Which would you rather wear?

Learning to fight like a witch

Handmaid's Tale headdress or Witch Hat?

A thought popped into my head on a run recently: which hat do I want to wear? I flashed on two images, the white Handmaid’s Tale headdress and a witch’s hat. As I ground up the final hills of the morning, Willa trotting by my side like a little bear, I wondered why these images came to me.

At first glance, it seemed obvious: a witch’s hat is far superior. Nobody wants to live in a dystopian nightmare — and the more we are living it, the more sure we are! — and bonus point: it allows your peripheral vision to function.

Another vote for the witch’s hat because it stands, at least to me, for female autonomy, power, resistance, connection to something bigger than self, women standing together vs. patriarchal oppression, theocracy, environmental catastrophe, women pitted against women, and reproductive slavery. Whew, easy choice.

But slowly, the deeper reason my imagination gave me this image clarified itself.

The orange mob wants me to wear the headdress.

They want me to be cowed, to put blinkers on and keep my eyes on the ground. They want me to believe I have no power, no choice, no hope.

And here’s the embarrassing scary part to admit to you: there is a part of me that wants to go along with that.

It’s easier to give up than it is to fight, to behold the daily horror, to feel the churning pit of fear in my belly, my throat. It’s easier to numb out, tune out.

The headdress acts like blinders for a reason.

Here’s another layer to my headdress versus witch hat thought — I’ve always been someone who never missed an election, who occasionally protested, who called their reps, who donated to campaigns and ACLU and Planned Parenthood, etc. But I always did so with a sense of obligation. You live in a democracy — you take care of it. Sometimes I did this work with joy and pride, but mostly with a did-my-duty, good-for-me, attitude.

Obligation is not a long term fighting strategy. It’s heavy, it’s lonely, it’s boring.

Without joy, without being subversive and wild, without community, I won’t keep fighting.

I’ll numb out, I’ll do the minimum, I’ll be consumed with guilt for not doing more and do even less. I’ll put the headdress on myself.

The witch hat, as an archetype, reminds me to band together with others, to call on something more inspiring and life-giving than obligation, to root into what gives life meaning: connection, beauty, mystery, love. All the things the orange mob are terrified of.

It helps me remember I can dream. That I can keep the act of dreaming alive.

I don’t mean in anyway to belittle the astounding crisis we are in the midst of. It is monstrous. People are dying because of this pointless insanity. Many more will. This crisis will torch so many lives.

And when we lift our heads up, we behold the amazing tenacious glorious work of millions of people, working to stop the mob, to adapt, to shelter, to fight. Millions of people wearing the proverbial witch hat - doing the great work of resisting.

I look at the protests and the ACLU’s lawsuits and the reporting from brave people like Judd Legum and The Contrarian and Bernie talking truth every single day and so many others I can’t list them all. I am, you are, part of this swell of defiance and justice and love.

I have to keep taking my blinders off and joining the joy of fighting for what’s right.

We are part of a ground swell, across the world. We are not alone.

Put on your black hat with me and let’s fight like a witch.

Love,

Jen