The Austin Witch – A Story of Power and Belonging
By Devyn Hightower | Retold for TaleTreasury.com
When I first moved to Austin, Texas, I thought I was stepping into a city full of music, hope, and opportunity. Instead, I found cracked sidewalks, flickering streetlights, and whispers filled with judgment. I was a woman of color in a part of town that most people avoided—rundown, forgotten, and riddled with crime.
It wasn’t just the poverty or the isolation that made my days difficult. Every time I stepped outside—whether on my way to work, school, or the corner store—I heard the same thing shouted at me:
“Look, the witch is out!”
It was the bump on my nose, maybe. Or my dark skin, too often seen through eyes clouded by ignorance. The cruelty was constant. I became the witch of the neighborhood, a title I didn’t ask for and didn’t understand. It stung—at first. Then, it simply settled into the marrow of my bones like an ache I thought I’d never shake.
But then, I met Andrew.
He didn’t flinch when people called me names. He didn’t recoil when he saw my skin, my hair, or the face I had learned to view through a filter of shame. Andrew listened. He laughed. He cared. We stayed up through warm Texas nights talking about dreams and fears. He saw me—not the “witch,” not the girl from the broken block—but me, whole and worthy.
Our bond grew stronger. But just as things felt like they were changing for the better, Andrew came home one evening with a heavy heart—he had been laid off from his job. His eyes looked tired, and his shoulders sagged under the weight of uncertainty. I had nothing to offer him but comfort… and maybe something more.
That night, I remembered a book my grandmother once gave me. It was a strange old thing, bound in leather and filled with symbols and rhymes I never understood as a child. She told me it had been passed down for generations. “Keep this,” she said. “One day, you’ll know when to use it.”
I opened it for the first time in years. My fingers trembled as I flipped through the pages until one spell caught my eye. I didn’t know if it was real, but my heart said it was worth trying.
I read aloud:
“Boom bang, ring rong!
I’m the witch, help me out of this situation that feels wrong!”
The moment the words left my lips, a shiver ran through my spine. It was as if the air itself paused—holding its breath. I couldn’t explain what I felt. It was like a whisper of wind inside my soul.
Just seconds later, Andrew’s phone rang. His voice shook as he answered. It was a job offer—better than the one he’d lost. More pay. More opportunity. He looked at me, wide-eyed. “Did you…?”
I nodded, unsure. But I knew something had changed.
That night, I realized something profound: maybe I was a witch—not the kind they jeered at on the street—but something ancient, powerful, and good. The insults they threw at me had unknowingly named me true.
From that day on, I stopped hiding.
I embraced the gifts I’d inherited—gifts that came not just from a spellbook, but from a long line of women like my grandmother. Women who were strong and wise, women who survived on the edges and still found ways to shine. I began to use my magic to help others: healing, guiding, empowering.
Andrew supported me through it all. His love was constant, unwavering. We married under a moonlit Texas sky, and I stood proud in my own skin, with my imperfect nose and my perfect strength.
I no longer fear the streets or the shadows.
I am not just a witch.
I am the Austin Witch.
🧙🏾♀️ Moral of the Story:
Embracing who you truly are—even when the world mocks or misunderstands you—is the path to true power. Sometimes, what others see as flaws are the very marks of magic.
