It was meant to be a quick trip to the corner store for some beverages. I found myself balancing a squirmy, curious toddler, a fountain drink, a bottle of water, my phone, keys, and wallet. I greeted the cashier with a smile and encouraged my little one to say hello, a tactic I often used to buy a moment of distraction so I could get everything organized for checkout. Typically, the cashier coos at my child, my daughter flashes her adorable smile, and we move on without a hitch.
But this time was different.
The cashier’s gaze was fixed on my chest, her expression a mix of disdain and alarm. With a harsh frown, she reached out to pull the water bottle away, then let the fountain drink drop into what I assumed was a trash can at her feet. I could feel the stares of the customers behind me, their eyes boring into me as if trying to uncover what had piqued the old woman’s ire.
“This is a Christian establishment. We don’t serve devil worshippers here,” she declared.
I stood there, momentarily bewildered. Then it struck me—amidst the chaos, my pentacle had slipped out from under my shirt. It felt as if ice water had been poured over me; I was frozen, unable to articulate my shock.
“That baby needs Jesus,” she added.
I remained silent, turning away and exiting the store with my head held high, my mind racing and my heart pounding. My hands trembled as I attempted to secure my daughter in her car seat. My eyes were wet, but I refused to cry—not in front of the onlookers still watching me from inside.
In that moment, I was transported back to being 16 years old, reliving the pain I felt when I first chose to embrace my identity. I remembered the principal telling me my self-portrait was too provocative for the younger students, or how a once-beloved relative had ripped my pentacle necklace from my neck, echoing the principal’s sentiments. I had felt so alone back then, grappling with the need to advocate for myself when no one else would.
But I wasn’t that frightened teenager anymore, and I certainly wasn’t alone. While it wasn’t the first instance of facing discrimination rooted in fear from those who don’t understand my beliefs, it was the first time such a confrontation took place in front of my daughter.
Upon discovering I was pregnant, I had feared raising my child in a faith that felt so out of place in our rural Bible Belt community. The thought of my daughter facing similar challenges as I had was daunting. Yet, I soon realized that the issue wasn’t about being different; it was about ignorance. If people took the time to know us, they’d see we share the same desires for love, kindness, and nurturing our children.
If I could revisit that moment in the store, I would explain my beliefs to the cashier. Paganism is not synonymous with devil worship. Satan holds no relevance in my faith. My beliefs center around balance, reverence for nature, and the divine (both a god and goddess). I strive for equilibrium in all areas of my life. I wholeheartedly believe that each person must find their own path to the divine, and as long as no harm comes to the vulnerable—like the innocent, the sick, and the elderly—every path is valid. Pagans are not malevolent; we are simply human beings, just like anyone else. In fact, you probably know someone who practices paganism—they just haven’t come out of the metaphorical broom closet yet.
I would also share that I don’t believe my daughter needs Jesus, but should she choose Christianity later in life, I would support her fully.
The problem isn’t being different; it’s the unwillingness to rise above ignorance and learn about those whose beliefs, practices, or lifestyles differ from our own. Yes, our backgrounds and beliefs shape us, but they do not define our entirety. People are complex, multi-dimensional beings, and when we judge someone based on a single facet of their life, we miss out on the richness of their experiences.
I am a pagan, yes, but I am also a wife, a mother, a sister, a friend, and a dedicated college student who has long since graduated high school. I hail from a small Southern town filled with generations of farmers. I have an extensive collection of books, a penchant for crafting, a cat I adore more than most people, and a profound love for cookie dough. I suspect I’m a lot like you.
The beauty of humanity lies in our connections. When you take the time to truly get to know someone, you often find more similarities than differences.
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In summary, my experience as a pagan mother highlights the challenges of confronting ignorance and fear-based discrimination. It’s essential to advocate for understanding and compassion while embracing the complexities of our identities.