Imagine this scenario: You’re walking down the street on a warm spring day, enjoying the shop windows full of artfully displayed wares. People smile and nod. Some wave. Some pause to admire you as you pass them by. One or two even whistle in appreciation.

Then you turn a corner, and suddenly, it’s as if you’ve been erased. No one acknowledges you. People seem to look right through you as if you’re not there. 

You shake your head in disbelief. Your first instinct is panic. You to turn around and rush back the way you came.

Only you can’t go back because that street no longer exists.

Since it’s your only course, you walk ahead. Eventually, you stop at the doorway of a shiny new boutique. The funky, eclectic merchandise calls to you, reminding you of your youth. You step inside.

The shop staff flits from customer to customer like bees busily collecting pollen. You, they ignore. You spy a lace and paisley blouse; a modern interpretation evocative of a romantic gypsy poet and you fall in love. 

The price isn’t an issue. You’ve worked all your adult life. You can well afford an occasional splurge. So you take your purchase to the counter to pay for the blouse. The two salesclerks locked in conversation don’t even turn their heads.

Finally, exasperated, you bang on the counter loudly with the flat of your palm. “I’d like to pay for this,” you grit out between clenched teeth.

The salesclerks look at one another. It’s a relief that you’ve been seen, until you realize to them, you’re clearly a nuisance to be dealt with. 

Clerk A sighs and extends a hand to the merchandise, careful not to touch you, as if perhaps, you’re a leper and what ails you might be catching.

The transaction complete, you turn to exit the store. From behind you comes a stage whisper loud pitched enough that you know you’re meant to hear. 

“Oh, my gawd,” Clerk B hisses, exhaling with a theatrical groan. “Can you imagine that ridiculous old crone strutting around in that beautiful blouse? Ew!”

“Not if I want to be able to eat my lunch,” Clerk A replies, snickering.

Back on the pavement, you take a series of deep breaths, trying to calm and center yourself. That’s when you see them. Scattered among the bright and purposeful pedestrians, a rag-tag contingent of ghosts—and you realize you’re one of them.

No, this isn’t an episode of The Twilight Zone because, while Clerk A didn’t know it, she was right. What you have may not be catching, but it’s inevitable nonetheless: You’ve passed your sell-by date and have been consigned to the bin of irrelevancy, and someday, so too will they.

I’ve had a lot of time to think about being labeled “an old crone.” The irony, of course, that it’s a term that’s been bent over time to suit the ambitions of a patriarchal society. For centuries, men threatened by female empowerment have done their best to demonize female elders who challenged their authority.

In ancient times, crones were mystical, magical, and wise. Now, they are ugly, evil, and not to be trusted. Women indoctrinated into male-dominated culture, all too often buy into the belief system—until they’re caught on the other side of the great divide.

Weaponizing Language

Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me? Granted, a rose by any other name might smell as sweet, but nothing could be further from the truth. 

Words have immense potential for harm—both in short-term emotional fallout and long-term damage accrued over time. The evolving lexicon society uses to stratify the hierarchy that defines how we value ourselves and how we are valued by others is a scale tipped to raise up some while diminishing the rest. 

Words are currency and currency is power. “The ‘n-word’ was created to divest people of their humanity,” poet Maya Angelou once said. 

Epithets steeped in race, religion, and behavioral/gender conformity are purpose-built as ever-shrinking boxes designed to weaken and render silent those they contain. But as the population inside those boxes continues to grow and constraints tighten, to quote songwriter Johnny Mercer, “Something’s gotta give, something’s gotta give, something’s gotta give.”

Those long diminished by labels—bitch, Jezebel, and the n-word—have risen up with increasing frequency to wrest epithets used as tools of oppression from the oppressors in order to reclaim their power.

But can you take a word that is truly hateful and change its trajectory? Not everyone believes you can. For some semanticists, words that took their shape and meaning from ugliness will never truly escape the taint of their genesis.

“When I see a bottle—[and] it says ‘P-O-I-S-O-N,’ then I know [what it is],” Maya Angelou also said of the n-word. “The bottle is nothing, but the content is poison. If I pour that content into Bavarian crystal, it is still poison.”

That said, while the original meaning of “crone” did have some dark implications, it also encompassed the potent mysticism of wise women who through years of learning and practice wielded a power whose source was thought to be the very heart and soul of a living Mother Earth. 

That men were intimidated is no surprise. 

History records an unrelenting campaign by rulers, warriors, and organized religions to disenfranchise women by casting them in the roles of hags, harlots, and crones. And they succeeded to such an extent that many women collude in the narrative they created.

But should we? 

Let’s see what happens when we take Angelou’s analogy and apply it to the word “crone”.

“When I see a bottle and it says ‘Sacred Magic,’ then I know what it is. The bottle is nothing but the content is magic. If I pour the content into an old tin can, it’s still sacred.”

Whether we pour our magic into a crystal decanter or unleash it into the world, wise women can choose to remain invisible or we can take back the power that is ours.

I believe it’s time to embrace our inner crones. It’s time to define ourselves. We can be magical. We can be fierce. We can inspire, mentor, and encourage those who follow behind us. 

If we invest in the magic and remember a world of possibilities, there’s no telling what may come of it, but at least the hand that writes our future stories will be our own. 

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