Born Baptiste, A Requiem
by Maven Huggins on Wednesday, July 7, 2010 at 8:55am
and i am incredibly sad. and not just for the loss of a favored uncle; but to see how people's lives are taken, appropriated, revised, cleansed and removed from those they love and who love them. I am sad to see part of people's lives wiped away, usually the part before the threatened insecure party showed up. i am wistful for those parts that are untold. Sad to see how the people who were most prominent be removed as if they never existed even as it is mentioned "he was partial to his sisters". but in the midst of my deep sadness for the life that went missing, the life that i new and was a part in, is the realization these people are aparty to their own extinction, in part, in love, in relationship, in marriage. i am sad for the amazing family i came from and was born to; and i know everyone may say their family is amazing, but few will admit it is myth and lie; and fewer still are families for which such statements are so true: where decisions are made collectively; where love, affection and emotion was the flip side of strict and expectations, where love was felt and rarely said, love was lived not just pulled out for special occasions. I am sad for the pause I am given to how unbelievably lucky i am and have been: I was a cherished child by all in that family; an older cousin last night saying, when I was born, "it was as if the best thing happened". I know what that feels like: it is an unend of love and embrace; it is to be favored, highly. on earth not just in some religious story. I am sad for the passing of an era never to return, never to be remade even, for there are more who are subjected to the lesser than the higher. more who have no memory or knowledge to emulate; and more dynamics that you can shake a fork at. I am sad that i am alone in such revelry; for the cherished is bittersweet and tinged with the heartbrokenness of Maria, the turmoil of Marina and Carl, the loss of Junior, the trauma of leaving Trinidad. But if none of that happened, I would not be here knowing what beauty I came from. Unknown to some, even those who stand with me with same family name, blood and history.
I suspect that is why having children is no joke for me. If they cant have that, then what is the point of bringing any. And as time goes by I realize who is my real mother. I have had three so far. I bless all of them: Marina birthed me, but Maria (Mama), her mother, held forth, claimed and proclaimed me. Then Marjorie, Marina's sister, Mama's eldest daughter, resuscitated and is reclaiming me.
I pay homage to all those of love who have gone before: Leroy, Roland, Pat, Lilla, Marina, Felix, Junior, MamaMaria. I do not forget Ruth.
This is, These are the altar of my life; my form and my creation
July 6/7, 2010
* (Maria es mi abuela, the Grande Dame sitting in the white dress above)
--------------------------------
Maria Bastaldo Baptiste
by Maven Huggins on Saturday, August 8, 2009 at 7:09pm
Mama Maria Bastaldo Baptiste
9:06am Saturday August 8, 2009
From Journal, Morning Pages:
I was just dreaming of Mama Maria Bastaldo Baptiste at the 8am hour, on this 8th of August of 2009. I was in a house in the milieu of plenty family members faceless, but present in connection, history and knowledge. I was complaining that ‘so and so’ just past me by or didn’t acknowledge me after ‘coming home’. “ (who came home, they or I?) I was standing brushing my hair, my natural hair, as in its current state; the me that is now, at this age and stage. I was concluding then that it was for me to address, pursue, seek and acknowledge them. (!?) All this time, I was talking to someone, a few others, family members, but ask me who and I cannot tell you. Somewhere in that, I was seeking or asking for my grandmother, Mama Maria. And in just that instant, I was in front of her, at her feet, while she sat in one of her Morris chairs. I was before Mama as if she had called me in, but it was me who sought her. (!?) And she asked me if ‘so and so’ did not tell me she wanted to see me and I said, “No, they said nothing”.
Sitting on the floor, looking up into my Mama’s cocopayol face, straight from Venezuela, with long curly hair, the same brown face, maybe a little darker as at the time of my physical remembrance of her, and just as bony was her knee at the time of her death. Telling me, she was, “so-and-so” went to your teacher and teacher say you are very smart. Then Teacher Family* went to see your teacher and Teacher say you well bright.” Mama said, “you well smart and bright”, while using her right hand as if scissors to clip my forehead just at the third eye, saying, “it must have been all that stew chicken your mother ate with you.” And I stared at my Mama’s face and asked if she ‘could not stay longer’, and I crumbled in tears leaning into that bony brown knee, as if she was living and I was asking her not to die too soon, because she was old, and so much had passed and she must be getting weary, but I was asking her to not pay attention to any of those things and please stay longer…the thought in back of my mind is that I will grow to have questions that I need you to answer. I will grow to need you more, can you not stay till then. And Mama slowly swayed her head “no, she can’t prolong life any longer.” And I thought, and said, “I don’t know what I will do without you.” Mama has been dead since 1973.
And in that moment, I became aware of myself. That I was talking to Mama, who before now, in all the thirty-seven years since her death, I have no recollection of a dream, mention or visit. But I did, at the tender age of seven, predict my Mama was going to die without me, after I had been (seemingly) ripped away from my family as I knew it, to go and live with my parents in NYC. That was my first great knowing trauma of my life. I used to cry in our brownstone, telling my mother, “I need to go back; Mama is going to die without me.” I was ignored. We did come back, just as Mama was on her last. The family story is that she bared a sly smile when told on her hospital bed that Melise was there. She was more so and less so, in comas at that time. You see, I was my Mama’s child. Those present at my birth will tell you that. “Melise is Mama’s child. The others have their mothers and parents, so they will decide for their children. But it is Maria who decides for Melise ”
The only other memory of my Mama after her death was at the passing on and transitioning of my brother. Junior told Daddy who was at his bedside, “Mama gave me a box.” And my father told him, “give it back”. “Don’t take it”. My father obviously knew the significance of the exchange, the recognizing of an ancestor come to take one over. But something happened there because my brother lingered here, with me, for the twenty-two years since his death until March of this year, 2009. That is another story.
My whole visit began to fade away as I became aware of the import of what I just experienced. Myself, I was melting away in the in-between of the experience and the now. Was it a dream, or did I just travel? And I tried to go back before Mama, but it was not the same, like the connection of communication was gone, even as I returned to sit before her person. And I thought, Of all the things I needed to know, I hear about some stew chicken from forty-five years ago?! I needed to hear what a “too bright child” needed to do in this Trinidad. Needed to hear why I am here.
Then I realized a key: At seven, such a peculiar age in the stories of humankind development, I escaped all the blight and curses- no first communion and confirmation, no years of blind rote schooling, common entrance and no colonialization and acculturation. Something to ponder further. But I digressed.
I was sitting at Mama’s feet; Me, big woman me. And she was talking to me, looking at and into me, touching me. I believe she was reassuring me, loving me and confirming me. Mama, face and body, unchanged; And this, after all these years of (seeming) absence and silence.
I tried to play back who Teacher was; who were the two who sought teacher about me and the relevance of the report, for what purpose, to what end, in a landscape bereft of value, interest, praise, company or use of such. But my Mama say so, to whose child, to She, I was, then it must be So. In hindsight I realize, I must still be, Her Child. We live and we leave it so.
Then about an hour later, as I swept my floors and did my morning chores, I reflected: the strong sense I have is that the second teacher, Family Teacher/Teacher Family, is my Godfather, My Uncle, Mama’s son, My Uncle Pat. I believe that. I wish I could cry for the semblance of this dream and travel. I don’t have words, but my awake brain and spiritual sensibilities tell me that those who know me the best, who know me first, who love me interminably, their one orphan child; Still, even now, they see and know, they came back, they send for me, they took me with them because Uncle Pat just died over a year ago…To give me a message, To bring me before them, in their midst. Reminding me of who I am and whose I am. Nothing more and nothing after and nothing before that! To strengthen and support , reinforce and uplift my continued journey. I believe.
I believe I traveled to my family beyond. I believe they sent for me. I believe they have been calling me for awhile, but it is only now am I able...to fly...to get there; a journey in process not yet clear. I believe ‘so and so’ are any number of people along my path to whom I owe my elevation of consciousness and knowledge, to know what is before me, and what I am required to do. I believe, my family has been worried about me. I know my Uncle Pat was before he left; wanting me to “get settled”. I believe now, my grandmother has no concerns. Her statements to me were as if irrelevant yet explaining the hard road I have to hoe.[ And isn’t that Zen, Buddhist, Peace, Oneness?] It is as it is. She gave no concern, and was just as peaceful and serene in what she imbibed as in how she engaged. So for that, I am not in the wrong, time, place or space.
The milieu, known and unknown, I believe are the hosts of people in my family, known and unknown to my conscious human self, but known to my sprit self. I believed I traveled to another dimension where they are or were all gathered (for my coming or where they reside?). I believe the teachers who sought of my teacher, are the special ones amongst me. I believe, from recent experiences, my Aunt Lilla Baptiste Gordon was one of them, and so she may have been a ‘first teacher”’ she surely came to me in Michigan upon her passing in Trinidad, holding that bucket, that Water Carrier bucket of what I know is the trademark, symbol and hieroglyph of the Annunakis. I believe my GodFather carried his concern for me from this life, to the afterlife…and so the counsel, the seeking, the confirmation, the reinforcement.
I have no idea who “The Teacher” was or is. In a conscious self, I might say God, but that is too far to stretch, but somehow, it makes sense.
This is what I believe. This is what I dreamt. This is what I experienced within the eight o’clock hour this day spent. I dreamt of Mama Maria last night. I share this with you as witness to my journey. I put this up for the edification of her other children. Kurt, Vanessa, Neal, Nigel, Gail, Portia and the plenty others watered in the line.
Ashe Mama!
Maria Bastaldo Baptiste, Ashe. Ase Ase.
12:03 pm Saturday 8 August 2009
---------------------------
in 1995, a spirit appeared in my home as I had never seen before; very physically formed; as if a real person. It was a woman, full, big bellied (like old mammies used to be), holding a bucket. It scared the s**t out of me. The spirit appeared before anyone in my family told me that my Aunt Lilla was dead. Aunt Lilla was close to both my parents, being my mother's Aunt. She grew up with my grandparents, her brother. By many defaults, I was hers to a point. I have no confirmation that was Aunt Lilla, just to say that she passed at the same time, as that visitation, and before my family told me she passed, she appeared. That spirit was an indomitable spirit. I screamed and ran in fear, tried to compose myself and return, and the spirit was right there, unmoved. I tried to ask it "what did it come to tell me, but it was a feeble attempt on my part. Then it disappeared. That is one experience i have never forgotten.
It is only now, learning about Annunaki, Sumerian culture, being identified as numerous goddesses, one being Nihiti, and learning about Water, Water Bearers, Gods of Water, and their holding this bucket. The Bucket, do I put it all together./ Ask myself, is there a story of identity and connection there, from one generation to the next.. People of different origins often do not fit into their families and parents somehow. My aunt was the last child, left orphan after her parents death. Hence, she grew up with her older brother, in my grandparent's family. It is why that arm of the family is so close to my grandparent's clan.
Did my aunt come to see me as in honor of "as one to the next, as one generation to another, as a passing on of something, perhaps, that i was yet unaware of/ Who was my Aunt?
I share this only with the personalization of the holders of buckets.
And what do i call myself? what is one of my latest names. Water Warrior, Broken Chinese Water Pot
What is my birthsign, Water. Water Bearer.
ashe
http://www.crystalinks.com/godswaterbuckets.html
9:06am Saturday August 8, 2009
From Journal, Morning Pages:
I was just dreaming of Mama Maria Bastaldo Baptiste at the 8am hour, on this 8th of August of 2009. I was in a house in the milieu of plenty family members faceless, but present in connection, history and knowledge. I was complaining that ‘so and so’ just past me by or didn’t acknowledge me after ‘coming home’. “ (who came home, they or I?) I was standing brushing my hair, my natural hair, as in its current state; the me that is now, at this age and stage. I was concluding then that it was for me to address, pursue, seek and acknowledge them. (!?) All this time, I was talking to someone, a few others, family members, but ask me who and I cannot tell you. Somewhere in that, I was seeking or asking for my grandmother, Mama Maria. And in just that instant, I was in front of her, at her feet, while she sat in one of her Morris chairs. I was before Mama as if she had called me in, but it was me who sought her. (!?) And she asked me if ‘so and so’ did not tell me she wanted to see me and I said, “No, they said nothing”.
Sitting on the floor, looking up into my Mama’s cocopayol face, straight from Venezuela, with long curly hair, the same brown face, maybe a little darker as at the time of my physical remembrance of her, and just as bony was her knee at the time of her death. Telling me, she was, “so-and-so” went to your teacher and teacher say you are very smart. Then Teacher Family* went to see your teacher and Teacher say you well bright.” Mama said, “you well smart and bright”, while using her right hand as if scissors to clip my forehead just at the third eye, saying, “it must have been all that stew chicken your mother ate with you.” And I stared at my Mama’s face and asked if she ‘could not stay longer’, and I crumbled in tears leaning into that bony brown knee, as if she was living and I was asking her not to die too soon, because she was old, and so much had passed and she must be getting weary, but I was asking her to not pay attention to any of those things and please stay longer…the thought in back of my mind is that I will grow to have questions that I need you to answer. I will grow to need you more, can you not stay till then. And Mama slowly swayed her head “no, she can’t prolong life any longer.” And I thought, and said, “I don’t know what I will do without you.” Mama has been dead since 1973.
And in that moment, I became aware of myself. That I was talking to Mama, who before now, in all the thirty-seven years since her death, I have no recollection of a dream, mention or visit. But I did, at the tender age of seven, predict my Mama was going to die without me, after I had been (seemingly) ripped away from my family as I knew it, to go and live with my parents in NYC. That was my first great knowing trauma of my life. I used to cry in our brownstone, telling my mother, “I need to go back; Mama is going to die without me.” I was ignored. We did come back, just as Mama was on her last. The family story is that she bared a sly smile when told on her hospital bed that Melise was there. She was more so and less so, in comas at that time. You see, I was my Mama’s child. Those present at my birth will tell you that. “Melise is Mama’s child. The others have their mothers and parents, so they will decide for their children. But it is Maria who decides for Melise ”
The only other memory of my Mama after her death was at the passing on and transitioning of my brother. Junior told Daddy who was at his bedside, “Mama gave me a box.” And my father told him, “give it back”. “Don’t take it”. My father obviously knew the significance of the exchange, the recognizing of an ancestor come to take one over. But something happened there because my brother lingered here, with me, for the twenty-two years since his death until March of this year, 2009. That is another story.
My whole visit began to fade away as I became aware of the import of what I just experienced. Myself, I was melting away in the in-between of the experience and the now. Was it a dream, or did I just travel? And I tried to go back before Mama, but it was not the same, like the connection of communication was gone, even as I returned to sit before her person. And I thought, Of all the things I needed to know, I hear about some stew chicken from forty-five years ago?! I needed to hear what a “too bright child” needed to do in this Trinidad. Needed to hear why I am here.
Then I realized a key: At seven, such a peculiar age in the stories of humankind development, I escaped all the blight and curses- no first communion and confirmation, no years of blind rote schooling, common entrance and no colonialization and acculturation. Something to ponder further. But I digressed.
I was sitting at Mama’s feet; Me, big woman me. And she was talking to me, looking at and into me, touching me. I believe she was reassuring me, loving me and confirming me. Mama, face and body, unchanged; And this, after all these years of (seeming) absence and silence.
I tried to play back who Teacher was; who were the two who sought teacher about me and the relevance of the report, for what purpose, to what end, in a landscape bereft of value, interest, praise, company or use of such. But my Mama say so, to whose child, to She, I was, then it must be So. In hindsight I realize, I must still be, Her Child. We live and we leave it so.
Then about an hour later, as I swept my floors and did my morning chores, I reflected: the strong sense I have is that the second teacher, Family Teacher/Teacher Family, is my Godfather, My Uncle, Mama’s son, My Uncle Pat. I believe that. I wish I could cry for the semblance of this dream and travel. I don’t have words, but my awake brain and spiritual sensibilities tell me that those who know me the best, who know me first, who love me interminably, their one orphan child; Still, even now, they see and know, they came back, they send for me, they took me with them because Uncle Pat just died over a year ago…To give me a message, To bring me before them, in their midst. Reminding me of who I am and whose I am. Nothing more and nothing after and nothing before that! To strengthen and support , reinforce and uplift my continued journey. I believe.
I believe I traveled to my family beyond. I believe they sent for me. I believe they have been calling me for awhile, but it is only now am I able...to fly...to get there; a journey in process not yet clear. I believe ‘so and so’ are any number of people along my path to whom I owe my elevation of consciousness and knowledge, to know what is before me, and what I am required to do. I believe, my family has been worried about me. I know my Uncle Pat was before he left; wanting me to “get settled”. I believe now, my grandmother has no concerns. Her statements to me were as if irrelevant yet explaining the hard road I have to hoe.[ And isn’t that Zen, Buddhist, Peace, Oneness?] It is as it is. She gave no concern, and was just as peaceful and serene in what she imbibed as in how she engaged. So for that, I am not in the wrong, time, place or space.
The milieu, known and unknown, I believe are the hosts of people in my family, known and unknown to my conscious human self, but known to my sprit self. I believed I traveled to another dimension where they are or were all gathered (for my coming or where they reside?). I believe the teachers who sought of my teacher, are the special ones amongst me. I believe, from recent experiences, my Aunt Lilla Baptiste Gordon was one of them, and so she may have been a ‘first teacher”’ she surely came to me in Michigan upon her passing in Trinidad, holding that bucket, that Water Carrier bucket of what I know is the trademark, symbol and hieroglyph of the Annunakis. I believe my GodFather carried his concern for me from this life, to the afterlife…and so the counsel, the seeking, the confirmation, the reinforcement.
I have no idea who “The Teacher” was or is. In a conscious self, I might say God, but that is too far to stretch, but somehow, it makes sense.
This is what I believe. This is what I dreamt. This is what I experienced within the eight o’clock hour this day spent. I dreamt of Mama Maria last night. I share this with you as witness to my journey. I put this up for the edification of her other children. Kurt, Vanessa, Neal, Nigel, Gail, Portia and the plenty others watered in the line.
Ashe Mama!
Maria Bastaldo Baptiste, Ashe. Ase Ase.
12:03 pm Saturday 8 August 2009
---------------------------
Gods and Goddesses of the Water Bucket
by Maven Huggins on Friday, August 7, 2009 at 7:51am
It is only now, learning about Annunaki, Sumerian culture, being identified as numerous goddesses, one being Nihiti, and learning about Water, Water Bearers, Gods of Water, and their holding this bucket. The Bucket, do I put it all together./ Ask myself, is there a story of identity and connection there, from one generation to the next.. People of different origins often do not fit into their families and parents somehow. My aunt was the last child, left orphan after her parents death. Hence, she grew up with her older brother, in my grandparent's family. It is why that arm of the family is so close to my grandparent's clan.
Did my aunt come to see me as in honor of "as one to the next, as one generation to another, as a passing on of something, perhaps, that i was yet unaware of/ Who was my Aunt?
I share this only with the personalization of the holders of buckets.
And what do i call myself? what is one of my latest names. Water Warrior, Broken Chinese Water Pot
What is my birthsign, Water. Water Bearer.
ashe
http://www.crystalinks.com/godswaterbuckets.html
-----------------------
Mo juba awo Yemoja!
by Maven Huggins on Thursday, July 16, 2009 at 4:43pm
The Goddess of the Oceans and Sea
Queen of Mothers
Mo juba awo Yemoja.
Iwo ni Ayaba Iya.
Iwo ni Iya Orisha.
Iwo ni Inu Iye Odidi.
Iwo ni Ifihan Ti Abo Ase.
Iwo ni Inu Aiye.
Iwo ni Orisha Obinrin Okun Nla ati Odo.
Iwo ni Oluwa Awo Ti Abo Ipilese.
I humble myself before the mystery of Yemoja.
You are the Queen of Mothers.
You are the Mother of the Orisha.
You are the Womb of all Life.
You are the Feminine Manifestation of the Ase.
You are the Womb of the World.
You are the Goddess of the Oceans and Rivers.
You are the Owner of the Mystery of the Feminine Principle.
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