Culture and Party Etiquette

One of the lessons that alternately made me cry and sing coming out of attending the Dominican spiritual party last weekend was the cultural contrast between my stiff white upbringing and the kind of joyousness I saw. I cried in the car a little on the way back and again the next day—the energy I felt at the party felt so much more like home to me than the self-conscious nastiness that I was taught.

Don’t sing. No one needs to hear you.

Don’t dance. No one needs to see that.

Don’t show passion, don’t be enthusiastic, don’t be too loud, don’t move. Don’t be like those people. I got lectured several times as a child that if I kept being obnoxious (dancing wrong, making noise) that someone was going to have to beat, or later in adolescence rape it out of me.

Don’t let nobody tell you white culture is peaceful. It’s plenty violent when no one “important” is looking.

I have, at parties in my home temple, had such a contrast between what was in my heart to do and what I have been taught to do that I stumbled in mid air, body going one way and mind snapping me back with a lash of self-conscious shame. At the party this weekend, I sang loudly, laughing at the sight of Ti Jean dancing and his explosive joy at the fireworks, and it was cathartic as hell. If I had known the people of that temple better, I would have whipped my fula off and let the spirit take me where it wanted to for the sheer fucking joy of it.

Spiritual party etiquette is to move, to raise the energy stomping and singing and dancing, praying loud and slapping the ground.

Spiritual party etiquette is to let the current of yourself out, to join the river around you however you can, without the poison of self-consciousness. Who gives a shit if you’re off key? Who gives a shit if you don’t know all the words? Who gives a shit if you’re a bad dancer?

It’s time to learn the Kreyol liturgy and belt that shit out.

It’s time to shake my fat ass.