How to Become an Oungan

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Raymond thought that he might be blind forever. The mud was in his eyes, mixing with the blood. He saw only brown and red, and he navigated via feel, bumping against familiar boulders. Eventually, through the roar of rain, he heard the trickle of his stream. That’s how he knew he was almost home.

The water was bitterly cold; it numbed the gash on his forehead, taking away the pain. When he came up for air, the forest was quieter. Peaceful, somehow. His little shack still stood watch at the river’s bend, as it always did. He headed towards it.

Raymond’s English teacher once told him that an expert was someone who knew something inside and out. Raymond was an expert in getting beat up. His bullies, Josh and Allen, were experts in hurting, like soldiers were. The difference was that soldiers could get killed, but he couldn’t kill Josh and Allen. He was too small.

The shack was ramshackle, childish. It was a wonder that it kept any of the rain out at all. Raymond removed his plywood door and crouched inside. Home again.

Raymond’s English teacher had given him a story about voodoo once. He loved that idea, that you could take a big thing and make it small. Breakable. He had practiced every day since. There was his handiwork, on his makeshift workbench. A pocket knife and two small wooden figures. Below the bench was a pile of all the figures that hadn’t worked. You can’t be an expert the first time, Raymond’s English teacher had said. You have to practice.

The thing with voodoo is that you have to believe every time. If you don’t, they won’t hurt. Raymond felt the gash on his forehead again. Still bloody. You can be an expert in anything.

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(WC: 299)