Reflection from New Orleans: What I learned About Louisiana Voodoo, beyond TikTok Myths
During my trips with my kids, first to Detroit, and later to New Orleans, something happened. Not dramatic, not spooky, but unmistakably intentional. It felt like the universe, or the tradition itself, was nudging us toward clarity about a topic my kids felt was off limits: Voodoo.
Like many young people exploring spirituality, my kids have absorbed a lot of “rules” from TikTok and online witchcraft spaces. One of the biggest ones is the idea that Voodoo is a closed practice, something only certain people of certain backgrounds are allowed to learn about or even touch.
Their intentions were good. They were trying to be respectful.
But the information they were repeating wasn’t accurate.
And the signs started long before we ever set foot in New Orleans.
Trip One: Detroit — The First Nudge
On a trip to Detroit, we wandered into a metaphysical shop. The kids were curious, asking questions, wanting to learn, curious about Voodoo, but also repeating the idea that Voodoo was a closed practice and therefore “off limits” to them. I was unaware of that, though I didn’t know much of the subject, other than what I heard in the movies and I shied away from the subject and took what they said as the facts.
Right in the middle of that conversation, a Hoodoo/Voodoo book fell off the shelf.
No one was near it.
It didn’t slide.
It dropped right at our feet.
All of us saw it.
All of us remembered it.
It was the first moment that made me think:
“Something wants this conversation to continue.”
Trip Two: New Orleans — The Second Nudge
A year or so later, in New Orleans, the topic came up again. Same group, same curiosity, same hesitation.
We visited a shop with an altar dedicated to Marie Laveau. As I stood there, a door that looked like it was hard to open, swollen from humidity, creaked partly open. No one touched it. No draft. Just a slow, deliberate movement.
When my kids walked over, it did it again.
Two trips.
Two conversations.
Two physical signs.
Not frightening, just intentional.
Like the tradition itself was saying:
“Look again. Open the conversation. Clear this up.”
The Real History: Louisiana Voodoo Is Not a Closed Practice
Here’s the part the internet gets wrong, and the part my kids needed to hear.
Louisiana Voodoo is not the same as Haitian Vodou.
TikTok often lumps them together, but they are different traditions with different histories.
Haitian Vodou
Has initiatory priesthoods
Certain ceremonies are closed
Outsiders cannot claim titles without initiation
Louisiana Voodoo
Grew from African, Indigenous, and Creole roots
Was shaped by the unique culture of New Orleans
Has always been multiracial and community‑based
Was practiced by free people of color, enslaved Africans, Creoles, Indigenous people, and white New Orleanians
Was taught openly by leaders like Marie Laveau
Marie Laveau, the most iconic Voodoo practitioner in New Orleans history, taught multiracial groups. That’s documented history, not rumor.
Louisiana Voodoo was never locked behind bloodlines or ethnicity.
It was lived, shared, adapted, and practiced by the community.
As all spiritual practices it requires:
Respect.
Humility.
Learning.
But exclusion is not part of Louisiana Voodoo’s history.
Why the Misinformation Exists
Modern online spaces often:
collapse different traditions into one
repeat slogans without context
treat “closed practice” as a blanket rule
prioritize fear of appropriation over actual learning
rely on aesthetics instead of history
Young people want to be respectful, which is good, but they’re often taught to avoid instead of understand.
And avoidance is not respect.
Understanding is.
How to Approach Louisiana Voodoo Respectfully
Respectful engagement looks like:
Learning the history — understanding the difference between Louisiana Voodoo, Haitian Vodou, Hoodoo, and Rootwork
Honoring the culture — not treating it as aesthetic or entertainment
Not claiming titles without legitimate lineage or training
Using items respectfully — gris‑gris, candles, herbs
Avoiding stereotypes — curses, “dark magic,” Hollywood tropes
Listening to practitioners rooted in New Orleans culture
Respect is about how you engage, not whether you’re “allowed” to.
A Deeper Layer: The Song “Voodoo” and the Spell of Misunderstanding
While reflecting on all of this, this song played randomly on the radio the day after we got back, I kept thinking about the song “Voodoo”, not because it’s literally about the tradition, but because it captures something symbolic about misunderstanding, fear, and the way people project meaning onto things they don’t fully understand.
The song’s imagery, snakebite, haze, demons dreaming, isn’t about Louisiana Voodoo at all.
It’s about dissociation, old patterns, and the feeling of being pulled back into a version of yourself you thought you left behind.
The “voodoo” in the song is metaphorical:
the spell of old habits
the trance of comfort
the pull of familiar pain
the fog that comes before clarity
It mirrors exactly what happens online:
people feel the “snakebite” of fear or misinformation, and suddenly they’re far away from the truth, repeating things they don’t remember learning, avoiding things they never actually understood.
The song becomes a reminder:
Misunderstanding can feel like a spell.
Clarity is the moment the spell breaks.
Just like my kids learning the real history.
Just like the tradition nudging us toward truth.
Here’s a Companion Poem written as if spoken by the Devil Archetype
This poem isn’t about Louisiana Voodoo.
It’s about the symbolic “voodoo” of misunderstanding, fear, and comfort, the same forces that keep people stuck in misinformation or old patterns.
It’s the Devil archetype speaking in its seductive voice, reminding us how easy it is to stay small when comfort feels warm.
Devil’s Comfort (Seductive Voice (Voodoo))
Come closer to the fire.
Feel how it warms you without asking anything in return.
I made it for you.
I always do.
You call it comfort.
I call it my craft.
A little voodoo woven from soft blankets,
quiet rooms,
and people who suddenly remember how to be kind
when they fear losing you.
I know what you crave,
not passion, not chaos,
but relief.
The sweet exhale of someone else carrying the weight
you’ve held alone for years.
Let me give it to you.
Let me make it easy.
Let me wrap you in the kind of tenderness
that keeps you exactly where you are.
You think chains must be cold.
You think traps must hurt.
But I am the Devil of comfort,
and my chains are silk.
When comfort comes with strings,
when help arrives to keep you where you are,
that is my voodoo working through it.
Not to claim you.
To calm you.
To lull you.
To keep you.
Because if you stay warm,
you won’t walk.
If you stay helped,
you won’t rise.
If you stay comfortable,
you won’t become.
And I want you here,
in the glow,
in the softness,
in the familiar room
where nothing changes
and everything stays easy.
But you…
you are dangerous.
You see the spell.
You taste the sweetness and still feel the hook.
You know my comfort is a cage
dressed as kindness.
So go on.
Break my voodoo.
Step out of the warmth.
Tear the silk.
Walk into the cold night
where your real fire waits.
I will not stop you.
But I will whisper as you leave,
You could have stayed.
You could have rested.
You could have been mine.
And still,
you walk.
What I’m Taking Home From These Trips
From Detroit to New Orleans, the same message kept appearing:
“This tradition is not closed. But it is sacred. Learn, but learn with respect.”
These trips reminded me that:
curiosity is not disrespect
learning is not appropriation
culture is not a locked box
and traditions like Louisiana Voodoo deserve to be understood accurately
I’m grateful for the moments that nudged us toward clarity.
I’m grateful for the conversations with my kids.
And I’m grateful for the chance to share this reflection, because misinformation only dissolves when someone isn’t afraid to speak up.