Magic of the Dark Moonlight

 By Layla

Article 3 – Marie Laveau

  One of the best ways to enjoy the beauty of New Orleans is to take a carriage ride in the French Quarter.  Nothing is on my mind during this warm, sunny evening except the beauty of the architecture, the sassy tones of jazz music and the excitement of the people.  

As I get lost in people watching I notice an older woman wearing a turban watching me. Her face is aged with wisdom and her mysterious smile, surprisingly, shows love and concern. But it’s not unusual to see a woman dressed like this -  voodoo priestess are very much revered in the quarter. What was unusual was that when we turned the corner, I saw the same woman.  The next block the same woman and the next.  Now I wondered. The bright sun hit my eyes and blinded me.  I could feel the slow breeze off the Mississippi river cooling my face from the blinding sun.  As the carriage moved and the buildings provided shade, I could open my eyes.  The streets were made of mud, the buildings looked like they were going to fall apart, and the people had on simple clothes from another time. Who wants to tell their story?

The carriage stops in front of a simple cottage on St. Ann Street.  I knew I had to go into the cottage.  I was very curious with my decision to enter. When I walked into the small room, I noticed a large Voodoo alter. The other rooms also had Voodoo alters.  Then the address hits me and I realize where I am.  I feel humbled as I hear an older woman’s voice from the far room,

“Come here, I was expecting you.”

I can hear my heartbeat in my ears and am aware I was holding my breath as I walk into the room. There was the woman I saw on my carriage ride. She was a beautiful, elderly woman with love and purpose in her eyes.  It was Marie Laveau. 

“Come, sit by me. We have lots to talk about.  I spotted you on my daily walks and you saw me.  Because of that I knew you had a good soul and a genuine sense of curiosity about our city’s past.  A lot has been written about me.  My legend far exceeds my life, and I would like people to know me.  My history, my religion and my family.  I know you are the person who knows how to tell others my history…with just a bit of the legend.” She winks at me. “The legend is fun and gets people’s attention.  I used my legend for many years as I wanted to.”

I settled into my chair and was very eager to hear her story.

“My journey, my family’s journey began with my great-grandmother, Marguerite. She was an enslaved woman.  She was sold as a child from Senegal by African slave traders to Europeans.  Then she was sent to America by ship.  Marguerite had a daughter, Catherine.  They were the property of Henry Roche.  Catherine’s father was Jean Belaire, which I believe was also Henry Roche’s property.  Catherine grew up in his household, and it was believed that he was the father of Catherine’s children.   My mother, Marguerite, named after my great grandmother, was one of these children.  Eventually, Catherine is separated from her children and sold repeatedly.  In her later years, she was sold to a free woman of color named Francoise Pomet.   After 11 years of saving her money, Catherine bought her freedom in 1795 at the amount of $600 – her worth.  She became a successful businesswoman and bought this property and built this cottage.  Then in 1790 my mother, Marguerite, was freed and had a relationship with a man named Henri Darcantel.  She had children with him, but he was not my father.” She laughed.  “My father was a white, successful businessman named Charles Laveau.  My mother had a brief affair with him, and I was born on September 10, 1801. His mother was named Marie, so I was named after her.  I was 6 days old when I was baptized at the St. Louis Cathedral.   I grew up in this cottage.”

She stopped – I could tell the memories had caught up with her and she needed a minute to continue her story. 

“At 17 years old I married Jacques Paris in the St. Louis Cathedral.  I grew up in the Catholic faith, volunteer for the church and went to mass every day. When I met him, I learned he was a carpenter from San Domingue.  My father gave us a home on North Rampart and we had 2 daughters.  My daughters from this marriage are deceased and in 1824 my husband disappeared.”  She said with tears in her eyes.  “I don’t know what happened to him or where he went.  After that I was known as the Widow Paris.”

I didn’t know any of her family history, so I was entranced to hear the rest of her story.

“After that marriage, I met a man named Christophe Glapion.  He was an ordinance officer in the war of 1815 and was in the battle of New Orleans. We entered a placage relationship.  I believe you are familiar with this custom.  He was a good man and we had 7 children.  But only 2 girls lived to become adults. It was my daughters, Eloise and Philomene.  In my life I have always maintained a deep meaningful belief in Catholicism.  However, I do practice Voodoo and have learned the craft from my grandmother.  I became known for my practice in Voodoo and often feared.  People do not choose to understand something different from what they know.  While practicing Voodoo I could not ignore my Catholic faith.  This is how my ‘Voodoo Queen’ status became legend.” She smirked.  “I brought Catholicism and Voodoo together along with potions from natural herbs, plants and spices the Native Americans taught me.  All of that together is New Orleans Voodoo. A unique way of religious practice which did bring some people together but brought fear to most.  At this time, I was also a hairdresser to the wealthy ladies in town.  When I did their hair, I was invisible to them.  There were times when I think they forgot I was in the room.  They gossiped about everyone in town.  I learned so many things about people and decided to use this information.  They talked about who was sleeping together, who’s business was about to fail, and they even knew the result of some court cases before the judge did.  I didn’t waste this opportunity and knew it would help me. I remembered everything they said.  I went home and made potions and found the people they were gossiping about the next day.  I talked to these people about their problems which scared them.  They didn’t think anyone knew their dirty little secrets.  As I talked to them, I offered a potion for purchase that would help.  They immediately purchased it.  And it solved their problems. Then, ladies and gentlemen started to come to this cottage, disguised, asking for my help and potions.  They disguised themselves because now no one wanted anyone to know they had a dirty secret and needed the Voodoo queen’s help. I sold the potions to them hoping it would open them to the Voodoo religion but knowing it financially helped my family. “

I then asked “how did the city and the catholic church feel about this?  I know the city’s only religion is Catholicism. How did it affect your children?”

She continued “I was the only one who could create this and maintain it.  My position as a volunteer in the church was valued by the priest.  So, they turned a blind eye.  Most of the influential people in the city were either clients of mine or feared me.  Eventually nasty rumors and articles were written about me and the Voodoo religion.  People started telling stories. The stories got better and better as time went on. I didn’t care. The worst the stories got the more money I made.   We lived as most people do – day to day.  My 2 girls were raised in the Catholic faith.  They did not want to participate in the Voodoo religion. I respected their decision.  In 1855 when my beloved Christophe died, I was devastated.  Even though we couldn’t marry, he was my partner and my love. I turned to the church for comfort, and I increased my devotion to the church.  I did this by volunteering more than I did in the past. I brought more people into the church and helped the poor and the prisoners on death row. I helped the poor by feeding them and providing them medication from my potions. I prayed with the prisoners and helped them set up alters in their cells. Some wanted Catholic alters and some wanted Voodoo alters.” She smiled. “Some wanted a little of both.  I removed myself from the Voodoo ceremonies some time ago, but the papers are still writing horrible things about me and the religion. However, I know that most people know not to believe everything they read.”

She took a deep breath and ended her story, “I enjoyed talking to you. It increases my faith in future generations knowing that you will define the difference between history and legend.  My story is safe with good souls like you. It is time for me to rest.  Thank you for listening.”

As she stood up, our eyes locked.  No words needed to be spoken. Her story would be told her way.

I turned to leave her cottage and the sun came out, once again blinding me.  As it passed, I heard the honking of cars and knew I was back in my city.  Walking home, I passed a tour group.  I heard the tour guide talking about Marie.

“And on June 15, 1881, Marie passed away at the age of 79.  She is buried with Christophe in the Glapion family tomb in St. Louis cemetery 1.” 

It warmed my heart to hear this guide tell Marie’s story. I smiled because her spirit is part of this city and shines as bright as the sun did that day.