In and Out of Our Right Minds

October 1, 2006

"Indeed, chasing the widow's [Betty Shabazz's] story has taught me that the trope of the 'strong black woman' – a figure of fantastic physical and emotional endurance- obscures far more than it illuminates. Black women (like all women, I presume) are capable of astonishing feats of survival when circumstances demand. They are also marvelously, maddeningly intricate by virtue of their humanity." –Russell J. Rickford

You've seen her before. Walking down the street, holding grocery bags in one arm and a child in another. Rushing through downtown streets with a phone at her ear and her wristband watch thrust up to her eyes. Standing up in a town hall meeting and telling shady politicians exactly where they can place their new policies. Purposefully sashaying down an avenue ignoring the whistles and "hey ma" hollers thrown her way. Waving a funeral home fan with Dr. King's face on the back over her over-heated grandchildren in church while searching for a piece of hard candy at the same time. She is your teacher. She is your reverend. She is your neighbor. Your local hero. Your big mama. Your mother. She is the STRONG BLACK WOMAN. "A figure of fantastic physical and emotional endurance."

As a black woman, I must admit that the STRONG BLACK WOMAN trope is quite flattering. As a member of what my mother calls the "maligned of the maligned," it feels good to be known as a real life member of the X-Men. Somehow a gene was passed along through my melanin that causes me to have superhuman powers. No matter how hard life gets, I don't cry. No matter how many times he leaves, I stand tall. No matter how bad they talk about me, my head never drops. No matter how bad it gets, I persevere. No matter how long the journey, I will finish. No matter how much attention I may need to give to myself, I am selfless. You may know me as another name. They call me a lot of things, some to my face. I am strong. I am invincible. I am the STRONG BLACK WOMAN.

Early on, black girls are given a long list of dos and don'ts that we are expected to follow for the duration of our lives. Most of them aren't given to us verbally. Nobody actually comes up to us and says these things. But they are implied. From the day we're born, they're implied. Whether it's a quick frown when your mother sees you pouting in front of someone or a snide remark about the failing of black women who've become crack heads, we are shown, through the actions of others that black women are supposed to be 100% strong, 100% of the time. The punishment for breaching the obligations on the list vary from being criticized to being cut off, but always involving shame. The rules are clear. All of them may be succinctly summarized by one statement: DO NOT SHOW OR FEEL WEAKNESS. Weakness can be any shown or felt in any variety of ways. Crying in front of anyone; weakness. Allowing anyone to verbally outwit you; weakness. Not being able to take on an extreme amount of responsibility without cracking; weakness. Looking depressed; weakness. Feeling depressed; weakness. Actually being depressed; NOT ALLOWED.

So imagine the shock of many a black woman when they find themselves to be just that; depressed. For whatever reason, their minds seem to have forgotten the unspoken rules. Consciously, they know that they're supposed to be a fortitude of never-ending strength and power, but they're minds have not responded to this knowledge. They begin to drift through life with smiles on their faces but smugness in their hearts. The lump in the back of their throats gets bigger and bigger until it begins to choke them. The only way to untie it would be to cry and sometimes they do. In the privacy of their own little spaces, they allow silent tears to stream down their faces. Or, they must wait until somebody dies in order to scream and holler in front of others. While everyone thinks their grief is only about the deceased, they know that their tears stream from every disappointment, setback, and ounce of loneliness that they've felt since the last funeral. But once the day is over, the casket has been closed, and the last plate at the repast has been fixed, the black dress goes back in the closet and the tears accompany it. And they don't come back out until the next funeral. But if someone is taking just a little too long to die, where do these tears, this frustration, this anger……….where does it go? It's common sense that when a vessel becomes full, it either overflows or explodes. Since our lids are closed so tightly, we have no choice but to do the latter.

And where does that leave us? Upon my realization that the issues that I was dealing with were not only deeper than I had imagined, but past any of the "get over it and move on" advice that I had been given by so many other black women, I began to feel even more conflicted. I was a STRONG BLACK WOMAN dammit! How could I be clinically depressed? How could I have thoughts of suicide? How could I not want to go on? How could I not have the internal will to maintain? How could I need ~gasp~ medication? I don't care what that white psychologist says. I'm a STRONG BLACK WOMAN and depression is NOT "normal" or "commonplace" in us.

I shared my frustrations with my friend T. I told her about how guilty I felt to have the unmitigated gall to be depressed. How dare I, an educated black woman in 2006, think I have the right to be depressed? First of all, I have so much going for me, right? I have a B.A. I am currently getting my Masters on a fellowship that pays all of my tuition plus provides me with a healthy monthly stipend. I'm of reasonable health, and if/when I do find myself sick, I have health insurance. I have food to eat, clothes to wear, a roof over my head. I am blessed. How could I have a depressive disorder? Not just a slight bout of depression, but a diagnosed depressive disorder that needed to be addressed with medication?

My great-grandmother was probably run out of Mississippi for being an "uppity Negro," and never returned. She went from college to college getting kicked out for "good-timing." She was a brilliant woman, who, because she was ahead of her time, never had the opportunity to be whom she really could've been. My grandmother started having children at 14 and had 6 of them in a 10-year period. She raised them by herself. My mother was born and raised in the projects of Chicago in the 1940s and worked her way through racism, sexism, and poverty to receive a Masters and have a successful career. All these women had been through incredible odds and still came out on top. And they're not the only ones. Look at the Rosa Parks, Coretta Scott Kings, Betty Shabazzs, Mamie Tills, and Myrlie Evers of our times. Look at them, and then look to the women who came before them. The women who went triumphantly accomplished through even more trials in order to birth even more STRONG BLACK WOMEN. They opened their Bibles like good Christian women and prayed their way through the struggles. And God brought them through. God and God alone. They did it in the face of all of those odds, and yet I was depressed? Who the hell do I think I am? Some rich little white girl?

T laughed. She said, "Shannon, look at all those women, yeah, all of them. They weren't exactly whole. Look at that picture of Coretta at Martin's funeral. Look at her eyes. Look at every picture she took after that. Her eyes are the same. Sad. Look at Rosa looking out of that bus window. Depressed. Have you ever seen a smile on Betty Shabbazz's face that you believed? And let's not go to your mama and grandmama. You've told me too much about them."

T had a point. She always does. Every year Coretta Scott King dressed in black and went to Ebenezer Baptist Church and mourned. She never remarried. In fact, you've never even heard of her being romantically involved with anyone. When Rosa Parks husband died, she tied up her hair and never revealed it again in public. People speak of seldom seeing Betty Shabazz smile and having a far-off look in her eyes. My great-grandmother got kicked out of several black colleges in the South for good-timing and trying to escape the fact that she would never live up to her potential because of the color of her skin. My grandmother had six children by six different men and only found love in her second marriage which came after all of her children were adults. If you caught a glimpse of her when she wasn't aware of your prying eyes, you'd see her eyes downcast and her shoulders slumped with the weight of the world riding on them. My mother married an emotionally abusive man twice. Upon the slightest provocation, she has been known to burst into angry rantings that seldom make sense to anybody but herself. Sometimes, at night, I hear her crying, and sometimes she tells me, "look at me….I'm all alone in this world." The only difference between me and them is not that I am weaker, but that I have the option to seek and receive help. It was not an option for many of them and not acceptable for the rest.

Diane Brown wrote an excellent book called, "In and Out of Our Right Minds: The Mental Health of African American Women." The description reads:

"African American women have commonly been portrayed as "pillars" of their communities—resilient mothers, sisters, wives, and grandmothers who remain steadfast in the face of all adversities. While these portrayals imply that African American women have few psychological problems, the scientific literature and demographic data present a different picture. They reveal that African American women are at increased risk for psychological distress because of factors that disproportionately affect them, including lower incomes, greater poverty and unemployment, unmarried motherhood, racism, and poor physical health. Yet at the same time, rates of mental illness are low."

Rates of mental illness are low? With factors like poverty, unemployment, unmarried motherhood, racism, and poor physical health, the rates of mental illness are low? I find that awfully hard to believe. I think that statement should be changed to, "reported, diagnosed, and treated rates of mental illness are low."

We're so used to ignoring our real emotions that we allow serious illnesses to go unchecked. We just think that we always get depressed during the winter cause there's less sunlight. We don't realize that this may be Seasonal Affective Disorder. We just think that we have our good times and our bad times. We don't realize that this may be Bipolar Disorder or Manic Depression. We think that if he would've stayed to help us with this new baby, we wouldn't be feeling so bad right now. We have no idea that this may be Postpartum Depression. The list could go on and on. We're so busy making sure that we're there for everyone else, that we forget to be there for ourselves. We forget that if we break, there will be nobody left for those we support. While most of us don't have serious medical disorders, many of us do, and we simply never know. We don't know because we refuse to acknowledge our feelings and on top of that, we, as black people, have an inherent lack of trust for the medical community. Top that off with the fact that most psychologists/psychiatrists have little knowledge about the special circumstances that affect black women or how to effectively treat them, and you have a disaster waiting to happen.

But if you don't try at all, you will most certainly have a disaster on your hands. One that can lead to anything from more depression to an untimely death. I don't plan to allow that to happen to me. I might be a little "touched" as the old black folks say, but I'm not totally gone, and I don't plan to be. So, while I can, I will get the help that I deserve. The help that so many of my sistas have been denied or deny themselves out of a twisted sense of loyalty to an archaic and harmful stereotype. God and God alone will get me through this. But I believe that God will work through my doctors and medication to bring me to an "expected end." I know that with God as my guide (my wonderful Richard Smallwood "Healing: Live in Detroit" album) and my friends and family as my support, I will get better. Why? Because I AM a STRONG BLACK WOMAN.


Don't be discouraged. Joy comes in the morning. Know that God is nigh. Stand still and look up. God is going to show up. He is standing by. There's healing for your sorrow, healing for your pain, healing for your spirit, there's shelter from the rain. Lord send the healing, for this we know; there is a balm in Gilead to heal the soul.
-Richard Smallwood (Healing)


"For I know the thoughts that I think toward you, saith the Lord. Thoughts of peace, and not of evil, to give you an expected end."
-Jeremiah 29:11 (KJV)