I recently read Conjure in African American Society by Jeffrey E. Anderson, a book that feels particularly timely given ongoing cultural discussions. The work traces the history of conjure in the United States—examining its origins, regional variations, cultural influences, and enduring legacy, while also considering its relevance today.
One reason I picked up this book was to better understand how Louisiana became widely regarded as the epicenter of Black American spiritual folk belief. This perception is often echoed in broader conversations about African American cultural identity, including debates within the diaspora. One sentiment that occasionally arises in these discussions is the claim that
“African Americans do not have culture.”
This statement, while provocative, often shuts down meaningful dialogue rather than fostering understanding. Beyond that, it raises important questions about identity, representation, and belonging. When a group’s cultural contributions are overlooked or dismissed, it becomes easier for their distinct experiences to be erased or marginalized over time.
The question of how Black Americans define themselves isn’t about divisiveness but about clarity—especially in a multicultural society where economic and political recognition often hinges on cultural visibility. How do we discuss reparations if the affected community’s identity remains contested? How do cultural identities form, evolve, and sustain themselves? And how can we ensure that Black American identity is shaped by its own people, rather than external narratives—whether from broader American society or the global diaspora? These are some of the questions that led me to Anderson’s book.
An often-overlooked fact is the significant regional variation within Black American folk traditions. This diversity stemmed from the different ethnic groups who colonized various parts of America. While Anglo-Southern Baptist influence dominated much of the South, distinct characteristics emerged in parts of the Deep South. For instance, Louisiana developed French influences, while Florida and the Gulf Coast experienced Spanish influences.
Immigration patterns also played a crucial role in the regional development of Hoodoo. The Deep South maintained a steady influx of Africans compared to the Central South due to cotton and sugarcane production. The severe conditions inherent in the cultivation of these crops resulted in elevated mortality rates, thereby generating a sustained demand for enslaved individuals from Africa and the Caribbean in the Deep South.
Transfer to the Deep South was widely regarded as a severe punishment for Black Americans with established roots in other parts of the United States. This harsh reality is underscored by recorded instances of enslaved people in Virginia taking their own lives upon being sold to Deep South plantations, where conditions were notoriously harsher and family separations more frequent. Notably, in the wake of slave uprisings and perceived insubordination, some judges opted to send serious Black offenders to the Deep South rather than impose a death sentence. This practice both reinforced the terror of sale and further disrupted Black families and communities.
For those interested in exploring this history further, I highly recommend The 272 by Rachel L. Swarns. Swarns highlights cases where enslaved individuals were sentenced to the Deep South, underscoring the profound fear and despair many experienced at the prospect of being uprooted and subjected to even harsher conditions.
It’s worth noting that many European settlers preferred to avoid the extremely hot and humid regions of the Americas, which created unique conditions for Black Americans to preserve and adapt their cultural traditions with relatively less interference compared to areas with denser European populations. As a result, regional differences shaped distinct variations in Hoodoo practices across the South until the mid-20th century. In areas with stronger Catholic influence, for example, syncretism allowed African spiritual traditions to endure more visibly—often through the incorporation of saints as representations of African deities.
Conversely, in the Anglo-Protestant South, conjure practices tended to be more subdued, blending practicality with Christian theology. This adaptation was not entirely unfamiliar to many enslaved Africans, as some came from Muslim traditions that were already monotheistic, while others, like those from the Kongo, had been exposed to Christianity as early as the late 1400s. For them, integrating folk traditions within a Protestant framework may have been a more natural process than is sometimes assumed.
Unlike Voodoo and Santería, which were organized religions with defined rituals and deities, conjure operated differently. It lacked a formal pantheon, sacred dances, or specific animal veneration outside of secretive practices. Instead, it centered on magic, divination, and unstructured folk beliefs—qualities that made it harder to suppress or regulate.
However, this flexibility also meant that traditions could fade more easily if they lost their practical relevance. As a result, some of the cultural nuances that enslaved Africans brought to the Anglo-Protestant South may not have been preserved as distinctly as in regions where Afro-diasporic religions maintained stronger institutional structures.
As Anderson notes, conjure incorporated and sustained certain African traditions while also blending with Native American, British, and Irish influences. This syncretism meant conjure wasn’t exclusively African in character. In fact, some white Americans recognized elements familiar from European folk magic within conjure practices, leading some to view it as a vehicle for preserving European folk traditions rather than solely African ones.
That said, I believe the methods by which one becomes a conjurer were definitely rooted in African mythology. This is evidenced by beliefs that individuals with conditions like twin births, albinism, deformities, or vitiligo possessed deep spiritual ties. Elements of this belief are still evident in Africa today.
Anderson effectively demonstrates how folk traditions and religions evolve in response to environmental and societal pressures, which explains hoodoo’s enduring significance. The fluid, adaptive nature of hoodoo stood in stark contrast to the rigid beliefs imposed on Black Americans through the dominant white Protestant Christian narrative—one that sought to enforce social hierarchy and subjugation. Far from being merely a folk practice, hoodoo functioned as a countercultural force, challenging oppressive systems throughout history. It played a pivotal role in slave rebellions, inspired resistance during the Cold War-era communist movements in the South, and empowered individuals to defy a system designed to oppress them.
When a marginalized group faces relentless hostility—where submission could mean cultural or physical erasure—belief systems like hoodoo take on profound importance. They become a source of strength and defiance. This cyclical pattern—where Black Americans have at times distanced themselves from hoodoo, only to return to it during periods of struggle—reflects its enduring role as both a spiritual anchor and a means of resistance.
The Ebb and Flow of Hoodoo in Black American History In the late 1800s, as the Black middle class sought upward mobility, many viewed conjure as a relic of the past—some even calling it a “curse on the race.” The decline of hoodoo was, for them, a sign of progress. Anderson notes that this push toward assimilation was so swift that institutions like the Hampton Institute emerged to help Black Americans reclaim a cultural identity beyond what had been dictated by white society.
During Reconstruction, optimism about social and economic advancement led some to believe folk traditions like hoodoo were no longer necessary. However, as Jim Crow laws took hold in the early 20th century, hoodoo saw a resurgence. At a time when Black Americans were again being cast as second-class citizens—denied education, political power, and respectability—hoodoo re-emerged as both a spiritual refuge and a form of resistance. Its revival underscored a harsh reality: the abandonment of folk practices did not guarantee progress under systemic oppression.
This pattern echoes today amid a rising right-wing political wave. There’s a growing interest in hoodoo, alongside a broader desire to reclaim distinctly Black American cultural roots. Current discourse often carries an anti-assimilationist tone—sometimes even veering toward separatist rhetoric. The multiracial coalitions of the 2010s have weakened, and pan-African dialogue has receded in favor of a more inward-looking cultural stance. This shift suggests that, as in the past, uncertainty drives people back to tradition.
While hoodoo may not return in its original form, its influences persist. Some may turn to the Black church, which has long absorbed elements of hoodoo’s spiritual framework. Others might gravitate toward new religious movements or even cults—history may not repeat, but it often rhymes.
The Civil Rights Movement, ironically, marked another decline for hoodoo in the Anglo South. To dismantle segregation, Black activists had to appeal to white Christian morality, framing their struggle in terms of shared brotherhood under God. Any overt association with hoodoo would have been weaponized against them, reinforcing racist stereotypes. Thus, hoodoo receded once more—not because it lost relevance, but because survival required assimilation.
This pattern of antagonism becomes even clearer when examining perceptions of Haitian Vodou. Following the 2010 earthquake, some conservative figures attributed the disaster to Vodou, framing it as evidence of Haiti’s supposed moral and spiritual decay. This narrative resurfaced during the 2024 U.S. election cycle, with right-wing commentators and politicians—including Senator Mike Lee—spreading unfounded claims about Haitian refugees engaging in “Voodoo-related crimes.”
These examples demonstrate how religion can be exploited to construct dehumanizing narratives about marginalized groups. During the height of racial hostility in America, had hoodoo remained prominent, it likely would have been used to justify further violence against Black communities. To many white Americans, hoodoo’s practices might have been interpreted as “evil” that needed eradication—potentially even framing racial oppression as a moral crusade.
This historical context helps explain why the Civil Rights Movement distanced itself from folk traditions like hoodoo. For the movement to succeed, it needed to position Black Americans as not just equal, but morally exemplary by dominant Western standards. Respectability politics demanded assimilation—the more a minority group could align itself with Eurocentric cultural norms, the more “worthy” it was deemed of rights and recognition.
This dynamic persists today. Systemic acceptance still often hinges on cultural conformity, reinforcing the idea that marginalized groups must minimize their differences to gain legitimacy.
So, How Did Hoodoo Survive? The answer, in part, is both ironic and unsurprising: marketing. While Conjure in African American Society doesn’t frame this as the sole reason for hoodoo’s persistence, I’d argue it played a pivotal role. The commercialization of Voodoo tours, the mythologizing of figures like Marie Laveau, and Hollywood’s fascination with Louisiana’s occult culture have perpetuated the misconception that Black American folk traditions were confined to the Gulf South and the Gullah Geechee Corridor.
Yet historically, conjure doctors were fixtures across the plantation South. Their expertise in herbal medicine and spiritual guidance made them indispensable practitioners of a craft that was as pragmatic as it was mystical. This is why I couldn’t help but chuckle during Sinners (2025) when characters treated a Louisiana hoodoo practitioner as some exotic anomaly. The film’s portrayal of mojo bags as foreign relics was particularly amusing, given their ubiquity in the Anglo South. From Mississippi to Missouri, men and women commonly carried these charms, and references to “mojo” even peppered regional blues lyrics.
Marketing didn’t just preserve hoodoo; it repackaged it for broader consumption. Immigrant communities in Florida and Louisiana further enriched its appeal, blending African diasporic traditions with new influences. While this commercialization hasn’t diluted the authenticity of practices like Voodoo or Santería, it has—for now—made them more palatable to mainstream audiences.
It’s fascinating how marketing shapes identity. Anderson points out that Hoodoo practitioners were known to fabricate Native American ancestry as a way to lend credibility to their abilities. I wonder if this partly explains the overstated Native American ancestry prevalent in the Black American community to this day, but this pattern of cultural synthesis extended further in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. As Hoodoo evolved, practitioners began integrating elements marketed as “exotic”, including:
Eastern spiritual concepts (like reincarnation)
Imported materials (incense sticks, ritual oils)
Orientalist motifs (“mystic East” tropes)
These adaptations weren’t merely about authenticity, but survival—by blending familiar African-derived practices with then-fashionable spiritual trends, Hoodoo remained both relevant and commercially viable in changing times, further abstracting it from its African roots.
Final Thoughts Anderson’s work left me with several compelling questions about Hoodoo’s hidden history. The secretive Hoodoo societies of the 1800s—with their initiation rites and coded knowledge—make me wonder if they served as prototypes for Black fraternities and sororities. Missouri’s Hoodoo traditions particularly intrigue me, as they developed distinct characteristics that set them apart from other Black American practices—less coastal African retention, more Appalachian folk magic blended with river trade culture.
The gender shift in Hoodoo’s leadership reveals another fascinating transformation. Originally dominated by male “conjure doctors,” the practice gradually became feminist-coded. Perhaps as social struggles shifted and Hoodoo’s marketing evolved to emphasize luxuries—love spells, and fertility rituals—which aligned with women’s socially-accepted roles, men gravitated towards organizations tied to political activism through secret societies. My own family’s Freemason connections (common among older Black men) make me curious how these parallel secret societies interacted with—or resisted—Hoodoo’s feminization over time.
On a personal note, as someone raised in a foundational Virginian family, the book resonated deeply. Traits like a belief in inherited spiritual gifts, the significance of twins, or the preference for herbal remedies—practices often dismissed as superstition—suddenly felt like fragments of a larger, living tradition. These elements endured precisely because they weren’t tied to a single culture but adapted across communities.
I can understand the hesitations of those who are reluctant to label Hoodoo purely as an African tradition, as it has evolved into something uniquely American. This perspective also speaks to the broader complexity of Black American identity. Though rooted in Africa, our communities have been shaped by a confluence of historical forces: environmental adaptations, cultural exchanges, genetic diversity, and a shared but complex legacy. The result is something powerful—a tapestry of traditions and identities that honor their origins while standing firmly as their own.
Conjure in African American Society is a book worth revisiting. It challenges assumptions, weaves together historical threads, and invites readers to view Hoodoo not as a relic of the past, but as a dynamic and enduring force in Black American life. Though not a long read, it’s packed with insights that linger long after you turn the last page.
Have you read it? I’d love to hear your thoughts!