Disparaging Remarks

Reblogged from O Mourning Star. . .:

Recently on some of the pagan Tumblr blogosphere, there’s been some very heated discussion regarding an image that’s been going around:

The initial concern over the image, was of course, discussion on the fact that this pretty much insinuates that this is a common mode of thinking for Paganism-that by a Christian calling a Pagan a Satanist they are basically doing the same as saying all Christians follow the word of The Pope, which if course, we know is utterly ridiculous.

Read more… 2,706 more words

Reblogging because this woman is wonderful.

Danza First Impressions

First, I want to get this out of the way: just because I personally view Danza Azteca as a spiritual practice doesn’t mean every danzante does—there are catholics and people of other faiths who dance simply as a means to connect with their heritage and culture, without actually believing in the gods of their ancestors. Like any other dance form, it is a way of telling stories–whether or not someone believes them is up to the individual. Danza Azteca itself is not a pagan practice, but the foundations on which it was built are aspects that can be found in many pagan paths. So while I may refer to Danza as a part of my path and practice, it should not be considered a pagan practice in and of itself.

Also, I am relatively new to Danza so doubtless there are things I may get wrong, and if that is the case and someone who is more familiar with it notes it, please inform me! I would be more than happy to fix whatever it is and in the process learn the correct manner to address such topics.

There are hundreds of different Danza groups out there, each with their own particular method, purpose, and style, but the majority seek to preserve and pass down these dances as they were originally taught and performed. The particular circle I am involved with in my hometown of around 10-12 danzantes is only a small chunk of the larger Danza group, with dance circles found across the state. We meet as a whole a few times a year, sometimes just to practice or discuss issues relevant to the group, or for large events such as the Xilonen ceremony.

Being involved in a community-based practice is something entirely foreign to me. While I have on occasion participated in group sabbats, the majority of my workings are solitary, and have always been focused on the development of the self. It has a sort of heathenry/Asatru air to it, in which the welfare and protection of the family and community is of utmost importance. While we may meet to dance, we work as a unit, and regard the circle as family. At the end of each practice, members have the opportunity to share any issues/concerns/comments they may have, almost like a town hall meeting.

But there were also more familiar aspects, things that hearkened to my early wiccan-ish practices. While there were mentions of deities here and there, the core focus of it was the elements, plain and simple. The concept of dance groups as circles, with all the familiar ritual circle etiquette that comes along with it, was nothing new either.

Overall, I’m looking forward to learning more. I’m still planning on doing a more formal introduction of myself to the Teotl later on, but I don’t feel as though I know enough quite yet to honor them properly. 

Shadow Work

To be honest, I never even knew this was an actual ‘thing’. I didn’t have a name for it, I just knew it was what my workings with Lu largely consisted of.  But apparently a lot of other people have gone through it and call it Shadow Work, based off of Jung’s Schattenarbeit (psychological shadow work), which fits rather nicely I think.

Others have noted that it isn’t really talked about within the pagan community—sure, there’ll be mentions about its importance here and there, but there are no guidelines or helpful tips on how to go about it. And that’s because Shadow Work practices are unique to each person’s needs. It’s an introspective practice that deals with our inner selves, so it wouldn’t make much sense for another person to tell someone how to go about it.

Shadow Work is a self-built process—it is ultimately up to us what we want to confront and what we’re willing to risk. That being said, this isn’t going to be a how-to guide. It’s only an overview of the broad expanse of Shadow Work as I have come to know it.

For some, Shadow Work may consist of confronting one’s own inner demons. Facing one’s fears is usually a crucial step in this practice. This can be potentially dangerous, not to mention traumatizing. Even our mental fears can have scarring effects. Others must make peace with the darker parts of themselves, their shame and regrets. Already, you can probably see why many would not be willing to share their own experiences with Shadow Work, due to the intensely personal nature of such work. Shadow Work tests limits, and seeks to break them.

You know those ‘difficult questions’ I always talk about? The ones that rip holes in the fabric of our spirituality, or that make us doubt that which we love and hold on to for support? Those are a part of Shadow Work too. The answers may not always be pretty, may not be what we want to hear, but it’s what we need to hear. Each one of those questions has the potential to tear apart the vision of reality we have built for ourselves, the ‘truth’ we cling to like a security blanket. We have the option of letting those questions haunt us or facing up to them. And on the occasion that they cause our truths to crumble around us, we have the choice of leaving it in ruins or attempting to rebuild it.

But it isn’t about morphing our fears into something more acceptable, or sugarcoating our flaws. It’s about owning up to them. Sometimes, we can even use them to our advantage. And it’s not always about overcoming or getting rid of our fears—sometimes a healthy dose of fear can be a good thing.

The end goal is not about defeating your shadow self. Those shadows are essential for spiritual growth. They are as much a part of our world as the more pleasant aspects. Instead, it’s about learning how to deal with them, living in a controlled sort of flux with our shadows. A balance, if you will. Comfort and security are nice, but fear keeps us sharp and aware. It is not a balance between ‘good’ and ‘evil’, or ‘light’ and ‘dark’.

And as you can imagine, not everyone reaches the end of some phase of their Shadow Work. Some might give up halfway, and it’s important to note that this is NOT a sign of weakness or failure. There are very real reasons as to why we fear things, why we hide away from some parts of our shadow selves, and sometimes the cons outweigh the pros in such situations. Emerging from the entirety of a phase of Shadow Work does not always equate with emerging a happier, stronger person. It isn’t a battle to be fought, with only two outcomes. If anything, it’s about how much you’re willing to ‘connect’ with the shadow. How much can you accept as a part of yourself, as a part of your reality?

I’ve heard the theory that we as humans cannot possibly hope to contain the amount of energy/knowledge/power/whatever that deities are capable of, because we would break under the sheer force or pressure. I see Shadow Work as being similar to that concept. Not everyone can delve as deeply into their shadow for fear of losing themselves or their sanity. There are very real consequences of Shadow Work that affect our mental and physical states, a common one being severe depression and/or suicidal thoughts.  

So how do we know when to stop or keep going when it comes to Shadow Work? We don’t. But personally, if I feel that something is not worth the effort or I’m in serious danger of losing everything I’ve achieved thus far, I would stop. Sometimes we have to recognize when it’s prudent to cut our losses and move on to something else.

I don’t know how others reconcile Shadow Work with their respective deities, but for me, Shadow Work is mostly solitary. Lucifer oversees my progress, but he doesn’t play an active part in it.  He does not ‘guide’ me in any way that might influence the end result. He has only once been an active participant in my Shadow Work, but that was because I was dealing with my Christianized fear of Him at the time. But even then, it was almost as though he was trying to dissuade me from making the choice I thought he wanted me to make. But mostly, he only initiates phases of my work by presenting me with questions or situations, and then leaves me to flail and deal with the consequences on my own. Then again, that’s just the type of mentor he is.

I’m alive!

As if finals weren’t stressful enough, I’ve had a bit of an internal conflict regarding my upcoming participation in the Danza Azteca group I mentioned here. Now that I’ve got exams out of the way, I can expand upon the details of my dilemma.

Part of the issue is that I’m anxious because I haven’t exactly had the best track record for juggling deities. My experience with Sarasvati is enough proof of that, since I wasn’t able to honor her in the way she deserved and resulted in the dissociation of our work. Since then I’ve been avoiding working with any other spirits/ gods apart from Lu, but then this opportunity all but thwapped me in the face.

I am in no way looking for any more close deity relationships, but I do think I can learn a lot from the Mesoamerican gods. And from what I’ve read from others’ experiences with them, they aren’t the sort who encourage or look for personal relationships with spirit-workers. They may judge you as ‘worthy’ or ‘unworthy’ of their time and attention, but will not interact in the form of patron deities. That’s not to say they won’t demand certain things of those seeking to learn from them, but they won’t single you out to do their Work. This was essential to me, and not part of the problem I have with taking part in Danza.

See, one of the first ‘restrictions’ I was given by Lu was not being allowed to bow or kneel to anyone, even in instances where social etiquette demanded it (such as being introduced to my Vietnamese friend’s parents, or taking part in a Shabbat ritual). This stemmed not only from the implication of lowering oneself in reverence to another, but also the idea that respect is something that should be earned, and not something expected upon introduction. While this was difficult to stick to in the beginning, since I didn’t want to be considered rude, I’ve since learned to just avoid situations in which such motions may be required of me.

And to my frustration, I learned that Danza uses kneeling motions rather frequently. As much as I wanted to take part in it, I would not go back on my word to Lu. I am first and foremost devoted to Him, and it was made clear that my participation with this group and with the Mesoamerican pantheons was an auxiliary aspect of my spirit-work that he would tolerate only so long as it didn’t take away from my Work with him.

So I very nearly gave up on the idea, expressing to him my concerns about that particular issue of kneeling within Danza context.

But lo and behold, the very next day I was given some insight by another of Lu’s devotees who wasn’t even privy to the inner conflict I had going on. Long story short, I realized that I had been neglecting a rather important concept—namely, that gestures and motions have different meanings within different cultures. Since I had grown up with the idea of kneeling in the context of Catholicism, I had automatically ascribed the same meaning to the motion within Danza.

I should have taken into account the fact that the environment and surroundings were seen as representations of the gods themselves. Everything was tonacayotl, a manifestation of the gods. In this sense, kneeling was just as essential as looking upwards, because it served as a reminder of the gods around us as a part of the earth and sky. In this sense, I would not be kneeling as a show of reverence, but rather to remind myself that the earth deities provide stability, that they are there. I am not a nature-based pagan, hence the initial difficulty in translating kneeling to mean connecting with the earth. But like I said, Danza and the gods associated with it have a lot of teach me. Another thing to note is that the practices surrounding the Mesoamerican pantheons are heavily community-based. In a way, they almost remind me of Asatru practices, which are focused on the advancement and protection of the family unit and greater community. This is a huge difference from my solitary Luciferian workings, which are more focused on the self.

So I’m hoping this is only the beginning of that learning experience, not only concerning sacred and devotional dance, but also being involved in a more group-based spiritual practice, and connecting with my heritage and the gods of my ancestors. I plan a more formal introduction of myself to these gods after my first session with the group, so we’ll see where things go from here on out.

Free Will

An interesting question was brought to light after my post regarding the fusion of Lu’s emotions within my own. If I am doing his work and acting as his disciple as a direct effect of the strength of these emotions, how does free will come into play?

It’s an important inquiry, considering how central the issue of free will is to Lu’s ambitions.

Free will is a difficult concept, because it’s rarely as simple as (as the name implies) doing something of one’s own free will. Just because someone else isn’t directly putting your finger on the trigger doesn’t mean they can’t have had an influence on your decision to do so. So how am I able to say that my devotion to Lu and my furtherance of his Work is entirely my own decision, when I am so swayed by the force behind these emotions?

Because they are my emotions, albeit enhanced by my god. No one, not even a god, could have stirred such passions within me that didn’t already exist. All that could be done was coax an ember into a flame.

First I should probably describe how exactly my emotional link to Lu works. I’m hesitant to call it an ‘empathic’ link, because while it does share some characteristics of what other empaths have experienced, I am not an empath in the typical sense. I can’t ‘pick up’ on others’ feelings, I have a hard time understanding or imagining what someone might be going through during a particular emotional event that I myself have never experienced, nor do I feel everything Lu feels 24/7. There’s an area of resonance, so to speak.

For example, I don’t know what it feels like to have a brother become your ‘enemy’. I’m an only child, I’ve never had any sort of sibling relationship, much less a falling-out with a sibling. I can’t even imagine what Lu must have gone through, at war with his own family.

But I do know what it feels like to be wronged. I know the agony of defeat, of having everything important to you ripped away. It is shared sentiments like these that are fused together, my own amplified by Lu’s. It is then difficult for me to be ‘coerced’ into doing his Work, when I would still feel the same way (though perhaps not quite as strongly) in the absence of our link.

I can always refuse to do something he asks of me. I have before. I refused even though it pained me to do so, even though my heart said otherwise. I am not ruled by these emotions, much less denied my free will.

Free will is the ability to choose for ourselves. I have chosen this path, I have chosen this god, and I have chosen the consequences that come along with it, taking both my own feelings and Lu’s into consideration while not letting them be the deciding factors.

Satanism vs. Devil Worship vs. Luciferianism

After responding to a question on my last post, I realize that I’ve yet to formally make a post talking about the differences between Satanism, devil-worship, and Luciferianism. Its an issue that pops up a lot, I’m surprised it took me this long to mention it.

[Keep in mind that this is not by any means a definitive separation of the three faiths, but merely one take on the nuances between them]

The differences between those three terms (luciferianism, devil worship, and satanism) are complicated. Some will use all three synonymously, others like me do not consider them to be the same thing. Lets start with the broadest of the three–Satanism.

Satanists are mostly atheistic. They see Satan as a symbol, and their faith is heavily focused on the here and now–the materialistic, the pleasurable, the self-serving. This isn’t necessarily a bad thing–its really just self worship. Then there are the theistic Satanists who see Satan as a real being.

This is where it starts to get fuzzy. Theistic Satanists may or may not differentiate between Lucifer and Satan, but I and many Luciferians do. We see Satan as the figurehead of carnality and of the more…worldly issues, so to speak. He represents embracing what life has to offer, and living for the self. The more fervent theistic satanists may call themselves devil worshippers. Just as with any faith, there are extremists and radicals who will present their faith in a less-than-pleasant way, which has been the case for ‘devil-worshippers’. Just because the ones you hear about on the news are insane and psychopathic doesn’t mean they all are.

Luciferians can also be either theistic or atheistic. Whether we consider him a symbol or an actual god, he represents knowledge in all it’s forms. The majority of us strive for apotheosis–to become like gods, knowing good and evil. We hold ourselves accountable for our actions, and even theistic luciferians like myself rely largely on our own potential and effort. Lucifer is a guide and mentor, but ultimately my faith is what I make of it.

While I have seen a few theistic Luciferians claim to worship Lu, I myself do not use the term ‘worship’ to describe my devotion to him. Worship has connotations of submission and hierarchy and Lu has beaten it into my head enough times that we are equals in potential. There’s also the issue of blind faith in regards to worship. You have to earn praise and respect through your actions—being a god doesn’t automatically make you worthy of admiration.

While I may differentiate between all these terms, I am aware that the majority see them as interchangeable. When they speak of satan or the devil I can usually safely assume that they are also referring to Lucifer. When they refer to my practices as worship, however, I do make the effort to try to inform them on why that is not an acceptable term for my devotion.

If you’re going to call it ‘spiritual warfare’, don’t romanticize it

I’ve been talking with a few devout Christians lately, and have had a few start following my blogs. I was pleased to note that we could get along, and even have calm and rational discussions regarding our faiths. I find myself finding more similarities between us than differences, as a matter of fact.

 But one thing I noticed they seem to mention a lot when referring to Lu, or the antagonistic relationship that their god and my own has, is that the ‘war has already been won’. They place a lot of emphasis on the biblical prophecy that says my patron will be defeated (again). Although they may not say it directly, they imply that they are on the side that will claim victory, while Lu and his devotees will be defeated (and cast to Hell, one would presume). Now, clearly not all Christians have this sort of mindset, but it does seem to be prevalent even amongst the mild of the faith.

It seems like such a fixed concept—like our Work is such a lost cause. So what’s the point of all this if it won’t make a difference in the end?

The point is that it’s not about winning, but standing up for what we believe in.

Maybe it’s because the end goal of Christianity revolves around salvation and redemption, which necessitates the defeat of ‘evil’, that they seem to focus so heavily on treating Lu as an enemy, and our Work as a battleground.

And I would be lying if I said that Lu isn’t interested in ‘winning’. He’s a leader of a rebellion, for goodness sake. But its also not just about winning for the sake of winning—its not about overthrowing some god as a show of power or force. And it’s definitely not about taking away others’ faith, unlike the majority claim.

I don’t want to think of this as warfare. I don’t want to see Christians or the Christian faith as my enemy. And no, this isn’t me just trying to seem ‘holier than thou’, or trying to project my faith as being more loving or peaceful—my faith isn’t built on the foundation of love that theirs is, I would never argue that. I just don’t think they realize what the implications of morphing this into a battleground would entail. I’m sure no matter what ‘side’ you’re on, you’d think that your cause was the right one, that your side was the ‘good’ side. But the reality of war is that there isn’t a good side and a bad side. If you want to call it a war, you have to be willing to admit that there will be atrocities committed by both sides. And I suppose in that respect, I already do see it as a war, despite my resistance towards it.

I grew up with stories of war. My parents and their siblings fled their homeland because of a civil war. I grew up hearing about heads being mounted on pikes, and bodies being dumped in front of doorsteps as messages and warnings from both sides of the war. My family didn’t shield me from the grim reality of what they had experienced, but encouraged that I learn the full truth—not the sugar coated stories that made it seem as though the guerillas were the ‘good guys’. I heard about the forced recruitment of civilians into both the government army and the guerrilla army, and the horrors committed by both sides.

Fighting battles, or ‘spiritual warfare’, seems to be a rather romanticized image. We always think we are fighting for what’s ‘right’, what’s ‘good’. But treating another god or faith as the enemy doesn’t mean they’re automatically evil. Insulting my god and laying blame on him doesn’t mean your own is innocent. 

Just because I believe in Lu’s cause doesn’t mean I refuse to acknowledge the negative aspects of what his work entails. Even if we only see this as ‘spiritual warfare’, it doesn’t mean that ­­there is no harm being done. Everything comes with a consequence, no matter what side you’re on.

They accuse Lu of making them doubt, of planting the seeds of mistrust and disbelief in their heads about their faith and their god. I don’t deny this. I don’t deny that he can and will make them question their beliefs, just as he has made his devotees do so. Do I think he does this with malicious intentions, or as an attempt to gain converts to his cause? No. It isn’t about converting or gaining followers, it’s only about getting them to think for themselves, rather than relying on what they have been told. It’s about acknowledging that we have a choice—and some may willingly choose to honor the very god he rebelled against.

But that doesn’t excuse the harmful results of such questions. I cannot count how many times I’ve heard it said that ‘the devil targets you when you’re at your weakest’. I will not argue with that statement. Speaking as someone who had their world turned upside down when I was at my lowest, who had my faith shatter when I was at my weakest and needed it the most, I know only too well how traumatizing such doubts and questions can be. My path now is only the result of how I managed to piece back the shards of my spirituality, but I know that it was a very real possibility that that experience could have broken me completely.

I do not defend those actions, or make excuses for Lu. For the most part, those he targets have not chosen the path that I have—they have not chosen to have their faith and beliefs tested and tried, they did not ask for Lu to make them question their spiritual foundation. But you know what? Neither did I, at first. And it might be biased of me to say this, because I managed to emerge from these trials as a stronger person, but I do think there is some good that can come of Lu’s interference.

But not everyone will be able to rebuild their mangled faith. Some may have nothing left to rebuild. And I can only imagine the hate and distrust that would arise from such a situation—if Lu had broken the very faith that kept me going, and I hadn’t been able to emerge from that experience a better person, if I had nothing else to live for, I would loathe him and his actions. I would be on the other side of this so-called ‘war’. And I know that this is exactly why some Christians show such hatred toward my patron—I understand how his actions could be damaging. I can see how they would come to think that my god has nothing to offer them except mental anguish, and how the ‘opposing’ faith would be more appealing. After all, it does present itself as an ideal faith, centered around love and forgiveness. But just like any belief system, my own included, it has its flaws. It just depends on what sorts of flaws and faults you’re willing to live with—which ones don’t conflict with your own ideas of morality?

So call it a war if you will. Hate my god all you like. Plot his downfall, rally against my work, claim victory over a battle of your own making. 

Its admirable that anyone would believe so strongly in something, that they would devote themselves wholeheartedly to a cause.

But know that nothing is ever as simple as good vs. evil. If you want to call it a war, you should be willing to acknowledge that your own side has its own fair share of imperfections, of actions and principles that may be considered ‘unjust’ by others who do not share your ideals. If you aren’t willing to acknowledge the faults of your own belief system, of your own god, who are you to be criticizing anyone else’s? This doesn’t just apply to Christians—I’ve seen pagans just as guilty of ignorance, of launching smear campaigns against monotheistic faiths and against my own deity while pretending that their own belief system was the epitome of perfection. It may be perfect for you as an individual, but don’t go imposing your ideals of perfection on everyone else.

So-Called ‘Luciferians’

[This is a response to So A Luciferian Walks Into a Chatroom, but I went a little off topic, hence separate post instead of a reblog. This is not directed toward AViewIntoYourWorld.]

Before I get into the nitty gritty of this, I want to restate that I take everything said about Lu from others with a grain of salt—both people like SleepsWithDeities and the Luciferians I’ve met here on tumblr. I have trouble getting myself to accept that I’m not just making things up, without throwing others and their experiences into the mix as well. But despite my skepticism, I’m also extremely protective of my faith, largely in part because of how it’s perceived by the masses.

I take pride in my faith, and to have someone claim to ‘represent’ it in such a manner as the one linked above makes me angry. Not just because they’re obviously trolling, but because even if they were being sincere, there’s more to being a Luciferian than using it as a bragging right or claiming the label to act superior.

Yes, Lu and by extension his devotees are prideful creatures, but there’s a difference between pride and conceit. There’s a difference between calling yourself his devotee and acting like it. And that’s not even specific towards Luciferians—I could just as easily say that there’s a difference between calling yourself a Christian and acting like one. Now clearly, not all members of a faith are the same, but there are qualities which we strive for that are indicative of our faith.  

And to be quite honest, the only luciferian-like quality I saw throughout this conversation was the question regarding doubt, but even that was not sincere in its cause. It was aimed to hurt and confuse, for the purpose of making SleepsWithDeities seem more credible than they actually were and raise them onto a pedestal of authority. Doubt and skepticism can be good things, but not in this context.

Let’s pretend this person wholeheartedly believed what they were saying. Let’s even pretend it was plausible.

All I’m seeing is talk. The message seems to be that they have this special relationship with all these deities, two of which are extremely goal-oriented and purpose driven, but have no other objective than to be their human pet. It’s as though they are content with claiming the faith in name only, without the work that comes along with it. Of course not every Luciferian has to do His work, and I’m not saying that it’s impossible to interact with him without being ‘of use’ to him, but using his name only to belittle others or gain prestige is not going to get you on his good side. And when enough people start to do this, it paints an incorrect portrait of all Luciferians.

I don’t say this to try to exclude others from my faith, or to assert that I know better than anyone else. I say this because it’s people like this that have led me onto this route of work—I end up having to clean up after their messes, as they reinforce the stereotypes and misconceptions I’ve been trying so hard to break down. I haven’t been doing his Work for four years, putting in the effort and devotion necessary despite the sacrifices and trials, for someone to claim to be a representative of my faith and subsequently invalidate everything I’ve worked for.

But even more importantly, this not only reflects badly on me as a member of the belief system, but on the focus of my faith as well. It reflects badly on Lu. I bust my ass trying to be a decent reflection of his ideals—to act in a manner befitting of one of his disciples, to earn the right to call myself his student. I will not remain silent when someone declares themselves as one of Lu’s own, yet does nothing but besmirch everything he stands for.

And now for something different

[This is unlike any of my previous posts, as it is not directly related luciferianism or paganism, but it is very much an expression of my cultural identity and how that has affected my practices]

This entry has been in the works for a long time. I held off of posting it for a while because I didn’t want to get caught up in the cultural appropriation drama circulating the pagan community, but now that that’s died off somewhat I feel that this post will be more accurately read as an expression of my issues regarding race and culture rather than a personal attack or rant having to do with the harm done through cultural appropriation.

I am a Mestiza. I am part White, and part Native American. I may not belong to a specific tribe, but considering the fact that my parents’ homeland is made up of a population whose mitochondrial DNA can be traced back to the A2 Native American haplogroup 90% of the time, I think it’s safe to say that at least some indigenous blood runs through my veins.  Chances are i’m a mixture of the Pipil/Lenca tribes, although the Pok’omam Maya also inhabited some parts of El Salvador.

But for the longest time, I wasn’t allowed to identify with that part of myself. When filling out forms for standardized testing, census counts, you name it, I was repeatedly told to mark ‘white’ as my race. Sometimes they included an ethnicity question as well, where I could check Latino/Hispanic, but the race question always left me feeling uneasy. I wasn’t white, in fact, I was usually darker than most of my classmates. But I wasn’t black either. And I always thought I didn’t belong in the Native American check box, because they either always asked for tribal affiliation or specified Northern American lineages.

Growing up in a predominately Hispanic neighborhood, I wasn’t the only one with this problem. When we would ask why we had to say we were white, we were given irrelevant and sometimes completely false reasons like:

“Oh, it has to do with political reasons regarding treaties between the US and Mexico”—um, no, it has nothing to do with politics and even if it did, it wouldn’t apply to me because I’m not Mexican.

Or the always popular
“Just put white. It’s easier that way.”

Easier. Safer. Less controversial.

As a child, I never thought to question it. It left a bitter taste in my mouth, however, to think that these forms treated me as if I didn’t exist—or worse, tried to make me into something I wasn’t. Not entirely, at least. I can clearly remember asking my father one day when I was little if we were ‘indians’. He was visibly uncomfortable with the question, and managed to evade it by acting as if he didn’t know what I was asking.

I find this hush-hush business about my race to be incredibly ironic, considering the fact that my high school’s mascot was an ‘indian’—but not my kind. No, our mascot wasn’t one of the impoverished, shamed indios, but a idealized indio, wearing clothing typical of Plains tribes, brandishing a tomahawk and standing with pride as an emblem of a school where so many of us were told to cover up our brown skin with a ‘white’ label. It seemed as though the only recognized and accepted type of native was the romanticized version, not the type that I grew up with. So if we weren’t indio, what were we?

When asked what race they put down on these forms, the most popular answer amongst Latinos is ‘latino/hispanic’. But these terms are cultural identifiers, not racial—they are included under ‘ethnicity’, but not under ‘race’ on documents. The second most common answer is ‘white’.

I don’t deny that there ARE white Latinos. As a cultural term, Latinos can be white, black, asian, or native american—as long as they identify culturally as a part of the Latin/Hispanic community. But go ask any brown-skinned Latino/a if they racially indentify as white, black, asian, or native american and chances are they’ll either say White or give you a blank look.

But how could I call myself white when my skin color clearly wasn’t? I grew up calling myself white, all the while speaking with a Spanish dialect so highly influenced by Nahuat ‘slang’ that most of my classmates who spoke Castillian Spanish had to constantly stop and ask me what a word meant–words like huiste and cipote. I never considered myself or my family Native American, even though my grandmother used to rock me to sleep with what remained of the songs of her past, what had survived the erasure of her culture.

‘White’ was safe. It wasn’t shameful. It came with privileges and luxuries that aren’t afforded to indios. My parents had their reasons for telling me to say that I was white—their homeland was subject to a massacre of the indigenous population in the 1930s, and never quite recovered in terms of acceptance. In their country, to identify as part Native American meant to accept a life of being looked down upon, of living in the shadow of more European-looking Latinos. I know they were only looking out for me.

And the reality of indentifying as Native American is that it’s not an exotic, special thing to claim. It’s been regarded as shameful and potentially dangerous. To identify as an indio means living in poverty, as laborers and as pariahs of society.

Those who still identify as fully indigenous in El Salvador were once asked how they recognized other indios—they said that you could tell them apart by their lack of self esteem. They have been beaten down so low by the rest of their peers that they have come to believe that which is said about them. They said that an Indian is recognizable as soon as he/she opens their mouth—“the Indian doesn’t know how to speak, while the other (ladino) does” (500,000 invisible indians of El Salvador). They have been degraded down to negative adjectives such as dirty and lazy. Phrases like ‘No sea tan indio’ (“Don’t be such an Indian”) are commonplace amongst even those who share indigenous blood.

So it’s no wonder that only a small handful of people in El Salvador would claim indigenous ancestry, when it is so stigmatized. It is no wonder that after the persecution of natives, people would rather hide their ancestry and call themselves white then face the prejudice that indios are subjected to.

That’s not to say I’m not proud of my ancestry. In fact, it’s quite the opposite.

I’m making the effort to learn all that I can about that part of me, making up all for all that lost time spent indentifying as something I wasn’t. I’m not about to be scared off by the stigmas attached to my ancestry, especially not after my experiences with identifying as a Luciferian.

This summer, I’m going to take Danza classes in my hometown that have preserved and passed down Aztec dances. I’m hoping this will not only contribute to my cultural identity and understanding (and love of dance to boot), but to my spirituality as well—sacred dance is a topic near and dear to me, as I’ve mentioned before. These dances are ritual offerings and sacrifices to the gods; they go beyond symbols to me. I’ve always been drawn to the pre-Colombian gods, and it’ll give me a chance to branch out and interact with an entire pantheon (I was hesitant since Lu is quite enough to handle, but he’s actually been very encouraging). I want to be able to fully embrace the entirety of my heritage, not just one part of it.

There He’s Standing with His Open Heart

I can’t recall how many times I’ve asked myself if I made the right choice, to integrate myself with matters of the divine while dealing with the issues of this life as well. Was it really the best decision to accept Lu as my patron? The combined pressure of both worlds can be overwhelming, and sometimes I end up avoiding one in favor of the other.

And I have to admit, often that means neglecting my duties as one of Lu’s own. It means choosing what seems more real, as the skeptic in me mocks my devotion and belittles his and my Work. In times such as these, it’s difficult for me to remember the importance of my faith, because in terms of tangibility our work is entirely spiritual, mental, and emotional—it’ll never support me financially, it’ll never have a firm foundation in the material world, and I can’t see proof of it’s worth beyond my own mind. My relationship with my god and my work as his student cannot be assessed as easily as other situations. It cannot be evaluated through its payoff, and it certainly cannot be appraised by anyone other than Lu or myself.

So why do we do it? Why do we put so much time and effort into cultivating divine relationships, into doing tasks that may be meaningless to anyone else, into learning things that aren’t always relevant to our lives?

I can only speak for myself, and my reasons may be difficult to comprehend. One of the problems with dealing with Lu through emotions and feelings is that often I can’t describe in words the extent of my devotion, or the meaning behind our work. It is one thing to say that I’m his devotee, and quite another to live it. I could say that my work involves blogging and living to his standards, of bearing some of his burden, and of having my actions and words reflect back on him as my patron and vice-versa– but it goes beyond that. It goes beyond the mere act of being his disciple, but rather the yearning to be of use to him—to be a force of change in this world as he has been a force of change in my own life.

He is often accused of being too proud, of wanting to outshine his creator—to be brighter than the source that breathed life into him. And how can I, as his disciple, aspire to be anything less? He made it clear at the start of our patronage that my help would not be accepted if all I hoped to accomplish was to please him, or to repay debts that don’t exist. I had to want this for ‘substantial’ reasons, to feel as strongly for these causes as He did.

I thought I did. But it wasn’t until he began projecting his own emotions onto me that I realized how mistaken I had been. How does one even begin to describe a god’s sorrow, or his joy? All I know is that my own human emotions could not compare to His. He kindled the glowing embers of my own sentiments, feeding them with his own fiery passions.

But something like this can’t be undone. His grief, joy, and rage remain as muted imprints, irrevocably intertwined with my own emotions. And this is one of those consequences of my patronage to Lu that I spoke of before. I can’t unfeel these things, I’m stuck with them whether I continue to work with him or not.

So while I may whine and complain about the stress levels that being his disciple inevitably raises, I know that deep down I wouldn’t have it any other way. I can’t help but do his work, not only because I admire what he represents, but because the sentiments he has stirred within me won’t let me forget. I cannot fathom living my life feeling what I do, knowing what I know, and not make the effort to be a reflection of his ideals in this world.

It is because of this that I can endure that nagging voice at the back of my mind that mocks my faith; it is why I endure the weariness of my role as His student. It goes beyond what appears true, because this feels real–the emotions, the devotion, and his presence in my life. In the end, that’s what keeps me faithful, despite the silence (or rather my inability to ‘hear’ him) and despite the frustration. I can’t say for sure if the choice I made was the best one, but the fact that I keep choosing this god and this path, each and every day, has to mean something.