There’s an elder Eurocentric dude, whom in my pissedness I used to refer to as “that fucking old White man” who tried to fix me by getting in my face about dismantling what he defined as my self-made prison bars, as he also tried to confront me into “healing” by shaming me about what he called the unhealthy size of my body.

I responded to him that my defensive bars and my unhealthy body have preserved my life, and they would be perfectly transformed when I was free to be me.

He was a potato whom I had to decisively and consciously separate from me without smashing him to smithereens, so that he could have the opportunity to grow and thrive. If you know you know. Choices. They matter.

Thankfully, before I stepped into that arena, I had already decided to hand mental fuck yous to these saviours who refused to hear that I was not a victim who needed their fix. My decision to arm myself with those fucks protected me from their unwitting well-intentioned harmful methods of engagement. My decision to arm myself with those fucks prevented me from allowing their egos to reign over me, prevented me from allowing them to silence my voice, prevented me from accepting that they were experts who knew better than I what I needed to progress. I was created master of my own medicine.

I armed myself with those fucks, and my self-protection also prevented me from being able to focus my energy on sifting for the load of gold which I knew was a part of their planned process, even though the gold was mixed in with a load of bullshit. Wheat and tares. Sometimes I forget that this is the reality of life for all of us.

I retreated into myself for a while fully enraged to the point of laughter, which showed up as contempt. Thankfully, that smirking contempt was challenged by one of the saviours in the space. “This is not a joke,” they said.

I didn’t fight with them. That’s growth. That was my healing ability to listen kicking in. Though rage filled me, my spiritual ears sifted and translated their words through my heart instead of through my detached raging head. The gold that was left was this: hey, we’re here to heal together.

And so I let God (The Team of Three) hold me in that space safe from the supremacy of saviours, and bring me into engagement with equals, not because they saw me as an equal, but because I knew whom I was. God let me roll with my fucks because my need for protection is and was one hundred percent genuine.

And so I handed my defensive fucks over to God, so that the gold of healing could be poured into me. I allowed My Love Most High, God called Father, whom I firmly believe is non-binary, to use Their gold of love to fill the cracks in my connection with the saviours. It took years of exposure therapy to get there.

The saviours are saviours because they are unable to face the reality that the dehumanizing virus of racism is still in them. They don’t consciously want to enslave us anymore, although they are willing to exploit our coloured bodies to increase their clout and influence, to build their legacy as hero-saviours, and they still, sometimes unconsciously, see themselves as our superiors who are the only ones able to teach us how to become at least marginally as good as they are.

They still see us as children looking up to them as parents – children who must be teachable, obedient, and pliable, for whom they will provide significance if we comply with their wishes. They see us as children whom they will punish in the prison of disconnection if we fail to comply.

And so if you are a person of colour reading this, I hope that you will exhale enough to consciously connect with your armour of fucks so that you can allow God to take those fucks which have been plugging up the rage that we have often turned into laughter and tomfoolery in order to survive. I hope that you will allow God to clear that plug so that you can release the rage into Their hands, and finally consciously stand firmly in your place as an equal made in the image of God, instead of merely surviving as someone whose value is found in closely as possibly conforming to the expectation of the Eurocentric saviour.

Remember that we all need healing so that we can be awoken from our systemically induced comas. Remember that we were all created master of our own medicine.

And may that release fill us with compassion for those who are still saviours because they are still grappling with an inheritance of supremacy which is deeply ingrained in their identity.

Pray with me that we will all wake up and remember that we are all humans created in the image of God, all equally designed to reflect God’s light. And as we wake up may we not build bigger barns to hoard our light. May we liberally share the light so that all may see before we die, and our light dies with us.

Asé and amen. So it is done, in the almighty name of revolutionary Jesus who came not to bring peace, but to bring a sword. The sword is the word of God, and that word is NOT the Bible.

It may be that you’re not ready to talk about that. That’s okay. Fair warning. I AM.

OH! PS:

There is one very important detail which I forgot to include, a pivotal detail really: “That fucking old White man” has his own rainbow room at home in my heart now. Now I think of him by his name, Mike. Because while I was incredibly fucking raging because of him, his was also the voice that helped to shore up my courage and validate my choice to participate in the process before I even entered the room.

Here’s the story: As I prepared for that working retreat, I was both excited and sick to my stomach because I did not trust the people in leadership at that event, though I trusted the process. Just before I left my house for the drive there I had a strong message that I NEEDED my own Warmth And Loving Kindness rainbow blanket. I had never made myself one.

I didn’t have time to make it, and I did have time to cut it. So I cut it and brought the fabric with me. When I got to the venue, Sxexet Spath ‘s welcoming warrior-defender energy greeted me, and Cally’s encouraging wink and smile reminded me that no matter where I was, I was with family.

I bubbled up with big bright canary-eagle energy as I usually do, AND I also felt like I needed to find myself shelter where I could bring myself to calm, to reclaim my peace.

I found a warm little nook. At first I thought I was alone, and then I noticed that an Indigenous aunty was already quietly enjoying solitude in that space. I asked permission to come in, and she invited me to join her. I did.

I asked about her, and she told me her story while I tied knots of warmth and loving-kindness for myself, to reclaim my peace.

After a while, Aunty left the room, and I was alone with my thoughts and my blanket. I had almost decided to leave because the weight of distrust sat heavily in my soul. And then a voice broke through my thoughts. It said to the person with whom it was speaking: “Remember that you get to decide whether you participate or not. You’re in charge. No one can make you do anything.”

I was like, “OH fuck! Yeah! IT’S ON!” And so it was.

Turns out that Mike and I are a lot more alike than not. He’s good people who bring out the fucks in me, and there as many and varied of those in me as there are stars in the galaxy. And that is a perfectly beautiful thing, because it means that I am living indeed, in freedom.

Living life as exposure therapy has been such an incredible experience. Below is but a minute fraction of the family which healing has brought me. I love you all.