The Souls of Black Folks (Are Tired)
Kiana Blake-Chung
I have always sought out Black women as mental healthcare professionals because of the many things that they intrinsically understand due to our shared identity. I remember sharing the hopelessness that I felt in the summer of 2020, when I realized how being a Black woman in America negatively impacted my mental health. I remember my therapist crying with me because she felt the exact same way. I remember ruminating on what the next week or month would look like with all the civil unrest and protests taking place around the country. I didn't think it was going to fade away like it did in the past (I was wrong) and I was anxiously wondering if I was going to live to see Civil War Two and thought briefly for the first time in MONTHS how I’d rather not live if “living” meant being in constant fear of a racial cataclysm. I was also baffled and even somewhat offended by the sudden concern that many people had to show over George Floyd’s passing.
I wondered then how so many people who became vocal had said NOTHING several years earlier when Tamir Rice was shot to death at 12 years old while playing with a toy gun. I don’t know why it took some white people watching an excruciating 9-minute video of a man being murdered to begin to say anything about the brutality that we have been seeing for years to do something as simple as denounce racism.
Even after a summer of what seemed like possible change on the horizon, of a society arcing toward justice, not much actually happened and now it just feels hopeless. The Washington Post, in an ongoing analysis, has recorded that 1110 people have been killed by police in the past year, with 2022 being the most deadly year of all time. And a disproportionate amount of those people killed were Black men.
As dispiriting as these statistics are, what makes me feel even worse is the rampant systemic misogynoir that we face not only in wider society, but also in the Black community and especially at the hands of Black men. Misogynoir is defined by dictionary.com as the “specific hatred, dislike, distrust, and prejudice directed toward Black women.” Unfortunately, such hatred and distrust leads to physical harm and at times death for Black women. Sharyn Flanagan, in a Philadelphia Tribune editorial citing statistics from the National Coalition Against Domestic Violence, reports that “more than 40% of Black women have experienced intimate partner physical violence, intimate partner sexual violence and/or intimate partner stalking in their lifetimes. And more than half of Black adult female homicides are related to intimate partner violence.”
Coburn Place wrote an article that further delves into intimate partner violence in the Black community. In it they share some of what goes through a woman’s head when hesitating to press charges against their partner. However, if Megan Thee Stallion is any indication, we see firsthand the vitriol that a woman is subjected to when she stands up for herself and names her abuser. Being a Black woman and reading what Black men were writing about Megan made me feel unsafe around many men in the community who not only sided with her abuser but denounced her and accused her of lying. One again, that feeling of hopelessness resurfaces as I think about the fact that not even in our own community are we safe or protected.
It grieves my heart when we are wronged and when we don’t receive justice. It grieves my heart to be told over and over again by society that our lives don’t matter. It makes me question my worth and value as a human being and wonder why it is that I’m perceived as less important than other citizens. I honestly try not to interact with news stories about injustices towards Black women because it hurts too damn much. I see myself, my sisters, my friends in the story of every Black woman who has been wronged, murdered or brutalized who has not gotten justice. But at the same time I feel an overwhelming obligation to engage with these news stories because who else is going to stick up for Black women? I am praying to see the day when my life and the lives of all Black women are valued by society. Some days it just feels like that moment will never come.
A few months ago I got to see Nick Cave’s Forothermore at the Guggenheim museum in New York City. It is a deeply moving exhibit broken into three parts titled What It Was, What It Is and What It Shall Be. If you live in New York, I highly recommend a visit before it ends in early April 2023.
A few weeks before that I got to see Lee Daniels’s play Ain’t No Mo on Broadway (which has unfortunately ended its run by now) and both of these pieces of art really made me think and reflect upon being Black in America.
Both in their own stunning way speak on the heavy themes of what it means to be Black in America while also uplifting the amazing experience of being Black in and of itself through gorgeous design (Nick Cave) and comedy (Lee Daniels).
Both made me feel extremely proud to be Black and to revel in the beauty that my people have created and continue to create– all of the ways in which we have improved and given to society as a people (like Beyoncé– and what a gift to culture she is!)
Both made me solemn as I thought about the fact that racism will always be a part of the society we live in — how could it not when it was built on the backs and the blood of Black and Indigenous people and there are too many who remain hesitant about the thought of tearing down the existing systems to build ones that are more just and equitable for all.
W.E.B. Du Bois in his book The Souls of Black Folk that I am reading now for Black History Month, speaks of a “twoness” stating that it is something that Black people feel constantly: “An American– a Negro; two souls, two thoughts, two unreconciled strivings; two warring ideals in one dark body whose dogged strength alone keeps it from being torn asunder.” While Du Bois may have spoken of the body not being torn asunder at times my spirit do be feeling torn in the worst way! For over a year now I have not posted anything relating to the numerous tragedies in the world, especially those that hit too close to home for me. Not because I haven’t wanted to, but because raising awareness has not gotten us far and it is too disheartening to engage with the news.
Living in a nation that continues to oppress BIPOC and LGBTQIA+ community members and especially those at the intersection of those identities is hazardous to our collective mental health. Harvard University even did a study on the effects of police brutality on the Black community.
It seems dark, but the higher levels of depression, PTSD, and anxiety that come with being Black are harder to treat because the same conditions that make us more susceptible to these mental illnesses continue to exist, which delays or impedes healing.
I’m thankful for community care and the joy that I find in the presence of the many Black people that I know and love. I am thankful for Black mental health professionals who feel the similar effects of oppression and racism yet still show up to help heal the trauma of others. I am thankful for artwork that makes me feel seen and for stories that are shared that mirror my own. As hard it is on my mental health to be a Black woman in America, I wouldn’t change it* for the world.
*that is, I wouldn’t change being a Black woman for the world, but I would love to get up out of Amerikkka for good.
S/O to Jonathan Chanin for editing.
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