We are Women, We are… Witches?

With stick brooms, gauzy capes, and flowing black dresses, witches hunch by the fireplace, perch on the mantles, and glower from the kitchen counter. My sisters and I have always reveled in Halloween, and when the scent of the Earth supplants summer’s flowers, when daylight’s vibrant colors flame then give way to early darkness, we welcome the images of these mystical women into our homes.

Every Halloween, when I don my grandmother’s black Victorian cape, a sweeping velvet dress, and yes, a peaked hat, I am a different person. When I am The Witch, I feel powerful. Still, when I stand in the circle of warmth at the edge of our town’s annual Halloween bonfire, entranced by the swirl of sparks and pulsing embers’ glow, I never escape a passing shudder in imagining being staked at its center. 

It seemed to explain some sense of connection when my uncle’s research into our family’s genealogy uncovered a Salem witch. 

When witch hysteria possessed the Massachusetts towns of Salem and Danvers, Zerubabel Endicott and Richard Carr recalled an “experience” of twenty years prior. The two men and Richard’s father, George, had ridden by the Thomas Bradbury property where, the men claimed, a blue boar ran from the house and attacked the senior Carr’s horse. In 1692, the men reported to the authorities that Mary Perkins Bradbury, my ancestor, had, through Satanic means, taken the form of that boar. Despite testimony on Mrs. Bradbury’s behalf from over 100 neighbors and townspeople, she was sentenced to be hanged. 

From a modern perspective, such an accusation seems absurd, although one might see a parallel to current hatreds, fears, and scapegoats, where desperate people seeking asylum are branded “criminals and rapists” and imprisoned. That aside, Dave and I recently toured the Witch House in Salem, and an informative docent impressed on us the fever of terror that fueled the virulence that led to the hanging of nineteen women and the crushing of one man.

No witches, real or imagined, lived in the Witch House; rather, it was the home of an affluent magistrate and judge, Jonathan Corwin. When Judge Nathaniel Saltonstall resigned in protest over the hanging of Bridget Bishop, the first “witch” execution, Corwin was appointed in his place to the Court of Oyer and Terminer. While it’s impossible to know how Judge Corwin viewed the trials, our docent made clear that he, like the townspeople he served, lived with sorrow and fear, as well as the weight of his responsibility.

Crop failure, mortality, and disease were haunting enough, but the possibility of Indian attack was also a nightmarish specter. Only two years before his Salem appointment, Corwin was sent to Maine to evaluate Colonial security and found it sorely lacking. Response to his report lagged, and just weeks after his visit, the town of Casco was assaulted by Indians, many residents murdered, and the town reduced to cinders. 

Surely Satan and his minions were directing such horrors, and everyone was suspect. Corwin’s mother-in-law had already been accused by a servant, and of the Judge’s ten children, only five had survived childhood; three of those yet living were young women. The heartache of such losses is paralyzing to fathom; the urgency of deflecting attention from oneself and one’s loved ones apparent. In a community crazed with terror, no one was safe.  

In truth, those accused and convicted of witchcraft in 1692 were women guilty only of being wise, healers, strong, weak, ugly, or enviable.  In Mary Bradbury’s case, she had spurned the wrong man.  She was 77 at the time of her conviction, a pious woman, a pillar of the community, but in her youth, she refused George Carr’s offer of marriage and chose Thomas Bradbury instead.  That snub stung, and Carr's bitterness simmered for decades. Mary was fortunate that the Court of Oyer and Terminer was suspended before her sentence was carried out, and she was spared.

While the Salem hysteria was rooted in the ravings of impressionable teenagers, and the grudges and concerns of its time, the persecution of women in the Middle Ages spread from different seeds. In her article, “The Thirst for Spirituality and the Rise of Witches,” Julie Peters points to the rise of capitalism as its genesis. “Before the witch hunt era, women held jobs of all kinds. They were bakers, alemakers, smiths, doctors, and even surgeons. The capitalist structure required that these women give up their lives to the service of creating children, the future labor force.” In particular, healers with skills in contraception and abortion were targeted, as they offered women the means to “bodily autonomy and the right to keep their jobs.”

Too familiar. Centuries later, rebellious women have abandoned black peaked hats for pink ones and Senate seats.  As they fight for bodily autonomy and equal treatment in their jobs, they gather and resist, acknowledging continuity with the struggle and injustice faced by those who came before them.  As one sign at the Women's March read, “We are the granddaughters of the witches you weren’t able to burn.” 

From the exhibit at the Witch House:

Honk!

I’m all about visuals, but during this Boston trip, sounds have led to adventure. So when Dave, Paul, and I heard the sonorous blatt of tuba and trombone as we headed home at the end of an evening playground romp, we changed course to investigate.

A jostling, foot-tapping, dancing crowd, drawn as we were, had gathered in yet another playground near Davis Square. Dave lifted Paul onto his shoulders and we inched in and angled for a better view.

The musicians were a motley group of older men with graying hair pulled back in ponytails.  Most wore black shirts, shorts and socks, and we bobbed and swayed along with them.  Heavy on horns and snare drums, they played a loose New Orleans jazz that flowed into a jerky Arabian accompaniment for the belly dancers.

Belly dancers!  My heavens! Three women in garish, burgundy harem garb tapped finger cymbals and gyrated gleefully in unison.  Ample, naked, midriff flesh rippled, as trained, while two apparent acolytes followed the lead of their seasoned mentor, a middle-aged gypsy with flowing raven tresses.  They spun and gestured, their penciled eyebrows arched, scarlet lips upturned in come-hither smiles.

 “Wow, Paul!  What do you think?” 

What was the child to think?  And could he hear me over the tinny din and eager applause of the crowd? From his perch on Dave’s shoulders, he watched intently, his face impassive, his gaze unwavering as the women wiggled and tapped their cymbals.  

    

The music wound down, and the dancers shimmied to the side. In a quick, smooth transition, the Dead Music Capital Band took their place.  Yes, their faces were painted skull white, and yes, fake blood dripped from a hatchet in one musician’s head, but their extensive horn section and bass drums produced a powerful, swelling, fill-your-chest-with-joy volume of sound.

 We’d grasped that Halloween in the offing would explain the blood and skeletal affectations, but still….”What’s this all about?” I asked a woman near me.

“It’s the Honk!” she said. 

Oh, that explains it….

“The parade is tomorrow!  Starts at noon from Davis Square!”

Well! As we wheeled Paul home to dinner and bed, he stretched out and relaxed in his stroller, satisfied by the evening’s entertainment. We still had no idea what was going on, but sure as hell, we would be at Davis at noon!

At 12:00 on the dot the next day, the three of us joined thousands of other enthusiasts on the sidewalk on Mass Ave.  Paul was back at his station on Dave’s shoulders, his expression still inscrutable, which seemed about right given last night’s introduction.

By now, Dave and I had Googled the Honk and learned this was the 12^th anniversary of the “Festival of Activist Street Bands.”  Last night, the message had not been the focus, but this morning, the full array of Boston’s diverse population and social consciousness was literally on parade.  Stilt-walkers, cyclists, floats, and bands marched or danced or wheeled on by, exuberantly proclaiming solidarity with groups and causes close to home (a faculty walk-out) and across the globe: climate change, clean energy, Black Lives Matter, LGBT rights, peace on Earth, Dreamers, and Freedom for Tibet.

Lady Liberty was well represented in green foam headdresses and large-scale statues, her promise of equality and welcome deeply meaningful for this city of immigrants, for this country of immigrants.  And my heart was lifted, in these troubling times of competing fears and worries, to see so many people out creatively declaring their commitment and concern.

While Paul remained transfixed more than overjoyed, we delighted in directing his attention to the startling mix of outrageous fantasy and the comfortably familiar portrayed in vibrant costumes, crepe, and papier mache.  “Look Sweetie!  What’s that?”

“Ephalent!” 

“Yes!  An elephant!”

 “And look! Butterflies!”

“Butta-fies!”

“Yay!  Whoa! Check it out, Paul!  A dragon!”

“Dragon!”

And so, in being with our grandson, led by our senses and open to opportunity, we happened upon the Honk with its belly dancers, bands, community … and dragons.