Researching for The Rebel Rose: This is part of a continued exploration into our recent history that sets woman and class apart from the high magician, which is often what people think about when we watch Harry Potter movies or in a story where people create spells with High Magic. It is important to distinguish the fanciful from the truthful because it was women who were and are most often the targets of subjugation when it comes to healing arts. Their work as healers is still recognized as a great potency that can address common ills and social injustice. How threatening for some.
People Ask How I Developed Ideas For Rebel Rose...
Diving into the historical events that were brewing 500 years ago I found out that so much going on in anti-woman sentiments was beyond witch-hunts. As I was developing Rebel Rose, it occurred to me that the witch as a subject has become its own genre. And it just seems like there's a lot of information out there already, and a lot of fantasy in terms of, you know, magical spells.
But the lesser-known tragedies around the witch phenomenon are what I wanted to show: One of the outcomes/side effects of the witch phenomenon was how it silenced women's voices and set into motion a new reality for women. This book focuses on the time in our history when anti-women sentiment took a larger leap. This a period that aggressively polices women’s bodies, erases their leadership and marginalizes their contributions. And not just in terms of the midwife who caught babies. Its effects are long lasting - even today.
There is also evidence of a visionary experience practiced by women and men – some even call it shamanic- of a quickly fading practice around understanding the concept of the fairy who were the helpers in all matters of illness and health. This directly competed with the church’s teachings. And just like we can explore a multitude of other afro-centric religions that combine ancient elements with catholic practices, Celtic magic used among healers and cunning folks was practiced by the impoverished for millennia or more and as the church involved catholic prayers with befriending the fairies. This evidence compelled me forward to understand more. And then I began to weave it into story.
Women’s voices, power & anger are constantly challenged
The gorgon, Medusa, was once a priestess of the Greek goddess, Athena. When Medusa was raped by the god, Poseidon, in the goddess’s temple, she begged the goddess for protection. Athena, instead of offering comfort or any form of retaliation, punished Medusa by turning her into a gorgon, the well-known creature with serpents for hair.
We’d like to think that perhaps the goddess was protecting Medusa by turning her into a monster so that no man would ever bother her again. But in another story told by the Greek writer, Herodotus, we learn that Athena gives her shield to Perseus to help him kill Medusa. He uses it as a mirror, so that Medusa cannot make eye contact and therefore is powerless from turning men to stone. Perseus beheads her and continues to use her severed head as a trophy to subdue enemies.
Today there have been notable sightings of Medusa throughout pop culture (Rihanna on the cover of GQ, Uma Thurman in Percy Jackson movies, for starters). It’s not just the myth of her, but the face of her, too. Why is Medusa such a compelling figure? The spectacle of the medusa certainly gets a lot of uses. One such meaning behind her visage is the recurring trope of the angry woman, and ultimately, the personification of female rage and indignation. Writer, Elizabeth Johnston, says this indignation arises in response to her being a receptacle, “a go-to figure for those seeking to demonize female authority.”
But what authority?
Archeologists like Marija Gimbutas studied many ancient female figurines that spanned across Old Europe over many centuries. Gimbutas would argue that evidence exists of a matriarchal society that predates Greco-Roman culture. This “off with her head” scenario reflects the mythologizing of the patriarchy, a time in history when male heroes supplanted the power of a mother goddess. But why this look, why snakes? It’s not like we haven’t seen this vision of scariness before.
Johnston would argue that Poseidon’s rape of Medusa and Perseus’s subsequent beheading of her, “represents the same effort to legitimize male privilege.” There are stories like these found all over the world that coincide with women being tricked out of their power and down-sizing into secondary characters, or worse, monsters.
The brutal culture of the Babylonians tells a creation story that describes the world as being a formless mass, instead of solid ground, Tiamat, the mother of all, rose from the watery deep as first deity, a sea goddess. The sons of Tiamat began fighting, killing many in the family, including Tiamat’s new husband. When asked to go to battle against them, Tiamat refuses, saying she would not fight her own children.
Marduk, one of her sons, kills her and splits her body in two, creating a new world where her top half became the heavens and with lower half, the earth. Marduk becomes the new male creator of the world and Tiamat is forever remembered as the sea serpent that Marduk destroyed.
Before the conquering hordes of the Sea Peoples (Zeus among them) arrived to what we know today as the Greek Islands, images of gorgons as protective symbols decorated temples and other important spaces. According to Vice writer, Christobel Hastings, Medusa in Greek antiquity was a mighty force endowed with the power to both kill and redeem. Artists — sculptors and painters — used the Medusa head as an apotropaic symbol. The image and message of the snake throughout the flourishing of lunar agricultural goddess-based cultures was perceived as benevolent, part of the sacred reality of nature. The caduceus is a good example of the positive representation of power offered by snakes that lingered into not just Pan-Hellenic Greece but even our current era. See figure below, The Medusa at the Temple of Artemis in Corfu, Greece.
The timeframe of Medusa’s storytellers, including Hesiod from the 8th century BCE, and Ovid, a Roman poet, tightly intertwined with the same culture that enforced purity doctrines. The Greco- Roman world may have provided the bedrock of Western civilization for the arts, philosophy and democracy but it also codified misogyny. According to historian, Sarah Pomeroy, the Emperor Constantine inscribed a purity doctrine 2,000 years ago. “Constantine was explicit about the guilt of the victim. Regarding raped virgins, he distinguished between girls who had been willing and those who were not. Both would be punished.” Constantine’s reason for punishing the unwilling rape victim? If she truly didn’t wish to be raped, she should have yelled louder so that family or neighbors could’ve come to her rescue.
Authors and scholars of antiquity continue to soften words minimize stories of sexual assault when referring to ancient myths that include rape — and there are a large number of assaults in Greek myth. Seduction, divine raptus — gods pursuing women for sexual encounters — some consider them justified plot devices that drive the story to its conclusion. But it’s interesting how rape and its after effects were often seen as justification for the birth of a hero and whether or not that occurred, the odds are that beyond pregnancy and motherhood women faced fantastical transformations: into a tree, a monster, a constellation, or death.
In the myth of Callisto there was a young girl who was a devoted follower of Artemis. She drew the attention of Zeus who was not allowed to enter the private circle of the initiated, protected by Artemis. Instead, Zeus changed himself into the guise of Artemis and approached Calisto, who was unaware of this deceit. When Zeus raped Callisto she was forced to leave Artemis’s sisterhood. After giving birth to a son, one of the gods turned Callisto into a bear. When her son becomes a man he almost kills her in her bear form. Zeus intervenes and changes Callisto into a constellation where she abides forever the heavens.
Many women seeking higher status over the last few centuries have been compared to Medusa when they try to step into traditionally held men’s roles, or when they attempt to make changes to an unjust world. Look how Democratic candidate Hillary Clinton was memed as the mythological snake-haired monster during the campaign. Clinton was compared to Medusa by conservative writers from Breitbart News and Right Wing Humor. Whether these conservative writers know it or not, the message is implicit: Symbolically cut the woman’s head off, to silence her when she acts up.
Cellini’s 1554 bronze statue depicts a triumphant Perseus standing on top of her body, her severed head held aloft. Cellini had been asked to use the hero narrative of Perseus, the son of Zeus sent to slay Medusa, as a way of reflecting the power of the Medici family over the Florentine people. Other artists followed suit: in 1598, Caravaggio painted his nightmarish ceremonial shield. He, too, wanted a piece that would win the admiration of the Medicis. There’s another opinion about sculpture of Cellini’s, however. Art historian Christine Corretti asserts that the Perseus statue was made intentionally by the artist as a strategy to symbolize the threat of female agency. Cellini believed Medusa symbolized, “both the threat of women’s burgeoning political power and a feminized Italy,” (Johnston).
Leslie Jamison draws the distinction between threatening females and women’s anger. In her article, “I Used to Insist that I Didn’t get Angry,” she argues that the figure of the angry woman is often framed as a threat. The list of archetypes are plenty: “The harpy and her talons, the witch and her spells, the medusa… The notion that female anger is unnatural or destructive is learned young.” Through stories we are told a children, specifically through the Greek myths, we learn that our ideas about women’s anger as unnatural is normalized.
Shaming women because of their anger is deeply rooted in our collective psyches. A study in 2000 at UCLA Berkeley by Ann Kring showed that women and men both self-report anger episodes, but women report more shame and embarrassment in the aftermath while men feel encouraged. Further, male anger is more often associated with positive adjectives but women’s anger, as you might imagine, is not. Kring also cited that men are more likely to express their anger physically and verbally, while women are more likely to cry when they get angry, “as if their bodies are forcibly returning them to the appearance of the emotion — sadness — with which they are most commonly associated,” (Jamison).
In the book, Gone Girl, the main character, Amy, goes missing on the couple’s fifth wedding anniversary and her husband becomes the prime suspect in her disappearance. Spoiler alert: As we learn that Amy has purposely disappeared in order to create suspicion around her husband in punishment for having an affair, we begin to see who Amy really is. In the public eye, everyone believes that she is a victim, but in a stream of monologues, we learn that she is the very antithesis of that. She is a woman with assertion, agency and strength — and she becomes vengeful.
In her article, “How the scathing Gone Girl rant about being the cool girl defined the decade,” Mary Elizabeth Williams says, Amy is “a singularly shocking figure, a liar who can destroy men with her tearful hints and accusations of physical and sexual abuse.” Amy’s mockery of the cool girl trope is her take down address to every woman who has ever played the good girl in order to serve the patriarchy: “Being the Cool Girl means I am a hot, brilliant, funny woman who adores football, poker, dirty jokes, and burping, who plays video games, drinks cheap beer, loves threesomes and anal sex, and jams hot dogs and hamburgers into her mouth like she’s hosting the world’s biggest culinary gang bang while somehow maintaining a size 2, because Cool Girls are above all hot.”
The book-made-movie offers a commentary on how women are pressured into certain roles and how their renunciation of these constructs places them in the crosshairs of the culture’s scornful gaze. Cool girl keeps her mouth shut when she is unhappy about a situation. Cool girl can put up with anything her man does. Until Amy determines her husband is now playing with a new cool girl and crosses the boundary into vengeful harpy.
Amy’s character displays both suffering victim and angry girl, a dichotomy that reifies the construct of women as good girl/bad girl who is ultimately realized in the story as cool girl/medusa. All are the double helix of women’s emotional extremes. “Angry women make people uncomfortable,” says Jamison. “Sad women make people come to their rescue. It has always been easier to shunt female sadness and female anger into the “watertight compartments” of opposing archetypes, rather than acknowledging the ways they run together in the cargo hold of every female psyche.”
The movie, I, Tonya (2017) offers a textbook example of these two archetypes. The movie follows the real-life story of two talented figure skaters of the 1990’s. Tonya Harding becomes the first American woman to complete a triple axel during a competition. But then, the truth of her difficult life becomes evident. And her competitor on the ice, Nancy Kerrigan, an Olympic hopeful, is injured from an assault that Harding’s ex-husband was responsible for (the attack was actually carried out by a hired hit man).
Back in the day (the 1990’s) everyone was transfixed by the despised, trashy, immature Harding who had more than one whiny encounter with the judges throughout competitions. And Kerrigan appeared in the paparazzi as the complete opposite. The press and the public ate it up. Harding, in her homemade competition costumes and scrunchies with French braids was the perfect opposite for the sophisticated Kerrigan, silently suffering in her white-lace leotard.
The movie offers us insights into the source of Harding’s anger, that includes an abusive mother and husband and a poverty ridden life. It breaks open the molding of the stereotype to see what’s driving the behaviors and disfunction, helping us to understand why she behaved the way she did. And the movie was a hit in the depiction of the women as foils. Jamison again: “It was easier to outsource those emotions to the bodies of separate women than it was to acknowledge that they reside together in the body of every woman,”
SOURCES
https://www.salon.com/2019/12/26/how-the-scathing-gone-girl-rant-about-being-the-cool-girl- defined-the-decade/
Read More: https://www.thelist.com/44261/womens-perfect-body-types-changed-throughout- history/?utm_campaign=clip
https://www.nytimes.com/2018/01/17/magazine/i-used-to-insist-i-didnt-get-angry-not- anymore.html
https://www.vice.com/en/article/qvxwax/medusa-greek-myth-rape-victim-turned-into-a-monster
Regula, deTraci. “Medusa’s Curse: Greek Mythology.” ThoughtCo, ThoughtCo, 1 July 2019,
Johnston, Elizabeth. “Medusa, the Original ‘Nasty Woman’.” The Atlantic, Atlantic Media Company, 9 Nov. 2016, https://www.theatlantic.com/entertainment/archive/2016/11/the-original- nasty-woman-of-classical-myth/506591/.
Meier, Allison. “The Beauty and Horror of Medusa, an Enduring Symbol of Women’s Power.” Hyperallergic, 22 June 2018, https://hyperallergic.com/432102/dangerous-beauty-medusa-in- classical-art-metropolitan-museum/.
Maisie, Adrian. “What Does the Head of Medusa Symbolize?” GTHIC, GTHIC, 17 Mar. 2020, https://gthic.com/blogs/jewelry-blogs/what-does-the-head-of-medusa-symbolize .
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Written by Carol Lee Campbell
Is Imbolc a Feminist Holiday?
Gathering the women as the earth awakens
St Bride by John Duncan (1913)
Today is February 1st, also known as the Feast of Brigid (also Bridget, Brighid, Bride), a holiday for the pagans who worshipped the goddess for her healing waters in Ireland. For the Western agricultural calendar, this day is also called Imbolc, a Gaelic term which means, in the belly. She was so beloved by the masses that early Christians adopted her into the stories of Jesus and she became known as St. Bridget of Kildare, the midwife of Christ.
So many stories surround Brigid’s appearance. They say if Brigid visits you, she will leave sooty footprints on the floor near your fireplace. Women leave their favorite scarves outside on Imbolc eve and Brigid will bless them as she passes by. This of course will ensure that your scarf will protect you from headaches and sore throats. Poets and every type of artist envision Her as their muse of inspiration.
If you ever go to Kildare, you can meet with one of Bridget’s nuns, a lay sister who tends Brigid’s fires as a symbol of Christ’s continued love. Her pagan priestesses tended the same fires in ages past to ensure that the sun would return so that the crops could grow and animals would awaken from hibernation. The Irish bridge the pagan to the Christian world. They know their history, and they don’t deny it. Such a dichotomous paradox sometimes proves curious for my Catholic friends in the US.
But one thing I’m certain of is that the mythical figure of Brigid provides an opportunity for women to gather and participate in a ceremony seeking hope. I witness the response to the many Imbolc gatherings right now in my Northern Virginia region as a testament to a spiritual practice that craves harmony while beseeching a female deity.
A beautiful sentiment for a tough time of year in the northern hemisphere. The sun lasts a little longer in the sky but it is cold and dreary more often than not. Perhaps even more importantly, though, Imbolc is a soul stirring moment for finding support and encouragement. The midterms and the annual Women’s March in DC reveal the multiple indignities of rolled back rights and increased misogyny we face. Even the mention of the worship of a goddess in and of itself could be seen as an act of resistance right now.
The goddess Brigid offers us a way around imposed masculine ideals of superiority, heroism and God. No one wants to repeat notions of second wave essentialism. We call Brigid to address power dynamics related to gender. And in calling Brigid we seek a connection to our oldest DNA that honors spiritualities and healing practices that aren’t truncated by a patriarchal, hegemonic gender-limited ideology that often has maintained women are incubators to soul-bearing insemination. To study goddess theory in all of its intersectional potential means seeking the multi-gendered and multi-shaped expressions of divinity that have existed in humanity all over the world for 30,000 years.
For too long the idea that women’s bodies were doorways to original sin has taught too many women and girls to be ashamed of their bodies and deny their spiritual contributions. I am witness to the many women I gather with at Imbolc who are healing from wounds inflicted by their religious institutions. A circle of women of different faiths and multiple backgrounds provides a nurturing safe space to reflect and to pray.
Perhaps a Brigid circle is the lesser known women’s march, a vigil in the dark of winter, a place to spark emboldened intentions for women seeking resilience in the fight for social justice, where we can take a moment to listen to our own inner rhythms, where a new vision for spring and change may take root.
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