Waking the Witch: Reflections on Women, Magic, and Power (Witchcraft Bestseller)

by Pam Grossman

I do know this for sure though: show me your witches, and I’ll show you your feelings about women. The fact that the resurgence of feminism and the popularity of the witch are ascending at the same time is no coincidence: the two are reflections of each other.

These woods are where I first remember doing magic—entering that state of deep play where imaginative action becomes reality. I would spend hours out there, creating rituals with rocks and sticks, drawing secret symbols in the dirt, losing all track of time. It was a space that felt holy and wild, yet still strangely safe.

She is also a vessel that contains our conflicting feelings about female power: our fear of it, our desire for it, and our hope that it can—and will—grow stronger, despite the flames that are thrown at it.

The witch owes nothing. That is what makes her dangerous. And that is what makes her divine.

This is also why being called a witch and calling oneself a witch are usually two vastly different experiences. In the first case, it’s often an act of degradation, an attack against a perceived threat. The second is an act of reclamation, an expression of autonomy and pride. Both of these aspects of the archetype are important to keep in mind. They may seem like contradictions, but there is much to glean from their interplay.

I honor nature and the divinity that is inside me and all living beings, and I strive to spread light and to be in service of something higher than myself: Spirit, the gods, the Goddess, the Mystery—that which language is too restrictive to name.

What the witch trials actually proved is that non-magical human beings are capable of the very malice and murder that they fear from so-called witches.

And both of these things—female delight and female desire—are so often demonized. We call “witch” any woman who wants.

But what moves me most of all is the delicate dance that she and Mister Rogers do of trying to diffuse people’s fears while still not robbing the witch of her magic. Yes, they tell us, it’s just pretend. But it’s also real and accessible to YOU. And isn’t that the most wonderful wizardry of all?

It’s a similar position that I’ve found myself in repeatedly throughout my life, this posture of simultaneous revelation and preservation of mystery; of letting myself be scary while still having the urge to reassure others that I’m no threat. This resistance to fixing myself to any one pole.

Yes, I’m a good witch and a good person. But I also embrace complexity. I intend to wear a black cape over my proverbial pink gown. To laugh too loud and get real mad and defend myself and the people I care about. I want more out of life than to float gently along in a bubble. I want to wear the pointy hat and the crown. To live as vividly as I can, as I am. To be wicked and winsome and wild and whole. I want to be more than either/or.

It is dangerous to be different, and it is especially hazardous to be a female in flux. At any moment, one might be ridiculed, locked away, cast out. The teen witch is an avatar of the miseries, insecurities, and strange proclivities that so many of us keep knotted within as we navigate our young lives.

But she also offers a way to combat adversity. The most satisfying of her stories teach us that we don’t need to fear or diminish our innate power—we just need to choose how to best direct it. The teen witch helps us grow more fully into ourselves.

Musician Anohni has stated, “. . . I’m a witch. I actually de-baptized myself. And what’s great about being transgender is you’re born with a natural religion. It applies almost across the board no matter what culture or economic group or nation that you’re from—you’re almost automatically a witch. None of the patriarchal monotheisms will have you.”

Defenders of #MeToo have shot back, stating that this use of the term witch hunt is another example of the ways in which we’re primed to disbelieve women and to focus on the feelings of the accused rather than those of the victims. “Yes, This Is a Witch Hunt. I’m a Witch and I’m Hunting You,” was the headline of Lindy West’s blistering October 2017 New York Times op-ed. In the piece, she skewers men like Woody Allen, who insist on positioning themselves as the hapless targets of a conspiracy led by lying women. She ends the article by saying: “The witches are coming, but not for your life. We’re coming for your legacy.” By flipping the script of the hunters and the hunted, she admonishes those who have expressed any doubt about the women’s stories, while simultaneously recasting the witch as a vigilante against sexual predation. Amy Schumer has also taken issue with the people who call the #MeToo movement a witch hunt, though her quibbles are about semantics as much as sentiment. “You mean when you burned us at the stake for no reason? You don’t have to support us, but come up with a better fucking example,” she quipped onstage at the BlogHer18 Creators Summit. Powerful men using the phrase witch hunt about women persecuting them is pretty rich, given the term’s origin story.

That the male captains of industry and institution are the ones who tend to use the term the most is ironic to say the least. During the witch hunts of Western Europe and the New England colonies, tens of thousands of people—most of them female—were persecuted for witchcraft they almost definitely didn’t practice by citizens who usually had far more power than they did. These so-called witches were in fact victims of religious propaganda, paranoia, and scapegoating, not to mention they were usually of lower social and economic status than the magistrates and religious leaders who put them on trial and, in many cases, condemned them to death on entirely false charges. In contrast, there is ample reason for legitimate suspicion, if not outright conviction, of many of the very powerful men who are now acting like aggrieved Salem villagers. And while their livelihoods may be at stake (pardon the pun), their lives are not.

“. . . witches aren’t monsters, they’re just women. They’re fuckin’ women who cum and giggle and play in the night. And that’s why everybody wants to set ’em on fire, ’cause they’re so fucking jealous!”

As he told Vulture when asked about the function of drag in 2016, “It’s been the same since the beginning of time when shamans, witch doctors, or court jesters were the drags. Which is to remind culture to not take itself seriously.” On a similar note, both drag queens and modern witches take identities that have been considered shameful, and craft them into new beacons of beautiful disobedience.

There is a reason that the archetype of the witch resonates with those who feel different or oppressed: she is an outsider herself, after all. In declaring allegiance to her, one forges a sacred bond with anyone who has been overlooked, underrepresented, pushed aside, or cast out.

Hers is an old story that we’re retelling in order to get somewhere new. We walk through her forest of marvels and, in doing so, are made to confront our fear, our fantasies, and our faith. The path she sets is personal and different for everyone, but the destination is the same. It leads to a land of liberation, where each of us can be our most complicated and imaginative and troublesome and true. When we arrive, the witch welcomes us. She opens her door with a shriek and a cackle. And we greet her in turn, wild and blazing, arms open and eyes wide.