Ramón López
Doña Lula was born in Peñuelas on February 20, 1926. As a child, her godmother became her foster mother and, being a seamstress, passed down to her goddaughter a love for fabric and sewing. Lula grew up playing with rag dolls, but it wasn’t until adulthood that this pastime transformed into a spiritual love for the Black doll—the proud and generous madama who, time and again, soothed her sorrows and needs.
In these pages, Doña Lula shares with us the beauty of the madama doll and the santera doll. Sometimes her daughter Blanqui designs them, and this time her granddaughter Lin took the photographs.
First, we must recognize the dolls of Doña Lula. Those plump, rounded dolls are Puerto Rican creations by other artisans: one by Iris de Jesús from Ponce and another, anonymous, from a botánica in New York. The very exotic, slender dolls are anonymous and African, likely from Ghana. Doña Lula had seen the former, but not the latter. Yet her own dolls are a surprising and elegant midpoint between these two styles. Sometimes it happens like that—people participate in transcultural exchanges unconsciously. Those African dolls must have crossed Doña Lula’s path at some point along her long journey that took her to Mayagüez, Ponce, Florida, Chicago, Massachusetts, Ohio, and New Jersey.
In any case, none of the dolls we present here are complete, perfect madamas. But if you’re doing the work and need a madama, and can’t find the most authentic doll, these Black dolls can be a worthy substitute. At the same time, each can become a santera doll, depending on the color of her dress.
What matters most, however, is the unity of craft and spirituality in the Puerto Rican sense. And for that, it’s worth listening closely to Doña Lula:
*“I don’t know why, but I’ve always loved making what they call madamas. I adore them. Whenever I see a doll like that, no matter how ugly others might think it is, to me, it’s beautiful. They just captivate me.
I love the symbol of the madamas and calling them by name, like Mamá Lulú. In certain situations, I’ve called on the madamas, or at least I used to. It always seemed like I got something I asked for.
Once, I was in such a bad place—not financially, but emotionally, utterly alone. A total failure. I had run a restaurant with my ex-husband, and suddenly everything collapsed, and I was left all alone in my apartment. I’ve always been ambitious, and I prayed so much to the saints. Then one night—I don’t know if it was a dream, a revelation, or something else—but I know I heard these words, and I’ll never forget them. I had bought a yellow ceramic madama, and the voice said: ‘You ask and ask, but you never ask this madama, Mamá Lulú.’ That’s when the fascination took hold of me, that pull I feel toward the madamas. It’s beautiful.
I believe, in my heart, that when you turn to a doll you’ve made with love and hold it as a symbol of something that helps you—people might say, ‘It’s just a rag, a doll.’ To many it’s worthless, but to me, it means something so special. When I make a doll, something draws me not to make them all the same. When I craft them with dark skin, it fills me with joy and satisfaction, like I’m doing something meaningful that fills me with happiness. It’s as though I’m creating a figure that embodies the madama. It’s just a rag, but if you baptize it in the santera way, it holds deep meaning. It becomes a relic.
A madama, when she’s a living person of flesh and bone like us, means someone we should hold in reverence. When you’re in need and go to her, she can help you spiritually. She’s a person who gives consultations, but she doesn’t work with the Virgin Mary or the saints—she works as a madama. And that madama is a tradition, like how people used to speak of the Indians, the indias, and so on. It’s a form of protection.
The true name of the little Black madamas is mariquita. Mariquita is the luck doll. And it’s not just Puerto Ricans who feel drawn to her—the Haitians, Dominicans, Cubans, even Hondurans. Some might laugh at me, but I don’t know why I have such special affection for the little Black doll. It’s like it’s in my blood. It’s the most natural thing. When something angers you, your blood boils. And this is the blood of the moreno, of the Black, of the African. We love the little Black doll and King Melchor because we are Puerto Ricans of mixed blood. We are connected to Haitians, Indigenous people, Africans. It’s a strong, warm blood. That’s Boricua blood.
Some people see Black dolls and think of bad things. To my mind, those are people who don’t use their gifts. Their hearts aren’t whole. Their thinking is backward. They don’t know how to see the good, the beautiful, the sweet. It’s a beautiful thing for me to set my table with a little Black doll. Why should I put only white, white, white dolls, when that’s not who we are? We’re Boricuas and we have African blood.
The Black dolls are also made for Santería. If it’s for Our Lady of Charity, she’s made a bit lighter, with a yellow dress. If it’s for Santa Bárbara, there are two: one lighter, one more tawny, both with red dresses. She should have a cape and wear her earrings—and Ochún, too. The Virgin of Regla wears white. Her skin shouldn’t be made too dark.
A madama needs a chair. That’s the tradition. I don’t know if it’s because they’re lazy or proud, but they need a chair. And they need big round earrings to complete the look. A few strands of beads, and she looks even better—because that’s what a madama is. Her dress can be white, red, or yellow—solid colors, not prints. She should wear her layers of beads, her round earrings, and her bracelets. That’s why she’s called madama, because she wears so much jewelry. She’s like the gypsy doll, very proud, and you have to dress her up. The true madama wears a little white apron and sits proudly in her chair.
The madama isn’t just for Black people—it’s for anyone who believes and does the work. Many people love working with their madama, just as they love working with their Indians, and they keep them beautifully dressed. The madama is a tradition of spiritism.
A rag madama deserves the same respect as one you buy in a store—it’s the same thing. It’s the spirit, the representation of the madama. Just like when you want to see a loved one and look at their photo—the doll represents the madama. And if you work in spiritism, the madama gives you strength and helps you. You have to give her what she needs: cigars, coffee. You give and you ask.
The madama can be placed in the bedroom, on a dresser, on a shelf, or in the living room. She can also go on an altar. In my belief, the madama shouldn’t be placed with the Virgin, or Christ, or the saints—she should be apart, alone. Same with the Indian—alone. They shouldn’t be mixed with the saints.
I did the good work, but I left it behind because people started coming with photos and things, asking me to do witchcraft, and that’s not my way. If a woman wants to keep her man, she should treat him well. I never charged a cent for bathing someone. I would bless children. It’s like God gave me that grace to help people. Then something happened, and I lost that beautiful gift I had. I withdrew from it, little by little. Even now, I’d like to help, and if God tells me, ‘You should help that person,’ I’ll do it.”*
