This is the trailer for The United States of Hoodoo. I have been waiting for something like it for a long time. Ever since I entered that shop on South Street. Ever since that bottle of High John the Conqueror wash.
You see, once there were two shops on South Street. A girl I knew called them botanicas, with a faux latin accent that comes from rubbing shoulders with Brooklynites. I don’t know if it was the right word, but it stuck.

There were two South Streets back then. There was the South Street you went to, to hang out. Have margaritas, browse sex toys and look at people do foolish things. Then there was the other South Street, up above the foolishness. It was where the glitz dissolved and Philadelphia emerged in all of its gritty glory. The tourists knew better than to walk too far in that direction. There were no more book stores or record shops. Nothing to see but concrete vacant lots.

That’s all gone. South Street has become monied and homogenized. I suspect the two botanicas are gone too. They had a good run.

Botanicas are where you go to buy spiritual things. The things that they talk about in old Blues songs. Those things that your grandmother may have known about, but probably wouldn’t tell you. They had items from almost every tradition but the theme that ran through it all was uniquely African. Black was the stock that held them together.

Gone was New Age idealism; you could find that further down, amongst the restaurants and the upscale piercing boutiques. What they offered was pragmatic and goal oriented. Don’t come seeking world peace. But, if your ex-girlfriend is giving you a headache, they have the remedy. Or, if you just feel like your life has left the rails, they have ways to put things back on track. Such is the nature of hoodoo.

I’ll spare you a definition of hoodoo. I’ll only get it wrong. I’ll tell you, however, that it probably isn’t what you think it is. It isn’t, for example, voodoo, which also probably isn’t what you think it is either.

But picture for a moment being held in bondage North America, one of the most vicious slave holding nations in the world. If your people had landed in the Caribbean or South America, you would have at least been able to maintain your African-ness. Not in the States. Here you would have been grossly outnumbered. One ounce of African culture would have gotten you the lash. Families were broken. Cultures were isolated and dismantled by insidious design.

Hoodoo was what remained, after everything else was eliminated and sifted out. African spirit, conveyed through Christian practice, blended with any and all other traditions that it rubbed shoulders with. More solitary. Less hierarchical. Uniquely American. Almost totally forgotten. Sure, you can still find it if you know what to look for. But it’s not a clear path.

I know a dozen people who wear eleke’s, the beads worn by the practitioners of the various African traditions. Ask around. You probably are just one or two people away from a spiritual house teaching Voudun or Santaria, Yoruba or Akan. But it’s not so easy if you want to pick up just where your ancestors left off. The unique spiritual practices that came from the trials of the African trying to survive North American slavery remain very well hidden.
The United States of Hoodoo is not a documentary about the practice. It’s more personal than that. It’s one man’s journey. You can find out more here.
For a lot of people, particularly those who aren’t already intimately familiar with the various practices of African spirituality, this is kind of a crash course.
I look forward to it.

If your spiritual practices lie somewhere off of the beaten path in America, I’d love to talk to you.