Medicines
CHAPTER ONE
Medicines
Since I was young, my elder Sicilian aunts, especially my
great aunt Jo (Josephine Pino Munisteri) showed me how
to use natural ingredients for cooking and for making
medicines. Even home-made alcoholic drinks could be
used as medicines. She was also an excellent cook. After
her only child and husband died, she lived in and managed
an apartment building in the Williamsburg section of
Brooklyn. Great aunt Jo was also a founding member of
the seamstress union in the 1960s. She marched in protests
against the appalling conditions in sweatshops. When I was
a girl, I was in awe of her.
In my twenties, I moved to Little Italy in New York City.
I saw her frequently, since she was often with her brother,
(my grandfather) and my grandmother, in Bay Ridge,
Brooklyn. I loved and respected them and visited as often
as I could. Their affection and support were ‘good medicine’
to me while I was growing into adulthood.
By that time, I had been exposed to other types of
‘medicines’ while at Georgetown University (GU). I never
confided in my family the other medicines I knew about.
They would never have imagined that at a Jesuit run college
illegal substances would be so readily available on campus.
I know I was surprised to learn how prevalent they were.
While working at the university radio station, and with the
GU debate team, drugs were easy to come by. They were
popped as pills for staying awake, for sleeping, for partying,
or harvested from plants to smoke or bake.
There was always a ‘candy man’ around to give a taste
to newcomers or sell to students. He seemed to appear
at parties and at the radio station around exam time.
This was the Vietnam War era. The draft was in effect.
Deferments for university study depended upon receiving
passing grades.
One of the few female seniors at the Foreign Service school
warned me at the first party I attended, not to take my
eyes off any drink poured and offered.
“Watch out. Sometimes they spike the drinks. Especially for
the new girls who don’t suspect. They do it if you put your
drink down…while you’re dancing. And be careful of the
older guys who come over and ask you questions but never
seem to answer yours. Most likely they are the ‘seekers,’
she said.
“What do you mean ‘seekers,’ Meg?” I asked.
“They are searching for possible recruits. Company men.
CIA. Really most of the time you can spot them a mile
away once you know what to look for.”
“How do you know?”
“They’ve been working on recruiting my roommate. She
speaks three languages fluently, she’s smart and she’s
attractive. She’s also naïve.”
At the time, I didn’t realize that some of us were being
‘handled’ and guided to parties and gatherings where
psychedelics were offered. These guys were observing
us and not participating. They hung around campus but
we didn’t know if they were students. When we tried to
find out more about them by asking questions, they were
experts at changing the subject. I heard rumors about CIA
recruitment tactics. Meg was confirming them.
“I don’t want to work for the CIA. I’d rather work for State.
That’s what they’re preparing us for…right?”
“Both organizations have their limitations for gals like us.
They use you and then throw you away. Just be careful.
Sometimes they double team you, one guy distracts you
while the other searches your purse or slips drugs in your
drink. They compromise you. Then you’re hooked.”
“Is that why we get invited to these parties?”
“Starting to catch on, Jo?”
“Here, take this and your eyes will be opened but on our
own terms.” She offered me a paper with colored squares.
“It looks like paper with colored spots like dot candy,” I said.
“It’s not candy but it will let you see colors. It’s called
‘window pane’ because it opens windows in your brain. It
lasts about eight hours. We have all Sunday to come down
before the week starts. Go ahead.”
“Are you the candy man tonight then?”
Meg laughed and continued.
“I’ll go first so we can trip together. The only way to explain
what these drugs do is for you to test it yourself. I promise
I’ll be with you the whole time. Don’t drink any alcohol
though. Stick to tonic water. Ready?”
Meg ate a small, light purple square from the paper. She tore
off another square for me and told me to open my mouth.
Meg was one of the most sensible and logical people
I knew. She wasn’t normally a risk taker.
“Open up. We are in for a ride.” Meg declared.
I trusted her, so I complied.
The music was pounding all around us. Rock n roll in the
1970s was energetic. I loved to dance.
Meg was smiling at me. My teeth started to feel sensitized
and metallic. I felt I couldn’t move my mouth to smile back.
As I was dancing, I noticed everyone around me had colors
swirling about them. I could see the music. My body was
sweating, and I had a strong urge to go outside. My limbs
seemed to grow and extend in front of me. I felt like
a young colt, unsteady on my new long legs.
I tried to shout to Meg over the music but nothing would
come out of my mouth. I pointed to the door to go outside.
Meg kept smiling at me like the Cheshire cat. I headed for
the door.
Outside, the streetlights looked like crystal prisms. I was
enveloped by color. People’s faces looked distorted. I tried not
to focus on people but on trees and the ground. I felt giddy.
Meg and I walked up stone steps to the main campus. The
gothic-like gargoyles on the buildings appeared to have
come to life. I saw phantoms on the main lawn and faces
in the bonfires up on the hill. It was both exhilarating and
terrifying.
Hours later we decided to take a bus to downtown D.C.
in the early hours of Sunday. Few people were up yet. We
hardly spoke but gaped at the miles of buildings, streets,
parked cars, and zombie-like people walking.
We stepped down off the front of the bus after going the
full route around D.C. We walked back to campus. I was
exhausted, but Meg stayed with me until I slept through
the afternoon. We shared dinner together.
“How was it for you?” Meg inquired, sipping a milkshake
between speaking.
“Weird, colorful, scary. I don’t know if this will last but
I had the strongest feeling that I shouldn’t work for the
government. That all of DC is not a place I should be much
longer. I saw scenes of a desert. I saw scenes from a poetry
book I read as a child.”
“You received a message. From another world. You’re lucky.”
“Lucky? It wasn’t real. I mean I think it wasn’t real. I don’t
know yet.”
“This is your first time taking a psychedelic. Not everyone
gets messages their first time.”
“How many times have you tripped?”
“Just a few times. Mostly with other people, a group of people.
Just in case I have a bad trip. I’ve also learned to guide my
own trip once I got used to the jolt into the nether worlds.”
“Far out.” I gulped.
“Far in.” Meg grinned. She took out rolling paper and
a bag of what looked like grass. She rolled a joint and lit
it. “Here, try some weed. It will bring you down slowly.”
“No thanks, Meg I don’t smoke.”
“Neither do I, but this is medicine. You need it to complete
this journey.”
“Alright, just this once.” I inhaled and coughed.
“That’s what they all say,” Meg teased.
I did feel more relaxed and the buzzing sensation in my
head ceased. But the taste in my mouth was not pleasant.
“No, really. One time is enough for me.”
I was careful to be in control of my body, and what I put
in my body. While some of my friends enjoyed ‘tripping’,
I didn’t.
That was my introduction to plant medicine and
psychedelics. The messages stayed with me and my third
eye was opened again.
I say again, because as a child enduring trauma and abuse,
I had already experienced a thrust into other worlds. But
over time I had shut down what my inner eyes saw after
those experiences. It was too painful while I lived at home
to examine or relive the events that led to my excarnation
and travel on other planes of existence.
The first time I distinctly remember jumping out of my
physical body was when I was four years old.
We were living in Ontario, Canada at the time. I attended a Catholic
kindergarten close by our house. Each day I walked there
and back with some neighborhood children.
It was winter. After a heavy snowfall, one of the older
boys brought a toboggan out so we could ride down the
makeshift fleecy white hills. I was placed at the back and
enjoyed falling off and getting back on, being covered in
snow and making snow angels. My whole-body snow suit
was soaked by the time I got home.
My mother was usually taking a nap when I came home
from school. She was pregnant with her fourth child. We
had recently moved from California to Canada. She was
moody with a violent temper. I didn’t want to disturb her
so I crept downstairs to the basement where the furnace
was placed.
Carefully I peeled off all my wet clothes and put them
on top of the furnace. I was standing near it waiting for
my clothes to dry, when I heard my mother’s footsteps.
I thought I would hide but I couldn’t find a place fast
enough as she came down the steps.
She looked around and started yelling at me, asking what
happened and why my clothes were wet? My mother didn’t
let me answer but started hitting me. I fell down on the
concrete. I was terrified.
My mother continued beating me and shouting at me
as I lay naked on the concrete basement floor. The pain
caused me to see outside myself. I could no longer feel my
body. She told me to go upstairs and get dressed and to
“Get out of my sight!”
I remember trying to stop crying as I ran upstairs. By the
time I started dressing I had come back into my body. It
was a jolting sensation. I felt hurt, pain all over.
At school in Canada, I would sometimes still wet my pants.
Actually, I displayed many signs which, to an educated
observer or teacher, indicated I was being abused. But in
the 1950s, this wasn’t ever spoken about.
To make matters worse, each time I had an ‘accident’ I had
to sit behind the curtain on the stage in the school gym and
wait for my underwear to dry. They put it on the heaters in
view of everyone. It was mortifying. I developed a stutter
and a lisp during my time at that school.
After this happened a few times, the teacher called
a priest to come talk to me. He came while I was behind
the curtain sitting without underwear in my little school
dress. He was definitely a predator.
He would ask to “feel
and make sure you are dry” and spread my legs to “pat
me” before I could return to class. The priest told me that
“This was our special secret with God” and soon I would
be able to come see him when I learned how “to control
myself.”
When I tried to tell my mother, I didn’t want to go to school
because I was afraid of the priest, she shouted, “You’re lying.
You’re just a lazy, stupid, good-for-nothing who doesn’t want
to go to school!” I wasn’t even five years old.
By the time I was
seven, I could al-
most will myself to
‘jump out’ of my
body and soar to the
ceiling to view my-
self from above.
Throughout my ear-
ly life, certain events
or situations would
trigger this same
excarnating sensa-
tion, and I would
have to will myself
to re-enter my body. Once I was back in, there would be
a slight delay. Then I would feel the physical and psychic
pain seize me. I would be filled with anxiety. Over time
I learned to disguise my nervousness and internalize my
pain.
While at Georgetown, I was selected to be part of
the first Psycho Cybernetics course and a subject for
hypnosis with Head of GU’s psychology department,
Dr. Arnold Mysior. He trained me to use my ability
to disassociate and ‘travel’ without the use of any
medicines. Dr. Mysior taught me to use my own powers
of concentration.
He also taught me how to compartmentalize information
and memories so they wouldn’t be intrusive. This involved
daily journaling, visualizing, dream interpretation, dream
inceptions, and weekly hypnosis sessions at the Georgetown
Department of Psychology in Healy basement.
Later, I unraveled painful parts of my childhood and
interpreted dreams and messages from my unconscious
with Dr. Charles Socarides.
Dr. Socarides was a good friend and a Harvard colleague
of my paternal aunt Lauradele Patti Munisteri. As
a psychiatrist, he helped hundreds if not thousands of
patients over his long career. He was successful in helping
those who had experienced sexual abuse in childhood, more
specifically at the hands of an abuser of the same gender.
He used a combination of Freudian and Jungian analysis,
and psychotherapy techniques.
My aunt Lauradele told him of my situation as well as the
background she knew. Dr. Socarides agreed to take me
as a patient while I was a student at Circle-in-the-Square
Performing Arts School in New York City in 1978.
Dr. Socarides interviewed my father in person, and my
mother over the phone. She refused to meet him and
denigrated his methods. Yet she kept calling him to ask
what I was saying, and ask “What was wrong with me?”
Doctor Socarides was able to gauge a measure of who
she was and her pathologies by her responses to his
questions.
My mother refused to take any responsibility for her abusive
behavior toward me, in fact she blamed me (a child) for
“making her lose her temper” and accused me of lying, yet
admitted to a few incidents that revealed some of her dark
beliefs and behavior.
My father believed what Dr. Socarides and I recounted, but
his answer to the pain and abuse I suffered was,
“There isn’t anything I can do now. It’s over. I’m paying
for Dr. Socarides to help you. That’s enough.”
Only after decades, and
just before his death did
my father finally apologize
for not protecting me ear-
lier in my life.
My mother
never did. She left this
world unrepentant.
It is important to under-
stand that most children
who have been moder-
ately to severely abused
during their childhood
have a greater potential to
adapt using compartmen-
talization and dissociation.
They often become hypervigilant. Their senses are height-
ened to alert them to possible harm. Our neural pathways are
changed because of these imprinting experiences.
Unfortunately, there are individuals, groups and organiza-
tions that recognize and seek out victims of trauma who
have been wounded and/or desensitized in these ways.
They use them for their own purposes and prey upon their
vulnerabilities for their own power, or for their perverse
cruelty.
On the other hand, a person with these different abilities
once they are recognized, can help identify others who
have been traumatized and/or those who are the predators
and criminals. They have a developed instinct and seventh
sense for detecting perpetrators.
There are a few professions which attract and even
embrace those who have had troubled childhoods and
survived trauma. The performing arts, the military, as well
as criminal networks are the most significant.
Over my lifetime, I’ve had experience with all three of
the above-mentioned sectors of society. I expand on these
experiences in this and my first non-fiction book, Traveling
Off the X.
When I was working and living in New York City in the
1980s, my friend and fellow performing artist Jo Anderson,
introduced me to a healer from North Carolina. Her name
was Katherine Leonard. She was a Tsalagi or Cherokee
elder woman who had the gift of ‘sight’. Jo thought she
could help me refine my abilities for use in my work and
to heal the relationships with some of my family members.
I had a large family.
Katherine conducted workshops for females only, which
were essentially for overcoming fears and preparing for
motherhood. She had helped many women recover from
post trauma reactions, from violence and abuse. Her small
groups of five or six women met in a rented apartment
in Manhattan. Every day she smudged it with sage and
cedar. You could smell the potent and invigorating plant
medicines before you knocked on her door.
Upon entrance, I noticed that instead of chairs or couches
in her living room, she had carpets and large throw pillows
arranged in a circle on the floor. An assortment of different
size hand drums stood in one corner. Candles and low
lights illuminated her home.
As was her protocol, Katherine initially held a private
session with me before deciding if I was a suitable
candidate for her group sessions. She spoke to me about
my grandmothers, my mother, my sister, my aunts, the
strong female figures throughout my life. She spoke
accurately about some exact phrases they had used with
me, and of events that had happened when I was younger.
She asked me to identify my fears and my strengths. Then
she invited me to consider joining a healing circle with
other women.
She held these workshops for three hours at night, twice
a week for a month. Our tasks included meditation and
prayer, visualizations, speaking about what we experienced,
and homework to improve our awareness of our
environment, and our thoughts.
As an example, one task she assigned to me was to look
at the shadows of people and articulate what I saw. This
was a fascinating mission. I walked the streets of the city
finding people’s shadows on sunny days and becoming
aware of their shadows in all weather.
“Learn to see light in the dark,” she coached me. “Your
mother was a very dark teacher. You had a visceral
experience of darkness. You know how to sense it, if you
will trust your instincts.”
Toward the end of the month, Katherine asked us to
go to a crime scene where a young woman was recently
raped and murdered. There were no suspects yet for these
crimes. There was no police tape at the scene. I assumed
law enforcement and detectives had already been there and
left. Katherine had the key.
We went through the apartment and up to the roof in
silence. I believe we all felt our spines tingling as soon as
we arrived. Katherine instructed us to be still and ‘feel’ and
‘see’ the energies still lingering in the spaces as we walked
through. She tutored us in further observations with all
our senses-our sense of time, of color, of proxemics, of
movement, of shapes, of the presence of others, in addition
to the senses of smell, sight, taste, touch and hearing.
We retraced our steps and walked back to her place. We
discussed what we each observed.
“Remember what you saw and felt,” Katherine instructed.
“Energies are often around a crime like that one. She is
between worlds until her spirit is released. Her spirit is
trying to reach others to cry out what happened. To unveil
this predator. A rapist. Her killer.”
While riding the subways home late that night, I felt more
situationally aware. This was in the days before Rudy Giuliani
was mayor of New York City and he vigorously battled crime.
As Jo remarked, “New York is bootcamp for life.”
My last session with Katherine and our group involved
a deep meditation and visualization regarding our mothers
and death. I saw myself dancing to the music from the
Wizard of Oz at the end of my meditation. The song playing
in my mind was “Ding, dong, the witch is dead.”
Afterwards, we drank sage tea. I felt uplifted and stronger.
* * *
In New York in the 1970s, the American Indian Movement
(AIM) launched a peaceful protest at Ellis Island, the gate
for millions of immigrants coming into the United States,
including my own family from Italy. Russell Means, an
Oglala Lakota Sioux, was one of their main leaders. The
buildings on the island had been closed since the 1950s, and
were in poor condition. This was to be a symbolic act by
AIM similar to their protest at Alcatraz on the west coast.
Later on in the 1980s, a number of AIM leaders and
members from different tribes passed through their ad hoc
offices in New York City. New York City and surrounding
boroughs hosted hundreds of activists between the 1960s
and the 1990s.
Russell Means testified before the US Senate on January
30, 1989, explaining to them about the economic hardship
caused by living on reservations and “assimilation policies”
which were designed to fail. He pointed out the corruption
and graft in the Bureau of Indian Affairs (BIA) since its
establishment in 1824. Native Americans were not given the
right to vote in Federal elections until 1824. Arizona, New
Mexico only granted voting rights in 1948. Montana, North
Dakota and South Dakota did not have voting facilities for
tribal communities until the 1980s.
AIM advocated for repeal of Federal laws restricting
religious and civil rights that had been instituted against
Native Americans since the 1800s. These laws forbid sacred
ceremonies including the Sun Dance, called Wi Wanyang
Wacipi in the Lakota language. I learned a little about
these ceremonies from Katherine and from other Native
Americans I met in New York City in the 1980s.
Later, when I was called to be a Sundancer in dreams
and inipi, I consulted personally with Lakota elders. They
trained me (there is no comparable English word for the
years of apprenticeship and learning you undergo for the
Wi Wanyang Wacipi ceremonies). Chief Archie Fire Lame
Deer was my lekshi (uncle in Lakota) and guide for the Sun
Dance. His way did not include peyote or plant medicines
that contained hallucinogenic properties.
Lekshi Archie Fire believed we could reach those portals
by fasting, prayer and inipi (sweat lodge).He taught us
these rituals, and the steps of the Sun Dance to the chants,
drumbeats and earth rhythms over days and nights,
months and years of preparation. He traveled to Europe
and Australia seeking to share his knowledge before he
passed away.
I began my journey in becoming a Sundancer years before
I met my husband, Marty Schmidt, but I had to pause
during the years our two children, Denali and Sequoia,
were very young. They needed my full attention, especially
since their father was gone six to eight months a year doing
mountain guiding and pursuing extreme sports.
For the most part, Marty was not interested in my work
or spiritual path. However, in 1995, he came down with
Dengue fever. His joints were like he was 100 years old.
He was in pain and could not work for months, all while
we were trying to finish building our house and gardens
in rural Australia. The nearest doctor in Bellingen told us
it would probably take a year or more for him to recover.
At the same time, I had symptoms of Parkinson’s disease
and was diagnosed as such, with no known cure in western
medicine. We were at a low point and terribly worried
about our children and the future.
We lived with three other families sharing 5 hectares each,
bordering a national forest. We were off the main grid and
installed solar power panels for electricity. We had a diesel
pump to pipe in water from a river which bordered our
property. Three of the Aboriginal elders I worked with
came out to visit us and see what was wrong. One of them
was a gifted healer we knew as Auntie Jessie. The others
were Auntie Phoebe and Auntie Bea.
Auntie Jessie took me outside under one of our large
Eucalyptus trees. She held my hand and told me:
“One of the clever men from your own country is coming
here. I can do part of a healing for you and your husband,
but he will help you with the rest. You need to listen to
what he has to say.”
“Who is coming here, Auntie Jess? I don’t know of anyone,” I asked.
