Tituba of Salem Village (review)

There are at least as many explanations for the Salem witch trials as there are years that separate us from the era in which they occurred. Modern scholars have offered a dizzying array of reasons for the madness that resulted from a group of young girls and women accusing adults of doing terrible things. Scholars trying to account for this unaccountably violent break with tradition have traced the hysteria to causes ranging from the town's factitious and litigious history, to Salem's many traumatized refugees from Indian warfare, to fungus in the food supply. Even among such a diverse array of approaches, however, there is consensus on one point: the events of 1692 can be traced to adult concerns and adult grievances. Most secondary school students (and indeed, most Americans) would know the story of the trials as told by Arthur Miller in his 1952 play The Crucible and in the 1996 film of the same name. In that telling, the concerns are very adult indeed. Twelve-year-old Abigail is transformed into the seductive twenty-something Winona Ryder. The madness of the trial is attributed to the vindictiveness of a scorned young woman.

Several aspects of this incident set it apart from other witchcraft trials of the era. First, the scale, particularly for New England, far exceeded any witch-hunt in recent memory. Over one hundred and fifty members of that small community would be imprisoned. Nineteen people would be hanged. Second, children played a vital role in the proceedings. It had been common for children to be at the center of witchcraft accusations—often the blame started flying when a beloved child became ill or died. But almost always adults spoke on their behalf. The children were silent. In Essex County, Massachusetts, children as young as eight and twelve took the stand, often in front of a large crowd of community members, to accuse and ultimately condemn adults in their midst. Perhaps most remarkably, the court was willing to convict and execute people solely on "spectral evidence"—the unsubstantiated words of the children (and later, adults) who accused others of harming them.

Tituba, the 1956 novel by Ann Petry, was written in the same era as Miller's The Crucible but does not take the liberty of changing the ages of the players. A book designed for children age ten and up, the novel focuses on the drama unfolding between the two young girls and the enslaved woman who lived in Minister Parris's household and who would issue the first fatal accusations. Rather than the titillating scenes of teenage dalliances or naked dances that Miller fabricates, Petry offers perhaps the most persuasive explanation of all—that cruelty begets cruelty, among children as well as adults. At least half the novel takes place before the trials, building the case for the horrors that follow.

At a moment when bullying is high on the agenda for both teachers and students, Tituba provides a fascinating case study in how desperate, and deadly, the power struggles between children, in this case young girls, can be. Petry deftly makes connections between the strict hierarchies of Puritan New England and the resentments that eventually erupt with such deadly force. The powerlessness of the "bound"—slaves, indentured servants, orphans, and beggars—to the landowners is rendered vivid. Against this backdrop, Abigail Williams's precarious position between the two groups—technically, a member of the minister's household, but really a charity case—renders her both cruel and cunning. In a world where the lines of status have so much power, Abigail is desperate to wind up on the more powerful side of the equation.

Never overly didactic, Petry nevertheless supplies details that could provide ripe teaching moments for exploring the harsh realities of slavery and indentured servitude. Petry falls into the common misconception that Tituba was African American, rather than Carib Indian (at least that's what the cover art conveys), but her analysis of slavery in the colonies stands the test of time...