Ancestral wisdom on surviving fascism
In my deepest darkest moment last winter, somewhere between depression, burnout, grief, and panic, I prayed to my ancestors.
All of them, from all sides.
I just wanted to know how to get out of bed.
Everything felt pointless. Everything tasted like ash. It felt like the scum of the Earth was gaining more power by the second, and no amount of chanting, community work, or awareness was going to change anything.
I felt powerless, and lost.
So I closed my eyes and said I’m open to receive. Whatever it is, I’m open.
I didn’t expect what happened next.
“Do it out of spite”.
I hesitated.
I’m not a spiteful person. I’ve dedicated years of my life to ridding myself of resentments. I’ve been indoctrinated into the spiritual school of “love is the highest vibration”. Wasn’t spite a low state of consciousness?
I adjusted my posture and leaned in. Maybe I misheard.
“When you can’t find any other reason, do it out of spite.”
Loud and clear.
Why spite?
I had to sit with that one to understand it. It took work to carve out space in my soma for something I judged intellectually. It felt icky, just the presence of spite in my system made me feel dirty.
Spite has a bad reputation. I bet you can’t even talk about it in some new age spiritual circles. I bet the word alone in the context of motivation can get you kicked out of retreats.
Spite is muddy and “uncivilized”.
Doing things out of spite is a last resort for someone with a moral compass.
But what if it is the last resort?
In that context, is spite still about pettiness? Or is it about protest? Resistance?
When you’re pushed into a corner, spite shows up instinctively as a quiet (or not-so-quiet) refusal to comply, especially when your compliance is a form of virtuous self erasure.
Spite says: over my dead body.
Spite says: I would rather cease to exist than exist broken.
Spite is a sharp-edged sense of dignity, a way of saying no when a deeply unjust world expects obedience and shut down.
Spite is a response to power—abuse of power.
Yes, as a matter of fact, I am full of spite.
I’m full of rage. I’m full of poison. Because I’ve been poisoned. And I will ooze with rightful scorn until I’m empty.
Maybe then I’ll be able to “love and light” again.
Bodies like mine have been and are being policed, caged, restricted, raped, and annihilated. I am full of spiteful past and future generations craving and cheering for justice.
I can’t afford to shut down.
That was the message; the ancestral wisdom. Keep going, and when you run out of everything, when there’s nothing left to burn, use spite as fuel.
So I will do it out of spite. All of it.
I will wear my spite like a badge of honor until I have no more use for it. And when I’m done, I will put it in a box like a war medal. And when I’m old, I will tell my grandchildren about all the battles I’ve fought as my eyes glimmer with pride.
This is my mantra.
And if you’re anything like me—flirting with the edge of defeat—now it’s your mantra too:
Better bitter and biting than broken and bent.
