Falling Out of the "Broom Closet"

I was very unsure about this path when I first started to read about it.  It called to me, but everything I had been taught about Witches and Paganism made them sound evil.  I didn’t want to go to Hell or be left behind during the rapture as my Baptist Sunday school teachers had warned.  Still I felt pulled in that direction.  Cautiously, I started very slowly by participating on the Internet, hiding behind my first magical name for anonymity.

Once I started to understand the path, my pace picked up and soon I was running, finding everything that I could about my favorite topics.  My first mentor, who would later become my husband, taught me how to cast the circle, research and protect myself.  Things were great, but I really needed more structure to my training.  I also wanted to belong to some sort of group.

When I first found the Family Wiccan Traditions International it was growing slowly.  The idea of practicing spirituality as a family unit was something that we already did and it was exciting to find others who shared our philosophy.  Within a few months of joining the organization I was asked to serve on the Board of Directors as the Web Communications Weaver.  It was then that I really started going by my real name in the Pagan community.  This was my first step to coming out of the “broom closet”.

My husband’s parents and my two sisters were aware of my path, but that was it as far as family went.  Not much later my youngest sister actually took up her own path and is now currently studying as a solitary.  My parents and Grandmother were to be kept in the dark because I did not think they would understand or be supportive.

The job market in Ohio started to take a turn for the worse so my husband and I moved back to Texas.  We lived with my parents while we got on our feet and looked for a place to live.  While we were there it was painful to take the Pagan part of me and put it in a box.  It was actually my husband that grew tired of it and blurted out the fact that we were Pagan to my parents.  This was the second step.

At first they did not know what to do, but have slowly become more comfortable with our path.  Often they will ask what we believe about certain things or have us help them clear out the house (watching my Father smudge for the first time was hilarious).  In a lot of ways I think that we have forced them to take a look at their beliefs and widen their view on many other things.  This year during Yule my parents joined us in circle for the first time and participated in the ritual.  It was a very emotional experience for me.

Grandma and the people at work are really the only people left in the dark about my path.  I truly think that telling her would hurt her too much and that is not something that I want to do.  And while a few of my coworkers are aware that I am a Pagan, most just think I am a little strange.  I am definitely ok with that.

My Father the Muggle

Bless his heart, my father is a "Muggle." He can't help it and had a very difficult time raising a daughter who was a witch. Oh, you don't know what a Muggle is? You probably haven't either read the "Harry Potter" books  or seen any of the related movies. Well, a Muggle is "a person who lacks any sort of magical ability and was not born into the magical world." <"Muggle." Wikipedia, The Free Encyclopedia. Wikipedia, The Free Encyclopedia, 18 Feb. 2010>.  Do you see how this might  have lead to a few tears, some frustration and misunderstandings on both of our parts? It's not that we didn't love each other, no, if anything we had such an attachment to each other that we each wanted to be "perfect" in each others eyes, which just can't happen between a parent and a child especially between a Muggle and a witch.

I inherited my mother's penchant for magic and all things mysterious. She wasn't a practicing witch, she gained her incredible knowledge and wisdom from books, other wise women, adult education classes, etc..However, she and I always clashed horribly and I never felt accepted or seen which naturally lead to a great deal sadness and insecurity.

I remember when I was about eight years old I believe and watching on television the 1948 film version about "Joan of Arc" with Ingrid Bergman. I ended up with me sobbing and traumatized with the unjustice and brutality with her being killed as a witch. I ran out to my parents who were sitting in the living room, hungry for comfort and reassurances that Joan couldn't have been possibly killed as she did in real life as she was in the movie. I asked them desperately, "Did she really hear the voices of the Angels? Why didn't somebody rescue her?" My mother replied, "Of course she heard those voices" to which my father immediately shot hack, "Don't tell her that! We don't want her thinking that people can hear "angelic" voices" And so ensued one of their many typical embittered battles. I was left forgotten and felt like a  lost cause, much like Joan of Arc.Life wasn't always that traumatic growing up, but I grew a defensive shell, carefully protecting who I was. I continued to learn more and more about the craft letting everyone know I was a true witch, even though I was just a little girl. Children of my own age, considered me too weird to play with and shunned me. Of course it hurt, but I found consolation in my cats who loved me unconditionally. My father continued to deny that I was a witch or for that matter that any real witch's existed. I knew he was just concerned for me and that out of love  he was trying to protect me from a society ruled by Muggle's.

As I grew older my faith in the  magickal world grew as well.  Everyone whom  I met knew right away what I stood for, who I was and too bad if you didn't like "Wendy the Witch". My situation wasn't "coming out of the broom closet", it was more like I was already out and no one wanted to believe that there was a closet in the first place. I really didn't care what the general population thought, however I did care tremendously that the father I adored still wouldn't acknowledge I was a witch.

The year was  1997, and there was a huge, buzz about a book, called, "Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone."I had heard the premise of the story and read about the characters of the book, but I myself had no desire to read it. It sounded too trite for me. My father however called me sounding more excited and impassioned than I believed I had ever heard from him. "Wendy, you must read this book! It's exactly how you've described yourself." He went on and on and I sat there listening to him feeling very bemused about it all. who's just this wonderful witch!" He now had my attention.