In Search of Old Key West
Reconstructionists and historians are acutely aware of the importance of studying the past in an effort to understand the present and create a series of traditions for the future. No matter how much theory or research, it is often difficult to understand a people and an environment without visiting a site, for one’s self. Heritage and environment are two major factors which contribute to a spiritual or religious identity. Discovering the source from which these influences originate may assist in understanding more about ourselves. With that very thesis in mind, several years ago I embarked on an ancestral journey to Key West, the land of my father’s ancestors.
Cayo Hueso was originally translated as ‘bone key’, for the fact that it had been a giant Indian burial ground. English translators interpreted it as ‘weso’, and named it for its westernmost location among the islands within its vicinity. Beyond the long drive across the only road that connects the island to the mainland lies more than just a change in latitude, but also changes in everyday life. Highlighted outlines of reefs under the crystal sea-green waters were clearly visible from the stretch of highway. Today Key West is prized for the famous authors and philanthropists who once lived on the island, and every corner is cluttered with tourist paraphernalia, but the island had, at one time been a very distinct entity. A once giant swamp, it was its own primeval ecosystem. Some of the banyan trees remain, gracing the yards of old stately homes-turned museums.
The purpose was the study of genealogical information pertaining to Caribbean and Cuban ancestry. Old records paint a picture of an island where yellow fever kills very easily. Pestilence and destruction abound, not unlike the studies of ancient civilizations from more than 4000 years ago. The sight and sounds of roosters on the streets was a familiar feeling that evoked memories of my childhood from Miami. An easy-going feeling permeated the atmosphere. As I proceeded towards the cemetery, more roosters scurried around, pecking at the bone white ground.
The entrance was not gated as many cemeteries are on the mainland. The entrance was a mix of sand, limestone and concrete. It was like walking into an archaeological excavation. The tombs were double-stacked above ground. There was a mix of religious customs on the island. Symbols of religious preference and religious orders marking the stones provided a glimpse of the profound variety found here.
The smell of the salt in the air electrified and energized the powerful feelings that the ocean had evoked within me. Offerings were left on the old gravestones. Many of which were silk floral arrangements. I brought my own. After deciphering the old etchings nearly rubbed clean by the flow of time and the erosion of the ocean, I made some notes about the headstones I had found, and provided offerings of incense and a beaded rosary of copper and gemstones. I had never known these people but felt that I should pay my respects just the same. These were the people from whom my love for the ocean had come.
My father had told me many stories about his lineage and of his childhood spent on the island. As I approached one of the banyan trees which stood in the outdoor perimeter of the Key West lighthouse museum, I felt a strange sense of home, tracing with my eyes the branches that grew both upward and threaded themselves back into the ground. An energy that had not yet finished transforming itself from one shape into another before being cast in stone. But there was nothing cold or lifeless about the banyan tree. The branches themselves evoked a strong sense of awe that had emerged from the spiritual significance of ‘the many that lead to one’.
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