Τό γυναικεῖον τῆς Ὑπατίας - An Áit Bhanda na Hypatia - Hypatia's Gynaeceum

I lay awake thinking about the story I was going to write. Tossing and turning, I called the story to come to me.

Then there she was, sitting on the bed looking down at me. "I need you to tell my story, dear." I thought, Oh shit.

I begged her, "Please don't ask me that, sister. It's just too dark for me to inflict on my pathmates. I don't want to trigger anyone's traumas or anything."

She said, "Honey, you took my name. You own it. Now face up to the responsibility you freely asked for. My story needs to be told; silence kills. I came to you because you said you're a writer."

I held up my hands, sighing, "You know I could never say no to you, sister. You got me right there."

She asked me, "So you think my story has contemporary relevance here and now?" I answered, "Oh yes, very contemporary and very relevant." She said, "I'd like you to retell it in a modern setting." I touched her hand and said, "Girlfriend, it's like you read my mind!"

I got out of bed and picked up a pen and notebook, then turned around and she was gone. I said, "OK, I'm on my own," and opened the notebook.

So you thought you had a lousy commute to work?

That morning I was running late. My TA had blown off grading half the papers and I had to do them over breakfast. I got such a late start that I had to put on my makeup in the car--a bad habit I'd promised myself to quit--doing a bit at each red light until I got honked at.

The street that led to the campus went past where there had used to be these lovely woods with a shaded pond where I'd gone to refresh my spirit whenever work got me down. But last year they'd bulldozed it all and built one of those megachurches with its own TV show on Sundays. I sighed each time I passed it and dreamed of another grove I could go to.

We had two applicants to our open faculty position scheduled today. As the math department chair, I could not miss those. I got on my cell phone to call the assistant chair to say I would be late for the first interview.

As I pulled up to the red light next to the church, I started to dial--but before I could complete it, my car was surrounded by an angry screaming mob. I quickly hit the door lock and dialed 911 instead. The crowd was chanting something and several people were carrying signs printed with the Bible verse "Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live." Several big beefy guys were rocking my car; others were hollering and pounding on it all over. I almost forgot to breathe, but I forced myself to breathe out and center to prevent panic.

Then they brought a big cross made of two by fours and smashed in my driver's side window. They yanked open the door and dragged me out...

Witchcamp makes us face hard truths about ourselves, shonuff. After defining myself all the livelong life as a northern urban hater of country music, I finally admitted that was a dang lie. Oh yeah, I'd been a country hater all right, while listening to Joan Baez, Indigo Girls, Melissa Etheridge, Cris Williamson, Garrison Starr, Sheryl Crow, Toshi Reagon, Michelle Shocked, and lovin' every dag-gone minute of it. And thinking Willie Nelson was the coolest musician that ever lived, even if you never actually listened to his music, only his progressive politics and down-home philosophy. Tell the truth, J.Hy, already.

I spent a week at Witchcamp surrounded by an ongoing hootenanny of country music pickin' Witches. They flowed with the most consistent current of community good vibes of the whole camp. Yall know who yall are. I flowed and danced and sang with yall. If I hadn't been too shy to step forward, I would have strapped on a guitar, draped my black lace mantilla over my head, and let loose with "Long Black Veil."

And to think I'd put off listening to the Dixie Chicks all these years just because I didn't want to open up and admit I was capable of liking them. Shucks. After driving from the Ozarks through Kentucky and Tennessee, through Bristol, Virginia ("Birthplace of Country Music") into the Blue Ridge region, breathing all that mountain air must have finally opened me up. Visiting my daughter in Blacksburg on the way home, she took me to Starbucks because I was jonesing for coffee and I saw the new Dixie Chicks CD Taking the Long Way, and grabbed it on impulse along with my venti.

Put it on while cruising between the Appalachians and the Blue Ridge--and was soooo glad I did. The sound the Chicks make is just what I love, I slipped right into it like into a soothing bubble bath of sonic pleasure. MMMmmmm. Frankly, the Girls sound twice as country as the Chicks at times, and all along I drank it all up with delight. To impose categories on this beautiful American music to divide it from itself is just stupid bullshit. I'm glad Midwest Witchcamp finally brought me face to face with this truth about myself.

There is just one long, broad stream of sound that I think of as American roots music - some idiots have drawn a line down the middle and said, you lefties can have this side and call it "folk music" and you righties can take that side and call it "country music" and that way you can share the same stuff without admitting it.

Ms. Maines, tear down this wall!
;)