There is so much to be said about age as a concept, but one thing is for certain: it is not an equaliser. While age restrictions are justified in protecting the mental and physical wellbeing of younger beings, once you’re an adult, specifically a woman, it works against you.
Age-appropriate behaviour and clothing are concepts thrown at us to avoid being publicly shamed — or called desperate.
Pregnant after 35? That’s a geriatric pregnancy! They could have called it “mature”, “risky”, “over-the-hill-bump”, but whoever chose that term seemed really keen on making sure everyone pictured any uterus over the age of 35 as old and wrinkly.
“The clock is ticking”, “you’re no spring chicken”, all expressions to remind women they’re past a certain date. But there is one woman I once met who sees age as nonsense. No, I don’t mean Madonna (for once). I am talking about a voodoo priestess.
I booked a flight to New Orleans on auto-pilot, just because I said I would. The purpose of traveling to the US was to rebuild myself. A year had passed since my mother had died, and my grief had turned quite physical. A gagging sensation followed me around, yet no one was applying pressure to my throat. I suffered from unsettling physical symptoms, and found myself ugly-crying at Yoga classes and some parties I’d rather forget.
I knew I was broken, yet a rebuild elluded me.
So much so I ended up unravelling some more. I let strangers/friends/strangers use up every droplet of my identity, since further punishment felt like home. I was numb, and had run out of things to say.
I arrived in New Orleans with messy mascara and plenty of regret. I also had a belly full of pretzels thanks to Charlotte, a Southern lady I met on the plane who began feeding me as soon as we left Dallas.
I got to my airbnb with zero energy for any parties. It didn’t help that I was extremely thin — despite the “food-baby” I sported thanks to Charlotte’s delicious pretzels. Middle America had offered little vegetarian options. Yet, New Orleans was about to provide a different form of nourishment —apart from falaffels, which I found in abundance, and were quite delicious.
On my to-do list was spending an afternoon by the pool at The Country Club, which truthfully, wasn’t my idea. It had been a suggestion of one of my new friends, who knew nothing of what I was into, but who had sold it to me with the statement that never fails to disappoint: “you will love it” . It didn’t help that I foolishly believed I was living a year of saying “yes” to everything. While that may have worked for Shonda Rhimes, for a regular mortal like myself, it just translated into an anxiety- inducing pool party full of small talk, plenty of skin on show, and a very greasy Italian.
As I got dressed, overthinking The Country Club, heavy rain began to fall.
Within minutes, a lighting bolt landed right outside of my ground-floor airbnb. It shook the walls, and my naked feet felt the ground vibrate. I expected the glass windows to shatter. Yet as fast as it all came, the torrential rain stopped, the dramatic skies brightened and the scary thunder gave way to rays of sunshine.
I figured the lighting bolt could have been a sign to stay in, but the skies opening up could also mean the universe was telling me to go. A humid mess, and tortured by self-doubt, I ordered myself a cab and headed to The Country Club.
The pool was full of plenty of beautiful bodies and pretty faces. I instantly knew this wasn’t a place for me.
Maybe at another time, without my stress acne and bloated belly, it would have felt right. But I got no joy there. What I did get was Giorgio, who after complimenting my teeth and telling me I looked “like a Lousiana vampire”, offered to show me the best eateries in town, and “other pleasures” I supposedly needed to discover.
I declined every offer, politely, trying not to upset that bullish, overtly tanned Danny De Vito clone. But this guy would not give up. In the end, I told him I needed a quick bathroom break, and swiftly headed to the exit, my feet still dripping from the pool, as I hopped onto an Uber.
At home, cringing over The Country Club fiasco, I remembered how as a teenager, I had become obsessed with Anne Rice’s Interview With A Vampire.
Charlotte, my feeder on the plane, had waxed lyrical about Anne Rice and her knowledge of voodoo culture. I decided that if the party scene was not for me, I would at least explore the spiritual side of this magical town, away from what was being offered to tourists.
My airbnb host invited me to a voodoo ceremony that, due to some more stormy weather, ended up being cancelled. With no other options, I googled and found someone called Priestess Miriam Chamani. I wrote down her address and set out to find her the following morning.
I walked around the French Quarter timidly, scared to ask for directions, and increasingly worried I would not find Priestess Miriam’s temple. My energy levels were decreasing at the same speed my hair was frizzing. But as I turned one last corner, there it was: a regular Louisiana building, with an iron gate on its door. I peered inside, and let myself in.
I walked in, too timid to do anything but smile and wave at the few people that were standing around Priestess Miriam, as she leaned against a counter with crystals for sale. I didn’t introduce myself, and all she asked was “where do you come from?”. The UK, I replied.
The first room of her “temple” felt like a souvenir shop, with lots of colourful trinkets, and rather randomnly, a TV broadcasting the news. Within seconds of me being there, mooching around the counters, Priestess Miriam’s conversation with another visitor, Josué, turned from a casual chat about some of the objects in the room, to something more unhibited.
“Women stand behind powerful men, but they are the ones with the power.” — the Priestess told Josué, as her head pointed to the TV.
Then, she turned her gaze to me:
“All we have to do is stop hiding, stop seeing ourselves as inferior”
So this Priestess is a feminist, I thought to myself. I kept walking around, saying nothing, but since I’m partly-British, and awkwardly polite, I made sure she knew I was listening.
“The uterus holds such power, it produces life! It’s why we need to be as creative as possible” — at that point she had stopped looking at Josué, and was openly talking to me, smiling.
“…produce and put it out there”.
That is the first hit Miriam had for me. She knew nothing about my occupation, who I was. Yet, she was talking to a writer with zero self-belief.
Josué kept engaging with her, with a fancy camera around his neck, his long, dark hair tied up in a low ponytail. He continued to ask questions, while Priestess Miriam teased him with trick answers, yet he took it all really well.
Then, a self-declared “fan” of the Priestess walked in.
He seemed very fidgety, like an excited puppy, eager to get all the attention. Effusively, he wasted no time telling the priestess how he had met her several times. All the other visitors left, and Miriam shut the front gate, and invited Josué, the fan, and me, to join her in a different room, her actual “temple”.
Its walls were an onslaught of familiar Christian imagery. There were also countless voodoo dolls, some pieces representative of Hinduism, Budism and other effigies — a couple of alligator skulls.
Priestess Miriam gestured us to sit around a table with her. Yet there were only three chairs for the four of us. So, I let the fan take the last chair while I sat cross-legged on the floor. Priestess Miriam giggled at this, remarking how interesting it was that a woman gave up her seat for a man. The fan did not seem to appreciate that comment.
Strikes two and three came when Priestess Miriam drove the conversation towards politics and her dislike of President Trump. At that point, the fan decided he wasa fan no more and left as awkwardly as he had arrived. Free chair for me, and more giggles from Priestess Miriam.
Miriam carried on musing about Brexit, the foolishness of turning insular, how it will take a hundred years to fix it all.
She then looked at me:“What’s bothering you darling?” I felt lost, heartbroken, and tired. My mind reminded me of the last conversation I had with my mother.
I went for a meek “I don’t feel young anymore”.
“You… what’s your name dear?”
“Jessie”
“Jessie, you are ageless. To be creative is to have no age.” At that point my eyes started to tingle. I wanted to ask about the reasoning behind her words, since she didn’t know what I did for a living. There was nothing about my smudged eye-liner, ripped jeans, and old t-shirt that said anything about what creativty meant for me. Yet Priestess Miriam seemed to know otherwise.
She went on to explain how age is meaningless, she questioned its value, its limitations, its dictations. Interestingly, I couldn’t place her age, at all. She could have been 50 or 70...
As I got ready to leave — both Josué and I realised the Priestess needed her privacy back — she explained how one of her oldest friends shared my name, and how happy that made her. As I reached for the door, she sweetly implored “don’t I get a hug?”. It felt like she was talking to her friend.
With a huge smile on my face, I happily complied. Her hug was warm and motherly. As I walked out she said:
“Remember you are not old. Forget about your age!”.
When I first walked into the temple, Josué asked for a blessing.
“How do you know I didn’t bless you already?” Miriam teased him with a smile. I believe her goodbye hug was her way of blessing me.
I used to be told I looked younger than my actual age. Now I’m often told I’m ageless. And I think that reflects my thoughts on this subject quite rightly.
When I was a little girl I was too ballsy, too mouthy, too small to stand up to my father when he got angry. Yet, to my mother’s horror, I did all of that.
In my thrities I was told I was letting time slip away, childless, “you’re not getting any younger Jess”.
I certainly don’t do anything “age-appropriate”.
I never know how to react when on each birthday certain people seem obssesed with reminding me how I am getting “old”. Is my age the only thing relevant about that day? A number… is that the accomplishment? Very few will mention what I did that year, or ask for any plans past that date.
Yet what I hear from everyone, are varied references to a number.
What about the values and sets of behaviours that are attached to these numbers, who made those?
Women: we’re either pass it or we are too young to know any better. We are invisible, or we are coveted for a ripeness that comes with an innocence that should not be available to a certain male gaze.
Age leads to ageism, and shaming someone for not abiding to a set of societal rules. A number that tells us what we should do, and/or what we can’t aspire to, anymore.
That is why age serves us no good purpose.
And Priestess Miriam seemed happier, healthier, and sexier, for strongly ignoring the numbers.
I truly don’t know what the point to this piece is…sorry! I guess I just wanted to share the story of how I met a voodoo priestess. A story that turned out to be an important lesson, on all sorts of things, including how to get rid of those who like only one version of yourself — shoutout to that “fan”.
