklore can no longer be reduced to museums but can be bought, for instance, as handicrafts in urban markets. ‘If we want to buy the best designs, we no longer go to mountains or the forests where the Indians who produce them live, because the pieces of diverse ethnic groups are mixed together in shops in the cities’ (García Canclini 1997: 224). Young people construct their own private museum and decorate their bedrooms with posters of Madonna and Beethoven, reproductions of Klee paintings together with symbols of a car and holiday postcards with illustrations from archaeological sites. Video media even allow a new form of private collection, with recordings of football matches, films by Fassbinder, North American TV series, and Brazilian telenovelas all easily accessible (García Canclini 1989: 81–2). The de-collecting happens simultaneously with the de-territorialization – the loss of the traditional relation of a group to geographical territories – as García Canclini explains with reference to Tijuana at the border between Mexico and the USA. García Canclini regards Tijuana as one of the biggest laboratories of postmodernity along with New York City (1997: 233). The small border town with approximately 50,000 inhabitants in the 1950s developed into a city with more than a million people, with migrants from every part of Mexico. Some go daily across the border to work, some for a couple of weeks during planting and harvest times, and some earn money in Tijuana, for instance in the tourist sector. Every year three or four million visitors arrive in Tijuana from the USA and spend money on Mexican handicrafts and so on. One attraction is the ‘zebras’ (painted burros). North American tourists like to be photographed on them with a sombrero on their head and a painted landscape behind them. In Tijuana English, Spanish and Indigenous languages are mixed, in particular in the public sphere, according to the situation and the intention of the speaker. Simultaneously with de-territorialization occurs a movement which García Canclini calls ‘re-territorialization’. Inhabitants of Tijuana introduce signs of identification and rituals in order to differentiate themselves from other groups such as tourists or anthropologists. Illusion becomes the characteristic of the hybrid: Where the borders move, they can be rigid or fallen; where buildings are evoked in another place than the one they represent, every day the spectacular invention of the city itself is renewed and expanded. The simulacrum comes to be a central category of culture. Not only is the ‘authentic’ relativized, the obvious, ostentatious illusion – like the zebra that everyone knows are fake or the hidden games of illegal migrants that are ‘tolerated’ by the United States police – becomes a resource for defining identity and communicating with other. (García Canclini 1997: 236–7)

Referring to colonial syncretism and cultural modernism during the construction of nationality García Canclini claims that hybridity has ‘a long trajectory’ in Latin American

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cultures. Even de-collecting and de-territorialization already had predecessors in Latin American ideas. Many world famous Latin American works of art were not produced in Latin America but in Europe or the USA, where the artists lived. What is then different in postmodern movements? García Canclini answers this question with reference to the lack of consistent paradigms. Modern artists also transformed models and concepts but with reference to legitimacy. Postmodernity, in contrast, experiences the loss of the script and of the author. There are no great narratives today that are able to order everything in a hierarchical structure. Postmodernity is not a style ‘but the tumultuous co-presence of all styles, the place where the chapters in the history of art and folklore are crossed with each other and with the new cultural technologies’ (García Canclini 1997: 244). The expansion of the ‘impure genres’ exceeds every imagination and opens any possible border, as studies about graffiti in Latin American cities illustrate (see García Canclini 1997: 249–58). An example of popular art in Mexico will illustrate such theoretical explanations. Since the 1980s García Canclini has studied the Purhépecha, an indigenous group in the Mexican state of Michoacán. He investigated, for instance, the impact of tourism on the important traditional religious festivals such as All Saints’ Day and All Souls’ Day (1 and 2 November) (see García Canclini 1982). In his theoretical book he looks at a different aspect of their culture. In a small village called Ocumicho potters started to produce colourful ceramic figures in the 1960s, mostly Christian presentations in combination with devils. The figures with devils particularly became so successful commercially that they are today one of the most important trading goods of Mexico (Figure 4.2).13 These figures are goods of the cultura popular of the Purhépecha and belong today to the repertoire of the diverse Mexican culturas populares. They illustrate the cultural changes that have occurred in the last decades and the new conceptual designs that have followed. The Purhépecha live relatively traditionally and differentiate themselves from other ethnic groups in their living area with their own language and the preservation of traditional festivals. Since the 1960s the devils have become an additional ethnic characteristic of the group (García Canclini 1997: 158). Though they are a local invention they developed into a widely recognized aspect of identification of the Purhépecha because of their commercial success. During my visit to Ocumicho in 1986 potters produced religious and secular figures mainly of dead people and skeletons, though some figures also represented devils (Schmidt 2001b). Only a few years later García Canclini describes figures with devils exclusively, whether they present religious topics such as the Last Supper or secular topics such as market trade. Whether a pilot of an airplane, a disciple of Jesus or a drunkard – every figure is horned and open-mouthed. The devils make fun of foreign religion as well as of foreign political events such as the French Revolution. The potters present their own version of history based on images that Mercedes Iturbe, director of the Cultural Center of Mexico in Paris, brought to Ocumicho. The potters relate the French Revolution to the violent conquest of their own empire by the Spanish conquistadors. In contrast to other Mexican ethnic groups, the Purhépecha maintained their independence from the Aztec Empire and hence refused to help the Spanish army in their war against the Aztecs. 13 I conducted my first fieldwork (about the traditional medicine of the Purhépecha) in this area and assisted a colleague buying several figures for the ethnographic collection of the University of Marburg, Germany. See Schmidt 1989, 2001b.

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After the victory the Spanish conquistadores subdued the Purhépecha. With the help of the inquisition the Purhépecha were quickly and violently converted to Christianity. The figures produced in Ocumicho illustrate that ‘folk or traditional cultural facts are today the multidetermined product of actors that are popular and hegemonic, peasant and urban, local, national, and transnational’ (García Canclini 1997: 157).

Figure 4.2

Ocumicho pottery (Ethnographical Collection, Philipps-University of Marburg, 2001)

García Canclini discusses the cultural concept of Antonio Gramsci – who divides culture into different categories – in his analysis. The (correct) culture must include a conception of the world; specialized producers; pre-eminent social bearers; the

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capacity to integrate into a social whole and bring it ‘to think coherently and in a unitary way’, to make possible the struggle for hegemony, to manifest itself through a material and institutional organization (García Canclini 1997: 181, with reference to José Joaquín Brunner and his interpretation of Gramsci). If one were to follow these categories, then one would have to define the above examples as folklore and not as part of the cultural repertoire. There would be, according to Gramsci’s concept, no popular culture in Latin America. García Canclini challenges this declassification of cultural art in Latin America by arguing against the conventional perspectives of folklorists. With reference to the Ocumicho figures and other popular goods he describes six aspects of the meaning of folklore in a modern society in order to suspend the conventional dichotomy between traditional and modern (García Canclini 1997: 152–70): 1. ‘Modern development does not suppress traditional popular culture.’ The last decades have shown that traditional artisans learnt how to use technical developments for their own purposes. Instead of reacting passively to changes they managed to increase the production of folklore handicrafts and hence the economic value of the sector within the gross national product. 2. ‘Peasant and traditional culture no longer represent the major part of popular culture.’ In every Latin American country there has been a massive migration movement from the countryside to urban areas. And even in the rural parts folklore has lost its ‘closed and stable character of an archaic universe’; it has been transformed because of migration, tourism, the influence of electronic media and other factors. After arrival in the urban centre the migrants develop quickly into ‘urbanoid groups’, as García Canclini phrases it, with reference to the Brazilian anthropologist José Jorge de Carvalho. 3. ‘The popular is not concentrated in objects’ but can also be found in communication processes and social practices. This includes the so-called traditional festivals that are no longer ‘traditional’ in the conventional sense. 4. ‘The popular is not a monopoly of the popular sector.’ Recent developments have shown that specific folklore does not belong only to a limited group or a social class. Consequently a person can belong to various folklore groups. 5. ‘The popular is not lived by popular subjects as a melancholic complacency with traditions.’ As the studies about Latin American carnival traditions or the devil figures of Ocumicho show, humour is the central characteristic instead of sadness. 6. ‘The pure preservation of traditions is not always the best popular resource for reproducing itself and re-elaborating its situation.’ The figures of Ocumicho illustrate again how creatively the potters handle the traditions and how productive this process can be. These six aspects illustrate that García Canclini does not regard the members of a traditional culture as passive and suppressed but as active and creative protagonists of the cultura popular. Referring to his concept of hybrid cultures he illustrates that contemporary postmodern societies have abolished the separation between traditional and modern; the members of a culture cannot be limited into rigid areas, hence also

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their products are not only used by strictly defined groups. Folkloristic elements move from one group to another and are used in urban as well as in rural contexts. They do not lose their significance but adjust it according to the conditions. García Canclini starts his interpretation with the urban culture in Mexico City but without ignoring the rural part of the country. Nonetheless his concept refers mainly to the urban culture that became symbolic of postmodern Latin America. The critique against his concept, however, does not challenge this limitation but rather the term ‘hybrid’, which is rejected because of its ambivalent meaning. Because of its derivation from botany, critics of García Canclini consider hybrid to be negative. They translate hybrid in relation to botanic nomenclature as ‘infertile bastard’. Jean Benoist, for instance, interprets the term hybridity as something unnatural that was created by humans acting against natural laws. The hybrid product of a non-natural fertility is therefore not only fragile but also sterile (Benoist 1996: 48). However, García Canclini uses the term hybrid with an implicit positive connotation. ‘Hybrid’ includes characteristics of two (or more) cultures that are regarded as something positive. While the term mestizaje implies a biological naturalness (i.e. unsophisticatedness) of the process of mixing, the botanic metaphor reflects more on the concept of culture in the sense of cultivating, as Ellen Spielmann affirms (1994a: 15). Despite criticism, hybrid quickly became a term to illustrate contemporary Latin American culture. Raymondo Mier, for example, in conversation with Margarita Zires, Mabel Piccini and Néstor García Canclini, praised the term hybrid as ‘a frontier species, a happening, the sudden eruption of morphology still without a well-established place in the taxonomies’ (in García Canclini 1995: 77). Though Mier limits his praise by referring to his total ignorance of botany, he elaborates that ‘the idea of hybrid cultures … permits the imagination of social morphologies, fields of singularized regularity, designations of catastrophe, but a catastrophe that is not a limiting border, a mere point of singularity, the space of a fracture’ (in García Canclini 1995: 77). Mier characterizes the concept of hybrid cultures as a methodological challenge for all sectors of cultural studies and argues mainly on a political level. García Canclini, on the other hand, always refers to the Latin American past and present in his answers, and argues with regard to music, dance and colonial history. With the term ‘hybrid’ García Canclini challenges the perception of culture as homogeneous nuclei, as Margarita Zires highlights; instead of regarding culture as a static body of products or specific cultural elements he refers to ‘processes of the interrelation of discursive elements that have multiple forms, genres, or formats and that are in a permanent transformation’ (in García Canclini 1995: 78). Hybrid cultures do not have a permanent identity; hence Zires asks whether one should regard perhaps all cultures as hybrid cultures. Without really addressing her question García Canclini answers with reference to different historical versions of hybridization, hence his answer demonstrates his lack of interest in transferring his concept of hybrid cultures to other regions. He focuses only on Latin America, his own working area. The hybrid is always connected to local contexts, as Spielmann comments elsewhere, and resists all efforts of integration into a global system (Spielmann 1994a: 15, with reference to Rincón 1995). On a theoretical level it remains impossible to speak of a global hybrid culture, only local systems can be identified as hybrid.

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García Canclini’s cultural concept is at the interface of the multicultural. He looks at dichotomously construed visual collages and refers simultaneously to the heterogeneous or multicultural nature of Latin American culture. His deconstruction includes some contradictions. For instance, when he challenges the ‘authentic’ (such as in the traditional origin of folkloristic elements), he tries to identify the characteristics of Latin American modernity at the same time. The hybrid is, as Petra Schumm summarizes, a mode of postmodern thinking (1994: 76). Until recently anthropologists had ignored the term hybrid cultures, though it describes the current situation in Latin America much better than the term mestizaje. The latter implies a one-dimensional perspective, because the process aims at cultural homogenization, while the transdisciplinary perspective of García Canclini refers to a reciprocal and ambivalent relation. García Canclini’s concept focuses on the interpenetration of complex processes of mixing, as Margarita Zires indicates (1997: 46). While cultural heterogeneity points to the diversity of cultures that do not exist in isolation but in reciprocal dependence, cultural hybridity highlights the simultaneous existence of homogeneous and heterogeneous trajectories. As the example of the devil figures illustrate, they symbolize traditional (though not authentic) and modern elements, they are made by traditional handicraft techniques but with modern motives and they are produced for an external market but are regarded as ‘typically’ Mexican. From a one-dimensional perspective an anthropological museum should refuse to present the ceramics because they are tourist goods and hence not ‘authentically’ indigenous. Nonetheless, from a hybrid perspective they symbolize the contemporary culture of the Purhépecha and even Mexican culture in a concise way. The limitation of the concept of hybrid cultures becomes visible when it is transferred to other situations. It is possible to apply the concept of hybrid cultures to other Latin American contexts, as I did recently with reference to religious festivals in mestizo villages in the Andes of South Ecuador (see Schmidt 2000). The situation in the Andes matches the situation in Mexico, that is, the permanent mixing of diverse trajectories, which makes the notion of bipolar cultures more than doubtful. The Caribbean religious communities in New York City, however, experience different processes. Once again I will refer to the service in the Yoruba-Orisha Baptist Church in Brooklyn, described above. García Canclini argues that cultures do not exist with homogeneous nuclei or centres but perform a permanent process of new orientation. However, the belief system of the church illustrates the existence of fixed points. New elements can continuously adjust around these bench-marks – the system represents an open structure – but it also offers the members a relatively stable frame. García Canclini always stresses permanent dynamism, which does characterize the Caribbean religions, but one detects some structure at the same time. Despite his critique of the representatives of mestizaje García Canclini subliminally conceives the mixing of two limited systems – indigenous and European, traditional and modern or rural and urban. But the Caribbean religious communities are created by a different process, as I explained in the last chapter. They are not products of the mixture of two similar systems but the result of slavery. Though the consolidation of the religions started after the abolishment of slavery, their roots are in the system of suppression that created the framework while the contents have adjusted continuously since then. The figure of Buddha is a relatively new part of the pantheon of the

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Yoruba-Orisha Baptist Church, while the Hindu gods and goddesses were included some time before. But despite every change, the centre maintains a Christian figure such as the Virgin of Lourdes. She ‘survived’, together with the African gods, the Protestant period as well as the Kabbalah or Hindu influences and maintains her importance even in the Diaspora in Brooklyn. A separation would probably lead to the closure of the community. And this is the weak point of the hybrid. García Canclini still dreams of a culture as a whole entity despite his criticism of modernity, hence he is still connected to the idea of mestizaje. Though he argues with reference to ethnographic examples and describes human beings as active protagonists, he lacks total immersion in the culture of one specific group and affection for the material.14 The criticism of his book rarely deals with the Latin American presence of Latin American images. On a highly abstract level scholars discuss the meaning or meaninglessness of cultural concepts without including human beings in their reflection. Nonetheless, García Canclini’s concept of hybrid cultures has had remarkably positive influences on the investigation and understanding of Latin American cultures. Cultural Heterogeneity in the Context of New Media Apart from García Canclini’s hybridity concept, which has opened a new pathway for research into heterogeneity, other studies were developed in Latin America which referred to cultural heterogeneity as an expression of a local postmodernism (Brunner 1995). They are part of Latin American discourse about postmodernity but represent a different kind of thinking from the European and North American discourse. As the Chilean scholar Nelly Richard writes: The Latin American ‘cultural heterogeneity’ (mixture of identities, hybridity of traditions, combination of languages) would confirm – through fragmenting and dispersal – a specific type of ‘avant la lettre postmodernism’ according to whom Latin America, traditional subordinate and imitative, would become precursor of a postmodern culture. [La ‘heterogeneidad cultural’ latinoamericana (mestizaje de identidades; hibridismo de tradiciones; cruzamientos de lenguas) habría incluso conformado – por fragmentación y diseminación – una especie de ‘postmodernismo avant la leetre’, según el cual Latinoamérica, tradicionalmente subordinada e imitativa, pasaría a ser hoy precursora de lo que la cultura posmoderne.] (Richard 1994: 216–17, my translation)

Representatives of Latin American postmodernity always point out that postmodernity in Latin America does not follow modernity in a linear way. Different from the Euro-American tradition that is influenced by a linear idea of progress, modernity and postmodernity exist simultaneously in Latin America and are interwoven with each other. The discourse about postmodernity in Latin America is therefore connected to postcolonial discourse and rejects the Eurocentric categories of postmodernity. As early as the 1970s literary critics and social scientists in Latin 14 Carlos Rincón attributes this attitude to a different representative of the heterogeneity debate, Carlos Monsiváis (see Rincón 1994: 29).

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America started to become fascinated by the ‘simultaneity of the in-simultaneous’ as Carlos Rincón writes (with reference to an expression by Ernst Bloch; 1995: 217). The debate is divided into two sections: representatives of one group reject the transfer of Euro-American categories rigorously and refer to the distinctiveness of Latin America while representatives of the other group (such as Rincón himself) look at the Latin American development with reference to the well-known books by Jean-François Lyotard, Jean Baudrillard, Edward W. Said and Jürgen Habermas. As John Beverly and José Oviedo write, postmodernity is not a good term for national countries that still have not fulfilled the modern period (1995: 2). Octavio Paz regards postmodernity as another imported grand récit that does not suit Latin America, such that new categories should be construed (1987b: 26–7).15 European postmodernism came into being in order to describe the end of modernity in Europe, originating in the crisis of modernity in Europe, which questioned European identity (Quijano 1995: 201–9). Even modernity is, according to Habermas, an exclusively European phenomenon and is not transferable to other regions. The Argentinean scholar Enrique Dussel disagrees, arguing that modernity could only be articulated in a dialectic relationship to non-European alterities, and for this reason it started in 1492. Europe is the centre of world history with the periphery as part of its definition (see Dussel 1995: 65–6, with reference to Habermas 1986).16 Most scholars are, on the other hand, very reluctant to refer to the debates in North America and Europe, and therefore also to the debate about postmodernism, which has developed into a political issue (see, for instance, Lechner 1995: 147–8). They criticize in particular a strong neo-colonial attitude within the idea of postmodernism that degenerates or ignores Latin American theories. But Latin American history is a history of resistance to the European-American imagination (Gabriel 1999: 161), and hence also a struggle against European-American ideas of postmodernism. Latin America cannot be characterized by a specific style but by a form of culture and politics (Martín-Barbero 1995: 30). García Canclini, for instance, describes a picture that combines hyper-realistic, impressionistic and pop-art elements, or a masque that combines traditional icons with images from TV as postmodern, not because of its style but because of the turbulent coexistence of all of these elements, because of the location where art and folklore meet (1989: 87). Beverly and Oviedo disagree 15 The problem is the narrow definitions of the Eurocentric categories ‘modern’ and ‘postmodern’ and the translation of these terms into Spanish. Beverly and Oviedo use the term postmodernism as a label for Latin American postmodernity. But the translation of postmodernism into Spanish is problematic because modernismo and postmodernismo refer to Latin American literary movements at the beginning of the twentieth century, which have nothing to do with the European concepts.An adequate translation would be vanguadismo and posvanguadismo according to Beverly and Oviedo though they realize that most scholars use the term postmodernismo in the Euro-American meaning when they describe Latin American development (1995: 2, fn. 1). Jesús Martín-Barbero uses the terminology modernidad and postmodernidad in an article about the two different movements as well as (like García Canclini) postmoderno (1995), so I have decided to use the terms postmodern and Latin American postmodernity. 16 See Huyssen 1997 for information about the beginning of postmodernity, and Rosenau 1992 for information about the meaning of postmodernity in social science and anthropology.

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and declare that the concept of postmodernism is a new form of cultural imperialism that was imported to Latin America in the 1980s, simultaneously with the spread of the political hegemony of the New Right (1995: 2). But the debate about Latin American postmodernity remains very lively despite their critique. The Bolivian Fernando Calderón looks at possible reasons for the readiness to accept and follow foreign phenomena in Latin America and states: Maybe because we live in incomplete and mixed times of premodernity, modernity, and postmodernity, each of these linked historically in turn with corresponding cultures that are, or were, epicenters of power. That is why our cultural temporalities are, in addition to incomplete and mixed, dependent. (1995: 55)

The reason lies within the colonial time because the colonial culture was already incomplete. The imported Christian deities could never replace the old gods; according to the Peruvian Aníbal Quijano they could only be incorporated into the polytheism of the indigenous cultures because of a concealed dualism of belief and mind-structures that is typical of Latin America. This dualism signifies more than the opposition between modern and non-modern, as Quijano explains with reference to José Carlos Mariateguí who – not unusually in Latin America – described himself as being a Marxist and a Catholic at the same time (Quijano 1995: 210). Hence Latin America did not develop a hegemonic system, but the temporary simultaneity of various systems. Stephan Hollensteiner even declares that Latin America seems to be the postmodern continent par excellence because of its ethnic-cultural and extreme social heterogeneity (1994: 174). Nonetheless, often the debate in Latin America is still focused on two questions: Can modernity be regarded as successful though most of the ideals of modernity such as civil rights are not (yet) realized? And, how can one handle the postmodern valorization of heterogeneity (Hollensteiner 1994: 173)? These questions lead me back to the concepts of cultural heterogeneity in Latin America. Carlos Monsiváis describes postmodern culture with a poetic collage that illustrates the cultural heterogeneity of Latin American postmodernity as a product of the international market (1983: 75). Cultural heterogeneity does not signify diverse cultures or the subcultures of ethnic groups, social classes or local groups but ‘a segmented and differential participation in an international market of messages’ (Brunner 1995: 40–41). But it also reflects the influence of North America, which leads to a growing criticism of postmodernism as North American invasion. As part of the international market the mass media became central. A prime example is the study of telenovelas, Latin American soap operas. Unlike European and North American soaps, telenovelas tell a story (with several entanglements) from start to end. They combine the script of a novel, a play or a TV screenplay, with technologies from film, radio and theatre (Armbruster 1994: 181). They are broadcast from Monday to Friday at a certain time over some weeks and reach nearly all houses with a TV. They therefore have a national dimension because members of different social groups and generations watch them. Telenovelas belong to the dominant narrative style of contemporary Latin America. Brazil, Mexico, Columbia and Venezuela are the main producers of telenovelas. They always tell melodramatic stories with a happy ending (against all odds the lovers will finally reunite, and the evil figures receive their

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punishments). There are numerous variations: the story line can be in the past and highlight important aspects of the national history, or it can be in the present though it is then often in an urban and upper-class context. But the story can also reflect the problems of the rural population or of Latin American emigrants in the USA. HIV, drug misuse, domestic violence, prostitution and child trafficking are often included in the subplots of a telenovela, as well as important periods in national history (such as slavery in Brazilian telenovelas or the Mexican Revolution in Mexican ones). If someone misses one programme, someone will tell him or her about the episode’s content. Some telenovelas are of national importance and are central elements of the cultura de masas (popular culture). TV, cinema and radio are important for the constitution of national symbols (Zires 1997: 371). Telenovelas are therefore often analysed as a prism for the observation of the society (Armbruster 1994) because they belong to the central cultural institutions in Latin America. They combine various genres such as melodrama, education, comedy and entertainment; their success is grounded on the hybrid discourse. Martín-Barbero even declares that the melodramatic style of telenovelas is typical of Latin America, it is the modern and postmodern type of the genre melodrama, hence part of the narrativa popular (oral tradition; MartínBarbero and Muñoz 1992: 13). He regards telenovelas as the expression of postmodern orality and a central element of popular culture, created through the osmosis of urban writing styles and oral traditions (see Armbruster 1994: 186–92). Even the new cultures of music and videos, which at first glance seem to threaten national culture, do not imply an anti-national direction or the exclusion of territorial sensitization. Nonetheless, Martín-Barbero does also indicate risks in the increasing spread of new communication media that support the homogenization of cultures. The result will be de-territorialization and the development of cultures and subcultures without territorial frameworks or memory (Martín-Barbero 1995: 338–40). LatinAmerican communication studies always describe an immense heterogeneous culture that mixes, reorganizes and reinterprets elements from various sources. They regard societies from the perspective of their material such as a telenovela or a comic that then becomes the symbol of national society. Foster, for example, studies the village of San Garabato, the location of the comic Los Supermachos, as a kind of microcosm of the Mexican republic in order to overcome the dichotomy between the capital and the rural villages in the hinterland (1984: 38). Margarita Zires presents a more differentiated analysis of the influence of modern communication media in her study of the rumours about Smurfs among Mexican children. While most studies limit themselves to the study of the consequences of the use of communication media, she investigates the processes of acquisition in specific contexts (Zires 1997: 18), based on the theory that cultures change when they incorporate new elements. But this process is not always identical because all elements of a culture will be reorganized with the inclusion of new parts. The McDonaldization of cultures does not always have the same impact. In order to demonstrate her theory Zires investigates the reciprocal connections and dependencies between oral, written and audiovisual cultures in the Mexican context. Based on the assumption that there is a permanent tension between the tendency of homogenization and the tendency of cultural diversification – hence, both tendencies are not opposed in a bipolar schema – Zires shows how both tendencies

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coexist, cross and influence each other (1997: 21). She focuses in her study on the analysis of a rumour in order to understand the dynamic of the transformation of oral stories, a dimension often ignored by communication studies. Instead of studying the stories as written texts, she follows Michel de Certeau (L’écriture de l’histoire, 1975, in English in 1988) and includes the ‘voice in action’ in her analysis. She not only quotes frequently and extensively from her interviews, but always includes in her interpretation the narrative moment (the voice, the vibes, the group dynamic and so on). Her study follows therefore the tradition of the ethno-linguistic, or the ethnography of speaking, which demands the inclusion of the narrative context in interpretation (Bauman 1986: 7; see also Tedlock 1988 or the contributions in Bauman and Sherzer 1989). The focus on orality is important in particular in Latin America where most of the population has easier access to the new communication technologies such as radio, TV and cinema than to the formal education and book culture that have central importance in Europe. Illiteracy does not stop access to the new communication media; on the contrary, its value in Latin America is even significantly higher than in a literate society. But it is important that studies are not limited to consumption because it would reduce the interviewees to consumers (Zires 1997: 74–5, 91). Zires focuses therefore on the acquisition of TV discourse in the way of speaking and writing of children whom she describes as acting subjects. She conducted her case study at three primary schools in different areas of Mexico where she interviewed groups of children (in the fourth to sixth grades) about the rumour about Smurfs, and also asked them to write essays about them. In addition to the information given by the children she handed out questionnaires to teachers and asked them to provide supplementary information. The rumour is that dolls and toys can transform into Smurfs and kill children. The starting point was a comic strip series produced in the USA, which has been broadcast in Mexico since 1982. Smurfs are docile goblins hunted by the giant Gargamel. At the beginning the series was a great success, until the increasing spread of rumours – which even led to the burning of dolls – caused a radical decline in viewers. All enquiries about the origin of the rumours were unsuccessful. Zires’ investigation in three schools shows the diversity of the acquisition of visual narratives. The three groups connected the rumour of the killing Smurfs with three different stories, one with tales about devils and demons, one with threatening visions of a world controlled by technology, and one with Maya traditions and other TV stories. Zires concluded therefore that the elements of convergence do not have the same meaning in all cultural contexts. The variations show ‘how local legends, written and audiovisual texts design the folkloristic religious knowledge in a country such as Mexico’ (Zires 1997: 358). Based on García Canclini’s concept of hybridity, Zires challenges the homogeneous character of culture, because cultures do not have a permanent identity. ‘Cultures cannot be understood … as closed, delimited systems of well-defined borders and free centres’ (Zires 1997: 47). Cultures do not have a centralized but a decentralized structure of organization whose linkages constantly adapt to the circumstances. Elements appear, disappear, repeat or sink into a latent condition without ever developing an unchangeable core or permanent characteristics. Zires defines cultures as networks of complex cultural designs with different degrees of coherence and

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systematization; consequently, they will process factors of cultural divergence and convergence very differently, as the example of the three primary school groups demonstrates.17 While García Canclini rejects the idea of a homogeneous core of culture, Zires emphasizes a decentralized structure created by merging complex social forms such as rituals, technologies and institutions of various kinds. She includes her work therefore in neo-structuralism, which focuses more on structurality than on structure or an ongoing cultural centre (Zires 1997: 47–8). Her study is a successful example of new communication studies and demonstrates a possible adaptation of Garía Canclini’s hybridity. Nonetheless, it also shows the weakness of communication studies that investigate genres instead of creative individuals. Though Zires acknowledges the ‘voice in action’ in her theoretical chapter about the oral dimension, she rarely refers directly to the children and their individual associations within the three case studies. The points of cultural convergence are more important for the interpretation than are the stories of the children. It lacks something that I call the ‘ethnographic view’, the preservation of the individual voice. Carlos Monsiváis also ignores the acting subject that is always represented in literary genres but rarely as a speaking person. Monsiváis studies Latin American fiction and investigates, for instance, the impact of the new communication media on literature. Since the end of the 1970s he has worked on the influence of the global circulation of electronic media on new forms of cultural heterogeneity; meanwhile his studies have influenced Latin American communication studies. From the beginning he focused on the construction of identity during the confrontation of popular and mass media in urban Mexico (see Rincón 1994: 14–19). Monsiváis wants to get new insights into the adaptation of a different (alternative) method from the perspective of ordinary culture and the popular (see Borsò 1994: 288). Referring to his book Entrada libre, Vittoria Borsò argues that ordinary or everyday culture is not defined as a chronological presence in opposition to the past and the future; it even contradicts the idea of the past as historical paradigm. Sacralized myths, such as the myth of the integration of the Indigenous by the Mexican Revolution, are de-construed by the power of the everyday. Hence, Monsiváis looks instead at the linear time axis in the space between crises, the symptoms of which he describes as apocalyptic visions about Mexico City. The presence becomes a fragment of the latent past. In his article about Latin American culture and cultural industry Monsiváis asks for the location of the popular in the Latin American republics. Between the 1940s and 1960s every element of popular culture, such as films, magazines, comics and radio novels, was pushed out of view. The governments accepted only the rural indigenous cultura popular and ignored mass culture (Monsiváis 1995: 193). Even in the 1950s Latin American literature ignored the manifestations of the cultural industry and regarded the wider population from the perspective of the middle class. Only later was it acknowledged that even in the first half of the twentieth century another cultural phenomenon influenced life in Latin America: the cinema, which selects and 17 The term ‘network’ is the translation of the term Zires uses in her book published in German based on her Ph.D. thesis. In an earlier article published in Spanish she uses the term tejido, which can be translated as canvas or textile: in my opinion a much better term for the cultural structure she is describing. See Zires 1994: 81–92.

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destroys traditions, introduces codes of behaviour and reduces technology to formulas appearing ‘simultaneously sacred and profane’ to people (Monsiváis 1995: 193). As a reaction to the increase in visual stories literature discarded melodrama from its repertoire because melodrama was being transferred more and more to the cinema and later to telenovelas. Instead of focusing on its own qualities urban culture continued to withdraw until the 1960s when through the spread of rock music a new sector of youth culture began. It contained a kind of counter-culture with sexual freedom, the rejection of machismo and traditional familial patterns (Monsiváis 1995: 199–200). In spite of its anti-imperialist notion it included many North American elements; people even ignored the fact that rock music was also a colonial influence. Since the 1950s the cinema has developed an increasingly strong influence on literature. Monsiváis describes how Hollywood became a universal utopia: every village became connected to the world through films. The cinema was part of an operation to produce a collective imagination: ‘this is how the poor speak; this is how the people articulate, move and behave’ (Monsiváis 1995: 202). Every film created such a formative canon of gestures and sounds that Monsiváis asks what the difference between the way someone lives and the way someone is presented might be. He mentions that in 1912 the audience had to be assured that viewing films caused no physical damage. In the 1930s and 1940s actors playing evil characters had to hide in the costumes of the good characters on the streets. By the end of the 1940s public life would come to a standstill during the broadcasting of popular radio novels. In 1969 the recording of a wedding created disturbances in Lima. In the 1970s children and women glorified (all according to Monsiváis) actors, not as persons but as artificial figures of the popular telenovelas. In 1984 a telenovela even reactivated an interest in witchcraft in Mexico. In Brazil, Venezuela and Mexico several telenovelas had to be extended because of the pressure of the audience. While literature influenced the cinema only marginally, films have shaped narrative style since the 1930s: novelists have incorporated techniques such as cut, close-up, zoom and the ‘American attitude’ of the producers (Monsiváis 1995: 203). Consequently, the ‘dictatorship of the high culture’ (Monsiváis 1995: 203) came to an end in the 1970s and commercial success was substituted for prestige. The cult of mass society is only a fashion according to Monsiváis and will decline as other fashions, too. Nonetheless, some books and figures were included in the collective narrative and determine today what kind of music, for instance, can pass for typical ‘Mexican’, ‘Cuban’ or ‘Puerto Rican’. In the 1980s Latin America experienced a homogeneous process that Monsiváis describes with these characteristics: historical disasters such as coups d’état and military invasions, the inclusion of some novelists within popular culture (such as Neruda and Borges), TV developments (such as a similar kind of humour, telenovelas, imported series, cable TV, videoclips), the connection between the culture industry and lifestyle, the domination of the melodrama, and the fusion of two new realities: the large urbes (urban areas) and the technologies (Monsiváis 1995: 207). These characteristics demonstrate that even Monsiváis – despite his postmodern approach – creates a homogeneous unity of Latin America. Based on Latin American literature he describes Latin American societies as being on one pathway. He ignores the usual regional approach of other studies of heterogeneity because Latin American

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literature resembles a unity for him. Nonetheless, his interpretation of the cultura de masa, the culture of the wider population, remains interesting. He argues, for instance, that despite resistance it is common knowledge that everybody experiences popular culture as ‘the perfect mixture of reality and industry’ (Monsiváis 1995: 208). His love for literature does not prevent him approaching the lived culture with the same ‘playful and creative potential’ that characterizes his work (see Borsò 1994: 291). The presentation of the work of Monsiváis demonstrates the influence of the new communication media on cultural concepts. Though a transfer to other areas is difficult because of the great specialization of these kinds of studies, it is nevertheless noticeable that the concepts of cultural heterogeneity, in particular in the variation of Zires, carry important impulses for the study of cultural systems. A problem remains that these studies limit their perspective to a small section of the culture; hence, any conclusion about the culture is speculative. An interpretation of the Caribbean religious communities based only on the study of music leaves several questions unanswered. The limitation on communication media is therefore deficient for a conclusive picture of the culture. Heterogeneity studies also ignore – probably because of their origin in literature studies – the active subjects, either as living persons or as literary inventions. The interpretation of genres prevails over the representation of creative individuals. Second Scene: An Exorcism Service The introduction to the next section, which will mainly discuss cultural concepts developed in Brazil, contains a description of a service of the Iglesia Universal, the Spanish spin-off of the Brazilian Igreja Universal in Brooklyn. The church in Brooklyn is located in a former theatre and contains therefore a stage, a large auditorium and a gallery (not yet used). In the rooms behind the stage are the offices of the community. The building is open throughout the day; there are three services every weekday and two main services on Sundays. Each weekday addresses different problems and themes: the services on Monday are for financial problems, Tuesday services are for the Holy Spirit, Wednesday for the Bible, Thursdays for the family and during the Friday services the body of the believers will be purified from any evil influences, which in most cases means the exorcism of demons. When I arrived at around 9.20 a.m. some people were already in the church. Some knelt in front of the lectern, some spoke with each other or with one of the assistants of the church. Pastor José was sitting on the stage, available for private consultation. Around 9.45 another pastor, the young Pastor Miguel, also sat down on a chair on the stage, also indicating the offer of consultation. Both pastors wore suits with a white shirt and tie, indicating their sense of belonging to the upper middle class. At 10 a.m., shortly before the service, both men left the stage. Pastor José welcomed the people in the front of the church, offering everyone a handshake and exchanging words with some. Approximately 100 people were in the church hall by then. As soon as Pastor Miguel started playing the harmonica the leader of the congregation, Pastor Oliveira, entered the stage singing. The melody reminded me of the melody of a popular Brazilian telenovela, only with Christian lyrics. Everyone rose from their seats – the service began. For one hour we listened to the addresses, announcements and the sermon of Pastor Oliveira, who continuously interrupted

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his speeches with stirring songs. His Brazilian accent did not bother his admirers who listened to him with enthusiasm. Two women came forward to the stage and spoke about their healing. One gave as proof of her healing a plastic bag with all her medication that she would no longer need. At 11 a.m. the exorcism started (which attracted more people than to another weekday service). First, the soul had to be purified with a powerful prayer for which everyone was invited to come forward to the space between the stage and the first seats. Any reluctant participant such as myself, who remained seated, was asked by a church assistant to join the group at the front. The pastor spoke louder and louder. His voice banged through the sound system and urged the demons to appear. The believers were asked to close their eyes, lay their hands on their heart and open up to the voice. The other two pastors and two assistants went slowly between the participants. As soon as they saw one person quivering one of them began the exorcism with adjuratory words and blessings: one of the pastors or assistants laid a hand on the forehead of this person and called him or her (in Spanish) to open up and free him- or herself from the demons. ‘Demon, leave this body! Demon, vanish! Demon, let this person alone!’ Meanwhile Pastor Oliveira (sometimes relieved by Pastor Marcos, who was older but hierarchically subordinate to Pastor Oliveira) shouted louder and louder, increasingly pushing the audience. The whole atmosphere started to become tense, even frightening. I moved to the edge of the crowd. Then, finally, peace and quiet came back. For a final liberation and blessing everyone was invited to walk under a large pole that was carried by two pastors. Afterwards everyone returned to their seats, and the service continued. During the next song the two minor pastors and the two assistants handed out small red kerchiefs to everyone. Then, in reference to the crucifixion story, Pastor Oliveira invited everyone to put their piece of red cloth into a bowl of vinegar standing in front of the lectern. After one week everyone would return and take one piece out, which then would have gained the power of healing. Everyone was also instructed to take an empty envelope and return it with US$30.00 in one week. One by one the people went to the front and put their kerchief into the bowl. Afterwards came several calls for donations – for a Bible for cancer patients – and for different amounts of money (first US$20, then US$10, US$5, US$4 and finally US$1), which were, at the end, followed by a last song and a prayer. The time was now around 12 p.m. and most people left the building. Some used the opportunity for a private consultation or a private blessing by one of the pastors. Around 1 p.m. the church was empty again with the exception of Pastor Miguel who, as the youngest pastor, had the duty of being available for consultations for the whole day. The Iglesia Universal has, as I have already described, a hierarchical and institutionalized structure; nonetheless elements from other religions such as the manifestation of divine entities became part of the religious repertoire, only reinterpreted: deities became demons. With this shift the Iglesia Universal impressively demonstrates its complexity and ability to adapt to new environments.

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Brazilian Cultural Concepts In the debate about Latin American postmodernism Brazil plays a special role. One reason is that modernismo and posmodernismo were coined nearly simultaneously to the English terms. Modernismo refers to a special style within Brazilian prose (as in other Latin American countries) as well as to an international style or movement (as in Europe and North America). The other reason is that Brazil has not (yet) developed a debate about multiculturalism. Ellen Spielmann explains this lack with the dominant image that Brazil has already practised multiculturalism for 400 years and demonstrates in everyday life a high degree of multiculturalism, which makes the demonstration of difference unproblematic (1994a: 14–16). Only in the last years have Brazilians started to realize that their kind of multiculturalism has no influence on racism because both work on different levels. Andreas Hofbauer, for instance, points out that only in 1989 did Brazil finally pass a law to persecute racist actions (2000). Brasilidade and tropicália The starting point in the debate about cultural theories in Brazil is the concept of brasilidade, which was illustrated, for instance, in Casa grande e senzela by Gilberto Freyre (in English The Masters and the Slaves, 1946). Freyre’s ethnographic description of Brazilian society from 1933 was celebrated as the discovery of brasilidade par excellence, in particular because of the way he celebrated the multicultural society in which everyone lived together and created a culture in the tropical tradition (see Spielmann 1994a: 12). In his book Freyre describes the creation of Brazilian society with its Indigenous, African and Portuguese roots. His positive interpretation of the racial mixture radically challenged the ‘racial pessimism’ of his contemporaries and offered the educated elite a new image of Brazilian society with which it was able to identify (Fleischmann 1985: 67–8). He looked in particular at the colonial epoch and slavery, which he characterized with the bipolar opposition of master house and slave hut. Despite the large social distance between masters and slaves Freyre positively interpreted that Portuguese people were used to living under the rule of Moorish people, whom he portrayed as relatively dark but in many aspects superior to the Whites. Because of their past experience Portuguese settlers in Brazil took the position (according to Freyre) that ‘even’ coloured people were human beings, even brothers, with whom it was possible to develop family ties. Influenced by the cultural relativism of Franz Boas, his professor at Columbia University in New York, Freyre traced the origin of Brazilian multiculturalism back to the racially mixed roots of the Portuguese colonists (1990: 21–8). However, despite Freyre’s emphasis that the ‘black race/culture’ had a positive impact on the development of Brazil, Hofbauer criticizes Freyre’s work as a remake of the branqueamento-idea that until the middle of the twentieth century remained the hegemonic ideology in Brazil (2000: 47).18 In particular

18 The term branqueamento derives from the verb branquear, meaning ‘to become white’.

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the combination of culture and society with biology is today incomprehensible but had dominated the Brazilian debate for a long time.19 In his book Freyre investigates the rural colonial society that he describes from the perspective of the master house (1990: 53, 441). As he explains, the master house was only complete with the slave hut because only together did they create an economic, social and political unity. Freyre characterizes this ‘syndicate based on agriculture and slavery’ as an integrative system of production and work (a latifundium mono-culture based on slavery), a transportation system (ox cart and palanquin), a religious system (familial Catholicism with a chaplain), a sexual and familial system (polygamous patriarchate), a system of body and household sanitation and a political system (compadrismo). In his idealized perspective Freyre describes the master house as a fortress, bank, cemetery, hospital, school, hospice and even welfare institution for the elderly, widows and orphans. His symbolic dichotomy of colonial society – in particular in his various reactionary conservative parts – is outdated nowadays. Already in the 1940s parameters of a new cultural critique were developing which exposed Brazilian culture as an ideological construct and emphasized the social realities.20 Freyre, who later became minister for education under the authoritarian president Getúlio Vargas, is particularly accused today of having supplied the ideological basis for the development of authoritarian schemas of development and integration with his harmonious synthesis of races, classes and cultures (Hollensteiner 1994: 162). Hence, people hold Freyre responsible for the perpetual neglect of ethnic-social studies and the tendency for homogeneous thinking. They refer, for instance, to his positive characterization of the Brazilian civilização luso-tropical and its capacity for reconciliation (Freyre 1980: 82). Until the end of the 1970s Freyre ignored the existence of racial conflict and even criticized the development of a Black movement in Brazil (Hofbauer 2000: 58, fn. 24). However, despite his often uncritical idealization of Brazilian society (one exception would be his quite critical book Nordeste) his work has received more and more attention in recent years as an example of the presentation of ethnic and cultural pluralism. Spielmann, for instance, quotes the words of the Brazilian educator Anísio Texeira about Freyre: ‘The importance of Gilberto Freyre is that we all became through his work more Brazilian’ (quoted in Spielmann 1994a: 13, my translation). Even his critic Darcy Ribeiro describes Freyre ‘as white shaman, as miracle in the adaptation of the other in a kind that usually happens only during the trance of a medium, as an excellent writer-anthropologist in the incarnation of various roles with an addiction to operetta style ethic and aesthetic’ (Spielmann 1994a: 13, my translation).21 Freyre became an

19 See Roberto da Matta, Relativizando: uma introdução à antropologia social (Petrópolis, 1981), quoted in Jahn 1994: 78. 20 See Carlos Guilherme Mota, ‘A cultura brasileira como problema histórica’, in Revista da USP (1986): 8–39, quoted in Jahn 1994: 29. 21 The words do not belong to a verbatim quotation, and Spielmann fails to state her sources. Hence see Ribeiro 1980: 95–154 for an evaluation of Freyre’s work by Ribeiro (originally published as the introduction to Casa grande e senzela in an edition from Biblioteca Ayacucho, Caracas).

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anti-hero who is still present today; many anthropologists such as Darcy Ribeiro and Roberto da Matta like to position themselves in the academy by opposing Freyre. Nonetheless, his image of a (apparently homogeneous) ‘Brazilian culture’ influenced (and still influences) people outside the academy. By interpreting ‘Brazilian culture’ he created its essence, though it never existed in reality.22 In the 1930s to 1950s brasilidade, so perfectly performed by Freyre, became a magical quality which inspired language, music, poetry, dance, narrative style, rhythm and so on (Spielmann 1994a: 9–10) and is still present despite changes. Even in the service in Brooklyn one can feel a touch of brasilidade when music, drama and evocation create a very special atmosphere that leads the participants in any direction. In this moment social and ethnic borders cease to exist; everyone is equal, which is indicated even by physical touch. At the end of the 1960s ‘Brazilian culture’ returned in the form of a ‘tropical discourse’ in Brazilian literature – as a paradigm of a new cultural landscape. During the period after the military coup in 1964, in particular between 1968 and 1974 when people became more and more sceptical about progress, the ideology of Brazilian culture was revitalized by the ruling powers with help from the media. Characteristic of the tropicália, which was understood as export culture, was, for example, the unexpected success of the Bahianos in the cultural centres of the South of Brazil, whose typical music style from Bahia (in the North) influenced the popular music of Brazil. This movement of a cultural style of expression from the periphery to the centre, from Bahia to São Paulo and Rio de Janeiro, changed the cultural concept of Brazil. The cultural critique rigorously rejected the tropicália, whose climax came between 1967 and 1972, and continued to limit the definition of ‘culture’ to literary production. However, the tropicália included apart from literature new forms of cultural production such as film, performance, installations and staged rituals. In the frame of the tropical discourse concrete, sensual descriptions about the ‘here’ and ‘now’ produce a diagnosis of the presence, a contemporary response to the urban explosion of modernism that massively began with the ‘estado militar’ in 1964. (Spielmann 1994b: 146, my translation)

The mass culture influenced by the tropicália developed into a counter-culture whose practices remained locally and regionally connected despite its fascination for modern technologies. Hence it presented popular knowledge and behaviour (Spielmann 1994b: 147). But instead of representing an autonomous, authentic style (as brasilidade did before) elements from other contexts were recycled and playfully used. Tropicália is therefore an important part of the postcolonial discourse of Brazil. It is anti-authoritarian, anti-hierarchical and anti-patriarchal. Tropicália is not interested in ‘defending or inventing a genealogy or the nation’ or in the ‘problem of the connection between tradition and modernity’; the central aim is the creation of multiple identities without the political logic of mixing as ‘national’ history (Spielmann 1994b: 152–3). Tropicália is therefore opposed to Freyre’s idea of the harmonious living together of all Brazilians; it thwarts and muddles all models 22 See Carlos Guilherme Mota, ‘A cultura brasileira como problema histórica’, in Revista da USP (1986): 8–39, quoted in Jahn 1994: 28.

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of construing cultural paradigms. Looking at it today, tropicália already represents a first sign of a distinctive kind of postmodernism, equivalent to the one developed in the metropolis (Hollensteiner 1994: 172). In this context urban centres such as Rio de Janeiro and other Latin America cities demonstrate the particularity of the Latin American situation because a city can represent a ‘First World’ metropolis but also a ‘Third World’ one. Studies of these cities are therefore not committed to a progressive schema that is frozen in time and epochs, but rather emphasize the cultural and social context (Spielmann 1994a: 114–15). One characteristic was that, in the wake of increasing urbanization since the 1920s, various literary products were written about cities, which presented a quite positive image of the metropolis. Only in the 1950s, when Carlos Fuentes published his book La region más transparente, the last great urban novel about Mexico, came the end of the great urban narratives (Monsiváis 1992: 36–45). Spielmann explains this twofold development: novelists recognized the limits of their ability to represent a city as such through literature, and in the 1950s the city lost its function as a ‘crossing and meeting point of social-cultural relations and transactions’ (1994a: 112, my translation). Though more novels, short stories and chronicles about cities such as Mexico City, Buenos Aires and São Paulo were published, the city with its power to change, its paradoxes and its diversity became unrepresentative. Spielmann refers, for instance, to Ignácio de Loyola Brandão’s novel about São Paulo in which the city is in the centre of the perspective but the city is not represented as such. While da Matta divides the city into social locations in order to analyse it, Loyola Brandão goes in the opposite direction. His urban discourse is one among others, it consists of the ‘fragmentation and layering of economical, political, historical, legal, sexual, and religious discourses’ that cannot be put together in a unified urban history (Spielmann 1994a: 127). São Paulo represents par excellence the paradoxical situation of ‘peripheral modernities whose main characteristic is the clash of modernity and pre-modernity’ (Spielmann 1994a: 129). One recognizes here already that Brazilian self-representation relies on the ‘cliché of the disorder’, according to Mark Münzel, the characteristic of urban Brazil as seen in opposition to the (supposed) ‘harmonized order’ of the indigenous Brazil. While the indigenous world is defined with the ‘mythos of an unopposed whole’, the urban Brazil emphasizes ‘the rejection of concrete systems’ (Münzel 2000: 206). From today’s perspective the 1960s are regarded as a ‘remarkably lucky period’, despite the start of the Estado militar in 1964 with censorship, repression, controls and so on (Spielmann 1994b: 145). The liberal popularistic period directly before the coup, in which the new capital Brasília was built as a symbol of modern Brazil, saw the development of cultural forms that then provided sources to deal with the shock of modernization, and included a critique against Western culture and its logic of progressive development.23 This debate about modernity and the representation of the multiple voices of Brazil, which started at the end of the 1960s, continues today.

23 Spielmann describes as an example the installation in the Museu de Arte Moderna by Hélio Oiticica in 1967 (1994b: 152).

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Pastiche as Postmodern Metaphor In the 1980s the cultural theoretical debate in Brazil discussed three items: the critical formulation or revision of the dependence and cultural imperialism thesis; the new definition of cultura popular; and the debate about modernism and postmodernism coming from Europe and North America (Hollensteiner 1994: 161–5, 172). The Brazilian debate was more concerned with the involvement of intellectuals in the authoritarian state than in other Latin American countries. For a decade Brazil had experienced a continuous switching between voices glorifying ‘Brazilian culture’ and critical thinkers struggling against public attempts to control them. In the 1980s the integration of cultural anthropological concepts supported – according to Hollensteiner – the break-up of the dualistic models of thinking of the 1970s, such as traditional/ modern, urban/rural, elite/mass culture. Instead of trying to construct essentialontological definitions of the cultura brasileira the debate became more concerned with plurality and the process of symbolic structures, with the exchanges between elite, mass and popular culture, tradition and modernity. As a result of this development Brazilian contemporary culture gained a positive recognition as being ‘plural, mas não caótico’, having a playful-disrespectful handling of tradition, modernity and utopia. The 1980s represent a kind of intermediate period during which the two debates about the cultura popular and the mass media that were divided during the 1970s came together. Hollensteiner mentions as an example carnival and Umbanda, one of the widest spread Afro-Brazilian religions. Until then, both were put in opposition to mass culture because of being ‘authentic’ and creative. Because of the increasing integration of these elements into mass culture, people have realized that such a dichotomy is absurd. Thinking in free structures replaces the construction of static borders. Many authors refer today to the potential of postmodernism to create identity (Hollensteiner 1994: 166–7, 175). In this context people experiment with new pathways, for instance in metaphorical language, in order to describe Brazilian culture. Postmodernism often uses metaphorical terms to describe its models. The significance of metaphors depends on the context of their origin and on the way they are used. A transfer of metaphors that are often construed in literature studies is only successful when the provenance of the metaphor is clear.24 Most metaphors for postmodern cultural concepts were developed with reference to Brazilian novels. Sabine Hofmann describes these kinds of metaphors as ‘illustrations from the picture gallery of postmodern discourse’ that are used in literature studies to illustrate the infinite 24 According to James W. Fernandez anthropology saw an increase of studies about metaphors in the 1970s. Metaphors were not only used as literal explanations of the inexplicable with images but were also used in a social and cultural way (Fernandez 1995: 6). Nonetheless, the use of metaphors includes some risks anthropologists have started to address in recent years. Naomi Quinn, for instance, declares that ‘metaphors, far from constituting understanding, are ordinarily selected to fit a preexisting and culturally shared model’ (1995: 60). Most studies about metaphors reflect this problem when the authors refer to examples of their mother tongue (mainly English) as examples. The metaphors I will present are different. In spite of explaining a foreign cognitive model in metaphorical language, metaphors are used to characterize different cultural concepts. See Pesmen 1995. For a critique of the ‘theory of the tropes’, see T. Turner 1995: 150–51.

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dynamic of the transformation process. They are, as she continues, ‘illustrations of a-centric structures whose organizational patterns cannot be described with regard to one administrative principle but as the interlinking of various organizational regulations whose combination creates always different, non-predictable phenomena’ (Hofmann 1994: 252, my translation). This quote already indicates the central perspective that is visible in the use of metaphors for cultural models: not mixtures but miscellaneous; the focus is on cultural constructions instead of the origin of its elements. A key term in the postmodern fictional literature of Brazil is the metaphor pastiche, derived from art history. Since the seventeenth century the term pasticcio (Italian for pasty or jumble) has been used to characterize a picture or a sculpture imitating the style or motive of other artists. While the term in fine art implies deceit, it gained – according to Spielmann – a positive connotation in the 1980s as a characteristic of the historical and geopolitical particularities of Latin America. Pastiche is the ‘fine art of imitation’ that ‘adopts’, ‘dispossesses’, ‘celebrates’ and ‘cannibalizes’ (Spielmann 1994a: 165–7). Pastiche does not reject the past or mock it but accepts and carries it; it describes a process that rewrites or retells familiar items anew (Spielmann 1994a: 165–7). Pastiche represents therefore ‘the literary counterpart of those rearticulatory practices that seek to assume alternative traditions within modernity’ (Yúdice 1991: 109 with reference to Silviano Santiago). Santiago’s novel Em Liderdade (1981) is regarded as the first Brazilian postmodern novel in which the author applies pastiche instead of just copying. The novel ‘re-re-tells’ a story of a classical Brazilian novel, Memórias do Cárcere by Graciliano Ramos (1953), as a kind of postmodern sequel. Ramos’s novel contains the diary of a fictional author during a year in prison, between 1936 and 1937, though it is supposed to have been written in 1946. Santiago’s novel begins three months after the protagonist has been discharged from prison. In the foreword Santiago declares himself to be only the editor, who received the manuscript from an unknown person after rescuing it from a fire. The text is a mixture of a diary and a historical novel, construing the ‘fictionality of the “reality”’ (Spielmann 1994a: 167). It takes place in three different periods of history, in 1789, 1937 and 1973, connected through the stories of three men, Graciliano Ramos, the novelist Cláudio Manuel da Costa, who was executed in 1789 during the militant suppression of a rebellion, and the journalist Wladimir Herzog, who was tortured to death in 1973. Hence, all three characters are historically real persons. Nonetheless, Santiago does not write a historical novel but discusses the context of history and representation, historical description and fiction (Spielmann 1994a: 167–70). With his novel Santiago aimed to challenge the ‘politics of representation’ proclaimed by modernists in the 1930s. He criticizes modernists on the basis that they only referred to the public discourse and the representation of the heroes and the martyred while the private discourse, of the ordinary and the non-heroic, was excluded.25 Despite the (apparent) imitation of Ramos, Santiago’s novel represents an anti-movement, referring to the experience of ‘alterity’, as Spielmann (among others) insists (1994: 171). Pastiche is therefore a particular form of inter-textuality, created from the past and the present, and produces difference.

25 Santiago, Nas malhas da letra (São São Paulo, Companhia das Letras, 1989): 116, quoted in Spielmann 1994a: 170.

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Hence, the perspective of Brazilian literature has changed. At the beginning of the twentieth century, imitation, copying and repetition were regarded as abusive words in the literary scene in Brazil, which only aimed to maintain and present the originality of the particularity of ‘Brazilian culture’. Freyre led the way to the neglect of ‘Brazilian culture’ as an ideological construct that does not exist ontologically. But the last twenty years of the twentieth century exposed identity, authenticity and particularity as strategic concepts of postcolonialism, and instead praised the fine art of imitation (Spielmann 1994a: 165). Already the tropicália of the 1960s and 1970s had played with the method of imitation (Spielmann 1994b: 150) but in the 1980s pastiche was at its climax. The novel Tereza Bautista cansada de guerra (1973) by Jorge Amado explains the development of pastiche through metaphorically comparing pastiche to strategy. Amado plays with another cultural genre, the literatura de cordel, which represents a special kind of ‘oral literature’ that was present until the end of the 1960s/beginning of the 1970s (and perhaps even today in some parts of the Northeast; Spielmann 1994a: 71). The literatura de cordel is based on oral compositions – at the beginning narrative songs, then narrative poetry – that until the introduction of the printing press were circulated in loose paper collections. Until the middle of the twentieth century the literatura de cordel was recited only at festivals and markets but even the written versions are still influenced by the oral narrative tradition. The literatura de cordel reflects therefore Walter Ong’s thesis of the particularity of oral tradition, independent of the presence or absence of scripture (1987: 172–3). There are two versions of the literatura de cordel: the folhetos contain the merits or misdeeds of a typical character or social group or the stories of a region, and the other type refers to the adventures of an individual, of historical or legendary nature (Spielmann 1994a: 71). Jorge Amado, who in the 1930s already had a reputation as a well-known author, constructs his own genre by stylization of the folhetos. But it is more than pastiche of folhetos; Amada ‘pastichizes’ the fundamental structures (such as discourse, rhetoric), characters and events of the genres (see Spielmann 1994a: 77). He adapts the folheto concept to a discursive level, creating a new dimension of performance with his novel (Spielmann 1994a: 78). Amado’s novel ironically tells the story of Tereza Batista, a popular figure who represents a ‘sinner’ (a whore and a cabaret dancer) and a ‘saint’ (filha do santo, someone initiated into Candomblé). As in all of his novels, the context of this is also the sertão, in the Northeast of Brazil. Amado is the voice of the heterogeneous culture of this region around the town of Salvador da Bahia (Spielmann 1994a: 68). He aims at authenticity and reality, though his description of the life of Tereza Baptista does not contain social critique. He is not interested in the reality based on socio-economic, legal or institutional relations, but in the presentation of ideal constellations of human life (Spielmann 1994a: 84). Santiago, on the other hand, wants to present a social critical diagnosis of Brazilian society. He takes Ramos’ novel, connects it with his topic and creates something new, the opposite of Ramos’ intention. Santiago deconstructs the figure of the writing intellectual of Brazilian modernism and shows that this figure no longer serves a purpose (Spielmann 1994a: 175 with reference to Santiago). Amado constructs his story based on similar patterns to the original. Instead of deconstructing the template he follows it in detail. Hence, he does not produce something new out of the combination of the known and present

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but takes parts of the template and restructures them in a brilliant way, to constitute a similar structure together with new elements. Amada ‘pastichizes’ the folhetos but does not create something new. His imitation lacks the cultural idea. In this manner pastiche is similar to the categories of mixture and hybrid. Both perspectives are also visible in the description of the religious service. The Iglesia Universal is not interested in authenticity and particularity, it adapts everything it wants and needs. The church ‘pastichizes’ strategies used by other religions. But it is more than a pure imitation because all elements, whether they refer to music or exorcism, receive a new meaning through adaptation. One can describe it as adaptation in Santiago’s way, as similar to the novels though without reference to their original contexts. Instead of creating difference in order to criticize the template, the imitation is presented as something real, authentic. Every suspicion that some elements could be taken from another religion is vehemently rejected; the Iglesia Universal lacks the irony that characterizes Amado’s novels. However, it would not be correct to describe the strategy of the Iglesia Universal as pure imitation because it creates something new with its composition of foreign elements. The musical performance of the pastor, supported by well-known melodies from telenovelas, was a perfect performance that created an emotional atmosphere with the help of copying. The church songs addressed the congregation with their religious content in a different way from the songs of the telenovelas on TV; hence they do not represent simple imitations. Pastiche and other style media cause quite ambivalent reactions within Brazilian cultural criticism. Roberto Schwarz, for instance, is very sceptical about imitation, though he does not challenge the copying but the unpragmatic manner in which people are copying, because Brazilian culture has many dynamic elements reflecting originality as well as the lack of originality (1995: 281). Schwarz criticizes the undifferentiated adaptation of theories and refers to the ambivalence between the real Brazil and the ‘ideological prestige’ of those countries that are regarded as models. Intellectuals in Brazil would permanently adopt new theories developed in Europe and North America though they have no connection to the social movements in Brazil (Schwarz 1995: 265). He regrets the lack of studies about Brazilian culture; however, his rare positive examples are all taken from literary studies, hence he ignores the anthropological work done on Brazil. Schwarz demands the return to genuine Brazilian products. His ideal would probably be Amado’s novel instead of Santiago’s book, which deconstructs the template instead of following it. This might also be the reason for his dislike of the reversion of cultural subordination. After the writings of Derrida and Foucault were introduced into Latin America many intellectuals such as Santiago started to negate the devaluation of copying as secondary. This ‘Latin Americanization’ of formerly central categories reverses the valuation of periphery and centre. However, Schwarz challenges this attitude because he doubts that the conceptual break will really improve the situation. He writes that ‘the inevitability of cultural imitation is bound up with a specific set of historical imperatives over which abstract philosophical critique can exercise no power’ (Schwarz 1995: 269–70, referring to Santiago 1978: 11–28). In order to understand Schwarz’s valuation of the technique of copying, it is necessary to look at the time of Brazil’s independence and the opening of the harbours to the British mariners between 1807 and 1808. While before it was normal to copy

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prohibited products, it then became a problem that was and still is discussed under various terms such as mimicry and pastiche. Schwarz argues that this pejorative connotation has something to do with the way Brazil gained its independence. Unlike its neighbours Brazil became independent not because of a revolution but because of altered external factors and the change of the head of state. Hence, independence did not cause a lot of changes; the profits were collected from the local ruling class instead of the colonial servants. All modern ideas such as civil rights and freedom that influenced Spanish America during the period of political emancipation were regarded in Brazil as foreign, artificial and anti-national. The consequences are still visible: the colonial heritage became for some a relic that vanished with progress; but for many it represents the ‘real Brazil’ that one should save for imitation (Schwarz 1995: 276). Schwarz argues that the reason for the discrepancy between the two Brazils goes back to the foundation of a national state based on slavery. On one side the slave trade, the latifundium and the clientelism continued to exist with social rules from colonial times, and on the other side the new state had a constitution according to which everyone was equal, state and church were divided, and civil rights existed. Even the abolishment of slavery changed the social situation only gradually (da Matta 1991: 153–4). The imitative character of Brazilian life started on the basis of brutal suppression, without even minimal reciprocity (see Schwarz 1995: 278). The result was the ‘painfulness of an imitative civilization … produced not by imitation – which is present at any event – but by the social structure of the country’ (Schwarz 1995: 279). However, Schwarz does not regard imitation as a national characteristic but – still arguing with Marxist nomenclature – as the illness of the ruling class. He ignores the creative power of these imitations, which are even visible in a service of the Iglesia Universal. Santiago has, as his novel has already demonstrated, a very different attitude towards Brazilian postmodernism, expressed also on a theoretical level in an article about spectacle and simulacrum. He describes spectacle as cultural events performed in museums or art galleries that allow privileged participants a direct encounter with ‘authentic’ culture. Simulacrum, on the other hand, is electronically produced mass entertainment that is mainly presented on TV, hence in the absence of participants, and is regarded as ‘bastard products of cultural commercialization’ (Santiago 1995: 241–2). While the former evokes intellectual stimulation and reflection, the latter is entertainment. The separation between the two forms already indicates the negative connotation of postmodernity – something that Santiago vehemently challenges. Referring to the example of a televized religious service Santiago shows how the reception varies depending on the perspective. If the perspective is on the production, hence the filming of the TV programme, the technicians disturb the order of the religious event (spectacle), the service. If the perspective is on the reception, the broadcast on TV, it is only important that the viewers (simulacrum) are allowed to participate in the spectacle (Santiago 1995: 247). Consequently, Santiago is not concerned with the problem of originality or imitation because it addresses production, while he is interested only in reception. In this line of argument Santiago argues for a different dealing with mass media that are wrongly discriminated against. Mass media, in a similar way to printed media, transport not only entertainment but also information of various kinds. The spectator has only to learn to transform information into knowledge. Alphabetization campaigns for adults that do not

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take this into account are useless. A worker who masters his life illiterately should be taught how to ‘read’ his symbolic and cultural universe (Santiago 1995: 248–9). Hence, Santiago refers to an extended definition of reading that is not limited to printed media but includes the reading of symbols. He orients himself towards accessing information that is important for living. During the nineteenth century, when massive alphabetization campaigns were developed in Europe and North America, information was transmitted only through the written word. Emancipation was strictly connected to literacy. However, the broadcasting of news on the radio and later in the cinema has already changed the situation. Since the spread of televisions in all households it is possible to gain global information without literacy. Alphabetization is no longer important for the transmission of knowledge, though the untrained handling of the media still creates problems. According to Santiago, the dichotomy between the two cultural forms, the one book-centred and the other mass media, is now dissolved. Novelists have learnt to accept the mass media and even to incorporate elements of it. Some novels are only understandable if the reader acknowledges certain motives in mass media. Cultural products do not rely any longer on the separation between elite and pop, original and imitation, oral and written (Santiago 1995: 246). Santiago therefore focuses on the recipients because only they can improve the cultural products of the mass media. Hence one should adjust education. The spectators – that is, the new ‘readers’, more or less literate, more or less demanding, more or less expert in their experience of mass media – are [those] who will define the standards of excellence in the future, as the critical establishment and the university did in the past. It is not a question of excluding criticism and the university but of taking away the authority that they imagined conferred on them, the sole or final power of judgement. (Santiago 1995: 249)

Santiago values a cultural object in terms of its meaning for the recipient. Any universal value is connected to ethnic, social, sexual and other centralisms. Spectacle and simulacrum are neither bad nor good: this depends on the conditions. Even a bad book can produce ‘good reading’ or a good book just moderate reading in the same way, as the value of entertainment depends on the recipient. Santiago represents a new direction in Brazilian culture critique that is no longer concerned with the value of imitations but with the interpretation of cultural products from the perspective of the observer. The inclusion of the observer in the interpretation of products is one of the demands of feminist theory and also is important in cultural anthropology. The use of pastiche and other metaphors for the understanding of culture and religions is very limited, as is indicated by the short summary of the religious service because it is concerned only with elements, with the details. Something similar can be said about other metaphors such as the chameleon, which describes a dynamic but also organic image. At first glance only the metaphor of a kaleidoscope includes the human perspective, because the object does its trick only through the eye of the observer. Nonetheless, both kaleidoscope and mosaic indicate an unorganized re-structuring, not a new creation, and hence disregard human creativity. The mixing of elements is a pure technical act; hence it reduces mixture to a technical event. Metaphors do not offer definitions or explanations; they always suggest an interpretation that varies according to the spectator. To describe

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a culture as an integration of fragments in the sense of a mosaic refers only to the fragmentization of its structure but says nothing about its character. Nonetheless, the use of metaphors produces important impulses for the interpretation of cultures. House and Street – Metaphors as Cultural Concept In the last section I focused on cultural concepts developed within cultural critique in Brazil. For a long time anthropology was limited to the study of small communities, either traditional or modern and postmodern. Even the study of communities in urban contexts focuses only on locally limited communities or institutions within an urban area; with few exceptions, such as García Canclini, anthropologists often decline to look at social contexts. Nonetheless, even in cultural anthropology the cultural concept has changed, as I have already mentioned in Chapter 1. A culture can no longer be regarded as an isolated unity because it always has contact with other cultures. National societies became an analytical level constructed from the outside. ‘In In other words, we work today in a world where we recognize the contingent and constructed nature of categories that we nevertheless find analytically, and even practically, useful’ (Hess Hess 1995: 17). In the tradition of Gilberto Freyre, Latin American anthropologists have started much earlier than other anthropological schools to look at national constructs. Though they moved away from the study of small communities, they nevertheless did not lose the ethnographic perspective, as I will illustrate with regard to Roberto da Matta, one of the most important contemporary anthropologists in Brazil. His investigation of cultural events set milestones in Latin American anthropology. While for a long time Mexico was regarded as the prime example of mestizaje, Brazil was often described as a future tropical version of North America. Da Matta rejects this evolutionism and refers to its own, Brazilian way. With reference to Victor Turner he deconstructs the old division of the world into the ‘West and the rest’ and describes Brazil as an ‘intermediary society, neither modern nor traditional, but emphatically both’ (Hess 1995: 8, 12). Da Matta is critical of the fact that anthropological studies about Latin America and Brazil in particular are only interested in the mixture, but not in the internal logic behind the mixture (1995: 271). For generations, Latin America has had its share of observers who like to prove that the continent is a true logical disaster. More precisely, it’s a sociological disaster. The problem is that these observers rarely question their own starting point. They assume their position to be logical and precise to the extent that they are part of a system capable of defining itself with a word (capitalism, modernity, progress), two or three well-known concepts (usually made up by the observers, and on their own terms), and only one sort of logic – the excluded middle (the tertium non datur of the ancient philosophers) – that does not allow apples and oranges to mix. But none of this works for the so-called ‘Latin American reality’. (da da Matta 1995: 270)

Da Matta suggests defining Latin American reality using five concepts: samba, pisca, caudillismo, carnival and belly laugh. These five elements can help to develop two sets of logic that exist in Brazil simultaneously. Da Matta regards his country as ‘a

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surgical room for conceptual and symbolic operations where everything is “out of place” but enjoys a theoretical free voucher’ (1995: 271). Joy in theoretical play is visible within the works of da Matta whether he discusses carnival in Rio de Janeiro or another topic. His starting point is the question of the relationship between Brazil as nation and as society. Da Matta always focuses in his works on the core of those aspects that are of interest for him as Brazilian, in particular the ‘perennial anti-democratic (and anti-egalitarian) Brazilian elitism that is characterized by an arrogant style of dealing with social and political differences’ (1991: x–xi). He studies social practices that no one in Brazil takes seriously though they are at the heart of the Brazilian power structure. His studies always contain an ethnographic perspective that is not focused on abstract social patterns but on rituals and certain dramatic characters. Though he does not deny the historical depth of the practices, he wants to investigate these manifestations with regard to their social and political implications within an ideological context, hence the role that rituals have in constructing social identity (da Matta 1991: 14). Da Matta investigates three different events that ritualize the Brazilian social world: a military parade (in particular the parade on Independence Day), carnival and a Catholic procession. While the first two forms are interpreted with regard to the construction of national identity, the last one articulates local and regional identities (da Matta 1991: 26–7). But despite this difference all three types represent discourses about the same reality, ‘each highlighting crucial, essential aspects of it from a perspective within that reality’ (da Matta 1991: 45). The participants at the carnival are identical to the ones who observe the military parade on 7 September, Independence Day; the friendly gentleman who praises the carnival costumes is the same man who arrogantly snubs people in lower social positions; and the rogue can simultaneously admire an authoritarian leader. Da Matta characterizes Brazilian culture as having two contradictory tendencies: the expression of unbounded and personalized equality of the masses and authoritarian superiority at the same time. Da Matta looks at the national rituals as examples of three different ways to illustrate important aspects of Brazilian social structure. The discourse of the military parade focuses the ‘routinized, hence implicit and internalized, aspects of the social order’ (da Matta 1991: 46). It symbolizes the hierarchization of positions and relationships and is only directed towards aspects that are specifically ‘national Brazilian’, such as the flag, the colours, the hymn and the political leader. The carnival discourse represents ambivalent aspects of the social order. It focuses on the boundaries of society, the areas between classes and groups. Because of its universal, cosmological orientation it embraces even ambivalent categories such as death and life, joy and sadness, poverty and wealth. Both discourses contain their own logic: while the discourse of the parade supports the hierarchy and illuminates the nation, the carnival discourse reverses the social positions and illuminates the Brazilian cosmos and the Brazilian universe. The discourse of the procession does not reflect either of the two but causes the neutralization of social categories because superior and subordinate, sick and healthy, saint and sinner are all side by side. Religious festivals harmonize and reconcile believers with the government through religious worship. The strict religious hierarchy confronts a hierarchy in which all

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human beings are unified under the leadership of the clerics. Da Matta illustrates in his writings the combination of social relationships and orientation, whose logic is to stress a relationship in one moment and to disintegrate it in the next (1991: 48). This dialectic is also visible in the detailed analysis of the various carnival levels. Da Matta regards the carnival as a complex reflection of or a commentary on the Brazilian social world, hence not a reflection of the social structure. In the tradition of Claude Lévi-Strauss and Karl Marx, da Matta refers to an indirect reflection instead of a direct one. He wants to indicate with this distinction that with its various sublevels carnival creates its own social reality, with its own rules and logic (da Matta 1991: 62). Carnival also reproduces the world but, as da Matta insists, not directly or automatically but in a dialectic way, with many self-reflections, curves, slots, dimensions and levels. Here da Matta sees the reason for the dynamism of society, and the hope for the world. Inspired by the novel O País do Carnaval by Jorge Amado, written during a period of search for Brazilian identity in the 1930s, da Matta extracts two different social domains, which oppose each other in Brazilian society and represent important means in the analysis of the Brazilian social world: ‘house’ and ‘street’. He defines them briefly: ‘The street is to lack of control and mixing with a multitude of persons as the house is to control and authoritarianism’ (da Matta 1991: 64.). Though at first glance both categories look similar to the two forms of urban life described by Schiffauer – interior world and public – a second glance illustrates the particularity of da Matta’s categories, which, interwoven with each other, represent Brazilian society. The category ‘street’ hints at a world full of unexpected events, accidents and passion, while the category ‘house’ symbolizes the controlled universe where everything and everyone has its fixed location. The first one represents movement, innovations and actions, the second one harmony and quietness, a place of belonging and warmth. On the street one works, in the house one rests. Da Matta concludes therefore that the social groups on the street and in the house are differently structured, in the house in relation to personal relationships such as kinship and patronage hierarchically ordered by age and gender, and on the street in relation to a strictly individualistic selection hierarchically ordered according to different categories. Respect and considerateness, which are assumed to be the basic fundamentals of the Brazilian world, describe only the relationships between parents and children and between patron and client, but not the domains in general. House and Street have fixed social roles, ideologies, values, actions and objects. Social roles based on kinship are defined in the domain House while social roles that include choice and freedom belong to the public sphere, and hence to the Street. The same can be said about objects. When they are exchanged or when social roles are mixed, then scandals and other dramas occur (see da Matta 1991: 69). Da Matta adds an intermediate space between the two categories, the veranda, or the window and the salon of the house, where the two domains House and Street meet. The salon is a kind of broker between the two domains because it allows contact. Da Matta also excludes the area of the servants from the social domain House, while the kitchen remains a special female area.26 But da Matta only hints at 26 In the Mediterranean social areas are also differentiated in two complementary oppositions, but there the House includes even the street in front of the house as a female area

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the gender correlation of the two domains. While women rule over the kitchen, the family remains patriarchally structured. Da Matta’s distinction is based on a situation described in a novel from the 1930s, and represents the ideal of the Brazilian society rather than the reality. Even in the 1920s Brazilian women had already conquered the Street, the public domain, because by this time the class and gender borders had become porous and women were no longer limited to the House domain (see also Spielmann 1994a: 117). Nonetheless da Matta’s characterizations, while apparently disconnected from reality, are a good starting point for the following observations, because the described comparison is still regarded as being the ideal in Latin America. If a woman, for instance, leaves her domain or has to leave it because of financial reasons, she is often no longer regarded as a woman but as a (half) man.27 Da Matta transfers the two domains House and Street to the urban context of Brazil. According to his observations the layout of cities represents the layout of the House domain, with its limited interior areas. ‘My street’ or ‘our street’ is opposed to ‘the street’ as a general category. The street is an area with family houses while the public place represents the area for formal and impersonal meetings, similar to the salon in the House domain. Taking into account the opposition between House for controlled social relationships and distance and Street for loss of control and distance, street as a general category refers to a public section controlled by the government (or destiny), hence by powers out of reach for the individual (da Matta 1991: 65–6). However, the street in this sense can be subdivided into two areas, the centre as an economic place for trade and the plaza as aesthetic place. Hence, da Matta divides the urban world into three categories: house, plaza and centre. Based on this dialectic between House and Street, da Matta then looks at the carnival and offers an interpretation connected to the relationship between the two categories (1991: 73). But one has to keep in mind that the two categories are quite flexible. Objects can move in certain situations from one domain to the other, and even the domains can alter in certain situations. The House can extend into the Street, objects of the Street can invade the House, and both processes can even happen simultaneously in a specific social moment such as the carnival. Da Matta distinguishes two different types of Brazilian carnival, the street carnival with its famous parades and the club or salon carnival, hence carnival celebrations in private houses, which probably started as early as 1840. The latter festivals, originating from Portuguese entrudo, have no institutionalized public structure like the large public celebrations. With its two variations the Brazilian carnival reproduces the two social domains House and Street. The club carnival excludes unwanted people such as the poor by demanding an entry fee or invitation while the street carnival, despite while coffee houses are defined as male areas (see Krasberg 1996: 30–44). For information about the connection between the social domains and concepts of honour and shame in the Mediterranean, see Peristany 1966 as well as the critique against the stereotypic generalizations in Herzfeld 1980. 27 In a similar area, the Mediterranean, Anton Blok quotes a man describing a woman in Sicily who had to do ‘male’ activities as ‘una donna a cui mancano i coglioni’ (a woman who lacks only balls (in order to be identified as man)) (1982: 167).

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some restricted areas, includes the public or, more precisely, needs the public (see da Matta 1991: 79–80). The Street is ‘domesticated’ during the carnival: If in everyday life, the streets of Brazil and Rio de Janeiro are mortally dangerous for pedestrians and cars whiz through the streets as if they were out to kill people, during Carnival the nervous and hysterical center of the city seems to turn into a medieval square, and it is taken over completely by the people, who replace the cars and come to witness or participate in Carnival’s multiple levels. (da Matta 1991: 81)

Long avenues and streets gain a private character during the carnival; the public areas between houses are decorated and used for competitions. Everyone enjoys the carnival (or better leaves the city during this time); it establishes a sense of belonging in the sense of Victor Turner’s concept of communitas (Turner Turner 1974, see also da Matta 1984).. Da Matta describes it as a very creative period with room for individual decoration of the neighbourhood and other social categories. Without going into too much detail about the Brazilian carnival I want to explain some differences between the Brazilian carnival and the Caribbean carnival in Brooklyn, as described in the Chapter 2. Though both carnivals require extensive preparation, for the making of the costumes for example, the Caribbean carnival had to adjust to the new environment, Brooklyn. People in New York do not have so much space and time as in Brazil, where carnival is celebrated over many days and in a large sector of the city. The parade in Brooklyn passes through a predominately Jewish Orthodox neighbourhood and does not include everyone, hence does not conquer the city as happens in Brazil. But in both cases one can observe a failure to comply with the established order and sequence, though to an even larger extent in Brazil (da Matta 1991: 81–102, referring to the carnival in Rio de Janeiro in 1977). As in Brazil it was not possible to instrumentalize the Caribbean carnival in Brooklyn because the carnival belongs to no patron. Nonetheless, both carnivals are divided into various groups and subgroups that, for instance, prepare the costumes and practise the movements together, though the Brazilian ones are, of course, much more elaborate. In Rio de Janeiro the Samba schools and blocos unify poor and rich, employer and employee, Black and White and therefore combine members of different and normally strictly separated social groups. Similar to religious communities such as the Umbanda centres and Kardecist groups, charity organizations and football clubs, the carnival organizations are ‘characterized and inspired by an egalitarian, individualistic ideology, superimposed on a familistic, patronal, and authoritarian nucleus’ (da Matta 1991: 100). Da Matta states that the kind of public institutions that unite social groups and create a bridge between the domains Street and House are typical of Brazil: We systematically create situations where a social inversion is possible, since there is always an encounter of values and objectives situated in social domains that are frequently distant and antagonistic in the everyday world. (1991: 1991: 102)

The carnival in Brooklyn cannot fulfil this function because it is limited to one specific group, the Caribbean migrants, who are structured in an egalitarian way with an authoritarian core. The carnival in Brooklyn is quite similar to the Iglesia

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Universal: all believers and participants are equal but they are structured around an authoritarian nucleus that is subordinated to the Brazilian nucleus. Nonetheless, despite some similarity both groups in Brooklyn lack the defined role in the social world that characterizes the Brazilian carnival. During the Brazilian carnival the two social domains, House and Street, can meet without any social consequences. The carnival even enables the metamorphosis of a socially underprivileged worker into a Samba queen and an industrial worker into a famous dancer. Structurally deprived people are transformed into different personalities in a way similar to transformations that occur during the manifestation of a spirit or deity in the body of a believer (da Matta 1991: 134). This kind of mystical metamorphosis enables – according to da Matta – in particular poor women to seduce (during carnival) or to heal (in Umbanda rituals) without having wealth or influence. Da Matta describes this characteristic as a ‘crucial and authentic cultural value of the hierarchical system itself’ because it enables people to express social discontent, hence perhaps even preventing riots in a conformist system, the ideas and actions of which are not cohesive (1991: 136). The dialectic and its lack of commonality is, according to da Matta’s future studies, the key aspect of the Brazilian dilemma that originates in the discrepancy between the two social positions individual and person. The starting point is a Brazilian peculiarity that is described with the phrase ‘Você Você sabe com quem está falando?!’ ?!’ (‘Do you know who you are dealing with?!’). Though everyone in Brazil uses this phrase to order social relations, it is concealed to outsiders. Da Matta argues therefore that there is a discrepancy between the real use of a rule and its social grammar. Hence one should always distinguish in Brazil – as he insists – between the rules and the practices. There are even two different concepts of the national reality: one of solidarity and cordiality and the other characterized by exclusive categories organized according to a scale of respect and prestige (da Matta 1991: 141). Though Brazil has a legal system with civil rights and other laws based on a horizontal ethic, people usually live according to the ideology of guilds and religious brotherhoods, and their loyalties and vertically structured ethics. Da Matta explains this development with the foundation of the republic during the time of the abolishment of slavery. The aristocrats reacted to legal developments with overemphasized cleanliness of house and body in order to express their differentness and to establish a new hierarchy. In this way they invented a ‘theory of the body’ with various practices that are still in use and have led to the development of a Brazilian form of racism (da Matta 1991: 153–4). After a rigid bipolar and hierarchical ideology in the first decades, the focus shifted onto the intermediate forms and points of connection, in particular after the success of Gilbert Freyre’s works. Even during the increasing glorification of mixing the focus remained on the body, which became the basis of the hierarchical structure of Brazil. Brazilian racism was always aesthetic and not legal as in the USA, because according to the constitution Brazilians became equal after the abolition of slavery. Hence, since the beginning of the republic there has been a distinction between the civil law and the lived reality that is still present today, though in different variations. In most situations people act according to a network of personal relationships and moral values and not according to the law. Da Matta argues that the opposition between public and private, impersonal and personal, anonymous and established, and universal and biographic is the basis of

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Brazilian society that distinguishes between the individual (indivíduo) and the person (pessoa). An individual has to explain themself in front of the law while a person can only be defined in the centre of social relationships (da Matta 1991: 170–77). Da Matta describes the Brazilian world therefore as ‘made up of a number of persons located in a rigid hierarchy ruling the life and destiny of a multitude of individuals’ (1991: 182). Individuality has negative connotations because it implies leaving the domain House and living separately from the family. An individual lacks the attachment to a unit that in most cases is built through the family though the membership of trade unions, political parties or other groups also supports the development of attachment to the nation. Hence, there is also an individual dimension (for instance in the army) but reality emerges through relationships, hence through multiple persons, and not through individuals. Da Matta concludes that the domain House as the place of personal relations dominates the domain Street in Brazil (1991: 191). But despite this emphasis da Matta also illustrates the similarity of different movements that exist in Brazil through the combination of two or more cultural codes. The dialectic of two bipolar oppositions House and Street together with the contradictory ideals equality and hierarchy are therefore the basic elements of Brazilian society (da Matta 1991: 264–6). His observations about Brazil lead da Matta to general remarks about Latin American space. Analogous to his analysis of the carnival, da Matta values the importance of elements less than the relationship between them (1995: 284). Like Zires he looks at existing tendencies between cultural elements, though unlike Zires he does so without ignoring the specific characteristics of the cultural institutions. Here one can observe the strength of ethnographic studies but also their weakness. Based on ethnographic work da Matta analyses Latin American culture or, more precisely, the urban culture of Brazil, because the dichotomy between House and Street can be applied only to urban contexts. Trying to transfer his model to other Latin American regions, particularly rural areas with a predominantly indigenous or Afro-American population, already reveals a weakness. His model also excludes the outsider, for instance people who do not participate in the carnival for various reasons. They also belong to the cultural environment of the carnival enthusiasts, despite being absent. I also miss the inclusion of socially deprived people who do not gain from social relations but always lose in cross talks with a socially superior person. Da Matta discusses the rule ‘Você Você sabe com quem está falando?!’ ?!’ referring to various situations but always from a socially superior perspective, such as his own as an educated professor. He ignores the position of the policeman who has to withdraw, humiliated. Da Matta always argues with ideal social concepts; and though he illustrates them with many stories, they do not address every issue, such as those concerning the ongoing change of class and gender boundaries. Even his study of heroes refers to legendary popular heroes, whose stories belong to the narrative memory, and fictional characters of Brazilian literature, and not to the biographies of real people. Nonetheless, this also illustrates da Matta’s special perspective. As distinct from his colleagues in cultural theory da Matta does not regard Brazilian society as an accumulation of consumers. Without even the slightest criticism of the products of the cultural industry da Matta acknowledges them as a means of social articulation. Bestsellers and cheap reproductions of art allow different degrees of coordination and attachment between groups, categories, social segments

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and even nations (see da Matta 1991: 244). His perspective is therefore totally different from that of the other theorists I have presented, because he is interested in ‘the other side of the text’. Da Matta demands the questioning of a work and de-mystifying, de-alienating, or uprooting … from its central position in a given culture or society – either as an object of unbridled consumption, or as a paradigmatic element associated with the authorities and power, or as the accepted, unquestionable construction for a given moment of history of that social body. (1991: 243)

He illustrates this concept in his own studies about the social practices that he analyses with regard to specific historical moments or specific social constructions (may I remind the reader of his interpretation of the rule that lays inside the phrase ‘Você sabe com quem está falando?!’ referring to the separation between person and individual and to the abolition of slavery) or describes them chronologically with reference to their central position (as seen in his carnival study). Though the adaptation of his anthropological method to other areas is possible, it is very difficult to adapt his model to other cultures because of the limited localization of urban contexts. Though he speaks about Brazil and Brazilian society, da Matta really describes only Rio de Janeiro and ignores even its surroundings, the Northeast of Brazil. The inclusion of Brazilian emigrants would be unthinkable. It is still possible to interpret the Iglesia Universal in Brooklyn according to da Matta’s structures (the community is organized around a core leading the egalitarian mass of believers, the code of behaviour is inspired by the social roles in the House domain, and even the dialectic between the two codes is visible in the community as illustrated above). But the community symbolizes only one aspect of the religious plurality and without the inclusion of the borders, the outsiders, it would be impossible to understand the church. But, despite my critique, I do not challenge da Matta’s merit. His model offers an important interpretation of Brazilian culture. The bipolar opposition of House and Street is discovered in other parts of Latin America and the Mediterranean, but never so well described. The particularity of his work is the vehemence with which he traces the so-called Brazilian dilemma back to his model. He embraces the material and decorates his theory with many details and stories. His research demonstrates a way to look at heterogeneous national cultures from an anthropological perspective. Third Scene: A Festival in Honour of Erzulie In September 1998 I was invited for the first time to a Vodou ceremony. A colleague, a musical anthropologist, who later became a friend, welcomed my joining. The ceremony was in Long Island, and I was very curious (and a bit nervous) about what awaited me. The journey was a rite of passage for me. I sat in a very small car, full of people and musical instruments, and listened to endless stories about people I would soon meet, about people who have left Vodou and joined other very different religions, about Vodou in general and Vodou from a personal perspective and many more, and very private, details of the lives of the people in the car. It rained the whole time and the journey seemed to be endless. One member of the group seemed to me to be a trickster, always trying to challenge and assess me. Another member,

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a musician who performed not only at Vodou but also at Santería ceremonies, spoke no Kreyòl so the conversation was held in English most of the time. When we arrived at the house of the mambo M. in Long Island – a small house in a quiet neighbourhood – some other musicians were already there, and the ceremony had just started. The temple was in the basement of the house. A group of people sat in front of the altar, mostly women dressed in white, and sang the first prayers. The mambo had a small bell in her hand and led the prayers. I smelt incense. The musicians with whom I had arrived immediately started to play. At the beginning only a few people sat on chairs but after some time the basement was full of people, mainly Haitians and Haitian-Americans, descendents of Haitian migrants. More chairs were brought into the room, and I was glad of my chair. No one seemed to take any notice of my presence; I was accepted as a friend. As in every Vodou ceremony this one was divided into several sections. Only the length of each section varies, depending on the spirit the community wants to honour with the ceremony. This ceremony in Long Island was in honour of the lwa Erzulie, who belongs to the Rada nation; hence the section for Rada was longer than in other ceremonies. The mambo led the whole ceremony with her voice though she was supported by some members of her temple and others in the audience, all dressed in white. After the prayers followed the songs for Legba, the trickster who opens the doors and has to be honoured at the beginning of every ceremony; otherwise the spirits will not come. Then the small chairs in front of the altar were carried away and the next part began. The music changed into Rada style. A lwa from the Rada nation approached some members who at first resisted the possession, which was visible in convulsive body movements. Every time a spirit tries to mount a human body, the human soul fights against it until it surrenders to the powerful force of the lwa. Convulsive movements are interpreted as a sign of an approaching lwa. Hence, every time a person behaved in such a way, members of the temple came to look after this person so that the human body (as well as other people) would not be harmed by these movements. Then Erzulie, the main spirit at this evening, announced her arrival. In her honour there was a statue of Our Lady of Lourdes on the altar together with her favourite objects: perfume, sweets, biscuits and more. After a while she mounted the body of the mambo, who fell on the floor. Some men carried her body carefully to a small chamber where she was dressed in the favourite colours of Erzulie. Wearing the new clothes Erzulie made her grand entrance. She seduced the men, greeted some women casually and held court. More than two hours passed. The air became sticky, full of incense, perfume and alcohol that were spread in all four directions. Because of the neighbours who had already called the police more than once, the windows remained closed, though in Haiti the whole neighbourhood would be included in such a ceremony. Once in a while the mambo urged the participants to join her and to support her with singing. The next part was in honour of the Nago nation. People who were dressed in white changed into red clothes. Again the body of the mambo was mounted, this time by Ogou who immediately received a red bandana, a machete and a cigar. Ogou presents himself as being very aggressive, very ‘male’. A young Haitian-American

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woman who wanted to attract attention with charming movements failed to do so in the light of the dominance of Ogou. After a dinner break the celebration continued with the Petro section, a very colourful experience. The lwa appeared collectively and not individually. The mambo mixed several ingredients that were already prepared on the altar into a large bowl with water (parts of grilled pork, cake, beverages, fruits, sugar, eggs, sweets, and more) and smeared it as a blessing on the arms of the participants, sometimes on the whole upper part of the body. The last part of the night was dedicated to Gédé, the master of death and new beginnings. This part was the funniest. People made jokes, they laughed and drank. But Gédé also demanded money and attention. The ceremony ended at approximately 5 a.m., at dawn. The mambo was still mounted by Gédé and handed out pieces of cake to the members of her temple who were still present. As we started to leave, and I approached the mambo to thank her, I was told to be careful because it was still Gédé and not the mambo. The mambo is the central figure at the ceremony. While she was possessed, it was possible to consult her, or more precisely, the lwa who had mounted her body. Though other members of her temple also became possessed, the mambo was the main character who led the whole ceremony with her voice, even when her body was mounted. She paid attention to every detail, gave orders to her assistants and demanded the support of all participants. Some weeks later I met her at another ceremony, this time on stage. Though she participates in performances, her main aim is the development of her own temple. She would like to establish a larger permanent community with more members who would support her better during the ceremonies. At the end of the ceremony, after nearly eight hours, she was physically exhausted. Even I felt at the end of my strength, and I was just observing and listening. The air, the many and diverse impressions, the loud music – all had an impact on me. I became silent and went home. Créolité and Other Complex Cultural Constructs In this section I will present theories developed in the Caribbean as well as theories developed about the Caribbean Diaspora. At the end I will explain some anthropological models that have developed in order to understand complex, mainly urban, cultures. Créolité and cultura criolla In order to understand the different approaches to the debate about creolization one has to look at the roots of the term. During Spanish colonial times Creole or, more precisely, criollo in Spanish, symbolized an ethnic and social category: the descendents of Spanish parents born in the colonies instead of in Spain as their parents had been. Despite being of ‘pure’ Spanish decent they were legally and socially discriminated against and could not take over, for instance, certain offices and positions. Hence they could not gain the high prestige of their parents. Consequently, they supported

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the independence movement against Spain and in the end ‘freed’ the colonies from Spanish rule, only to fill those positions formerly occupied by Spanish people. In the French colonies creole became a racial category for descendents of parents of mixed racial origin. In the colonial hierarchy Creoles were ranked between White and Black, hence often between masters and slaves; they became the symbol of mixture, analogous with mestizos in continental Latin America. This specific connotation even influenced linguistic discourse about the creole language, a mixture of French and other languages, with the result that Creoles are sometime identified with the use of a Creole language.28 The different derivations still lead to confusion within the debate about creolization and créolité as a cultural term. While some scholars understand creolization as a linguistic term, others use it in the sense of the Spanish colonial period and again others as a synonym for mixture or hybridity.29 As a clarification André-Marcel d’Ans looks at the etymological origin of the term and refers to the Latin term creare (1997: 29). The French adjective créole describes something and someone according to its place of origin, place of birth, outside autochthon conditions, hence Blancs créole are White people who are not born in Europe, and Noirs créole are Black people not born in Africa (D’Ans 1997: 29). Though the meaning still remains diffuse, it becomes clear that Creole always indicates a pejorative connotation with respect to a superior category – whether European culture or a biological or linguistic ‘purity’. Créolité is therefore often described in the context of a plantation, and hence with reference to slavery, because it was the place where different groups met in an inegalitarian structure (Bonniol 1997: 25). According to this definition créolité never exists without cultural and social bondage (see Benoist 1997: 335). In the debate about creolization there are also voices that want to separate the process of creolization from its violent origin in order to connect it to positive connotations because it is a fundamental New World experience. Jean Bernabé, Patrick Chamoiseau and Raphaël Confiant, for instance, begin their Éloge de la Créolité with the proud statement: ‘Neither Europeans, nor Africans, nor Asians, we proclaim ourselves Creoles’ (1993: 75). The three authors investigate francophone créolité in their book or, more precisely, the Martinique School of créolité (Condé 1998: 106), and see Creole identity as the cement of Caribbean culture. With reference to Édouard Glissant, they demand a turn away from the Caribbean orientation towards France and a return to remembering their own Creole culture, which they define as ‘the interactional or transactional aggregate of Caribbean, European, African, Asian, and Levantine cultural elements, united on the same soil by the yoke of history’ (Bernabé, Chamoiseau and Confiant 1993: 87). In this context they distinguish between américanité, antillanité and créolité. 28 See, for instance, d’Ans 1997 about the question ‘Créoles sans langue créole’. 29 At a conference Eva Martha Eckkrammer explained that the term creole was used for the first time in 1563. Despite its dubious origin she referred to an early connection to the slave trade because children of freed slaves were labelled Creole in Brazil (paper presented at the conference ‘Alte Welt, neue Welt – Kulturkontakt und Kreolisierung’ in May 1999 in Berlin; for the later expanded published version, see Eckkrammer 2003). The vehement debate between Laënnec Hurbon, Léon-François Hoffmann, Mervyn Alleyne, Michael Dash, Frank Martinus Arion and Antonio Benítez Rojo at this conference illustrated to me once again the importance of the creolization debate and its many definitions.

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While they characterize américanité as progressive adaptation without real interaction, they emphasize the aspect of interaction in créolité, though the interaction was not harmonious but violent within the context of plantation economy. The three authors, then, characterize antillanité only as a geopolitical process that adapted without interacting, in a similar way to américanité. Bernabé, Chamoiseau and Confiant emphasize that the Creole population in the Caribbean has developed a double sense of solidarity: a geopolitical Antillean solidarity to all people in the Caribbean and a Creole solidarity to African, Asian and Polynesian people with a Creole affinity (1993: 29–33). Like Glissant, they see in the literature the most important expression of créolité because the discovery of the ‘real’ nature of créolité would be possible only in fine art. They emphasize the oral character of Creole literature and reject the use of the French language as colonial heritage. Danticat, the Haitian novelist whom I mentioned in Chapter 1, would not be classified as Creole because of her choice of language for publication. In contrast to the above, Kathleen Balutansky and Marie-Agnès Sourieau stress the endless transformation process of creolization that is undermined by academic and political efforts to search for its origin or authenticity. Creolization ‘is thus defined as a syncretic process of transverse dynamics that endlessly reworks and transforms the cultural patterns of varied social and historical experiences and identities’ (Balutansky and Sourieau 1998: 3). Wilson Harris illustrates this transformation process with Legba, the Vodou lwa of crossings. Though his roots are unquestionably in Africa, Legba received his ambivalent Vodou character through the process of creolization in Haiti. He is a combination of different roots ‘born of Haiti’s relationship to conservative, tribal Africa as well as to confused legacies of slave-owning French landlords cheek by jowl, so to speak, with revolutionary, counterrevolutionary politics in France and the rise of Napoleonic dictatorship’ (Harris 1998: 30). Only in Haiti did Legba become the figure with one leg who is old and yet without age, strong and weak, poor and rich at the same time, and provides a bridge between the two worlds, the material and the ‘unreal’. Similarly to Bernabé, Chamoiseau and Confiant, Ulf Hannerz also transfers the concept of creolization to global processes. He considers Creole cultures – as Creole languages – ‘intrinsically of mixed origin, the confluence of two or more widely separate historical currents which interact in what is basically a centre/periphery relationship’ (Hannerz 1992: 264). He argues that Creole cultures have grown over a long period of time, during which they have developed a degree of coherence. Creole cultures have an uninterrupted spectrum of forms of interaction that are visible and active together with several historical sources of the culture. On one side of the Creole continuum there is the culture of the centre with the greatest prestige, and on the other side are a diverse number of cultural forms on the periphery. But the cultural process of creolization has not only developed because of the pressure of the centre on the periphery – it is a creative interplay: As languages have different dimensions such as grammar, phonology, and lexicon, and as creole languages are formed as unique combinations and creations out of the interaction between languages in these various dimensions, so creole cultures come out of multidimensional cultural encounters and can put things together in new ways. (Hannerz 1992: 265)

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However, though Hannerz regards creolization as an abstract process of cultural contact, most scholars still discuss creolization within the Caribbean. Even Bernabé, Chamoiseau and Confiant, who do not regard créolité as a geopolitical concept (1993: 29–32), always refer to the francophone Caribbean in their book, limiting the Creole identity to a colonial one that focuses on France. A characteristic of the debate about créolité is therefore often the local reference. In the study of creolization most scholars emphasize the country in which history led the cultures together because elements can receive a different meaning when mixed together. In this way the particularity of specific islands is kept, though a critical point in the debate is often the meaning of the plantation in the creation process. Though creolization is often localized in the centre of slavery, and hence on the plantation, it is also sometimes at its border. The plantation is the central characteristic of the Caribbean as a social-cultural unity (see Mintz 1966). In a similar way to Gilberto Freyre’s opposition of Master House and Slave Hut in the Caribbean30 the plantation symbolizes various aspects, from economy and labour system to religion and medicine. Nonetheless, Mintz’s presentation of the Caribbean as a homogeneous region contradicts the efforts of representatives from specific islands to highlight the particularity of their island. The Cuban scholar Antonio Benítez Rojo tries to bring both positions together. He also regards the plantation as the central characteristic of the Caribbean but states at the same time that the plantation was differently structured on each island and during every historical period, hence also had a different influence on the development of the specific culture. He argues that cultura criolla was developed at the borders of the plantation economy, hence ‘where no sugar plantation existed’ (Hofmann 1994: 254). According to his perspective ‘criollos’, also named ‘people of the earth’ appeared in this society of free rules, separated by mountains from the colonial centres of power, under the joint interests of smugglers (Benítez Rojo 1989: 18). This description illustrates that Benítez Rojo derives the term creolization from its original meaning of ‘people of Spanish descent born in the colonies’. Already living with various restrictions, they did not need to follow the strict orders of the motherland and could live much more freely than the peninsulares, their Spanish neighbours born in Spain. In this sense the term criollo receives a meaning of ‘a non-synthetic mixture of cultures’ (Hofmann 1994: 254). Benítez Rojo uses the example of the Virgen de la caridad del cobre, the national patron of Cuba, to describe Creole cultural practice. The worship of the Virgin was introduced into Cuba in 1605. She combines Christian elements (Virgen de Illescas) with elements from the Taino religion (the goddess Atabey or Atabex) as well as from the Yoruba religion (the godess Ochún). Each of these three female entities already had a syncretistic nature because they had developed from the mixture of various religious beliefs connected to the sea before they then merged together and became the Virgen de la caridad del cobre, a goddess of the sea. Nonetheless, despite the derivation of the specific elements that also exist separately, there is no doubt, according to Benítez Rojo, that the Virgen de la caridad del cobre is a pure Cuban figure of Mary who still is – in different degrees – of central importance for all Cubans (1989: xvi–xxi). Benítez Rojo regards the 30 Sylvia M. Schomburg-Scherff also characterizes the Caribbean with the two social locations, master houses and slave huts (1999: 83–7).

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juxtaposition of equal parts and their constantly renewed interweaving as a typical Caribbean practice, which is manifested in the Cuban religion Santería as well as in Cuban literature (Hofmann 1994: 255) – and that repeats itself continuously as the title of his main book La isla que se repite indicates. It becomes obvious that Benítez Rojo challenges the characterization of creolization as process because ‘process’ would indicate progress, but creolization is, according to him, ‘a discontinuous series of recurrences, of happenings, whose sole law is change’ (1998: 55). Benítez Rojo strictly separates his concept from Miguel Barnet who looks at the plantation as a form of melting pot (Hofmann Hofmann 1994: 261);;31 he argues that the location of the production of new cultural invention was not the plantation but the copper mine where the cult of the Virgen de la caridad del cobre started. Because he localizes the cultura criolla outside of the plantation, and hence outside the place of violent suppression and deculturation, he removes the Caribbean from the ‘model of discourse and anti-discourse, of repression and opposition’ and argues at the same time against a synthetic, homogeneous cultural concept (Hofmann 1994: 262). In the Caribbean diverse experiences and perspectives clashed, mixed, crossed and created a kaleidoscopic or prismatic entity, a mosaic or patchwork (see Schomburg-Scherff 1999: 261). Benítez Rojo argues that even in the concept of transculturation developed by his Cuban predecessor Fernando Ortiz in his book Contrapunteo cubano del tabaco y el azúcar (1940) one can find a perfect example of the cultura criolla. Ortiz’s concept of transculturation can be regarded as an early contribution to the debate about the mixture of cultures. He described Cuban cultural history as a process of assimilation of European and African influences. Like Benítez Rojo, Ortiz connected this process to the tobacco industry instead of slave plantations. Tobacco becomes the point of reference outside the sugar plantations, hence the place where social practices could be situated which were different from the repressive, capitalistic sugar plantations (see Hofmann 1994: 257). Ortiz therefore creates a dichotomy between sugar and tobacco, between suppression by slavery and creativity by acculturation. According to Ortiz only the latter, the tobacco, was able to create Cuban identity by mixing European and African elements together. Hence cultural freedom of expression was possible only outside the slavery system (Ortiz 1993: 152–3). For Manuel Moreno Fraginals, who later elaborated Ortiz’s concept by describing a complex process of transculturation and deculturation (1984: 10), the sugar plantations even became a place of deculturation where the African slaves had no opportunity to celebrate their cultural traditions. A totally different view is taken by the Martiniquian scholar Edouard Glissant, who regards creolization from the plantation perspective: the perspective of suppression and uprooting. Glissant argues that there is no discours antillais outside the plantation. Even maroons, the runaway slaves, who are described as representatives of a counter-culture, stand in relation to the plantation, the place of the creation of the Creole culture (Hofmann 1994: 255, referring to Glissant 1981). Glissant construes his concept of diversity with reference to the experience of the inhabitants of the Caribbean, mainly the ‘deported’ and ‘imported’ persons, hence 31 See, for instance, the critique against Barnet and his concept of the plantation as location of cultural production in Benítez Rojo 1984.

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Arawaks, Caribs and African slaves. Glissant defines creolization as this experience of diversity, a process unnoticed for a long time: ‘Creolization is not an uprooting, a loss of sight, a suspension of being. Transience is not wandering. Diversity is not dilution’ (Glissant 1995: 269). Glissant distinguishes creolization from métissage because of the inclusion of new elements. Glissant refers in his definition to the linguistic discourse and then distinguishes Creole languages from pidgin: while pidgin plays with elements from a language, the Creole language always works within two languages or with elements from two different language fields. As the product of a synthesis every Creole language is therefore a new form of expression, a supplement to its two or more roots. Transferred to the cultural process, creolization implies the unpredictable, not a direct synthesis but résultantes (results), ‘something else, another way’ (Glissant 1995: 269–70). Glissant limits the process of creolization to the Caribbean, Brazil and parts of Middle America, to areas where the plantation was a central element; in other areas of America, for instance in the USA, diverse ethnic groups lived side by side or fought for survival. The problem of the inhabitants of the plantations was ‘to give legitimacy to this new dimension of human nature they constitute, the dimension of exchange and mutual change, in a world in which apartheid and racism still rule and dominate’ (Glissant 1995: 270). Glissant’s argument is based on bipolar oppositions (see Hofmann 1994: 258–9), such as his opposition of Creole culture with the elitist French group. While the Latin American postmodern debate increasingly dissolves the opposition between centre and periphery within, Glissant emphasizes it. He does not regard identity of cultures as an ontological category but as identité-relation construed in the exchange of cultures (Hofmann 1994: 259). Creolization is for Glissant one of the present-day goals while the utopian ideal consists of the open idea of identity, the annulment of old categories (1995: 271). Nonetheless creolization serves a purpose, Glissant insists, because it creates something new and helps ‘to liberate Columbus from himself’: Trying to realize the absolute unity of the universe (meaning of earth) and of mankind (meaning Western man’s concept of mankind), Columbus found irreducible diversity surviving under massacre. Let us help him achieve the voyage. Columbus will be whom and what we will be able to do and to create in the field of nonsectarian, nonmetaphysical, and nonabsolute communication and relation. (1995: 274)

It becomes obvious that Glissant always argues within a temporal continuum. He wants to improve the world, while Benítez Rojo does not want to create a new vision of the future, but offers another way of reading Creole cultures. This is why Benítez Rojo localizes his remarks in a place instead of in time (Hofmann 1994: 261–2). Despite the differing approaches, both concepts regard culture as ‘anti-centric structures’ without a firm order, but based on an interconnection of various orders, which lead to new, unpredictable phenomena (see Hofmann 1994: 252). The diversity of creolization, which makes its model so fascinating, limits its adaptation to other regions. The scenic description of the Vodou ceremony can easily be characterized as Creole (not only because of the language). Elements are combined that receive their meaning only in the ritual context. The sweets for Erzulie and the

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music only become Haitian elements of the ritual practice during the ceremony. Nonetheless, the event took place in Long Island and not in Haiti. The performance created the atmosphere of a place in Haiti, and the participants forgot for a while the hostile environment. But this place in Haiti does not exist for the participants of the ceremony except on an imaginary level. It became obvious at the end of the ceremony when we stepped out into the cold dawn in Long Island that it was not real. Even the vision of an imaginary ‘Haitian place’ is a transfer because not everyone dreams of Haiti or the Caribbean. The Caribbean does not consist of the old plantations that existed on each island to a different degree; and Vodou, too, is no longer connected to simple images and stereotypes. Vodou is practised in New York not only by Creole people but also by Anglo-Americans, Jamaicans, African-Americans and many others whose religious beliefs influence and change it. The concept of créolité is not ready to incorporate these new influences and developments. Despite its flexibility, creolization ignores the outsiders, the foreigners and the neighbours, because the perspective is still on the ‘plantation’, the descendents of the slave economy. But tourists own the master houses today and have replaced the former owners (Schomburg-Scherff 1999: 106–13). In this sense religious performances on stage, dance workshops and other performances belong to Caribbean religions that are no longer restricted to a homogeneous ethnic group. Urban Cultural Models in the Context of Creolization After the presentation of the cultural theoretical debate in Latin America and the Caribbean the question of how to study cultural processes in urban contexts arises. Even Ulf Hannerz mentions the limitations of cultural studies in cities, mainly because of ‘human mobility’. The openness of urban systems, one of the main characteristics of cities, makes them fragmented and vulnerable so that one should not limit an investigation about cultural complexity to one place (Hannerz 1992: 215–16). Already small groups such as the Vodou temple in Long Island remain incomprehensible without a reference to Port-au-Prince; religious communities of migrants cannot be limited to one location. In this sense Spielmann states that social location can also be abstract, for instance when it consists of a group of urban citizens living in a space between two places, in a transnational community. Similarly to the social place ‘City’ this space between two places can also be described as a moment of cultural disparity in which global signs and cultural elements of local rooms and systems meet (Spielmann 1994a: 120–21). Despite his challenge to the limitation of concrete places, Hannerz looks, nonetheless, at three cities in different historical periods when they became the location of a production of remarkable cultural diversity (Vienna at the end of the nineteenth century, Calcutta during the Bengal Renaissance in the nineteenth century and San Francisco in the 1950s). A common characteristic of the three cities is, according to Hannerz, the openness of the urban cultural processes that is visible on different levels. Besides intensive contacts between each of the cities with other systems the openness is created by an imported cultural heterogeneity, hence the strong influence of numerous immigrants from the outside. In contrast to Robert Redfield and Milton B. Singer who in 1954 distinguished two categories of cities – cities

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with a homogeneous tradition and cities with a heterogeneous tradition – Hannerz recognized only cities of the second category because cities are increasingly formed by heterogeneous immigrants and not by the environment (Redfield and Singer 1954: 59, Hannerz 1992: 198). The particularity of cities is not only their diversity but also the internal openness that continuously offers new opportunities for serendipity. One finds something without looking for it because one is always surrounded by it in a city. This creates a relatively easy availability of cultural interfaces (see Hannerz 1992: 203). This special form of creativity that originates through the encounter of different perspectives causes the dynamism of urban cultural processes. ‘Taken-for-grantedness is in large part made impossible, opposition leads to detoxification, perspectives are sharpened’ (Hannerz 1992: 213). A characteristic of cultural complexity is therefore that the borders between sections cannot be defined or even become porous. Hannerz therefore challenges the concept of the world as a mosaic composed of separate pieces with hard, well-defined corners. Cultural interfaces increasingly represent the world so that the meaning of cultures dissolves because ‘the entities we routinely call cultures are becoming more like subcultures within this wider entity, with all that this suggests in terms of fuzzy boundaries and more or less arbitrary delimitation of analytical units’ (Hannerz 1992: 218). Latin American cities such as São Paulo in the 1920s can also be characterized by the same kind of ‘cross-fertilization’ between different expressive forms that turn everything upside down and create more penetrability between class and gender borders.32 Confronted by the liquidation of units described by Hannerz I use a different approach. Localizing cultural theoretical studies in ethnographic research not only leads to the annulment of strictly defined borders but also enables the use of central study units. Instead of extracting details for an analytical purpose, the choice of elements will remain in the hands of the actors of the culture. It is possible to investigate the complex and sometimes contradictory simultaneity of human possibilities in the postmodern era with stories, languages, lifestyles of different social groups, experiences, hopes, aspirations and discourses (see Stienen 1995: 5). I focus on the religious discourse. Nonetheless, an important aspect of Hannerz’s work is the characterization of complex cultures through their interfaces, hence through the creative exchange between different systems. Only casually does Hannerz mention the impact of urban complexity on national societies. Though he discusses the question of what cultures characterize on the whole, and insists that ethnic groups do not consist of small, autonomous units, he does not offer an approach to the study of cultures of complex societies. His ‘macro-anthropology of culture’ contains only the statement that cultures can be characterized downscale through concrete roots and upscale through an increasing diversity (Hannerz 1992: 18–28). In this context the missing debate about postmodernism is remarkable. After challenging the stereotype of a global village and the postmodern reduction of ‘Zeitgeist’, he does not mention the postmodern debate that he limits to Western cultures at all. He totally ignores the different developments of postmodernism outside Europe and North America, the diversity of which should be of interest to him as an anthropologist. The metropolises outside 32 See, for instance, the description of São Paulo in Spielmann 1994a: 115–18.

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Europe are the links between a Eurocentric perspective and the local particularities of these movements. They also have important significance for the development of national identity as da Matta’s analysis of the carnival illustrates. During the struggle for independence the national consciousness was construed based on rural tradition, ignoring cities (Freyre’s construction of brasilidade would be an example of this movement). Today urban centres take over the central role of constructing the nation though sometimes still with the inclusion of rural traditions. In this sense a nation becomes, as Daus writes with reference to Diego Rivera, ‘a dream of a late Sunday in the Park Alameda’ (1995: 72, my translation). The tamed nature of the urban centres becomes the symbol of the rural hinterland without which no city can exist. The narrow connections between countryside and city are also visible in the context of migration studies that more and more often start by being based on an abstract, fictional location. Instead of describing the culture of the migrants as a heterogeneous mixture of rural and urban elements from different sources,33 the biographical research on migrants implicitly emphasizes the individuality of their destinies and the diversity of their decisions. In his study of labour migrants from Barbados George Gmelch, for instance, describes the migration cycle between the Caribbean and the United Kingdom, Canada and the USA by presenting some selected individuals and letting them explain in their own words the decisions they made (1992: 261–310). The migration cycle leads to the creation of a transnational community that combines individuals in different constellations, in different societies and in different places. At the end of this chapter I will describe another scene that portrays such a community that unifies people of mixed descents, Puerto Ricans, Cubans, Anglo-Americans and more, under the umbrella of a religion in a Mexican restaurant in New York City and that binds the ritual lines that connect them to Cuba and Africa. In this sense Luis Eduardo Guarnizo defines transnationalism as a ‘web web of cultural, social, economic, and political relationships, practices, and identities built by migrants across national borders’ (1997: 1997: 287). Transmigration does not only refer to the mobility of migrants between two nations; it describes a ‘two-way two-way exchange of both tangible and intangible resources (such as people, money, ideas, cultural symbols and the like) across national borders’ (Guarnizo Guarnizo 1997: 288). Eugenia Georges illustrates this de-territorial unity in her study about migrants from the Dominican Republic in New York and their village, Los Pinos. She combines the presentation of biographies with a structural-historical approach that includes the migration movement in a global context (Georges 1990: 3–10). This creates a dynamic cultural concept that very flexibly subordinates to social change. Georges investigates the microcosms of transnational migrants and describes migration as social process. Though she mentions the cultural frame only casually, one can extract some comments on the underlying cultural concept from her study. Migrants from the Dominican Republic are quite suitable for a transnational study in New York because they represent the second largest group of Spanish-speaking inhabitants after Puerto Ricans. Since the 1960s they have been a group with a large representation in New York City, and since the 1970s they have headed the list of 33 For an example, see the Columbian study about the culture of emigrants, Hnas. misioneras de San Carlos Borromeo Scalabrinianas 1995: 91.

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immigrants in New York City (Puerto Ricans do not count as immigrants, as already explained). Apart from the official numbers that represent only legal immigrants many Dominicans live illegally in New York, though their number cannot be established. At the same time the Dominican Republic is the first country to have elected as its president a transmigrant with a permanent residence permit in the USA, Leonel Fernández, who became president in 1996. National decisions and election campaigns involve the inclusion of the large number of emigrants who are responsible for the well-being of the home country even after years or decades of absence.34 Georges investigates a community of people living in Los Pinos and New York City who are all connected to Los Pinos. Based on her research she developed a homogeneous social and economic structure that puts everyone in relationship to each other, including people who have never left Los Pinos, because they, too, have relatives in New York City. Georges states that 40 per cent of all households in Los Pinos have relatives in the USA. Remittances and other gifts have influenced the social structure of the village as well as its visual appearance. At the same time the migrants have changed because of their life in New York City, as people in Los Pinos complain (‘Nueva York hace cambiar a la gente [New York has changed people]’, Georges 1990: 161), not only their clothes have changed but also their behaviour. If someone forgets to bring presents, people in Los Pinos say that they have forgotten their home while the fact that charities are supported by these migrants is already seen as the norm. Nonetheless, people in Los Pinos have a realistic image of life in New York City, which is portrayed not as paradise but with its problems and difficulties. Though only 12 per cent of migrants return to Los Pinos, most of them stay in contact with the village and participate in its life, though often only through stories or short visits (Georges 1990: 130–35, 197–201). Among other things Georges demonstrates the diversity of reasons that led to the emigration, as well as the discrepancy between ideal associations and reality. In Los Pinos a woman is praised, for instance, for not leaving the house, while most of the first migrants arriving from Los Pinos in New York City were women, married as well as single, from highly regarded families. Though they did not travel alone, they were criticized for their behaviour and in particular at the beginning of the migration circle they were accused of being prostitutes. The migration changed the gender relationship even for people in Los Pinos. For women left alone because their partner has migrated to New York City, the situation is often catastrophic because many emigrants do not support their children at home financially. The result are households led by women with visiting husbands who normally live in New York City, or even households of grandmothers and grandchildren because both parents work in New York City. Women increasingly see themselves as imprisoned in the conventional role of mother. Georges approaches the transnational community as being a relatively homogeneous group that becomes after a while more heterogeneous because when members change according to their life, the community changes, too. She describes 34 The example of Enrique Sosa, a famous sports hero, illustrates the seriousness of the situation. Though a celebrated hero who was even honoured with a confetti parade in New York City in 1998, he was harshly criticized when he did not respond as he was supposed to do after the hurricane catastrophe in 1998.

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therefore an increase in cultural heterogeneity that is not limited to one place but exists above and beyond the location. Instead of citing mixing as the reason for cultural heterogeneity Georges regards individual biographies as a catalyst for diversity, a factor often ignored in cultural studies. In particular migration studies illustrate that cultural constructs are not permanently fixed; the people creating this concept react dynamically to developments and recreate the concepts according to their expectations and ideas. As Elizabeth Thomas-Hope states for the Caribbean, migration of one generation becomes part of the next generation: ‘For For migration, as part of the material or real environment, is interpreted as a component of the cultural environment and therefore becomes part of the image.’ And she continues that ‘they themselves and their migration are part of the reality for a time but remain part of the myth forever’ (Thomas-Hope Thomas-Hope 1992: 159). This level of the meaning of migration changes the cultural concepts that underlie these studies. When migration becomes part of reality, it will change the research unit from an artificially limited one to a construed one that does not ‘really’ exist in one place. But it also changes the perspective from which one can study the culture of such a community because it is characterized neither by heterogeneity nor homogeneity but as a snapshot of a continuously changing reality. At first glance one could assume that transmigration studies are in the tradition of the hybridity concept of García Canclini, who locates his theory in the borderland between Mexico and the USA. But there are some differences between García Canclini and transnational studies. Guarniza writes about the transnational migration: far from homogeneous, the effects of [transnational] migration are varied and affect people according to their position in the social, gender, and regional power structure of their country of origin. Nevertheless, this heterogeneity is countered by a process of homogenization generated by the migration experience itself and the effect of unfriendly (and at times antagonistic) contexts of reception in the two countries. (1997: 307)

Guarniza combines heterogeneous and homogeneous tendencies because both influence a transnational community. Transmigrants become a new form of ethnic group that exists in a transnational habitus (Pierre Bourdieu) in that the two nations are regarded as parts of one singular socio-cultural, economic and political field (Guarnizo 1997: 312). Often, studies about transmigration refer to research done in the Caribbean as a region with a long-established migration experience. The Caribbean has apparently sharpened the ability of researchers to discover the dynamism and the lack of static poles though transmigration is also documented in other regions.35 The Caribbean is again a prime example for the development of new cultural concepts. Looking back on the creolization debate with its narrow emphasis on location, it becomes obvious that the idea of an organic relationship between population, territory, political organization and a package of meaning is obsolete (Hannerz 1998: 20). Transnational communities represent the disintegration of the narrow connection between culture, territory and population. In particular the increasing spread of transnational relations that are not restricted to elitist groups radically changes cultural concepts. Hannerz describes an asymmetrical flow between centre and periphery that 35 See the short overview in Guarnizo 1997: 284–6.

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influences the periphery more than the centre. Santiago argues from the perceptive of a region that Hannerz categorizes as periphery, while Hannerz investigates predominantly European and North American cities. Nonetheless, his model does not imply a cultural homogeneity; quite the contrary, he praises cultural diversity as a very positive form of resistance against the pressure of the centres (Hannerz 1998: 60). He insists that change does not happen because of pressure but only because of a creative interplay between centre and periphery. Cultures are not autonomous beings but are carried and formed by individuals in different social constellations and with different intentions (Hannerz 1998: 68–9). He emphasizes in particular the meaning of creolization as an active process of cultural mixture. He states that ‘creolist concepts suggest that cultural mixture is not necessarily deviant, second-rate, unworthy of attention, matter out of place’, and that the term Creole implies therefore ‘connotations of creativity and of richness of expression’ (Hannerz 1998: 66). In the centre of the Creole cultural concept is a combination of ‘diversity, interconnectedness, and innovation, in the context of global centre-periphery relationships’ (Hannerz 1998: 67). Hence, not only the periphery can become Creole, but the centre can, too – in particular because of the migrants, as the scenic descriptions in this chapter have illustrated. Even as global a city36 as New York City distinguishes itself because of its ability to include foreign elements and connect them with local resources. The presence of various migrant groups does not sufficiently explain the cultural heterogeneity of a city such as New York City; it needs structural patterns to enable the exchange.

Figure 4.3

Drums in a restaurant, Brooklyn (1998)

36 Hannerz characterizes a global city with these characteristics: transnational trade relations, large groups of immigrants from the so-called ‘Third World’, a small group of cultural specialists and a certain number of tourists (1998: 129–31).

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Fourth Scene: Songs of the Orichas in a Restaurant A last scenic description will illustrate the diversity of the religious spectrum. As with the first two scenes I observed this in 1998, but this time not in a church but in a secular place, a restaurant. It was a public performance of sacred Santería songs. As I have already mentioned, like Vodou the Cuban religion has a secret, religious side and a public one that also has a religious basis. In a small restaurant with a Mexican kitchen in Brooklyn a small Puerto RicanCuban group of musicians perform every Monday, usually Latin American rhythms. On the day I saw them, the group consisted of four drummers, a keyboard player, a guitarist and three (female) singers, two of whom were not Latinas. When I arrived most of the instruments and technical equipment were already installed though the musicians were still drinking and eating. The restaurant was completely packed, and I joined the queue after having greeted some of the members of the group. As soon as the last drum arrived the concert started after a short introduction by the group (see Figure 4.3). To the surprise of most of the customers, most of them Anglo-Americans who had probably never listened to such rhythms and had expected rumba and salsa, the group played songs in honour of the orichas. After a while it became obvious that the singing and the drum music fascinated the audience. The religious songs, whose text no one in the audience understood, had exuberant rhythm. Some in the audience even began to move on their chairs. One drummer flirted with a small child who would have preferred to stay and struggled with its jacket, trying to put off leaving the restaurant. Then, suddenly, a woman started to dance in front of the drums. A second followed. More and more people started singing the (Spanish) refrain and dancing. None became possessed; hence no oricha visited the party. Nonetheless, the atmosphere became quite similar to that of a celebration in a Santería temple. It was a cheerful, very lively spirit. The drummers played faster and faster and enthused even those costumers who had no idea at all what was going on. After an hour the musicians had a break, during which a recording of Latin American music was played. In the second part the group performed mainly rumba rhythms and only a few religious songs. But at the end, in the second interval, some musicians started to dance with some visitors in front of the drums. The concert ended, as is usual for a religious festival, with a party. This concert was not a religious event in the strict sense. It was not sacred, no religious community was present, and it was not even in a sacred room. Nonetheless, this little scene illustrates how interwoven religiosity is with ordinary life. For some decades, Santería was regarded in Cuba as folklore and its existence was justified as entertainment for tourists. But since the 1990s Santería has been able to stress its religious side in Cuba. In the USA, where the religion has had its place since the 1950s, more and more outsiders are attracted to the music and then become fascinated by Santería. New York City will become Caribbean – through the religions.

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Chapter 5

A New Composition of Culture A problem with many postmodern cultural theories is that they limit their perspective to the understanding of societies as holistic entities. These concepts often appear to be technical, nearly inhuman. But when we look at specific cultures such as the cultura criolla in the Caribbean all human senses are involved. One can see, touch, smell, hear and taste the Caribbean; it is a Caribbean of senses, emotions and sentiments (see Benítez Rojo 1989: xiii). Edouard Glissant talks about the human imagination, the ‘praxis of poesy’ as Sabine Hofmann calls it. For Glissant the human imagination is like a ‘black box’ that one cannot reduce to some strategies because the human imagination can always break these structures (Hofmann 1994: 264). Nonetheless, looking at the theories presented in Chapter 4, the question referring to the creative moment in cultural transformation remains unsolved. Every day sees the creation of new compositions, and some of them will already have changed the next day. In some religious communities the Lady of Lourdes is in the centre of communal worship; tomorrow it will perhaps be the Buddha. Today the ritual songs are performed in a restaurant, tomorrow in a temple, but by the same group of people. Today African deities can help; tomorrow they are transformed into demons. It seems that there is no central point in the cosmos, only the limitation of our own imagination, which often fails during the visit of the deities and spirits. Under the influence of the loud beat of the drums and their singing, everything is possible for believers, the manifestation of deities as well as the presence of the Holy Spirit. The chaos that inspired Benítez Rojo overcomes me; following his example I transform chaos into a (anti-centric) concept. Is it possible to construe a cultural theory based on religious events and other scenes? I think it is, following the lead of Mark Münzel’s myth-based indigenous theory. Indigenous narrators would never understand a question concerning the definition of their culture but would be able to tell myths. These myths are central primary sources for understanding their culture; they enable a variety of explanations with open characters that are connected to the indigenous way of thinking, indigenous culture (Münzel 1994: 267). Based on my research among Caribbean religious communities I have developed a cultural concept in a similar way to Münzel’s. But instead of referring to an outsider perspective I use the categories of the acting subjects as the starting point of my interpretation – until I, too, am confronted by the limits of my imagination. Bricolage as Metaphor of the ‘Savage Mind’ In his book The Savage Mind (1966, in French La Pensée Sauvage, 1962), Claude Lévi-Strauss breaks the limits of his own, sometimes static concept of structuralism.

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In particular his science du concret presents in a magnificent way how utopian the ‘predominance of European thinking’ is (Heinrichs 1983: 54). Though his ideas originate in small societies, my investigation of urban communities is inspired by his model of ‘bricolage’ in which he describes the creative energy of the human spirit. More than forty years ago Lévi-Strauss introduced the term bricolage into academic debate as a metaphor for the mythical thinking of traditional societies. In myths and rites Lévi-Strauss discovered ‘the remains of methods of observation and reflection which were (and no doubt still are) precisely adapted to discoveries of a certain type: those which nature authorized from the starting point of a speculative organization and exploitation of the sensible world in sensible terms’ (1966: 16). This science of the concrete (science du concret) is no less scientific than the natural sciences and results in findings that are no less real. In order to illustrate his argument Lévi-Strauss compares this way of thinking with technical handicraft. The term bricoleur represents a person ‘who works with his hands and uses devious means compared to those of a craftsman’ (Lévi-Strauss 1966: 16–17).1 This method can also be seen in mythical thinking: The characteristic feature of mythical thought is that it expresses itself by means of a heterogeneous repertoire which, even if extensive, is nevertheless limited. It has to use this repertoire, however, whatever the task in hand because it has nothing else at its disposal. Mythical thought is therefore a kind of intellectual ‘bricolage’ – which explains the relation which can be perceived between the two. (Lévi-Strauss 1966: 17)

Mythical thinking uses a limited number of means to develop a solution to a problem in a concrete situation, as a do-it-yourself person finds solutions for problems on a technical level. The creation process is limited in a continuously new arrangement of elements that were used in other situations and with a different function. Lévi-Strauss, who regarded himself as a do-it-yourself man (see the epilogue of The Jealous Potter, 1988), does not construe an opposition between the two ways of thinking, the mythical and the (natural) scientific, or an evolutionary hierarchy between the two concepts. He regards them as parallel kinds of cognition, as two comparable pathways. Though the science of the concrete was developed ten thousand years ago and was valued by Lévi-Strauss as the basis for our civilization, he argues against the degradation of mythical thinking as primitive. He illustrates his evaluation with the argument that even in our society mythical thinking exists, in particular in art and architecture. Two aspects in his model are particularly interesting: the reference to the ‘sensually perceivable world’ and the creativity of mythical thinking. He emphasizes that the bricoleur has to manage with only a limited collection of tools and materials; the product at the end may not be the best solution for the work to be done but the best result achievable with the materials at hand. This very flexible creativity, according to which no element has only one specific 1 As the translator of Lévi-Strauss’s book wrote, there is no precise equivalent of the term bricoleur in English. ‘He is a man who undertakes odd jobs and is a Jack of all trades or a kind of professional do-it-yourself man, but, as the text makes clear, he is of a different standing from, for instance, the English ‘odd job man’ or ‘handyman’ (trans. note in footnote, Lévi-Strauss 1966: 17).

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and therefore restricted meaning, represents the strong creative energy of LéviStrauss’s model that in the end breaks through structuralism. Though his opposition between the two ways of thinking contains a reminder of his structural system that regards social phenomena only as structural characters (see Heinrichs 1983: 88), Lévi-Strauss’s emphasis on spontaneity includes a dynamism and creativity of mind that does not exist statically but can adapt dynamically. As in his former book Race et Histoire (1952), Lévi-Strauss stresses in The Savage Mind his rejection of all colonial, racist and arrogant pejorative valuations, and argues in the tradition of Rousseau, Diderot, Montaigne and Montesquieu (Paz 1993: 10). In his critique of Eurocentrism he repeatedly states that there is no real difference between the two ways of thinking because they are based on common patterns. When the two forms of human thinking solve problems in similar ways, then there cannot be hierarchical differences between them. This is one feature of Lévi-Strauss that makes his colleagues sceptical, because they cannot accept that his structuralism reduces all human beings to one pattern (see Leach 1974: 55). Leach refers to a discrepancy in Lévi-Strauss’s work, namely that Lévi-Strauss distinguishes between the creativity of human beings in general and specific groups of people (1974: 56). Based on an excerpt from Tristes tropiques (1955) Leach concludes that Lévi-Strauss regards human societies – as distinct from individuals – as having only a limited creative ability. While Leach criticizes Lévi-Strauss’s discrepancy, I interpret it not only as a development in Lévi-Strauss’s work but as an indicator that Lévi-Strauss did not see the full consequences of his bricolage model, which breaks the boundaries of structuralism. But it also shows that structuralism – at least in LéviStrauss’s approach – contains adaptable elements and not only static structures. Even his structuralism includes a freedom of thinking that is often ignored by his critics. Terence Turner, for instance, challenges structural perspectives with reference to the adaptation of the definition of structure: ‘“Structure” in this operational sense bears little resemblance to the ‘structuralist’ concept of static patterns of contrastive relational formulated from a vantage point external to the context and process of construction’ (T. Turner 1995: 151). He ignores that even at the height of structuralism, when it was promoted by Lévi-Strauss as an alternative approach during the 1950s and 1960s, there was always a continuous movement between structure and process, between static and dynamic interpretations (Schneider 1995: 194–5). In the reception of The Savage Mind the critics sometimes ignore this ambivalence in Lévi-Strauss’s work. They often focus on the observation that the ‘theory of the mind’, based on the conception of the discrepancy between tamed and savage minds (Heinrichs 1983: 87), contains a rigidity that is not transferable to contemporary societies. The image of a mixed culture between two bipolar oppositions – ignored by Lévi-Strauss – challenges Latin American and Caribbean realities. The indigenous and Afro-American populations do not exist outside the urban world. Octavio Paz argues in a similar way against the dichotomy in Lévi-Strauss’s schema. Paz refers in his critique to the Latin American reality, in particular to the fundamental non-simultaneity of societies and cultures in Latin America, an important aspect of the postmodern debate there. Non-simultaneity breaks the static frame of any system organized in opposite poles of domesticated and savage minds (Lüsebrink 1994: 221, referring to Paz 1993). An example of the religions I have

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discussed illustrates his argument. In the figure of Changó, in Santería, one can discover two sides, a female and a male one. Both sides do not exist simultaneously, as is often argued, but the believers distinguish clearly which side they address at a particular time. Both sides are connected to certain times and sometimes even to certain locations. While the ‘new believers’, for instance the African-Americans, often cannot cope with the non-simultaneity of simultaneously existing forms, the ‘traditional believers’, the Cubans and Puerto Ricans, have no problems with this way of thinking; it is the core of their religion. Santa Barbara and Changó exist in one figure but are temporarily separated. Changó lives in the church as well, and Santa Barbara is present in the temple, the casas de santos; but her worship remains in the centre of a service in church while Changó’s worship remains in the temple. At both times there is only one side of the divine entity present. The Cuban santeros and santeras know perfectly well who is uppermost at which moments and who can be worshipped where and when. Octavio Paz traces the difficulties in understanding this way of thinking back to the limited conception of history that is very simple and linear in Europe. He criticizes Lévi-Strauss therefore in particular for his dichotomy between historical and savage thinking because even so-called historical societies have developed the idea of a cyclic history, except in Europe. Only the modern West has identified so absolutely with history that humans are defined as historical beings, ignoring the ideas of other civilizations (Paz 1993: 82). As a counter-example Paz refers to China and its cyclic imagination of time as well as to the Latin American societies that ignore the past (1993: 82). While he emphasizes the caste system in India as a model for including different groups, he challenges the USA for the opposite attitude, the rejection of foreign groups. According to Paz the USA’s system is based on a universalismo exclusivista that combines Puritanism with the politicalideological awareness of Anglo-Saxon democracy. After the purification of foreign elements – for instance through the separation of the indigenous population – the society developed into a melting pot that included only European nations. The USA was inspired by ideas of progress during a history of the most direct and violent kind. The result has been the overvaluation of change and the devaluation of social and racial particularities that still excludes the African. Hence, the melting pot ceased to be the historical model for the USA (Paz 1993: 88). According to Paz the internal plurality of societies provokes a confusion which leads to two different reactions: relativism and exclusivism. The first one paralyses our intellect because it excludes change; the latter one does not offer any reason for the separation in ‘good’ and ‘bad’ societies. For Paz, Lévi-Strauss is the first scholar who offers (based on Montaigne, Rousseau, Sahagún and Las Casas) an alternative way of respecting the other and developing oneself, and hence of understanding the foreign and criticizing one’s own culture (Paz 1993: 89). Lévi-Strauss’s critique culminates in a critique of the central idea of European societies: progress. Paz explains this central perspective of Lévi-Strauss with the simultaneous development of ethnography and the idea of history as uninterrupted progress. Despite being an element of progress, ethnography criticized progress from the start. As Paz explains, Lévi-Strauss therefore challenges the existence of a universal law and of general assessment categories that are applicable to all societies. The savage mind is not pejorative to the tamed one, either in its methods or in the meaning of its discoveries.

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However, despite Paz’s enthusiasm for Lévi-Strauss’s critique of European progressive thinking, Paz argues against his dichotomy of structure and history because it is not essential for Latin Americans (1993: 119). On Paz’s reading LéviStrauss follows the path of modern philosophy but finishes with contradictory conclusions. At first Lévi-Strauss reduces the plurality of societies and histories to a dichotomy that embraces and separates, in the savage and the tamed mind. Then he discovers that this opposition is part of another opposition, that between nature and culture. The similarities between the two demonstrate that cultural products and natural products are not essentially different from each other (Paz 1993: 119), and that the natural rather than historical structure lays out the real essence of human beings. Paz argues that, despite some similarities to Rousseau, there is also a major difference. While Rousseau describes the natural human being as a passionate being, Lévi-Strauss sees emotions and sensibility as relationships. ‘Human nature, being without essence and idea, is an agreement, a ratio, a relation’ (La naturaleza humana, ya que no una esencia ni una idea, es un concierto, una ratio, una proporción) (Paz 1993: 120, my translation). At this point Paz finally leaves Lévi-Strauss and breaks – on the basis of his observations about Buddhism – the bipolar model of Lévi-Strauss, but without offering an alternative. Paz’s critique of the savage mind illustrates a fundamental problem in most Latin American theories. Looking at the bipolar opposition of savage and tamed, Paz, like most Latin American intellectuals, regards himself and Mexican society as part of the latter, the modern world. Lévi-Strauss and others, on the other hand, differentiate between the European and the nonEuropean world (though the European world is not restricted to Europe). It therefore seems logical that this relic of colonial thinking in European models must provoke vehement critique among Latin American scholars. In Latin America the population is neither European nor non-European but has developed in a third way. However, in Lévi-Strauss’s schema there is no space for mixture, and therefore no place for Latin American ideas. Ulf Hannerz even claims that Lévi-Strauss’s description of cultures can almost be regarded as apartheid (Hannerz 1998: 161). His critics forget that Lévi-Strauss does not analyse ethnographic reality but has developed a schema of thinking. Instead of ‘real’ subjects he looks at the collective unconsciousness, an abstract human being. Lévi-Strauss challenges the devaluation of different ways of thinking, hence the disqualification of other modes of structuring the world. When he discovers an equal way of thinking in myths and rites, he argues against the rejection of ideas, that is, the apartheid of thought (to stay with Hannerz’s word play). Though I understand Paz’s disappointment that he could not find himself included in LéviStrauss’s writings, we have to acknowledge the inspiration of Lévi-Strauss’s ideas. Jacques Derrida has a different approach to such construed opposition, transferring bricolage to any discourse. He argues that every discourse is a bricoleur when one defines bricolage as the need to borrow one’s terms from a more or less coherent or disintegrated tradition. Consequently, the engineer, who is to the opposite of the bricoleur, is just a myth, a subject originated from its own discourse (Derrida 1985: 431). As soon as one puts oneself outside the two models ‘bricoleur’ and ‘engineer’ and looks at them as part of the same system, one realizes that engineer is a theological construct, a myth created by a bricoleur (Derrida 1985: 431–2). Hence, instead of constructing bricoleur in opposition to a scientist, Derrida regards

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the savage mind as characteristic of any way of thinking, and further that one can observe bricolage in any society, including our own. Another critique challenges the loss of a subject in Lévi-Strauss’s model. Heinrichs states that Lévi-Strauss contradicted the contemporary elevation of the subject in literary structuralism by focusing on structures; hence, their producers, the human beings creating cultures, disappeared (1983: 84). Lévi-Strauss’s structuralism led to the stylization of the loss of the subject. Though his bricolage model focuses on the bricoleur, he or she conducts their work more or less unconsciously. A bricoleur collects tools and material without knowing what to do with them. I argue differently from Heinrichs that we should extend the meaning of bricoleur. LéviStrauss emphasizes the amateurish character of a bricoleur, thereby rendering a proper translation ‘hobbyist’ or ‘tinkerer’. But when we use the term in the sense of a do-it-yourself person, bricoleur receives the connotation of a creative home constructor whose work contains a creative purpose from the beginning. Paz also criticizes Lévi-Strauss for rejecting the subject, and destroying the dialogue of one’s conscience with itself as well as the dialogue of the subject with its objects in doing so (Paz 1993: 118). Lévi-Strauss always refers to abstract human beings instead of to a particular ethnic group as in his other publications.2 Another problem lays in Lévi-Strauss’s structural concept of rationalities. Though he had already demonstrated in Tristes tropique (which was published before The Savage Mind) that the structural theory is not entirely bottomlessly abstract but founded in experience, sensuality and the concrete, in the ‘science of the concrete’ and the ‘logic of the sensual quality’ (Heinrichs 1983: 76–7), he moves in The Savage Mind from particularity to the general – and stops at this point (Heinrichs 1983: 55). As he writes in the introduction to Mythologique I, Lévi-Strauss tries to overcome the opposition between sensuality and intelligibility by moving to the level of the sign. But the concept of a sign cannot overcome the opposition by itself (see Derrida 1985: 425–6, referring to Mythologique I ). A culture can be approached at the sensual level only when it is understandable to the observer and translatable for the reader. Poetic texts, the most complex kind of literature directed to the senses, can be translated only roughly. Myths and religions are, too, very difficult to conceive with our concepts, in particular because the meaning of a sign changes with translation. Nonetheless, the mythopoetic research of Lévi-Strauss illustrates that the sensual level is indeed included in his work, and also in his bricolage concept, though it is not explicitly formulated. Expanding Lévi-Strauss’s theory to include the perspective of acting, creative subjects, bricolage implies a sensual, aesthetic side that is based on the perspective of acting subjects and forces the observers at the same time to include their own perception in the interpretation. This ambivalent relationship is often ignored or even systematically excluded. Jean Duvingnaud, for instance, challenges European culture as being without humour from his own limited perspective. Referring to a performance of Le Bouddha incarné in the theatre Rond-Point he states that theatrical spectacle, such as this Chinese 2 But even in his other books Lepenies and Ritter criticize the lack of concrete individuals or groups because social relationships investigated according to rules of structural anthropology look at individuals as moments in the collective unconscious (1974: 42).

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performance, that includes a mixture of music, dance, antiphon and circus attraction would be impossible to create in Europe. He argues that spectacles of religious phenomena are inconsistent with the Western, that is, European, tradition because of our static and humourless understanding of culture (Duvignaud 1995: 108). He explains this lack as a consequence of monotheism, whose central worship of an invisible god prevents enjoyment. Monotheism stresses tragedy, as is exemplified in the Passion plays. The power of the comedy that played in the Antics and later in William Shakespeare’s plays, with their invisible forces of nature, is ignored (Duvignaud 1995: 108). Duvignaud discovers only pain in religious performances in Europe and not joy, which would make profane performance of religious phenomena impossible there. He ignores that even in the performance of the Passion of Jesus the joy of the believers at Easter outweighs the pain. Duvignaud limits his perspective to his own perception and consequently excludes the majority of popular religious perspectives. But the fast-growing attraction of Anglo-American people to the Caribbean religions contradicts Duvignaud’s perspective. On the analytical level, however, his critique illustrates an important point, because the academic debate restricts the senses to the level of the Savage Mind. Mechanism of Bricolage In addition to the theoretical debate about bricolage, after the publication of The Savage Mind the term soon became a metaphor for syncretistic cultural forms. For instance, David Guss uses the term bricolage in order to characterize Latin American festivals: Like Lévi-Strauss’s famous ‘bricoleur’, these festivals, as a direct result of their syncretistic composition, have enabled participants to recombine elements continually, forefronting some and ignoring others, depending on the particular message those in control of the festival wish to convey. (1994: 145–6)

While Guss uses bricolage as just another term for syncretism, Richard Werbner differentiates between syncretism as religious mixture and bricolage as cultural mixture. He defines bricolage as ‘the formation of fresh cultural forms from the ready-to-hand debris of old forms’, while syncretism is ‘the contentious and distinctively ritual and/or religious hybridization’ (Werbner 1994: 215). Werbner, like many others, reduces the schema of Lévi-Strauss to only one aspect, the mixture, and disregards Lévi-Strauss’s intention to illustrate with ‘bricolage’ a special form of thinking and doing, hence a process and not only the result of it. The French scholar Roger Bastide takes another turn. Though he investigates Afro-America, a popular area for syncretism studies, Bastide focuses on collective memory instead of cultural mixture. He argues that the term bricolage systematizes an ongoing debate that Lévi-Strauss elaborated into a general theory. Bastide refers among others to Marcel Mauss who described the process of bricolage in an article about Afro-Brazilian phenomena as early as 1912, though without giving it this particular name (1970: 97). This early description of bricolage with regard to Afro-American phenomena inspires Bastide to transplant Lévi-Strauss’s concept

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of bricolage into the field of Afro-American studies.3 In this context Bastide uses the term ‘sociology of bricolage’ because Lévi-Strauss – who rejected the term sociology – has given in his book a definition of the practices of bricolage in opposition to the art of engineering (1970: 98). Within Afro-American studies the idea of bricolage helps to understand the transplantation, the opposition and the adaptation of Africans in America (Bastide 1970: 100). Bastide distinguishes strictly between two different forms of plural societies in America. While USA society is divided into two blocks (‘Black’ and ‘White’), each of them with three hierarchical classes, Latin American societies consist of three hierarchical classes that are ordered according to skin colour (Bastide 1970: 68). As distinct from Lévi-Strauss, who investigates ‘the human’ and studies bricolage on the human level, Bastide looks at social groups, in particular the group of Afro-Americans. But by investigating the mechanism of bricolage on the collective level his perspective is also restricted to an abstract level; he refers to ‘les Noirs’ (the Blacks) or ‘les Africaines’ (the Africans) without including creative individuals. Nonetheless, his abstract perspective adds an interesting usage of bricolage to the debate outside the mythopoetical context. Bastide – with reference to Lévi-Strauss – understands bricolage as a process that construes a new meaning out of a disparate ensemble without changing the significance of the elements, in the same way as the fitting of additional elements in a new arrangement does not destroy the nature of the material (1970: 100). This process of new arrangements of available material can be found – according to Bastide – in the collective memory of Afro-Americans. He explains that Afro-American societies sought for new images to fill the gaps produced by slavery, not through the adaptation of elements but through a specific way of organization (Bastide 1970: 96). At this point bricolage begins, but not as invention or as an imaginary logic. Bastide explains bricolage as the mending of an existing object such as a chair that lacks a leg. Even if the chair is mended with an iron chain that connects the two pieces together, the significance of the object, the chair, remains (Bastide 1970: 100). Bastide was inspired by Maurice Halbwachs who illustrates, for instance in his book Les cadres sociaux de la mémoire (1925, in English partly published in 1992), that individual memories do not last long, while the memory of a social group can preserve memories of a former life (Bastide 1970: 78 with reference to Halbwachs). For Bastide African relics represent a special form of collective memory, because of the meaning of space and location for the conservation of memories. While emigrants start re-establishing their lost home in the colony and baptize, for instance, new places with familiar names, enslaved Africans lacked this possibility to acquire a new location. They had to create their own space in a different way, through religions (Bastide 1970: 86–7). Bastide illustrates this process by referring to the Afro-Brazilian religion Candomblé or, more precisely, to the way that the African space is recreated by the division of the religious space inside a Candomblé temple. He states that collective memory can only exist when it can be materially recreated in the centre of continuity and social conservation. He distinguishes how there are two ways that these ‘souvenir pictures’ in the collective memory can continue Africa in America: 3 The term ‘Afro-America’ includes here all cultures on the American continent and the Caribbean with African elements, while African-America indicates only such cultures in the USA.

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one can rely on the morphology of a partial group, on religious texts, for instance, but also on the ensemble of mechanisms during spirit possession (Bastide 1970: 89). One has to keep in mind that even when the names of African deities are still known in Brazil, they sometimes do not appear in religious practice, and therefore they do not manifest in the body of believers. Some myths exist that are no longer supported by the liturgy, only transmitted from one priest to another. Because they are not part of the ensemble of images they sink into oblivion when no one writes them down. Bastide therefore concludes that the structure, or better, the communication between individuals, determines which elements survive and which will be excluded from the collective memory. Adapted to Afro-America it means that the structures within a group – for instance the religious positions within a Candomblé community – are important, not the structures between different groups. The collective memory is the memory of a group but also the memory of a scenario, for example the relation between the positions, as well as the memory of an organization, of an articulation, of a network of relations between individuals (Bastide 1970: 91–2). Slavery interrupted nearly all kinds of articulations, hence new elements had to be found. Slavery, of course, also prevented the establishment of real groups, at least at the beginning, hence it would be better to define groups as a system of relationships between individual memories (Bastide 1970: 93–4). At this point bricolage becomes important, as Bastide illustrates in reference to the different constructions of collective memory of Afro-Americans in Latin America and in Northern America. In order to explain the mechanism of bricolage, Bastide compares two processes, one that aims at the construction of an Afro-American culture and another that aims at the conservation of a destructive memory, part of the ‘White’ culture. According to Bastide, society or part of society manipulates the collective memory of a group. Already in schools or in textbooks, in Latin America as well as in French overseas territories, the memory of Afro-Americans is influenced by the group of ‘Whites’, people of French, Portuguese or Spanish ancestry. Bastide divides the consciously driven loss of ‘Black current’ within the ‘ensemble of White current’ in Latin America into three phases (1970: 103–5).4 In the first phase America is divided up by European countries with the result that in each part a different historiography prevails. During this process the history of the Afro-Americans is separated from the history of the Africans. In the second phase each national history and its textbooks value Afro-Americans more highly than previously but without this effecting any real impact on their current condition. Afro-American heroes of the war of independence are celebrated but their contemporary inferior social position is ignored. The third phase finally connects the collective memory of Afro-Americans with the collective memory of the society. Performances of the maroons or the soldiers in the war of independence are presented as a part of the slave emancipation that the ‘coloured masses’ forced on the ‘Whites’. In the same way the héros de la race (heroes of race) are denied the glory of the national army because this is limited to the ‘Whites’. In

4 The term Noirs and Blancs (Blacks and Whites) are used in French without prejudice against Afro-Americans and Euro-Americans. Americans.. But because of its discriminating connotation in other languages I either translate the term into Afro-Americans or retain the original wording.

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Latin America elements of African origin have become only relics that are construed by and for the ‘Whites’ (Bastide 1970: 105). In North America it is exactly the other way round, as Bastide explains. There no American of African descent is allowed to tinker with Anglo-Saxon elements. While bricolage normally consists of the search for material in the past, the ‘White’ past in the USA is separated from the Afro-American past; consequently, a ‘Black culture’ developed with sporadic elements of ‘White culture’. The result is an ‘Afro’-pattern in North America with American memories while in Latin America an ‘America’pattern developed with Afro memories. Bastide even accuses North American cultural anthropology of looking at Afro-American culture only as a reversion of the ‘White culture’. But a simple inversion is too fragile because every culture has to include positive elements. Bastide therefore insists that Afro-American culture in the USA is more than a reversion of the White culture; it has developed its own ethnic identity with an ongoing historical reality, despite being a fabricated ethnic group (1970: 105–6). At this point it is important to address the question concerning the imaginary that Bastide distinguishes in two forms, a creative and a reproductive. The imaginary can focus on the future, the construction of a utopia, but also on the past, on memory, as Bastide illustrates in reference to Afro-American identity in the USA. In both forms ‘Whites’ develop the models though the receiver, the Afro-Americans, ignore this influence. It is often assumed that Afro-Americans can assimilate anything that they want. Bastide lists, for instance, a long catalogue of elements that are used by AfroAmericans but originated from non-white collective memories, such as memories of ethnographies about African cultures, images from the history of religions, memories from the revolution and the war of independence, and memories of ethnic minorities such as Puerto Ricans and Hippies (1970: 106–7). But the mechanism of bricolage refers to the diversity of a social situation because every situation sees the mechanism with a specific meaning that is determined by the situation and not by the group. The relationship between ‘Black’ and ‘White’ in Latin America as well as in North America is therefore asymmetric, which influences the construction of a new culture. The new culture is semantically Black but has significant input from other non-Black groups (see Bastide 1970: 108). Bastide stresses the importance of local influences and the concept of collective memory in his confrontation of bricolage; hence, the process is not mechanical but depends on a particular situation, time and environment, and therefore constantly renews itself. Bricolage arises in a permanent movement; it ends and begins again, without losing its verve. Bastide emphasizes the importance of society in the bricolage process because society manipulates the group and therefore influences the composition of the handicraft. This perspective is important in particular for Afro-American Studies but also for other areas. Bastide challenges the idea of the collective unconscious of LéviStrauss with an external influence. In doing so, his perspective never loses the group of creative, innovative human beings, subjects of their own culture, though even Bastide moves them to the border. Nonetheless, his investigation illustrates the diversity of the bricolage process, which also became visible in my research.

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Bricolage as a Caribbean Cultural Model At this point I return to New York City and its Caribbean religions. Usually religions in the context of migration are interpreted in relationship to identity formation. Religious belonging is seen as a ‘strategy of survival’;5 even migrants of the second generation can develop a sense of ‘home’ through belonging to such a religious community. As my overview of the ethnic composition of the religious communities in New York City has shown, this explanation applies to the Caribbean religions, at least as long as they are seen only with regard to their original community. Vodou creates bridges from Brooklyn to Haiti; the singing and the music in the YorubaOrisha Baptist Church recreates for a short time Trinidad and Tobago and pushes aside the foreign, often hostile atmosphere in New York City. But the situation has changed in the last decades because of a rapid spread of the religions outside their original community defined by common descent. Hence, this interpretation explains only part of the communities today, in the twenty-first century. The controversy between the believers of the Orisha religion, for instance, who argue about a ‘Cuban’ orientation (including Catholic saints) or an ‘African’ orientation (with songs and prayers in Yoruba), already indicates a change of identity formation that may happen after transferring a religion to a different social and ethnic group. The Iglesia Universal represents a good example of another function of religion during migration. The Iglesia Universal in New York City attends exclusively to migrants, but without ethnic divisions. The Brazilian origin of the denomination and the Brazilian religious connections are unimportant; the community does not offer identification with the country of its origin. Instead of an emotional connection to ‘home’, the Iglesia Universal promises a solution for problems. However, this help refers to a Latin American repertoire. According to the motto ‘I went wrong but I found the correct path’ the Iglesia Universal offers migrants an alternative home and family. Though the other religious communities also represent new ‘families’ for migrants, the Iglesia Universal works in a different way; the alternative family does not rest upon the community of believers but on the religious structure that has similarities to the Catholic structure in Latin America. In both ways – identity based on a community or on a church hierarchy – the interpretation refers to a functional understanding of each religion whose composition is often regarded as static and frozen, as a kind of snapshot. But when we start looking at these religious compositions as religious bricolage, the viewpoint changes from a static product to the actors whose own interpretation of culture is visible in the religion. The common characteristics of the Caribbean religions in New York City will enable the extraction of the elements of the dynamic cultural concept. The first step will therefore be the formulation of certain cornerstones, and in a second step they will be extended into a cultural theory. Hence, first I will reduce Lévi-Strauss’s concept of bricolage before, finally, expanding it radically.

5

I have also interpreted religions in this way, see Schmidt 1998b.

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Religious Bricolage in New York City Despite their differences the Caribbean religions I presented in Chapter 3 have some common characteristics with regard to religious practice, religious content and structure. One core aspect of their religious practice is that all groups are assembled around a charismatic leader who is even sometimes replaceable, as the case of the Iglesia Universal has demonstrated in particular. Though the forced replacement of the leading pastor should actually restrict the establishment of a strong relationship between congregation and minister, it illustrates the significance of the charismatic personality of the leader; his actual person is overshadowed by the anonymous function of a charismatic leader. The Iglesia Universal also illustrates that, despite their rigidity, church structures are quite unimportant for the congregation because they favour the individualistic orientation of the religion. The members even participate regularly when they do not live in the neighbourhood because they choose the community based on individual factors such as the leader and the religious orientation. The discrepancy between the individualistic orientation of the members and the authoritarian structure of some groups supports the relatively easy adaptation of religious content to a new environment, as I will explain later. It also allows contact between different religious communities on a high level; members always follow the decision of the leader (or withdraw from the group). Hence, another characteristic is the relatively frequent cooperation of different communities that work together in order to achieve political aims more often than they might have in their country of origin. Even when some members reject the interchange with other groups, all of the leaders I interviewed had various contacts, on different levels, with other communities. The core aspect of religious practice is the individual religious experience, in particular the manifestation of religious entities in the body of the believers, even when it has a negative connotation as in the case of the Iglesia Universal. As the religious history of Santería in New York City illustrates, the individual experience of the numinous can even overshadow the significance of the oracles which is regarded by some priests as the superior form of divination. The experience becomes more important than the communication with the orichas. This is connected to the next aspect, the integration of emotions during the rituals that constitute religious practice. The foreign and often hostile surroundings often suppress the sensual and emotional experiences of the migrants; they feel reluctant to express anger or joy openly. While migrants (or second generation migrants) usually develop new forms of expression after some years, new and illegal migrants have difficulties with it. The festivals of the religious groups in honour of the orichas and lwa offer opportunities to cry, scream, weep or laugh, and therefore to express every feeling openly without any fear of rejection. This aspect is connected to another one: during the reunions nobody is left alone with his or her emotions. In every religious community there are people who care for those who are overwhelmed by their emotions. Every community has a support network. They help, for instance, somebody who is so overwhelmed during a possession that he/she needs help to free themselves again; or they protect the body of a person during religious manifestation by taking off jewellery or by catching the body before it falls to the floor. This support network is connected to the internal structure of the community and its hierarchy of positions, which enables members to develop strength. This empowerment

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of one’s own abilities is not limited to religious abilities, but also includes increasing people’s self-confidence and self-esteem. The group supports the members in developing their abilities and acquiring higher positions within the community. Another central characteristic of the religious communities is the aesthetic aspect. Every community has its own aesthetic modes of expression. Santeros and santeras create artistic thrones for the orichas where they can settle down during the bembés. Vodouisants create flamboyant altars for the lwa to which they have a ritual connection.6 On the pedestal in the Yoruba-Orisha Baptist Church in Brooklyn is an altar with an artistic pyramid of religious paraphernalia (see Figure 3.3). And even the Iglesia Universal, whose aesthetic is not baroque and flamboyant at all but nearly sterile and pure, decorates the hall during services. The communities address not only the visual sense but also the acoustic sense to a much stronger degree. In all religious communities music serves predominantly as a form of worship and as a means of attracting the numinous entities. Singing and background music – in the communities with Afro-American tradition mainly drum music and in the Iglesia Universal an electronic piano – often represent the main attraction for the members of the communities, over and above the religious function. Some people converted after being attracted by the power of the music. Closely connected to the music is the movement, the dance, which is also part of the aesthetic attraction of the groups. The movement embodies individual expression combined with strict gestures. For instance, every oricha and lwa expresses itself with a specific movement. During a manifestation in the body of a believer the body will then move according to these rules. The other believers will support the presence of an oricha or lwa by dancing with the movements of this oricha or lwa. As I have shown in Chapter 2 the movements are even performed and taught in a non-religious context. Nonetheless, despite these rules, during a manifestation any believer is free to express as he or she wants. The differences between individual manifestations are particularly spectacular in Vodou, for instance, when at the end of a ceremony the Gédés mount several bodies. It is fascinating to observe how much the individual realization of the same manifestation varies, despite similarities in the – often quite obscene – gestures. The combination of the different styles creates a real work of art. The music, the movement and the decoration of the room with the altar, the thrones or the Stations of the Cross together have a dramatic effect on everyone; all the senses of the participants are touched. This aesthetic level of the religions is one of the main characteristics of all Caribbean religions. Apart from common aspects of the religious practices, there are also some similarities in religious content. However, they are more difficult to extract because they do not refer simply to the similar worship of Ochún (in Santería and the YorubaOrisha Baptist Church) and Erzulie (in Vodou) but to structural elements. Analogies between the divine entities in Vodou and Santería are easy to explain with a common African origin; but they are still central only in studies in the tradition of Melville Herskovits. Structural commonalities have more significance because they suggest cornerstones of the cultural model. Quite obvious is the fact that every religious community reacts to the presence of African-Americans and Afro-American elements, but in different ways. The Iglesia 6

See, for instance, the pictures in Thompson 1993.

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Universal, for instance, has excluded Afro-Brazilian orixás from its canon though in Brazil they have been part of the worldview of the Brazilian ‘mother’ church as demons. In sermons in Brooklyn and Queens ministers prefer to demonize Catholic saints instead. The other communities I presented in Chapter 3 are undergoing a process of ‘africanization’ at the moment and increasingly stress the African elements of the Diaspora, for instance the Yoruba-Orisha Baptist Church with its specially developed African festivals. Santería in particular discusses its African heritage. Many believers, especially African-Americans, try to revitalize their lost connection to Africa – as the foundation of the Yoruba temple in Harlem shows. This development is not an integration of new elements but a shift of emphasis on elements already present. For instance, the worldview of the Shouter in Trinidad and Tobago also includes Shango elements, but by choosing the name Yoruba-Orisha Baptist Church, the founder openly demonstrated the importance of its African and Baptist traditions. In addition, all the religions I have discussed react to their surroundings with the integration of new elements such as the Buddha in the Yoruba-Orisha Baptist Church. Though he is still not present in the pantheon of the believers, the presence of his statue already symbolizes the polytheistic framework of the church and the strategy of the leader to make his church cosmopolitan: all are welcome, all believers as well as all religious entities. Often, there are differences between the leader of a group and the members about this integration; in particular members of the original ethnic core group are sometimes more reserved than their leader about foreign influences as well as foreign visitors. While the founders and leaders of communities encourage openness and try to bring in new members, established members often demonstrate their scepticism and their distance from the newcomers with their body language or by using dialects. After initiation the newcomers assist in opening up the community by attracting new members as well as by including new elements. As converts they are often much better informed about the religion than the older members and support the leader in his or her effort to modify the community and to integrate new elements.7 The exception is again the Iglesia Universal in which the members seem to be more open towards new elements than the leaders who, when they want to increase their position in the hierarchy, follow the rules strictly while ordinary members can attend to any other religious ritual in addition to the one offered by the Iglesia Universal. Even the function of these religious communities shows some similarities. They offer help in every situation, including medical or physical problems as well as social, familial or mental problems. One important role they play is to affirm to troubled persons that they are not responsible for the disturbance, hence they are not guilty. Only after the imagined guilt is taken from the troubled person is he or she able to participate in the healing, which is an important aspect of the cure. The Iglesia Universal even advertises this functional effect of rituals on TV; but the other communities attract new members with this offer as well, though not everyone will continue to practise for a long time. Because of the increasing number of members, most groups have to institutionalize. While some still do not want to become such a formal church as the Iglesia Universal, the pressure on the communities is getting stronger. Hence some 7 African-Americans are often more than reserved towards new members who do not have a visible African heritage.

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leaders are considering adapting to their surroundings and getting registered as a formal church as, for example, the Yoruba-Orisha Baptist Church has already done. It is possible to characterize religious bricolage by the following common elements. This characterization will not describe a homogeneous Caribbean religiosity but is a structural model which will lead me later to the cultural concept of bricolage. Religious bricolage can be defined as: 1. Open and dynamic mixtures of diverse elements. But it is important to realize that the process is not a synthesis or a simple mixing but syncretism, described by Michael Pye as the ‘temporary ambiguous coexistence of elements from diverse religious and other contexts within a coherent religious pattern’ (1971: 1971: 93). The multiple possibilities in a syncretistic situation exist in a permanent tension that hinders a final result; hence the composition can continuously change or even collapse (Pye 1994: 220). 2. Creative actors. Members of a religious community themselves choose from a range of possibilities, according to their expectations and wishes, and in so doing they themselves create the religious concept. Often they orientate their decisions according to the wishes of the charismatic leader but they can separate themselves from the group if they do not like the direction of the leader. The individuality of the religions outweighs their authority structures. 3. Interplay between reaction and action. In addition there are several external influences on the religious communities that among others support the growing institutionalization of the religions. In order to become accepted and recognized by the USA more and more leaders decide to register their community in the official register of religious communities, hence they (freely) accept the relatively strict regulations that go hand in hand with this registration. 4. Dependence on context and situation. A comparison of the religious communities with regard to their development in the Caribbean illustrates the influence of the historical periods during which they developed as well as the influence of their social contexts. Although all religions were created in similar historical circumstances (slavery, colonization, suppression of the religion and so on) they have developed differently. In particular the internal influences were significant for the development, which illustrates the reflexive self-interpretation of history and social context. 5. Addressing all the senses. All religious communities demonstrate the importance of the sensual level in their religious composition. The combination of music, movement and ornament creates religious artefacts, which are central for the believers confronted by surroundings they regard as hostile, cold and senseless. The festivals and ceremonies create a hot, ‘tropical’ atmosphere that symbolizes not only a bridge to the motherland but a contrast to reality. Bricolage as Polyphonic Cultural Theory In his novella Concierto barroco (1974) the Cuban novelist Alejo Carpentier presents a perfect example of polyphonic culture, although his novella is not written

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polyphonically. Carpentier describes in his fable the meeting of Antonio Vivaldi, Georg Friedrich Händel and Domenico Scarletti with a Mexican traveller – dressed as Montezuma – and his Cuban servant, during carnival in a café in Rome. Together they experience a gorgeous night of music. The central part is a grand concert, a concierto grosso, which the three musicians create with harpsichord, organ and violin and an orchestra of seventy female musicians. At the end Filomeno, the Cuban servant, is drawn into it; he starts to beat on a battery of copper kettles with kitchenware and other tools and in this way invents new rhythms, syncopations and contra sounds. Led by Filomeno the participants create a fantastic symphony that breaks all musical rules and produces a state of euphoria. In his novella Carpentier abolishes all barriers and leads the reader in a musical journey through various countries and times. Historic time or linear progress is not important for the author who handles time very freely. Years become seconds, the African slave becomes a Cuban servant and in the end an American Jazz musician who incorporates Santería symbols. In addition Carpentier illustrates the changing self-reception of the main protagonist, the Mexican traveller. At the beginning he identifies nearly exclusively with his Spanish heritage; only after his disillusion in Madrid and the inebriation of the senses in Rome does he start to recognize his American, hence his indigenous heritage. The catalyst for his transformation is again a musical experience; during the performance of Vivaldi’s opera Montezuma he discovers – because of its particular interpretation of history – his own wish for a different historical finish. Sensual experiences cause him not only to dress in his costume; he becomes Montezuma, an indigenous. The novella finishes with a different kind of concert, led by Louis Armstrong and his trumpet. In his journey through time Carpentier presents an impressive interpretation of Latin American culture. He stresses especially the sensuousness and the playful ease that can break barriers. Though his medium, the novella, does not allow long explanations, with its breaks and jumps in time he demonstrates a concept in opposition to linear European concepts. Rigidity vanishes in the presence of such a musical hurly-burly. In a similar way all structures that Lévi-Strauss had formally construed vanish in the euphoria of the Savage Mind. Though Carpentier does not let his protagonists speak in their own voice, he construes an impressive image of a polyphonic culture in his novella. His novella is the starting point that will lead us to a polyphonic culture; but before proceeding to that discussion I will summarize the main aspects of cultural bricolage. Bricolage signifies that a culture will be arranged according to the wishes and expectations of the people and that the composition of a culture depends on the materials and tools that are available. Extending Lévi-Strauss’s concept, I have shown above that the composition depends on the operating subject, whether it is a group of human beings or an individual. Society also influences the process, through the situation that produces the changes and through the intention of the changes. Looking at the bricolage concept of Lévi-Strauss in an elaborated sense, it illustrates the narrow relationship between bricolage and bricoleur, between the product and the subject, because the latter is always present in every product. Hence, bricolage can be understood only in relationship to the bricoleur, the operating subject. The innovative process is combined inseparably with the innovative actor as, for example,

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Terence Turner wrote: ‘It is crucial that the structures in question be recognized as operational structures, that is, as functional procedures for constructing the objects or qualities predicated in the tropic relation’ (1995:151). And he continues: The meaning is in the doing, in the operations, in the construction of the form, in the standing up and sitting down, in the flying and the dancing, rather than the flight, the dance, the araras, or the lap, as positive entities or synchronic relations. (1995: 151)

Bricolage cannot be compared to a mosaic of colourful stones because it implies a never-ending process. As the do-it-yourself person is never satisfied with the result and always tries to revise something, the composition of a culture always changes. Every situation, every new influence alters the culture. This short description based on Lévi-Strauss’s concept already shows the necessity to elaborate his concept when adapting it to cultural mixings. At this point I come back to the Russian literary scholar Mikhail Bakhtin and his interpretation of the polyphonic novel (1968). Based on his interpretation of the works of Fyodor M. Dostoevsky and François Rabelais, Bakhtin developed a concept of a polyphonic culture of laughter that still inspires academia. While Rabelais lived during the Renaissance, ‘the only period in the history of European literature which marked the end of a church language and a linguistic transformation’ (Bakhtin 1968: 465), Dostoevsky lived through the ‘traumatic impact of capitalism upon Russian traditionalism in the early nineteenth century’, described by Bakhtin as ‘a kind of historical border zone of conflicting views’ (Morris 1994: 15). The common aspect of the two is the transgression, the crossing of border lines. Bakhtin’s starting point is the linguistic situation in the European Renaissance that he defines as a period of two languages, a time when vernacular languages began to gain acceptance in opposition to Latin, the formerly dominant language. The existence of a frontier between two languages that also separated two worldviews influenced everything according to Bakhtin, every idea, every standpoint, every term. But the border between the languages does not only implicate the simple coexistence of two languages, it also indicates the growing awareness of the language’s frontier. Every language became aware of its possibilities and limitations in the presence of the other language.8 Bakhtin then identifies each language with a specific culture, though the boundary between the languages and the one between the cultures were not always identical. Hence, the vernacular language did not exclusively belong to popular culture and Latin did not exclusively belong to the official culture. Vernacular language was a language of life, of physical work, of the everyday, the language of deprived genres, of laughter and free speech. Despite this, the official language of the time represented the popular culture as being weak and deformed. But the increasing spread of the popular languages introduced new evaluations and new ideas. Bakhtin regards it therefore as important and positive that the translations accomplished in this time were not fixed or complete; and that language was created during the process of translation. Bakhtin describes the ‘literary-linguistic consciousness’ of the Renaissance as an ability to 8 Hence, Bakhtin distinguishes polyphony from heteroglossia: polyphony indicates that the different voices interact on equal terms whereas heteroglossia hints at a class between the antagonists (see Morris 1994).

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see its own language in the light of other languages. Dogmatism or naivety became impossible because of the awareness of its own limitation as well as its potentialities in the light of the other (Bakhtin 1968: 465), hence only a process of change can overcome dogmatism. Consequently Bakhtin promotes in his work an active plurality of ideas and cultures connected to the ability ‘to see one’s own media from the outside, that is, through the eyes of other’ (1968: 471). He continues: If the creative spirit lives in one language only, or if several languages coexist but remain strictly divided without struggling for supremacy, it is impossible to overcome the dogmatism buried in the depths of linguistic consciousness. It is possible to place oneself outside one’s own language only when an essential historic change of language occurs. (Bakhtin 1968: 471)

Based on this transgression, this crossing of borders, Bakhtin focuses on the carnivalization of popular culture and the creation of the ‘culture of laughter’. The Renaissance is the summit of carnivalesque life; in particular Bakhtin praises the grotesque figures in the work of Rabelais (c.1494–1553) as literary masterstrokes. He characterizes a culture of laughter in three ways: (1) universalism of laughter, directed predominately at the upper class, not in detail but on the whole. Laughter creates a counter world, against the official world, against the official church and the state, visible in particular during carnival; (2) freedom of laughter that is unofficial but legalized, also visible during carnival; (3) combination of laughter with the unofficial truth of the people because laughter implies overcoming fear, hence a victory over fear. Laughter reveals the ‘truth’ about the world and its power and liberates from external and internal censorship. With the increasing stabilization of order during the seventeenth century laughter and the culture of laughter were suppressed more and more. Nonetheless, there are still relics visible, for instance on the stage of popular theatres. The same crossing of boundaries and conflicting views can be seen also in Dostoevsky’s work (1821–81). For Bakhtin, Dostoevsky describes everything in the moment of an incomplete transition; everything is exaggerated to the extreme. In order to describe Dostoevsky’s innovative narrative form, Bakhtin uses the term polyphony. With this term Bakhtin focuses our attention on a certain style, to the ‘acute awareness of the multivoicedness of all discourse’ (Morris 1994: 14), which can be found also in other novels such as the novella by Carpentier described above or even in Caribbean rituals in New York City, as I will explain later. Bakhtin praises Dostoevsky in particular for his open-endedness to subjective consciousnesses. He writes that in Dostoevsky’s work a hero appears whose voice is constructed exactly like the voice of the author himself in a novel of the usual type. A character’s word about himself and his world is just as fully weighted as the author’s word usually is, it is not subordinated to the character’s objectified image, nor does it serve as a mouthpiece for the author’s voice. It possesses extraordinary independence in the structure of the work; it sounds, as it were, alongside the author’s word and in a special way combines both with it and with the full and equally valid voices of the other characters. (Bakhtin 1984: 7)

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Dostoevsky is not interested in presenting a hero as a manifestation of a fixed reality but ‘as a particular point of view on the world and on oneself’; hence, it is not important how a hero appears to the world, but only ‘how the world appears to his hero and how the hero appears to himself’ that matters to Dostoevsky (Bakhtin 1984: 47). Bakhtin argues that this perspective destroys the established form of the fundamentally monologic European novel. In a monologic design a hero is closed and his semantic boundaries are strictly defined in a rigid framework, but in a polyphonic novel the genuine life of the personality comes to life. It permits Dostoevsky to penetrate the deepest layers of people and human relationships. All the typical characteristics that enable an author to describe a hero become for Dostoevsky ‘the object of the hero’s own introspection, the subject of his self-consciousness; and the subject of the author’s visualization and representation turns out to be in fact a function of this self-consciousness’ (Bakhtin 1984: 48). Nevertheless, as Bakhtin insists, it is important to observe a distance between the hero and the author; a hero should always be represented as self-conscious, hence he should not ‘fuse with the author’ nor become ‘the mouthpiece for his voice’ (1984: 51). Consequently, polyphony is not the mere presentation of specific language styles, social dialects and so on (this would signify expression instead of representation); what matters is ‘the dialogical angle at which these styles and dialects are juxtaposed or counter posed in the work’ (Bakhtin 1984: 182), hence the dialogic relationship. Recently, Sol Montoya (2000) has transferred Bakhtin’s approach to her study of Colombian carnival, introducing the term polyvalence. Based on Bakhtin, Montoya defines polyvalence as the demonstration of different possibilities for understanding and handling a situation, an event or a person. Instead of solutions, polyvalence presents the possibilities of solutions (Montoya 2000: 67). While Carpentier, for instance, tries to influence the reader in his direction, Rabelais and other representatives of the culture of laughter always present both angles, hence they play with the reader. The culture of laughter in the Renaissance and in other periods studied by Bakhtin can be therefore described as cultural mestizaje (Montoya 2000: 22). Montoya leads me back to the debate about cultural concepts in Latin America. She argues that Bakhtin’s interpretation of carnival as a festival of inversion is not possible to transfer to Latin American mixed cultures (mestizo cultures) because in Latin America a community is 100 per cent present during carnival (Montoya Montoya 2000: 68). She sees in Bakhtin’s work a rigidity that can be applied more to the reception of his work than to the work itself. Though he regards carnival indeed as an inversion of reality, he later expands his concept by referring to an ambiguity that unifies the two poles and influences everything. The laughter at carnival can win over fear but also express joy; hence carnival can suspend the order as well as openly prolong it. Nonetheless, interesting for the debate is that Montoya includes Bakhtin in her discussion about mestizaje and hybridization, though only marginally. After criticizing the theoretical debate about culture in Latin America she argues, with reference to Bakhtin, for a stronger inclusion of the local culture. She describes mestizo cultures as polyphonic, but unlike Bakhtin she recognizes a common ‘melody’. Hence, while Bakhtin uses polyphony as a way to illustrate the diversity of perspectives and includes arguments and contradictions in his model, Montoya uses polyphony as a common framework that includes diverse aspects. She

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refers, for instance, to polyphony when she describes the performance of indigenous music, waltz and Spanish pasodoble during the carnival in Riosucio, Columbia. Her wish for a common framework, a melody, influences her cultural concept, too. She defines cultures as a complex merge of historical processes and cultural encounters, created through a process of mixing. This process assimilates other processes in a homogeneous discourse that does not represent a purely indigenous or European perspective, or a condition in between (Montoya Montoya 2000: 21). The image of a combining border corresponds to the ideas about mixed cultures that I described and discussed in the last chapter. It is already obvious that the cultural theoretical debate in Latin America and the Caribbean has developed in a non-linear way. From the beginning,, the central point in the debate was dealing with the mixture of cultures. Nearly all the concepts emphasize the result instead of focusing on the creative process. The perspective of the observer has become the critical point from which to distinguish the different concepts. In order to illustrate the weakness of these concepts I confronted them with examples of the Caribbean religions; an ethnographic reality became the prism for the theory. The confrontation of the mestizaje discourse with the Yoruba-Orisha Baptist Church, for instance, illustrated that, in spite of a pluralistic approach, the protagonists of the school still imply cultural homogenization. Mestizaje aims at the assimilation of the foreign to transform it into something familiar; the special characteristics of the ‘foreign’ are then totally neglected. The theory of hybridization – though construed as a counter-strategy – also emphasizes the incorporation of cultural elements in a dominant system that they will enrich. Though hybridization implies a permanent process of new orientation, it still includes a centralistic perspective. But as one can see with reference to the religions, cultures need a framework to arrange new elements, but no centralistic structures. The image of the decentralized fabric that Zires introduced into the debate seems to overcome this weakness, but her perspective, too, is focused on the result and not on the creative process. The Brazilian debate is also influenced by the model that is a reminder of the Hispano-American mestizaje debate, and aims at homogenization. The only difference is that luso-tropicalismo includes African elements but, as Bastide argues, only as an enrichment of the dominant culture. Any aspect that is negatively perceived remains neglected, for instance the outsider in the bipolar and rather idealized model of Roberto da Matta. However, postmodern literary studies in Brazil discuss the experiences of the Other in their debate about specific styles. Instead of homogenization the perspective is on the production of difference, either difference between author and novel or difference inside a text. Authenticity and uniqueness lose their overrated significance for literature. This debate illustrates the ethnographic presence of the Caribbean religions where authenticity was never an achievement. The displacement of the static opposition in favour of an open confession of differentness corresponds more to the reality of the religions which include new deities and spirits in their pantheons, as the case of the Iglesia Universal demonstrates. As distinct from the quite abstract approaches to mixing and mixture, creolization locates the process of mixture on a specific place, the plantation, the place of slavery, or at the border of the plantation, the mines. This localization of creolization

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corresponds again with the reality of the religions that in addition regards religious space such as the Vodou temple as the central place of encounters and mixings. Nonetheless, even the creolization debate includes a bipolar schema that cannot be transferred to processes in the twenty-first century. New urban concepts demonstrate the limitations of cultural studies that cannot cope with diversity, as is illustrated by these religious comparisons. While a Vodou temple can be seen as place for encounter and mixing, it is also a virtual place that exists only in connection to a Haitian temple. In the context of complex cultural models, diversity is often interpreted in a functionalistic way as resistance against the cultural pressure of the centre; new migration studies, on the other hand, stress the individuality of destinies and the diversity of decisions. The event described at the close of Chapter 4 illustrated the complexity of the urban construct but also the individuality of the performances. This short summary of the debates includes the central perspectives whose positions were not developed in a linear order but sometimes simultaneously. By stressing different aspects they present a variety of ideas, some contradictory, others supplementary. Most new approaches show that the dream of a homogeneous future has ended, though it still continues subliminally in some concepts. Also, most Latin American theories oppose bipolar models, the confrontation of modern/traditional and urban/rural that is still included in Lévi-Strauss’s system. Consequently the idea of an original purity of two opposite categories became out-dated as a basis of the mixture. Now, the theories look on mixture instead of the origins, though some seem to forget the perspective of the operative subject. More and more the theories emphasize the location of the mixture, and therefore begin to detect ethnographic reality. It becomes evident that cultures reject the incorporation into global schemas though some models still tend to such a functional inclusion. Despite the differences the models have one common characteristic, the monological perspective that creates the impression that the members of a group speak with one voice alone. The theories neglect that a number of individuals construe a culture speaking with different voices. In a similar way as collective memory develops out of the interaction of community members and external influences, a cultural repertoire is also composed of complex currents. My way to address this problem is the elaboration of bricolage, polyphonic cultural theory. Bricolage characterizes a culture that is composed of elements of different cultural origin; but these original cultures are not considered to be authentically homogeneous. These elements, which can alter their meaning, are combined in an anti-central structure. Important elements can become decorative ones, or even vanish in another moment. There are only a few fixed elements which are surrounded by constantly diverse others. The composition of the elements changes depending on the situation, location, time and creators of the culture because the culture of a group differs for each member. Each person focuses on different elements in an individual way. It is therefore possible to include foreign elements whenever a member of a group comes into contact with them and considers them important. In the same way it is possible to exclude old elements whenever they are losing importance for the majority of the members. Bricolage does not imply a mixture of two or three cultures but the rearrangement of elements of diverse origin.

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The bricoleurs – here a synonym for a group of creative subjects, the creators of a culture – work autonomously. Though society, or part of it, can influence the process, the exchange of elements depends on the free will of the group itself. It is even possible that the composition changes in opposition to the dominant society, not because of pressure but in spite of it. Nonetheless, surroundings influence the bricoleurs. They alter their culture when they move to a new place. Each culture refers in its composition to an ethnographic location. Universal models represent therefore limited value. The bricoleurs become aware of innovations as soon as they become visible to them. The location of new cultures is therefore often at the border between different groups that is the best place for exchange. The composition of a culture illustrates the perspective of the bricoleur on the world and on him/herself. Elements that one member stresses in opposition to other members point towards the reflexive interpretation of one’s culture and are important for the understanding of this perception and the culture. Individuality leads to the existence of different statements for the same culture. Instead of an abstract, homogeneous creator of a culture, each situation allows different (and equivalent) solutions. This polyphony prevents the creation of a homogeneous entity. In the centre of the cultural model are the bricoleurs, the people. Their position has to be considered in relationship to other bricoleurs. This produces a distance between the observer and creators of a culture; the observer is always at the border of a culture, but also in dialogue with the creators. The sensual perception of cultural elements is also important during the dialogue between observer and creators because it leads to the direct exchange of elements. Both the acceptance and the rejection of sensual attractions enable the interaction that in turn creates a new orientation in the culture. This list of characteristics only describes the central aspects of bricolage, the cornerstones. Nevertheless, it challenges the very popular notion which looks at a culture as a homogeneous picture, as a mosaic of colourful stones. The composition of a culture is a never-ending process and it has to be described by many voices instead of focusing only on formal elements. Caribbean culture in New York City – or better, Caribbean sub-cultures in New York City – represents an excellent example for such a bricolage. New York Caribbean culture integrates elements of diverse origins that are combined only in its new surroundings, New York City. But the Caribbean culture in New York City is not a more or less homogeneous mixture of elements. The members of the group, which include beside the migrants and their next generation also persons at the border such as African-Americans with a strong Caribbean self-identification, interpret their culture quite diversely and individually. Each member marks different fixed aspects of their culture, as one can see with reference to the importance of language. Kreyòl, the Haitian Creole language, is, for instance, for many a cornerstone of their identity; Spanish, on the other hand, is losing its importance in favour of Spanglish, a Spanish-English mixture. But even Kreyól is losing importance in the next generation: more and more Caribbean novelists living in New York City prefer to publish in English instead of in their Creole mother language. On the other hand, the popular Caribbean religions are becoming new cornerstones of the Caribbean cultures in New York City. At the moment Vodou is

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increasing in importance for the Caribbeans in New York City, whereas in previous decades Santería and Puerto Rican Spiritism were of growing importance. Africa is the main point of reference of the African Diaspora all over the world, including Caribbeans in New York City, but with an important difference. While Africa is of central significance for all people of African descent, Caribbean migrants always relate Africa to the Caribbean area as their real origin. For the Caribbean Diaspora the culturally diverse Caribbean islands are the central aspect of Caribbean culture in New York; even the second and third generation consider themselves Caribbean, with New York City as their home. They do not refer as often as African-Americans to Africa and the glorious past of Africa, nor do they emphasize the plantation as a place of mixture as in the Caribbean; the islands are important, nothing else, though the significance of Africa has been increasing.9 A central characteristic of Caribbean culture is the aesthetic element, the music, dance and so on. The incorporation of deities, for instance, is a common element of all Caribbean religions and as such accepted, as are specific musical styles and movements. These elements are also important factors in interaction with outsiders, because outsiders are often attracted to Caribbean culture through its music and movement. The interaction with outsiders also redefines Caribbean culture in New York. While some groups position themselves in opposition to outsiders, others integrate new elements into their cultural repertoire along with foreign persons, new movements or new music, new deities, spirits or new prayers. The decision about acceptance or rejection is made by the group itself; even when this means that the group divides into two parts because some members are against the new elements. The reaction often depends on the situation. The group in charge of the j’ouvert in Brooklyn drew (until recently) a strict line by excluding Haitian music groups, while other participants have no problems with the new music style as the carnival later illustrated. In a similar way the acceptance of new movements and rhythm in religious communities can enrich or diminish the group. The decision is in the hands of the members. In addition to the internal ternal ernal perspective one also has to consider the external; the composition of a culture is influenced by its interaction with society. The Catholic Church, for instance, has adapted to the increasing presence of Caribbean migrants in New York City for decades and now offers services in Kreyòl and other Caribbean languages, so that the church halls have become a place of communication. Simultaneously the Caribbean communities adapt to the pressure of society by institutionalizing, against the usual custom in the Caribbean. This increases the position of the leader who influences the role of the other members, and this can hinder the dynamics of the community. But such a dominant position makes a split in the community easier and this can lead to the withdrawal of some members or even to a schism of the whole community. This aspect illustrates the polyvalence of the Caribbean culture in New York because it shows that the leader of a community as well as the members who leave have polyvalent interpretations of the culture. The Caribbean representatives in New York City demonstrate a considerable flexibility in handling society or the dominant part of society. Even if they act 9 African-Americans inside the Caribbean religious communities have a different focus; they often construe a Caribbean origin through religious lineage.

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under pressure, they often succeed in benefiting from the pressure. Cuban Santería priests, for instance, fought against the ban on animal sacrifice. Their walk to the Supreme Court, which finally lifted the ban, strengthened their position but also brought recognition for the Caribbean religions in the USA in general. But when a community cannot fulfil its legal obligations, it will just ignore them and shut the doors. A similar flexibility can be seen in the Catholic Church. Although the Caribbean religions adapted its symbols a long time ago, the leaders of the Catholic Church in New York City often do not agree to their unconventional form of worship; consequently the followers of Dãmbala, who is identified with St Patrick, often walk at the end of the procession in honour of St Patrick. Because it is afraid of losing members, the Catholic Church turns a blind eye and ignores them. Hence, instead of reacting to social pressure it will be redirected until they can find a niche. Caribbean culture in New York City illustrates the dynamism of a polyphonic culture that is difficult to describe. The term bricolage points to the construction process as well as to the limited time of its existence. Though the culture started in the Caribbean, New York City has influenced its composition. In the same way New York City is influenced by the Caribbean presence. Hence, even the urban culture of New York City can be described as a bricolage that includes and rejects elements through integration and interaction with other systems in a permanent momentum. This process is never complete, but is in an ongoing state of change, and for this reason my description can only be a snapshot; the list of characteristics can never be complete.

Chapter 6

Caribbean vs. Monologue Europe? J’ouvert, the Caribbean carnival tradition, was introduced into Brooklyn at the end of the 1980s. Since then, Monday morning at dawn, hours before the huge carnival parade, people celebrate a very different carnival tradition. The participants are covered in mud and wear rags instead of glamorous costumes, and steel bands play live instead of electronically recorded music. I was still very sleepy when I met a friend at 5 a.m. at a subway station in Brooklyn. As was somehow expected the parade was not where we thought (or where we were told it would happen). People blamed the police for having rearranged the route. The owner of the small drugstore where we stopped for a cup of coffee, as well as other owners of similar small shops, looked very sceptically at these foreign customers coming so early in the morning. They had no idea about j’ouvert and regarded the shrill traffic as a threat. We quickly followed the trail of garbage on the streets. At some corners we noticed groups of police officers waiting for trouble. Finally we heard the music. The number of people increased radically. Suddenly we were in the middle of a crowd dancing on the street around steel bands. Even without barriers and (visible) police presence the situation was absolutely peaceful. Despite the crowd I never felt threatened. After a while we were immersed in the crowd and joined the dancing around the musicians. The participants came from every social group; every generation was represented, as well as every social class. One common characteristic was their skin colour; with few exceptions the people in the crowd came from the Caribbean or at least their parents and grandparents had done. We listened mainly to English but other languages – Kreyòl, Patois and so on – were also present. We were in Brooklyn but also in the Caribbean, but in an ‘unreal’ Caribbean because such a mixture exists only in New York City (see Figure 6.1). While this research has focused on Caribbean culture and religions, I will now separate the text from its regional foundation and look at other cultural landscapes. Both Lévi-Strauss and Bakhtin construed their models in opposition to Europe. Whether in the image of the engineer or the monologue, Europe always represented a different, often pejorative category in their models. But like the Caribbean Europe has also experienced immense transformation. Large migration movements have led to various encounters of diverse cultures during Europe’s history. However, the contact was structured in a different way. Instead of regarding foreign influences as an inspiration, as a way to enrich the original culture, they were seen as a threat that had to be rejected. Nonetheless, the wealth of foreign influences in European cultures illustrates openness in European minds beyond this superficial rejection. Only when the quest for progress became dominant and monopolized thinking did our culture become oriented towards monologue.

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Figure 6.1

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Participants at the J’ouvert (1999)

While Lévi-Strauss draws his line after Neolithic times, Bakhtin regards the Renaissance as the most vibrant time. Hence, both scholars refer to changing times in European history. Both schemas work with a very simplistic perspective in order to construe their bipolar way of thinking. They exclude any nuances in between, any intermediate tones. But any culture, including the European ones, contains nuances in between that do not adhere to static models but include polyphonic characteristics. The ‘Savage Mind’ is therefore visible in European cultures; it is indeed the basis of most cultures. Whoever has been to a flea market in Berlin, to the carnival in Basel or to the market in Notting Hill, London, knows that not everything in Europe has developed in a linear line of progress; there are many breaks, circles and loops. Cultural composition is not made out of one block as often suggested. Like Caribbean cultures, Europe also has an ability to incorporate new elements and transform them, in particular on the aesthetic, sensual levels such as art and food, as the appearance of more and more international fast food and takeaway shops illustrates. While at these points the systems are open to change and include enthusiastic new influences, they react to other interfaces in a closed and hostile way. The decision about inclusion or exclusion is often open and depends on the situation, though people tend to react to political and social pressure. All these aspects of European cultures have already been demonstrated in the book in some way because all the people I have described live in a town with a strong European influence. Nowadays, New York City increasingly influences many European metropolises, perhaps with the exception of Paris and Istanbul. Museums in New York City present ‘European culture’ better than any European museum. Someone who wants to study European history should look for it in New York City.

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Nonetheless, I also found Caribbean culture in the same metropolis, making it my starting point for describing polyphonic bricolage. Bricolage is not restricted to Caribbean culture but refers to a composition process that can be found in many cultures, though not in every culture because it implies a certain treatment of innovation that incorporates foreign elements and makes them familiar. Static, rigid cultures – whose members restrict themselves from their surroundings and do not open themselves to foreigners – are not included because they do not freely adapt to new influences. But usually these cultures are in the minority because a group can only survive when it adapts to changes, hence, when it ‘lives’. Even the strongest borders become porous in certain situations or break down. Clifford Geertz describes our world as a spectrum of mixed differences while Lévi-Strauss (according to Geertz) still operates in a world designed by a discontinuous combination of separated differences (Geertz 1993b: 142). Caribbean culture represents a combination of mixed differences that coexist simultaneously and separately as well. We cannot look at it apart from our own culture; the world is no longer divided into a huge dichotomy between ‘civilization’ and ‘savagery’. The polyphonic Caribbean is also present in Europe, though most of the time in secret. Bricolage is possible at any moment and at any location, but not to the same degree in all contexts. Polyphonic elements exist in cultural interspaces in particular. The ‘borders’ between cultures and cultural interfaces illustrate that there is no exclusiveness in culture; one cannot regard a culture as absolute. Even the protagonists of a Euro-American culture incorporate elements of Caribbean culture in the same way that protagonists of Caribbean culture adapt Euro-American aspects. The process of new orientation and the adaptation of foreign elements does not happen just because of external pressure. Though hierarchical structures influence the process, the process depends on the people and their expectations. The creativity that is often ignored in other cultural theories is at the centre of bricolage because the bricoleurs decide on the choice of elements. At the same time they illustrate ‘thinking outside of systems’, a thinking that is not focused on rigid, pre-designed schemas (Münzel 2000: 213, 212). A central aim of this book is the combination of theoretical debate with ethnographic research. Instead of construing a theoretical concept at an abstract level, the ethnographic orientation should illustrate how cultural phenomena can be ‘thought about’ and how they confront and enrich theoretical concepts. Religious phenomena – that have such a great fascination for me – are especially perfect for cultural theoretical studies because they, too, are sometimes confronted with similar prejudices. While scholars often focus on socalled ‘authentic’ forms, believers prefer the mixed, syncretistic forms that represent the cultural wealth of the practitioners. This diversity can lead to problems, though, because the ‘particularity’ of individual solutions cannot be transferred to others. But I have not aimed at generalization; a polyphonic approach can only present individual perspectives as Karl-Heinz Kohl states in his interpretation of myths (1998: 285–6). Myths represent the collective memory of a group but they are not collective products without any individual creativity. Mark Münzel’s work in South America demonstrated that the individual performance of the narrators of myths, their poetry and the originality of their narratives, enrich the collective tradition (2000: 212–13). In this sense my investigation also rests upon individual perspectives of collective creations that are born out of the

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context of religious communities. My ethnographic examples are only a selection of the diversity of variations, and can only represent a limited reality. I do not want to diminish their meaning but to qualify them. The numerous other combinations that exist and will develop in the future do not question the bricolage model, as it refers to the process of composition and not to the mosaic of details. With their brilliant religious formations the protagonists of Caribbean culture demonstrate that there is no stagnancy in the process of new arrangements; we are continuously developing new forms. My investigations followed Gerd Baumann’s ‘new pathway through the anthropological three-step’. They start in an interdisciplinary way and develop a new analysis of old problems with the specific anthropological concept of culture, and end with the creative and often liberating inversion of established questions (Baumann 2000: 157). In particular the interdisciplinary discussion of the concept of culture in Latin America inspires anthropology, though it has to be transformed in an anthropological way. Only context-sensitive methods such as participant observation can produce a network of meaningful details that combines the whole with its parts and makes internal contradictions visible (see Baumann 2000: 166, 167). The confrontation of the theories with the Caribbean religions has shown the weaknesses of the theories because of their lack of ethnographic contextualization, as well as their strength. I followed this path by combining the debate about cultural concepts with the anthropological discussion of bricolage, because the new arrangement of unexpected details turns established questions upside down (see Baumann 2000: 167). Hence, the combination of theoretical contributions from Latin America with ethnographical research in New York City enriched the discussion about bricolage and the Savage Mind as a form of the creative treatment of mythical components. But not all creative innovations are seen in the same way, because a system can develop in a direction that seems to be strange or contradictory from the outside. In the anthropology of religion the success of the fundamentalist churches in Latin America hinders any investigation of Latin American religious structures. The fascination that often influences anthropological studies diminishes when confronted with the consumer orientation of these churches. Nonetheless, these systems also allow us important insights into Latin American cultures. Anthropological research should not focus only on systems that share our values; an investigation of systems with other standards is perhaps even more important for the emic understanding of Latin America. This should not imply that anthropology should forget its claim to be a critical science when we put our research in the service of the subjects, in the same way as anthropology remained critical despite being part of the colonial system (Kohl 2000: 81). In the time of an ethnic renaissance anthropology should not remain in the middle of sterile debates about constructive character, but should rather regard the construed similarities – whether they are in the area of identity, religions or nations – from an emic perspective before analysing their meaning from an academic perspective. At this point I will discuss the understanding of anthropology on which my investigation is based. I localize my research in the context of current discussions of an extended understanding of anthropology which aims to overcome the strict limitations of our discipline. I regard the dialogue with arts as particularly fertile for anthropology – the literary arts as well as the fine arts – though we should be aware who is speaking. Joseph Beuys, for instance, does not explain in his performance

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the ethnographic background of shamanism or its academic interpretation. He just illustrates how the experience of the Other can be transformed and how academic results can be received by society (see Wiener 2000: 243). The anthropological interpretation of contemporary Western art cannot replace ethnographic investigations but can open new pathways, and hence can enrich anthropology.1 Aesthetic impressions – whether they are from the fine arts or the literary arts – can create fascinating innovations in anthropology. My own research was influenced by the aesthetic fascination of religious manifestations. In the middle of the ‘crisis of representation’ that paralysed anthropology for a long time, the debate about ethnopoetry and other aesthetic production led the way out of the ‘Ivory tower of science’ (see also Münzel, Schmidt and Thote 2000: 7–8). The aesthetic turn is particularly important in the discussion of the meaning of fieldwork, still the defining moment of anthropology because it leads to a new form of research. Though my own research is also based on ethnographic research, it was not conducted in a small village, far away from the new town, but in a metropolis, hence under much better conditions than the fieldwork of Claude Lévi-Strauss or Bronislaw Malinowski.2 Some problems such as the cancellation of appointments or festivals were similar, but others were not. For instance, I was not with interviewees for long hours and days on end, but could return to the privacy of my flat after the festival or the interviews. The participation at a ceremony was sometimes uncomfortable – similar to the one in a village – or difficult to reach and I had to get used to it; but I also sat in a comfortable chair, listened to a presentation in a museum or observed a performance on stage. I participated at dance workshops, met my interviewees in restaurants or pubs and went to a concert of Cuban musicians. All these appointments were part of my fieldwork on the aesthetic side of the religions, which gave me important insights into the spread of the religions and their continuously changing structures. Instead of complaining about the ‘lost object of anthropology’ I rediscovered it in new forms (see Kohl 1998: 17). The apparently ‘lost object’ of anthropology lives in the pub or the theatre, the basement of a house or a bleak room in an empty building, and presents its brilliant sides in continuously new perspectives. In focusing on these new sides in my investigation and in looking at new cultural mixtures instead of at traditional homogeneous cultures I present new ways of doing anthropology in this book, methodologically as well as thematically. The interfaces are always marked by the creativity of the protagonists, the Caribbean religious believers as well as the representatives of Latin American and Caribbean postmodernism. Hence, not only are the religious mixtures creative innovations, but so, too, are the theoretical debates in Latin America and the Caribbean. The latter represent a new field of anthropology though still ignored by anthropologists who consider the areas as just 1 Ute Ritschel unifies, for instance, cultural anthropology and theatre studies with performance art because she is an artist but also works as an academic on art. See also Johannes Lothar Schröder who declares that performance art with its nuances is perfect for the investigation of the interface between science and art. He regards performance therefore as the new field of anthropologists (Schröder 2000: 194). Ritschel, on the other hand, characterizes the work of an art performer as research, as a kind of artistic fieldwork (2000: 210, referring to Greverus 1990). 2 I discussed the different kinds of fieldwork in Schmidt 2004.

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regions for fieldwork, and not as producers of theoretical contributions. Nonetheless, the theoretical debates show a similar creativity to the Caribbean religions. My fascination for such creations led me to another aspect of the aesthetic turning point: the observation of foreign expressions as works of art. The combination of acoustic, visual and ethereal impressions during a religious ceremony together produce a work of art that enables the participant observer to overcome the limits of observation. Religious ceremonies are similar to modern art installations or performances that communicate even when the observer does not understand the intention of the artist. In the same way religious manifestations of African deities and spirits affect even the most sceptical participant who observes the ceremony, dizzy with music, smells and artistic altars in a basement or a garage in New York City. The presence of the deities cannot be explained or understood rationally. Nonetheless, a successful performance earns the applause of all participants. I will conclude with a short remark about the Brooklyn j’ouvert. As in Trinidad and other parts of the Caribbean it is a popular custom in Brooklyn to mark participants with mud. During the whole time groups of hilarious carnival participants dressed in rags ran through the crowd to frighten other participants and spectators. Some fled screaming loudly and made others laugh because this is also part of j’ouvert. Sometimes the back was marked with a muddy hand, sometimes the shoulders. A woman approached me, asking whether I was lost. I looked at her astonished; I did not know what she meant. She then put her hand on my blouse and declared, with a very serious look on her face, that I would never be lost again, I would belong to her now – and she ran away laughing. I experienced the carnival parade which followed covered in ash and with many ‘marks’ of mud on my clothes. Everyone knew that I had been at the j’ouvert. Only after I returned to Germany did I leave the marks behind me – and out of my clothes – in my washing machine.

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Index

African-Americans 12–13, 16, 18, 19, 36, 53, 59, 75, 76, 77, 79, 81–5, 148, 152, 153–4, 157, 158, 166, 167 Afro-Americans see African-Americans Amado, Jorge 118–19, 124 American Museum of Natural History 20, 23, 24, 26 ashés 79 babalawos 72, 74, 77, 78, 84; see also ifá Bakhtin, Mikhail 95–6, 161–3, 169–70 Bandon, George 71 Bastide, Roger 151–4, 164 Bauman, Richard 20, 107 bembés 80, 81, 83, 157 Benin 25, 54, 71 Benítez Rojo, Antonio 134–5, 136, 145 Bhabha, Homi K. 93–4 Brandon, George 71–3 brasilidade 112, 114, 139 Brazil 21, 38, 40, 41, 42, 62, 105–6, 109, 110, 112–20, 122, 125–9, 153, 158, 164 Brazilian culture 114, 116, 118–19, 121–2, 123–4, 128–9 Brazilian identity 124 bricolage 5, 145–6, 147, 149–50, 151–6, 159–61, 165, 166, 168, 171–2 bricoleur 146, 149, 150, 151, 160, 166, 171 Brooklyn 2, 4, 7, 8–10, 12, 14–15, 17, 18, 23, 25, 27, 33, 36, 37, 39–42, 46–9, 51–2, 54, 59–60, 62, 68, 69, 87–8, 102–3, 110–11, 114, 126, 129, 142, 143, 155, 157, 158, 167, 169, 174 Brown, Karen McCarthy 25, 60–61, 68–70 Candomblé 21, 41, 62–3, 65, 83, 118, 152–3 Caribbean Americans 12; see also Caribbean migrants Caribbean carnival in Brooklyn 2, 13–19, 20, 126–7, 169 Labor Day Parade 13–15 Caribbean Cultural Center 20, 26–7, 74

Caribbean culture 1–2, 4, 19–20, 22, 27, 88, 167–8, 171–2 Caribbean identity 1, 16 Caribbean migrants 4, 7, 8, 9, 10, 13–14, 16–18, 29, 36, 39, 43, 46, 47, 51–2, 59, 61, 66–7, 81, 83, 166, 167 Caribbean New York 4, 8, 10, 21, 22 carnival 13–19, 20, 100, 116, 122–3, 124–7, 128, 129, 139, 160, 162, 163, 164, 174; see also Caribbean carnival in Brooklyn Carpentier, Alejo 159–60, 162, 163 Catholic Church see Roman Catholic Church Christianity 34, 36, 63, 92, 99; see also Protestants; Roman Catholic Church cinema see film collective memory 152–4 communication media 89, 94, 96, 97, 100, 105–7, 108, 110, 114, 116, 120–21; see also film Condé, Maryse 1, 4 Creole 1, 2, 8, 34, 57, 63, 131–7, 142, 166 Creole culture 1, 5, 71, 133, 135, 136 Creole identity 1, 132, 134 créolité 1, 131–2, 134, 137 creolization 1, 5, 131–4, 136–7, 142, 164–5 criollos 91, 131, 134 cultura criolla 131, 134–5, 145 Cuba 2, 26, 47, 70–74, 81, 84, 143 Cuban identity 72, 135 Cubans 3, 27, 29, 30–31, 37, 53, 62, 70, 72–7, 75, 79, 82–4, 109, 134–5, 139, 143, 148, 155, 159–60, 173 cultura popular 94–5, 96, 98, 100, 108, 116 cultural heterogeneity 93–4, 103, 110 cultural mixing 88–9 cultural theoretical debate 2, 4–5, 89, 112, 116, 137, 138, 145, 155, 163–4, 165, 171 da Matta, Roberto 3, 122–9, 139, 164

196

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dance 82, 143, 157; see also performance dance workshops 27–8, 137, 173 Danticat, Edwidge 1, 133 deities 46, 51–2, 56, 62, 71, 77, 81, 105, 111, 127, 145, 153, 164, 167, 174 Deren, Maya 26 Derrida, Jacques 149–50 Diaspora 1, 2, 10, 13, 103, 167 Dominican Republic 1, 139–40 Dominicans 9, 11, 27, 37–8, 139–40 drums 28–30, 59, 65, 75, 80–81, 83, 87, 142, 143 báta 30, 80, 81 Duvalier, François 58

hybridization 5, 94–6, 101, 151, 163–4

egúns 77, 78–9, 81 emigrants see migrants ergriffen 22 ethnoscénologie 8, 19–22 exhibitions 23–26 exorcism 111

Kabbalah 43, 44, 45, 46, 52, 103 Kreyòl 1, 10, 19, 35, 58, 62, 63–4, 65, 68, 69, 130, 166, 167, 169

film 26, 67, 68, 94, 97, 106, 107, 108, 109, 114, 121; see also communication media Freyre, Gilberto 112–14, 118, 122, 127, 134, 139 García Canclini, Néstor 19, 23, 93, 94–5, 96–103, 104, 107–8, 122, 141 Geertz, Clifford 3, 7, 171 Glissant, Édouard 132, 133, 135–6, 145 Haiti 1, 5, 18, 24, 25–6, 54–9, 62, 63, 64–6, 68–70, 72, 133, 137, 155 Haitian culture 23, 24, 26, 29, 68 Haitian identity 57, 166 Haitians 1, 2, 3, 5, 17–19, 24, 26, 29, 35, 53–4, 55, 57, 58, 65–9, 130, 133, 137, 165, 167 Halbwachs, Maurice 152 Herskovits, Melville 5, 26, 45, 55, 157 Hinduism 45, 46, 52, 83, 103 Hispanics 7, 37, 82; see also Latin America, Latinos Holy Spirit 42, 50, 52, 87–8, 110, 145 Hurbon, Laënnec 54–6, 58, 61–5 hybrid cultures 19, 94–5, 100, 101–3 hybridity 93–5, 97, 100–102, 107–8, 132

ifá 70, 75, 78, 84, 103 Iglesia Universal 4, 36, 38–9, 40–43, 54, 110–11, 119, 126–7, 129, 155, 156, 157, 158, 164 Igreja Universal see Iglesia Universal immigrants see migrants initiation 50, 59, 60, 65, 69, 73–4, 75, 76, 77, 80, 81 Jamaica 17, 56 Jamaicans 9, 17, 137 j’ouvert 17–18, 167, 169–70, 174

Labor Day Parade see Caribbean carnival in Brooklyn, Labor Day Parade Latin America 2, 4, 5, 7, 34, 37–8, 43, 89, 90, 92–4, 100, 101, 103–5, 109, 112–16, 153, 154, 155, 163–4, 172–3 Latin American culture 88, 93, 94, 97–8, 101, 102, 103, 105–6, 108–10, 128, 147, 160, 163–4, 172 Latin American migrants 7, 8, 9–10, 34, 36, 37, 38, 39–40, 42, 43, 106 Latin Americans 7, 27, 38, 42–3, 91, 103, 105–6, 147, 172–3 Latinos 4, 7, 12, 27, 29, 36–7, 39–40, 81 Lévi-Strauss, Claude 2, 5, 124, 145–52, 154–5, 160–61, 165, 169–70, 171, 173 Lucumí 84 lwa 24, 56, 57, 58, 59, 60–66, 77, 83, 130–31, 133, 156, 157 madrinas (godmothers) 79, 82–3 Mama Lola 24, 25, 68 mambos 54, 59, 60–61, 68, 69, 130–31 Manhattan (New York) 4, 7, 8, 12, 23, 36, 40, 75 Harlem 13, 30, 75, 158 memory 152, 154; see also collective memory mestizaje 5, 89–95, 101–3, 122, 163, 164

Index Mestize 2 mestizos 90–92, 102, 132, 163; see also mestizaje Métraux, Alfred 62, 63, 66 Mexicans 7, 9, 11, 30, 36, 37, 39, 94, 98, 106, 143, 149, 160 Mexico 23, 36, 39, 94, 97–8, 101, 102, 105–6, 107–9, 115, 122, 141 migrants 8–10, 12, 13, 34, 35, 36–9, 52, 61, 66–7, 68, 69, 71, 73–6, 79, 81, 83–4, 97, 100, 106, 129, 137–8, 139–42, 152, 155, 156 from Latin America see Latin America, Latin American migrants from the Caribbean see Caribbean migrants Monsiváis, Carlos 108–10 Mora, Francisco (Pancho) 74–5 Museo del Barrio 30 Museo Nacional de Antropología, Mexico City 23 music 82, 87, 109, 137, 143, 155, 157, 160, 164, 167; see also performance music workshops 28–9 musicians 65, 75, 76, 80–81, 130, 169, 173 orichas 27–8, 30, 74, 75, 76, 77–8, 80–81, 83, 92, 143, 156, 157 orishas 52; see also Shango Orisha Baptists 35, 46; see also Spiritual Baptists Orisha-Religion see Spiritual Baptists orixás 41, 158; see also orichas Ortiz, Fernando 72, 75, 135 padrinos (godfathers) 79, 82 Palo Monte 82 pastiche 117–19, 120, 121 Paz, Octavio 104, 147–9 Pentecostal Church see Pentecostalism Pentecostalism 34, 38, 39–40, 51; see also Iglesia Universal performance 19–22, 23, 24, 26–31, 119, 137, 143, 173; see also dance; drums; music polyphony 22, 159–60, 161, 162, 163–4, 166

197

polyphonic culture 160, 161, 163, 165–6, 168, 170–71 polyphonic novel 161, 163 postmodernism 103–5, 112, 115, 116–17, 120, 138, 173; see also postmodernity postmodernity 94, 98, 103–4 Protestants 25, 34, 36, 37, 40, 42, 43, 44, 51, 54, 82, 75 Puerto Rico 1, 2, 5, 8, 22, 70, 72, 75, 79, 81, 82, 84 Puerto Rican culture 26–8, 29 Puerto Ricans 5, 9–10, 11, 14, 30, 35–7, 38, 53, 73–6, 78, 81–2, 84, 109, 139–40, 148, 154 Purhépecha 98–99, 102 Queen Mother 46, 48–9, 50, 60 Queens (New York) 8, 12, 36, 39, 40, 48, 158 regla de ifá 35, 70; see also Santería regla de ocha 35, 70; see also Santería religión de Lucumí see Santería religión de los orichas see Santería rite of passage 49, 50; see also initiation rituals 28, 43, 49, 52, 58, 60–61, 63, 65, 69, 70, 76, 78–81, 82, 83, 108, 123, 137, 151, 158, 162 Roman Catholic Church 35, 36–40, 42, 57, 58, 71, 82, 167, 168 Roman Catholicism 34, 35, 43, 44, 51, 55, 56, 63; see also Roman Catholic Church sacrifice 46, 48, 49, 51, 59, 65, 81, 168 saints 39, 46, 51, 56, 59, 62–3, 66, 71, 74, 77, 78, 80, 83, 87, 88, 92, 118, 123, 155, 158 santeras/santeros 53, 70, 72, 74, 76–81, 83, 148, 157 Santería 4, 29, 35, 53, 62, 70–77, 80–85, 130, 134–5, 143, 148, 156–8, 167–8 Santiago, Silviano 117, 118–21, 142 Shakers 45 Shango 22, 35, 44, 51–2, 158; see also Spiritual Baptists Shouter Baptist Church 44

198

Caribbean Diaspora in the USA

Shouters 44–5, 50, 53, 158; see also Spiritual Baptists slave trade 44, 55–7, 63, 70–71, 84, 102, 112–13, 127, 153 spirit manifestations 21, 22, 60, 64–5 spirits 3, 4, 24, 33, 42, 45, 51, 54–5, 58–9, 62 Spiritism 71, 74, 75, 78, 167 Spiritual Baptists 4, 43–5, 50–54, 155; see also Shango; Shouters syncretism 34, 95, 97, 151 Todorov, Tzvetan 95–6 transculturation 135 Trinidad and Tobago 16, 18, 26, 43–5, 46, 47, 51, 53, 84, 155, 158, 174 Trinidadians 9, 13, 16, 17, 18, 43, 47, 83 tropicália 114–15, 118 Umbanda 126, 127 urban cultures 11–20, 22, 23–4, 96, 101, 109, 137–40

Vázquez, Lourdes 5 Vega, Marta M. 26–7, 74–5 Vodou 4, 23–6, 29, 35, 53, 54–60, 62–70, 77, 83, 129–31, 133, 137, 143, 155, 157, 165, 166–7 vodouisants (Vodou practitioners) 24–5, 58, 62, 64–9, 83, 157 West Indian American Day Carnival Association 16; see also Caribbean carnival in Brooklyn Wilson, Carlos Guillermo 1–2 Yoruba 21, 44, 55, 63, 71, 73, 75, 77, 82–4, 134, 155, 158 Yoruba religión see Santería Yoruba-Orisha Baptist Church 43–9, 52, 60, 71, 87, 102–3, 155, 157, 158, 159, 164 zombies 66