16
Dispatches SKETCH
MARCH 2020Diaz’s own history of
witchcraft long predates the
2016 election. She said that
she had her first vision at age
5, was taught by her mother
to make potions to cure her
nightmares in elementary
school, and quietly used her
gifts as a seer while working
in crime-scene forensics after
college. Ten years ago, follow-
ing what she says was guid-
ance from her ancestors’ spir-
its, she quit her job, divorced
her first husband, and threw
herself full-time into working
as a witch.
Diaz, a self-described
“plant witch,” draws exten-
sively on Taíno traditions and
herbs, jars of which occupy
almost an entire room of her
apartment. But the fact that
there are no set criteria for
being a witch is, for many, pre-
cisely the appeal. Witchcraft
beckons with the promise of
a spirituality that is self-deter-
mined, anti patriarchal, and
flexible enough to incorpo-
rate varied cultural traditions.
Which is not to say any-
thing goes. Although Diaz
has emerged as a leading voice
for an inclusive, no-wrong-
answers form of witchery,
she and others prickle at the
creeping tendency to claim
the witch label without actu-
ally practicing magic. “A lot
of girls, young girls, they post
pictures of their house with
their room with upside-down
crosses, Goth clothes, with
their potions. They don’t even
practice witchcraft, and they’re
like, ‘Oh, I’m a witch,’ ” Diaz
told me. “It takes away from
the sacredness of the word.”
Diaz also says she’s troubled
by what she sees as the com-
modification of witchcraft—
though, of course, she’s ben-
efited from its commercial
appeal—and the cultural
appropriation that’s come
with it, such as white witches
borrowing from indigenous or
African-diasporic traditions.
Palo Santo, a wood that is tra-
ditionally burned by shamans
and is now a staple of yoga stu-
dios everywhere, can be pur-
chased from Urban Out fitters,
Bloomingdale’s, Madewell,
Anthropologie, the Whitney
Museum of American Art,
Crate and Barrel’s CB2, and,
once it’s back in stock there,
Goop. (In her own store, Diaz
aims to source from indig-
enous people and sell only
products she develops herself.)
Despite all this, calling
oneself a witch can still be
risky. Grossman told me she’s
received letters from numer-
ous people who fear that if
they openly embraced magic,
they “would be either fired
from their jobs, or have their
kids taken away, or be kicked
out of their families.” The
stakes are even higher in other
parts of the world, where, per
a 2009 United Nations report,
being labeled a witch remains
“tantamount to receiving a
death sentence.” Amid a rise
in witchcraft- related abuse—
including the case of an
8-year-old who was tortured
to death in 2000— London
established a police team ded-
icated to reducing violence
targeting accused witches;
by contrast, officials in Saudi
Arabia established an anti-
witchery unit that trains police
to “scientifically battle witch-
craft,” which is punishable
by beheading.On a brocaded ottoman
beside her couch, Diaz set out
a tray containing the ingredi-
ents necessary for her candle
ritual, which included a vial
of straw-thin mouse bones
(“for speed”), a snake carcasssuspended in milky liquid
(“for protection”), and frank-
incense oil (for “opening up a
portal for the candle and send-
ing a message into the roots of
the wax”). She lit a stick of Palo
Santo wood and wafted its
smoke over each item, carefully
encircling a tall candle that she
said she would “fix” with myintention, then burn later in
the sacred area she maintains
in her basement.
Diaz told me my inten-
tion should be specific, one
I hadn’t already made in the
past 30 days, and couldn’t be
to make someone fall in love
with me. I settled on a classic
intention: money. Specifically,
I was hoping to get paid for an
outstanding invoice and get a
friend to return money I’d lent
her a year before.
“No. 1, don’t loan money
out,” Diaz told me as she
dripped frankincense oil onto
the candle. “Two, always get
paid up front for work that you
do.” She is a plant witch, but
also a practical witch. When
a woman messaged the com-
munity board of Diaz’s online
school asking for a banishment
spell to expel a vet tech she
thought was rough with thecats, Diaz replied, “I would
personally call inspectors and
or health department.” As
Diaz sees it, magic is insepa-
rable from the mundane. “I’m
trying to bring awareness to
[the idea] that what we think
is normal is actually magical,”
she said. “Being on a planet
that’s revolving around, float-
ing in the universe, is magical.
But we’re so used to these fan-
tasies that we see on TV—you
flick a wand and something
just apparently happens. [Peo-
ple] start thinking that’s what
magic is, and they forget that
they, themselves, are the magi-
cal beings.”
Diaz finished fixing my
candle and, after promising to
light it soon, sent me off with
instructions to complete her
13-page candle-magic work-
book. I followed its directions to
burn sage, express gratitude, and
meditate for at least five minutes
daily. Not much seemed to be
happening. I tried to help the
magic along by emailing, again,
about the invoice and, again,
about the loan.
Two weeks after my visit,
Diaz emailed me out of the
blue: “Your candle by the way
is done, it burned really well!”
I was surprised to hear from
her, and by her timing. Twenty
minutes before, I’d found
two un deposited checks mis-
filed among the papers on my
desk, each worth more than
the money I was still owed. It
was a coincidence, I’m (almost)
sure. But I felt, in that moment,
like a dis organized, but magical,
being.Bianca Bosker is a contribut-
ing writer at The Atlantic
and the author of Cork Dork
and Original Copies.“WHENEVER
THERE ARE
EVENTS
THAT REALLY
SHAKE THE
FOUNDATIONS
OF SOCIETY,
PEOPLE
ABSOLUTELY
TURN TOWARDS
THE OCCULT.”