Mysteries and Symbols of My Past

FIRST PLACE CAROLINE TRACEY The Ephemeral Forever

SPONSORED BY DR. RANDALL VANDERMEY

SECOND PLACE ALEX PICKENS Derecho

ANNELISE JOLLEY Luminosity

LAURA JOYCE-HUBBARD 64 Inches

MARIANNA MARLOWE Wrinkles

FINALISTS MARILYN MCFARLANE From Here on Out

WALTER ROBINSON White Coat, Black Habit

STEPHANIE SAUER Five Ways to E ectively Collaborate with Teams

HONORABLE MENTION MILDRED K BARYA Mysteries and Symbols of My Past

SUANNY VIZCAÍNO Warnings

JILLIAN WEISS Seven Seven

Jasmine V. Bailey says: “‘The Ephemeral Forever’ presents us with two women’s compelling stories: that of the queer rancher narrating and that of an aboriginal artist whose work and biography strike a chord with her. This essay posits a theory that it is possible to tract the historically ephemeral nature of queer experience to a lasting, satisfying life built with a partner and literally grounded in the land and its creatures. The profundity and hopefulness of that idea will stay with me.”

Caroline Tracey is a writer originally from Colorado and currently living in Mexico City. Her nonfi ction has appeared in n+1, Kenyon Review Online, The Nation, SFMOMA’s Open Space, and in Spanish in Nexos. In 2020 she was runner-up in the Bodley Head/Financial Times essay prize. When not reading and writing, you can fi nd her exploring the city on a nineties Trek and gardening tomatoes in buckets on her rooftop.

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Jasmine V. Bailey says: “‘Derecho’ plunges us into the lyric mystery of Appalachia from the first word. It is the story of a week of power outage during a searing heat wave, inviting us into the trippy internal experiences the narrator has alone in the woods and encountering his own community in that extraordinary moment. The writing is lush, precise, and seductive.”

Jasmine Bailey says: “’Mysteries and Symbols of My Past’ remembers the healers from the narrator’s childhood village in Uganda. Each has a unique personality and expertise, skillfully drawn to show both their eccentricities and the gravitas their power commands. Their power even transcends death, as the narrator probes her memory of them to question modern and Western assumptions that discount such people’s powers or render them invisible.”

Judge Jasmine V. Bailey is a poet, essayist, and translator. Her book-length poetry collections are Alexandria (Carnegie Mellon University Press, 2014), winner of the Central New York Book Award, and Disappeared (CMUP, 2017). Her chapbook, Sleep and, What Precedes It won the 2009 Longleaf Press Chapbook Prize. She is the winner of Michigan Quarterly Review’s Lawrence Goldstein Prize and Ruminate Magazine’s VanderMey Nonfiction Prize. She holds an MFA from the University of Virginia, a PhD in creative writing from Texas Tech University, and has been a Fulbright fellow in Argentina, an Olive B. O’Connor fellow at Colgate University, and a fellow at the Vermont Studio Center. She is Translations Editor for The Common, and her translation of Silvina López Medin’s That Salt on the Tongue to Say Mangrove is forthcoming from Carnegie Mellon.

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To whom do I owe the symbols of my survival?

—Audre Lorde.

ILOOK BACK ON my childhood. Growing up, my family was friends with medicine folk who resided in our village. There are lessons I wish I’d paid attention to then—I find myself thinking that the medicine people of my youth would have the answers to questions I now hold. Today, I live thousands of miles away from my country and continent. How to reach them again—how to tap into their spirits. That is my greatest conundrum.

They are all deceased.

She was a short, deep-skinned, elderly woman. We would often meet her on the road when I took walks with my mother. Hanna was an herbalist—she had a special connection with land, plants, crops, and all things food. If a thief happened to be stealing potatoes or maize from your garden, Hanna was the person to contact. She would be quiet for a while, doing inner work. Accessing her spirit—like an act of meditation, a quieting of chattering minds in order to hear from our hearts and receive guidance from the collective intelligence—God, or one’s higher self, the ancestors, or whatever name is comfortable. A few minutes later, Hanna would know the culprit.

The issue would be resolved by the aggrieved member going to the thief’s home and saying something like, I know you’re the one who’s stealing from me. Stop it, before I do something terrible to you. Confronted, the thief rarely denied. The thieving would stop. Sometimes the o ender would make a spectacle—not by denying but by begging for pardon. This required swallowing one’s pride and revealing that factors led to pinching: there was no food to feed the family, their gardens had failed—the soils were poor. Or they had no savings, had lost them to misfortune, etc. Could the aggrieved member be merciful—reach a new understanding? A dialogue of services that could be bartered for food would ensue—could they mow the yard? Trim hedges? Build fences? Weed gardens? Make bricks? Remodel a kitchen?

Hanna’s methods always revealed that the problem was in the same orbit as the solution, like the head and tail of a coin. I remember how one time she tipped my chin with her index finger and looked into my eyes, which were terribly red and itchy. The skin underneath was sore, and yet I couldn’t resist the urge to scratch. “Eat more carrots and greens,” Hanna said. The veggies helped a little. Eventually, my father took me to the town ophthalmologist at Kabale Hospital. The specialist gave us a name—allergy—a good start. I hoped he would cure me. I was five or six, too young

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to understand the nature of allergies, but what struck me was the realization that Hanna dispensed with names—a distinct di erence. I was, however, disappointed when the specialist recommended eating carrots and greens. Exactly what Hanna had said. “That’s it?” I asked. The doctor was discerning. He scribbled a prescription, and on our way home we bought eye drops from the pharmacy. The allergy persisted. Next time I saw Hanna, she added local honey to the list of food for my eyes. I thought maybe she was trying to sweeten my temperament. Now I understand scientifically how eating local honey pollinated by bees in my area was a perfect antidote to boost my immune system, which then would combat my miserable pollen-related allergies.

I did not appreciate Hanna’s methods then. The fact that she did not explain the “science” of her approach bothered me. As a child, I would have been comforted simply knowing what, why, and how. I was yet to learn that some ways of knowing lie outside the rational. It was up to me to believe her or not. In retrospect, I see her as a health practitioner who believed that body ailments could be corrected with a particular diet.

Once, she made a small cut on my calf with a razorblade. She pressed her mouth on the cut and sucked out of my body the source of troubles. My parents gave her money for her help. Other times she’d prefer a basket of sorghum, or local brew. She didn’t talk much. But she had a way of listening and connecting to one’s body that made one sure of being heard.

Hanna, the energy corrector. Sometimes, my mother would give a long explanation of everything that was wrong. Hers was a catalogue of ills. To top it all o , she was convinced that a devil existed and was creating chaos within her. Hanna’s calm presence would soothe my mother’s bu eting ill winds. She would nod, and then walk away. That evening or the next day, she’d return with herbs or tinctures to rub onto the a icted areas, and some to drink. In a week or so, my mother’s strength would be restored. Until Hanna’s expertise was required again.

I find myself wanting to sit with her in silence, absorbing her wisdom and letting her know of my deep respect.

We belonged to the same clan. Potomia lived in Buhara, about eight miles away. It seemed like another country—in my young mind, anything farther than a stone’s throw was a very long distance, and my view was magnified by the reality of not having a car. We depended on our feet and single-speed bicycles. As an elder, we called Potomia our uncle. You’d think that would have made us close. But his visits were few and far between. During the nights he stayed at our home, it was clear he was on a mission that had nothing to do with us kids. He remained distant and seemed concerned only with the business of adults. He wore an old dark coat and hat, which heightened the air of

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aloofness and mystery. He was a fearful thing. I tried to hide whenever he appeared and my parents would call us to greet him. Afterwards, I’d surreptitiously follow him, my footsteps silent. He would turn when I’d least expected him to.

Embarrassed, I would dart away.

He walked around our house sensing the air—nose up, ears alert, hat pulled back. I wish I’d asked him what he saw or what he was reaching for. I have baptized him the atmospheric man, since he was more into the atmosphere. He would sprinkle cleansing water and chant. Then he would enter the house and do the same in all the rooms. We would all be very quiet. Later, he would sit with my parents and any other grown-ups around, drinking beer or fermented sorghum porridge, chatting animatedly.

One time, Potomia gave us a graceful long-necked gourd, which we kept on the fireplace mantel in the living room. I asked my father why. I don’t remember getting a straight answer, other than a hint that there were things no one understood— ebirikutangaza—except for the medicine folks: obscurities and other extraordinary events that were only disclosed to those in touch with their higher consciousness. Armed with that knowledge, I walked to our small farm and chose a patch where the grass was tall enough to cover me. I stretched on my back, my eyes poring over the sky. I don’t know what I expected. A hand of God would have su ced. Clouds parted and revealed the bluest firmament. I was in no hurry, so I decided to focus on the di erent shades of blue as I waited—baby blue, royal blue, indigo blue (my school uniform), navy blue (my father’s umbrella), sapphire blue (my mum’s hair holder), and so on, until I dozed o .

Soon I heard the rustling of leaves, opened my eyes and there was a chameleon fleeing from a green snake. Oh dear! I was so scared that I ran home before attaining higher consciousness. Had I known what I know now, I would have registered two essential lessons:

The snake and chameleon were probably manifestations of higher consciousness— the sacred—which not only dwells in the sky but inhabits the crawlers of the earth as well.

Our symbols are always linked to power and survival. My family reveres the chameleon because it is our totem. To see it is a good sign.

But I considered myself a failure and took to watching medicine folk. They performed miracles in our midst that amazed us and distinguished them from the rest of us ordinary people. It did not matter that they lived “normal” lives—for lack of a better word. They had homes, families, gardens, and were not isolated from us. While they were very important members of our community (everyone used their services), they did not stand out as special people who wished to be treated di erently. If we met them on the streets, we hugged them. A typical greeting included questions about how

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we were, the chickens, goats, cows, sheep, how many chicks had hatched and which family member had malaria.

I was a little in love with him. Just a little, which, in other words, means much. He was tall, big, and strong. He had a light complexion and a laugh that shook the hills. What I would not give to hear his laugh! It was his most charming attribute—it came from his lungs, from the depth of his body, and it was infectious. I found myself happy in his presence, and I often asked my father to take me to his home in the neighboring village just to visit. My father would oblige, and didn’t think it strange—a six-year-old asking her dad to visit her beloved—who could have been in his fifties or sixties then. I was smitten. Bitonza would give me a bear hug, then hold my hand and take me to his consultation room. I would walk around from wallpaper to wallpaper (imitating Potomia). Bitonza’s walls were covered with dried animal skins, all beautiful: leopard, lion, goat, and other creatures I didn’t recognize, but would ask about. He understood my fascination (my love!), and he always responded with kindness and respect. He embodied the spirit of play and fanned my curiosity. I’m glad my parents trusted him. At some point, he let me sit in during patient consultations. Unlike others who would send children away when adult business was going on, Bitonza didn’t mind my staying. I looked forward to telling my dad all about it. How to describe it? It was like being in other worlds. I was not yet exposed to dimensions beyond my immediate geography, so my current notion of the possibility of alternate realities didn’t apply, but I do remember feeling something sensorial—visceral—an awareness opening to include me, that was not part of this life as we know it. My village stopped being the small place that it was. Looking back, I can see that Bitonza was a portal to the expanse of the universe.

He performed more cuts on his clients’ bodies than any other medicine person I observed. Like Hanna, he would also put his mouth to the cut and suck out the cause of trouble. He would spit it all on a tray: snails, shells, tiny bones, and things that looked like broken teeth. Afterwards, he would assure his clients of their restored, natural well-being, and from then on to avoid so and so, or to make an ancestral o ering: a bottle of alcohol and a pound of meat. He would tell them specifically where to place these items. I learnt that one’s gate, or entrance/exit points, were extremely significant. It was where the jealous people put their juju, and also where the dwellers put their protection symbols to safeguard themselves when going out and coming in. I asked Bitonza about the snails because they were alive. To this day, I do not know how that is possible. My father was right about the essence of inexplicable things. Even though I witnessed some of them, I’m not a step closer to in-depth comprehension. Bitonza talked about sluggishness, a kind of bewitching that cripples the person from

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doing or accomplishing anything. In that sense, Bitonza was a doctor of spirit—great at sacred magic because he was able to go into the darkness and bring out light, to sift through flows of negative energy and draw in healing. While the body hosted the disease, the attack was on the individual’s spirit—fatigue, depression, lack of alertness, absence of motivation, and a general deficiency of well-being.

Whenever I feel sluggish, I remember the snails— How to doctor myself?

At the moment there is tension in my shoulders. What could be the spiritual implication? Perhaps a massage would do since I’m hunched over my desk for too

long. Perhaps a walk in the woods. I live in North Carolina and therapy exists in expensive forms. Whenever I visit my birthplace, Kabale, I talk with my sister about our childhoods, things the adults around us did that we can never fathom but simply respect.

I remember my first time arriving in the United States—I went to Syracuse University for my MFA program in 2009. Prior to that, I had been living in Senegal for three years, and while I had lived in Europe for a few months and also in other parts of Africa, it wasn’t until I was in Syracuse that I became awkwardly conscious of my speech idioms. It had been the norm when conversing with people to say things like: The spirit has impressed upon my heart this or that… My spirit doesn’t feel comfortable doing such and such. My new friends would roll their eyes. I would ask what was wrong, but they would say nothing. It was my mentor in the program who said, “You know, we don’t talk like that. This spirit thing you got, nobody talks like that.”

“But everyone has a spirit.”

“Really?”

Until that point, I’d assumed that everybody acknowledged and talked about their spirit as an essential part of their identity. It was my turn to be surprised. Shocked, in fact, to become suddenly aware of the absence of spirit where I was. I could not tell him that we talk of spirit as felt presence within us. That spirit leaves the body

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when one dies. You can literally hear the sound of its departure if you’re with someone dying. It comes out as a loud exhale. Alive, we receive guidance from it, so when we’re asked to perform a task, it’s common to say, “Let me see what my spirit thinks about that.” If the spirit says no, you don’t do it. If the spirit says yes, every part of your body resonates with it. If the spirit says no, but you reason with it, giving your mind the benefit of the doubt, along the way you discover the error of your judgment. The spirit doesn’t hold grudges because it has no religion. It’s the most universal feeling, a vibrant aspect of a human being. It’s not jealous or vengeful like the Old Testament God. And it’s not a trickster like most African gods. You can always honor it in the next decision-making. Even for those of us who acknowledge receiving feedback from the spirit, we don’t always stay on track. We have been trained to be rational. To go with the masses.

We’ve learnt to research, inquire of others (it’s a democracy!), and use a spreadsheet to tally the pros and cons of a given situation before making up one’s mind. On most committees when you’re asked to back up an opinion, saying that it doesn’t feel right may not be appreciated. We’re tasked to give data to support our rationale because the force of the better argument favors quotes, figures, scenarios, statistics… We want to be understood so badly that we eliminate things that cannot be known logically. We want to please others as proof of our collegiality even when it costs us joy.

However, all around the world are individuals who are in touch with their intuition and are willing to guide others how to connect with theirs, without sacrificing the benefits of rationalism, or what we attribute to the functioning of the mind. Shamans, acupuncturists, and energy healers use a variety of tools—stones, crystals, magnets, laying on of hands—to relieve the sick. There are beings for whom the supernatural is natural. I’ve heard of shamans and sangomas who can teleport across time and space, or thin out so as to pass through a wall. Can the rest of us ever comprehend such skill to shift shape, to be here and there, just like that? Other than the make-believe of science fiction, humans penetrating walls or turning into weasels in order to fulfill a higher purpose is beyond our ordinary grasp. My impression is that we don’t actually have to fully comprehend such phenomena but we can have enough room in our heart- minds to accommodate them.

He attended to the business side of things. He was wealthy—one of the few people who possessed a car, beautiful houses, wives, and lots of well-dressed children. He also owned shops and other buildings in town. Whenever we visited, we’d find his place filled with businessmen and women, mostly traders, who wanted magical success in their ventures. Hajji was busier than the other medicine folk, and his

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methods were cut and dried. Meetings with him ended quickly. He wore a watch and after no more than thirty minutes, he’d excuse himself to attend to another client.

I don’t remember him visiting our home. We went to him instead. I would accompany my parents but stay outside while they talked with him. Only once or twice was I allowed in his consultation room after asking so earnestly that he couldn’t say no. I wanted to compare, since I’d seen Bitonza’s. Hajji’s was larger and posh with black leather furniture. The animal skins were rugs instead, stripes of black and sparkling white. The ambience was clinical, lacked the warmth and coziness of Bitonza’s room which had more color—brown, yellow, cream and gray, in addition to black and white. As for Hanna, she lived in a small house and didn’t have a consultation room. She attended to clients in her bare living room or outside, like one who’d mastered the art of Zen minimalism.

What I found enigmatic about Hajji is that he’d made a pilgrimage to Mecca and occasionally paraphrased verses from the Quran. He was a Muslim and a magician, walking the line of ambiguity with ease.

He charged exorbitant fees for his services. Stories of doubling in the dark side of sorcery and Islam at the same time made me cautious, an impression I may have picked up from my parents. We had no problem with the Islamic aspect of his repertoire. We were practicing Protestants and Catholics, who also happened to believe in the knowledge of our ancestors. Religions, therefore, did not hinder us. It’s the dark part that we didn’t embrace. I’m not sure if a messenger of the Gods could pick and choose—it seemed like Hajji’s advice always contained a drop of poison that could injure or cure, like the rod of Asclepius with a serpent curled around it. It was said that Hajji could summon thunder and arrange for one’s enemy to be struck by lightning. Whenever I’d hear thunder or see lightning without rain, I’d wonder who was getting killed.

One time, my father sought Hajji’s advice before buying a used van from a high school. The van ended up a disaster. Almost bankrupted us. It needed major repairs, a new engine, tires, constant water refills, oil. When one item was fixed something else would break down. My father persevered—sold a cow, goats, sheep, and also leased a plot of land to take care of the van. As children, we were excited to have a car, even one that needed us to push it out of the garage before it could start. After the ignition, the engine had to stay running, until my mother cried, “Enough! Pat. Sell that thing before it ruins us.”

It turned out nobody wanted the van. Its fumes and body patchwork announced its condition ahead of what my father could possibly market. Finally, a mechanic bought and dismantled it immediately to sell individual parts. My father returned home with the license plate and a look on his face that should have warned me to keep my mouth closed. Instead, I welcomed him and asked how much the van had gone for. My father,

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always a Buddha, threw the license plate at me. Weirdly, I kept it under my bed. There was a tacit agreement about the van. Silence.

We got busy with other things, went through college, graduated, became employed, and some of my siblings married. One Christmas we gathered at the family table and I asked if anyone remembered the van’s plate. Like the dead one forgets to talk about until something shatters, we all began to release bits of memory about the van. Nostalgia gripped my father and for the first time I saw his tears. “UVT 131,” I said. “Oh my, you remember?” He was surprised.

That night as a family, we made new plans to purchase a truck to help my father with farm work.

She was said to be a spirit medium. She would be good to consult at this time when a lot of people I love have died. Besides, I’m older. While the idea of communicating with a spirit medium is still uncanny, I have entertained it. Systems of divination and

the afterlife appeal to me. Anyway, Ngasige loved our family and visited often. We were somehow related—I think we called her our cousin. She owned several herds of cattle, goats, pigs, ducks, chickens, and three mean-looking dogs that she always brought when she came to see us. I was terrified of the dogs, and I hated visiting her as her yard was full of animal shit.

One time, she organized a huge party at our home. She showed up with an entourage of forty adults, each carrying a big basket of fresh produce—sorghum, millet, peas, potatoes, and wheat. We had slaughtered a bull in advance, cooked lots of food, and made barrels of local brew.

Everyone in our village was invited and, for three straight days, we ate, danced, and listened to stories around a huge fire. Ngasige loved roasted meat! Every few minutes she would shout at me to bring her another plate. She ate noisily and tossed the bones to her dogs. She was boisterous—the opposite of Hanna in every sense. Now that I think of her, I doubt if she talked with the dead. When would she do that? She was so alive and turned on by the physical, breathing world. I never saw her alone. She

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was always surrounded by a horde of people, chatting, giving orders, and having food brought to her. Parts of her body were covered in henna and glossy jewels —large beads from her wrists to her upper arms, anklets that tinkled like bells when she walked, and multicolored waist beads that rested on her large tummy. She was the only adult who exposed parts of her flesh like that. I’d steal glances at her belly and, when she caught me, she would shout, “You, come here!” Cold sweat would trickle down my spine and I’d lose my tongue. Symbols are always linked to our voices and womanhood.

I used to have nightmares about Ngasige or her dogs. The dogs would turn into monstrous lions chasing me. I’d climb a tree and they would jump onto it, snarling. I’d fall o the tree, only to wake up on the floor. Then I would climb into my sister’s bed and ask her to hold me until I was able to fall asleep again.

Rose was not considered a medicine woman, but I find her practice equally fascinating. She worked as a gardener, but if you had a broken or dislocated bone, Rose would sit on it and set it back in place. There was pain, the excruciating kind, she would inform you, but once she did her “enchantment” a person who was brought to her on a stretcher, unable to hobble, would be able to walk back home. How do you explain that?

She never accepted money for her bone-setting work. Perhaps there weren’t a lot of people with broken bones to make a lucrative living, or it was not necessary since she earned her livelihood by working in other people’s gardens.

She was my mother’s best friend and voiced her disappointment when one of my brothers who’d broken a shin playing soccer was rushed to the hospital. His leg was put in a cast for six months and after they took it o the x-rays indicated that the bone hadn’t healed properly.

We were raised as—

Well, let me say we were baptized in the Anglican church and taught the Bible. Every night we prayed, thanked God for the gift of life, food, shelter, safety, kind neighbors, and so forth. Every Sunday, we went to church and sang in the choir. We were active members of our local Protestant church, and also the Catholic church. This used to perplex my friends, so I would explain: my father was a Protestant while my mother was a Catholic. They’d agreed that we would be christened in the Protestant church but when it came to service, we could attend both churches. So we did. I especially loved the Catholic church because the members had a peculiar way of clapping and drumming that produced a staccato rhythm. Then two altar boys my age

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