I finished the book Weyward by Emilia Hart, a feminist fantasy that describes abuse of women by men and keeps the witchy magic to a minimum (though an important minimum), and felt the longing for magic to be real more sharply than I have since I was a kid. It was a physical knot in my abdomen, a peculiar type of loneliness, a desire for myself and the world to be different—better, more interesting, more mysterious, more miraculous.
And, I am realizing, what the desire to have/be magic comes down to is often the desire to be more powerful.
Because it’s not just this book, but also the television series The Power, based on the novel by Naomi Alderman. And the novel When Women Were Dragons by Kelly Barnhill. And most of the fantasy novels I read, nearly all written by women, in which the heroine may suffer but ultimately prevails/survives/thrives, mostly because of her magic, though sometimes because of her kindness and courage.
Most of the time, for most of us in the Western world, sexism is not a life-or-death problem. We’re not stuck in a burning house, enemies outside, about to die if not for our suddenly-discovered ability to form water into a protective shield. But as women (and I include all women-identifying people in this, as well as people who might be perceived as women by strangers), when we are out in public, we are habitually aware of potential threats from men.
But what if we didn’t have to be so vigilant about our safety? What if we had a way to protect ourselves from assault? Can you even imagine what that might feel like? The writers of The Power did imagine it, and there’s a poignant scene where a teenaged girl describes that feeling to her mother. Comfort, peace, relaxation, the opportunity to pay attention to one’s inner world.
There are far more effects of sexism than just the fear for physical safety. Would women be treated equally and feel truly equal if we had some kind of magic to protect ourselves? Would the exhausting barrage of messages—from the media, other people, and inside ourselves—that we’re just not as good as men simply…stop?
The books & tv I mentioned above explore these questions and more. I’m more concerned with the effects on those of us who look up from the page and find ourselves in this world, a world that has yet to live up to hoped-for ideals of equality.
In addition to anger, the emotion we’re “supposed” to feel so we fight for equality, I think many of us feel grief. We grieve for the lives we might have had, the jobs we might have tried for, the career success we might have had. We grieve for the chances we didn’t take because they felt too dangerous, were too dangerous. We grieve for the assaults we experienced at the hands of men, for the selves we were before those assaults, for the selves we could have been without them. We grieve for the time we spent on our appearance that could have been used to learn a different language or write a novel. We grieve for the experiences of young women as they learn how to let a complete stranger down “lightly” so he doesn’t become angry and stalk them. We grieve for the wonder and safety and power that magic made us feel for those moments we were submerged in a story.
The wonderful course I’m taking on creative grief support emphasizes the idea of “yes and.” This is a reminder that, when it comes to our inner worlds, our emotions and thoughts, contradictory things can be true. We can feel bleak that we’ll never have another conversation with our loved one, hear her special insight that helps our lives make sense, and know what she would say, be grateful for that knowledge. Grief is complicated, multi-layered. So as a woman, I can celebrate that, unlike my mother, I have always been legally allowed credit in my own name—and grieve the financial security I don’t have because of the gender pay gap. I can be angry and sad and exhausted and hopeful.
I can work to change the world so women don’t need magic—and wish, deep in my wild, faerie-loving heart, that magic was real and possible and mine. So be gentle with yourselves, my fellow witches. Your grief is real. And, I believe, so is your magic: the magic of poetry, art, music, dance, of making, of growing, of nurturing, of imagination. Sometimes, on the edge of sleep, I can even see it, a worldwide network of light, the life-sustaining arteries of humanity.
So beautifully said, Katie. I’d like to share this essay with others.
Restacked.