Category: Uncategorized

by Helle Bent

Being able to look forward to celebrating Thanksgiving, should I so choose, is a privilege. Only recently did I understand this was a privilege, and one not shared by many.

For much of my life Thanksgiving meant a day off from school (and later, work), a meal with the family (which remains its own maelstrom of obligation and dread unrelated to the privilege of HoLiDaY ChEeR), and of course, mandatory gratitude. “Don’t talk politics, let’s just have some food and family time. Isn’t this nice? Boy, it’s almost Christmas! Where does the time go?”

Like many of you, Little Helle Bent made construction paper turkeys in school by cutting out a tracing of her hand. We learned that colonists graciously shared their kindness and their ways of life with the folks who already lived on the land they “discovered”, and in exchange for generously being permitted to remain on this land, the Indigenous folks shared their maize and everyone was merry and bright and full of turkey. There was lots of thanks and lots of giving.

I now know this is white supremacist bullshit. I should have known this a long time ago, and I’m angry I didn’t. At 45 years old, I’m still trying to decipher which of the “facts” I was taught in school are based in truth and which are propaganda. History is written by white men and everything is through this lens. When other cultures are introduced, they’re exactly that – other. A cultural novelty depending on what month or day of remembrance or celebration it is, but certainly not the default. They’re foreign customs and solitary contributions demanding a dismissive “isn’t that nice?” before circling back to how a bill becomes a law.

White Supremacy is a scary term because we know who comes to mind and we don’t want to be associated with them. I’m guilty of benefiting from a white supreme culture. I’m white. The end. I didn’t get a special “month” because I didn’t need one. Of all my challenges, my skin color was never one of them. My skin color did not require of me another truth. Another history.

When I learn appalling truths about our history that we should have been taught in school, I understand more about the system that’s in place today – how privilege builds upon itself, how power begets more power, and how trauma is passed down through generations (it literally changes our DNA). If we were taught even a fraction of what’s accurate or omitted, it would be impossible to look at ourselves and justify our existence without utter shock and revulsion.

I’m seeing how simply participating (and hopefully succeeding) in a system designed by and for white men perpetuates a white-washed history and reinforces the supremacy given to white skin, whether you and I agree with it or not. It’s there, like flour baked into a cookie. And I’m realizing how fucking sinister the construction paper turkeys are (to speak nothing of speciesism).

When I celebrate the life I have made for myself, I have to acknowledge the truth of the history that enabled me to get here, and the fact that it’s a privilege to not be fully victimized and traumatized by an American holiday. White Supremacy is the foundation of our existence, not just a racist belief we can choose to deny. It’s the default setting of the values held by the men who stole this land, wiped out the existing peaceful, matriarchal civilizations, and built the infrastructure that paved the way for atrocities like slavery, forced sterilization, mass incarceration and extermination, concentration camps, not to mention the sex- and gender-based horrors brought on by their patriarchal puritanism.

It shouldn’t have taken me this long to get here. This is why they keep this history locked in the cellar behind the door with the construction paper turkey on it.

By Helle Bent

“Abortion and access to abortion affects other people, too. Not just people with uteruses.”

“Why is there no straight pride?”

“Blue lives matter too, you know. Not all cops are bad.”

“Why don’t we get a white history month?”

#notallmen (eyeroll)

These are reactionary statements meant to dismiss and re-center the conversation around individual agendas, through either intentional manipulation or oblivious self-absorption.

A lot of people are mad. Rightfully so. Nearly everyone in every community is affected by this decision and what it means for the future.

But if someone’s rage stems from a shift in the conversational orbit, or from a fear of being potentially inconvenienced because “what if MY girlfriend / sister / daughter gets pregnant, now it affects ME!” instead of the fact that we, HUMANS, are being hunted without consequence, and democracy, decency, and our personal sovereignty are disintegrating, then I reject their rage and do not want their commiseration.

“Wow, that bullet could have hit the brand new tires on my car, and my daughter girlfriend neighbor wife mother would have had to take THE BUS!”

This is not a compassionate thing to say to the person who has just been shot. Their desperate need to be validated as an ally does not mandate my sympathy.

Yes, the collateral damage is massive, this hits everyone, but not everyone finds themselves with the actual target on their backs. There are no words to describe the terror brought on by that second fucking line on that pregnancy test.

Not everyone will be forced to carry a fetus to term, viable or not.

Not everyone risks being jailed for a miscarriage. JAILED. FOR. A. MISCARRIAGE.

Not everyone fears physical retaliation by their partner because their partner doesn’t want a child.

Not everyone risks their life for a high-risk-pregnancy, something my friend called “disability eugenics” which hadn’t even occurred to me. They are right.

Some folks have the choice to find themselves slightly less “inconvenienced” by this whole forced-birth mandatory-parenthood thing.

People of color and the Indigenous community. Queer, trans, and nonbinary folks. Women. All have been screaming this at society for years through what seems like soundproof glass.

Directly unaffected people, myself included, have historically not had to pay close attention, or chose not to, for whatever reason. It didn’t look like it was in my backyard. I thought the fight was a foreign one that didn’t involve me. But these days, with the world so small and visible, there is no excuse.

We are being hunted for sport and this shit, right next to a lot of not-guilty verdicts over the past few years, was the highest, loudest government sanctioned shot-in-the-air notice that a no holds barred hunting season has begun and it’s sick, it’s PAINFUL, to see the relief they feel from not having to pretend anymore that there were rules.

I feel like the flaming bullseye in their target practice, running for cover while they laugh with their rifles and dumb safari hats and cheers each other with their crystal champagne flutes.

We are being collected, captured, and imprisoned for either their sexual consumption, their perverse religious subjugation, the interminable propagation of their seed, or maybe just for when they have an owie and need us to glue their fragile masculinity back together because a mean, nasty woman said something horribly threatening to them like “I have an opinion” or “…no thank you…” and the sense of entitlement they wear ripped open, incredible hulk style.

I am so, so insincerely sorry that Broflakes can’t enjoy their ballgames and beer as much, what, with all this rage-whining and overreacting going on. Someone can relate because he has a daughter? Great. If other folks mean nothing until it’s a one degree of separation sort of thing, then please be quiet and listen rather than prepare your defense before we’re even done speaking. There are actual traumatized humans who have valid things to say.

If someone has taken offense to or issue with any of these statements, please know and understand that there is probably a reason for that, and I am not sorry and I do not care.

To my dear Rebels in Uteri – Sigh. I know … I know. Choose your battles. Save your energy. Don’t give them even more control over your life and your health than they are already trying to take.

by Leah Bamman

     Although time has provided social distance from the age of domestic confinement and lack of voting rights for women, in today’s climate misogyny prevails. The rise in technology and the influence of social media platforms has allowed misogyny to metamorphose into something less governable, in part due to the anonymity and lack of censorship offered by online spaces. Thus, sexism and white male supremacy has become somewhat intangible in online spaces, yet especially sinister due to its lack of restriction. 

     Last semester for my capstone paper, I investigated the contemporary manifestations of hegemonic masculinity. Hegemonic masculinity is defined as: a societal pattern in which stereotypically male traits are idealized as the masculine cultural ideal. This term encompasses reasoning for how and why men maintain dominant social roles over women, gender diverse persons, and gay men (Connell, 2005). While not necessarily in total opposition, hegemonic masculinity’s popularized and colloquial terminological counterpart—“toxic masculinity”, is arguably less comprehensive. “Toxic masculinity,” when analyzed in terms of its lack of a shared definition, alludes to the speech or behavior of a man that is considered by an individual or group (often raised-female people) to be venomous. Whereas hegemonic femininity (Connell, 1995) represents a femininity most revered by standards of heteronormativity, hegemonic masculinity refers to the societally dominant binary. I investigated (primarily) white masculinity through its presentation on conservative subreddits. On the whole, the alt-right emphasizes that men in Western society are actively persecuted by left-leaning politics, feminism, and identity politics. In their estimation, feminism has injured their definition of masculinity and thus, harmed society as a whole (Dignam & Rohlinger, 2019). The alt-right considers social justice movements and progressivism to be the cause of their perceived attack on masculinity and thus, unfavorable political change. Men on the alt-right covet the recreation and empowerment of white masculinity. They seek solace and attempt to carry out this mission via Internet-based, conservative groups. 

     Hegemonic masculinity offers a structural lens through which we can scrutinize the impact of gender as it relates to our social configuration. Men on the alt-right have positioned women as thieves of masculinity. However, “taking the red pill” (The Matrix, 1999) does not only encourage the degradation of women, it also promotes a conservative view of masculinity. “The hero takes the red pill, which is meaningful to these groups who feel the world has mistreated them. Gathering in online echo chambers, they feel like heroes for seeing the world for what it is, for being brave enough to handle it and strong enough to show others” (Cunha, 2006). Mentions of heroism, bravery and strength, highlight the hegemonic masculinity bolstering Red Pill culture. While to some, taking the Red Pill might indicate someone who follows conspiracy theory and supports white supremacy, those within these conservative subcultures trust that Red Pill philosophy is an effective means of affirming their masculinities and thus becoming respected and dominant. 

     Since men’s identification with their masculinity relies on homophobia, queerness becomes a threat under hegemonic masculinity, as it opposes heteronormative ideas of an idealized manhood. As a result, homosocial relationships, (in this case the ones formed on Reddit), become vehicles through which men attempt to solidify their masculinities. The social crafting of an idealized masculinity is inseparable from men’s lack of permitted emotional expression and opportunities for both platonic, and romantic intimacy. These gender binary aligned cultural symbols remain operative in upholding gender performances in adulthood. Pascoe and Bridges (2016) consider a Dodge commercial that aired during the 2010 Super Bowl. The commercial’s transcript reads as follows: 

I will get up and walk the dog at 6:30 AM. I will eat some fruit as part of my breakfast. I will shave. I will clean the sink after I shave. I will say yes, when you want me to say yes. I will be quiet when you don’t want me to say no. I will take your call. I will listen to your opinion of my friends. I will listen to your friends’ opinions of my friends. I will be civil to your mother. I will put the seat down. I will separate the recycling. I will carry your lip balm. I will watch your vampire TV shows with you…And because I do this, I will drive the car I want to drive. Charger. Man’s Last Stand! 

While I find it challenging to interpret this advertisement as anything other than satire, there is much to unpack in this commercial. While initially this may be read as a kitschy or cliché example of a sexist thought process, something profound wells in these words. What is interesting is that the heteronormative relationship presented here suggests a renouncing of masculinity. The forsaking of virile energy foreshadows the consumption of micronutrients at breakfast, paying attention to your partner, considering your partners assessment of others with whom you have relationships and so forth. In addition, the man’s masculinity is depicted as something moderated through a committed relationship. “Vampire shows” and “lip-balm” are not only representative of a woman void of intellect and density, reduced to superficial pleasures. These insertions also address the man’s dejected emotional state. The man’s reality in his relationship renders him “fruity” (the breakfast—a detail containing homophobic undertones) and subjected to environmentally considerate deeds (recycling). Just as the male child is provided cars to play with, the adult male clings to the automobile as a method by which he indemnifies his last shred of masculinity. Amusingly, although the commercial is heteronormative in nature, it actually criticizes, (albeit in an unfortunate anti-feminist manner) compulsory heterosexuality. 

     Throughout my research, I discovered and analyzed homosocial dynamics. Homosociality simply refers to non-sexual relationships that a person has with others who identify as male or female. However, within academic studies on masculinity and gender, male homosociality is analyzed as a means through which men seek the approval of other men, thus affirming their own masculinity. Some folks claim that this desire for peer validation is inherently homoerotic. Others maintain homosocial dynamics illustrate how limited male connection and friendship is under the patriarchy. I took the latter stance to support my research and claim/s regarding male emotional constriction. Many conservative men practice misogyny (or in their opinion, traditionalist masculinity) trusting that, what others would likely deem sexist language or behavior, will guarantee them the adoration of women and sexual prowess. By insisting that feminism, left-leaning politics, and social justice movements are at the root of their predicaments, men discharge their feelings of loneliness and insecurity. These sentiments however, are shared under the guide of social-progression-induced alienation. Traditional notions of masculinity within heteronormative spheres are revered, leading men to experience deep feelings of inferiority should they not possess and practice antiquated qualities and understandings of masculinity. Failure to integrate into the kingdom of hegemonic masculinity means potential exile from manhood. This fear of a collapsed masculinity leads men to seek affirmation in their manhood through peer relations.

     The discourse on the Reddit forums I explored and researched, involved the constant communication of anti-feminism. I analyzed this dogma as a means through which the white, alt-right aligned man feels he can connect to his masculinity. These dynamics demonstrate a type of male bonding that is reliant on homophobia. My purpose in focusing on young white men was to reveal how, (in the context of social positioning), the oppressor denies their dominant social status and instead claims to inhabit a marginalized identity. Using an intersectional framework, I dissected contemporary ideals surrounding masculinity and assessed the sociopolitical reverberations of men self-categorizing as wounded. In America’s current, highly polarized political climate, social platforms have evolved into political tools. Online spaces allow individuals to discover communities where the dialogue parallels their own philosophies. Within radical conservative subcultures, platforms such as 4chan that house extremist ideologies, fostered synchronization through their support of Donald Trump. Consequently, what were once sequestered Internet zones teeming with dated attitudes, rose to power preceding the 2016 election, alchemizing into widely broadcasted, pro-Trump havens, accommodating white supremacy and misogyny. Prominent, frequented platforms (such as Reddit) possess the potential for momentous influence, as seen in their role in the 2016 election. 

     In writing my capstone paper, I looked at people such as Kyle Rittenhouse, who arguably embodies the perils of hegemonic masculinity and how the patriarchy is inextricable from white supremacy. An important question I came to in finalizing my research was: if countless young men are subscribing to alt-right media and are forming connections with others who subscribe to these ideologies, what does this mean for future generations of emotionally restricted male persons in the United States? I do not have a concrete solution or answer to my research question. After completing my thesis, I do possess a stronger comprehension of how hegemonic masculinity and our highly gendered society are at fault for the lack of mental health support available for men. If men were provided the room to experience vulnerability and tenderness with themselves and other men, I imagine the world would look very different. To address pertinent issues such as male sexual assault and mental health, depoliticize platforms such as Reddit and Spotify, and challenge hegemonic masculinity, those involved in the process of raising young men must be educated on the detrimental nature of teaching male young people that empathy and emotions are synonymous with weakness. Feminism today spends a lot of time trying to hold men accountable for enacting violence or misogyny. What the concept of hegemonic masculinity offers though, is a way of contextualizing the actions of one man and understanding how this behavior was authorized by our patriarchal organizing in which men are simultaneously dominant and neglected. 

      Last week, I wrote an email to Spotify after cancelling my subscription. The fact that Spotify continues to support Joe Rogan, and allows him to benefit monetarily from its platform is a perfect example of how capitalism endorses hegemonic masculinity. Despite the medical misinformation Rogan allows on his show, in addition to his personal history of transphobic, racist comments, Spotify prioritizes capitalist gain and has not at this time de-platformed Rogan. 

Satanic tenet IV states: “The freedoms of others should be respected, including the freedom to offend. To willfully and unjustly encroach upon the freedoms of another is to forgo one’s own.” However, Satanic tenet V reads: “Beliefs should conform to one’s best scientific understanding of the world. One should take care never to distort scientific facts to fit one’s beliefs.” I am of the opinion, that in the case of present-day, medical misinformation, tenet V should be a guiding principle in how we approach freedom of speech as it relates to the COVID-19 crisis and the accompanying misinformation. Spotify’s refusal to de-platform Rogan means that people continue to consume the content of a creator who many idealize as the epitome of masculinity. As we have seen during the former president’s era, mass subscription to misinformation can result in violence and social division. Furthermore, compassion (tenet I) is also a fundamental moral practice within Satanism. To permit the spread of medical misinformation on popular, mainstream media platforms to which many young people subscribe, is to act without benevolence. Allowing Joe Rogan to remain on YouTube and Spotify is doing an intellectual disservice to the individuals, families, and healthcare providers who have been impacted physically and/or mentally by the pandemic. While people should be allowed to freely voice oppositional views or alternative perspectives, Joe Rogan has authority over a platform with immense reach. 

     The predominantly alt-right trope that declares men are becoming increasingly marginalized by modern society, repeatedly includes a beaten-down, hopeless tone. These allegations are becoming increasingly popular. Consequently, when figures such as Joe Rogan, Donald Trump, Jordan Peterson, or Ben Shapiro (for example) assume a sympathetic stance towards the believed plight of men, they become revered by men who also consider themselves disadvantaged by feminism and society’s moral evolution. What I believe these men are not cognizant of is that, the superficial compassion these well-known individuals seem to offer, is actually a defense of the societal structures that are truly harming men. While men believe women and social justice are to blame for their misfortune, in reality, it is men who are wounding men. The curtailing of men’s emotions is historical, rooted in heteronormativity and capitalism. It endures, despite newer psychological knowledge and data that informs us of the consequences of emotional suppression. The antiquated, yet persistent, heteronormative ideal stating that men have to be the sole provider for their family, that acquisition of wealth is a man’s most valuable contribution to a committed relationship, stems from the enduring history of men hiring other men, thus creating a male dominated workforce—a sexist arrangement that continues to produce a gendered wage gap. As a result, men are persuaded through the patriarchy to be the simultaneously most important, yet dispensable cogs in the wheel of capitalism. Due to the emphasis capitalism places on productivity, I believe men develop a pathological sense of self-sufficiency based on gendered workforce dynamics. This is a generational epidemic, inherited by men whose fathers were also pawns for the economy, dedicating their lives to upward mobility. The men who promise other men salvation are actually further propagandizing those who feel alienated, recruiting them as emotionally desperate individuals who will follow instructions on how to sustain heteronormativity, capitalism, and politics. 

     In subscribing to the ideologies of men who’s have large followings, men experience liberation from their suffering by blaming women, feminists, and “woke culture”. Men on the alt-right commonly believe conspiracy theories about governmental tyranny (Qanon, Antifa, COVID-19 vaccination etc.). I think however, that an alternative, more crucial theory is that: the patriarchy and its associated systems (such as capitalism) benefit from men remaining chained to their stoicism and repressed psychological distress. The patriarchy mobilizes men’s frustration, using it as a weapon, leading men to flock to male-centric podcasts, Reddit and other social media platforms and enact misogyny and aggression in an attempt to reconcile their pain. The patriarchy is not only harmful to women. It seriously injuries men and yet, hegemonic masculinity and its close ties with capitalism, prevents this realization. 

     What the ideology of Satanism, Satanic ritual and the Satanic community offer, is unique. We have the knowledge and opportunity to, through writing, consciousness-raising, and activism, to probe and dislodge systems of hegemony through fierce compassion. 

II

The struggle for justice is an ongoing and necessary pursuit that should prevail over laws and institutions. 

Leah Bamman, 
The Satanic Temple, NYC Chapter 
Bachelor of Women and Gender Studies
MSW Candidate 

by Oma

Hello everyone, I come today with something I have been meaning to share for quite some time now. I had other things in mind to write about and thus, kept delaying this post from being created, but alas I feel that due to the significance of Juneteenth, it is a perfect time to make this happen! For those who are not aware of the importance behind Juneteenth, or perhaps not even sure what it is about, allow me to briefly explain. Juneteenth is the oldest nationally celebrated commemoration of the ending of slavery in the United States and it is has just become a Federal holiday.

However, while this post is not about the holiday, it does have to do with race, particularly how the racial imagery of the Devil impacted my self-image. I realize that many of you lovely individuals are already aware of the history the Devil has with being synonymous to the outcast or the “other.” This is going to dive into a different element which may be more alien to some, so I felt it was necessary for us to have an exposure of perspectives, mainly with regards to the symbolism of Satan, because at the end of the day it will help us realize why we, as Satanists, truly have sympathy for the Devil.

That said, I will be covering a few specific things here as it all pertains to my main idea. I would like for us to take a brief look into the value placed in religious art when it comes to certain colors. We will also go over the way our subconscious mind could get affected by racial imagery, and finally I will spend a bit of time exposing you all to my self-reflections. So, while this post might include some serious topics, I would love for you all to at least gain a new perspective on our dear Satan. 

Colors in Cultural History

Colors in art play a massive role into what message gets portrayed by a given individual. There are psychological effects which are attributed to colors like red and its association to hunger, blue and its relation to calmness, and so forth. When we speak about the way art shaped the creative license of religious imagery, we must also pay attention to which colors are indeed attributed to certain mythological characters. In religious mythologies or even epic tales, you can note a certain narrative being played between a protagonist and an antagonist. Both of these characters would have a given role to play, a given feeling to portray, and thus a given color associated with them.

Now, before I dive deeper, I will acknowledge the fact that the art portrayed in religions and mythological stories cannot all be represented in a binary perspective of “good vs evil.” This is a gross misrepresentation of cultural diversity and anyone who wishes to paint this brush stroke across human history is doing a disservice to how creative we are as a species. (Looking at you Peterson!) That said, I will, for the sake of simplicity, expand on the element of blackness and how it could be synonymous with negative concepts.

“Blackness possesses an immense range of negative and fearful associations. Basically black is the color of night, when your enemies can attack you unexpectedly. Cosmogonically, blackness is chaos; ontogenically it is the sign of death and the tomb, or of the ambivalent womb. Though pallor is associated with death and hence with evil – heretics and demons are often pallid in the Middle Ages – black indicates evil in places as disparate as Europe, Africa, Tibet, and Siberia.” (Russell, 1977, pg. 66)

This excerpt comes from a book entitled The Devil, Perceptions of Evil from Antiquity to Primitive Christianity by Jeffrey Burton Russell. In this quote, he details the complexity behind the concept of blackness in cultures around the world. Modern scholars, however, have noted that Russell held some personal biases regarding binary elements within color that do taint some of his conclusions. Nevertheless, he does allude to the idea we, as primates, do have an innate fear of the dark. This darkness is then perceived and personified in religious art form through the element of “blackness.”

The reason why I am spending a considerable amount of time on this is because I would like to ensure that I am not overlooking certain elements to facilitate a point. My claim is not that all depictions of blackness in culture in contrast to whiteness is inherently racist; no, my perspective is that these binary depictions were exploited to promote a racist narrative. Let’s explore this thought a bit further.

Conquering the Subconscious

Since 1492, the year when Columbus and his men crash landed on Quisqueya (now known as the Dominican Republic and Haiti), there has been a looming perception of inequality in the island. Colonialism brought forth the creation of “race” and the invading religion helped with the coercion by soothing it out in the guise of “salvation”. This history is personified with the binary elements I’ve described earlier. In this case, the christian concept of “good vs evil” is showcased as whiteness vs blackness. The exercise of excessive violence, murder, and genocide is to be subconsciously drawn as a blip in our history, because of course, the images associated to those times were of white men “discovering” and claiming land. The ones invading our land “cleansed” the darkness of the unknown with christianity. As kids taking lessons of this early Dominican period, we were always told to remember that our “history” started after 1492, that we were not a “civilization” previous to this date.

We must recall that in earlier renditions of devils and demons, they were mostly represented as bestial creatures. In some cases, you could see that medieval artists went a bit overboard with their perceptions of reptilian and winged creatures being the manifestation of pure evil. While I could spend time describing why these earlier renditions were depicted this way, what is interesting to note is how it changed over from creature to human features. It could be safely determined that it was not until the romantic period that renditions of Satan sought a shift in the devil being personified as equal to angels. This is due to the fact that the romantics, after the enlightenment, were pushing the idea of Satan as Lucifer the fallen angel. Prior to this, even if we did have the devil depicted in a humanistic perspective, it was almost always morbid with elements of prior medieval beast-like qualities.

What this means is that when Columbus came around to conquer the new world we still had a beast-like representation of what is to be considered “evil” or bad in European christian culture. Given how the indigenous population was depicted by early explorers, it is easy to draw the parallel between the creation of “race” with the artistic renderings of “evil” to the subjugated other. This is then clearer still when we notice how blackness is exemplified with the Devil after the Slave trade occurred. As the African population grew in our country to replace the absence of the Taino Indians, the subconscious assertion of supremacy was painted with the similar stroke as before: whiteness was pure, blackness was the devil. To add a final note here, we could see this manifesting more clearly in Africa where you could literally see a white jesus boxing with a black Satan. In an ironic plot twist, you also have a demon called “Muzungu Maya” in South Africa / Mozambique, this demonic figure translates to “wicked white man” and its origins are traceable to white slave catchers. How we develop an association to color is all subjective to the experiences we have and the narrative we wish to tell.

Seeing the Devil in the Mirror

The depiction of the Devil in the Dominican Republic always fascinated me as a child. I was lucky to grow up in an environment which promoted independent thought. My parents did not wish to formally introduce religion in my early life as they believed it would take away from my childhood. Due to this privileged position, I had the opportunity to view religion objectively for what it is in relation to how people reacted to it. Catholicism ran rampant in our culture and the perceptions of racial inequality via religious imagery were obvious, but only to those who did not have an obligation to respect it. Most Dominicans did not see any correlation with a dark skinned Devil being trampled by a light skinned St. Michael with the color of their skin and the history of the land they called home.

We were all meant to relate with the European history, culture, and religion. We had to remember that the goal was to be like the conquerors because they “discovered” and “built” the country. To that end, there was little to no mention of the cultural influences our African and Taino ancestors had in the development of our diverse culture. This left us with a whitewashed history we embodied as a norm. There were some salvaged elements of our African heritage masked as catholic saints; however, this practice of Santeria was quickly determined to be “black magic” and obviously associated with “Devil Worship.”

All of this push back against my Indigenous and African heritage hit a tipping point for me when I first saw the statue we have of Columbus in the capital. You can notice Columbus looking forward towards “the new world,” exemplifying his grandeur as a Taino Indian writes his name below his feet. This imagery quickly reminded me of how the dark skinned and curly haired Satan was below the feet of St. Michael. In both artistic renditions, you have a clear image of superiority and suppression. When I looked in the mirror as a child, I never saw a Columbus nor a St. Michael; I saw a curly haired and dark skinned little boy. It was the first time I sympathized with the Devil and years later, when I identified as a Satanist, I finally understood why.

Hail Satan!

By Helle Bent

Note from the Underworld: I wrote this years ago before I joined TST. Since March is the month lots of folks pretend to care about women and our contributions to society and our overall well-being, I thought I’d revisit this subject, as it pertains heavily to TST’s first four tenets: compassion, justice, autonomy, and freedom. Hail Satan, Hail Lilith, Hail Thyselves.

***

It was a passing comment about something unrelated that got my attention. Years ago on The Daily Show With Trevor Noah, our beloved host mentioned that he had no idea the “catcalling” epidemic (yes it’s an epidemic) was so prevalent until he saw Hollaback!’s viral video 10 Hours Walking In NYC As a Woman.

Because it doesn’t happen to them, most men were unable to believe it was an accurate portrayal of life as a woman in New York City. I promise you, it is.

In one week (not a comprehensive list) –

– A drunk broseph-type nearly tackled me during rush hour, slurring “hey there sssshexy.”

– W. 26^th Street (quiet, tree-lined, residential), weekday, lunchtime. I began to cross the street. He crossed the street too. Ok here we go… I stood behind a parked van, debating if I should cross back over and risk offending him, while he stood on the other side of the van waiting for me not caring if he risked offending me at all. I crossed back over. He yelled obscenities at me.

– Weekday, lunchtime. A pungent, indigent male approached me and noisily blew me a wet kiss less than a foot from my face. My attempt to avoid him was unsuccessful. He followed me. It takes some time for that adrenaline to fade.

– While on my run one muggy Saturday morning, a male getting into his car grinned and softly said “run, run” not caring if I heard him over my headphones, which actually made it creepier. This happens A LOT. Women are not allowed to exercise in peace. (Someone once slowed his car to yell “can I race you? … HEY, I SAID ‘CAN I RACE YOU!!!?’” I had to about-face and run the other way. HE STOPPED HIS CAR. I jetted around the corner on to a busier street.)

– Summer in NYC, 150% humidity. The bricks were sweating. After a run in the park, I dunked my head under a water fountain. Jogging home, I saw two males sitting outside a store. I knew what was coming. I was right. Thank you kind sirs. I am aware of my current state but I appreciate the adjectives at that volume.

– I visited my friend in Brooklyn on a particularly hot, humid day. I complimented her outfit. “Thanks. It’s just so hot out, I don’t usually wear shorts this short because … well, you know.” And I did know.

Whether or not the “men” we encounter on the street, at the gym, on the train, at the store, will attempt to interact with us is almost irrelevant; each one is a potential threat. It’s part of the everyday existence of ALL women – cis, trans, enby, young, old, gay, straight, black, white, brown – to constantly evaluate our surroundings like a video game. Situational awareness, we’re told. Because it’s on us to not get raped or killed. We’re always on guard. We keep our heads down while assessing the path of least harassment – do we continue on and risk, at the very least, invasion of personal space, or cross the street and risk reprimand?

Men get so easily offended by women’s reactions that we have to take that into account as well, in case our “unwarranted fear” sparks retaliation. “Why you gotta be a bitch?” and “it’s a compliment! I’m just trying to talk to you!” Well, we’re just trying to not get raped, killed, or both, but we get yelled at for that too. It’s perfectly reasonable for second amendment advocates to have the “Be prepared! Protect yourself!” mentality, but for women, it’s considered by the very people who threaten us to be a hysterical overreaction. We aren’t free to live with the same reasonable expectation of safety that men have when simply going outside.

On our way to a restaurant one evening, my then-boyfriend (a miserable and selfish narcissist) took my hand and asked why I was so tense. We were about to cut right through a group of five males who were talking in the middle of the sidewalk, an action to which he didn’t give a second thought (must be nice). “Instinct” I replied. “Can’t help it.” It mystified me that I had to explain this to him. I took for granted that men knew about this. But why would he, a dude who has not once been on the receiving end of this harassment, have any idea why I was bracing myself?

“See? Nothing happened.”

“BECAUSE YOU’RE HERE!!!” I yelled at a completely reasonable volume. Seriously fuck that guy.

The conspiracy theorist in me thinks the men who behave this way are trying to keep this little pastime a secret from less predatory men in order to make women seem delusional and hysterical. Like we are children madly swearing to the existence of an ogre under the bed. Or, more likely, the antiquated social convention of women belonging to the men they’re with is the only deterrent these evolutionarily impeded bipeds can respect.

Generally, I am not one to keep quiet. But women who speak their minds can and do get hurt. I’ve too often experienced the aftermath of telling males to go fuck themselves, so I no longer do it. For my safety. A male once pretended, loudly and with exaggeration, to chase after me as I continued down Bleecker Street. He wanted to make sure I knew my safety was up to him. When I turned around, he stared at me and laughed. His friends laughed. Because I was afraid. This is not an unusual occurrence. Most men are simply unaware because it doesn’t happen to their loved ones in front of them, nor do the women in their lives relay these experiences every single time they happen. It’s just part of life.

ASK THEM. Ask your femme-identifying loved ones if what I’m saying is true.

When these events happen, it’s an act of aggression. It’s blatant, violent misogyny. It’s verbal assault.

Verbal rape.

We feel violated. We tense up.

Adrenaline shoots through our veins because our fight or flight senses involuntarily kick in and we wonder, will he or won’t he? Am I in actual danger this time?

I wish I could scream at him, ask him which of his useless parents taught him to treat human beings this way, ask him why he has to do this, why he thinks it’s ok to yell at me. I’ve done nothing to him. But that would provoke him and literally my life and my body are on the line here.

In that ONE SECOND, we know what we’re being told. We don’t matter, we are objects for his entertainment, not human beings, and we don’t deserve respect.

He’s an asshole with physical power over me and it’s 100% up to him whether he uses it or not. I am at his mercy.

He’s disgusting, sleazy, vile, and now I have an overwhelming need to punch things and cry. I want to rip out his eyes so he can’t look at another woman like that, but I’m powerless because in a physical altercation he will win.

Will this be the one time I don’t get to walk away?

I have to keep my mouth shut. I HATE that I have to keep my mouth shut.

Oh and now he’s calling me a bitch! He just said he wanted to get with me!

It’s frustrating, being silenced through the threat of physical violence by someone who isn’t worth a damn and thinks women are merely his dick receptacles.

All of these thoughts go through our heads in the one second we become aware that we might have to cross the street. Every. Day. It’s exhausting.

So don’t fucking tell us to smile.

I wrote these words down so that men know. So that women don’t have to try to verbalize this every time someone tells us we’re being too sensitive. Yes, it’s been said, but it needs to be said over and over and over because it’s not stopping (I was told I’d miss it when it stops). We need to keep the spotlight on patriarchal rape culture and refuse to dim it just because men are sick of hearing about it. I promise women are sick of it too. But for women it doesn’t go away when we stop talking about it. Ideally, society will evolve away from these disgusting, toxic behaviors, but for now, honestly, I’d be happy with “men” just keeping their wordholes shut when I walk by. Please just let me exist in peace.

Miscarriages of justice like rapist Brock Turner and his laughably short sentence plainly and painfully show that it’s not a priority to hold people accountable (especially if they’re white) for their actions against women (especially women of color and gender non-conforming women).

So, #NOTALLMEN, hear me:

If you truly want to reveal yourselves as the good guys, understand how we feel, how we live, and keep your eyes open for those in your gender group who betray you. It’s often not obvious to women which assholes are all talk and which will get violent. So we disengage and simply keep quiet. We keep walking. Understand this, do not selfishly and ignorantly get offended by this, and know women are just trying to stay alive. If this offends you, or if you do nothing to correct this behavior, you’re not the “goody guy” you think you are, and you, too, may go fuck yourself.

by Seignioress

In celebration of Lupercalia and Valentine’s Day I would like to share with you a different perspective of love and marriage, through the eyes of a law student who saw beauty where no one would expect to find it and even fewer would look—in a judicial opinion.

Marriage is viewed as a fundamental right by our government.  Two of the most notable Supreme Court cases establishing this right are Loving v. Virginia (1967) and Obergefell v. Hodges (2015).

Loving v. Virginia ruled that state laws banning interracial marriage are unconstitutional.  In the judicial opinion, Chief Justice Warren said that “[t]he freedom to marry has long been recognized as one of the vital personal rights essential to the orderly pursuit of happiness by free men.”  I want to acknowledge that the institution of marriage is sometimes seen as heteronormative and that marriage does not have a monopoly on love, commitment, or family.  However, for those to whom it is meaningful, Justice Warren is right, “marriage is one of the “basic civil rights of man,” fundamental to our very existence and survival.”  Which must be why the Lovings drove to DC and Jim Obergefell and his late husband John Arthur flew to Maryland—to promise their lives to each other in states that would recognize them.

Everyone has heard of the U.S. Supreme Court decision Obergefell v. Hodges (2015), whether or not they realize it.  Obergefell was the landmark decision that established the right to same-sex marriage under the Fourteenth Amendment right to equal protection under the law.  “The Constitution promises liberty to all within its reach, a liberty that includes certain specific rights that allow persons, within a lawful realm, to define and express their identity without the state interfering.” This includes the right to be with and to marry a person of the same sex.

Many people don’t know the story of Jim Obergefell and John Arthur and even fewer have read the beautiful Supreme Court decision that recognized their marriage after John Arthur’s death.

Obergefell and Arthur had been together for 20 years when Arthur was diagnosed with ALS.  The couple lived in Ohio which did not allow same-sex marriage and Arthur was unable to travel, he was dying.  Their friends and families raised $13,000 so that they could fly to Maryland on a medical plane.  They flew from Ohio to Maryland to get married on the tarmac at the Baltimore-Washington International Airport and leave.  Arthur died three months later, and the State of Ohio refused to recognize Obergefell as his husband, so he sued…and won marriage equality for us all, whether we choose to use it or not.

___

“It would misunderstand these men and women to say they disrespect the idea of marriage.  Their plea is that they do respect it, respect it so deeply that they seek to find its fulfillment for themselves.  Their hope is not to be condemned to live in loneliness, excluded from one of civilization’s oldest institutions. They ask for equal dignity in the eyes of the law.  The Constitution grants them that right.”

___

Justice Anthony Kennedy wrote the majority opinion for Obergefell and I was struck by this remarkable Supreme Court decision, not only because of what it did, but also because of its poetry.  It was not merely another stuffy Fourteenth Amendment opinion—it was beautiful.

Sweet words on love and marriage are often found in romantic poetry, tender prose, and the sweetest music—the kind that can steal your breath and make your heart beat faster.  When an author can sweep an audience away by exposing the passion and longing in their heart in an intimate communion with the reader, it feels like falling in love.  No one would ever have guessed that a Supreme Court decision authored by an old republican Catholic judge would include, alongside the law, poetry.

If you cut out the legal analysis and keep what Justice Kennedy says about love and marriage, it can be strung together and sculpted into something amazing, maybe even worthy of wedding vows.  I doubt that I am the first person to see this, but here is my version.  The vast majority of the following text is directly quoted from the Obergefell opinion with minor changes to make it flow better.  As an aesthetic choice, I did not use quotation marks or brackets.

I will not acknowledge the dissenting opinions further than saying that the best thing about a Scalia dissent is that he’s dead.

___

Obergefell v. Hodges, Adapted

There are untold references to the beauty of marriage in religious and philosophical texts spanning time, cultures, and faiths, as well as in art and literature in all their forms.

From their beginning to their most recent page, the annals of human history reveal the transcendent importance of marriage.  The lifelong union of spouses always has promised nobility and dignity to all persons, without regard to their station in life. Marriage is sacred to those who live by their religions and offers unique fulfillment to those who find meaning in the secular realm.  Its dynamic allows two people to find a life that could not be found alone, for a marriage becomes greater than just the two persons.  Rising from the most basic human needs, marriage is essential to our most profound hopes and aspirations.

Choices about marriage shape an individual’s destiny.  It fulfills yearnings for security, safe haven, and connection that express our common humanity.  Civil marriage is an esteemed institution, and the decision whether and whom to marry is among life’s momentous acts of self-definition.

The nature of marriage is that, through its enduring bond, two persons together can find other freedoms, such as expression, intimacy, and spirituality.  This is true for all persons.  There is dignity in the bond between lovers who seek to marry and in their autonomy to make such profound choices.

Marriage is a coming together for better or for worse, hopefully enduring, and intimate to the degree of being sacred.  It is an association that promotes a way of life, not causes; a harmony in living, not political faiths; a bilateral loyalty, not commercial or social projects.  Yet it is an association for as noble a purpose as any.

The right to marry thus dignifies couples who wish to define themselves by their commitment to each other.  Marriage responds to the universal fear that a lonely person might call out only to find no one there.  It offers the hope of companionship and understanding and assurance that while both still live there will be someone to care for the other.

Just as a couple vows to support each other, so does society pledge to support the couple, offering symbolic recognition and material benefits to protect and nourish the union.

No union is more profound than marriage, for it embodies the highest ideals of love, fidelity, devotion, sacrifice, and family.  In forming a marital union, two people become something greater than once they were.  Marriage embodies a love that may endure even past death.

___

By Helle Bent

Happy belated New Year and Happy New Administration, dear citizens of the underworld. It is important to celebrate steps in the right direction but our work is never done. On we plow, continuing to both lead and support the revolutions against injustice. New Year’s Day seems like an eternity ago and it’s not even February.

Fight for your future but enjoy the present! Speaking of February and enjoying things…

*ahem*

Lupercalia in The Satanic Temple is a celebration of autonomy, sexual liberation, and reproduction. The Deathly Hallows of sexy time – distinct yet symbiotic.

I’ve discussed in a prior post that I am a queer Satanist who identifies as demi/gray-sexual and pan-romantic. I believe that just about anything is fair game as long as all participants consistently practice the Rule of Consent. Personally I’m aspec, but you go get yours honey. Get a lot of it.

Separately, I loathe children. I’ve successfully done everything in my power not to have them. Near me. Ever.

So where does someone like me fit into a celebration that’s draped in hedonism and fertility and the procurement of self-centric pleasure?

There are as many gender expressions and sexual preferences on this planet as there are humans, and attempting to categorize them in a finite way is a limiting behavior. The moment my brain truly got this, I feel like I had an acid-trip-style awakening.

What the sexuality and gender continuums look like inside a Helle Bent Brain:

Ever see the NASA map of the oldest light in the universe? We are floating space particles. Space jellyfish if you will! Some are happy where we are in our galaxies, on our planets, some of us are still orienting ourselves, some are way out at the edges, and some travel with astounding stamina back and forth across space and time, and you know what? It’s all fine. We just float around, some more than others, and it’s cool. It’s all cool.

Conflict arises in our trying to stay still.

Stagnant.

Static.

In an environment where floating is not only natural but beneficial.

Where pinning oneself to one location can be dangerous.

Where it takes more effort to stay frozen in space than to go with the flow.

Conflict arises when someone tells us that floating, exploration, and evolution are forbidden.

That their one corner of their one planet is the only suitable place for life because long ago someone else heard a space monster said so.

Why would I attempt to categorize every food I eat as either a Mounds bar or an Almond Joy? Sometimes I feel like a nut, sometimes I fucking don’t, and sometimes I’m on a fucking salad binge and sometimes I want a fucking chocolate chip cookie. I think I lost my metaphor. (Insert Milky Way joke…?)

My idea of sexual liberation embraces every identity, preference, body, and consensual act as equally valid and perfectly okay. Autonomy, in this context, is knowing and owning yourself, what you want, and understanding your power and your role in its acquisition. It’s the understanding that we and our paths, like fingerprints, are similar but still unique and nuanced.

This is why every last one of us belongs not only in the celebration of Lupercalia, but in our Satanic community and on this planet. My identity is my own, and I rock that shit. (Seriouslyyouguyz, I’m really cool you don’t even know.) This is what I’m celebrating. The universe is infinite, as we are, and there’s room for all of us.

I’m celebrating my liberation from the restrictions that others have placed on us. I don’t live for anyone else, just as they don’t concern themselves with living for me and my approval and my feelings. There is a freedom in owning yourself but it can’t be given to you. You have to take it.

If someone tells you that you should be a certain way, pity their willingness to remain bound inside the rusty, antiquated chains that limit life’s potential. It’s these folks and their chains who make it dangerous for us free-floating space jellyfish. Live in a way that kindly allows them to see that they are bound.

I take issue with the concept of should when reason and means are excluded from consideration. Is it in someone’s power to improve current circumstances? Are they working towards fulfilling a reasonable, healthy, and realistic expectation? If someone’s idea of what should be contradicts a resounding respect for the autonomy of others, they are bound in chains and simply complaining that others are not. Live your objection proudly.

There is no should. There is desire, and there is displeasure. There is acceptance, and there is conflict. There is determination, and there is apathy. There is oppression, and there is diversity. Seek to live deliciously, discard that which does not serve you, and do not confuse objective, concrete reality with subjective human interpretations and limitations.

Lastly, this year The Satanic Estate will have space dedicated to those who sashay along the rainbow continuum of the asexual identities. Everyone is welcome, everyone belongs.

My life is my own. Thyself is they master. A joyous and fulfilling Lupercalia to all!

Hail Satan. Hail Lilith. Hail Thyselves.

By Helle Bent

Fuck 2020, my dear resilient heathens! Sure, there’s no rule this epic, mind-boggling horror franchise has to obey any calendar year, but the symbolism of the shared ritualistic spirit cleansing I find in New Year’s Eve brings me comfort, even if this ritual goes unacknowledged and some folks just want to get smashed. You do you, darling demons. You do you.

Part I

As the doorknob hits 2020 on the way out, please join me in a fun little Satanic mind  cleansing exercise. It shall be my honor to guide thee!

Get comfy. Picture a room in which you feel safe and cozy. 2021 is starting to brighten the room with whatever good vibes you want to assign to it, because nothing is written yet and you are in charge of your future and the energy you allow around you. Things will be ok, you can feel it. They are going to be ok. You feel the warm and illuminating Hellfire burning to a crisp the fascist theocracy that brought us to this moment. In fact, you control this Hellfire. It’s clearing the way for science to once again be valued and trusted, and it’s also keeping your feetsies nice and toasty. A happy little flame waves hello to you. You take a sip of your favorite beverage and a kind smile softens your exquisite face. (You’re a total cutie, if no one’s told you that today. Fucking adorable you are. And brilliant too!)

In your mind’s eye turn your head, and envision an open door, past which is a hallway, a supermassive black hole, strong enough to draw into it the last vile vestiges of 2020. The door will soon close, and 2020 will be but an absurd memory, a harrowing nightmare about which future generations will think we’re grossly exaggerating but we know the truth. We survived it together. We did walk uphill both ways. Barefoot. On barbed wire and ice.

The door has now slammed shut. 2020 is screaming in the hallway, having been brutally assaulted on its way out. This doorknob is the Secret Service of doorknobs, assigned to protect you from 2020 for all eternity. It’s made of hot razor blades, sticky grabby toddler-fingers, relentless Jehovah’s Witnesses, and the Kars for Kids children playing that fucking song on loop. Please feel free to deck this doorknob with whatever gay apparel your mind needs to conjure. You are protected. 2020 will never get back inside and … what’s this odd feeling? Someone once called it hope I think. Your shoulders lower (lower your shoulders!). Your back muscles have released a bit. You take a deep breath and another sip of your beverage. You boop the nose of your loving familiar. Maybe you even light a candle or some sage. 2020 is gone. Whatever lies ahead, 2020 is gone. Whenever you light this candle you will remember that 2020 is in the past. You are in charge now. Set some intentions.

Part II

I tried my hand at writing a holiday carol for you beautiful benevolent beasts, here it goes. I hope you like it.

*ahem*

On the first night of Sol Invictus my True Self gave to me, personal sovereignty.

On the second night of Sol Invictus my True Self reminded me, get out of your own fucking way, you’re the one holding yourself back with all those lingering unhealthy life expectations that you didn’t even know were affecting you and have gone unexamined since your teenage years. Keep asking questions, keep deconstructing the decades-old flawed foundation that hasn’t been serving you. Those false and harmful ideals do not stand up to scrutiny and very clearly, Helle Bent, the non-traditional routes have had your name in lights all over them so get the fuck out of your own way.

(writer’s note: at this point I’m realizing the tempo of the original song will not work given the amount of venting that will likely flow forth since I’ve gone and tapped the brain keg so I’m just gonna run with it…)

On the third night of Sol Invictus my True Self took a pause. This year beat us all down and it’s important to find the Satanic black lining in this maelstrom of misery. Take what joy is offered up wherever it may be found. Happy you can visit the bakery down the street every day now? Hang on to that. It feels inappropriate to be happy about anything while so many are suffering, and this year is colossally awful, so if you’re excited by the amount of movies you get to watch, or are grateful to not have to endure your company holiday party this year, that’s okay. 2020: I’ll Take What I Can Fucking Get.

On the fourth night of Sol Invictus my True Self said to me, when life gives you lemons, use that lemon as a stress ball and squeeze the Hell out of it. Aim for the eyes of the person telling you to make lemonade (figuratively of course – we are a non-violent community). Not everyone likes lemonade and people should mind their own business. They don’t know your life! We are each free to do with lemons as we wish.

On the fifth night of Sol Invictus my True Self promised me … self loyaltyyyy! Four cups of coffee, three French toasts, two more months remote (at least), and knowing I always have my own baaack.

On the six hundred and sixty-sixth night of Sol Invictus (because what even is time?) my True Self granted me, one order of Cognitive Dissonance please! So, I love hair metal, I will never not love hair metal, but I’m also a feminist killjoy who will forever explain why a joke/comment/viewpoint is not funny/not appropriate/misinformed. I cannot reconcile my infernal unconditional love for the entirety of the hair metal culture with my feminist rage and I’m ok with it. Fight me on this, go ahead. I’ll squeeze a lemon in your eye and play air guitar to the melody of your hollow screams. Figuratively of course. Non-violent. Inviolable body and what have you…

On the seventh night of Sol Invictus my True Self baked some brownies, because fuck 2020 and fuck everything and HEY let’s browse Etsy for five hours! I fucking love Etsy and will soon be the proud parent of way too many Schitt’s Creek custom coaster sets. I’m not sorry. I’m a little bit Alexis.

On the eight night of Sol Invictus my True Self reassured me, as the inimitable Heath Ledger said to our boy Joseph Gordon Levitt in 10 Things I Hate About You – “don’t let anyone ever make you feel like you don’t deserve what you want.” What I believe for others must hold true for myself. So it follows that if others deserve love, acceptance, and respect, so must I. Tolerance is a choice. Hypocrisy a disease of character. Nineties movies a wickedly divine gift to us all.

On the ninth night of Sol Invictus my True Self granted me, the freedom to own myself without apology. Little Helle Bent genuinely didn’t know that being this fucking magnificent was even an option. Instructions back then were: choose a mold, pour yourself in, fit as best you can, ignore what doesn’t fit. It’s our duty to add our existences to the unending list of acceptable options for people still figuring themselves out. Visibility and representation are invaluable. There is infinite magic in diversity. Hail yourselves. Live loud and proud. For the children!

On the tenth night of Sol Invictus my True Self reconfirmed, those claiming to love you should love and support you as you are. People who love you actively care if you are happy. Toxic environments can hide in the most desirable of places but you don’t have to tolerate disrespect and abuse of any kind just because someone claims to love you. Mark Wahlberg claimed to love Reese Witherspoon in that Fear movie but none of that was any sort of okay.

On the eleventh night of Sol Invictus my True Self made a list. I will always feel differently after the following activities: A good night’s sleep. A shower. A walk outside. When in doubt, change my scenery. This has proven consistently, demonstrably true.

On the twelfth night of Sol Invictus my True Self finally realized, Below Deck and The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills are wonderful television. I’m late to most trends. I’ve been on a Jersey Shore Family Vacation for years.

On the thirteenth night of Sol Invictus my True Self went to bed. It is exhausting being me.

Good night, good morrow, be excellent to each other, and for the love of rosemary’s baby please let this New Year be a happy one.

Hail Satan. Hail Lilith. Hail Thyselves.

By Helle Bent

A felicitous November to all our merry mischief makers! The struggle for justice is ongoing, and though things are far from perfect, we can’t begin to clean up the china shop until the rampaging bull(shit) is removed. With the election behind us, I hope that our shop can once again have nice things. I like nice things. I miss nice things. Sigh.

Happiest of birthdays to November and December babies! Hail thyselves! May you each find unique and glorious ways to celebrate yourselves independently of any upcoming holiday. I refer to this time of year as The Winter Gauntlet due to all my familial obligations. It’s tough to not shrink in my spotlight when my family reminds me of all the skins I’ve managed to shed. I envision a circle of flames around me, scorching any questionable energy on its way to me before it can take shape, a fiery bouncer at the door of the House of Helle Bent. No, ye shall not enter.

Hi! I am a queer Satanist. My social and political values are fabulously frolicking on the left side of the spectrum, where I think everyone should come over and play. (We have cookies!) Equality and justice and compassion do not negatively impact the already fortunate. I pity those so scornful of others’ happiness. But this isn’t about them.

Generally, I identify as queer. For those familiar with the nuance, the terms demi/gray-sexual pan-romantic most closely describe me. However, I find that lots of (non-Satanic) straight folks (like my parents) really only care if you’re straight or not-straight. So queer is fine. Bi or pan is fine, depending who is asking and how much energy I feel like putting into the explanation. Drunk frat bro sidling up next to me? Gay, I’m totally, fully 100% gay. While it’s true I hate everyone, I can fall in love with anyone. Sex, though, is a completely different story, I’ve come to learn.

The ideas that sexuality and gender expression are more fluid than rigid had not yet come out (so to speak) when I was in high school. There was gay, straight, and sometimes bi. Asexual folks were rare peculiarities who would likely live and die oblivious to the fun they were missing. No spectrums, no varying degrees. No split attraction model. No mention of gender identity vs. sex organs. Everything was defined simply by the penis-vagina binary.  

I am on the asexual spectrum. The attraction I feel is random and has more to do with the idea of connection than a person’s reproductive organs or gender identity (although I do prefer expressions outside the stereotypical binary). Sex can be fun but it’s simply not a need I have in order to be happy. It’s usually more of a responsibility I feel to satisfy my partner. I didn’t know this about myself for an embarrassingly long time. My physical, platonic, social, aesthetic, romantic, and emotional attractions to individuals and various types of people have always been exclusive of one another and all over the place, like throwing a box of darts into a hurricane. I did my very best to categorize them in a way that made sense to me but nothing felt fully correct. I wasn’t gay (because I’d know by now, right?) and bi didn’t feel right either, so I must be straight. Yes! As straight as a serpent’s tail. I like the boys! Yes. Yes I totally like the boys. Absolutely. It’s rainin’ men! Hallelujah! It’s … ew no get that thing away from me.

And I did like the boys. Kinda. I had enough crushes to pack Satan’s army and overthrow the heavens before lunch, but I lacked any contrafactual context in which to examine my premature and incomplete conclusion: that I wasn’t gay, because there wasn’t an active, definable, and sexually-motivating attraction to my own gender. However the absence of one does not imply the presence of the other. Had I bothered to honestly reflect on whether that missing attraction to my gender was present for another one, my life would have been vastly different. What was I feeling? And how does one even go about proving the existence of an absence? I’ll ask god…

My inability to differentiate and develop my need for connection from my idea of what physical attraction should feel like caused me to fall into step with those who seemed to have everything figured out. Fake it ‘til you make it. Literally! Assuming my happily ever after had a penis, I was on a quest to find the one that would spark in me this elusive drive that had all the sexy people on the prowl. Yes, me too! I also constantly desire the male appendage, hubba hubba! Let us ALL delight in its … pointiness? Honestly, I was just getting drunk and going through the motions, hoping to land on a penis that didn’t bore me after however many test drives. And boy did I test drive. The assumption of an eventual desire for the clichéd heteronormative endgame (a desire still unknown to me to this day) informed my navigation. Without an active and identifiable pull to any particular private part (which is what I assumed I was looking for), I had nothing leading me off of this well-worn path. I was asking the wrong questions and looking for Mr. Good-Enough-I-Guess… (while blaming alcohol for the occasional Ms.)

At this juncture I’d like to point out two things.

First, a reminder, my beloved beasts, that where I grew up in Jesusland, misguided categorizations and sexual repression were encouraged. In fact, it was a rather convenient license to ignore any feelings (or question any lack thereof) that I couldn’t classify – what I thought was my sexual dysfunction I simply chalked up to residual faith-based brainwashing. Most of the queer folks in my circle have known relatively early in life that there is something distinct inside them they had to identify and understand. That thing that guided their spirit towards a more colorful unknown – I didn’t have it. I wanted it. At least something might make sense. I felt like my compass was broken, the needle just spinning and spinning. If sexuality were a choice, I’d have chosen.

Second, alcohol was a game-changer. It allowed me to pretend I was having a blast while ignoring this one crucial detail on my path towards self-realization. My chosen carefree lifestyle deceptively equated to independence and happiness. The reality was that I was a mistress of denial and deflection. I was amassing life experiences and wisdom, filling the shelves in the Helle Bent Hall of Records, Recollections, and Anarchist Archives, but leaving one corner unadorned and unlit. Nothing’s there, this room only has three corners, nothing to see here, look a squirrel! I was actively closing my eyes and would soon outright lie to myself, silencing and internalizing my fears that I’d never have a successful, healthy relationship if I didn’t want to have sex with the person I thought I loved. Instead, I got blind drunk every night. Figuring my shit out was less urgent when I couldn’t even see my feet below me. It’s tough to forgive myself for this. I haven’t, yet.

Relying on destiny is the crutch of the timid. Being a Satanist, I do not subscribe to the idea of fate and I have no one to blame but myself for my blindness and inaction. The ghost of my inability to step fully into my spotlight will haunt me for quite some time. I may not have known what I was looking for or how to find anything I needed, but I inadvertently denied myself the honest exploration required to be comfortable with this kind of personal growth. It was easier to stay where I was, drunk, in relationships that weren’t right for me, than to do the work to break out of the ill-fitting mold I poured around myself.

So. What happened?

The traditional girl meets girl love story. I fell in love with a woman and that was that. No more rationalizing, excusing, or deflecting. The “I don’t need a label I’m just me! who knew?” period lasted about a day until I realized that stance was just a vehicle to further my denial. My card catalog of a brain (are card catalogs still a thing?) needed to know what this meant. For me, being head over heels in love was just the beginning. Something was still missing and I felt like an imposter in the queer community begging for acceptance somewhere… anywhere. Where the Hell did I fit in? Too queer for the heteros, too straight for the gays, too old to be only going through this now.

Here’s the thing about labels and definitions. When they’re created for the better understanding of subtle nuances in broader concepts, I believe them to be life-changing. They give names and legitimacy to ideas we didn’t even think existed. We are the ones who then assign rules and boundaries to their meanings. They describe us, they don’t define us. When I read a description for an attraction that included the phrase “regardless of, not because of, gender identity” I finally felt like I might be on to something. A dim light flickered in that empty corner. I had direction and a name. Ignoring outright both gender and sex, I could start the fuck over. What asshole drew this line in the sand and told me not to step over it? Oh me? I did it to myself? Oh. Ok cool. Um … well shit, this is embarrassing.

I write all this now with the freedom bestowed upon me through the daily vanquishing of my diminishing fucks. Through Satanism I’ve learned to examine the dark corners without fear. What matters is truth, and any value I assign to its meaning is my own doing. My desire to simply find my people, my community, my Self, to honestly and comfortably identify myself as anything at all, propelled me to jump headfirst into various molds, attempting to liquify my being so that I’d fit, like a cat in a glass vase. This was fucking exhausting and I was going about it all wrong. Please, oh Dark Lord of the Underworld, for the love of glamour and spectacle, do not let it be the one thing I don’t want it to be!

Well, it most certainly was that one thing and it was about to sit me down for a chat.

“You are who you are and you want what you want. Why are you making yourself miserable?” It was the last uncovered part of me staring right back at me. My identical twin – a total stranger. I was someone who always swore allegiance to myself, and I felt betrayed. Not only did I have to make sense of and accept an identity on the asexual spectrum, I had to come to terms with having somehow avoided this identity for as long as I had, only to insert myself into the queer community, mid-conversation, demanding full membership perks like I’d been to every monthly meeting since I was 12.

The stunning expanse of the sexuality and asexuality continuum finally in focus, I realized this whole sex and gender thing – it’s not an all-or-nothing game. The only rule is there are no rules … except the Rule of Consent, that is a very important rule, please always follow this rule without exception. My attractions and requirements ebb and flow like a symphony and as long as I acknowledge this, I find no conflict.

Humans do not have to fit into a mold. Words and categories are here to accommodate us and further our understanding of ourselves. If you have not yet found the perfect word, then we need more words. I am me, and I choose how much of anything applies to me in any given moment. I am a continuum. I am an evolution. I am a queer Satanist. Nothing has felt more correct since I was in fourth grade and first heard You Gave Love A Bad Name.

I am also stuck. I have finally grown into the person I am to be and there is one last hurdle hovering in front of me: forgiving myself for wasted years. Accepting my journey as a valid one simply because it’s the one that is. I have to make peace with the time I can’t get back. I have to cancel the false narrative that if I belonged here in the queer community my ride to this party would have been a shorter one. It catches me in my throat sometimes – this fear that I’ll be found out, rejected, and returned to the heteros just to be assigned to a beer-drinking suit-wearing penis-having cis dude who calls people “Broseph” and belches the alphabet just so that I can chauffeur his offspring back and forth from Jesus Camp while he is at work doing businessy things and having “work drinks” with his gorgeous and clever colleague who wants to have sex with him and understands his needs, unlike his wife … (Not that there’s anything wrong with regular straight-people sex if that’s your thing! I just don’t want to have it shoved in my face…)What do I tell your kids, RUTHERFORD Q. CHADDINGTON THE THIRD?? Unholy Mother of Satan please don’t send me back there!!

I am a work in progress. I am Jack’s Inflamed Sense of Rejection.

Next on my Pandemic To Do List: get the fuck out of my own way.

A Satanic Incantation for the upcoming season:

May we stand wholly in our beings, in our spotlights, protected and radiant in the flames of the discarded, having no need for that which does not serve us.

May Lucifer’s light illuminate what we cannot see.

May we trust ourselves and take pride in all that we are, knowing that it is enough.

May we never forget to show ourselves the compassion we so quickly extend to our loved ones.

May we use our voices to remind others that no one is alone. We are each unique within our broader collective. Someone has already survived what we are going through.

Hail Satan. Hail Lilith. Hail Thyselves.