Growing up alternatively spiritual (Part 1)

Memories of growing up at a curandera's house.

I never really questioned anything that had to do with spirits as a kid. I happily accepted any custom, ritual, or tradition that was presented before me. Maybe I was just a people-pleaser from the start, but I was always agreeable and cooperative when it came to spirituality. I also watched my mom fluidly navigate these kind of situations, and she never batted an eye. She never shied away from answering my questions, if I had any. What’s funny to me now is that not once did I think that other children weren’t having the exact experience I was having when I was growing up.

It probably wasn’t until about puberty, middle-school era, when I could finally detect something was different about the way my mother’s family spent their time “with spirit.” We were very Mexican in lots of ways, but when I say different, I mean even different from other Mexican families. Actually, I just found out last week that other families we knew thought we were very strange and they believed my Abuelita was practicing witchcraft.¹ Which is not true but you try telling fear-based rumor-spreading people that.

Rumors aside, our family dynamics were also just different. I don’t think any other Mexican family I knew had its matriarch also serve as a spiritual leader, community healer, or as the epicenter of a large enough social network that, to this day, will probably never be accurately calculated. My Abuelita knew, healed, and networked with an immeasurable number of people — in the US and in Mexico.

Yes, I’m pretty confident now that this was just us.

I though it would be fun if I started talking about curanderismo and my Abuelita by sharing my fondest memories.

Let’s start with the home base.

Her house

I visited my Abuelita almost every weekend. She never learned how to drive so we would help her run errands to the market, carnicería (a.k.a., the butcher), and sometimes the panadería (a.k.a., the Mexican bakery). She was always on the go, on the move. She always had somewhere to be. Until, it came time to be at home.

While I loved going to and fro with her throughout Pasadena and Los Angeles, I also really loved being at her house.

When we were at her house, everything was refocused. When Abuelita was at home, she was at home. Granted, still very busy. Still on the move. But now, the action came to her.

There are two things that I will never forget about her house. It was always:

1. Well stocked with food. Like two fridges, an overstuffed pantry, every basket on the kitchen table piled high, and a large shed at the back of the house filled with dry goods kind of stocked. There were only 3 people living in the house, by the way. And 2 of them were elderly.

2. Filled with strangers. Allow me to explain.

I found this to be true mostly on the weekends, but occasionally, we would find strangers at Abuelita’s during the week as well. I called them strangers because I recognized not one person either sitting on the couch, or leaving her “sessions,” nor waiting outside in the driveway. Not a one.

And they were different faces, or customers, every time.

Every. Time.

I don’t think I ever recognized a repeat customer but I’m sure there must have been.

So, not only did I share Abuelita’s house with my 8 uncles and aunts, 21 first cousins, all of my extended family², and the housekeeper — I shared it with all of Abuelita’s customers, too. You could bet pretty confidently that if you were to visit my Abuelita’s house on any given day, you would find customers waiting patiently for their appointments with her.

And on some days, there were so many of them waiting at the house. Patiently sitting on the couch in the living room. I would watch cartoons with my cousins but it oddly felt like we were at a doctor’s or dentist’s office. They were very polite. Usually very quiet, clearly not wanting to bring further attention to themselves. They never wanted anything, no food or water. You could tell a lot of them only spoke Spanish. My mother would later confirm that many of her customers also traveled from Mexico to see her. Long distances sometimes. All just so they could meet my Abuelita. All in the hopes that she could help them.

That’s a lot of faith to place in a person. Which probably explains the tension I felt in the living room every weekend.

And the really wild thing about it? Considering my Abuelita didn’t have a business card or a website, I would say that kind of steady and abundant foot traffic was pretty amazing! Her reputation and training were shared with others all through word-of-mouth. Shared all the way to Mexico in some cases.

Maybe I’m biased, but they all looked pretty content when they left. There were lots of smiles. Lots of handshakes.

But on the days when Abuelita didn’t have any customers, we got to go into her room. The room where she held her curandera sessions.

Her room

I always marveled at the amount of stuff she had in that room of hers. Every surface was covered with things. Every side table, armoire, chair, even on the floor circling the mat she used for sessions. Her photographs, jewelry, and television set lived side by side with her curandera supplies: oils, bottles of rubbing alcohol, heat therapy patches, glass cups, matches, cotton balls, rosaries, prayer books, votive candles — I could go on!

It was like finding where all the treasure had been buried. There was something so enchanting and mysterious and sacred about every item in that room. I would really want to touch everything but goodness, I never dared. I just looked a lot of the time. Just looked.

I loved spending time with her in her room. Abuelita and my mom would talk for long periods of time. I would watch my mom get a therapeutic massage or have cupping done on her back.

“Quieres que te soba?” My mom would ask me. (“Do you want grandma to give you a therapeutic massage?”) Oh, heck yeah!

And sometimes I would insist that Abuelita do cupping on my back, too.³ Ah, the best!

In tough times, her room became a sanctuary. Abuelita would have a prayer healing session with us, when the need arose. She would have my mom, or me, or one of my brothers hold a votive candle with a saint on it. And she would start her oración (a.k.a., prayer healing), making sure that our luz (a.k.a., light or soul) would be with our bodies. In some instances, she would have to bring it or “call it back,” so to speak.

I am and will always be mesmerized by what Abuelita was able to do with her hands, simple materials, and some prayer. Now, of course, I am aware of the fact that she had to train and apprentice to do the things she did. She dedicated a lot of time to curanderismo in her youth to become a sought-after healer in her later years.

But when I was little, it was all pure magic to me.

Join me tomorrow for a continuation of what it was like growing up with my “alternatively spiritual” Abuelita! I think tomorrow I will finish up talking about her house and move on to what she did for special occasions. And I promise to share more recipes! I’m was so glad to hear that so many of you liked them.

Feliz Día de Muertos to you all!

With cariño,

Maribel

1. I plan to write a post that goes into detail about the major differences between curanderismo (a.k.a., conjuring) and witchcraft. They are different but historically, some conjurers were also witches. So, I get it. It can get confusing.

2. Abuelita was also one of 9. Or was it 10?

3. Abuelita learned how to do cupping so that it left no marks! None whatsoever. Pretty incredible, if you ask me.