Growing up, my family hated Halloween.

It wasn't because of some religious fervor or the commercialism of costumes, candy, and decorations. My Italian immigrant family deemed it a silly tradition at best or their old-world fear of the darker aspects of the celebrations.

Death, ghosts, and general mayhem.

Perhaps, in a nod to their home county, it was also because All Saints' Day and All Souls' Day, which directly follow Halloween on the first two days of November, were the headliners in Italy at this time of year; the former honors the pantheon of Roman Catholic saints, and the latter is when our departed loved ones are remembered and revered.

Whatever the case, I was the exception to this hate-on-Halloween rule and excitedly embraced the season. I loved the gray days, falling leaves, pumpkins, and the chance to wear a costume. To transform myself into someone new that transported me away from my Bronx neighborhood to a mystical realm.

The reason for my fascination was not evident at first. But it became clearer as I grew older and realized how different I was from others around me. I was a voracious writer and a shameless book lover, and I felt especially odd among the "tough guys" who made up my social circle.

Of course, there was my secretive attraction to other men—the odd neighborhood crush, high school flirtations, and college-age passions.

When I was sixteen, I took the subway to the legendary Halloween parade in Manhattan's West Village. There, I witnessed scantily clad and costumed men embracing and dancing among ghouls and glowing lanterns. Unabashedly hand-in-hand and dressed in conical hats, women channeled witches of old—or, as I understood them, bad-ass women with power.

The transgressive nature of Halloween, this freedom to be who you wanted to be, to celebrate it, and to taste forbidden fruits, was a perfect fit for a budding young member of the queer community.

But another reason to relish in the holiday ran deeper and was intensely spiritual.

I was raised in a home with Italian folk magic, a blending of Roman Catholicism and traditional pagan customs from the mountain town my mother and grandparents had once called home. I was also innately drawn to the occult and fascinated by the mysterious aspects of life and death.

This intersection was especially evident when we visited gravesites on All Souls' Day during the fall. We went to church but also left pan dei morti, or bread of the dead, on the kitchen table as a sign that our departed loved ones were welcome to visit as night fell. Instead of candy and chocolate, the local bakery sometimes doled out ossa dei morti (bones of the dead), a biscotto or cookie made in the shape of a human bone that came with a clear message that there’s a special sweetness in remembering your ancestors.

These traditions were added to years of watching my grandmother remove malocchio, the evil eye, and my grandfather making his wine by the moon's phases. During that time I also absorbed teachings around the healing properties inherent in rosemary or garlic and the protective power of amulets like the cornetto, the little gold or silver horn you've seen around many an Italian-American's neck.

Later, tucked away in library shelves and bookstore tables, I branched out and learned about other magical traditions. Inevitably, I landed on the Celtic festival of Samhain, where our present-day Halloween has its roots. Samhain marks the end of the harvest season and ushers in the darker half of the year; this is when the Veil that separates "the world of spirit" from "the world of form" is lifted, and said spirits can roam into our lives with particular ease. Most modern witches and magical practitioners celebrate Samhain as a time to honor the dead and dress up to celebrate what they wish to be or which energies they aim to harness in the coming year.

So it couldn't be that the bridge between queer and magical identities—something I felt so strongly, especially as autumn set in—was just a coincidence.

"Halloween is a festival of symbolic inversion, during which all the elements usually denied and excluded from mainstream American culture come out of the closet," Professor Sabina Magliocco, chair of the Program in the Study of Religion at The University of British Columbia and a leading authority on folklore, religion, and the modern Pagan movement told me via email.

"Things are literally turned upside down for the month of October," she continued. "That creates an environment in which individuals and communities whose identities have been excluded from the cultural register can express themselves openly, with less fear of retribution. For example, cross-dressing and drag have been a part of Halloween costuming since the early 20th century. When it's expected and accepted by the mainstream culture, queer individuals can engage in it publicly with fewer repercussions."

And today, that dabbling in magic and Halloween's freeing character is part of a larger movement.

New Age spirituality is one of the fastest-growing religions in America, with millions exploring oracle and tarot cards, spell kits, and the use of amulets and talismans, and ancestor veneration. And among the queer community, there are increasing numbers embracing these practices. This phenomenon has grown in scope and diversity recently, especially with "WitchTok" channels on TikTok for magically-minded folks. The world of magical literature, rituals, and tools is growing more inclusive to reflect ever more queer voices, r reflecting the fullness of identities that comprise our community.

The foundations of this movement are in the work of queer magical pioneers like Leo Martello, Eddie Buczynski, Rachel Pollack, Starhawk, and Judy Grahn, among many others. They spoke out about their dual identities and the power of honoring and harnessing both for spiritual growth, often at a time when being out was dangerous on many levels.

Another leader in this space is Christopher Penczak, the author of Gay Witchcraft: Empowering the Tribe, one of the foundational works of queer spirituality. He told me, "One of my early queer mentors described Halloween as Gay Christmas, a special time for queer people because otherness was the dominant theme of the night. As a Witch now celebrating Samhain, it's a powerful time to honor and communicate with all the ancestors, including the queer and Witch ancestors that are not of our blood but are of our spirit."

All of this is not to say that there aren't anti-queer feelings in the witchcraft community. Even here, there is hate to be found, either among contemporary practitioners or the likes of Dion Fortune, a 20th-century occultist whose work contains homophobic and racist references.

We, too, have our battles, even with other queer people who view our beliefs as odd or dangerous. Several dates I went on ended with someone running away in fear, or with a warning from a supposed cosmopolitan, open-minded type claiming they would not get involved in "those dark things."

And yet, as October rears its wonderful head and the days get a bit colder and overcast, with the promise of the Veil being lifted, I become more resolved to embrace the two identities that have long made up my being.

After all, not many people can say they came out twice—once from the usual closet and once more from the broom closet.

Antonio Pagliarulo is the author of The Evil Eye: The History, Mystery, and Magic of the Quiet Curse and the forthcoming The Queer Saints: A Radical Guide to Magic, Miracles and Modern Intercession.

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