Black Madonna | LINDA C. WISNIEWSKI

Category: Black Madonna

The Black Madonna

Posted at 5:40 pm by lindawis, on December 2, 2019

For years, I have been fascinated with the Black Madonna. There are hundreds of images of black Virgins all over the world. The one I know best is Our Lady of Czestochowa in Poland, the homeland of my ancestors. There is a shrine to her there, and also near my home in Pennsylvania. I have read about these Madonnas in Ean Begg’s The Cult of the Black Virgin. Begg describes them as vestiges of goddess worship, pagan images that were taken over by the Church in ancient times.

And so when my husband and I traveled to Barcelona last month, the Madonna at Montserrat Abbey was on my list of must dos. Our tour guide told us her face and hands were black from soot caused by years of lighted candles, and that after trying and failing to “clean her up” the monks decided to just paint her black. The Matka Boska Czestochowa was also explained to me that way – too many candles, too much soot. She plays a role in my forthcoming novel, Where the Stork Flies, directing and guiding the characters behind the scenes.

Why is it so hard to accept the idea of a black woman as Madonna? Many stories have been written of black goddesses who became figures of the Virgin Mary to ease the “conversion” of people from their pagan practices to the Catholic faith. It’s very likely the same reason Christmas coincides with the winter solstice, though we have no proof of Christ’s actual birth date on December 25th.

Change is hard for people, and always has been. One of the reasons we love our holiday traditions is because they remind us of good times past and tie us to people we loved who shared them with us. We decide that the way it was is the way it should always be. What our elders taught us must be true. But what if what they were taught, and passed on to us, has a little more nuance? Wouldn’t it open our hearts and minds to let in some other interpretations? Does it make sense that the robes of the many black Madonnas were not darkened by candle soot, only her skin?

It’s a custom to touch the Montserrat Virgin’s hand and ask for a favor. Though she is behind glass now, her hand is exposed for the thousands of people who touch it every year. I made a wish too, but for someone else. I have pretty much everything I need.

What’s your story? Have you ever questioned something you were taught? Share in the comments and I’ll put your name in the drawing for a copy of Sold on a Monday, by Kristina McMorris, the story of a 1930’s newspaperman whose attempt to help poor children causes unintended consequences.

The winner of last month’s drawing is Emily Labows. She wins a copy of The Heirs by Fran Hawthorne. Thanks for adding to the discussion, Emily!

Posted in Black Madonna, Czestochowa, feminist spirituality, Poland, Uncategorized | 6 Comments | Tagged Barcelona, goddess, Madonna, Montserrat

Posted at 3:10 pm by lindawis, on March 12, 2010

The name on the paper was Regina Wrozkowna. She was the earliest ancestor in my family tree, researched by my cousin’s daughter who lives in Switzerland. That summer afternoon at a family reunion in upstate New York, the kitchen smelled of baked ziti, kielbasa, strong coffee and sugary cake frosting.

I’d been out of touch with my father’s family for years. He was a difficult man who feuded with his brothers, but now I was in my fifties and wanted to reconnect with his side of the family, to be part of a clan of cousins most of whom were older than I. And though I didn’t know it yet, I longed for someone to look up to, someone who would watch over me.

Regina’s name stayed with me on the long drive home, a name that tied me back two hundred years to eastern Europe. A woman’s name.

She had twelve children. I know her dates of birth, marriage and death and the name of her husband, but I feel compelled to know more. Writing her story will be a process of discovery and creativity.

My Unitarian Universalist church introduced me to feminist spirituality. I learned there that the Black Madonna of Czestochowa, Poland, whose picture hung in my classroom, is only one of hundreds of dark goddess-like figures worldwide. My mother and I were not close. Today, I’m wondering if I want to write about Regina to claim her for myself, my own personal Madonna.

I began writing my novel about Regina two years ago. I’ve workshopped it twice. The other day, I printed out the whole manuscript, over fifty thousand words. It contains loose ends, awkward transitions, undeveloped characters and situations that make no sense.

Revision is next, and it feels overwhelming. Each time I pick a place to start, I can’t make it work. I wonder if I should put the novel aside and go back to writing memoirs and personal essays. Maybe it’s too late, at sixty-three, to learn to write fiction.

But this story feels like something I must do. Not for my family and Regina’s, but for me. It sticks to me like stinging nettle, demanding attention. And promising my life will never be the same.