THE HYMNS, THE SERMONS, THE RITUALS OF SUNDAY WORSHIP WERE WOVEN INTO THE FABRIC OF HIS UPBRINGING, OFFERING HIM A MORAL COMPASS AND A SENSE OF BELONGING. YET, ALONGSIDE THIS STRUCTURED FAITH WAS ANOTHER TRADITION, OLDER AND MORE ENIGMATIC: THE ANIMIST PRACTICES OF VOODOO AND SANTERÍA

On the Passing of Don Samuel, in C Minor

ALBERTI ROMANI · 19 min read · Apr 12, 2025

To celebrate the departed is to acknowledge the beauty and complexity of their journey. It is to hold their lives up to the light and see, not perfection, but authenticity — the struggles, the triumphs, the humanity that defined them. Their sins are no longer burdens; they are lessons. Their burdens are no longer weights; they are gifts of wisdom…

Background

The passing of Don Samuel is not simply an event — it is a transformation that reverberates through the fabric of my existence. In the ancient traditions of Vudú, Voodoo, Vodou and Santería, death is not an end, but a prism through which the essence of a life is refracted.

It is not the shattering of the vessel, but the gathering of its waters into a purer, more luminous form. The newborn, though cherished, stands at the threshold of existence bearing an unspoken uncertainty — a soul yet untested, a path untraveled.

Their cry is a question to the world: what burdens will they shoulder, what sins will they unknowingly inherit? They are a seed, full of potential, but still concealed within the mystery of the earth.

This juxtaposition was not unique to my father. It was cultural synthesis that defines much of the Caribbean

By contrast, the departed are the harvest — each wrinkle, each scar, a testament to the storms weathered and the fruits borne. Their journey, carved into the contours of memory, becomes a map of resilience and love. In their passing, they are distilled into legacy, celebrated for the chapters they authored in the grand story of humanity.

Death is not a severance but an alchemy

Death, then, is not a severance but an alchemy, a sacred process that transforms the tangible into the transcendent. In Vodou, the spirit of the departed, the Gwo-Bon-Anj, does not dissipate into nothingness; it transitions, carrying forward the essence of a life lived.

The departed are not mourned as lost — they are honored as present, their influence carried in the breath of prayers, in the rhythm of drums, in the flicker of candles that bridge worlds.

Likewise, in Santería, the spirit is a torch passed from one realm to another, illuminating the path for both the living and the dead. Through songs, offerings, and reverent rituals, the fullness of the departed is celebrated — not as an abstraction, but as a force that continues to ripple through time, shaping the world they left behind. In death, the story of a life is not erased; it is distilled into a potent truth, one that binds the living and the ancestral in an eternal dance.

To celebrate the departed is to acknowledge

To celebrate the departed is to acknowledge the beauty and complexity of their journey. It is to hold their lives up to the light and see, not perfection, but authenticity — the struggles, the triumphs, the humanity that defined them. Their sins are no longer burdens; they are lessons.

Their burdens are no longer weights; they are gifts of wisdom. In death, they are freed from the constraints of mortal existence, their essence sharpened into something timeless, elemental.

They become both anchor and compass, grounding us while pointing us forward. To grieve them is to affirm their importance; to celebrate them is to declare that they were here, that they mattered, and that through their lives, the world was changed.

The duality of grief and celebration, as an act of love

In traditions like Vudú, Voodoo, Vodou and Santería, this duality of grief and celebration becomes the ultimate act of love — a recognition that death does not diminish life but completes it, elevating it into the eternal.My father’s passing fits into this framework, as a legacy taking shape. This essay, a requiem in C minor, begins with a meditation on transformation — not only his, but mine.

When viewed through the lens of ancestral wisdom, death is not an erasure; it is a refinement. The contours of a life become sharper, its essence distilled into memories, lessons, and impressions that transcend physical presence. My father’s life, and now his absence, demand a recalibration — a reckoning with what remains and how it must be carried forward.

The veil separating this plane from the next is thin

Traditions like Vodou remind us that the veil separating this plane from the next is thin, and perhaps permeable. The rituals that celebrate the dead are not mere acts of closure — they are gestures of acknowledgment, affirmation, and connection. In this way, my father’s legacy is affirmed in both spiritual and tangible dimensions.

The act of writing itself becomes an offering — a modern-day ritual. As I set pen to paper, I do more than mourn my father; I honor him, not as a figure idealized, but as a man fully realized. Writing bridges the gap between absence and presence, allowing me to construct a narrative that preserves his essence.

Each word written, each thought articulated, functions as an act of anchoring his spirit within the architecture of my own. In composing this requiem, I redefine what it means to grieve — not as a cessation of connection, but as its transformation into something enduring and dynamic.

This transformation does not reside solely in the abstract

This transformation does not reside solely in the abstract; it is felt deeply and viscerally. My father’s passing initiates a shift not only in the external realities of life but also in the internal landscapes of identity and purpose. The traditions of Vudú, Voodoo, Vodou and Santería offer a framework for navigating this shift, emphasizing that death is a continuum rather than a conclusion.

The duality of my father’s belief system was not merely a reflection of his personal faith, but a microcosm of the cultural and spiritual landscape of the Hispaniola Island itself. Born into an environment where the Born-Again-Christian movement flourished — its Baptist, Methodist, and Pentecostal branches spreading like roots through the soil of community and tradition — he was shaped by the teachings of Christianity.

The hymns, the sermons, the rituals of Sunday worship were woven into the fabric of his upbringing, offering him a moral compass and a sense of belonging. Yet, alongside this structured faith was another tradition, older and more enigmatic: the Animist practices of Vudú, Voodoo, Vodou and Santería. These beliefs, carried across the Atlantic by African slaves and nurtured in the colony of Saint Domingue, existed not as a contradiction to Christianity, but as its shadow — a parallel spirituality that spoke to the mysteries of existence in ways the church could not.

A juxtaposition not unique to my father

This juxtaposition was not unique to my father; it was emblematic of the cultural synthesis that defines much of the Caribbean. The Born-Again-Christian movement, with its emphasis on salvation and personal transformation, offered a path of redemption that resonated deeply with communities seeking hope and renewal. Its rituals were clear, its doctrines explicit, its promises eternal.

Yet, the Animist traditions of Vudú, Voodoo, Vodou and Santería offered something equally profound: a connection to the ancestral, the elemental, the unseen forces that govern life and death. These practices, rooted in African cosmology, were not merely religious — they were cultural, historical, and deeply personal. They provided a framework for understanding the world that complemented, rather than contradicted, the teachings of Christianity.

For my father, these beliefs existed side by side, each informing the other in subtle ways. Christianity gave him the language of faith — the prayers, the psalms, the stories of redemption and grace. Vudú, Voodoo, Vodou and Santería, on the other hand, gave him the language of the spirit — the rituals, the symbols, the understanding that life is a dance between the visible and the invisible.

Church on Sundays and Animist traditions

He could attend church on Sunday, singing hymns and listening to sermons, and yet feel the pull of the Animist traditions that whispered of ancestors and spirits. This duality was not a conflict; it was a harmony, a blending of two worlds that allowed him to navigate the complexities of existence with a deeper sense of meaning.

The history of these traditions is as complex as their coexistence. The Born-Again-Christian movement, with its roots in European Protestantism, arrived in the Caribbean as part of the colonial enterprise, bringing with it the promise of salvation but also the weight of imperialism. Vudú, Voodoo, Vodou and Santería, by contrast, were born of resistance — the spiritual practices of enslaved Africans who refused to let their identities be erased.

Traditions forged in the crucible of oppression

These traditions were forged in the crucible of oppression, blending African cosmology with elements of Catholicism to create a spirituality that was both resilient and adaptive. In the colony of Saint Domingue, these practices became a source of strength, a way for the enslaved to reclaim their humanity and connect with their ancestors. This history was not lost on my father; it was part of the cultural inheritance that shaped his worldview.

To understand my father’s belief system is to understand the interplay between these traditions — the ways in which they coexist, overlap, and sometimes diverge. Christianity, with its emphasis on individual salvation, offered him a path to personal redemption. Vudú, Voodoo, Vodou and Santería, with their focus on community and ancestry, offered him a connection to something larger than himself.

Together, they created a spiritual framework that was both deeply personal and profoundly communal. This duality allowed him to see the world through multiple lenses, to find meaning in both the sacred texts of the Bible and the rituals of the Animist traditions.

My father’s faith was a reflection of resilience and adaptability

In many ways, my father’s faith was a reflection of the resilience and adaptability of the Caribbean spirit. It was a testament to the ways in which cultures can blend and evolve, creating something new and unique. His belief system was not a contradiction; it was a synthesis, a harmony that allowed him to honor both his Christian faith and his Animist heritage.

This duality was not just a part of his identity — it was a part of his legacy, a reminder that faith is not static but dynamic, shaped by history, culture, and personal experience. Through him, I learned that belief is not about choosing one path over another; it is about finding the connections that unite us, the threads that weave our stories into the larger tapestry of existence.

The act of carrying him forward

In internalizing his presence and allowing it to evolve within me, I become a vessel for his legacy, reshaping my own existence in the process. The act of carrying him forward is not one of imitation, but of evolution — an acknowledgment that his journey continues through mine.

Thus, this essay emerges not as an elegy of endings, but as a celebration of continuations. The passing of Don Samuel is not an extinguishing — it is a transformation into a guiding force, an imprint etched into the choices and creations that define my life. It is a symphony, composed not in sorrow, but in recognition — a recognition of the ways in which his life and passing continue to shape the path ahead.

The line between legacy and self blurs

His evolution becomes inseparable from my own, as the line between legacy and self blurs. This essay is both requiem and revelation — a melody that honors not loss, but presence, and celebrates the power of transformation.

This resolution was not the psyche’s attempt at survival — it was the fulfillment of a purpose. In those fleeting moments when he was with me, something within the fabric of existence seemed to adjust. It was as though his presence was a final offering, an act of love and completion transcending the barriers of the physical world.

He didn’t need words to communicate; his presence alone carried an unspoken truth, a transmission of clarity that reached beyond time. In those fleeting moments, his essence was more tangible than memory yet more elusive than the physical world. His presence wasn’t merely an echo of what had been; it was a bridge, connecting everything unresolved between us.

Though all the complexities, tensions, and silences

It was as though all the complexities, tensions, and silences that had defined our relationship over the years coalesced into a single, profound understanding. That understanding didn’t require language or explanation; it simply existed, whole and complete, dissolving the invisible wall that had separated us in life. In that silence, I found not just him, but myself — the parts of me that had been shaped, for better or worse, by his influence.

The weight of his presence was both grounding and liberating. It pressed upon my chest, not with grief, but with recognition — a force that compelled me to confront the emotions I had often ignored or buried. There was no escaping the reckoning he brought, no deferring the truths his presence revealed.

Grief, gratitude, and even resentment mingled together, stripping away the veneer of abstraction I had placed on our relationship. What I experienced was not closure in the trite sense of the word; it was an undoing and a weaving, the simultaneous unraveling of old threads and the creation of something stronger. It was as if, for a moment, the universe allowed us to rewrite the narrative of our bond, leaving behind not regret, but a deep, unshakeable equilibrium.

The weight of finality, a door to continuity

His presence was a profound paradox: it carried the weight of finality, yet it also opened a door to continuity. In those days, I realized that death is not a wall between worlds, but a seam, a place where the living and the departed converge, if only for a fleeting moment. He was both here and not here, real and unreal, visible only in the way the air seemed heavier, the world quieter.

The traditions I carry within me — the ancestral wisdom of Vudú, Voodoo, Vodou and Santería — speak of these moments, when the veil thins and the spirits return to impart their final gifts. And though the visitations are brief, their impact lingers far longer. He had not come to haunt me or to ease my pain; he had come to guide me, to press his essence into mine so deeply that I could carry him with me, even as he returned to the unseen.

There was an intimacy in this shared silence, one that transcended anything spoken in life. I felt his presence not just around me but within me, filling the spaces I hadn’t realized were empty. It was as if all the moments we had missed — the conversations that never happened, the words that went unsaid — folded into those days, compact and potent, distilled into something eternal.

The parts of me shaped by his shadow

The clarity he offered wasn’t just about him; it was about us, about the parts of me that had always been shaped by his shadow. In his presence, I could no longer deny how deeply he had influenced me, nor could I ignore the ways in which I had resisted that influence. This reckoning was not painful — it was transformative, illuminating the intricate ties between us with a light that was neither harsh nor forgiving, but honest.

When he was there, time lost its linearity. The past, the present, and the future seemed to collapse into a single point, and in that point, everything simply made sense. It was a reckoning I hadn’t sought but one I had needed, a recalibration of my understanding of both him and myself. He didn’t stay to offer comfort or explanations — he stayed just long enough to ensure that I felt the weight of his presence, the fullness of his essence.

And though it was fleeting, it left an indelible mark, as though he had written himself into my soul in a script only I could read. In those days, he gave me a gift I hadn’t known to ask for: not closure, but connection. Not goodbye, but a quiet assurance that he was never truly leaving.

The days passed, his presence began to fade

As the days passed and his presence began to fade, I realized that it wasn’t an act of abandonment — it was the natural conclusion of something profound. Like a melody resolving into its final chord, his spirit receded into the deeper structures of my own being. What had felt external and separate now became internal, something woven into the patterns of my thoughts, my choices, and my understanding of the world.

The sudden, fleeting nature of his presence was not a loss — it was an act of integration, a way for him to show me that he would always exist within me, even as his form dissolved into memory.

This realization reshaped my grief. It was no longer about the pain of separation, but about the transformation of that pain into a kind of inheritance. His lessons, his love, and even the complexities of our history now lived within me, carried forward not as a burden, but as a source of strength.

His fading, not a vanishing, but a passing of the torch

His fading was not a vanishing, but a passing of the torch, a gentle yet profound handoff from father to son. In his absence, he left a clarity that I had not experienced in his presence: a recognition that legacy is not just what is left behind, but what is actively carried forward.

In this, I found peace — not in forgetting, but in understanding. His spirit had not departed; it had evolved, becoming part of the architecture of my soul. And as I moved forward, I did so not in the shadow of his loss, but illuminated by the light of his enduring influence. This resolution, then, was not an ending, but the fulfillment of a purpose: to ensure that even in death, his presence would guide me, shape me, and remain with me in ways more profound than I could have imagined.

I did not just mourn him; I acknowledged him. I honored the fullness of his humanity — the contradictions, the complexities, the imperfections that made him real. He was not merely a symbol or a hero in my life; he was a man, a father, whose presence shaped me in ways both evident and hidden. My grief was not an erasure of these nuances, but a spotlight cast upon them.

Moments spent writing for him

Each moment spent writing for him, each note of the music I composed, became an act of reflection and revelation. This was not a process of idolization, but of recognition — a deliberate acknowledgment that he was as human as I am, and in that humanity, he was profound.

Writing for him was more than an exercise in catharsis; it was a sacred ritual. The weight of our bond demanded expression, and through my words and music, I gave form to emotions too vast for silence. The grief, tinged with gratitude, folded into the music like a melody finding its harmony.

The resentment and admiration, often oppositional, became two sides of the same chord. And above all, the love — silent and unspoken through the years — found its voice in the space between the sentences, in the rests between the notes. It was as though I was building a bridge, not just between me and him, but between who he was and who I am.

His spirit was not diminished, but transformed

Through this process, his spirit did not diminish — it transformed. It ceased to be a weight tethered to memory and instead became a part of my forward momentum. In creating for him, I did not simply process my grief; I transmuted it into something enduring.

He shifted from being an external presence into an internal guide, reshaped into the choices I make and the values I hold. His presence was no longer transient; it became intrinsic. Where once his voice echoed as memory, it now resonated as intuition — a subtle but undeniable force guiding me from within.

This act of creation not only honored him, but it redefined how I experienced loss. Grief, often seen as an anchor, became a force of propulsion, pushing me forward rather than holding me back. He did not disappear into the void of memory; he integrated into my essence.

I became, not his replica, but his evolution — a continuation of his life in ways he could not have imagined. It is not imitation, but transformation — the inheritance of his spirit woven into my own, reshaping what it means to carry him forward.

A profound clarity about legacy

In absorbing him, I found a profound clarity about legacy. It is not static, nor confined to the past; it is dynamic, alive, evolving within those it touches. Don Samuel’s legacy is not a shadow cast by his absence, but a light illuminating my path ahead.

Through every word I write and every note I play, he remains — not as a memory trapped in time, but as a force shaping the future. Through this act of creation, I did more than acknowledge his passing; I celebrated his evolution. And in his evolution, I found my own.

Through this act of creation, I did more than process loss — I transformed it. Grief, often considered a static weight, became a fluid force within me, shaping not only how I remembered him but how I chose to live going forward. His presence, once external and distinct, dissolved into the foundation of my thoughts and actions.

In acknowledging him, I not only honored his existence but also embraced the continuity of his influence. It was no longer a question of mourning the past; it became a question of integrating its truths and lessons into the architecture of my future. His essence did not linger as shadow — it moved within me, reshaped and alive in an entirely new form.

Death has a peculiar ability

Death has the peculiar ability to distill existence into its purest elements, revealing the core of what remains when the physical form is gone. In the case of Don Samuel, what emerged from this distillation was a clarity about who he had been and what he had meant — not just to me, but to the world he touched.

Through writing and composition, I gave shape to this clarity, turning abstract feelings into tangible expressions. The act of creation, whether through words or music, served as an alchemy that transmuted grief into empowerment. His spirit ceased to haunt the edges of my thoughts; it became a central force guiding my decisions and perspective.

Through him, I became more than the inheritor of his legacy — I became its evolution. Legacy, as I have come to understand it, is not confined to the relics of memory or the echoes of the past. It is dynamic, alive, and constantly reshaped by those who carry it forward.

For Don Samuel, I became the vessel through which his life found continuation, not as imitation, but as growth. In taking his lessons and love into myself, I did not simply replicate his essence; I transformed it into something that aligned with who I am and who I aim to be. His life became the catalyst for my evolution.

This transformation was not without its struggles, as it required a confrontation with the complexities of our history together. Honoring him meant reconciling the contradictions — the moments of friction, the unspoken tensions, as well as the deep, abiding love.

It was in this reckoning that I found power, not in spite of the difficulties, but because of them. To carry forward his spirit is to accept the whole of him, and in doing so, I realized that his life could not vanish. It was etched indelibly into my own, influencing even the smallest details of how I breathe, create, and move through the world.

Within me, not as a static memory

Don Samuel did not vanish. He evolved. And through him, so did I. He remains within me, not as a static memory, but as an active force shaping the choices I make and the work I produce. Every note I compose carries his resonance; every sentence I write holds a fragment of his voice.

He is the foundation upon which I stand, the origin from which I continue to grow. His passing marked not an end, but a transformation — his spirit, distilled and empowered, now lives on through me. And in carrying him forward, I honor him not only in memory, but in every breath of my being.

Don Samuel did not vanish. He evolved. And through him, so did I. His passing, though marked by sorrow, has illuminated a path that we now walk together — not as father and son separated by life and death, but as two lives intertwined in purpose and legacy.

He is not a relic of memory, fixed and distant; he is a living presence within me, a quiet force that shapes my steps and steadies my hand. Every decision I make, every challenge I face, carries his imprint — not as a shadow, but as a guiding light. He is the origin of my journey, the roots that hold me steady as I grow and evolve.

This is not a farewell

This is not a farewell, but a transformation. His voice, once external, now resonates within the deepest recesses of my soul. I do not hear it as I once did, but I feel it in the rhythm of my work, in the resolve behind my choices, in the breath that carries me from one day to the next.

The work I create is no longer just mine; it is ours. Every note played, every word written, is infused with the essence of who he was and what he taught me. The boundaries between our lives blur, and in that merging, I find strength.

His life was not perfect, and neither is mine. But together, we form a narrative that is both flawed and beautiful, marked by the shared humanity that binds us across the years. He was not an ideal; he was a man, complex and real.

And in honoring that, I carry forward not an image of perfection, but a truth that empowers me to embrace my own imperfections with courage and grace. Through him, I have learned that legacy is not a monument erected in someone’s name — it is a living, breathing continuum that flows through those who remain.

An homage to him, an affirmation of my own journey

Each step I take is both an homage to him and an affirmation of my own journey. I am not merely a vessel for his spirit; I am its evolution. His lessons guide me, but they do not confine me. His values shape me, but they do not define me.

I am both an extension of his life and an individual forging a path uniquely my own. He is my foundation, but not my limitation. In carrying him forward, I honor him not by dwelling in his shadow, but by embracing the light he cast and using it to illuminate new horizons.

This is the symphony, the operetta I compose in his name — with melodies that celebrates his life while charting my own. It is not an end, but a continuation, where each note resonates with the love, the lessons, and the legacy he left behind.

Don Samuel is not gone; he is a part of every choice I make, every breath I draw, every word I write. In his passing, I do right by him, not by looking back with longing, but by moving forward with purpose. He is my origin, my foundation, and my continuation. Through him, I honor life itself.

.. And thus, I gather the scattered strands of sorrow,
weaving them into the final chord of his myth.
A canon of memory, etched in tones and silence—
where love resolves, and longing finds rest.

His legend, now complete, echoes into the ever-after.
And I, unburdened, step forward on my own odyssey—
not in forgetting, but in reverent release.

May the winds of fate turn once more,
and where the stars align,
let our paths cross again—
not as father and son,
but as two souls
who remember.