Natalie Zaman
When I make my way to the outskirts of the French Quarter, the shops are closed; the long slender shutters that cover both window and door are tightly locked. It isn't a far walk to St. Louis Cemetery #1, and the old Spanish-style buildings melt suddenly into an industrial drab.
The white-washed walls of the cemetery gleam in the morning sun. I can see from where I'm standing across the street that the graveyard is small, but full: the tombs, all above ground, cram next to each other. Even at a distance, one can discern the tight alleyways between the vaults.
All the guidebooks say that Marie Laveau's tomb isn't far from the entrance. I find it easily—tall and white with a pitched roof. The triple XXX's scrawled on the front give it away. That, and the litter of offerings, old and new, crammed at the base: soggy cigarettes, overturned liquor bottles and faded Mardi Gras beads.
I make it my business to seek out graves of the famous, and Marie Laveau—historical figure, fever nurse-cum-Voodoo priestess and hairdresser—was a woman I'd come to admire. Fate had made her a prominent thread in the fabric of American history and, more importantly for me, a Pagan heroine. Here was a woman who managed to keep one foot in the Christian world and the other in the occult. My visit is two-fold: part passion, part reconciliation; a Catholic past put to rest in a Pagan present.
A gaggle of tourists passes in front of the vault.
“Now this here's the tomb of Marie Laveau, the famous Voodoo Queen,” begins a guide with an official-looking badge. “It's against the law to deface a tomb here in New Orleans. Superstitions say to knock three times, turn three times and make three XXX's, then make your wish. Then back away from the tomb—you never turn your back on the Voodoo Queen! Once your wish's been granted, y'all come back to New Orleans to leave an offering. That's right, y'all have to come back! Make all the wishes you want, but don't write on the tomb or it'll cost you $1000 an X.”
She isn't kidding. Later in the day, I'm told by local historian Gerry Gandolfo that those who would levy this exorbitant fine are perched atop a building adjacent to the cemetery, watching for would be vandal-wishers. The good people of the non-profit organization Save Our Cemeteries had also “repaired” the Vodou Queen's tomb by covering it with white paint—one that made it impossible to make XXXs with readily accessible bits of brick (the traditional means of performing this ritual). Of course, this doesn't stop the faithful who continue to make their marks on the tomb with permanent ink pens. I'm sure Marie, being a bucker and worker of the system, is laughing wherever she is.
When the group moves on, two remain behind. They are young men, similar in dress and height. I wonder if the Marassa—the twin Lwa of Vodou—have come to bear witness to my intentions. I move forward unafraid, and my companions watch quietly as I kneel in front of the tomb to place my offerings alongside those already there.
“She liked bling,” I say, recalling tales of her typical costume: gold earrings, light, loose chemises, a bright intricately wrapped tignon and curls peaking out dangerously. No one can quite agree on what color Marie Laveau was, but whatever her shade, all agree that she was beautiful. I lay a pair of crystal encrusted earrings down next to a small stack of pennies.
I hear low laughter as I draw a black crayon out of my bag.
“You don't take something without leaving something else in exchange,” I explain.
“Gonna make an X?”
“Nope.” I'm not here to make wishes. Unrolling a swathe of fabric interface, I pull it tight over the face of the tomb. As I run the wax over the surface, the inscription comes up, soft, but readable:
nee Laveau”
“Dag, I didn't know you could do that!” one of them says.
“Yeah.” I continue rubbing, making the letters clearer. “It won't damage the tomb.” If they're from Save Our Cemeteries, which I doubt, this should appease them.
Several people are interred in the vault, but the title “The Family of the Widow Paris, once Laveau” tells more than the litany of names and dates carved into the front plaques. Husband number one, Jacques Paris, is not here; disappeared or dead, no one knows, but his name remains. It was this tool that Marie Laveau used to work the social mores that would have otherwise contained a woman of spirit, no less a woman of color. Did it matter if she was married to Christophe Glapion, the father of her children? Marie Laveau was the product of “placage,” the mistress system installed in New Orleans at the turn of the 19th century. Creole women and women of color became accepted mistresses of wealthy planters. Church and state promoted this, and the children of these unions bore their fathers' names and could inherit property. Despite this surface acceptance, an obvious stigma clung to such arrangements, and Marie Laveau was having none of that.
By remaining “the Widow Paris,” Marie Laveau was able to buy, sell and gift property, adopt children, and buy and subsequently free men, women and children sold into slavery. In her book The Spirited Lives of Marie Laveau, Martha Ward traces the web of notarized papers, church documents and sworn statements; subtle links to the past that hint at what Marie and her family were really up to. But nothing is certain, including the contents of the high vault in St. Louis #1.
I finish my first rubbing and turn around to find myself alone, but not for long; a steady stream of tours moves through the graveyard. I leave the cemetery and head into town, turning down St. Ann Street, hoping to sense a trace of the house Marie lived in. I know nothing physical remains; the building she occupied was demolished not long after her death to make way for a grander house. There are other extant buildings, however, that can be touchstones.
The towers of St. Louis Cathedral soar into the sky. There is Vodou hidden in this fortress of faith, much the way the faces of the Catholic Saints are masks for the Lwa. I shield my eyes so I can look up at the towers, on another hint from Jerry Gandolfo—there are Vodou symbols hidden up there.
Can a person lead a dual spiritual life? I was raised in the Catholic faith, and although logically I understand the connections to the Wiccan path I follow now, it has been a hard-won and continual process of coming to terms. According to Kalila Smith, Marie Laveau perceived the similarities between the faiths, and instead of being torn between them, she fused them together like rhythm and song. I take comfort in the fact that the Widow Paris had something that I do not: guidance on both sides. First taught by Ursuline nuns and then (possibly) by the Vodou priestess Sainte Dede and Doctor John Bayou, she was then taken into the confidences of the priest in charge of the Cathedral, Pere Antoine. No conservative, the good Pater baptized infants born out of wedlock and gave last rites to the dying, whether they were in a state of grace or no. No doubt this pragmatism appealed to Marie Laveau, whose Vodou sensibilities taught her that life was life no matter how it was lived, and one respected it to the end. Legend has it that the renegade priest and the Vodou Queen sealed a pact on the steps of the cathedral: she would ensure that his church was filled each Sunday, and he would accept her religious practices.
A map of early 19th century New Orleans shows that Love Street is past Esplanade towards the Farbourg Marginy, and close to Rampart Street. In another tangled web of notarized deeds, Marie's first-born daughter and successor Marie Laveau II became the owner of a house on this street. She practiced Vodou there, and I must see it. I wander into the old neighborhood, away from the tourists, where some of these houses are still scored by the wrath of Katrina. I can't find Love Street; it isn't on any of the maps. I go back to the hotel and google it: Love Street, New Orleans, LA. Nothing. It doesn't exist any more—another erasure.
Stories of the two Maries are often blended together, but there is a different tenor to the tales associated with Marie II. I'd found Martha Ward's book which served as my primary guide through Laveau-period New Orleans on Elizabeth Kerri Mahon's award winning blog Scandalous Women. Mahon, who has been penning these biographical essays since 2005 drew this conclusion from her research: Marie II “never gained the same high respect that her mother had earned. Apparently she lacked the warmth and compassion of her mother, and instead inspired fear and subservience.”
There were certainly advantages that both Marie II and her sister Philomene did not enjoy, and that their mother did; particularly the high status and economic security afforded to Creoles in the years before the Civil War. The New Orleans of the Widow Paris was a small society where someone with the right personality could control her own destiny. Did Marie Laveau I's power come from Divine intervention, or from the family secrets overheard in the boudoirs of the wealthy women whose hair she was commissioned to dress? Or perhaps it was a combination; God helps those who help themselves. One thing is certain, though: Marie Laveau I was a woman who saw opportunity and took it with finesse.
Unfortunately for the daughters Laveau, Marie and Philomene, opportunities were scarce when they came into their own. All states were to assimilate into the Union and New Orleans became part of a bigger world; one not tolerant of racial and religious differences, not interested in individuality—and thus, not so easily tamed. While Marie II danced and held Vodou rituals on the shores of Lake Pontchartrain on St. John's Eve regardless of what the law said, Philomene prayed, went to church, and tried in vain to maintain a quiet existence in this new New Orleans. The second surviving daughter of the Vodou Queen would spend her life warding off reporters and tale seekers, swearing that her mother was a sober, pious, religious woman, bringing comfort to the most wretched prisoners. This was true—but what kind of comfort did she bring? Christian prayer, or gris-gris?
I'm well aware of the efficaciousness of prayer, as both petition and praise. It is one aspect of my Catholic roots that I have not abandoned; it's worked for me too many times. But there's something about a charm; a bag of herbs, a crystal, an intention written on a piece of paper, all carefully crafted together. Prayer becomes tangible. Like the Vodou of Marie Laveau, syncretic and adaptive, my practice evolves, embracing the past, but looking ever towards the future.
I return to the beginning and the ending-- the high vault at St. Louis #1. Tourists continue to file meekly past the tall white tomb. Some leave offerings.
“Now it's said Marie Laveau's body was moved to St. Louis #2, somewhere over there.” The tour guide points away from the gate. “That's the other cemetery over by the projects. But we say she's here.” She pats the tomb and a few people laugh. No one is going to the cemetery by the projects. I've read that Marie II might be buried there. Or she might be in a graveyard that was built over as the city expanded. The Superdome is on that site now. Guess who gets blamed when the Saints have a poor season?
The location of her physical body is unimportant to me right now: I bid Marie Laveau au revior as the spirit moves me to. Standing close to the tomb, I knock three times according to folklore. I trace a pentacle with my finger on the smooth white wall, silently reciting a prayer to the Vodou Queen's guiding spirit:
Gandolfo, Jerry. Personal Interview. New Orleans, LA, 29 December 2008. (New Orleans Historic Voodoo Museum 504.680.0128)
Long, Carolyn Morrow. A New Orleans Voudou Priestess: The Legend and Reality of Marie Laveau. Gainesville, University Press of Florida. 2006.
Mahon, Elizabeth Kerri. “Marie Laveau, Voodoo Queen of New Orleans.” n pag. Online. Internet. 15, December 2008. Available. http://scandalouswoman.blogspot.com/2008/02/marie-laveau-voodoo-queen-of-new.html
Nickell, Joe. “Investigative Files: Secrets of the Voodoo Tomb.” n pag. Online. Internet. 15, December 2008. Available. http://www.csicop.org/sb/2001-12/i-files.html
Smith, Kalia. “Marie Laveau, the New Orleans Voodoo Queen!” n pag. Online. Internet. 15, December 2008. Available. http://www.erzulies.com/site/articles/view/32
Ward, Martha. Voodoo Queen The Spirited Lives of Marie Laveau. Jackson, University of Mississippi Press. 2004.
**Recommended by both Jerry Gandolfo and Elizabeth Kerri Mahon but not read by me:
Fandrich, Ina J. The Mysterious Voodoo Queen, Marie Laveaux: A Study of Powerful Female Leadership in Nineteenth Century New Orleans. New York and London: Routledge, 2005.
Natalie Zaman writes The Wandering Witch for newWitch magazine, and co-publishes, edits and writes for www.broomstix.com, a free ezine for pagan children. Visit her at www.thewanderingwitch.com.