Is human trauma stored in the body of Mother earth?
Do her muscles, bones, and tissues hold on to memories
that seep out over centuries
in the form of energies you can’t quite identify?

And what are we to do when these energies move through our human bodies?
Do we embrace them and ask their name, knowing they will rearrange us in unimagined ways?
Or do we let them pass, like a sieve, hoping to remain untouched?
How do we bear witness to what has gone before and not allow the pain to sap our strength?

Three times in my life I have encountered a mysterious force so potent that I felt it in every part of my body, although each time the effect was different.

South Carolina wetlands

The first time I felt it, I thought we’d driven through some kind of electrical field. It was visceral — not a shudder, although that’s the best word I can find to describe the sensation. An energy passed through me, starting in my gut and exiting through the top of my head, prickling my scalp as it left. Goosebumps rose on my arms.

Because there was no explanation or visible source, I wondered if I’d just imagined it. Then my husband asked, “What was that?” He’d felt it too. It was real.

We’d crossed into South Carolina, a state I’d never been to before. Moss-covered trees hung over the narrow road, which hovered just above the surface of vast swamps. The energy that had passed though us at the border seemed to live in the waters that stretched in all directions beneath our vehicle.

The following day, as we gathered with a small group of people who would soon become close friends, we tried to describe the feeling we’d experienced.

“Oh yes,” said one of the native South Carolinians, “thousands of slaves died there, trying to escape. Their spirits live in those swamps.”

I don’t believe that souls stay on earth when their bodies die. But I do believe that trauma can be stored in the land, where it then seeps into the water and is drawn up through the roots of trees. We can feel it just as surely as we feel the stress of unhealed trauma in our own bodies.

Charleston, SC

The second time I experience this mysterious force was in the Charleston City Market. A new friend had invited us along on a day-trip to the coast and said that our visit would not be complete without seeing the marketplace. The brick building, which was constructed in the 1790s, takes up four city blocks and houses hundreds of vendors.

I followed my husband and our four friends, squeezing our way through hordes of tourists. Inside the ancient building the heat was suffocating, without even a slight breeze to dry the sweat that dripped off my forehead into my eyes.

Despite the oppressive conditions, we were having a great time. We ate expensive delicacies, and I bought a foot-massager that I kept for nearly 25 years. But the further into the market we went, the more I felt a strange pressure leaning on me. It was like a giant, invisible hand pushing down on me from the ceiling.

It became harder to stand upright. I kept walking, because the moving stream of people made it impossible to stop, but my body was hunching over as if someone very heavy was riding on my shoulders.

I thought I might be having a reaction to the heat and humidity, although this felt different. I wasn’t light-headed, I just felt pressed down. For a moment I worried that I was experiencing claustrophobia or having my first panic attack.

Then our host, who was walking beside me, pointed up to the top of the brick wall, right below where it joined the ceiling. “See that square mark on the wall?” he asked. “This used to be the slave market. That’s where the shackles were attached to the wall. You can see them all along here.” He said it like he was pointing out an interesting architectural feature.

I didn’t understand how a Black American could speak in such a casual way about enslaved people being shackled to the wall. I felt nauseous for the remaining time we stayed there. The moment I stepped outside into the intense sunlight, the oppressive sensations disappeared.

It was only when I researched this story that I discovered it was all a myth. The City Market had always sold produce. The historical Slave Market was in a different part of the city, near the waterfront. The articles I read said that many people still believed this myth and were reluctant to let it go, even when faced with factual history.

So what was I feeling that day? One article said that enslaved people came to this market to buy food for the plantation. Had sadness and hopelessness soaked into the walls? Or were rebellions and escapes planned there? Maybe I really was affected by the heat, humidity, and crowds, and all the rest was pure imagination.

Or maybe it was something else that I’ll never understand.

Montgomery, AL

The third time I experienced the mysterious force was at the Legacy Museum in Birmingham. My friend and I went first to the National Memorial for Peace and Justice, where we walked among monuments to lynching victims in America. Then we made our way through the museum’s exhibits. I am not able to describe what we saw, but you can read about the exhibits here (before you watch the YouTube video, please be advised that some of the images are extremely disturbing.)

Toward the end of the tour, we came around a corner into a narrow room that houses part of the Equal Justice Initiative’s Community Remembrance Project. Lining one wall were floor-to-ceiling shelves holding 800 jars of soil collected from lynching sites around the country.

This time the source of the energy was obvious, and the sensation was easy to describe. I felt paralyzed. The trauma stored in those jars of earth rooted me to the floor. My arms and neck turned to concrete. It lasted only a minute, long enough that I started to worry, then the floor released me and I was free to keep walking.

I’ve been to other places where Black and Indigenous people experienced trauma, but so far I’ve never felt anything remotely like what I described.

What can we do?

My impulse is to ramble on about what these incidents meant to me, but I’m resisting the urge. In case you haven’t noticed, we White people have a tendency to center every story around ourselves.

I want instead to pose these questions:

• Is it possible the earth absorbs human trauma and the stored energy is perceptible? How is the resulting stress impacting our earth?
• Is it also possible that healing energy could be absorbed and released? If healing ceremonies were held in locations with historical trauma, would the earth be healed?

As I’m writing these questions, it occurs to me that some Indigenous peoples already know the answers and are doing the healing work. Please share your thoughts.

Photo by Florian Pinkert on Unsplash

I’ve been to Israel three times on pilgrimage to the Baha’i World Center in Haifa. The most recent trip was in 2004 with my husband, our son, and my 79-year-old mother. Even though I’d been in the Tel Aviv airport before and knew what to expect, I was still intimidated by the young soldiers who seemed to be everywhere, carrying rifles slung casually over their shoulders.

At the Customs checkpoint, I handed my passport to an agent, who took his time examining every page. He verified my name and birthdate, compared my photo to my face, then started with the questions.

Agent: “What is your purpose for coming to Israel?”

Me: “I’m making a pilgrimage to the Baha’i World Center in Haifa.”

Agent: “What locations will you be visiting while you’re in Israel?”

Me: “Haifa and Akka.”

Agent: “What will you do at these locations?”

Me: “Visit Baha’i shrines and holy places.”

Agent: “How long will you be staying in Israel?”

Me: “Ten days.”

There may have been more questions that I’ve since forgotten. I tried to monitor my tone, but I’m sure a note of defensiveness crept in. Did I look like a criminal?

Did my 79-YEAR-OLD MOTHER look like a criminal? Then I reminded myself that this was Israel after all, a foreign country where soldiers walked the streets with rifles.

Things are different here. We’re accustomed to a certain level of freedom in the U.S. We can go where we want without being questioned or regarded with suspicion. People in authority don’t assume we could be criminals.

Oh, wait. Let me try that again.

I’m accustomed to a certain level of freedom in the U.S. I can go where I want without being questioned or regarded with suspicion. People in authority don’t assume I could be a criminal. Because I’m White.

. . .

Now our scene is set in a very White town on a barrier island in Florida. We’re at the end of a bridge connecting this town to a racially diverse city on the mainland.

My friend F.G. is on his way to an art studio on the beach, where he teaches drawing and drumming.

F.G. is a tall, slim Black man in his 70s. He hands his driver’s license to the police officer who stopped his car before it left the bridge. The cop took his time examining the license. He verified F.G.’s name and birthdate, checked his car title and insurance, then started with the questions.

Officer: “Where are you headed, Mr. G?”

F.G.: “To the art studio on Main Street.”

Officer: “And why are you going there?”

F.G.: “To teach my art class.”

Officer: “Will you be going anywhere else on the island?”

F.G.: “No sir.”

Officer: “About when do you think you’ll be heading back home, Mr. G?”

F.G.: “Well that depends on whether or not I decide to stay in town for dinner.”

Officer: “Now don’t try to get smart with me. I asked you a simple question.”

F.G.: “5:30. I’ll be heading home around 5:30.”

Officer: “Well thank you so much for your cooperation, Mr. G. I’ll be looking out for you. Have a nice day now.”

F. G.: “You too, sir.”

And my friend F.G. now has to go about his day, teach his class, and interact with his students as if everything is fine. “If I let it get to me,” he told me once, “I’d be angry all the time. That stress would kill me. I have to let it go.”

It’s hard for me to imagine what it would be like to experience this in my own country — to have a person in authority challenge my right to be somewhere, to have to defend that right, to have to choose, based on how much energy I have that day, whether to be deferential, ignore the indignity, or stand up for my rights (which could end up with me being jailed, or roughed up, or worse).

Yet this is the reality for countless Black men and women, day in and day out, all over this country. I wold be grateful to hear what my readers and their organizations are doing to address this. Do you know of any successful initiatives?

Photo by Micky Fritzsche on Unsplash

I thought they were coming over to ask for directions, but they were moving so fast. Their car was painted flat black all over — no trim or markings of any kind. The two of them came flying at us the instant the car stopped moving.

Two White cops, both young, one tall, one short. The short one looked so angry. They weren’t wearing normal police uniforms, but rather some kind of commando outfits — black bullet-proof vests, black pants covered with zippered pockets and chains, from which various deadly-looking objects swung. At first I didn’t realize they were cops.

Up to a point, their actions made sense. They’d been parked down the block and had seen what looked like an older couple being accosted by two young men.

They came to our rescue. If my husband and I had been in trouble, we would have been grateful for their presence.

But we weren’t in trouble. We were hanging out on a corner in Chicago, late at night, with our son and one of his friends — a friend we’d known and loved since he was a toddler. We’d been to a concert and dinner together. My husband Gene and I are White, as is our son E. Our friend TB is Black.

TB and I had been engaged in an intense conversation since dinner. We’d taken a walk around the block while Gene and E stood talking on the corner. It was after midnight when we got back. I was tired. Our RV was parked in a suburb south of the city, an hour’s drive away, and I wanted to get going. I also wanted to let the boys head home to their apartments before it got any later.

I walked up to my husband and son while TB leaned against the wall of a brownstone. They clearly weren’t finished talking, and E waved me away when I interrupted them. I waited a couple minutes, then told them again it was time to go. They ignored me. I gave my son a little push and he pushed me back. Then we tussled, a short mother and her taller son, just goofing around, while the father kept talking and the friend laughed at their antics from his spot next to the building.

That is when the cops saw us.

Everything happened so fast, and I didn’t understand what they wanted. The tall cop rushed to where the three of us stood and started asking questions. The short, angry one went straight for TB. Screaming.

“We thought you were being attacked ma’am,” the tall one explained.

“No, no,” I assured him, “it’s a misunderstanding! We were just playing. Everything’s fine. This is my husband, this is our son, and this is our friend.” It took several repetitions, but he seemed to finally believe what I was saying.

I turned around just as the short cop yanked TB’s hands behind his back and then threw him against the car, made him spread his legs. The guy’s face was red and contorted with rage. He screamed threats and obscenities at TB, who complied with slow, measured movements.

“STOP!” I yelled at the cop. “He’s our friend! He’s our friend! He didn’t do anything. What are you doing? STOP HURTING HIM!”

He was like an out of control child having a tantrum, and I wanted to grab his arm and shout, “What the hell’s wrong with you?” Only he wasn’t a child and he had a gun. I would have kept shouting at him, but E was suddenly next to me.

“Mom, stop talking to him,” he said. “Don’t say anything. You’re making it worse.”

I hadn’t thought of that. If I made him angrier, he wasn’t going to come at me with all his rage. He would take it out on TB. I stopped shouting, and the three of us watched, powerless to do anything, until finally the tall cop intervened.

“That’s enough,” he said. “Leave him be.” The crazy cop kept shouting. “I said that’s enough. Time to go. Let’s go now. Come on,” said tall one. And just like that, it was over. They got in their car and drove away. Our friend was alive.

At first, TB asked us never to mention the episode again. “It’s not the first time this has happened,” he said, “and it won’t be the last. But I wish you didn’t have to witness it.” So we kept the story to ourselves. Later he gave us permission to include it in the book we were writing.

This story is about more than police brutality. It’s also about the danger of white ignorance and privilege. It never occurred to me that by playing a pushing game with my son, I was risking the life of our friend. What seems harmless to me could be deadly to someone who’s Black. If I forget this, it’s because my white privilege allows me to forget.

TB’s story didn’t make it into our book. I think it was still too raw and too hard to write. This is the first time it’s been shared publicly.

Photo by Lorenzo Messina from Pexels

In the early months of the Covid-19 pandemic, I read every article I could find about the new vaccine that would soon be available. I was fascinated by the science. As an older person with risk factors, I knew it could be bad if I got infected. So as soon as my husband and I were eligible, we made an appointment and gratefully got our injections.

A couple days later, I had a conversation with a Black friend I’ll call T.J. I told him all about my vaccination experience and described the the mild side effects I was feeling. I said several times how relieved I was to be protected from severe illness and death.

T.J. said, “I don’t know, I’m still not sure I want to get vaccinated.”

“Really!?” I said. “That’s surprising. How come?”

“I just have a bad feeling about it,” he responded.

My friend is a highly-educated and practical person. I was baffled by his reticence. “Don’t you want to protect yourself and your family from this crazy virus?” I asked.

“Sure,” he said, “of course I do, but I’m still struggling with it. We’ll see. I just have to give it some more thought.”

I was so puzzled by this response that I actually said, “Wow!” Yep, that’s what I said to my friend. Wow.

He changed the subject then, and we went on to have a delightful talk about something I no longer remember. There was no hint in his voice that he felt hurt or offended, and I promptly put the whole exchange out of my mind.

A couple weeks later I got a call from another friend, a Black woman slightly older than I am. Her voice was shaky and her words tumbled out without pause. I won’t try to write what she said as dialogue, because I don’t want to put words in her mouth. But this is the gist of her story:

I just got back from getting my Covid vaccination. I was fine, eager to get it, eager to have it over with. My son went with me and everything was going so smoothly. I sat down at that little table with my sleeve rolled up and waited for the doctor. I was just fine. Then I looked up, and here came this White man holding a syringe. He walked toward me with this needle, and I panicked. I totally panicked. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t let him get near me. It was like all the inhumane, barbaric things that White doctors did to my ancestors came flooding into my body. My son had to take me away from there so I could calm down. Finally they got a Black doctor to give me the shot. When I got home, I called you. I needed to tell this to a White person.

Again, I want to be clear that this is an approximation of what she said. I did my best to remember her words as accurately as possible. Parts of her story are seared into my brain. Her agitation was so intense as she described what happened, I thought I could feel it in my own body.

I offered as much love and support as I could express. After her nerves settled, we talked about the history of medical racism, epigenetics, and trauma passed from one generation to the next. It was important for her to tell this story to a White friend who would listen and be a witness to her experience.

After we hung up, I spent a long time sitting with my emotions. I felt enraged at past — and current — racial violence. I felt sad that my friend had gone through such trauma. And I felt grateful and honored that she had trusted me enough to tell me about it. All these feelings were muddled together, and I had trouble sorting them out.

The regret crept up on me, hovering on the periphery of my awareness. I couldn’t quite get my brain around it. It had to do with vaccinations.

Then I remembered, with painful clarity. When T.J. shared his concerns, what did I do? I said I was surprised. I said I didn’t understand. I said “Wow!” How could I have been so dense? I was very aware that many African Americans were leery of the vaccine. I was familiar with the history. How is it possible to know these things and then forget them in the middle of a conversation with a Black friend?

It wasn’t the first time I’ve had to ask myself that question and probably won’t be the last.

The answer is always the same: White Supremacy was designed to make us forget. It’s very efficient at keeping us ignorant. It’s a system of oppression that wins when White people are clueless about how it functions. It sneaks into our minds and we end up saying something hurtful to a friend. Sometimes I’m not sure which is more egregious — not knowing this history, or knowing it and forgetting.

I called T.J. and apologized for my insensitivity. He was gracious and forgiving, but I couldn’t shake the deep regret I felt. I guess that’s okay, because hopefully it will serve as a reminder that I can never relax my vigilance.

I share this incident not to beat myself up, but rather to offer an example of how racism works. If it’s helpful to anyone, then the story has fulfilled its purpose.

Photo by Gustavo Fring from Pexels