Invisible to Invincible: The Next Crone Age
Imagine this scenario: You’re walking down the street on a warm spring day, enjoying the shop windows full of artfully displayed wares. People smile and nod. Some wave. Some pause to admire you as you pass, maybe one or two even whistle in appreciation.
Then you turn a corner, and suddenly it’s as if you’ve been erased. No nods, no smiles, no whistles. Instead, passersby seem to look right through you as if you’re not there. Your first instinct is panic. You attempt to go back the way you came… only the street you were walking on just moments earlier has vanished. Since it’s the only option available, you move forward.
Eventually, you stop at the doorway of a trendy boutique. The funky, eclectic fashions call to you, reminding you of your youth. You step inside. The salespeople flit from customer to customer like efficient bees busily collecting pollen. You, they ignore.
Undaunted, you decide to peruse the merchandise. You spy a lace and paisley blouse, a modern interpretation evocative of a romantic gypsy poet, and you fall in love. The price isn’t an issue. You’ve worked your entire adult life and can well afford an occasional splurge. You take your find to the register where two salesclerks locked in conversation willfully ignore you. Finally, exasperated, you bang on the counter loudly with the flat of your palm. “I’d like to pay for this,” you grit out through clenched teeth.
Reluctantly, their gaze turns. It’s a relief to know you still exist—until you realize what they see when they look at you is a nuisance that, much to their mutual displeasure, must be dealt with.
Clerk #1 sighs and extends a hand to the blouse, careful not to touch you, as if you’re a leper and what ails you might be catching. She swipes the tag across the scanner and gestures for you to tap your card on the appropriate interface when the total pops into view. A few seconds later, transaction approved, your purchase is packaged in haste and dropped haphazardly in your direction. Your exit is remarked by some cutting commentary, stage-whispered just loudly enough so you know you’re meant to hear.
“Oh, my gawd!” Clerk #2 exclaims, exhaling with a theatrical groan. “Can you imagine that ridiculous old crone strutting around in that beautiful blouse? Ew!”
“Not if I want to keep down my lunch,” replies Clerk #1, tittering.
Back on the pavement, you take a series of deep breaths, trying to calm and center yourself. That’s when you see them: Scattered amongst the bright and purposeful pedestrians, a rag-tag contingent of translucent, faded ghosts—and you realize you’re one of them.
No, it’s not an episode of “The Twilight Zone,” because, sadly, those ill-mannered Gen-Zs weren’t too far off the mark—at least on one score. The condition suffered by Women of a Certain Age may not be contagious, but it’s inevitable nonetheless: Once we’ve passed our sell-by date we’re rendered if not wholly invisible, at least highly irrelevant (The irony is that while they’re too young to appreciate it, that snarky duo is going be “so last year” someday, and likely sooner than either of them suspects).
Invisible to Invincible
At 66, I’ve had a fair amount of time to reflect on being labeled “an old crone.” Like Hester Prynne with the infamous scarlet “A” emblazoned across her bodice, I might as well be sporting a gunmetal “C” on mine. The disconnect, of course, is that over the ages, the term has been torturously twisted to conform to the conceits of male-dominated society; one that when confronted by exemplars of female empowerment, has routinely demonized those who challenge their authority in a relentless campaign to render them harmless.
Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me? While a rose by any other name might smell as sweet, nothing could be further from the truth.
Words are currency and currency is power. You don’t have to be a student of etymology to understand the ways in which language is routinely weaponized to trivialize, divide, control, or even obliterate its intended targets. Maya Angelou’s declaration, “The ‘n-word’ was created to divest people of their humanity,” serves as a prime example of a single word’s immense potential to inflict harm—both in short-term emotional fallout and long-term systemic policies whose repercussions impact nearly every facet of life.
Epithets steeped in race, religion, and behavioral/gender nonconformity are designed as ever-shrinking boxes purpose-built to diminish and render silent those they contain. But as the constituency inside those boxes grows and societal constraints tighten, to quote songwriter Johnny Mercer, eventually “Something’s Gotta Give.”
Those long demeaned by labels such as “bitch,” “Jezebel,” and the n-word have arisen with increasing frequency to wrest back the linguistic weapons of oppression and defiantly reclaim their power. But is it possible to repurpose a word that’s truly hateful? Not everyone believes so.
For some semanticists, words birthed in ugliness will never truly escape the taint of their inception. As Maya Angelou also opined of the n-word: “When I see a bottle—[and] it says ‘P-O-I-S-O-N,’ then I know [what it is]. The bottle is nothing, but the content is poison. If I pour that content into Bavarian crystal, it is still poison.” Since racial contempt is engineered into the n-word’s DNA, it could well be that no amount of rebranding will ever totally redeem it; however, as a white woman, that’s not for me to say.
Living “la vida crone,” on the other hand, is a state with which I’m intimately familiar. While its original meaning was marked by some darker implications, the definition of crone also encompassed a kind of potent feminine metaphysical knowledge whose source was thought to be the very heart and soul of a living Mother Earth.
Crone Age
That men were intimidated by older women is no surprise. History reflects an unrelenting campaign by kings, warriors, and organized phallocentric religions to disenfranchise strong female role models by casting them in the unsavory guise of sinners, tricksters, witches, and hags. In ancient matriarchal times, crones were regarded as mystical, magical, and wise. These days, they’re reviled as ugly, evil, and treacherous. Sadly, patriarchy has so successfully sold us on the evil crone trope that many women willingly collude in the false narrative.
When toxic misogyny is normalized, women all too often buy into a belief system that feeds on our complicity. But what if we refuse to play along? Imagine what might happen if we took Maya Angelou’s poison analogy and substituted crone for the n-word: “When I see a bottle and it says, ‘Sacred Magic,’ then I know what it is. The bottle is nothing, but the content is magic. If I pour the content into an old tin can, it’s still sacred.”
Whether we pour our magic into a crystal decanter or unleash it on the wind, crones can choose to fly under the radar, or we can take back the power that is rightfully ours. It’s time to define ourselves rather than let others define us. We can be magical. We can be fierce. We can also inspire, mentor, and encourage both women and men. If we invest in the magic and remember a world of possibilities, there’s no telling what may come of it, but we know the hand that pens our future stories will be our own.
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