Blue Witch: Emma and the Town Hall

On March 4, Emily Feiner, a 64-year-old social worker, was carried out of a town-hall meeting hosted by New York Republican Rep. Mike Lawler.

Video showing her speaking in a moderate tone, and then, officers insisting that if others did not get up from their seats to allow law enforcement to access to her, the entire row would be expelled was circulated on social media but is now unavailable. What is still available is is a CNN clip that omits the previous events, while showing the older woman going limp as she’s carried out of the crowded hall amid a crowd chanting “Let her stay!”

This mirrors a similar event last winter in traditionally conservative Idaho, although in that instance a woman was removed from a town hall by private security personnel without uniforms. We shouldn’t really be surprised. Representatives of unpopular governments the world over often resort to authoritarian practices and the quashing of open conversation, particularly when public protest persists.

Every day this spring, I encounter more and more people who are afraid to publicly speak up or act against the increasingly fascist trends in the United States. It’s time for another Blue Witch tale. Emma the Witch is the kind of influence we desperately need, and I hope she’ll bring you both hope and courage.

Image: a view of the grande ronde valley from a flower-speckled wooden labyrinth in a high meadow. Mount Harris rises blue in the background.

Emma the Witch 2

It’s the year of the unannounced coup, and Republican reps are coming back to small towns to bask in the expected applause of those who must have voted for them. The biggest hall they can find in town fills to capacity, but the crowd is hissing when the congressman steps out. Emma the Witch watches from one of the back rows near the door.

The crowd quiets momentarily for the congressman’s speech, but the speech turns into a lecture about “how governing works.”

“We didn’t come here for a civics lesson!” a woman in a wheelchair pushed up in front of the seats shouts.

“You’ve got a lot to answer for!” a bearded elder croaks.

The Congressman takes a few questions but refuses to answer them, returning to his lecture each time, speaking to the unruly crowd as children who haven’t done their homework. The people rumble. Several boo; others demand that he answer their questions. There is a line of men in dark, unmarked uniforms standing against the wall. Emma sketches sigils of binding and hindering toward them.

“You are supposed to represent us, and 22 percent of this county gets health care because of Medicaid,” the woman in the wheelchair yells out of turn. Emma mutters a chant to amplify a voice and holds the large quartz under her sweater.

“Ma’am, you’ll have to wait your turn,” the Congressman says.

“So, you can ignore me and everyone else here and dismiss the fact that you’re going to cause my death by taking away my medicine!” she cries.

He motions to the men in unmarked uniforms, and they start forward haltingly. They trip over feet and a skateboard that slides into the aisle. But they do reach the front. Emma has turned her attention to the people around her. A younger woman with braids and a BLM t-shirt is standing near the door, wavering.

Emma’s eyes bore into her and she chants under her breath, “Kali, Nana Buluku, Morighan, Qamaits, Sekhmet, Oya! Warrior women, give strength, give courage, give speech!” She smacks her lips and stands up, motioning toward the girl, as the men reach the woman in the front and start to jostle and push her wheelchair.

The woman screams out, “Stop! Don’t touch me! Who are you?”

The girl with the braids turns to the strangers next to her. “Give me your elbows!”

Several kids from the high school stare at her for a moment, confused. But a man in a Forest Service jacket hops over the person sitting at the aisle and stands beside the girl, linking elbows with her. The teens get it and join in. In moments, they’re blocking the door.

“Security! Clear the exit!” one of the uniforms barks.

Emma the Witch steps toward the aisle. She whispers words of calm, words of quiet. She draws the sigil for the Oak tree, strong door, steadfast. The line of people look calmly back at the dark-clad, mystery men.

“You are not law enforcement,” the girl with the braids enunciates softly. “You cannot take her.”

They try for the other exit, but by then other members of the crowd have stood and formed another line. The men leave the woman in her chair in the aisle and go to the congressman. Together, he and they escape into a back room.