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A review by jelomath
White Magic by Elissa Washuta
Did not finish book. Stopped at 33%.
started listening 31 January 2023, did not finish
I got about 1/3 of the way through this and had to stop. This is a catalogue of trauma, rape, violence, indigenous experience marked only by violence, more violence and more violence and more violence. It is easy for me to just bow out. This person had to, has to live all of this. This person is weighted down by not only her own lifelong traumas, including as she says, “i have been raped so many times I cannot count them,” but she is also weighed down by the generations of trauma perpetrated against her people by white people. She is weighed down by the murder, theft, and systematic rape of the generations that came before her. And that is all this book is. It starts out with and I think carries through Ms. Washuta’s connection to the occult and tarot and the mixing of ancient indigenous rituals and present day commercial attempts at “witchery.” That is the brightness that runs throughout, that is the “white magic.” And yet there is so much unending darkness and assault and trauma that I just cannot. I am sorry, Ms. Washuta. I cannot. I am so glad you have been published, you are lauded by your peers, you have a space to speak your voice. But I cannot. In the light of the recent release of the video of the violent and ultimately fatal beating of Tyre Nichols, which has been embraced in the fullness of white america being entertained by the violence done to Black bodies, the trauma porn that spins our culture and news coverage, I just can’t sit and wallow in this. I recognize that Ms. Washuta chose to put her story out in the world and Mr. Nichols was NEVER given that opportunity. He had his life taken from him and then his dignity was shredded across twitter and instagram and tiktok and facebook. I see the difference there. And yet, I just can’t. I know what was done and is done to indigenous women. I am aware. I feel entirely helpless. But sitting through this trauma narrative does not feel to me like it helps. That makes me a karen. We all know I am a karen. By the very fact that I am a white woman, I am a karen. I don’t have any further explanation or excuse. This is where I am. My apologies to Ms. Washuta.
I got about 1/3 of the way through this and had to stop. This is a catalogue of trauma, rape, violence, indigenous experience marked only by violence, more violence and more violence and more violence. It is easy for me to just bow out. This person had to, has to live all of this. This person is weighted down by not only her own lifelong traumas, including as she says, “i have been raped so many times I cannot count them,” but she is also weighed down by the generations of trauma perpetrated against her people by white people. She is weighed down by the murder, theft, and systematic rape of the generations that came before her. And that is all this book is. It starts out with and I think carries through Ms. Washuta’s connection to the occult and tarot and the mixing of ancient indigenous rituals and present day commercial attempts at “witchery.” That is the brightness that runs throughout, that is the “white magic.” And yet there is so much unending darkness and assault and trauma that I just cannot. I am sorry, Ms. Washuta. I cannot. I am so glad you have been published, you are lauded by your peers, you have a space to speak your voice. But I cannot. In the light of the recent release of the video of the violent and ultimately fatal beating of Tyre Nichols, which has been embraced in the fullness of white america being entertained by the violence done to Black bodies, the trauma porn that spins our culture and news coverage, I just can’t sit and wallow in this. I recognize that Ms. Washuta chose to put her story out in the world and Mr. Nichols was NEVER given that opportunity. He had his life taken from him and then his dignity was shredded across twitter and instagram and tiktok and facebook. I see the difference there. And yet, I just can’t. I know what was done and is done to indigenous women. I am aware. I feel entirely helpless. But sitting through this trauma narrative does not feel to me like it helps. That makes me a karen. We all know I am a karen. By the very fact that I am a white woman, I am a karen. I don’t have any further explanation or excuse. This is where I am. My apologies to Ms. Washuta.