Arthur Miller’s The Crucible left a profound impression on me when I first read it as a high school student in New England. Its intense exploration of fear, hysteria, and moral integrity in the context of the Salem witch trials was gripping on its own, but it became even more impactful when my American Literature teacher drew parallels to the political climate of the 1950s, when the play was written. Understanding how Miller used the witch trials as an allegory for McCarthyism brought the text to life in a way that made it feel urgent and timeless. It challenged me to think critically about the intersection of fear, power, and truth—lessons that continue to resonate today.

For me, however, the play eventually took on an even more personal meaning. My dad, an amateur genealogist, uncovered a startling family connection: our ancestors were deeply entangled in the events of 1692, with relatives on both sides of the hysteria. Some were accusers, while others were accused, and our family’s very existence hung in the balance of one critical trial that ended in acquittal. But for that moment of mercy, none of my dad’s family—and, by extension, me—would be here today.

Reflecting on that history while rereading The Crucible gave the play an entirely new depth for me. It’s humbling to think about how the events of the past, so vividly dramatized by Miller, are woven into my own story. This personal connection, coupled with the play’s broader themes, makes The Crucible a work I return to often, always with a renewed sense of awe at its power and relevance.