Who is Changò in my life?

Changò or Shango.

One spelling is tinged Cuban,one is tinged African. All tinged in love.

On December 4th, people all over the Globe are lighting red candles & offering okra with corn meal tonight to honor the Yoruban / West African King, Changò.

In Brazil,in Cuba or in the Bronx.

When you think of Assata Shakur,know Changó was on her right hand side the whole way.

Since I’m no historian,I won’t get too in depth about facts,but more so how I came to know and understand this entity from childhood to present day. This is an invitation for you as a reader to do some research 💌

While the religious initiation under Changò is a lot more integrated,intensive, complex and more than I can describe here, anyone with good intent can call onto this force respectfully for the courage to carry on.

It also is the day of St. Barbara. The woman you see in long brown tresses, with a crown,chalice of fire,lightning as a backdrop,proudly gleaming in gold chain amulets around people’s necks in every urban city,or through lit Botanica windows. Consider this a day of celebrating duality. The essence that women can be king. And men, can be vulnerable.

To briefly describe this comparison I will detail a small synopsis of how this originated. During the TransAtlantic Slave Trade,when Africans were extracted and forced upon the shores of the Caribbean,and other parts of Colonized Land dominated by Catholic heirarchies,they adopted the image and statue of St. Barbara as a poker face,a decoy to deflect from what they knew might get them severely punished which was celebrating their own Gods. In other words,they made it seem like they were honoring this lady of a Saint,but really she was a physical representation of the king of Fire,dance & drum, the mighty Changó. Maybe they found some synonyms within their stories.

St. Barbara was the fiercest woman to come out of Present day Lebanon,AD.

When we reference AD,or BC (Before Christ)we must know,there were Gods who came before Christ and it’s clear in history and pop culture today.

There is a “pataki” or story that I overheard through Lucumi elders about Changó disguising himself as a woman to escape danger. Equally in Lebanon,on December 4th,they celebrate Halloween. Why? Well they disguise themselves to represent the time St.Barbara had to disguise herself to flee from the tower and hide from her evil father,and the patriarchy. The story ended poorly, according to legend,she was shamed and murdered publicly.

While,respectfully,each belief has it’s own story,I can’t help but notice and understand why for decades there was a romance between the two in adoration.

I like to think of Changó as the better ending of St. Barbara. The Revenge. The wrath of our African ancestors.

The blackest of Black Power.

The undeniable,undying,presence that you can never erase.

He is the survival. The warrior that comes from the suffrage. The warrior in all of us.

He is the charismatic protester at City Hall. The one to guide you through the dark alley and safely to the other side where the light is. That feeling inside of you when you hear the Bata drum and you can’t help but go wild with sudden rhythm,as if possessed.

Chango is that entity that tells us to stand up,stand tall,be ready for war.

It’s A day, where we dance among the masculine and feminine energies, we all embody.

A day for the twospirit and their children.

Red carnations are scattered across altars, and if you’re lucky like I am tonight, there will be rain and thunder in the sky. An affirmation, that magic exists. In reading the story of St. Barbara and that of Chango or Shango, depending on your preferred dialect, we find many similarities. While I won't get too deep into facts, since this is more about my own personal account & relationship with this entity, you will find the mystery of why these two names, embody similar symbolisms.

Red is the color that symbolizes Chango or Shango.

Is it ironic that when we speak of Chakras, the Red Chakra is the Root. It symbolizes, action, courage, change & survival.

When I think of Chango, I think of the character, Queen, from the film, Queen & Slim & the countless men and women who struggled for their freedoms embedded in stories and within real lives.

My Relationship with Chango:

When I was about 12 years old, I will never forget the anticipation escalating from everyone in the room, as Padrino Junior ritualistically tossed the cowry shells on the straw “estera” or divination mat seeking who would crown me. Crown me, meaning, claim my sacred head, it’s worlds, and guide me along in this chaotic life. I recall him sitting with legs crossed below me on the floor, in his white hat and pristine salt & pepper beard. A small throne almost, of us sharing this one simple solitary mat. Our two bodies across from one another, and my frame elevated on a small wooden stool above him. It felt special. So special, it was the ONLY time I wore a skirt outside of catholic school, just for this occasion. This child of Obatala was showing me the constellations. A teacher and student, both seeking knowledge. A small throne of sorts. He would speak words into the ethers. Proclaim names, as if harking the angels to summon affirmations onto this earth plain.

The room was silent, except for Oscar, our wire haired fox terrier barking to get out from my sister’s room. Just the baritone of his incantations. Some I would describe as Spanish, and others a tongue I was just starting to learn from the chants and songs I would hear on weekends at drummings in Bronx basements. Words Of Lucumi or Yoruba.

Or what Sublime would sing in a popular song called “Santeria.”

He would clasp the shells in his palms,shake them, motion them towards the sky, move his closed fists gently toward my forehead, my heart and the tops of my bare feet. Each throw of these cowry shells, were not only the art of numerology, but a response. A yes. A no. or “You already know, why ask?”

Toss by Toss, like dice in a gamble of God play,Padrino would go through the names of the Orishas and ritualistically motion towards my forehead, before another toss to the floor.

Elegua, NO. Yemaya, No. Oya, NO. Ogun, Absolutely NOT. Whew, thank Goodness.

In my adolescence, I favored, the less intense, for I was already intense. The lighter the God, to lighten my head, the better. I after all, was a kid that would want to hang out at graveyards and point at them on the highway hoping we could make a pit stop, just for fun.

When Oshun was a clear, NO, I almost cried. I suffered.

Padrino tells me, “It’s ok, maybe she will still come out as your Mother.”

But not my Crown. Not, the end all be all of my energetic existence. I loved Oshun. I wanted to be her child. The notion that she would guide me through life, sounded like a dream. Her colors, her artifacts. Yellow, Gold, Sunflowers. The joy the mere image of her, would bring to me. I would be blessed with softer blows, perhaps empathy. In essence she represented to me the tenderness of the world. The embrace of a Mother and her children. The warm soup for the soul after a treacherous day. Her feminine entity cradling me through life would symbolize ease. In Tambores, or drummings, her spirit would always be the synonym of honey, and bring me to tears because of how much compassion she carried in her sway.

But, then there was CHANGO. Proud stepping,boastful and intimidating to me. Once the shells were thrown, a clear and resounding YES, appeared on the mat. I let out a howl. A deep terrified cry. I wept like a child who got it’s favorite blankie tossed in the trash.

I wanted to escape my entire body, die, and be reborn again into another life ,to be claimed by another Deity.

I watched Padrino look up at me with a laugh and wide eyes as if he read my whole lifetime in one moment. As if he knew, that I needed Chango like I needed an extra strength Tylenol during my menstrual cycle.

Everyone let out a resounding “Wow.” Some people shouted, “ I knew it.”

and someone else said, “UFFFFF.” Uff. Indeed.

How could this be?!!!

He was the most popular Orisha besides, Oshun. Romanticized and adorned as St. Barbara behind Botanica windows in Brooklyn next to red carnations. He was also the one, I feared the most.

It was TOO much power, for my esteem to take on, or even resonate with. It felt like a burden and less like the gift everyone around me proclaimed it to be.

When we are not ready for Chango in our life, it may feel this way.

He was the wide eyes peering towards me in a dark forest, the fire in my wildest dreams that I wished I could wake up from.

My fondness of Chango, or Shango didn’t exist yet. My memory of him was of brutality. Fast. Brute Force. Overbearing Strength. Images of Axes, lightning Rods, breakthrough, emancipation,Zeus,The Tower Card in a deck of Tarot, Ominous overwhelming interludes of Power permeated my brain as everyone, smiled.

Should I be happy about this? I was TERRIFIED.

But there was something that never left me that day, that still resonates with me now, as I even mention his name today.

As i look back at my ultimately tumultuous past, experiences, and breakthroughs, I realize, why the shells spelled out what it did.

This was the way of the universe inviting me to stand in my power.

It is the task given to me, to be, all of the things that Chango or Shango represents. And that is to be:

Resilient,Empowered & Brave.

It’s what I feel when the drums play. It’s my voice. My Power. My words. My life.

I didn’t realize until late in my 20’s that Chango was just the right person to be assigned as the crown in my life. It is almost like when you tell a child repeatedly, “ You are beautiful.” With time, that child starts to believe the words they hear. They embody it, and with practice, allow it to be assigned to themselves.

It’s that feeling as a 12 year old, that sticks with me, until today.

Chango, or Shango, to me represents Black Power. It is deeply rooted, in remembering, who we are. And that is, strength. The emancipation and freedom we seek in our lives. The breaking of chains. Addictions. Entrapments. It is about breakthrough, regeneration, standing up for ourselves, for others, and ultimately, being the light and fire we need to illuminate our lives, and that of others.

I didn’t need tenderness or empathy. I already had enough of that embedded in me, to give to myself, and to the ones that needed it around me when young, and as I aged. What i needed, was to remind myself, that I was a child of Chango. I too, was strong, resilient, Brave. I needed to be a child of a king.

I heard a discussion today about how Chango moves in our lives and I found it to be interesting when someone mentioned

“Orishas are not here, for us to simply worship, they are here to honor,to resonate with, relate to,they are the God we see in ourselves. A mirror. ”

Just like people that clutch crucifixes when they feel afraid, I think of Chango and all that he represents, when I feel a moment of fear.

Indeed in my life, I have had to be a duality of sorts. Of both masculine and feminine. There have been times when I have to remember that in this world, what is required of us, doesn’t just fall under our genders.

There are sometimes, where I have had to be the King in my life. The father figure. The Knight riding the horse. The Strength.

The Orishas, were very human. They were entities that walked this physical plain, and their lives were so extraordinary that stories were shared about their lives and passed down for centuries. We find ourselves, within these stories. They are teachings that help us navigate our very own lives. They are a moral compass, for those seeking, a compass. They remind us to be kind. Or grateful. They remind us to seek justice, or patience. They remind us when to connect with the ocean, or our inner child. And with Chango, like In my life, he reminds me, of how far I have come, and how strong I truly am. Even when sometimes I have to be strong enough to cry in the lap of Oshun.

Just like the word, Beautiful. Just like the Word, Strong. Chango is symbolic of so much of the things that we fear, but are what keep us growing and elevating to new and profound breakthroughs in our lives.

When we embrace Chango energy, we will find ourselves, in charge of our lives. We will find ourselves no longer being victims to society or people who mistreat us. We will find ourselves looking in the mirror, loving our melanin or brown skin. We will find ourselves walking into a meeting, with bright ideas, unafraid to speak them into existence. We will find ourselves, in the middle of the room, dancing instead of hiding behind the others.

Chango is what helped me put on my pants, when men in work places, tried to misplace me. It’s the pit of your stomach. The base of your throat. That anxious ache, to say, what you need to say, when the rage cannot wait and is festering. It’s the Rebel & the Poet, asking for justice or peace.

Chango is The Black Panthers, Fela Kuti, Dolores Huerta. Chango is Punk Rock. Chango is that time you stood up to your boss and demanded where the fuck the rest of your money was or why your coworker didn’t get a lunch break yet. It’s a revolution. A revelation. Of self. It’s a level. Some reach it at birth, if they have lived many lives. Some develop it after life has thrown them 5 times down the stairs. Some can’t take all the fire, just yet, and need to sit with a different kind of element until their mind can fathom what it takes to embody all of the demands that spirit needs of you, to bring forth into this world.

And some are the Chango, that quietly forms a family, sustains a home, and is the father and mother in all circumstances carrying with confidence, the responsibilities needed to survive.

When you find your fire, or if it is dim, and awaiting to be accepted, I hope you see it, as a gift, and never a burden.

And may you always let your fire shine bright.