When Antiracism Becomes Trauma
It was 7pm in my apartment situated just south of Boston where I have spent much of the recent months participating in antiracism efforts largely rooted in the tragic murder of a Black man. As I sat down in my red office chair to await the start of a psychoanalytic discussion on racism, I attempted to firmly embody the power and passion its color evoked. I made a point to glance at the wall art hanging just to the right of my Zoom frame, a necessary ritual. Shown on the canvas is a black woman, a crown of natural curls adorning her head, seated beneath the words “know your worth, then add tax.” Somewhere deep in the recesses of my mind, the words felt both comforting and mocking.
She had been in this moment before and she knew that this invitation to speak on racism would stir up a trauma response that White racial others rarely recognize. She knows that many of these meetings have harmful impacts though are well intentioned. She knows that good intentions do not make the re-exposed wounds hurt any less. She knows that my scripted role requires self-harm to occur in service of aspirational goals for an antiracist reconstruction of racist structures. She knows I do not have a real choice in the matter for there is much work to do to reimagine antiracism in the field of medicine.
As I logged into the meeting, I customarily counted the visible faces of minoritization and hoped I would at least make use of one entire hand. Though not a guarantee, minoritized persons in the meeting usually signal a shared labor and sometimes a potential rescue once pinned against the wall on the stage of my re-traumatization. Out of more than fifty squares on the screen, there were a few faces representing safety and I secretly hoped we would meet more intimately in a breakout room. I was thankful for their activated cameras or profile photos and I could almost sense their keen awareness of their otherness. I sent a customary private message to my closest colleagues to ensure they knew I was glad to be in a space with them. I then settled back into my chair to enjoy the early meeting moments before the stage presented itself.
As a community psychiatrist, trauma is the bread and butter of my specialty though its racial forms are the neglected stepchild in the field. Thus, I didn’t recognize it in my own body until my professional development…
