"What Spirit Sees: A Reflection on Ancestry, Race, and Belonging"
A personal reflection by Mambo Jae Ashé — daughter of many, godmother to more, and servant of Spirit
I struggled with the decision to share this. Not because I doubt my place in these traditions, but because I did not want to give credence to the very thing I’m trying to dismantle: the idea that our human form, our skin color, our blood quantum, is the deciding factor in whether we belong in a sacred spiritual practice.
Spirit chooses who They choose. Sometimes it’s a soul born into privilege who is meant to hold the door open for others. Sometimes it’s a soul whose past life ties are deeper than anything a DNA test can reveal. And sometimes—maybe even often—it’s someone who shows up with the willingness to serve, to sacrifice, and to love. Who are we to question that? To speak over Spirit?
No one is granted access by Spirit solely because of their DNA. Nor is anyone denied.
As someone whose career has been grounded in anti-oppression work, I’ve fought against institutional "-isms" my entire adult life. Leveraging my privilege to build safer, more accessible spaces, often infuriated by the ignorance these systems were built upon. But what truly gets to me—what sets my soul on fire and burns with a rage so hot it could only be born from Chango—is the experience of prejudice within the very spiritual spaces that are meant not to oppress, but to uplift and heal.
How could something that brought so much love, power, and freedom also harbor so much division? How could people rooted in traditions born from resistance to oppression turn around and wield oppression themselves?
And yet, here I am—sharing my story, bearing my soul. Not for validation, but in the hope that vulnerability in the face of veiled hate might soften sharp edges and open the door to deeper understanding.
To paint a clear picture, I need to start where everything starts: at the beginning.
I was adopted—twice, in fact—and raised by a white, church-going family. Baptized Catholic. Later Methodist. My childhood was steeped in scripture, summer camps, and youth group. But at 14, during a time of personal trauma, something broke between me and the church. I left and didn’t return.
At 17, I tried to find my way back, and became involved with the Jehovah’s Witnesses. I studied diligently, attended multiple “meetings” weekly, and was eventually approved to go out in service. But the deeper I went, the more questions arose. Their version of "truth" unraveled beneath the weight of my seeking. Eventually, I walked away from it too—disillusioned and spiritually untethered.
For a time, I called myself an atheist. I still believed in spirits—what some might call the paranormal—but I could not believe in a God so controlling, so narcissistic, who created souls only to or burn them in hellfire. That wasn’t love. That wasn’t truth. So I shut the door.
But even as I tried to walk away, Spirit was still calling.
Growing up in St. Louis, New Orleans’ sister city, I also witnessed and experienced prejudice at every level—institutional, societal, and personal. The city remains deeply segregated; you could often tell where someone lived based on their race and socio-economic status. And if you didn’t belong, you weren’t welcome.
When visiting friends, I often had to hide in back rooms when company came over—because I was white, or at least, that’s how I was perceived. My presence in certain spaces was considered a threat, or at the very least, a problem. These early experiences left an impression—subtle at first, but persistent. It wasn’t about the color of my skin or who raised me. It was something deeper, unnamed, yet undeniably present.
Only once I began walking my spiritual path—one I hadn’t even realized I was seeking—did those impressions crystalize.
Fast forward to the day my Madrina walked into my life.
She is the beginning of this path. The turning point where everything I had carried silently began to speak, and everything I had questioned began to find clarity. Until she appeared, I hadn’t even known what I was seeking. But Spirit knew. And Spirit sent her.
I began to understand the ache of spiritual displacement that so many experience. The tension between feeling called and being questioned. Between knowing where you belong and being told you don’t. That dissonance became a quiet, unrelenting battlefield in my mind.
I wasn’t looking for religion. I was focused on my career. But Spirit had other plans. A sudden vacancy at work was filled by a woman who, within hours, shared she was a Spiritualist. She hadn’t even meant to apply for the job, thinking she was interviewing for another position, with a different agency. But there we were.
She became my safe space—the person I ran to when the spirits came knocking again. I hadn’t known how to manage the noise before. But she guided me.
Originally, she hadn’t planned to take on any more godchildren. But our path was undeniable. Spirit made it so.
The Orisha showed me things I never thought possible. They broke me, healed me, tested me. One of my greatest early struggles was connecting to my earthly ancestors. As far as I knew, I was a white woman defying the rules of the very practices I loved. And yet, the spirits didn’t reject me. They embraced me.
Finally, in a tarot reading with someone who would later become my godchild and right hand, I was asked, "Are you sure you’re white?"
That one question changed everything.
It led me down the trail of my ancestry. Through DNA tests and thousands of hours of research, I discovered:
- My 5th great-grandparents were Felson and Catherine Bazel, a free black man whose origins can no longer be traced, and a full-blood Eastern Cherokee woman.
- Their descendants became known as the Bazeltown Melungeons—Appalachian people known for their blended ancestry.
- I carry bloodlines from Dahomey, from the Eastern Cherokee, from free Black Americans and enslaved Africans. And yes, from white Europeans, too.
These people were not one thing or another. They were survival incarnate. They were what the census could not define. They lived at the crossroads of Black, Indigenous, and white—and they passed that crossroads on to me.
And still, I say this: Lineage is not just inherited—it is entrusted.
My godparents have also granted me access to their sacred lineages—that’s part of what godparents do. My Madrina is Puerto Rican. My Padrino, a New Orleans Native Creole. I have sat with and learned from internationally respected Priestesses and Mambos. I am preparing to apprentice with a Brujo of Puerto Rican and Dominican descent. I have been poured into by community elders whose voices carry the weight of history.
I do not share this to legitimize myself. Spirit already did that. I share it to challenge the gatekeepers who seek to draw boundaries where Spirit has made bridges.
Prejudice, gatekeeping, segregation—this is not the way of Orisha. This is not the way of Loa. This is not the way of God—by any name.
We cannot claim to fight oppression while upholding its tools. We cannot say we walk in love while dividing others with lines Spirit never drew.
If we are to heal—if we are to thrive—we must stop this infighting. We must return to the roots: humility, sacrifice, community, and Spirit.
The spirits are watching. And they are choosing.
Not based on human incarnation, but destiny.
Not based on DNA, but service.
Are you listening?
Are you aligning?