I avoided writing my dream all week. It feels too audacious, presumptuous, naive.
For the past four years I have committed myself in a concerted, embodied, public way to the work of uprooting white supremacy. I’ve done this work primarily in white spaces, recognizing that white people must acknowledge and unlearn the habits of white supremacy in order to dismantle racism on the personal, interpersonal, community and systemic levels. I know that being anti-racist is a call to continual conversion, a spiritual practice that I must attend to daily. I still have so much to learn and so much to unlearn. I know there is so much work yet to do among fellow white people. And still, I dream of multiracial community.
I am a white woman dreaming of Black grandmothers’ gardens.
I am a white woman dreaming in Spanish, dreaming of Latina comadres.
Is that allowed? Is that appropriative? Is that violent? Is that colonizing?
I am a descendent of settlers, an inheritor of the sinful plunder of colonization and slavery, dreaming of a decolonized/decolonizing church. I am a white woman dreaming of co-pastoring and co-cultivating a multiracial community grounded in spirit and lifting up healing and justice.
Throughout this week of avoiding writing, I leaned into Casey’s invitation to feed my creativity. On Monday my partner Julio and I made sixteen chicken pot pies for black activists in Charlottesville. On Tuesday we went to Richmond and visited Monument Avenue where activists have transformed towering idols of white supremacy into a stunning community memorial to Black and Brown people killed by the police. That night we watched a webinar together offered by Movement Generation, a network “rooted in vibrant social movements led by low-income communities and communities of color” and committed “to a Just Transition away from profit and pollution and towards healthy, resilient and life-affirming local economies.” On Wednesday I harvested anise hyssop and borage from our garden for medicinal tea and Julio delivered it – along with bone broth from the chickens he raised – to our immigrant friends who are sick with Covid-19. Each day seemed to tug on some piece of my dream and pull it out of me a little more.
Now it is Juneteenth and I am writing this, wearing a Black Lives Matter t-shirt, sitting on the porch of an old Virginia farmhouse undoubtedly built by slaves. I am painfully aware of how the dreams of white women have come at the expense of Black and Brown people. I am painfully aware of how the dreams of white women have done immense harm to Black and Brown people. I am also aware of the Black and Brown women in my life who have told me the world needs my dreams and needs my gifts. I don’t know what to make of all of this.
And still, I dream.