Maybe There Are Witches

Twenty-six years ago today, my mother passed away.

I've acknowledged this date most years. Since I've been doing this blog for 20 years, there isn't much new left to say.

What I have is one small moment. It doesn't need to be more than it was.

Some background. At my elementary school, there was a weekly Bible study class. I was in the fourth grade when the instructor handed out books for this hour of religious indoctrination. After six weeks, she wanted to see everyone's books and how often we went to Sunday school and church.

My family didn't attend church. My father was Catholic and my mother was Baptist, and apparently when I was born, never the twain shall meet. The instructor picked up my very empty book and held up for all the class to see what a sinner I was, I who had no way to get to a church, living out in a rural area as I did. And at 10 years old, what was I to do?

I sat and cried the whole hour and then went home and told my parents what happened. One of them must have said something to the school officials, because the next week I was sent out of class to go to the library when Bible study hour came. That suited me fine. I learned the Dewey Decimal System, how to shelve books, and had the chance to sit and read when I was done with the library duty. 

So, I didn't mind the library. I minded what came after, though. The other kids made fun of me. They already thought I was strange because I was an A student and called me names like "computer head." Missing the Bible study class meant I was even weirder than they thought. Someone to laugh at. They made fun of me for the books I read, too, because I liked dragons and fairies and worlds that weren't this one.

It bothered me a lot, and one evening I grew very quiet. The next day was Bible class day. I started crying about it. I remember standing at the window, looking out at the stars, tears on my cheeks.

My mother noticed something was wrong. I told her the kids made fun of me because I didn't go to Bible class and I read books about witches and ghosts and fairies. I don't remember the whole conversation, just the one thing she said, because I've turned it over so many times since: Maybe there are witches and ghosts and fairies. They don't know. Don't cry.

Mom didn't fix the school, or the other kids, or the years that came after. But for one evening, she didn't tell me the world was right and I was wrong to be hurt by it. She let the possibility stand: maybe there's more to things than the people who were laughing at me understood. Maybe I wasn't foolish for believing in something bigger than what was in front of me.

I don't know that she meant it as comfort in any deep way. I don't know that she thought about it again after that night. But I did. I still do, because I never forgot it. I still read - and sometimes write - about worlds that aren't quite this one that we inhabit. 

I still like the idea of magic.

Maybe there are witches and ghosts and fairies. I will never know the truth of that. But I stopped crying that night, and some nights, that's the whole job of a mother, to wipe away the tears.