When I was 4 years old I saw a cobra edging out from behind a wooden strawberry barrel in our garden.
Naturally I was certain of what I had seen, despite the fact that I was not even on the same continent as any known, free roaming, cobra and despite the fact that the only cobra I had ever seen was on “Sesame Street.” Or, rather, because of the fact that the only cobra I had ever seen was on “Sesame Street” and, as my parents would later explain, the same episode I had been watching just before I stepped outside to play. To this day, I am still secretly certain of what I saw because it was formed in the most innocent desire to experience the exotic without leaving home. I had magically teleported a piece of “Sesame Street” to our neck of the woods.
Like many who have been raised inside a notch of the Bible Belt, snakes provide for me a ready allusion to sin, temptation, and our most basic instincts to control our own environments. We are taught early to decipher the poisonous from the benign by their markings and eye shape. While some believe that the only “good snake is a dead snake,” those tending to small farms or even just a drafty home can appreciate a blacksnake’s ability to rid the property of mice and other varmints.
Folk practices tend to complicate the treatment of specific serpent species in our culture. In his novel The World Made Straight, Ron Rash writes, “Some farmers believed killing blacksnakes helped bring rain, but his daddy had always sworn that was nonsense” (Rash 96-97). It seems a snake’s purpose is in the eye of the beholder whether it be a blacksnake, copperhead, or king cobra. Likely because of this, even cultures that glorify the power of snakes allow for practical warnings in the same breath.
In Cherokee, North Carolina, one of the most prominent peaks is called Rattlesnake Mountain. Such a place name is a clear warning to hikers, and more often hunters, that one must watch where one steps. This ominous peak is also home to stories of strange, unexplained lights dotting the incline, a sure sign of otherworldly occupation. Snakes are, after all, considered by Cherokee tradition capable of harnessing supernatural associations, specifically with the rain and thunder. In this way, Rash’s fictionalized recollection of Appalachian farming beliefs is remarkably in-step with Cherokee stories.
When Highway 19—the road over Soco Mountain—was built, some in Cherokee were reminded of lore that a giant blacksnake would descend from the mountains and signify the decline of the Cherokee. The blacksnake in this instance was the asphalt highway. However, the decline of our civilization is certainly up for interpretation. Similarly, those native peoples in opposition to the Dakota Access Pipeline in North Dakota have used the blacksnake metaphor as a rallying cry against the construction of the oil-carrying pipeline across sacred lands. The blacksnake becomes no longer a protector of one’s homeland—it is the corrupter of that land.
Even in these instances, the danger only comes into play when the environment is endangered. This is why Cherokee tradition asserts that one should never kill a rattlesnake unless done in a properly ritualistic manner, otherwise many more unwelcome snakes will visit. Likewise, some mountain churches still practice snake handling, wagering that faith will best earthly sin. These encounters with snakes are often spoken of as spiritual awakenings—as magical. A person might literally lose his life if he infuses the experience with doubt or sin.
I fear no amount of knowledge regarding the majesty of this particular type of reptile will ever change my utter terror when seeing one. Still, a respect remains that these creatures embody such literary, cultural and spiritual significance that one cannot help but revel in their complexity. They are sin. They are spirit. They are danger. They are power.
And, according to my father, the one in our garden was a copperhead—not a king cobra from “Sesame Street.”