Voodoo Queen Quotes

There is darkness inside all of us, though mine is more dangerous than most. Still, we all have it—that part of our soul that is irreparably damaged by the very trials and tribulations of life. We are what we are because of it, or perhaps in spite of it. Some use it as a shield to hide behind, others as an excuse to do unconscionable things. But, truly, the darkness is simply a piece of the whole, neither good nor evil unless you make it so. It took a witch, a war, and a voodoo queen to teach me that.

Most people write me off when they see me. They do not know my story. They say I am just an African. They judge me before they get to know me. What they do not know is The pride I have in the blood that runs through my veins; The pride I have in my rich culture and the history of my people; The pride I have in my strong family ties and the deep connection to my community; The pride I have in the African music, African art, and African dance; The pride I have in my name and the meaning behind it. Just as my name has meaning, I too will live my life with meaning. So you think I am nothing? Don’t worry about what I am now, For what I will be, I am gradually becoming. I will raise my head high wherever I go Because of my African pride, And nobody will take that away from me.

In his refusal to believe in anything supernatural or inherently evil, he was as unrealistic as an old voodoo queen who sees spirits everywhere.

The color white is not always what it seems to be. Watch for white handkerchiefs, handmade altars, homemade gumbo, and light summer dresses.

Dear New Orleans, What a big, beautiful mess you are. A giant flashing yellow light—proceed with caution, but proceed. Not overly ambitious, you have a strong identity, and don’t look outside yourself for intrigue, evolution, or monikers of progress. Proud of who you are, you know your flavor, it’s your very own, and if people want to come taste it, you welcome them without solicitation. Your hours trickle by, Tuesdays and Saturdays more similar than anywhere else. Your seasons slide into one another. You’re the Big Easy…home of the shortest hangover on the planet, where a libation greets you on a Monday morning with the same smile as it did on Saturday night. Home of the front porch, not the back. This engineering feat provides so much of your sense of community and fellowship as you relax facing the street and your neighbors across it. Rather than retreating into the seclusion of the backyard, you engage with the goings-on of the world around you, on your front porch. Private properties hospitably trespass on each other and lend across borders where a 9:00 A.M. alarm clock is church bells, sirens, and a slow-moving eight-buck-an-hour carpenter nailing a windowpane two doors down. You don’t sweat details or misdemeanors, and since everybody’s getting away with something anyway, the rest just wanna be on the winning side. And if you can swing the swindle, good for you, because you love to gamble and rules are made to be broken, so don’t preach about them, abide. Peddlin worship and litigation, where else do the dead rest eye to eye with the livin? You’re a right-brain city. Don’t show up wearing your morals on your sleeve ’less you wanna get your arm burned. The humidity suppresses most reason so if you’re crossing a one-way street, it’s best to look both ways. Mother Nature rules, the natural law capital “Q” Queen reigns supreme, a science to the animals, an overbearing and inconsiderate bitch to us bipeds. But you forgive her, and quickly, cus you know any disdain with her wrath will reap more: bad luck, voodoo, karma. So you roll with it, meander rather, slowly forward, takin it all in stride, never sweating the details. Your art is in your overgrowth. Mother Nature wears the crown around here, her royalty rules, and unlike in England, she has both influence and power. You don’t use vacuum cleaners, no, you use brooms and rakes to manicure. Where it falls is where it lays, the swerve around the pothole, the duck beneath the branch, the poverty and the murder rate, all of it, just how it is and how it turned out. Like a gumbo, your medley’s in the mix. —June 7, 2013, New Orleans, La.

Well, are you just going to sit there with your mouths gaping-open or are you able to speak? Why didn’t you announce yourselves prior to crashing ashore, the Fairy Queen scolded. How-Ya-Do’s eyes were even larger than usual as he cowered on Cricket’s shoulder; the both of them speechless, shocked into silence, and Face-to-Face with Magic itself! You scared the spark right out of us, well speak-up for goodness sake before I sic’ The Hummers onto you both, she warned while pointing to the massive army of bees.

The Dragon Queen was firm: No sex, no more voodoo curses on Christopher.

she was sitting in the drive-through of the Dairy Queen Bank & Trust withdrawing money to pay an anonymous blackmailer who might have murdered Steve Chasen, and keeping it all a tidy secret from her long-lost boyfriend who had no idea they had a history together. She thought her head might explode.

This time, Lang held the knife against her throat. “You do know the answers. I knew it. You’re just like your aunt, with your witchy ways and your chicken bones. I killed her and I can kill you too–unless you tell me what I want to know.” If Lang thought she was a voodoo queen or a witch, well, better for her. He hadn’t touched Tante Eva’s throwing table, after all. “I threw the bones yesterday mornin’.” She used her own version of Eva’s accent. “I knew you was comin’, and I knew you was determined to get me.” “Give me a break, little Celestine. Taking you was as easy as shooting that red-headed bodyguard of yours.” Not a bodyguard, but a friend who was probably dead. Ceelie spoke softly, keeping her voice low and musical. “Tu me ne connais pas.” You do not know me. “Je passe la malédiction de vous, Langston Broussard.” I pass the curse to you, Langston Broussard. “Tu me ne peur pas.” You do not scare me. For a fraction of a second, Ceelie saw a flash of doubt—maybe even fear—cross Lang’s face before it settled back into a sneer. She had rattled him with a few words pulled from long-ago memories. The momentum might have swung her way, at least for a moment.

You're the only man I know willing to jump from the top floor of a skyscraper, naked with an axe just to get the bad guy - Selena

What emerged from the doorway can only be described as how I envision a love-child between Grady from Sanford & Son and a small goat. There before us was The Voodoo Queen.

Marie the Second sported a bright tignon to signal her status and identity. She flaunted her turban, gold jewelry, and a proud walk that announced to all that saw her -- I am not white, not slave, not black, not French, not Negro, not African American. I am a free woman, a Creole of New Orleans.

The room was large and empty except for a four-poster bed and a framed picture of Marie Laveau, the voodoo queen of New Orleans. "A free woman of color who owned her own business," said Vivian Weaver. "She made her own money, and rose to fame and power in a segregated South.

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