Identity as a Priest, Revisited

This has continued to be a theme in the week’s thoughts and experiences.

I am Cajun. I am American. I am white. I am female. I am an introvert. I am scientifically trained. I am someone who has experienced considerable violence. I am the black sheep of my whole family. I am a vodou priest. I am a mother. I am middle aged. I am, I am, I am.

I am greeted as a woman at spiritual parties. I am greeted as a real man by Ogou at spiritual parties. I am greeted as a priest at spiritual parties. I am ignored at spiritual parties. I am greeted as white. I am greeted as internally black in healing rituals by spirits. I am a horse of male spirits, a horse of female spirits, a horse of spirits who are complete, both male and female. I am a horse. I am, I am, I am.

None of that shit matters—not a bit of it. I only bring identity up when I wish to make a point to someone who believes identity to be what they are, typically because they want to exclude someone they don’t like or demand something they think they’re owed. Identity, like personality, is an attempt to control your environment.

I have never successfully gone to the spirits with what I will be. I have never successfully hung onto any bit of identity and personality as something stable which I could rely on or even draw pride or a sense of belonging from. The spirits are quick to pull those things from my hands because every attempt to hang onto identity or personality is a place I try to make myself unavailable to change or to being what I need to be to meet a responsibility.

I have a handful of rules I have been given to govern my conduct and a long list of responsibility, ritual requirements, jurisdictions, and guidance.

Everything else is up for grabs.