Birth of the Trauma of a Black Child 

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I am the child of black radicals. From a young age, I noticed little injustices around me. From being made fun of for having skin the color of shit to my dad getting dozens of parking tickets. Nevertheless, I could not discern racism. What did racism truly mean? For those snotty kids on the playground were right, my skin did look like shit and my dad parked wherever he wanted. I could blame my naivety on my age… who could understand such hatred at a young age. And… I assume I could not fathom the horror I truly experienced a black child. 

In front of a crusted over plain white flat-topped house with a porch holding dingy wet plastic chairs stood a young dark girl with four twisted pigtails. The cracked sidewalk underneath her feet made her shift as she held flyers that read “Yes, We Can!” for her father. Her father, a radicalized young man, offered up him and his daughter to do canvassing for the soon to be next president of America. Forcing her to walk from block to block uncomfortably in the chill of October. She kept a stultified expression as her father walked from house to house neatly placing pamphlets into mail slots. She stayed behind the fences watching reluctantly. As they walked, amber colored soggy leaves melted underneath their rain shoes as polluted clouds roamed above. They arrived in front of the house lined with a serrated aluminum fence. Falciform rails lined the cement staircase leading up to a stained door. A man with darkened liver spots and a patchy beard briskly appeared on the front porch. His brows furrowed and wrinkles prominent as he glared harshly at those below him twilighting the plain gloomy atmosphere from before. Waves of an uncomfortable animosity she had never confronted before fell over her. She was forced to remain uninterested while her father scrutinized his every move as the old man ambled from his shitty little house, leaving the door open. Her father clacked up the cement stairs. She stayed behind the fence, eavesdropping, as it escalated into a mild confrontation. 

The spit coming from the man’s lips as he uttered curse words at her father and her father exchanging the forbidden words. Curse after curse ambushed her ears as she turned away from the sight. Her bubblegum pink barrettes clacked against her skin leaving a slight sting. 

Her father returned with the exaggerated clacking of his shoes against the cement, however, his originally dreary energy had become contaminated by the old man’s manifesting shitty inhospitable thick air. He snatched the pamphlets from her, roughly gripped her upper arm, and tore his daughter away from the rising conflict. A screeching high pitched whine from the man’s crusted over lips. Her twisted pigtails whipped around, the pink plastic barrettes smacking her face. Barrelling towards her, a monster crawling demonically bared its spit-soaked fangs. The clacking of its claws left her speechless while it ripped up the cement leaving hell behind it. Mentally paralyized, her feet unconsciously shifted on the jagged sidewalk, staring down this thing, filled with the antipathy of its owner. A slow whistle. “Come ‘ere, girl,”. 

The monster slowed and responded to the command. She glances up at the man’s face. She remains stuck, frightened and waiting.

She was forced to distance her emotions from the trauma of the situation. She remained aloof, ignoring the structure of aversion that has succeeded each generation. Like her, we have all momentarily disregarded, or endured this detestation, why? This acceptance is a breeding ground for racial hatred. This hatred persists in our aversion to race.

 

The unfortunate truth of this story is it occurred in December 2007, before the Iowa Caucus. Nevertheless, it reflects similarities from a hopefully by-gone era. How should we react in racially stimulated situations? In the hands of a failed democratic system that neglects minorities, and its contribution to the demonization of my race, what is the appropriate response? 

This goes much further than a racist system and emotional powerlessness. That little girl will remain traumatized for her life. At first, she will not realize that she endured racism. She will think that this man did not want them on her property since they were canvassing rather than thinking that this man had a complex racial superiority issue. As always one day this memory will arise again, and the more she learns the more she realizes how hurt and broken this world has made her mind. This is a common trait between black people in America… we always wanted our white counterparts to be good, to be removed from the constructs of their ancestors. This is reaffirmed by the school system with the enslavement of our ancestors as a mistake. Even Martin Luther King in his Letter from Birmingham Jail spoke about his daughter and how she was beginning to feel the overwhelming animosity towards white Americans. Black people, or at least most have the desire to love our neighbor, this is one of the Black community’s biggest values. When you feel so much negativity and aggression and hatred what does that do to the Black mind? Hatred leads to distance and disassociation from the trauma, from ourselves, textbook psychology. This manifests first as the “I do not see color,” Black people. Who then, after a few years of contemplation, becomes “Not all white people…” Black people. They tend to be more appealing to white people, those that vote for Trump for instance. Some never seem to move out of this stage. Then, if you are able to wrestle yourself out of that, you become, “I’m suspicious of white people,”. During this period of your life you will learn a lot about yourself and your past traumas. It is probably the easiest stage to move on from. There are only three routes after this stage depending on age, education, and emotional availability. You can become the Revolutionary Black. This person will not shut up about government conspiracies surrounding Assada Shakur and is organizing a protest at a government building as we speak. Or you can become the Spiritual Black. This person is me. We own a bunch of crystals and try to connect with our ancestors to move past racial trauma. Definitely a type of dissociation but we at least are spiritually in tune. Or you can become, what I call the Tired Black. Maybe this is too vague of a title but it is definitely a place in life. This person can have any political viewpoint or religion. The thing they all have in common is that race talk is utterly exhausting. They may go to protests on occasion and are supportive of black businesses; but they are tired of the mental anguish of being a black person. These are the people that will let racist comments and gestures slide because it takes less emotional energy. These labels can fit many of the people in an entire race. 

The categorization of my own race is not the best or most politically correct way to talk about the mental distress that black people have experienced. Of course all black people are different and have experienced a multitude of different racial injustices and thought patterns. It is just easier to follow for the white eye who may happen to scan across this paper to see a category.  For your own good, think about it as the levels of disassociation that black people can experience. To erase the bitterness and animosity, and to cleanse that young girl of her trauma we need some level of isolation from the world. When that girl is stuck in a forced uninterested stare for the first time, it is a guide to what the rest of her life will look like.