My Black Christian elders always say, “Gawd works in mysterious ways.”
Now, I’m an atheist. I do not believe the Lord is sittin’ high on a cloud and lookin’ low with a clipboard, a trumpet, and a petty vengeance department, deciding which sinner gets a flat tire, which hypocrite gets gout, and which Republican gets humbled in front of company. But I do believe in pattern, irony, karma, and ancestors who might outsource a job to a critter.
I absolutely believe that sometimes the universe will send a spider.
And not just any spider, Y’all. According to the news, Kyle Rittenhouse, the man who fatally shot two protesters during the 2020 demonstrations in Kenosha and then became the right-wing’s favorite little armed grievance goblin and mascot for gun worship and “self-defense” cosplay, was hospitalized after a venomous spider bite.
A spider, Y’all. Eight legs. No press release. No speaking tour. No podcast. No merch table. No fake tears on Faux News. That small, venomous representative from the Department of Ancestral Corrections clocked in, stretched all eight ankles, and said, “Where he at?”
And I want us to pause here. Because I know my people. Some of y’all’s grandmamas would hear this story, lean back in the chair, fold their arms under their bosom, and say, “Mmm-hmm. See there? Got his ass. Gawd don’t like ugly.” I can hear all that Black auntie jurisprudence.
Now let me be clear. I am not wishing Kyle Rittenhouse well. I do not have a healing circle prepared for him. I ain’t got a candle. I do not have a soft instrumental track playing in the background. I do not have a journal prompt for his redemption. I do not have a single “may this be a learning moment” tucked away in my spirit. He is not a cautionary tale. He is a public health hazard with dimples and we must refuse the fake solemnity that white violence is always given.
The media has spent years treating Rittenhouse as a “controversial figure,” a “young man,” and a “Second Amendment activist.” But he is not some lost boy who wandered accidentally into history. He became a racist symbol, a gun-culture mascot, a patron saint of white-boy menace, and a walking GoFundMe for every adult in America who wants to pretend that armed white fear is innocence. And for years, he has been trotted around like a conservative Make-A-Wish project for people whose only dream is to shoot somebody and still be called the victim.
So no, I am not about to sit here and perform empathy for this man. Instead, I am here to discuss the spider. Because the spider deserves her flowers. Put some respect on that arachnid’s name.
But first of all, let’s discuss why this was even breaking news. Because that is how ridiculous this country is. Somewhere, an editor looked at the state of the world, looked at democracy holding on by a press-on nail, looked at grocery prices, wars, climate disasters, collapsing institutions, and said, “Hold up. Kyle Rittenhouse got bit by a spider? Run that.”
Honestly, America made Kyle Rittenhouse news. Y’all turned that boy into a conservative Pokémon, dragged his ass from podcast to podcast, put him in little suits, handed him microphones, and treated him like the Rosa Parks of shooting people and crying afterward. So now, unfortunately, his spider bite is public affairs. Once you become a mascot for white grievance, even your swelling enters the national record.
That spider did what Congress would not. She did what these courts would not. She did what cable news would not. She did what every trembling institution in this country keeps refusing to do: she held a tiny boundary.
And I know somebody is gonna say, “Well, maybe the spider was just scared.” Exactly my point!
Maybe the spider felt threatened. Maybe the spider was “standing her ground.” Maybe Kyle entered the spider’s territory looking suspicious. Maybe he made a sudden movement. Maybe the spider had no choice but to defend herself. Maybe she feared for her life. Maybe she thought he was reaching. Maybe she looked at him and said, “Not today, Kenosha.”
Y’all see how that works?
We have spent years listening to people twist themselves into balloon animals trying to justify why white men get to carry danger into the world and then collapse into victimhood the moment danger comes back to greet them. They want every white boy with a weapon to be treated like a trembling lamb. They want every act of aggression to be renamed fear and every consequence to be framed as persecution.
Well, fine.
Let us apply the same standard to Sister Spider. (I like that name btw.)
She was alone. She was small. She was outnumbered by mammals. She had no media training. She did not have Tucker Carlson’s number. She did not have a legal defense fund. She did not have men in khakis calling her brave. All she had was instinct, venom, and the ancestors whispering, “Bite lower, baby.”
And she did.
Now, I do not know this spider’s denominational background. She may be Baptist. She may be AME. She may be one of those old-school sanctified spiders who don’t wear pants and believe children should not twerk at the family reunion. She may be a church mother. She may be a hotep. She may be completely secular and just tired of right-wing foolishness in her web.
But I know an anointed assignment when I see one. This spider did not wander into the wrong place. She was sent. Not by the Christian god necessarily. But by the ancestors. Because the ancestors are petty in a way I respect.
They are not always thunderbolt people. Sometimes they work small. Sometimes they work through timing. Through irony. Through the slow, embarrassing unraveling of people who thought consequences were for everybody else. Sometimes they do not flip the table. They just loosen one screw on the chair and wait.
What happened to Kyle is ancestral karma. It does not always come as fire from heaven. Sometimes it comes as one bad decision, one swollen ankle, one rash, one venomous bite. And I know somewhere, somebody’s auntie has already said, “That spider was somebody’s great-grandmama.” Y’all can’t tell me otherwise.
That spider had a headwrap in the spirit realm. That spider had Vaseline on her face and a peppermint in her purse. That spider had been watching. She had seen enough. She said, “Y’all keep playin’ with these people, but I’m retired from playin’.” And then, she descended, quietly and with purpose.
That is why this story is so satisfying. Not because it solves anything. It does not. America still protects people like Kyle Rittenhouse. This country still wraps white violence in softness and calls it innocence. It still turns Black grief into debate and white aggression into branding. It still lets certain people build whole careers out of blood and then act offended when the public remembers the bodies.
But every now and then, the universe interrupts the scam. Something tiny crawls out of the corner and reminds us that whiteness may control the courts, the platforms, the politicians, and the talking points, but it does not control the spiders.
And for that, we give thanks. To the spider. And to the ancestors who sent the spider. May her web be strong. May her legs be moisturized. And may Sister Spider’s enemies itch in places they cannot reach.
Amen. Ashe. And pass the calamine lotion.
Thanks for reading. If this piece resonated with you, then please consider becoming a paid subscriber. Paid subscriptions help keep my Substack unfiltered and ad free. They also help me raise money for HBCU journalism students who need laptops, DSLR cameras, tripods, mics, lights, software, travel funds for conferences and reporting trips, and food from our pantry. You can also follow me on Facebook!
We appreciate you!
