White Man Sweating
Paul Swehla
Sitting Bull
Art by Louis Winters
I
Some people call me the white devil. I don’t blame them; there are good reasons for this. In fact, I may forever be unforgiven, but I have an obligation to work toward forgiveness. The trick is learning to find balance and let it all go.
I strip my clothes and walk barefoot on the frozen Minnesota ground, freshly blanketed with two inches of purifying snow. I pass the raging bonfire where the Grandfathers are buried beneath the blazing logs; the Tankashila, large, round igneous rocks that glow red hot in the fire, are alive. They were here before us, and they’ll remain after we’re gone. I carry in my arms a ratty government-issued cotton blanket and a towel—a gift or an insult, depending upon whether interpreted with gratitude or bitterness. I walk past the altar where a horned buffalo skull rests on top of a small earthen mound facing the womb of the world, the doorway of the inipi, the Lakota sweat lodge. It’s an honor and a privilege to be granted this rite of passage.
Before the entrance is a smudge pot with embers from the fire, smoke from fresh cedar leaves dancing windward. I kneel and bathe my face and body with the smoke, cleansing my spirit and purging the demons before prayer. I am painfully aware of my sin as a wasichu.
“Mitakuye oyasin.” The words tumble out of my mouth like food, as if I’m breaking rules of etiquette by talking with my mouth full; I attempt to greet these fathers and brothers who’ve taken me in, guided me, and taught me many of the ways of this red road. I wave my hand in a clockwise arch—all circles in creation run clockwise—around the dome-shaped dwelling made of bowed willow saplings and canvas. The structure itself represents the bones and skin of Mother before we were born; here we will die and be reborn. I acknowledge that “we are all related.” My brothers acknowledge me and we are one.
I prepare a seat before the excavated pit in the center, the cavity where the Grandfathers will penetrate the darkness: soon, we’ll all return to the dawn of creation. I fold my blanket into a compact cushion. While most of the men sit in a traditional cross-legged style, I defer to my Buddhist practice and assume the Burmese position. Elevated on my blanket, I tuck one leg within the other to create a tripod of pelvis and knees. When settled, I gassho in the manner of Zen, bowing with palms pressed together before me, reiterating that we are all one.
However, I don’t always feel welcome. Despite the fact that I’ve been sweating with these men for more than a year, I’ve never really felt warmly received. Even my friend Hogan, who invited me into the lodge, jokingly refers to me as the “white devil.” Humor has a curious way of revealing the truth. I can’t help feeling a sense of resentment directed to me by some. I feel hated, despised, and rejected. The anxiety at times can be overwhelming.
Some might say these thoughts and feelings are irrational. After all, I’m not guilty of my grandfathers’ sins. Yet if we are all one as we’ve just agreed, then I am one with my grandfathers as well. My question is whether there is a dividing line between societal guilt and personal guilt. And what role might a scapegoat play in fostering forgiveness and healing, to shed light, if possible, on this admittedly gray, even obscure, area? In all truthfulness, this is why I’m here: to come to terms with what it means to be a wasichu—a white man—sweating, not only here in this lodge, but also in America.
__________
The Lakota inipi is a place where spiritual growth and political awareness merge. Conversation, debate, and topics of prayer are openly discussed before the ceremony begins. I listen as the others talk about the unrest in our world, violence and racism in our schools and streets, and about a president who conjures images of tyrants and circus clowns.
I think of all the protests and demonstrations: the Dakota Pipeline, Black Lives Matter, #MeToo, Dreamers, Sanctuary Cities, our immigration crisis; the protests over the Confederate flag, controversial Civil War statues, Jim Crow era memorials, and even for criminal justice and sentencing reform. (For there are disproportionate numbers of grossly over-incarcerated minorities, including the poor and underprivileged). I think of how the wasichu is often insensitive and apathetic toward slave history and the annihilation and displacement of the Nations. Is it any wonder that there is a deep-seated animosity toward white people and their privilege? These kolas, my friends and brothers, may never forgive me. I may forever be the white devil to some. However, I believe it’s imperative that I not use this as pretext for inaction or apathy, arguably the greatest of all evils.
I envision myself sweating as a white man in America. The lodge, after all, is a place of testing. I’m forced to face the greatest enemy within myself. Physically, I often leave the lodge burned all over from the steam. It’s psychologically exhausting. Emotionally, it’s overwhelming. We cry. We scream. We pray. We sing. In our own way, we protest. We battle and purge the demons. Spiritually, we grow, heal, and find balance.
Introspective soul searching conjures up many old, familiar demons. I feel a deep sense of guilt on a cosmic or karmic level. I often feel responsible for the Spanish Inquisition, the Pogroms, the Holocaust, slavery, and the displacement and wholesale slaughter of the Native Americans. Again, many may view my thoughts and feelings as irrational. However, I believe there’s an answer to that proverbial question of where I begin and we end. “We” begin at that juncture where we learn to embrace the incredibly difficult reality of our past in order to find balance, grow, heal, and let it all go. Furthermore, it is only in this manner that the wasichu will show the nations of the world that he is worthy of forgiveness. Even then, there’s no guarantee he’ll be forgiven.
It’s very important to remain calm in the lodge. Anxiety from the heat will only intensify the discomfort and lead to panic. Yet, as warriors, we must train ourselves to be mindful, to endure for the sake of all—for our prayers, our loved ones, our people. We cleanse our minds, bodies, and spirits through discipline and suffering. The lodge is a place of healing. We learn to forgive ourselves and others, to let go of the past and to move on.
Conversely, the sweat lodge can be dangerous. One must be prepared through prayer, meditation, and fasting. We condition ourselves to welcome the spirits of compassion, humility, and understanding. Perhaps this is as simple as the injunction to love one’s neighbor as oneself—but this, of course, is easier said than done. Nevertheless, if we are ill prepared, harboring animosity and resentment, these spirits are liable to harm those of us who remain impure.
To be clear, the white man harbors much, if not more, of this animosity and resentment than many of his past victims. I have heard white, privileged male cowards, on occasion, grumble vitriolic, hate-filled statements like, “If they don’t like the way things are, they can go back to Africa where they belong!” Or, “Just stay on the reservation and collect your welfare check!” Or the all-too-familiar, “Build the wall!” If this weren’t enough, there is the veiled attack on women via Secretary Clinton: “Lock her up!” At the risk of being self-congratulatory, I speak from experience when I say that it takes a great deal of contemplative soul searching: yes, even prayer, meditation, and fasting, to become worthy of forgiveness. Right action must inevitably follow if forgiveness and healing are to be had. To me, right action equates with social justice and acts of loving-kindness; and forgiveness and healing bring renewed consciousness, a rebirth, or enlightenment.
It’s estimated that the wasichu will become a minority by the year 2045. What an ironic twist of fate in light of the Spanish Conquest, Manifest Destiny, and the institutionalization of patriarchal bigotry and white privilege. One can only hope that the wasichu becomes worthy of forgiveness by then.
Meanwhile, the temperature is rising. Panic weighs heavily like steam in the lodge. Thus the white privileged male sweats in the inipi of America.
II
It’s taken me years to come to terms with the death of my friend Ryan. He overdosed on morphine that I gave him. I’d returned to my hometown of Decorah, Iowa, from Door County, Wisconsin, to spend time with Ryan and some old friends. In hindsight, this was reckless because my intentions were compromised by the hungry ghosts of addiction. Strung out on prescription drugs, I had an ulterior motive: direct access to morphine.
My background is that I grew up white but poor in a privileged white community with good schools. Despite my family’s poverty (not to mention dysfunction) I was nevertheless offered many opportunities. For three years I was a member of “The Kilties,” a regularly award-winning drum and bugle corps. I played in organized sports. I was exposed to a lot of live classical music, and I took vocal, piano, and trumpet lessons. I had a guaranteed scholarship and eighty percent tuition remission from a dozen private colleges throughout the U.S., schools associated with Luther College where my stepfather worked as a janitor. But I managed to throw it all away with sex, drugs, and alcohol.
The night Ryan was to die, he, I and our other friends began the evening by taking the morphine I had brought. The next thing I knew a friend was reviving me to tell me that Ryan was dead and the paramedics were on the way. The friend who revived me thought I was dead too.
I went to Ryan and checked for a pulse. I lowered my head and ear to his chest. I put my hand under his shirt. His chest was still warm. I didn’t perform CPR, and I don’t know what would have happened if I’d had the clarity of mind to do that, which haunts me to this day. When the paramedics burst into the apartment, everything became a whirlwind, a blur of shock and horror. In a moment, Ryan was gone.
After the funeral, I returned to Door County and remained a person of interest under investigation. The lead inspector had granted me informal recognizance in order to get my affairs in order before returning to Decorah to face an imminent indictment for distribution of morphine and involuntary manslaughter.
I’m not sure I can adequately describe the ruminations that led from that night to a spree of compound felonies. I was in a very dark and impure place. Perhaps I was only one step removed from suicide. But instead of killing myself—or facing the looming charges and bearing the burden of my responsibility—I sold my belongings and fled to Mexico for two years.
In Mexico my life continued. There were work, continued addictions, and the beginnings of relationships. I eventually married and had a child. I was still in a dark night of the soul, but spiritually, even politically, Mexico changed me. I was exposed to an unedited version of humanity. Hands down, Mexico was the most important education of my life, though that is another story.
When I returned to the border to renew a visa and obtain residency in 2004, a nationwide warrant led to my arrest in Brownsville, Texas. If I had had the money to bribe the Mexican official then (about $20), I might have returned to my life in Mexico; instead I was facing twenty years to life in prison for distribution of a controlled substance with the cause of a death.
My day of reckoning arrived, and little mercy was shown. Still, I asked the judge for permission to address Ryan’s family, to ask for forgiveness.
The judge turned her attention to Ryan’s family and asked if they wanted to hear what I had to say. Ryan’s mother, also in tears, had a look of grief and exhaustion. I thought I could read hope in her eyes, perhaps a willingness to forgive. It was Ryan’s father, however, who spoke for the family. Earlier, he had petitioned the Court to sentence me to life in prison. He shook his head slowly and, with furrowed brows and narrowed eyes, slowly growled one solitary word from behind clenched teeth. “No!”
The judge sentenced me to twenty-two years along with an additional six of supervised release. I was expressly prohibited from contacting Ryan’s family during this time.
In many ways this has been the most difficult part of my sentence. Any possibility of communicating the fundamentals of humanity has been barricaded. Namely, forgiveness, closure, and healing seem impossible. I suppose this is what it feels like to be disowned. Over the years, I’ve often wondered about the best way to communicate to Ryan’s family that I’m sorry. How can I show that I’m worthy of forgiveness? Like the victims of the wasichu, Ryan’s family needs something more substantial, not empty words floating on a page. The concept of making amends is realized only through action. To me this means shouldering responsibility even if it isn’t my fault. Likewise, I’m coming to terms with what it means to be a white man sweating in the inipi of America.
__________
As I sit and prepare to sweat, I begin to ruminate: what does it mean to be worthy of forgiveness?
Atonement becomes problematic without an intercessor. It’s kind of like representing oneself in a court of law—a game left to fools and ignoramuses. Yet I am forced to find my own way. It’s true, I’m a fool, all alone on this journey, and I cannot claim to have any answers.
As a child I was taught to believe that Native Americans, along with all the other “heathens” of the world, would never gain access to heaven if they refused to accept, or were ignorant of, the atoning blood sacrifice of Christ. This erroneous doctrine allowed my forefathers to damn the less dominant cultures of the world to hellfire and brimstone—justifying all sorts of atrocities in light of this institutionalized dogma of white privilege. I have never been able to accept this flawed ideology.
My beliefs have evolved since then. Along the way, I’ve detached myself from the Greco-Roman construct of heaven and hell adopted by Christianity. While he was a good man, a great teacher, and a prophet, I no longer believe Jesus was any more divine than you or me; thus, he cannot act as my intercessor. I refuse to believe that Christianity has a monopoly on salvation. In short, I believe that religion can be personalized, that many roads lead to the same destination.
I first became aware of the sweat lodge when I came to prison more than fifteen years ago. I never expected that I’d ever be given the opportunity to participate because the Natives, like most all ethnic and race-conscious groups in prison, are very . . . well, tribal, to say the least. So when my friend Hogan, along with Omaha, offered me the chance to participate in the lodge, I understood that this was a very rare gift.
I met Hogan after he returned to prison on a probation violation for being in the wrong place at the wrong time: he was arrested while protesting the building of the Dakota Pipeline. He had only a few months left of a six-year probationary period when he “violated” the conditions of his probation.
My boss rehired Hogan as a tutor in the culinary arts program where I work: he had been a member of the first graduating class when the program began twelve years earlier. Hogan was released from prison shortly before I was hired on as the lead tutor. So my boss asked if I’d be willing to work with him outside the kitchen to develop a business plan for a food truck during the four months he’d be back on violation. When I met with Hogan in the prison library to begin work on the plan, I was introduced to his bunky, Omaha, a Native elder in the Lakota and Omaha Nations. Omaha had extensive past experience in grant-writing, and the three of us sat down to write a solid business plan. After several meetings, our friendship blossomed, and eventually we began talking about spirituality.
It was Hogan, a sun dancer and respected elder in the community, who first invited me to sweat in the lodge. Apparently, his word and recommendation carried a lot of weight: it was solely on his account that I would be allowed, not only to participate, but to return for as long as I wished. My only requirement for entry, beyond this very rare invitation, was that I go through a period of initiation and instruction: I tended to the fire and carried the rocks four weeks prior to entering the lodge.
That period of initiation has passed. In the lodge, my time of testing has come; it is here and now. I am dying, and I’ll soon be reborn.
III
It will be a hot ceremony. The one called Shape Shifter is pouring the water. He’s a young warrior, recognized for his strong medicine: he has the rare ability to balance youth with humility and respect. However, he lacks the patience and wisdom that come with age and experience. He’s overzealous and pours water over the rocks too quickly. Yet this too is a test; we are forced to suffer more for the sake of our prayers. Thus, the elders simply say, “Pray harder.”
There are four rounds, or doors, of the ceremony; each is dedicated to the four directions. Shape Shifter and Hokshila each begin preparing a pipe that we’ll smoke after the third door. They quietly sing the words of an ancient prayer song as they fill the bowls with a sacred mixture of tobacco and willow bark. The smoke from the Chanupa, the ceremonial peace pipe, will carry our prayers to Wakan Tanka, the Great Spirit.
This is how the song has been translated by Grandmother Grace Spotted Eagle, a Lakota poet:
This sacred ritual
When you sit down to begin
Remember me as you load the Pipe! If you do this
Whatever you desire will come true.
My friend, do it like this! . . .
If you do, your Grandfather will come down to see you.
After preparing the pipes, Shape Shifter and Hokshila pass them to the fire keepers who place them on the altar; they prop them on the horns of the buffalo skull. There is a reverential silence as the fire keepers bring the first seven rocks into the lodge. Grande uses a pair of deer antlers to carefully place the Tankashila into the pit. These Grandfathers have been waiting since the dawn of creation to enter this lodge, to be honored by our prayers.
The fire keepers bring nearly one hundred rocks into the lodge. The rocks range in size from a softball to a basketball. Each one glows red hot. Grande uses the antlers to stack them into the pit, into a conical pyramid, three feet wide and three feet deep. The rocks are brushed with sweet grass and sage, sacred incense offered to Tankashila. Cedar leaves and sap are placed on the rocks which immediately char and turn to ash, sending tendrils of smoke to the heavens. The aroma is pleasing, yet sobering. We have entered the realm of sacred timelessness.
The temperature rises quickly. Shape Shifter calls for the fire keepers to bring the first of four five-gallon buckets of water into the lodge and to close the door. All light is extinguished. The Grandfathers glow in the darkness. A spirit flies off one of the rocks, an incendiary spark of fire and light. We have returned to the beginning of time.
We begin an open round of prayer for our sick and deceased family members and friends, for peace and guidance along our respective paths. Biz begins singing the Song of the Four Directions: West, North, East, and South, and also to the Heavens and to Mother Earth. He keeps a beat on a hide drum, and we all join in. Shape Shifter pours water on the rocks, and the Grandfathers breathe on us. We become intimate with the earth, air, water, and fire. Our flesh is put to the test. Sweat begins to pour, and the steam burns our skin. Our spirits are tempered. We suffer in order to heal. We sing the Honoring Song for the Great Spirit, followed by the Calling of the Spirits into the lodge.
__________
Omaha is one of the elders who mentors me; he teaches and guides me along the path. He was the first to tell me the story of the White Buffalo Calf Woman.
The nations were suffering through times of violence and unrest. The people cried out for food, blessing, and unity, but they didn’t know how to pray to the Creator. So one day, two young warriors left camp and went out hunting for food. After four days of searching they saw a figure in the distance, standing outside of a lodge. As the warriors approached, they noticed that she was a beautiful woman with albino buffalo skin that radiated light all around her body. One warrior had lust in his heart. He shared his desire with the second warrior, who warned him to be careful with his thoughts. Clearly, this was a holy being with powerful medicine. There was an aroma that was pleasing, yet sobering. The warriors entered the realm of the sacred.
The White Buffalo Calf Woman welcomed the warriors. “Come in,” she said. “I will give each of you what you desire.”
The warrior with the lustful thoughts entered first while the second waited outside. Sometime later, the White Buffalo Calf Woman invited the second warrior into the lodge. He looked around for his companion. A cloud of smoke lifted and a pile of ash and bones were all that remained.
“I gave him what he wished for,” said the woman. “And now I shall give you what you desire.”
The woman removed a knife from a leather sheath and began to whittle away at the leg bone of a buffalo. Before long, she crafted a chanupa and showed the warrior with the pure heart how to receive the pipe; how to offer it to the Four Directions, to Wakan Tanka, and to Mother Earth. “This is how you are to send prayers to the Creator,” she said. “When you sit down to begin this sacred ritual, remember me as you load the pipe! If you do this, whatever you desire will come true. My friend, do it like this!” The White Buffalo Calf Woman showed the warrior how to smoke the chanupa. “Now your prayers will be heard and answered. If you do it like this, your Grandfather will come down and see you. Take this pipe back to your people and show them, teach them all that you have seen today.”
Fearing that I hadn’t grasped the significance of the story, Omaha gazed intently into my eyes. “It’s like the Eucharist,” he said, with hushed reverence.
Omaha reminds me that it’s rare for a white man to be invited into the inipi. Even rarer are those who come back a second time, let alone continue to do so as I have. Omaha and the elders believe that I’m here for some divine reason.
“I don’t know what that reason is,” Omaha tells me, “but there’s a purpose. Stay humble,” he warns. “And keep your heart pure.”
IV
After the first round, sometimes referred to as the Door of Petition, the fire keepers open the flap of the entrance; we’re given a cooling reprieve. We all glisten with sweat as steam rises from our bodies. The cold winter air is a welcome relief.
Further prayer requests are made. Hokshila, a hard-faced and serious man, tells a story about how we are to seek peace with all the Nations of the world. “I used to hate the white man,” he says. His voice is tired, but wise: men listen when he speaks. It’s clear that he’s had his own struggles in life; we can see them in the lines of his face and the slowness in his walk: we hear it in the raspy deliberation of his voice.
“My teacher was a strong medicine man. He taught me that we are to forgive even when we don’t want to. We are to love all people of the world.
“When I was young I couldn’t understand how or why I needed to do this. But the hatred consumed me and, as I grew older, I began to realize that we must forgive in order to heal.
“There are some among us who wish to cause division. This is a very powerful lodge with strong spiritual energy. We have had people come and try to divide us over the years and, so far, they have not been successful. Remember that we are all brothers. One day you might need the help of that white guy you hate.”
With terse simplicity, Grandpa Vic takes it one step further. “There is no hatred in the inipi.”
I feel vindicated. This is the first time I’ve really felt welcome in this lodge.
After a short break we continue to the second, the Door of Thanksgiving. More songs, prayers, meditations. The third door, the Door of Healing culminates with the smoking of the chanupa, the ceremonial peace pipe.
I think of the many conversations I’ve had with Omaha as the chanupa makes its way around the circle. I suppose I believe there’s a reason why I sweat and smoke in this lodge. Like Omaha, while I don’t know the reason, I do feel a divine calling and fulfillment of sorts. I once told Omaha about my vision.
I explained the concept of Tikkun Olam. Our world is plagued by war, famine, racism, ethnic and religious persecution, and inequality of all sorts. “I believe it’s our responsibility to bridge this divide,” I told him.
Sometimes I struggle for words, especially when I get emotional. “We are to repair the damage, to heal the wounds, and cure the diseases that ravage us. The world needs physical restoration too.
“We come from different traditions,” I continued, “but in many ways, we speak the same language. I’m not much of an environmental activist, but it doesn’t take a genius to recognize that Mother Earth is grieving.”
Omaha nodded in agreement. “It’s important to be grateful for all that she gives,” he said. “We are to take care of the Creator’s world.”
I told Omaha about the publishing company I had founded and how through it I hoped to make amends to Ryan’s family, the nations, and the world.
“Mitakuye oyasin,” says the kola to my right as he passes me the pipe. I turn it clockwise so the stem faces away from me. I bow in reverence to the White Buffalo Calf Woman who brought forth this “Native American Eucharist.” I bring it to Mother Earth and touch it to one of the stones before me. I raise the pipe to my lips and take a few hard pulls, bathing my head and torso with the smoke, purging, purifying, and sending prayers of Tikkun Olam to the Creator. I pass the pipe to my kola—the brother to my left.
“Mitakuye oyasin,” I say. We are all related.
When the fourth door, the Door of Peace comes to a close, the skin on my ears, nose, lips, shoulders, and chest is burned, scalded from the steam. We suffer as a sacrifice so our prayers will be heard and answered by Wakan Tanka. As we crawl out of the lodge onto the snow, Mother gives birth to her newborn children.
1 comment
Martha Highers says:
Sep 16, 2021
Congratulations, Paul, on this essay being a Notable in The Best American Essays!