Grieving White Supremacy Ritual Cohort #1 - January 2025

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This past weekend, I learned something about myself in our Grieving White Supremacy retreat that has been quietly shaping my life for a long time: I’ve been unconsciously trying to distance myself from white people. I’ve come to realize how understandable this reaction is, given how whiteness—a learned, internalized way of being, a story many of us are taught to embody—intersects with systems like colonialism, patriarchy, homophobia, and beyond. When I distance myself from it, I get to place myself in the “good white person” category, standing apart, pointing at “them”—but “them” is really me. It’s my shadow, the “not me” that is, in fact, me.

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It’s important to clarify that whiteness here isn’t about the color of one’s skin but rather an orientation, a way of moving through the world that has been instilled in so many of us. These patterns, when combined with larger systems of harm, perpetuate fear that unleash devastation not just on humans but on the more-than-human world as well.

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In 2020, during the pandemic, I participated in an outdoor grief ritual on Land in Bellingham, WA. I called on my unwell Ancestors to speak through me, and at the altar, they appeared in vivid visions—atrocities and unmetabolized pieces of Amerikkka’s history flashing before my eyes. At the time, I was working on my thesis at UW,” Grieving White Supremacy,” inspired by Resmaa Menakem's "My Grandmother's Hands."

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Four years later, one of the stewards of that Land reached out and asked if I was really going to offer the ritual I’d once written of, and if so, they offered to hold it on their Land. I felt the yes haunting me, my Guides whispering, “It’s time. We’re ready. Step in. You are not alone.”

 

So, with the support of my beloved Grief-Tending sister Siena Tenisci and my teacher, friend, and colleague Briana Herman-Brand (who comes through the generative somatics lineage), we offered a three-day ritual for people of european descent.

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I wouldn’t say I was terrified walking into that space, though I was definitely skeptical. I kept asking myself: Are we really ready for this? Ready to mess up and still feel like we belong? Ready to talk about the things that aren’t working in our activist spaces—about the deep wounds of being severed from Village, Spirit, Land, Body and Ancestors?

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And then, to take it even further: Are we ready to see how those wounds get weaponized against Black and Brown People, against the Global Majority? Are we willing to face our self-hatred, our shame, our lack of connection to where we come from? To stop letting that shame turn into performative activism and instead step into more authentic allyship?

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But also... are we ready to love each other? To laugh? To sing—a lot? To move our Bodies? To disagree, and still stick it out together?

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There were 34 of us in that room, gathered with intention and courage, committed to unraveling the deep wound and weapon of white supremacy. A force that has harmed not only our Ancestors for generations but continues to inflict pain on the Kin we love today—the ones we seek to protect and nurture deeper relationships and true allyship with.

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But as I sat there, a question stirred a deep ache within me: Where are the white cis men? I see many men doing men’s work—and I’m genuinely glad that work is happening, maybe that's exactly where they need to be. Yet, I couldn’t shake the feeling, the question that rose up: Where are you?

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And then, something I learned this weekend began to settle within me: we cannot shame change into being. This realization led me to a new edge—one where I am being called into meeting people exactly where they are. Right there. Just there. Can we stay in that place together? Can we grieve together? Can we let the grief soften some of the fear, catalyzing a transformation—shapeshifting and spell-casting in ways we hadn’t yet dared to believe were possible?

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I left this weekend with a sense of obligation—a calling—to keep dreaming what might feel unimaginable. The world I want to live in is NOT a fantasy; it is NOT frivolous “daydreaming.” This dreaming is an act of responsibility, a sacred duty, part of the legacy we are weaving for those who come after us. No one is coming to save us. We know this. It WILL have to be us. It IS us.  

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For those precious hours, I felt the power of collective healing and the possibility of transformation. It reminded me of what is possible when we come together with open hearts to do this work—not just for ourselves, but for the generations to come.

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The weekend felt like a gem—a microcosm, a fleeting second, a tiny glimpse in the vastness of my life. Yet in that brief flash, I experienced what it feels like to be proud of my european kin living on Turtle Island. SOMETHING I NEVER KNEW WOULD BE POSSIBLE IN MY OWN LIFETIME. 

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When I arrived home last night, I felt something taking shape within me—expanding, contracting, alive. I’m writing it down now, before the amnesia dust settles in, because it feels too important to let slip away: As I stood before my Ancestor altar… really looking at it as though for the first time, I felt a deeper connection to these people—a sense of knowing them better than I ever had before. Compassion rose up in me, along with a quiet, powerful commitment: to do, in this Body, what they could not or were not able to do in theirs.

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I felt this commitment on behalf of the whole—for the healing of racial wounds, for the restoration of Land, for Equity, for Love and Care. For the human species, especially my european-descent kin, to remember our sacred role within the vast and intricate ecosystem of this Living World.

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As I drove home from the ritual last night, a new and unfamiliar feeling emerged within me: this is the most important communal work I have ever contributed to in my life. It’s a knowing that goes beyond words—deep in my bones and blood and belly. Even if the ripples of this work remain unseen or don’t fully reveal themselves in our lifetime, I feel with absolute certainty that this is a step toward mending, reconciliation, justice, and the world I long to live in.