Witchy Weekends: Frank Sinatra and the Question of Agency

Here’s a cute little song from days gone by. It’s kind of fun to listen to, if you have fond memories of the music of this era.

But there might be more to it.

The premise of the song is fairly straightforward, fairly simple: “You’re an alluring lady, so much so that my attraction to you goes beyond normal, and so there must be something supernatural going on here. But that’s cool, I can roll with that.”

The subtext is also pretty clear: “You’re an alluring lady, and I’m going to enjoy pretending I don’t need to take any responsibility for my actions because of how attracted I am to you.”

I can already hear some of you protesting that I’m making this nonsense up. That I’m ruining something sweet and nice.

Buckle up, buttercup.

You can’t denigrate witches as the ultimate evil predator in league with the devil — a Christian concept if ever there was one — and then also say how lovely and fun and exciting and marvelous and sexy witches are at the same time, unless you do some serious introspection on your particular fantasies and fetishes.

***

In my English classes we spend a lot of time talking about character agency, or (rather simply) the ability of a character to make decisions and enact choices that have consequences, which in turn have bearing on the plot. (You can read an excellent explanation of character agency in stories here on Chuck Wendig’s blog.)

This song suggests that part of the allure of the “witch” in the song is the usurping of the singer’s agency, “[stripping] [his] conscience bare,” and he’s totally on board. But why?

In the current miasma of what passes for public debate these days, some of the more socially conscious have been talking a lot about personal responsibility.

When I taught AP Gothic Lit., we spent an entire unit of study on the heritage of the Witch as a political figure and literary archetype. Fascinating stuff. For a very small taste of one part of this, check out this wonderful article on the archetype of the “sexy witch” in literature.

One thing that comes up again and again is that — in fairy tales, for example — witches are those characters who are agents of change. Sometimes for nefarious purposes, such as the crone living in a gingerbread hut in the forest or a wickedly vain queen. And sometimes their magics lead to positive outcomes: think fairy godmothers and Glenda the Good.

In the Burning Times, “witches” were more often than not women; and more often than not, defenseless other than through their own fierce and fearless agency; and more often than not, opinionated or otherwise empowered in a way that threatened the patriarchy (in whatever form that might have taken, be it political or religious or social). These days one might imagine a representation of the greatest perceived existential threat to the patriarchy might be depicted as a flash mob of women, having the time of their lives bellydancing in the streets, wearing pointy hats.

Others have written on this subject more eloquently and more coherently than I. Right now, so much of this subject is just swimming around in a maelstrom in my brain. ‘Tis the season and all.

Please, discuss. What do you think of all of this?

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Witchy Weekend: What Is A Witch, Anyway?

A practicer of magical arts.

Someone who buys into that really old time religion. A pagan.

Someone who knows her own damn mind.

A politically inconvenient troublemaker.

A heretic.

A caricature, a cautionary tale, a mockery.

Someone trying to make at least one little corner of the world a better place.

Someone who meditates.

Someone whose compass has five points.

Someone who is using the resources she has at hand to solve the problems that sometimes feel too big, but she is trying to do it anyway.

Someone who knows that what goes around, comes around, threefold.

Someone who wears a pointy hat, someone who has an intelligent cat, someone who soars to the moon and back.

 

 

Witchy Weekends: I Wish…

When I was a child watching the Saturday morning animated special movies for kids every weekend…

Okay, so you’re probably either groaning because you remember those or groaning because you’re conflating them with After-School Specials.

Seriously, though, sometimes those animated shows on the weekends were kind of cool. But the only one I really remember now was called maybe “My Teacher Is A Witch” or something similarly creative, and it was about a class of kids who got a new teacher one day whom they believed was a real witch. What tipped them off? The day she erased a really full blackboard full of chalk with a single swipe of her arm.

And I know it was just a cartoon and life doesn’t really work that way, but I cannot tell you how often, especially since becoming a teacher, I’ve wished that it did. I could really, really use that kind of speed and efficiency during the school year.

Especially this weekend, when I’m mired in grading and comments (two-paragraph narratives I write for the report card of every student in every one of my classes to discuss each student’s individual progress). But I don’t have that power, so this anecdote is about as substantive as my blog is going to get at the moment.

But here, to tide you over, have this lovely picture.

Witches #3

This weekend I’ve decided to share a song with you.

Do you remember a band called The JudyBats? They were from Tennessee, I believe, and popular in the 90s. I don’t know how big they ever were, but I loved them and even got to see them in concert when I was in college.

It was at an intimate concert venue in Houston called The Tower Theater, which later became a Blockbuster store, which later became something else, which later became a vacant space whose windows were used for ad posters, which is now I-don’t-know-what. I went to the concert with my friend Maggie, who was one of my closest friends our freshmen year at UH, and my little sister, who had probably just turned thirteen at the time. (She is now a rock star herself.) I saw quite a few great shows at that place, including Tori Amos (touring for Little Earthquakes) and Dream Theater (touring for Images and Words).

The JudyBats were touring for Pain Makes You Beautiful. The concert was fantastic, but partway through it, the music stopped abruptly and the band left the stage. Some jackass in the audience had maced the area, though at the time — and this is an important detail — I hadn’t actually realized why the concert had ended so quickly. And remember how I said the venue was intimate? It probably held 200 people when it was packed, maybe less. So we all had to clear out.

Remember how I implied it was the 90s? Guess who carried mace on her keychain? This girl. Every young woman and half the young men I knew did. I never used it, ever, not even to test it. But the theater manager came chasing me — and Maggie, and my little sister — into the parking lot anyway, nearly knocking me down as he swiped the keys from my hand, just when I was about to unlock my car door. I put him at about his mid-40s, but not the young-looking, health-conscious mid-40s that people are today. His long, scraggly blond curls blew back in the hot summer wind like he was some reject from a Robert Plant lookalike contest. His skin had seen better days. He had a half-ashed cigarette in one hand and a scotch-and-rocks in the other, and he had to put his ciggie back in his mouth while he fumbled drunkenly with my keychain, shouting and cursing at me the whole time.

“Did you do this?” he demanded. “You sprayed your mace in my concert hall!”

I denied having done it. I told him I didn’t know what he was talking about.

“We’ll just see if it’s your fault,” he insisted, jangling my keys and growling and sloshing and becoming absolutely beside himself with his inability to listen to us.

After some more foul-mouthed impugning of my person, he shoved the keys back at my hand. The mace canister was lodged partway out of its faux-leather sheath, the top mechanism askew, my keys wet with his scotch. He stumbled with self-righteous indignation back into his theater while I stared dumbly in shock.

“Hey, don’t be an asshole!” my friend Maggie shouted after him.

“What a dick,” my little sister said.

I looked down at my keychain. I was going to have to throw it away.

That was the last time I saw a concert there; with a manager like him, I’m not especially surprised the place closed down.

But The JudyBats? They were awesome. Here’s one of the songs from their album Down in the Shacks Where the Satellite Dishes Grow. Enjoy.