I remember the first time I watched The Craft. The 1996 cult classic is such a mesmerizing peak into the era of leather, chokers, catholic school girl plaids, and oversized clothing that still send me into a '90s nostalgia frenzy. But for many burgeoning Black horror enthusiasts, all eyes were on Rachel True and her witchy fictional counterpart, Rochelle Zimmerman.
*SPOILERS FROM THIS POINT FOR A NEARLY 30 YEAR OLD MOVIE. LOL*
True Magic is Neither Black, Nor White
The dynamic of "the black friend" is one not entirely alien to teen films and television, especially in the 90s. From Lisa Turtle in Saved By the Bell to Dionne Davenport in Clueless. Usually, these characters existed as sidekicks or the lightness of the vehicle overall prevent an honest exploration of what it truly means to be "the black friend" in a largely white social circle.
But Rochelle brought such a unique energy to the moniker that's frankly hard to ignore. As one of the four teenage witches navigating the ups and downs of high school life, Rochelle stood as a viable point of entry for Black female horror fans in an overwhelmingly white mainstream landscape. More importantly, she accomplished the rare feat of actually having a storyline of her own and surviving until the end alongside her white costars, cultivating a space where Black women in modern horror could be more than just a sacrificial lamb.
We are the Weirdos, Mister.
Like many young girls, I was always dying to be someone else. And anytime I watched The Craft, I was part of their messy, mischievous girl gang. I was cool. I was magical. And obviously if I was pretending I was part of their wild friend group, I was the sarcastic, curly-haired Rochelle.
She was the only black girl on screen and that was "black girl magic" in a very literal sense, before the popular hashtag made it a phrase in everyone's lexicon. Rochelle meant a lot to a girl struggling in the mirror to flatten her curls every single morning before school and who was obsessed with speculative fiction. I was nerdy—searching for validation the way teenagers do, but in an angsty "humanity sucks" kind of way. And, of course, as a black tween, I was well versed in racism and all of its forms.
It was honestly quite shocking for me at the time to see a film like this portray racism so overtly. (Even 2024 films struggle to acknowledge racial biases and ignorance without feeling like they're preaching to or grossly underestimating their audience.) The Craft, however, shrewdly portrays Rochelle's conflict with classmate and fellow swim team member, the openly racist Laura Lizzie (played by Christine Taylor). When Rochelle confronts her directly about why she's being singled out as the target of Laura's hate, Laura bluntly replies, "I don't like Negroids. Sorry."
So, naturally, once Rochelle is given newfound power and agency through witchcraft—with the addition of a fourth to complete the coven's circle—it's completely believable that she would use the occult against Laura, resulting in all of Laura's bouncy blonde locks falling out. Call it schadenfreude, call it nasty, call it whatever you like, but you'd be hard pressed to find anyone in Rochelle's position—the lone black face in a sea of white, being hurtfully othered on a daily basis—who wouldn't at least be tempted to do the same.
Don't worry, the film doesn't cosign this behavior. And The Craft somewhat expertly manages to do this without taking away from what the film is really about—four outcasts in high school banding together and using witchcraft to reclaim their power.
Rochelle was arguably the most outcast of them all, often positioned as a sounding board for everyone else's journey. And I can say I've certainly experienced points in my life, in spaces with few people of color, where I was made to feel like I was there to play a role. However, in finding smaller circles of acceptance—my coven—I could be visible and even powerful.
Relax, It's Only Magic
I realized later in life how important it was for me to see how Rochelle used and acknowledged her power in those formative years. When she wasn't facing off with racist bullies, she'd become this confident woman, standing in her own light for seemingly the first time. And watching her use that power to claim justice for herself was empowering (and so badass!), even if I disagreed with the way that she used that power. For the first time, I saw a black girl using her magic to get ahead—or in Rochelle's case, to just survive high school. It felt good to see someone who looked like me that could be magical, too, even if not quite in the same "goody, goody" Sabrina the Teenage Witch kind of way. But let's face it, real teenagers are vicious. And if I had power like that at the time, I would've probably used it to get back at a bully or two too.
The Craft was lowkey brave. It's willingness not just to include people of color but to explore the implications of what that means in a narrative that's not explicitly about race makes it feel revolutionary and it should serve as an example for how inclusiveness doesn't mean diluting your narrative. It can actually enhance it. Who knew!
Looking back, Rochelle was everything good and bad about my teenage years—minus the murder. By the end of the film, she was helplessly flawed and ultimately a victim of absolute power. The Craft illustrates black girl magic in a way in which black women are also human. And, even if for a moment, I got to see how simply embracing your position as a black girl could, in fact, make you magical.
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