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A lovely middle-aged mom sat with me in the lofty session room, both of us angled in the direct flow of a space heater sputtering out bits of heat. We were cozied up in the same blanket in the dead of winter while she talked about the latest antics of her risk-prone son. She was always scattered in her hurried speech, but I could follow. She blew a wisp of her short brown hair away from her face. Her nose was still red from the cold she had braced to get to the session.
“I just never know what he is going to do next. We were at the DMV the other day dealing with his last car accident and he flipped out on the teller. I didn’t even tell you about the fight he had with his friends in the basement. The police showed up! And he hasn’t been taking his meds. I’m sorry I’m all over the place. Am I talking too fast?”
Her son was periodically experiencing suicidal attempts, taking unexpected drives across the country, and fighting drug dealers in between it all. She was hardworking, with clear values that I admired, and had a deep love for her child. I enjoyed her. She liked working with me, a stand-in for her usual therapist, whom I worked for. She agreed to see me and always showed up on time (To be honest, timeliness makes a difference! Let’s call it a bias.) for sessions. There was a connection between us. I accepted her fast talking, switching of subjects, and interests in art and spirituality. She eagerly scheduled sessions to work through her enabling of her son, her present but interested husband, and her navigation of the mental health system.
“What is the top worry for you at this point?” I wanted to organize some of these thoughts to deal with what she could control and what she couldn’t. On this particular day, she shared fears of her son impregnating his newest girlfriend. “I know he is old enough to make his own decisions but I just worry. I am already working two jobs to stay afloat; I can’t care for a baby, too.”
She free-associated to her own risk-prone days; and in particular, a wild vacation in the late 80s. During a fun-filled Caribbean trip with the girls, she fell into a weekend fling with a local. She returned home and found out she was pregnant as a result of her cocaine-induced partying.
“I always did regret the abortion. I couldn’t bring a colored baby home!” she exclaimed. “What would my father say? I grew up in a strict Italian household. You know, in those days that sort of thing just wasn’t OK.”
I looked down and squeezed my hand on the side of my leg, pushing the blanket into the crease, tucking myself in a bit more. I stretched my neck, a bad habit I developed in high school which sometimes ends up in a loud crack. This stretch was without sound which made me want to do it again because suddenly there was a new tension in my shoulders. The pauses in her speech were usually few and far between but this time she waited for me. I sat up a bit and readjusted my seat.
During that pause, I thought about how that ‘colored baby’ might have looked a lot like me. It was hard for me to say anything right then. I was aware of my stoic face, my stiff body, and also afraid of what she noticed about the gaze of my eyes.
I took a deep breath. It might have sounded like a sigh.
She didn’t seem to notice me; taking my sigh to mean whatever she needed it to meanwhile continuing on with the chaotic events organized by her son.
I immediately called up the owner of the private practice after the session.
“I wish I had been able to broach it with her. Something like, ‘Oh, I wonder if that baby would have looked like me?’ or ‘What does it mean to you that I may look like that child?’
My breezy (white) supervisor was encouraging and inquisitive. “Well, maybe you can bring it back up with her.”
“No, I just don’t think it is something I can talk about with her.” I felt invisible and misunderstood, though surrounded and supported by good intent.
Years later, as a clinician who is more skilled in anti-racism, I might respond differently, or simply even respond at all. Or in a better relationship, maybe, I can do what I was encouraged to do in school: “What does it feel like to say to me that you couldn’t bring a baby that looked like me home?” “I wonder how you think what you said has landed for me?” But what happens to our therapeutic relationship that Yalom (author of The Gift of Therapy) so adeptly and skillfully crafted for me if the client is unwilling to value my life even then?
Upon lots of reflection, I decided I did what I needed to do in that moment, to protect myself. To protect my existence, to and for myself.
It was too risky for me to dive or even tread towards a conversation that might end up in her telling me:
- "Oh don’t worry, it’s not about you. You’re different. I don’t even see you as Black (colored)!"
- "Oh no way! I have lots of Black friends. And, I let my son’s Latino best friend live with us. He is like a son to me."
- "That’s just the way things were back then."
To be clear (as clear as you possibly can be when talking about deep, complicated issues around race—which is to say, there will always be some vagueness based on your experiences, your positionality in this world, and your interpretation of my words), I was not at all opposed to her decision.
What I was feeling was disappointment at hearing her value of a life that was similar to mine. It was a re-triggering of all and any other experiences I had as a Black person in white spaces that threaten my safety; of all and any micro/macroaggressions I’ve experienced up until that point. A retraumatizing of the cumulative trauma I have experienced via Haitian enslaved ancestry and living in the USA.
Might my existence, as a person with some “drops” of Blackness, implicitly mean to her that I was incompetent? Unworthy?
Did it mean she might give a bad testimonial of my therapy to my supervisor?
Did it mean that she was seeing me, to be a confidant of her experiences, but not heeding or worse, respecting—my advice when she requested it?
Did it mean that her white son was more valuable than her potential mixed child?
For more clarity, of course having a child with a "local" from another country presents barriers that I am very aware of (being a single parent, not being ready to be a parent, perhaps a challenging relationship with the opposing fling participant—you see, I am proving my awareness here!).
However, the optics of it are still very fuzzy. This is the case when dealing with race. It can happen in professional or casual encounters, within close familial relationships and even distant strangers. Her decisions post-fling were rational. Her focus on it was still hurtful to me. Her words were that she “couldn’t bring a colored baby home.” While there were obviously other, very good reasons to make the decision she did, the words are still scary. They are true words for her. And, she didn’t even blink in saying them to me, a person of color, who is Black and white. That was scary, too.
Her honesty was important. That is what therapy is for! Who should she say those words to? Me, of course.
And, that, quite frankly, is also very scary.
The words made me question my work with her. What did she believe? What did I believe? What did I need? Did I deserve whatever I needed?
Nevertheless, I believe she received many gifts in the therapy she experienced with me. Cross-racial psychotherapy is something very profound and undervalued. She experienced me, as a person of color, who was a counter-stereotypical exemplar of the “drug dealing, parent-less,” “well-meaning but from a terrible home,” and “bad influences” children of color she was experiencing through her son’s antics.
And, I received gifts from her, too.
Because of that striking (striking for me) moment, I am more prepared to broach some of those questions that I didn’t get to ask that client in subsequent moments with future clients. I am also aware that I still might not broach them if I need more time to process.
Or, if I fear the reaction and need to protect "my existence," that is quite OK.
Many of my ancestors might agree.
I am now more able to be okay with the way my intuition tells me to handle it.
And, there are some gifts we appreciate more than others, aren’t there?
“For it is in giving that we receive.” —Francis of Assisi
Discussion Questions:
- What does the author mean by "'drops' of Blackness?"
- Why does the author capitalize the word "Black?"
- Why is the word "colored" no longer used to describe Black Americans?
- When are moments that you may inadvertently not have valued another person's life in a therapeutic setting?
- What is meant by "surrounded by good intent"?
