His arms circled my back, rubbing up and down, igniting a flow of energy. I buried my face in his chest, and then we kissed beneath the bare limbs of the sycamore tree. We surrendered to the meditation teacher; but, unconventional to the core, we did not want a traditional ceremony, bridesmaids and groomsmen, a reception in an elegant hotel, or fancy invitations. We asked my uncle U.S. to marry us. When he asked “Where?” I asked him if we could come to his house. He said he and Aunt Bitsy would be thrilled to have us married in their home in Oakland. Uncle U.S. was Dad's older brother, and the only one who had followed their parents into the ministry. Not quite as tall as Dad, who elegantly stretched to five feet eleven inches, Uncle U.S. was a joyous man with a round belly, whose glasses sat low on his nose, giving him a professorial air.
We would have to fit the ceremony in between tours, so I coordinated Carlos's schedule with Uncle U.S.'s. First we needed a marriage license, which I had no idea how to obtain. I called the Marin County Hall of Justice to find out how to get married, and then Mom to ask if we could come over. Sitting in their living room, Carlos asked Dad, “I'd like to have your daughter's hand in marriage.”
I squirmed in my chair across the room, watching Dad's reaction.
He didn't flinch or answer quickly, but beside me, I saw Mom's face light up with a big smile. Dad sat up straighter, then cleared his throat. “If Deborah is sure this is what she wants, you have my permission.”
I was mortified at the old-fashioned ritual I was taking part in, but glad it was over. Later that evening, Mom, Dad, and I went out to dinner together. “You know, Carlos is from a different culture than you are, Dobs.” “You mean because his family's from Mexico?” I asked.
“Yes. Their ways are different,” Dad said.
“Carlos has been here twelve or thirteen years. I think he's pretty American now.”
Dad did not respond, and Mom told me much later that she had wanted to kick him under the table and scream, “Whoopee!” She was happy I was going to settle down and she would not have to worry about me as she had when I was living in Los Angeles and called her with the “horror stories” of my life with Sly. She was thanking God.
Uncle U.S. reserved April 20 at his house. I invited Aunt Daisy, and Aunt Bitsy would be there, of course. Carlos said he would tell his parents.
The day of our ceremony, I awakened feeling nervous. The sky was the hue of lapis, with no fog drifting past our mountain road into Mill Valley.
Carlos pulled on the slacks to his white suit. His face was half-shaved; he grunted trying to put on his tie. My sari kept sliding out of my full-length slip. I yanked the five yards of fabric off, letting it billow to the floor, tied my slip string tighter around my waist, and started over.
“We have to be there in forty-five minutes,” Carlos called out to me tersely.
“I'm almost ready. They can't start without us, you know!”
I knew how to get to Uncle U.S.'s house as well as I knew how to get to my parents' home. But, as Carlos exited the 580 freeway onto MacArthur Boulevard, I told him to turn left rather than right—and we headed for Berkeley instead of Oakland. “Make a U-turn,” I screamed, rather indelicately. “Oh God,” Carlos groaned. “I hope I don't get a ticket!” He swung the car around, heading back toward Uncle U.S.'s house.
“Turn left here,” I guided him onto Dover Street. “There's the house, the dark brown one.”
Carlos parked, leaving both hands on the steering wheel, and put his head down. His back began to quiver. A laugh squirted out of his mouth. I joined in. “This is nerve-racking,” I said, laughing. We looked at each other, tension melting.
A twinkle bounced from Carlos's eyes into my heart, and the muscles in my shoulders relaxed.
“I love you,” I said, with a yearning to feel his soul always one with mine.
“I love you, too.” Carlos's tie hung loose. He had never worn one before. “You ready?”
I nodded yes. “Who's bringing your parents?” I asked, opening the car door and gathering my sari in my hand.
“I didn't invite them,” Carlos said. He bent over, locking the car while I stood on the sidewalk, my mouth open in shock.
“But, you said you would call them,” I said.
“My mother and I weren't on speaking terms for years— remember, Deb? When I took you over to meet her at Christmas, everything went well, but I didn't want her to come in now and try to control me. She would have wanted a big wedding in a Catholic church.”
Carlos put his arm around my shoulders and guided me off the Oakland sidewalk into the street. I swallowed hard and cleared my throat. I didn't know what to say. It was too late to invite them now, and I remembered Dad's caution about marrying into a different culture. Would Carlos's parents accept our marriage when they were not even invited to the ceremony? It felt strange to leave them out, but there was no point in my worrying now.
The front door of my uncle and aunt's house opened wide. Kitsaun stood there, hands on her hips, looking like Mom. “What's taken you two so long? Chickening out?”
We laughed, climbed the stairs, and hugged her as we walked inside the living room with its flowered couch and cushioned side chairs. Mom and Dad walked over to meet us, Dad firmly shaking Carlos's hand. Mom's eyes shone like the brass buttons on the navy blue suit she wore. Dad's soft face was scented with the splash of his lemony aftershave. They both looked beautiful. Mom patted Carlos's arm while she held my hand. I introduced Carlos to Uncle U.S. and Aunt Bitsy, who greeted us with a hug into her full bosom as we explained that Carlos's parents were not coming.
The noonday sun streamed into the living room. We made small talk, and Dad helped Carlos knot his tie. Uncle U.S. stood. “I'll get my robes on,” he said, walking into his small study between the living room and their bedroom. When he came out, looking official in the loose-fitting, pleated black gown, we all stood.
“Who will be the witnesses?” Uncle U.S. asked. Aunt Bitsy and Dad nodded their heads yes.
Carlos took my hand. Kitsaun stood behind me with Mom. Dad stood behind Carlos. I felt loved and protected, although my stomach nervously twitched. Uncle U.S.'s preacher's voice began, “Dearly beloved …” I entered a dream state. “I will,” I answered when asked whether I would take Carlos to be my lawfully wedded husband, but the rest of the ceremony—as Uncle U.S. read from the leather-bound book open in his hands—was a blur.
“You may now kiss the bride.” Carlos was wearing his platform boots from London. I had taken my shoes off when I came in the front door, so he was much taller than usual. Our kiss was soft and sweet.
Hands clapped around us. Dad hugged me. “May you always be happy, Dobs.” Mom hugged Carlos, and Kitsaun wiped big tears from her cheeks, smiling at the same time. Uncle U.S. filled out the marriage certificate: “I hereby certify that on the 20th day of April, 1973, at Oakland, in the county of Alameda, state of California, under authority of a license issued by the County Clerk of Marin County, I, the undersigned, as a minister, joined in marriage, Carlos Santana and Deborah Sara King….”
The “reception” was given by Aunt Daisy, in her two-bedroom apartment on Stannage Street in Albany. While we had been saying our vows, she was home, cooking Louisiana-style gumbo. Carlos and I drove to her place, following my parents and Kitsaun. I was giddy that we had accomplished the task of getting married a month after being given the command from Guru. I had no idea that marriage would be any different from living together, and was embarking on our new journey with an open mind.
Daisy had cooked for our family every weekend since my childhood. Her home was always fun—fresh baked pies sitting on her counter, bowls of peppermints on the coffee table, fried chicken popping and crackling on her stove. She batted her eyelashes with a coy charm that kept us laughing as she told us stories about her young years in Hollywood: rubbing elbows with Lena Horne; being romantically pursued by Louis Armstrong. “I'm so happy you all came. Carlos, you know I was in the movies—you're not the only star in
this family.” She winked at him, snapped her fingers, and shook her hips.
The final course was homemade sweet potato pie in a buttery crust. After Carlos finished, he stood up. “Thank you all for a wonderful wedding day. I'm late for band rehearsal, so I'd better go.” He planted a kiss on my lips.
Mom's and Daisy's mouths opened in surprise. I smiled. “Kitsaun, can you give me a ride home?” I knew he had rehearsal. We had struggled to fit the wedding in between his commitments. Carlos walked from Mom to Dad to Daisy, hugging each one.
Moments after he left, he returned through the screen door. “Dad,” Carlos called to his new father-in-law, “I locked my keys in the car. Can you help me get in?” We all laughed wildly.
Monday, Carlos called his mother to tell her we were married. When he hung up the phone, he said, “She's speechless. I think she's in shock.”
We took our mothers, Kitsaun, and Carlos's sister Laura to New York the next week for a wedding celebration with Sri Chinmoy and the disciples. The trip raised a slew of questions when they saw the adulation the disciples gave Sri Chinmoy, and the community of seekers so impressed with a human leader. When we returned, Mom and Dad asked to talk with me about Sri Chinmoy. Dad sat in his easy chair in the living room. Mom sat on the couch, looking out toward the Bay Bridge. “What does this guru teach?” Dad asked.
“He teaches meditation and the path of love and devotion to God,” I said.
“What's wrong with the church's teachings? You've studied the Bible all your life. Why can't you meditate on the Word?” Mom's lips were tight. “God is no more in Sri Chinmoy than He is in you or me.”
“There's nothing wrong with church, Mom. But people only go there on Sundays. Sri Chinmoy has us meditate every day, and he meditates on us, helping our souls make spiritual progress.” I was repeating what Saumitra had told me. “It's like the yoga class we took together at Walt Baptiste's studio on Clement Street, Mom. Quiet and soothing.”
“Yes, I meditated with the guru when I was with you in New York. Those disciples looked at him as though he were God, bowing to him and looking spacey. But when we were at yoga, we weren't asked to join the group and wear saris.”
I wish I had been able to recognize the truth in Mom's words then. But at the time, the inner journey of meditation was replacing the ritual of church I had grown up with. It was a new lens through which I was viewing the sacred, and I did not comprehend that I was focusing too much on the man rather than on the message. “That's true, Mom. But Sri Chinmoy instructs us in how to find God inside ourselves, not only in heaven.”
Dad clicked his teeth with his tongue. “God is everywhere, but you have to watch the messenger,” he said. “Not everyone who meditates is from God.” Dad was visibly unhappy with Kit-saun and me following a guru's teachings. Rather than try to please him and Mom by denying my belief in meditation, I felt upset that they were challenging us.
“And gurus from India are just a fad,” Mom said. “It seems like everyone has a guru nowadays—that doesn't mean they're real.”
I had to bite my tongue. I felt peace in the meditations and was clinging to testimonies of disciples whose lives had improved from following Sri Chinmoy; and I was inspired because the path was a contrast to the life I had been leading. No one has an exclusive ownership of Truth, and I knew even then that it was my faith in God that provided my soul with guidance and light.
Dad said, “Be careful, Dobs.”
“We will,” I answered. “Don't worry.”
Mom and Dad did not look pleased. Even though we were adults, that did not stop them from checking on us. I didn't mind. They had always been invested in whatever Kitsaun and I did: They went to football games when I was cheerleader, choir concerts when Kitsaun and I sang, and they had come to L.A. when I was with Sly. Always looking in and watching out for us. Our family was close, and Mom and Dad did not need permission to care about our business. We shared experiences and conversations at dinner and in front of the TV. Dad had even asked his friends to follow Kitsaun and me around the city when we were teenagers.
Mom and Dad did not elaborate about their struggles or exalt the bravery their interracial union had taken. They had shown by example that we could be whatever we wanted, and let us know the world could be hostile to us because of our brown skin. They would always stand by us.
“Don't forget who you are,” Dad said, “and where you came from.”
Mom took a deep breath and crossed her arms over her chest. “You kids have common sense. Just think for yourselves.”
Sri Chinmoy's next message from the Supreme was for Carlos and me to open a vegetarian restaurant in San Francisco. “This will be our premier divine enterprise for the West Coast,” he told us.
We did not hesitate to say yes. I loved the work I had done at Annam Brahma, and this would be an opportunity for me to create something meaningful in my own life. Carlos offered ten thousand dollars to begin the business, and I drove around the city searching for an empty building for the restaurant, settling on a storefront at the corner of Church and Market Streets.
Carlos composed new music and recorded Borboletta. Then he packed his suitcases for the road. Part of me wanted to leave with Carlos, to sit beside him on the airplane, disembark in Tokyo, and travel with the band for the six-week leg of the tour. In the same moment, adrenaline pumped like sugar through my body as I wrote lists of supplies we would need to set up the restaurant. I did not know whether I could successfully live split in two—wanting to be in San Francisco and on the road, wanting to work on the divine enterprise and also watch Carlos perform on the other side of the world, wanting to live my life away from him, or live his with him. I plodded on, riding my roller coaster, hanging on to the crash bar, knowing how lucky I was to be torn in two by love and opportunity. I partnered with Carlos's accountants to sign the rental lease and buy insurance; I ordered building permits; and Saumi-tra helped me find an architect and construction crew. Kitsaun gave notice at Frank's clothing company and came on board full-time. For two months, Saumitra and the architect were busy adapting the building to serve our needs while I created a menu and Kitsaun wrote lists of items we would need for preparation of the vegetarian entrées, soups, salads, and sandwiches we had selected for the menu.
Checkbook in hand, Kitsaun and I stood in Dvorson's restaurant supply store between rows of eight-foot-high metal shelves filled with gigantic stainless-steel whisks, serving spoons, casserole pans large enough to bathe a toddler in, gallon blenders, industrial-size coffee urns, and soup pots up to our knees. Sunlight gleamed on the sides of the pots, flashing silver before us. The restaurant was becoming visible. I savored the excitement and thrill.
“We'll need good knives that we can sharpen ourselves,” Kitsaun said, lifting up a twelve-inch-long Hinckel. “And we'll need small spatulas for spreading mayonnaise on bread for sandwiches, as well as one of these Hobart food cutters to chop vegetables.” She checked off items on her list, her face serious, her angular cheekbones set high in her sandalwood skin.
I picked up a plate, edges scalloped with a delicate pale green design. “This place setting will look nice with pale yellow walls, don't you think?”
Kitsaun peered closely. “It's difficult to tell. Let's ask if we can take a sample with us to compare with the paint.”
I nodded. Kitsaun's business mind and organizational skills were essential to putting the structure of the restaurant together. She had helped me decide to have the restaurant designed cafeteria-style so that we could operate with the small staff of disciples, as there were only five in the Centre who could work in the divine enterprise.
Her artistic mind and impeccable eye for detail supported me as the business moved swiftly forward and I managed construction, people, and a budget.
We climbed into Kitsaun's clunky old BMW, the backseat and trunk holding our cache, and drove to Mom and Dad's on Harold Street. As we opened the garage door and carried soup pots, foot-long cooking spoons, and the sample
plate into the hallway outside her bedroom, we saw Dad watching us from the living room window, hands on his hips, whistling “When Your Lover Has Gone.”
Mom came home from work just as we finished. “Hi, girls. What do you have there?” She was breathing heavily after her long walk up the hill from the streetcar stop on Ocean Avenue. Her thin face was flushed red. Brunette hair fell softly over her brow. She pulled off her tan jacket and sat on Kitsaun's chair, next to the pile of recipe and management books.
“Hi, Mom,” I said, holding a bundle of white aprons in my arms. “We're starting to buy equipment for the restaurant.”
She looked around. “Everything is so big!” Mom was a Depression-era minimalist. She had miniature handwriting, wore her clothes until they were almost threadbare, and liked small sizes of almost everything. She smiled wanly and walked upstairs. We could hear Dad's voice booming through the floor, “What are they doing?” We couldn't hear Mom's reply, but we fell onto Kitsaun's bed—laughing at how ridiculous we must have looked to Dad, lugging huge pots and pans, whisks, and plastic tubs into Kitsaun's bedroom, our saris flapping behind us.
From an 1,800-square-foot, empty storefront, we built a cafeteria-style restaurant that Sri Chinmoy named Dipti Nivas—“the Abode of Light.” Perhaps more than anything else I had done since leaving L.A., the birth of our restaurant became the manifestation of who I was as a spiritual person and strong woman. I wrote an employee manual and job descriptions, determined shift times, and trained the workers based on the mission statement I wrote: “to serve humanity by offering pure, fresh food prepared in a peaceful and loving environment.”
Carlos continued touring and recording, and the restaurant became my “child.” Sevika was our bread baker and turned out loaves of light, whole-wheat ecstasy taken from a recipe in The Tassajara Cookbook, from a famed Zen monastery down the California coast. We opened in September 1973 and had fifty customers our first day. I had never stood on my feet eleven hours straight before, and could barely keep my eyes open on the drive home to Mill Valley. Every morning we would be back early—washing vegetables, cooking marinara sauce for spinach lasagna, and cutting up fruit for the fruit salad with honey-and-yogurt dressing. Rushes of customers came at lunchtime and from five until seven in the evenings. In between, people trickled in, giving us time to prepare for the following day and review what had not worked. We had a few failures of the recipes I chose: Carrot soup did not survive the first cauldron. And once, I made spanakopita, a Greek spinach dish with intricate layers of flaky dough, spending more than an hour with the process of chopping, mixing, and drizzling butter over the masterpiece; but during the final layering, I was called away and forgot to add the spinach that was draining in the colander by the sink. That casserole was a disaster.
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