Obsidian and Finding the Truth Beneath the Surface

When we dress up, when we experiment, sometimes it’s because we are trying to discover who we are. But sometimes it’s because we already know and have nothing to hide.

This is Personal Facets, a column by Jaya Saxena exploring emotions, the magical properties and promises of crystals, and the real reasons people seek their powers.

In 1770, the rumor goes, England came close to passing a law allowing a man to divorce his wife if she had used makeup to convince him she was prettier than she really was. Whether she did it “by scents, paints, cosmetics, washes, artificial teeth, false hair, Spanish wool, iron stays, hoops, high-heeled shoes or bolstered hips,” she could be tried for witchcraft and her punishment would be justified, because—well, look at her with her red lips and smooth skin. She’s obviously a liar.

Obsidian is hot, violent lava that is then cooled as quickly as possible, resulting in inky glass with sharp edges and a reflective surface. Its main use is piercing: through skin as a spearhead; and through perceptions as a scrying stone, into which you’re supposed to look and see your past, present, and future stripped of all the gloss and gauze.

“This beautiful and powerful stone can help cut through the drivel, shatter illusions, and uncover lies,” one site claims. “It can help you remove any blockages in your being and see through the facades.” In its surface, you’re supposed to find deep truths that maybe you’re too scared to admit to yourself. But what is truth depends on what we consider dishonest.

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I don’t ever remember feeling the need to wear makeup for men. That’s not to say the influence wasn’t there, but who could possibly unearth subconscious motivations amid puberty? Makeup was what my mom wore, sometimes, and what her friends wore more often, and therefore what I figured was—like drinking alcohol and wearing heels—the realm of adults. You don’t do it to make yourself look better, I thought; you do it because you’re a grown-up.

While middle school involved some silver eyeshadow and sticky lip gloss, eighth grade was when I got serious with an Urban Decay sparkly black eyeliner pencil. I didn’t know how to apply it just to my lash line, so I settled for filling in my entire eyelid. The first time I did it I didn’t quite recognize myself, but I told myself that was the point. Children didn’t wear eye makeup, and I was no longer interested in being a child. If a teenager is who I wanted to be, this is how I needed to look.

My appearance told a story, and I was aware of what my choices said to those who looked at me, and about my relationship to the things I didn’t choose. The girl in ripped jeans and old shirts is different from the girl in a frilled blouse, or the girl whose jeans were pre-distressed and whose T-shirt came from Marc Jacobs. My clothing was a costume, something others used to intuit who I was and what I was like.

But just because it was a costume didn’t mean it wasn’t authentic. I chose what I wore, how I presented myself, because I liked how dark eyeliner and ripped jeans and old T-shirts and studded belts looked and felt. Frilled blouses felt unnatural, but my black sweatshirt covered in pins and buttons felt like me. When I looked in the mirror, I saw both the person I was and the person I wanted to be—or at least as close to that person as you can get when you’re fifteen. Could any outfit perfectly bridge the gap between perception and reality? Let you know exactly who I was?

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When the witch looks into her scrying stone, what she’s looking for is honesty. There is something there—a shape, a voice—that reveals a truth that reality can’t.

The art of scrying implies the things we tell ourselves and show each other are just facades. We paint our faces and choose our outfits and modify our language because we want to project an image of someone who’s cool, or intelligent, or charming, or adult. Sometimes those are just lies to see through, substitutes for the real thing—because if we had the real thing, why would we care so much about other people knowing it?

Recently, my husband and I went out to dinner at an upscale Indian restaurant. I had read that, while the food was incredible, the waiters had a tendency to over-explain ingredients. They’d slowly pronounce “garam masala” or give you a lecture on dal, assuming you were unfamiliar. Perhaps most people were unfamiliar and would find this helpful, but I felt a black fire in me. I couldn’t let them explain my family’s flavors to me. They had to know who I was.

I planned my outfit carefully. Gold filigree earrings my grandparents gifted to me for my high school graduation. Jangly bangles that magically appear at family functions. I lined my eyes in black and tried to tame my frizzy hair as much as I could, because while I knew my thick curls came from my Indian family, others tend to assume all Indians have smooth, shiny hair. At the restaurant, I over-pronounced everything on the menu, trying to prove that these flavors, in some way, were mine.

Nobody tried to explain spices to me. Everyone was lovely and everything was delicious. I couldn’t tell if that’s because I had signaled everything properly, or if we would have had the same experience had I done nothing. But I felt somehow comfortable with my performance. I know who I am, and I know the perceptions of others can’t take my identity away from me.

There are days when I pay parts of myself no mind. I know they are there, and that’s enough. But sometimes, I need to know everyone else knows. What good is an identity if you can’t be identified? I want an identity not just I can see.

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In 1912, prominent suffragettes like Elizabeth Cady Stanton wore red lipstick at the New York City Suffragette March. It soon, briefly, became a symbol of women’s liberation, both sexual and social: A bright red lip connoted a woman who was interested in repelling men. At one point, New York’s Board of Health considered banning lipstick, as it might poison the men who kissed women (notably, not because it might poison the women wearing it). Red meant power. Red meant danger. Red meant just what those women wanted it to mean.

Obsidian, metaphysically, is also used as a shield. It is said to block negativity and provide protection, so its user can obtain clarity of mind without so many external influences. According to Charms of Light, it “helps you to know who you truly are.” When we dress up, when we experiment, sometimes it’s because we are trying to obtain that clarity of mind and discover who we are. But sometimes it’s because we already know, and we have nothing to hide. Our presentations aren’t masks, but mirrors, an invitation for others to see exactly who we are.

Yet, even if we can signal points of identity—gender, race, class, style, interests—our looks can never fully be synecdoche for who we are. Because we are too many things to see at once, and there are only so many things we can signal at a time. Even if I am at once a suffragette and someone who enjoys having a bare face, I can only either wear red lipstick or not. I can’t wear jeans and a T-shirt and a dress, though I am both a tomboy and someone who enjoys more traditionally feminine expressions. I may successfully succeed in showing you some things, but to know everything about me that makes me me, you need to do more than just look.

And still we try to control the narrative. I’m not sure why the need to have others know everything about me on first pass feels so important to me. Perhaps I’m just tired of explaining myself. I’m sick of the look of disappointment or confusion on someone’s face when I reveal something about myself they didn’t expect. I want my face to reveal things, to pierce through your assumptions and show you everything. Block out the negativity, look into my face. No matter what’s on it, it’s telling you the truth.