During the fall of my 8th grade year, the discovery of my queerness coincided with my interest in witchcraft. I remember researching Wiccan rituals and values after a weekend of obsessively using my friend’s Rider-Waite tarot deck. It was the first time I used a tool for divination and magic, aside from the Ouija Board my friend and I crafted a year prior, and it awoke something within me.
While reading about the nature-centered and goddess-worshipping sects of Wicca, I felt seen. The fluid practice of witchcraft intrigued and reflected my own desire for a spiritual path that was flexible. It centered the experiences of women, and the worship of goddesses affirmed my blooming attraction to girls.
Both of my parents were raised Catholic, but rejected its influence in my upbringing. My father was indifferent but my mother was adamant about her belief that the Catholic church used their power to control people, especially women. This influenced my distrust of religious institutions that mediated spirituality.
As a young person who was skeptical of Christianity, Wicca was perfect because it wasn’t centralized and its various sects represented the nuanced ways it could be practiced. While its love-based core values reflect most major religions, it didn’t come with the baggage of trying to sift through bigotry and power dynamics.
In fact, witches have been persecuted for centuries. It’s only recently that it’s more widely accepted or at least recognized, thanks to the internet. Now it’s being capitalized by brands attempting to profit from the “popularity” of witchcraft such as Pinrose, a company whose $42 “Starter Witch Kits” were cancelled after the backlash from people who actually practice witchcraft.
The recent trendiness of witchcraft is strange, especially since I was drawn to it for its unconventional approach to spirituality. While there is an increase in positive and accurate representations of the practice, there are also more sensationalized depictions. Like how witches are portrayed as Satan worshippers in Netflix’s adaptation of “The Chilling Adventures of Sabrina.”
It’s not that this kind of media shouldn’t exist (I love the Sabrina remake), it’s just irritating that it affirms century-old misconceptions about witchcraft. These deluded ideas primarily target women.
The negative stereotypes that our patriarchal, Christian society attributes to lesbians and witches are eerily similar: ugly, man-hating, and “going through a phase.” It’s no fluke that conservative politicians in the 60s believed that women who embraced feminism would probably become gay witches.
Which like…that’s a mood. But feminism can’t transform people, it can only create space for people to discover their true selves.
As a baby queer exploring the infinite possibilities of being a practicing witch, I was hyper-aware of how different I was from my peers. But I finally felt comfortable, because I found a community that reflected who I am.
Queer magick is still magick, but it has an added layer of potential. Queer witches harness their power from transforming their feelings of uncertainty, fear, and self-doubt into magick. We synthesize our own realities within the contexts of our existence, creating literal and spiritual spaces that foster acceptance, belonging, and understanding.
In high school, my coven was my friend group. All of us were interested in witchcraft and grappling with the complexities of our queerness. We watched The Craft, listened to witchy electronic music, and had mystical picnics where we’d get stoned and admire our crystals.
We were all inseparable, which attributed to our reputation as lesbian witches. While not all of us were out, we were girls who spent “too much time” with one another. It had a negative connotation, because it wasn’t the norm. Our peers simply didn’t know what to make of our Doc Martens, eclectic styles, bold opinions, and our habit of loitering at strip malls to chain smoke.
Once during lunch period, a group of freshman boys (we were seniors) told us to “go back to the 50s” upon noticing my long red and white polka dot dress and cat-eyed glasses. My friend Raleigh laughed in his face, and we shrugged off his insult. His projected insecurity a minor nuisance to our day.
“That insult wasn’t even accurate. I’m clearly wearing a dress from the 90s inspired by the 50s,” I said to my friends.
Those who attempted to tear us down couldn’t penetrate the tightly woven spell that bound us together. We were a coven of rejects who found safety, love, and support in each other’s company. We rejoiced in what made us different from one another and everyone else.
That’s what witchcraft is all about: honoring, embracing, and loving your body, mind, and spirit because it’s all connected to life. Witchcraft and queerness complement one another in their shared practice of discovery and acceptance. You are who you are, and that alone is enough.
Cassidy Scanlon is a queer poet, Capricorn, and astrologer who received her BFA in Creative Writing from Chapman University. Her work has been featured in L'Éphémère Review, Loaf Mag, and other self-publications. She writes about astrology on her blog Mercurial Musingshttps://mercurialastromusings.blogspot.com/ and you can follow her on Twitter @sassidysucklon.