If I sound angry, rest assured it’s because I am. As therapist and healer Dr. Jennifer Mullan stated, “When the exhausted, abused, traumatized, & the exploited are denied access after access; RAGE and all that goes with her energy are acceptable responses.”5 As they say, if you’re not angered by the injustices in the world, you’re not paying attention. Or perhaps you just don’t care. But Black and Indigenous folx, young and old, are dying—emotionally, spiritually, and physically—every single day at the hands of white supremacy and all those perpetuating it. Not caring is a privilege we simply cannot afford.
ALONE ON AN ISLAND…
“White people [are] hypocrites. They’re barbaric…”6
My guess is that you may have been met by a host of big emotions as you read that—am I right? I was too. It was August 2017 when I first watched the clip of a young Black man make this statement during a TV interview. I had just returned from a weekend away with my then (mostly white) friends. The same weekend of the now notorious Unite the Right rally in Charlottesville, Virginia. When I reviewed the news coverage of that fateful day, my heart was thrust into a state of all-consuming ache, and as I heard him utter “barbaric,” I was met with a wave of wide-sweeping and conflicting emotions. First came affirmation. The Black Lives Matter protester had just called out the same group of people who, over the course of my lifetime and the lifetimes of my ancestors, treated us as less than solely for being Black. And he’d done so on live television. To a white person’s face for all to witness. Then came the pang of deep and penetrating grief. Grief and loss from the omnipotent trauma of BI&PoC, specifically Black and Indigenous folx, who have been murdered, lynched, imprisoned, enslaved, assaulted, discriminated against, and spiritually, mentally, emotionally, and physically abused at the hands of white people for centuries. My face felt flush with righteous rage as I reflected on the pervasiveness of the problem. The widely held but frequently disguised racist beliefs held by those with power* and privilege* and their collective unwillingness to do a damn thing to truly change it. The very reason the events of Charlottesville were taking place to begin with. And then there was the fear. Fear for this young person’s life and livelihood in that moment and for his foreseeable future. As well as the shame, anger, and emotional violence I knew would undoubtedly arise as a result of speaking his truth without apology and defiantly calling white supremacy out.
As I sat back in my chair, I released a long and labored exhale. I recounted all the times in which I had brought my truth to white people, when I had spoken up about the ways in which systems of white supremacy have hurt me and those like me, and all the times I was consequently rejected, ignored, and insulted—often by the white people closest to me. I found myself overcome with emotion—because of both the horrendously violent events that had taken place that weekend as well as the bravery of this young Black humxn and the way his words resonated so deeply within every bone of my being. Still, I was confused. I had just spent an entire weekend with white people. I was raised in a predominantly white community, most of my friends at that time were white, and I have white family members. Hell, 25 percent of my ancestry is white! Was it fair to name all white folx hypocrites and barbarians?!
As the Black uprising advocate in the news clip attempted to finish his first sentence, more grief ensued. The news anchor, through his white lens, lied and said the Black man wished to “kill all white people.”7 As commonly occurs, this dignified Black soul was made out to be a murderous enemy of the state. An angry thug on a mission to cause white people harm. But that’s not what he said. He called white people barbaric, but he did not say they are all bad people, nor did he assert to wish any of them harm. Without so much as a thought, white supremacy translated this man’s expression of pain—the collective pain shared by myself and many Black folx—as criminal, deviant, and dangerous. Just as enslavers the world over had done centuries before and just as American Jim Crow had upheld for decades afterward. It’s an intentional, albeit often unconscious, defense mechanism white folx wield to guard against having to actually listen to or do anything about the truth: that no matter their intentions, all white people perpetuate a collective and institutionalized system of white supremacy created by white people, which benefits all white people to the detriment and oppression of all BI&PoC (particularly Black and Indigenous women+). And that is fucking barbaric. Periodt. In the same way cis men have a history of acting barbarically toward women, femmes, and feminine folx, hetero folx have behaved barbarically toward the LGBTTQIA+* community, non-disabled folx behave barbarically toward disabled folx, etc. We are all barbaric in some fashion, and part of our spiritual journey is being with that reality, processing the shitty feelings that arise when we confront the harm we’ve caused ourselves and others, and doing the work required to do and demand better.
What I believe this bereaved activist was saying, what Black folx are constantly having to say, is that, on the whole, white people hang us out to dry. Which, in fairness, is an improvement from when they hang us from trees… and they still do. White folx continuously demand we beg, plead, and fight for our humxnity to simply be recognized. When we audaciously assert the right to live and breathe with the same freedoms as white folx, we’re denied, ignored, and attacked. This struggle is constant and the demand incessant, even when white folx are entirely unaware of the task they put before us. Yet again, a Black brother was put on the spot to do exactly that: plead for his right to simply exist. The only difference in this instance was that he wasn’t having any of it. This righteous renegade was otherwise in the midst of a standard exchange with whiteness, one that silences Black struggles and prioritizes white comfort. It’s an exchange I’ve endured time and time again, including that very same weekend.
* * *
As thousands of alt-right white supremacists and Black Lives Matter protesters descended upon Charlottesville, I was at a friend’s cabin—well, more like mansion—on an island near my birth town in Vancouver, BC. It was a typical weekend with wealthy, white folx. I was the only Black person in my friend group and often one of if not the only BI&PoC for miles. The weekend was full of reading and relaxing. That is, until I woke up on Sunday morning and checked the news. I saw a woman run over, murdered by a white supremacist in his car. I witnessed neo-Nazis violently assaulting and terrorizing Black men+ and women+. I heard the forty-fifth president of the United States proclaim, “There is blame on both sides.”8 I felt every cell in my body simultaneously howl in horror and retreat with remorse. Every tear, every bigoted remark, every hateful blow, was housed deep in my soul. I had not been there that frightening day in Charlottesville, and yet in so many ways, I had.
I made my way through the corridor of the island estate and descended the stairs to find the weekend crew lit and lively in the kitchen, going about their morning as though the world weren’t on fire. But of course, it was. I knew people were in the hospital. Black folx worldwide, especially Black Americans, were hurting on every level in every kind of way, and I was unsure how to process it all as I sat in the middle of a million-dollar “cabin” on a tiny, picturesque island surrounded by white folx who were entirely oblivious or, worse, unbothered by the situation down south and its implications for us all. The lack of awareness of those in my midst left me feeling isolated, angry, and disheartened. It was as though the trees lining the estate equally sheltered the home as well as its inhabitants. So, I did what had become my salvation in times like those, times when it felt like nobody around me understood my experience walking the world as a Black woman navigating white supremacy on the daily. I shared my pain publicly online with total strangers because it felt less agonizing than attempting to ask the white people in my immediate vicinity to give a fuck about racial violence and its impact on the Black woman right in front of them. That they honor and acknowledge my humxnity and the trauma that naturally arises in bearing witness to yet another example of white supremacist terrorism on Black people. My people.
The often uni
ntentional but entirely harmful avoidance of race*-based issues by white folx results in my isolation and erasure of my experiences. It leaves me, and so many other BI&PoC, feeling as though white people don’t understand our experience nor care to try, so what would be the point of us speaking up? In predominantly white spaces, I often feel as though it’s me, myself, and I. Who is often the only person giving a damn about BI&PoC? Me. Where can I turn for support? Myself. Who bears the brunt of white silence*? I.
* * *
Sitting on the couch away from the crowd, I hit “post” on Instagram and went upstairs, where I sat on the bed and bawled. Alone and away from the callous community downstairs still whooping it up over eggs and bacon. I was on an island within an island. A world of pain that nobody in my presence would dare explore with or for me. Me. Myself and I. Was it possible they simply did not know? Obvi. But with the incessant media frenzy of our times, to be unaware is a choice. One made to prioritize white comfort at the exclusion and expense of all others. Later that day the hostess for the weekend, my closest friend there by far, saw my post and tried her best to acknowledge my pain in person. As she sat next to me on the couch and fumbled her way through something akin to consolation, I was appreciative of her attempt. Still, as typically occurs in exchanges with whiteness, I found myself exerting all the emotional labor*. I felt compelled to “induce or suppress [my feelings] in order to sustain the outward countenance that produces the proper state of mind”9 in my white friend. Aka, I had to exert hella effort to make sure she felt safe during our chat about my race-based pain. And this wasn’t the last time: less than a year later I spent a week consoling her after several of her close friends were racist to me during her bachelorette.
For BI&PoC, white supremacy regularly has us engaging in conversations about our oppression in a way that comforts our oppressor and/or upholds the oppressive status quo, which results in furthering our oppression. I left the interaction at the cabin both sad and exhausted. I did my best to enjoy the day, but my pain couldn’t be contained. I cried standing along the water’s edge, my salty tears falling to meet the salt water beneath me. All but one person took notice and, for a moment, stayed with me as I cried in an earnest effort to affirm the pain pent up in my chest. Other than that, my white friends did fuck all. Mostly avoided me, and thus the problem of racism and their implication in it, at all costs. And it hurt. We quickly returned to the sheltered structure of the cabin, and the sheltered lives of my well-to-do white friends marched on. And therein lay the crux of the issue: that white people, as a result of the privilege and protection afforded by whiteness and white supremacy, can and will continue to turn away from racism. To choose not to engage, which is an active choice not to care.
I believe many of the white people in my midst that day cared for me. But they cared about themselves and their comfort more. They were trained to. Just as I was trained to prioritize their needs and well-being above my own. White supremacy plays out in small and subtle ways just as potently as it does in large and grandiose actions. A group of young white folx in Western Canada wholly unmoved by racist acts of terrorism and who ignore their Black friend in distress is in no way disconnected to a group of right-wing extremists who parade and punch in the name of white pride. All of it is violent. All of it perpetuates the white supremacist status quo and causes BI&PoC harm and alienation. Further, as Dr. Shereen Masoud has shared, “the [Charlottesville] riots reified another fear that such blatant displays of racism and xenophobia would work to downplay or mask less apparent, more insidious racist attitudes and behaviors.”10
* * *
Charlottesville sent reverberations of racial unrest down the spines of people around the world, but there is little that is exceptional about anti-Black terrorism, as the double pandemic of COVID-19 and four hundred years of Black genocide has made clear. White supremacist violence has endured for centuries and it will continue to endure, unless and until we all, particularly white people who created and benefit from these systems, demand that it ends. Though there have been countless instances of racist rallies worldwide throughout history, and undoubtedly more to come, there have also been incalculable harms inflicted against Black folx, particularly queer and trans Black women+, by our well-meaning loved ones. Emotional violence can leave bigger bruises than physical acts of assault. Still, like many other Black people, I’ve spent much of my life failing to name these harms, as that brave young man did in Charlottesville, and for damn good reason—it was not and is not safe. Had I spoken my truth to the white people on that tiny white island, I have no doubt I would have been met with a regalia of racist resistance. I chose to be more or less silent about my pain, just as they chose to be silent about my oppression. It’s no coincidence that many, if not most, Black anti-racist educators and activists were raised in predominantly white spaces. The immense harm we endured growing up in the throes of whiteness fired us up to not only fight against racial injustice but dedicate our lives to doing so.
I still frequently feel alone. I have yet to locate the mystical land of Wakanda where I can be my boldest, Blackest, and freest self, but I have come to realize that, for now, such a space must exist within. I can embody the freedom I wish to create in the world, and I believe it is my calling as bestowed upon me by Spirit and my ancestors to share my truth and the truth of so many Black women+, past, present, and future. To mobilize others to create a tangibly safe society for Black and Indigenous women+ worldwide. A space where our experiences will be welcomed. If there’s any chance for equity* to actualize, people need to listen to the realities faced by the most oppressed. We all need to start sharing our stories with those different from ourselves while calling out oppression, actively listening, and questioning our perspectives even and especially when it makes us uncomfortable. I want to witness a world where white folx and non-Black PoC* are willing to risk their lives and livelihoods in support of Black liberation, in the same way Black women+ have been risking our lives and livelihoods for all of our collective freedoms. For centuries. A world where Black women+, especially queer and trans Black women, no longer have to lead the charge on the front lines of critical global change. I want Black women+ to be able to rest. And heal. The collective’s liberation requires Black liberation, and Black liberation requires all of us. Particularly those currently possessing the most power and privilege.
Make no mistake, I still fear the harm I will undoubtedly endure for speaking my truth. My work, education, and training in racial justice do not and cannot inoculate me from feeling pain. I am in no way immune to the backlash that has already taken place and that is sure to ensue. Those who will blame me for speaking my truth, then drag my name through the mud in an effort to ruin me and my reputation. The many (mostly white) folx who no longer speak or associate with me, and all those to come. The death threats that will continue to fill my inboxes. All this and more is just another day of existing as a queer Black woman fighting racial injustice. The very act of writing this book is a form of activism and estrangement—to be an outspoken and unapologetic queer Black woman is to be a lightning rod for loathing. I have been slammed with every racist stereotype one can imagine—angry, uppity, divisive, too Black, not Black enough, too emotional, too loud, too much, too everything. Still, I must write and I must write my absolute truth. Indigenous lands continue to be stolen and destroyed. Black folx are still subjected to state-sanctioned slaughter in these global streets. Both Black and Indigenous folx are dying at the highest rates due to COVID-19 and anti-Black and anti-Indigenous pandemics. Governments are ruthlessly terrorizing those of us defying inequitable systems of power. And shit is only getting worse. There’s too much at stake for us to stay quiet.
Spiritual Soulcare* Offering/Call to Action
Naming Our Fears
Our first soulcare prompt creates space for you to illuminate your own apprehensions around racial justice. Find a quiet space to reflect and ask yourself this question: What is my biggest fear or frustration about
addressing white supremacy?
Please close or lower your eyes.
Take note in your mind of any words, images, or emotions that emerge as you ponder this question. Maybe a memory arises. Perhaps you feel tension in your jaw.
Now open your eyes and jot down what came up for you below. If you are able to—for this exercise and those to come—try writing with your nondominant hand. This helps you to get out of your head and into your heart (and practice non-perfection, cuz it ain’t pretty!).
MY BIGGEST FEAR OR FRUSTRATION ABOUT ADDRESSING WHITE SUPREMACY IS:
WHERE DO I FEEL THIS IN MY BODY?
Naming our biggest fear and/or frustration lets us deflate some of its power and, in turn, create more space for us to hold space, show up, and do the work! Notice where this lives in your body and how/when it gets activated as you move through the book and this work.
TWO
Where We Get Stuck
Freedom is the difference between “justice” and healing.
—MCKENSIE MACK
Do Better Page 3