Tarot Terror
I was terrified of tarot.
Growing up, I always thought it was evil, alongside horoscopes and ouija boards and anything else that I perceived to be the devil’s work. It’s a little known fact now, and (I fear, my staple personality trait in my youth) that I was an evangelical Christian. I relied on this rule book, this black and white structure, avoid this, do that, your survival hinges on external approval, from a deity, a doctor, a man. It’s a lot for a little girl to learn and unlearn. But I have, and I am, and I will.
Tarot isn’t terrifying: it is a tool, a method of self reflection and projection. Through anything less demonised like journaling or meditation or prayer, I’d likely come to similar conclusions, and not question my soul’s fate. These things tend to have the power you give them. Tarot is no different. It is an artistic way to connect with yourself, your intuition. To me, it is like a coin toss. Whilst it is in the air, you often realise what you are hoping for the answer to be. In the same way, the cards aren’t necessarily telling me something I don’t already know, it’s just a fun way to reflect. It’s not everyone’s cup of tea, and for some people it holds far more significance and spiritual power. So why, when so many other things share this same spectrum, did I fear tarot so much? I was skeptical of meditation and journaling too, but not terrified. Terrified.
I was given my Jane Austen Tarot set by a friend and almost dropped it when I realised what it was, it felt like my hands were burning. Then the other part of me chimed in. Noticed. Questioned. Rebelled. Tried it, and realised there was very little to fear, quite the opposite. Beautiful illustrations. Does it help that Wickham and Willoughby are the cads and not the devil himself? I am sure. My point is, I had demonised something I had never even looked at, nor touched! Only heard tell of. This is a pattern that is not unique to me: we demonise and fear things that we don’t understand.
Take Voodoo, or rather, Vodou. Even the term is anglicized, something I only learnt whilst writing this. In Western culture it is shorthand for dark magic, evil, horror. It was to my surprise and delight that I learnt (through a New Orleans Vodou practitioner) what it actually is: A tradition developed by enslaved West African people to make healthcare accessible. Transmitted orally across generations because they were not allowed to learn reading and writing. Practitioners would stick pins in the dolls to track symptoms, one in the head to communicate they had been treating a headache, for instance. In creating a form of communication other than written word, they were resisting their oppression. Misinformation online, the echo-chambers we find ourselves in, I believe these are similar to the tools of the oppressors: denying literacy, destroying critical thinking.
There is a word for this type of demonisation and misrepresentation: epistemicide. It means the deliberate killing or devaluing of ways of knowing. Colonial medicine didn’t simply arrive alongside other belief systems and compete fairly. It co-opted them and criminalised them. In Canada, traditional indigenous healing practices were outlawed under the Indian Act of 1876. The knowledge that survived did so through the same oral, community-rooted ways of sharing information that Western institutions dismissed as primitive. These institutions that erased knowledge pointed to its absence as proof it never had value. As a disabled person, this feels all too familiar. Inaccessibility can lead to us not being able to work. Our lack of representation leads to the claim that access is not needed. Then, the removal of the ability to advocate for ourselves altogether. A vicious cycle.
Stories are the most powerful tool we have.
The stories we tell ourselves about others, about our identities, about the world. They are the tools we can use to repeat these cycles, or break them. We tell ourselves these systems are broken, and on that we all seem to agree, but who broke them? Or… Who benefitted from the belief that they are unfixable?
When governments are failing, they find someone to blame, and right now that blame is on the vulnerable-- except these people aren’t weak or pitiful. They’re not sneaky or demonic. They are a threat to the story being told. They don’t conform, they highlight the cracks in our systems that affect us all, they are the canary in the coal mine. They inadvertently question the narrative that power requires everyone to believe. Trans people existing blows up the gender binary. Disabled people surviving challenges the myth that your worth is your productivity. Immigrants contributing to the economy undermines the scarcity mindset that is the very foundation of our competitive culture. The irony is clear: It is not us who should be terrified, it is the system that has been designed out of fear, designed to divide us in an effort to preserve the status quo. Voudou was criminalised because it worked, not because it didn’t: It empowered enslaved people. The same is true of these so called ‘vulnerable’ groups; immigrants, trans people, and disabled people are some of the strongest, most proactive hard workers and problem solvers I have ever met.
I do not believe these systems are broken. They are working as intended. How would you hold onto power? What story would you tell? Design division. Distract. It’s not us, it’s them. Again, and again.
It is this experience that helps me empathise with people who consider voting right wing. Maybe they don’t have the same perception of progressives as I do. Maybe they are reading a different story. Maybe they have only heard tell of the devil within the dyed hair hippies, the agenda to make their children gay and force weed down their throats! The murderers coming over to OUR home on millions of boats. Sounds… terrifying?
If somebody wants to vote right wing, I can well imagine the fear and anger and sense of injustice that drove them to it. The very fact I’m referring to them as ‘them’ is disheartening to me. We have so much more in common than not. Decision making inspired by fear, for example, and those fears being passed down before we could think to question them. I believe everyone deserves the right to exist, even those I disagree with. I am an educated woman with access to libraries and the internet who spent years afraid of a deck of illustrated cards. Does that not tell you everything you need to know about the power of inherited narrative? If I can recognise that terror, I can empathise with those whose political fears I don’t share. Those who might think I shouldn’t exist.
But empathy is not the same as condoning the actions taken and the beliefs so casually and confidently disseminated. Being a doormat in the name of tolerance is another tool of oppression. Protecting freedom of speech is not a licence to erase others with your words.
On May 7th, many local elections in the UK are being held, and I am voting for the story I want to tell my baby niece. I want to tell her that everyone’s voice deserves to be heard, even those I disagree with, especially those I disagree with, because we don’t learn anything in an echo chamber. I want to tell her that she is free to be herself, regardless of whom she might love or what she might be able to do or how much she can earn. I want to tell her there is hope.
What story would you like to tell? Maybe it’s different from mine, maybe you don’t know where to begin (Once upon a time is cliche for a reason!).
A few people asked me recently how to decide who to vote for, ‘it’s overwhelming! I feel obliged to do more research than I have capacity for, I just don’t feel educated enough… my opinion doesn’t matter, what do I know?’ This! Another tool of oppression: ‘Your voice doesn’t matter unless you have a degree, or can recite a manifesto, or know the difference between right and left.’
This, dear reader, is ripe bullshit. The only thing you need to do to vote is care.
To make it less overwhelming, try choosing three issues you care about. Maybe it is healthcare, or education, or the cost of living. Find out what you care about, find out who else cares in the same way, and vote for them. Because your voice deserves to be heard, whether I agree with what you have to say or not.
I’ll be voting Green.
