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Happy Beltane! Happy May Day!

Last night was Walpurgis Night (Walpurgisnacht) and I wrote this flash fiction piece that seemed to have ruminated in my head for a bit. When I realized it was April 30^th, well, I knew it was meant to be.

While living in Germany, I’d often heard about the witches in the mountains who’d sweep away the rest of winter to bring in spring while dancing around large bonfires.

I thought, well, since this is already a supernatural day, why not have someone desperate to be seen summon the great Odin himself?

With no more waiting, here is the short piece: Walpurgis Night

In the mountains the volva witches danced tonight to sweep away the remnants of winter, and usher in spring. It was the eve of Beltane, May Day. Even now, I could hear those of the faithful chanting, “Hail Odin, Hail Thor, Hail Freyja!”

But I could not focus on their energies and that what they wished to procure. Time was limited and the veil would not remain thin for long.

Under the guise of night, with a candle as my light, I bent over Procopius’s book, which rested on my lap. The grimoire from 500 A.D. should have crackled under its age, but still, the pages remained malleable and moved as if they were brand new. The thick tome gave precise details to what I needed to do to make contact.

Someone had ensured that it would make its way, remaining useful and magically sealed.

I’d stolen it from the shelves deep in the library. Tonight was the night to meet destiny.

Grounding myself, I sprinkled a circle of salt around me. Sage burned in the saucer before me, and my rune cast rested on the altar. Finally, raising my palms, slowly exhaled, I waited with bated breath.

It would not take long.

The air moved around me. A light cool breeze that carried black feathers to rest at my feet.  What lesson waited on the other side? In the small alcove, the candle flickered. A heaviness moved into the space that did not belong there. Foreign, but not menacing.

 “Give unto Odin what is Odin’s.” Out of the corner of my eyes, I saw the edges of light, but when I turned my head, nothing was there. But these words were not words anyone wished to hear. Odin was not only one of wisdom, but a god of war, of death.

“Do I know you?” It was the first thing that came to mind. I stared down at my scarred hands, my injured body. But my mind was sharp, although conventional wisdom rested outside of my grasp.

He did not laugh at my retort. “Have you not summoned me?”

“I don’t know who you are.”

“Tonight, you shall learn.” His voice was kind but firm, like what one might expect from a Father-Christmas figure.

I felt a hand raise me from my chair and toss me back on the wooden floor. Energy rippled all over me; power coursed through my body, and staring up, I rested at the feet of Odin.

But an old man he was not. Brawny, bold, and irritated, he held out his hand. “Your purpose waits with me. Now rise, for magic awaits us.”

“And what will you have me do?”

Now he chuckled. “A Valkyrie shall rise.”

His words gave me strength, and as I took his offered hands, one wing then two spouted.

I’d quested for purpose, and he’d made me into a harvester of the dead.

Want to see the dancing witches?

Check out this video. I love this video and love being able to share about it! What a wonderful performance, and a must see!

Today, while talking to kidlet#1, we discussed politics. Here in Virginia, the democratic primary was being held, and with many on the ballot, and as she looked on and wondered as to who I might vote for, I had to pause.

In the voting booth with both children, this was a teaching moment: a moment where I showed in real life, and not through a text book how our voices matter.

Not only in politics, but in everyday things: our voices indeed matter and as a parent, I need to support the diverse voices to counter that of racism, classism and sexism for society and for my children’s future (not even to mention ableism).

I am a 1980s child, and I knew nothing about any of those things. I grew up black, impoverished and unluckily a female (according to some). But in my neighborhood, race wasn’t an issue– I grew up with friends of all colors and nationalities. It wasn’t until my family relocated to the Deep South that I came to understand that being black came with its own stigma.

I’ll never forget the day – I was riding with my grandmother as we headed to Pulaski, Tennessee, and as we rounded the courthouse, I watched men in sheets chant epithets and spew hate. I asked my grandmother about it, and she told me to ignore those fools.

But what is known cannot  be unknown or forgotten.

Only after this fierce and blatant experience was I forced to face that European beauty standards  would dictate my own beauty. My lips and nose were considered too wide; my derriere too round; my laughter too robust; my hair too curly.

I was supposed to cower in the background, and be okay with it, but  I wasn’t.

Instead, I sought to create my own path, and strengthened by the tenets of my faith, and family, and embraced by a high school where we were all eclectic, different and thriving on this difference, I pursued excellence. 

I tried out for plays; studied hard, acted, travelled, and never let anyone put me in a corner because of what they expected me to be like. (Another reason I write about dragons and waifs turning into warriors.)

Luckily in the 80s, I grew up with television characters that reflected my world, such as The Cosby Show and A Different World, followed in the 90s by In Living Color, Family Matters, Martin and Livin’ Single.

Diversity in pop culture and media are important.

The media and entertainment industry play an important role in race relations, as many people only know of certain ethnicities based on the image as produced through Hollywood’s lenses.

Stereotypes that are visually reinforced, and without basis.

We’ve not yet moved to a society where all are embraced, but maybe this can be the beginning of it. Maybe through diverse fiction, and the telling of tales that move the masses, others can embrace stories that star members of differing ethnicities, genders and sexual orientations.

Diverse fiction doesn’t mean that everything is about race relations or some huge historical struggle. A story by an African American author doesn’t have to include narratives about slavery. A romance doesn’t have to be about race any more than a children’s cartoon. Were the Huxtables any less relatable because they were a black family?

Instead, this and representations of diverse mediums reflect the diverse community we are, as well as helps to build bridges – removing the sense of otherness, and instead recognizing that the stories we tell are those of the heart – the same boy meets girl love stories, travel adventures, war stories, heck, even horror.

By building those bridges we help to eradicate the growing chasm of hate which we find ourselves wallowing in. 

So, instead of just deferring to a homogeneous or default representation in fiction, I’m happy to be part of a forthcoming boxed set that reflects the world in which I live.

Let’s embrace diverse fiction because we are living in a grand diverse world!

#diversitymatters #representationmatters