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And So, I Write…
Race, Gender, and How Writing Became My Therapy
I probably need therapy. Goodness knows I’ve been through enough crap in my life to warrant it. I know there’s absolutely no shame in it. But I have a thing about it. I’m ashamed to admit it, but it’s true. So, instead of seeking professional help, I write.
I grew up as a little light-skinned mixed-race kid in a Black home. My first and most powerful female role model was my mother. She was a member of the Silent Generation and grew up during the Great Depression and WWII. She valued God, Queen, and country above all.
Never complain, never explain.
Don’t cry over spilled milk.
Stiff upper lip.
Those were some of her mottos, along with children should be seen and not heard.
She was the absolute epitome of a strong Black woman. She held it down! She looked after her son and husband and home. She managed the money and graciously agreed to take in a small motherless baby (me) at the age of 43. She never complained. Like I said, the epitome of the strong Black woman, as long as you didn’t bother to look even halfway closely.
What she really was—falling apart and struggling with a myriad of mental illnesses. But she didn’t complain. She didn’t ask for help. I…
