The Cultural Politics Of Mental Health In A Black Family

I have yet to share this part of my life’s story on such a public forum. I ask that you accept that this is my story to share, and bear with me as I continue coming to terms with it.

My mother was the kind of woman that very seldom pulled any punches—she had the dominant female power of Beyoncé, the intellect and civic mindedness of Michelle Obama, and the sarcastic, sometimes eye-popping wit of Marie Barone in Everybody Loves Raymond. These characteristics synergized into the emanating charisma that she would long be known for in our social circles. She knew it, too, and relished in how popular it made her with our friends and family. We fought (and in my early teenage years, quite often and viciously), but we shared an open camaraderie I might consider rare in mother-son relationships.

So, it surprised me one day when, upon picking me up from a friend’s house about an hour away from our own in Northern New Jersey, she appeared frazzled and disheveled, weakened as if someone had done something unspeakable to her. Perhaps they had – but I would never know.

The coming days that late July week, spent in sweltering heat and unbearable boredom, revealed that there was something dire and sinister hatching in my mother’s psyche. Severely paranoid, she complained of the upstairs neighbors in our new apartment building following her around, shouting grotesque accusations about our family that were entirely baseless, and threatening to call the police. I was 18, and now alone with a single mother that was becoming undone before my eyes. I panicked from sheer confusion.

As is characteristic of many black families with southern roots, mine spoke little about problems of health and wellness with one another, often signing such issues off with an “I got this” or “Put it in God’s hands.” I knew this method would not work given the situation. I grew unsettled and desperate.

After a series of dramatic events which culminated in a frantic call to police in the middle of the night, I got my mother to check herself into a hospital, worried for her deteriorating mental state. I was on edge – “let it go” I was told by many as I waited at my grandparent’s house for any word about my mother’s condition from the hospital she’d checked into. When they finally called, we were told we could come see her the next day. A psychological examination revealed the development of acute psychosis – possibly the early onset of schizophrenia.

We would move in with my supportive and loving grandparents when she was discharged so that they could keep a watchful eye over my mother until her scheduled appointment. I hesitated to discuss with friends and family what was happening. The stigma against mental illness was alive and well amongst my close circle, and problematic language was the norm. I internalized these things, developing a now deeply regrettable sense of embarrassment that I might be the son of someone who was dealing with psychosis. This was the unfortunate truth. I tried to coax out of my mother the thoughts and paranoia she was dealing with, but she denied and pushed away.  The complex narrative of the “strong, independent black woman” boxed her into a place I could not approach. Vulnerability was not an option, and many of my friends and family seemed to share this unfortunate mentality. Combined with her mental condition, this was a recipe for disaster.

One Monday night, she spiraled out of control in the living room of my grandparents’ one-bedroom apartment that the four of us were sharing. From my little air mattress, my mother probed me with questions and accusations of an increasingly neurotic nature. I awoke my grandmother to come sit with us as I became increasingly fearful that my mother might do something to me. But I was unthinkably wrong…  

In the middle of the night, imagined voices in the apartment building hallway would drive her to a point of no return. She would commit suicide by hanging in the apartment bathroom. There was an eerie silence before my beast-like roar ripped into the night when I discovered her, my disbelief escaping my body and filling the silence of our sleepy town, and a world that would go on unphased by the gravity of this unthinkable tragedy. My sight went dark as the image of a vicious nightmare etched into my mind forever, an emblem of my trauma.

There is not much one can say to contextualize this kind of unthinkable—it is why some of my closest friends are reading this now, hitherto unknowing that I had gone through this experience. I suppose my perspective makes more sense now for those who know me.

In a Southern Baptist community with strong religious convictions entrenched in generations of blackness, denial is often the first resort. Many family members and friends spoke very little of the experience when it initially happened—and often when asked about how my mother died, some would come up with alternative stories, unable to openly discuss the truth. This spoke to the politics of mental health in black families in the more cultural sense of the word; according to the Oxford dictionary,  “The assumptions or principles relating to or inherent in a sphere, theory, or thing, especially when concerned with power and status in a society.” (Oxford Dictionary, 2017) I heard in closed conversation such hyperbole as “suicide is a white people thing”—that severe mental health issues, somehow, were unbecoming of the black experience, and that suicide implied a deep disregard for the God-granted gift of life. For black Americans, trauma, struggle, pain and grief are deeply entrenched in our experience. They are inherited over generations, from our introduction to this land as slaves and subhumans, through subsequent decades of vicious discrimination. Symptoms of depression and anxiety, or perhaps worse, arethen mistaken for “bad nerves” or growing pains. We are a fighting people, socially and economically—that is just what we do, what we must go through. Everyone is going through something, right? Going it alone, or through prayer, is a sensible way to cope in this perception—one that should and must change for the sake of those who are victim to it.

My mother and I waded through a number of harrowing experiences throughout my life and quite closely up to the time she died, and she alone the many years before I was born. Counseling had become ritual for me in unpacking these things, but she always denied the service, often times because she couldn’t afford it or simply didn’t see the necessity. She went to church instead. This is the way many people in my life, and many working-class black families, have dealt with the pains of their own lives. There is admittedly some merit to worshipping and bearing one’s testimony in the name of the Lord.  

For mental illness, though, medical intervention is a necessity. The social and political stigma against publicly discussing mental health issues has left many struggling in silence. I know my risks and refuse to succumb to this stigma out of a love for myself and for those who support me. But this is not characteristic of the culture of black families as it pertains to my experience. (I would never generalize the traditions of a whole people, but still believe my analysis holds some basic truth.) My family is still hesitant to openly discuss the events of July 25th, a day that will forever live in infamy in our world. We feel the dark void of my mother’s absence at every family gathering, holiday and event, and it has largely dampened the excitement of our past traditions. But we are getting better. And I am proud of our growth—especially that of my grandparents, who must cope with losing a child in one of the most tragic ways imaginable.

The cultural politics of mental health in a black family arise from a number of multidimensional issues – a lack of access to adequate medical services that stem from complex socioeconomic dynamics, religious doctrine as the basis for one’s worldview, and sociocultural perspectives that encourage people to treat the issue as taboo. These phenomena are not at all unique to the black community but are nonetheless present and obvious in our ongoing conversation (or lack thereof). I am learning to undo my preconceptions, and to allow my mother’s story to exist without shame or internalized embarrassment. The truth cannot be unwritten. It must instead be used to frame how I view my personal struggles and those of others. I am fully embracing my present and future role as a champion of self-care and mental wellness, and a point of reference for those who need to become more familiar with the risks of psychiatric disorders. In my role, I hope to contribute to the deconstruction of stigma, and defeat the politics of mental health as the guiding compass for future conversations in my community and the world at large.

I hope that you will learn from my story. Do not pity my family, but understand that we are forever changed by the horror that we experienced. Sensitivity and educated discussion go a long way in creating space for necessary and important conversations. Take this perspective to your own families, no matter your race or cultural background, and challenge them to learn and grow with you.

Nicholas Massenburg-Abraham ‘22 studies in the College of Arts & Sciences. He can be reached at nick.m@wustl.edu.