It’s 1993. I am a freshman in high school, I am 14, I live in Berkeley, California, and my best friend, Bay, has asked me to join a coven she is starting and of course I say yes. Bay and I have been witch friends since we were little girls — before we knew we could actually be witches. We made potions for fun, separately and together, before we knew about intent, ingredients, and proper correspondences for desired outcomes. Our potions mostly contained whatever we could find in bathroom cabinets, the kitchen, and the yard. Early potions were either water- or cooking oil-based (or some combination of the two), and might have contained up to four different kinds of hair products, plants haphazardly torn into tiny pieces, a dash of every condiment in the refrigerator. The finishing touch often would be drops of food coloring or glitter. I coveted witch books for kids, unicorns, and anything in TV- or movie-form containing witches. 

As we aged into the double digits we visited a short-lived store in Downtown Berkeley. The people who ran it could only be described as Ren Faire goths. Inside it was bright and white, sparse and cold with tables and displays ridden with small pewter figurines of dragons, wizards holding crystal balls, and witchy jewelry encasing stones and crystals. One day Bay found a piece of jewelry that undoubtedly had to be hers; she saved up enough allowance and chore money so she could triumphantly purchase her prize — a pewter pentagram pendant with a hematite ball in the center. Putting it on for the first time, she had the look of being crowned. 

In the coming years we made frequent trips to the plentiful local bookstores and libraries of Berkeley to look at occult books, reporting back to each other as our interests grew and evolved. We learned about crystals and would set about finding ones that appealed to our present needs and wants. Her favorite crystal at the time was carnelian; mine was bloodstone. We always had our stones on us, protecting us. We decided on witch names. I can’t reveal hers, but Bay said I should be Hecate and so I was. We set about building altars, discussing the elements that should be present for our intentions. We would fill abalone shells we found on Northern California beaches with neighborhood blooms, either sprinkling petals on the altar or leaving the flower-filled shell for loving and joyful vibes. Other times we would carefully remove only the thorns from rose bushes, collecting them in our palms and leaving them in tiny, thorny piles on the altar for their protective and defensive properties. 

I took a ceramics class in summer school between 8th and 9th grades, making a thick red clay plate, basically a giant pentagram and a base for my altar. The star, running the length of the top of the plate, was red clay. While the spaces in between were glazed black. The entire plate was covered in a clear glaze so that even if the room was dark, the candlelight from my altar would subtly reflect back against the glaze. I took the new base of my altar to my bedroom which was cluttered with my mother’s hoard of both practical papers and collected objects. I struggle to explain the hoard of a woman with many interests whose solution for having a child was to simply slip a bed into the literal middle of a room that was already full to the brim and lined with her bookcases – books, records, and overflowing folders were practically stacked to the ceiling. I knew what I had to do and got to work, slowly and deliberately carving out the space for myself and my magic in the midst of her chaos. I created an intentional place for witchcraft while always being careful to camouflage my activities. 

Mostly because of circumstantial school separations, Bay and I had taken to witching on the weekends. Burning candles and incense, fashioning wands with sticks and crystals, carving things into wood with a knife, and luckily avoiding the calamity of a house fire. These occasional weekend hangs and sleepovers lasted through elementary and junior high school — until 1993 when we both arrived at Berkeley High. Reunited, we forged and merged our social circles, seeking out friends together in the giant sphere of the school (our year alone had upwards of 800 students). We would regularly take our lunches to the park across the street from our school, seated in circles, or instead would roam the streets of Downtown Berkeley. This is where the coven would solidify, but still in secret from those around us. We would talk in hushed tones and code about what was to come. It was Bay’s choice of who to include in our coven and, with one exception, I wouldn’t know who else was included until initiation. 

It was a fall Friday night with the signature chill in the air and I bounded down the stairs to Bay and her mother in their compact station wagon. I was the first witch stop of the night, the next was a short girl with reddish curly hair and mischievous amber eyes, then a bouncy girl with straight light brown hair, clear blue eyes and a cute button nose. Our final witch was a boy. He was set like a redwood tree, tall and thick with a straight reddish bowl haircut, plump features, and a smattering of freckles across his nose. His energy screamed many-sided dice. With him, there were five of us, each a point on the pentacle. 

We exited the car in the Berkeley Marina. It was characteristically the way it always was — ice cold and harsh with winds. The lights of San Francisco were bright against the dark chaotic water and black, rolling hillsides. We made our way to the top of one of the hills. We were still in darkness as we took in the lights from the East Bay and whizzing cars on the freeway in the distance. The earth crunched under our feet, still not having recovered fully from the summer heat. We were five figures in black with hair and robes flying against the night. 

We made our way into a circle between hillsides. It was too windy for flames. Our herbs scattered and someone gave chase to the toppled goblet rolling away, stolen by the wind. It was so dark it was impossible to see even an inch in front of you. We were dark on dark. The directional corners were called and finally, one-by-one, it was our turn to enter the circle with perfect love and trust against the blade of dagger that transformed into the hug of a witch. We stood elated, exhilarated, and initiated, whipped by the wind before each other, smiling and laughing in the dark, feeling excited and free. 

Finally we made our way shivering to the warmth of the car where Bay’s mom was patiently waiting. She was the perfect person to bring us, a shaman that would occasionally disappear to the North Bay with her own group for sweat lodges and rituals. She asked us no questions and took us each right home. 

The next week Blue Eyes gifted us each a star-shaped stone with a star-shaped card with the attribute she thought best suited us. Mine was a hematite and written on my paper star was “understanding.” I want to tell you that we met regularly for group spells, but that is not what happened. Amber Eyes and a couple of us may have gotten busted smoking a joint, which facilitated her dad sending her off to live with her mom in Colorado (this was actually a win for her since she basically had an evil stepmother and had to share a room with her six year-old half brother). By next fall, Blue Eyes was taken in by a gangly group of gamers. Occasionally I would see the lone male witch and we would nod when passing in the school halls never to hang out again. 

Bay and I were still close for about another year and a half, overlapping into a practice of chaos magic in the world of punk rock. I was worshipping regularly and often in mosh pits, spending late nights wandering train tracks with other misfits, shattering empty bottles against asphalt and abandoned buildings, experiencing everything as faster, louder, and more intense. Bay fell into the Rocky Horror and misty graveyard crew and descended towards underground piercing performance art by the end of high school. If anything it was like all the points of the star met in the middle to reveal themselves to each other and then went off in different directions as secret, solo practitioners. Our initiation ceremony was essentially a coming out ritual. 

I know for myself, in the shadows is where I felt most comfortable and safe for a good number of years. My magic was personal and special. I didn’t want to muddy it with other people’s opinions. I hid or got rid of my magic books when I moved into group houses in my early adult life, and even kept it secret from a years-long relationship. I’ve only briefly revealed myself to four other witches — and now to you.

Deez Nutzian is a writer and witch living in Los Angeles, CA. When Deez is not toiling away at the cauldron or working on her memoirs, she can be found hiking up hills in all-black and fostering senior chihuahuas. Connect with @deeznutzian on Instagram.