Bibles, Blond Locks: the New Rastafarians : Reggae’s Religious Message From Jamaica Attracting Middle-Class White Youths

Their Bibles are nearly as important as their surfboards, their rock music has been replaced by reggae and their spiritual home is no longer California but the Caribbean island of Jamaica.

They wear their hair in matted dreadlocks, pray to the black god Jah and pepper their speech with references to “Babylon,” “righteousness” and “One Love.” And, for some, the smoking of marijuana has become a sacred ritual.

In short, life just isn’t the same for some San Diego beach boys and girls ever since they discovered Rastafari.

Young, Devoted Followers

“I’m really into it,” says Sean Brandes, a 17-year-old reggae musician and high school soccer star whose dreadlocks are already past his chin. “And unless something happens to my personality where I turn evil and close myself off to reality, I don’t think I’ll ever stray away from it.”

Across the country, cliques of white upper-middle-class youths are becoming devoted followers of this back-to-Africa, back-to-nature religious subculture that began in the shantytowns of Jamaica in the 1930s and then spread to blacks worldwide.

Until recently, Rastafari, which worships the late Ethiopian Emperor Haile Selassie as the Messiah, never had much of a foothold among whites because of its black supremacist origins. That changed, however, when Rastafarian and reggae king Bob Marley brought the religion’s message to the United States. After that, the religion was more broadly interpreted.

Today, many young white Americans, ranging in age from teens to early 20s, from well-off homes in the suburbs and the cities, are as familiar with Marley’s lilting, rhythmic music as they are with the heavy-metal sound of Twisted Sister.

But in a few kids, reggae’s Rasta message has also taken root.

On the East Coast, especially in the New York, New Jersey and Connecticut suburbs, the “in” thing for some young whites is to head for Jamaica and hang out with Rastafarians. In San Francisco’s Haight-Ashbury and Mission neighborhoods, white youths with dreadlocks are almost a common sight. And even in the Midwest, converts are being made: One of the most well-received bands at the annual Sun Splash reggae festival in Jamaica in 1985 was Blue Riddim, a group of young white Rasta followers from Kansas.

It’s even spread overseas; Peruvian novelist Mario Vargas Llosa wrote a cover story for the New York Times Magazine recently describing his reactions to his teen-age son’s sudden conversion to Rastafari while enrolled in an English boarding school.

Similar to Peace Movement

Probably because it’s just beginning and still only involves a relative handful of young people in Southern California, the Rastafari trend has not sparked much alarm. Parents and school officials worried about the anti-God and pro-drugs lyrics of the darker elements of rock music seem to look upon reggae’s Rasta overtones as almost benign by comparison--despite its recurring theme of revolution or the on-stage campaigning by some of its leading musicians to legalize marijuana.

Nor is there much attention paid to newspaper reports in which police in various U.S. cities link Jamaican Rastafarians to violent crimes and drug trafficking.

One reason for the lack of concern may be Rastafari’s many outward similarities to the peace and love movement of the 1960s. Indeed, its emphasis on all things natural and organic, its religious overtones, its members’ long unkempt hair, its special slang and its pot smoking have enough of a “nouveau hippie” flavor to give adults a sense of deja vu.

In the ‘60s, too, white youths were embracing parts of the black culture--like Afros, dashikis and clenched-fist salutes--to show their solidarity with the black liberation movement. White Rasta followers, in turn, rail against the racism and oppression, which they say is inherent in Western society, and preach respect for all people and cultures.

Just a ‘Phase’

It’s little wonder, then, that most parents dismiss their children’s adoption of Rastafari as a “phase” to be gone through. Or that teachers see it as just another “expression of youth,” said George Robinson, an administrator at Solana Beach’s Torrey Pines High School, which has about a dozen Rastafarians among its students and graduates.

Robinson believes that in a school such as his, “where you have all kinds of kids ranging from athletic varsity men to heavy-metal punkers with flaming red hair,” Rastafari may appeal to a teen-ager because “it sets him apart from his peers. So that out of 2,000 students, he’s not just another face in the crowd. And that’s important for adolescents.”

Fits Local Life Style

Also, he said, “this Caribbean culture fits very nicely with San Diego’s climate and life style. It’s very difficult to be a punker on the beach in Del Mar and get a tan in the summertime with all that leather on. Hell, that’s no fun.”

Black Rastafarian and San Diego reggae music promoter Makeda Dread (whose real name is Marianne Cheatom) agrees that Rastafari is taking hold among the “beach brats,” as she affectionately calls the young whites, because they are looking for that something “extra” in their lives.

“America is a country devoid of culture, and this is culture for them,” she said. “At first, they were just upper-middle-class kids into a movement. But what happened is it snuck up on them instead. Now they’re all doing Jah works.”

David Brice is a 25-year-old Rasta follower who could be a poster model for the California beach boy look--except for the ropy blond dreadlocks hanging to the middle of his back. He heard his first reggae record in 1976 because “a guy down at the beach would play Bob Marley. And I would hear it coming out of his house every day on my way to go surfing.

“I found out that, hey, it’s reggae. Soon I started buying up everything I could.”

‘What’s Reggae?’

Almost immediately, reggae became an obsession. He formed a reggae band, NightShift, in which he sang and played percussion.

“When I told people my age that I was into reggae and played it,” he said, “they’d say, ‘What’s reggae?’ Nobody even knew what it was.”

Soon, Brice’s interest moved from reggae’s music to its message.

“But, at first, it’s hard to even understand a lot of these singers. Not so much Bob Marley, but the other guys who talk more in Jamaican slang. So you might get a record, and it might take 10 listenings before you can make out one word.”

The more he learned about Rastafari, the more he admired it as a religion and way of life. Raised by devoutly Roman Catholic parents, Brice went to church regularly through elementary and junior high school. But after discovering Rastafari, he began to read the Bible every day, sometimes for only 15 minutes or for as long as 2 1/2 hours.

“The Bible is my life,” he said. “Sometimes, I only read a paragraph of it, but 20 times because you have to figure out exactly what it says.”

He picked up other habits. He began to wear near-rag clothes or discarded jewelry or slogan-filled buttons. He took to meditating in a rock garden he made near the septic tank in his parents’ backyard. He started using nicknames such as Yosemite and Rhino. And, most noticeable of all, he began to grow dreadlocks--the uncombed, uncut hair style that Rastafarians believe act as a sort of “antenna” to their God.

Hidden Under Cap

His dreadlocks, Brice said, are his “commitment against the ways of the world and to show to God that you’re fully committed.” Most of the time, Brice hides them under a woolen cap. Nevertheless, his unorthodox appearance tends to put off prospective employers. So Brice still lives with his parents, a fact he feels “terrible” about.

“Sometimes I think about cutting off my dreads, especially lately,” he said. “But I’ve been growing my dreads for so long that it would be hard to part with them.”

His mother, Vivian Brice, heaved a giant sigh at the mention of her son’s hair.

‘Not Much I Can Say’

“Ah, well,” she said, “I’d just as soon see them go. But that’s up to him. He’s an adult and if he wants to have dreads, there’s not much I can say about it.”

What concerns her most is that many employers don’t look past her son’s hair to see the “gentle personality” that’s underneath the matted growth.

“If he just walks up to somebody new, that’s all they see is the hair. They form their opinion from that. It’s a shame,” Vivian Brice said. “But that’s the way it goes.”

Actually, David’s interest in Rastafari is old hat to his mother. His older brother became interested in the Jamaican religion “about 10 years ago. Now he’s a Southern Baptist,” she said. Still, David’s mother doesn’t have any negative feelings about Rastafari, in part because it gets her son to read the Bible.

“But I’m not concerned,” she said. “David’s a very sensible child. He would do the right thing, always.”

Frowns on Ganja

One thing his mother definitely does not approve of is the ganja, or marijuana, that’s associated with the Rasta religion. Some Rastafarian beach kids readily admit they smoke ganja regularly--but only for what they say are religious purposes.

Brice said he doesn’t smoke at home because of his parents’ objections. But he said his use of marijuana has little to do with wanting to get high and all to do with praying.

“Dope is for dopes,” he said matter of factly. “Ganja is different. I give thanks when I smoke.”

Makeda Dread, who is a kind of mentor to some of the Rastafarian beach kids, agrees that those who do smoke marijuana do it for different reasons than many of their peers.

“They’ve grown out of excess and put it into its proper perspective,” she said. “Some use it as a spiritual connector, if you will. It’s done to make themselves more open.”

Misperceptions

Still, some Rasta followers complain that because marijuana is a sacrament in their religion, the public believes they are engaged in drug trafficking.

“It’s gotten to the point where you go to someone and tell them you’re into reggae, and the first thing they ask you is, ‘Do you have any ganja?’ ” said Susan Carsten, 23, the lead singer of NightShift.

Carsten recalls liking reggae right away.

“I never really felt comfortable with rock ‘n’ roll music,” she said. “And when I heard reggae I knew it was what I was waiting for. I was waiting to hear people singing about things that really mattered to everybody, not just to the guy who was singing the song.”

Soon, she began to reread the Bible and explore her “spirituality.” And as she did, she began to admire Rasta principles.

Positive Feelings

“It’s made me really aware of how I treat other people,” she said. “And it’s heightened my consciousness as far as how other people feel. Now, I just want to bring positive feelings to everybody I come across.”

Like Brice, she enjoys meditating by herself “by taking a whole day and walking in the mountains.” And while she doesn’t drink or take other drugs, she says smoking marijuana “is one of the really spiritual things I do.”

Another NightShift member, bass guitarist Paul Jensen, 25, is married with a year-old son. He credits his discovery of Rastafari with helping to keep his family together even though he has been unemployed for some time.

“If I were listening to really hard rock ‘n’ roll music and believing in all this sex and drugs and violence thing, it wouldn’t be helping my family any,” said Jensen, who wears dreadlocks only in the back of his head because he is looking for a job. “Rasta is much more mature, more responsible.”

Interestingly, the San Diego beach youths who believe in the religion are nevertheless hesitant to identify themselves as “true” Rastafarians out of fear of sounding arrogant.

Jamaicans Hailed

To them, only the Rastafarians who live in the Jamaican hills and abandon all things “Babylon”--a term used to describe corrupt Western society--are worthy of laying claim to the title.

“A Rastafarian is a very strict guy,” Brice said. “He lives in the hills, he eats this pure food, he might not ever have any sex. I’m a strict believer in trying to live righteously, but I’m not like that. So I’m not sure that I should be called a Rastafarian.”

Nor do the religion’s white followers necessarily pursue a blind obedience to it. Carsten admits that she can’t believe in the claim that Ethiopian Emperor Haile Selassie was the second coming of Christ.

“Speaking for myself, I couldn’t really say that I believe that,” she said.

“But what Rastafarians believe in as far as brotherhood and liking each other for what they are and not what color their skin is and not what their income is and not what their status in society is--that part of it I think I can safely say that we all believe in.”

‘California Version’

Meanwhile, in the beach community of Sunset Cliffs further south, John Flower, 25, also won’t identify himself as a true Rastafarian in the strictest sense.

“I’m like a California version of a Rastaman,” the blond surfer said.

He learned about the religion through a Jamaican friend of his mother’s. And soon his Catholic upbringing gave way to a belief in Jah. Today, his home is decorated with religious crosses and quotes from the Bible.

“But I really didn’t appreciate the religion until I went to Jamaica and met some true Rastafarians,” he said.

When he talks about his trip to Jamaica last August, it’s clear this was the highlight of Flower’s life.

“I didn’t want to seem pushy. They keep pretty much to themselves. But I did have communications with them and I did smoke a couple of spliffs (large cone-shaped marijuana cigarettes common to Jamaica) with them and stuff.”

Prays at ‘the Office’

Since then, he has taken to wearing a Rasta black skullcap ringed with the red, green and yellow colors of the Ethiopian flag. And, more frequently than ever, he drives to the cliffs above the Pacific in his 1954 MG classic convertible and parks at a spot he refers to as “the office” and prays.

“I open up the car door and turn up some reggae music and just sit in a little beach chair and watch the sun set on the ocean and feel like Jah’s everywhere,” he said. “And I get a warmth inside that’s kind of uplifting.”

Meanwhile, the Rasta converts in San Diego seem to be getting younger and more devoted all the time.

Sean Brandes, a Torrey Pines High School student from Del Mar, was introduced to reggae when he was 12.

“At first we just liked it because it was different and had a catchy beat,” he said. “But then we began to find out what it was all about.”

Absorbed Beliefs

Soon, Brandes and his friends started absorbing the Rasta beliefs that the music espoused. And they found out about the Rasta culture any way they could, through books, album covers of reggae musicians and the words of songs.

Today, Brandes says: “I don’t feel like I’m pure enough yet to call myself a Rastafarian. But I follow all the principles I can. I’m still filtering out all the bad things in me so I can get to a purer state.”

Yet he is purer than most. He is a strict vegetarian, a firm believer in Jah, a chapter-a-day Bible reader. And he doesn’t believe in smoking marijuana to get closer to Jah.

“Some people need ganja to get to that state. I just find I can get that good feeling without it,” he said.

Accomplished Musician

True, his dreadlocks are still half-grown. But he is already an accomplished reggae musician. He and five other white Torrey Pines High teen-agers, ranging in age from 15 to 18 and all Rasta admirers, have formed their own reggae band, GenIRation.

Recently, Makeda Dread discovered its sound and began booking the band around San Diego.

“I call them my little sons,” she said. “But, boy, do they play roots reggae.”

Still, even for Rasta believers, the sight of such youthful Rasta followers as Brandes can come as a shock. One day recently, Makeda Dread recalls, David Brice came by to watch the members of GenIRation play.

“But they’re just little kids,” Brice told Makeda, surprise evident in his voice.

She laughed, and then replied, “Well, hello , Grandpa.”