The Tales of Diaspora: Chapter 1 - Discordant Affections, Part 2

A steady drum pounded in my head as I laid across my bed. I figured if I looked as if I were sleeping, The Tyrant wouldn't be inclined to initiate an argument. The kitchen is clean. We're supposed to do leftovers. I cleaned up behind myself after my shower. I'm good. But as the tunes for inducing a Native American shamanic journey climaxed, I hated myself for having ADHD.

"I should be in a trance right now and I'm worried about whether or not the house is clean", I grumbled in melodrama.

"You need to be worried about me telling the elders about you inducing a trance in my house", I heard over the ethnic drumming.

"Or about your fits of anger, it's very un-Christlike of you mother", I turned up the volume on my phone. I couldn't entertain her calling my father's house hers for a second time. When I became aware of my audacious arrogance, I peeked out of my left eye to see if she were about to swing. To my surprise, I was left to my shamanic journeying. After the drumming repeated for a second time and I was no closer to traveling the astral plane, I removed my headphones and started a Google search for shamans. How do I report a site as fraudulent?




As I jumped site to site filtering through the charlatans, I thought of my father. Marcus Taylor never attained appointment in our global Christian brotherhood. Neither was he the emotional Christian moved to tears at the thought of all the hope that God provides in exchange for exclusive devotion and observance of his high moral principles. While he ensured that I knew the scriptures, he would never brow beat me with the "Word of God", as his wife would.

One day in the car, on our way home from our Christian ministry, he spoke to me on our religious doctrine pertaining to divination and spirit mediumship. I always noticed that when my father confided in me, especially on weightier matters, his voice would deepen in a very distinctive authoritative tone. After the voice of spiritual integrity faded, he paused as I gazed out the window, still disengaged from the preceding topic. 


"You know, Dia, there is life after death. Here, on Earth, as we know it now", he said softly, solemnly. I looked over at my father who had not removed his eyes from the road. I was unaccustomed to my father ever speaking against our doctrine and doing so nonchalantly and plainly as if his statement hadn't questioned my entire upbringing. 


"Since I was a child", he continued, "I've seen things, spirits, you know? I hear things, them, sometimes too". He paused. "Your grandmother is in the living room by her pictures and candles. There is a reason why I told your mother to put the candles by the family pictures." He paused again and sighed as he searched for his words. "But she'd never admit that to you. So don't bring it up to her. I'd never hear the end of it."

Looking at my dad, I couldn't formulate an appropriate response. So I turned my attention back to our urban scenery. 

"Neither would I", I finally added.

So with my natural desire to pursue true spirituality coupled with my father's confidential confession, I had no inhibitions about seeking spiritual guidance of the nontraditional sort. With Yoruba priesthood ruled out for being better performing artists than proxies to the powers, covens being next to nonexistent in my area and shamans not having as large of an online presence, I threw the phone down to the bed and stared at the ceiling. I began to rear myself. 

"Your SPE 101 paper isnt't going to write itself young lady. What did you learn from this semester's student teaching with Autistic middle schoolers?", melodrama continued.

I rolled my oh so overwhelmed and burdened mind over to look at the conjoining back driveways through my backroom window.

"That the mildly and severely Autistic need to be educated separately. It isn't fair to the more capable of the two. But their all inclusive, disorder designated classrooms, with students aging from nine to fourteen is most likely a contingency of having to raise your special needs child in a low income neighborhood", I sighed, "public schools".

Pulling my head over to once again to view the ceiling, "Now write in down". Instead I disobeyed myself, picked up the phone and called Victor. 

"He broke up with you Dia..." I said sarcastically, bitterly. But I couldn't fight that nagging inclination that the relationship wasn't over. The phone rang. 

"Welp, at least he hasn't blocked my number y..."

"Hello?"

Holy shit, he answered. "Victor?"

"Hey, D, can I come get you?"

I sat up as the pressure from anticipation tightened my chest. I looked over at my closet, planning an outfit before responding. "Let me throw some clothes on."

Thirty minutes later, we were in the back seat of his Honda CR-V. It had only been a few days since his "I'm a married man" speech and his body felt heavier than it did the day before he delivered it. When he finished and peeled his sweaty body from atop mine, he sat, caught his breath and caressed my thigh.

"Missed you...", he said very casually. 

"Victor, after your big speech, I sent you twenty text messages."

"And they aren't in my phone anymore Sister Taylor."

"What?"

He reclined his seat, closed his eyes and muffled as he began to nap.

"We're both dedicated and baptized Christians, Diaspora. And there's a pretty little thing running around with my last name. I can't keep any of your messages or phone calls and haven't for a minute." 

He adjusted his weight in the chair. I sat up and began to dress myself.  "I'm not in a rush", he quickly added with one eye now open. 

"Lucky me", I hissed. He pats my butt.

"Hey, you were sixteen when this shit started. Your dad left and I thought you and your mom would eventually stop coming to the meetings and all of this would have gone away."

"Well, now I'm nineteen, Vick."

Now, with both eyes intently on me, "And we still haven't gone away."

"Gone away? Like I've ever been a problem. It's only a problem, Vick, if you make it a problem."

He stared. "What do you want me to do Dia? I can't leave my wife for a nineteen year old."

I finished dressing, sat back next to him and passed him his clothing.

"There's a store in Lancaster."

"That's like an hour away", he complained.

"And you aren't in a rush Brother Jones."

 He nods, "Okay."

"And, I'm hungry."


On the road, we ate Wendy's and pretended as if nothing were wrong. We listened to popular music: hip hop, funk and a little jazz. We cracked jokes and watched the GPS. 

"So where exactly are we going?"

"You'll see. I'd rather just go and let you be surprised than to tell you now and be told no."

"You're funny", he chuckled.

I shoved French fries in my mouth and looked out the window. After several sips, I decided that I'd rather have his lemonade than my coke. We exited the highway and a few minutes later I could see the store's sign posted on the road. It stood out plainly between two other storefronts and abundant farmland. Madam Vessant's Occult Shop. We pulled into the empty parking lot. If it weren't for the flashing neon TAROT READING sign and the crone rocking in chair out front, I would have presumed the shop closed. 

"You wanted to go to an occult shop?", he asked confusedly.

"Mhmm, you coming in?"

"And give you my card again?"

"You didn't give me a budget last time, not my fault. Come on."

I jumped out of the car and addressed the crone. "Are you Madame Vessant?"

"Only when I'm here sweetie. What can I do for you?", she croaked. Victor watched as we conversed, surprised at what he thought my newest venture. 

"Umm, I wanted a tarot reading, a deck of my own and maybe a dream catcher, if you have any. Do you have any books on shamanic journeying?"

"The reading is fifty dollars", gave her aged voice. From her sun tan and heavily wrinkled skin, I couldn't place her ethnicity but her accent was American. 

"Dia..", Victor exaggerated, complaining of the price. I ignore the Christian elder who couldn't leave his wife for a nineteen year old. Madame Vessant glared sternly at Victor, even squinting an eye.

"Alright, the girl gets her first reading free, but your young mistress wants a deck of cards, a book and quality dream catcher." He bypassed the woman's comment and the fact that he wears his wedding band so seldomly that he doesn't carry an imprint.

"Dia, you want me to go with you?"

"She should do this alone", Vessant added firmly. Victor cut his eyes over at the woman and then back at me. "D...?"

"I'm okay, I'll do it alone."

In the back of the whimsical store, behind closed purple curtains, Madame Vessant and I sat in a small room with ethnic statues, masks and clothing on the wall and other knick knacks of various religious backgrounds. There was a tall vertical metal file cabinet that I assumed was full of witchcraft supplies. Candles and incense were lit and the Rootworker began her shuffle. Six cards were laid in the pattern of the solar plexus. She remained silent as she reviewed the cards. 

"Is it separation or divorce", she looks up at me above her thin spectacles, "with your parents?"

"Separation", I admitted shamefully, "or abandonment, which ever works."

"Your mother will not handle this well overtime. Her future is very dark, now that she is without your father. I'd be more concerned with her emotional well being over my own for at least awhile."

"You don't know a damn thing about us, lady. I can't focus on my moth..." Without disrupting her further review of the cards, she interrupted my sass. 

"Your journey will be successful. The Universe will provide what you have been seeking but Mister out front playing with my wind chimes is an evitable hurdle along the way. But only if you are willing to remove him. Now get your deck of cards, wild little girl, your dream catcher and get out of my store." And without a bat of an eye, I was dismissed from my reading.

I don't think I've ever been more confused in my life. I picked up my bag and went out into the main store. Through the storefront windows, I saw Victor outside playing with the wind chimes that barely made a sound. How the hell? I turned around in astonishment of Madam Vessant as she went behind the cash register. She ignored my shock and pointing to the manifestation of her revelation and continued to bark orders. "Shop!", she demanded, "Tell you boyfriend to pay me my money."

There was no book, but I found an Afro-Brazilian tarot deck and a royal purple dream catcher and then, Victor. The bells on the store's door rang as I tagged him into my consumer experience. "Hey, I'm ready."

On our way out, I looked back over my shoulder at Madame Vessant. Her frank shortness unassuaged me. She lacked the friendliness of any merchant and the conventional professionalism of the average businessman. In the car, Victor immediately asked the details of the reading. I genuinely considered heeding her advice of leaving Victor, so I refused to inform him.

"A bunch of little things, nothing heavy. It was free anyhow, you know? Wanna see my cards?"

"Yeah..."

Back in the shop, Madame Vessant watched Diaspora and Victor drive off. 

"Wild one, isn't she?", she asked softly. "You'll get your journey alright diaspora, oh, Dia-spora, I mean, humph." She pulled the shop keys from her house dress pockets. She shuffled her fuzzy slippered feet over to the front door, locked it and turned off her neon sign. She turned out the store's lights and continued her shuffle to her back room. She opened the metal cabinet and kneeled. At its floor were five pillar candles, offering bowls of food and a goblet of wine. The articles of worship surrounded the base of the statue of her God. She lit the used pillar candles and looked up to her horned Lord. 

"My Lord of the Wilderness, our last client is bound to cross your path. She seeks a journey of enlightenment and growth. If it be your will, allow her to journey to you and gain wisdom in your hidden knowledge. That is, before she foolishly finds herself pregnant by her mischievous pervert Mister. Lord..."

Madam Vessant rose and went to bed. The cabinet remained open and the candles burned all night.

to be continued...

The Tales of Diaspora: Chapter 1 - Discordant Affections, Part 1

“It’s pronounced Dee- ah-spor-ah”, I groaned while rubbing my temples. Three weeks into the semester and I must have corrected her about twelve times already. “My eccentric mother thinks we’re Hispanic or something", I followed up in quick witted self- defense. Deer in the headlight eyed, she recited my name back to me pain stakingly slow; just to efficaciously annoy me I suppose. Once she realized I wasn’t going to confirm her thirteenth attempt, she proceeded to confusedly take role of her half empty classroom. There’s a side of me that wants to ask how many students were originally enrolled, to better understand why she makes the most lost of faces, due to the lack of attendance. But, I refrain. Bewilderment suits her. No one cares about Yoruba Studies, Lady. That’s why no one is taking it, but me. Slowly perusing the room, coming to terms with just how many empty seats there are while considering just how much effort it took for her to prepare for the course, I begin to feel bad for her. I am literally one of six students present and the poor woman has to pronounce diaspora as dee-ah-spor-ah.

Seventy minutes, three crown orisha and twenty answered text messages later, I am forehead smooshed against the window of the six bus headed home. Eyes squinted, I cynically observe pedestrians laughing on their cell phones, and drivers with unbuckled toddlers in their backseats, questioning if they knew something about life that I didn’t. As for myself, Diaspora Taylor, I am still wondering where the hell my dignity went. “He doesn’t want you anymore Dia”, I remind myself for the one thousandth time, after sending twenty unanswered text messages. Twenty. Why do I feel like incessantly contacting him will win me some magical opportunity to be back in his life again? He looked me right in the eye and said that we were never serious. He also acknowledged for the first time that he was a married man. The sound of the words “my wife” were so foreign coming from his mouth, I almost questioned their origin, asked their definition and damn near thought I’d be expected to spell it back to him for some national prize.

Three years of eyeing one another at church services, “sheparding calls” when my mother wasn’t home, playing hookie from classes for day trips, just to have to swallow my pride and pain being reminded of his wife. She isn’t nearly as much of a godly woman as he is a man, so I only encountered her during seasonal church campaigns or fundraisers. Essentially, this made her no threat, granting us both peace of mind, and now, I’m sickened and he’s suddenly belligerent. I should have known better though. After all, Victor Jones was one of our congregation elders and a friend of my father. Former friend now, who knows? Three weeks after my dad split, I had a boyfriend, or so I thought.

After an approximate twenty one minute bus ride, walking six blocks and not one highly anticipated love letter in the mailbox later, I’m in the shower. With my head hanging shamefully low, I watch the water cascading off my head and down to my aching swollen feet. I need a car. Well, first, I need license. I need license to live again, if that’s what I had with a Victor, a life. I need license to let go, let go of someone I had no license to love in the first place. Then, I will be awarded the luxury of being able to drive my own vehicle, instead of being enslaved by loneliness and lack of understanding. 

Feeling only superficially clean and not nearly as renewed as I hoped for, I step out the shower and wipe the mirror to reveal the force of displacement. “I shall prevail”, my father’s motto softly echoing in the bathroom. And that’s what I shall do. I shall prevail the travail, combat compulsive communication and prepare for my tyrannical mother to get home.

Tyranny is the unjust use of governmental power. Due to my mother’s inclination to conjure misery in her own mind, she has the uncanny means of fostering a tumultuous household. This was mainly before my dad left us. Though I’m sure they loved one another very much at one point in time, I have no recollection of my parents ever being really happy together. I mean, how could they have been when one half of the team succumbs to two to three hours of screaming and crying fits that include calling  out my father and I for one on one verbal scrimmages based on events that happened more than a decade ago? In the last month alone, I had to twice soothe and reason with my forty-six year old mother as to why I wouldn’t let her kiss me in front of my friends in the schoolyard when she dropped me off when I was all of seven years old. Each time I made a point, she would obey the truculent orders of her demons to immediately find another trivial topic as to which she attributes her disproval of my entire existence. “Ignore her”, my father would counsel. I understood his easier said than done approach to my mother’s instability. He had less of a difficult time managing her.

My parents professed Christianity in its purest of forms. So on occasion her possession subsided long enough to allow her to be submissive and level headed. The scriptures don’t require that my parents take a back seat to my needs, as it does for children to do for them, so my attempts to heed my father’s admonition would result in being followed around the house and cornered in the hallways or in my bedroom, being called out my name and egged on to take the first blow on a unruly woman. This was a spiritual household, Christian! Where was the Holy of Holies? Are you there God? It is me, your Devotee. Whilest waiting for divine intervention from The One True God, I bestowed my inherited tribulation the title, The Tyrant.

Growing up my dad was the last to return home from work, which made me The Tyrant’s welcoming party. From the moment the wench would walk into the house, I swear, a fiery and tempestuous entity would mount her. Every day, she’d cross the threshold and resume whatever hurricane of a hissy fit that had her very large panties in a bunch the night before. Hello to you too, mother. I’m happy to see you too, mother.  Instead of a warm welcome, she'd systematically slam the front door and stomp up the stairs to find me minding my business in my room. 

Scowling, she would ask “Did you hear from your father today?” “Yes”, I’d reply, “he texted me earlier today asking about dinner. Everything okay?” I’d ask uncomfortably, wondering if I was unknowingly guilty of a transgression against her. Then the look of complete devastation would manifest on her face every time we had this exchange. Why on Earth did I insist on telling her the truth? “Dinner? Why didn’t he ask me? I plan the meals. You only cook them!” She’d shout pitifully. “Mom, I don’t know, you’d have to ask him.” “But, I’m his wife!” She’d scream at the top of her lungs, usually leading to hyperventilation. 

By the time, she starts to pant during her episodes, I’m usually deathly afraid to make any sudden movements. It was always clear that these problems predated myself. I wouldn't know what to say to the woman, his woman, not mine, except: “Mom, I’m sorry”. “I know you’re sorry Diaspora, you’re just a sorry person. I’m sorry I even had you. I should have just aborted your sorry ass”, she’d rebuttal cryingly, then abruptly leaving my room, slamming my bedroom door behind her. I’d hear her deranged muttering as she’d make her way to her bedroom.  After creeping to my closed and too afraid to make physical contact between it and my ear, I'd suddenly hear, “Fuck you both! Fuck you, Dia! Fuck your father! Fuck this house! I should just kill myself! AAAHHH!”

Whoa, this has nothing to do with me Lady, call your husband.