It wasn’t too long ago, less than a year, I wanted to start writing essays about antiracism. But there seemed to be a roadblock—a massive, bright figurative billboard encouraging me to yield and consider that maybe I was buying into an idea for which I wasn’t suited. The billboard’s message:

You’re a white dude. You can’t understand, relate, or speak about antiracism.

            Two of my dearest humans in life persistently encourage me to give notice to a different sign’s message. My best friend, Jessie, regularly encourages me to use my voice and articulate my growing purview. My life partner, Genelle, often assuages my reticence by reminding me that my support means she’s not on her own. Now, I cannot pretend to fully understand, relate, or even speak to their experiences with Blackness—or the racism they endure. But it is well within my reach to dig as deep as I can to try to begin to relate and understand. To go beyond our differences by investing in an awareness of the similarities in our stories.

            Our experiences with race are rife with the opportunity to understand how differences and similarities can be explored. Neither the belief in race nor the practice of racism has always been with us. Much effort has gone into creating and sustaining both. They exist because of our imagination for fiction. Race sprang from racism. As Ta-Nehisi Coates says in Between the World and Me, “Race is the child of racism, not the other way around.” An acknowledgment of this history helps us understand how the experiences—the lives—of real humans are impacted, like my best friend Jessie and my life partner Genelle. My love for them necessitated me being able to understand them in a way that helped us support one another better. The relationship I have with Genelle became the gateway. 

            She and I talk. A lot.

            And we often talk about how our lives are impacted in different ways based on our race. Early on in our relationship, it started to become clear to me that I better understood Genelle’s experiences with race when I observed similarities in my experiences with mental illness and addiction. Ways in which white people did not understand her experience as a Black person were damnably similar to ways in which Normies commonly do not understand Atypicals, like me. These are just embellished words that distinguish those without a mental health (or neurological) diagnosis and those with a diagnosis.

            Having an atypical—less common—neurological makeup became the foundation for how I could better understand Jessie’s and Genelle’s stories.

***

            Jessie was an all-state athlete and Dean’s List student at Michigan State University. He had to work two jobs to make ends meet during his undergraduate years. Still, even that wasn’t cutting it. Jessie had to consider picking up a third job. The Arby’s restaurant across the street from his apartment would work, so he applied.

            With a recent visit to the barber, his hair was only a couple inches long on top, his edges were tight, and the sides had been kept short. Perfect for a job interview. He added a pair of clean slacks, button-down long-sleeved shirt, and perched his eyeglasses atop his nose. Jessie could have been interviewing for a position with the university as quickly as he was interviewing for an entry-level position at a fast-food chain. His other two part-time jobs were, in fact, already with the university.

            He took a seat across from the manager, in an office just big enough for a small desk and two chairs. On the other side of the wall from the office, a young guy with long hair pulled into a ponytail prepared the beef for service. A task Jessie was likely to start with as a fresh hire. Being more than qualified, he was offered the job. Just not precisely as he expected.

            “Look, you are very well-spoken and dressed nicely. But the rest of your appearance doesn’t quite match your intelligence and experience,” the hiring manager told him.  

            Reaching across the small desk, the manager placed the backside of her hand against Jessie’s cheek, concluding there was too much stubble.

            “I’d love to get you started today, but we will need you to shave your face and cut your hair before you can start.”

            The guy preparing the beef with a ponytail was one of several employees with straight blonde or brown locks significantly longer than Jessie’s. Despite his recent visit to the barber to have his hair shaped up, the two inches of curly coils on his head weren’t acceptable.

            It was clear: either he shaves his head or he didn’t get the job.

            Not getting the job meant that both his home and his education would be threatened. And this wasn’t the first time a white person had suggested the coily curls of his hair—his Blackness—was seen as unkempt or unacceptable. The racism mattered to him, but he was somewhat numb to it. There was little surprise in it for him. And getting the job was urgent. So, he agreed to shave his head.

            Jessie now works for a large hospital in Wisconsin, where his bosses still question his appearance. He continues to feel as if his Blackness is unprofessional, unbecoming, or ugly.

***

            Genelle was taught about how life is different for little Black kids than it is for little white kids. She was learning these lessons at the same time she and I were both learning how to tie our shoes. My childhood guidance had nothing to do my being white. Her upbringing made it very clear to her that not only was she Black, but this meant she had to act and look different.

            At Grandma’s house, Genelle could be whoever she wanted to be, play however she wanted to play. She could roll around in the yard, make mud pies out of water and dirt. Her hands and hair could get filthy from the fun. Her clothes could come back from a time of play with all the signs of a child having enjoyed herself in whatever way her imagination led, dirty, disheveled, wrinkled, worn hard. But only at Grandma’s. Only around other Black people.

            Her mother would often tell her, “School isn’t like Grandma’s house, Genelle. Always keep your hair braided and your clothes clean.” This was out of the sincerest form of love. It was to protect her.

            “It’s different for little Black girls,” her parents guided. “The little white boys and girls can roll around in the grass and get dirty, or let their hair and clothes get messy. But little Black girls have to act proper.” Again, more love. More protection.

            Acting proper was code for behaving the way white people behaved. Or behaving more carefully. In order to protect her dress during recess, Genelle regularly sat on the curb instead of sitting in the grass. Frequently she chose to stand on the merry-go-round over playing in the sand or dirt.

            PULLQUOTE: We don’t use words like ‘bout’ or ‘ain’t’ in public. Use complete words and complete sentences. It’s essential to speak and act ‘proper’ in mixed company.

            Barely five-years-old, she understood that she was Black. She also realized that talking and looking proper meant to look more like white people. Or more like what white people would accept. As an elementary student, she understood that “mixed company” meant that white people were around. Her parents rarely referred to white people directly with her. Still, she knew exactly what it all meant when she listened to the conversations of the Black adults in her life. Being a Black girl suggested she had to act different—act proper—when white people were around, like at school.

            Jessie had to shave his head for a job. Genelle had to look and act properly in public, at school. Both had to alter their appearance and behavior to be accepted by white people.

            Throughout Jessie’s upbringing, his dad told him that he always had to be twice as good to achieve half as much. Genelle could relate. They had to understand how their Blackness changed their lives at an age when I cared about little more than remembering when to loop, swoop, or loop a shoelace.

***

            My mental illness also forces me to think about and often change how I behave with others. If I do not prepare myself, there are too many things that can go wrong. 

            All of my mental health diagnoses came just before turning thirty-years-old, right around the time I was getting sober from alcohol. Living with these disorders breaks down like this:

      • Major Depressive Disorder: Sometimes, I cannot conceive of happiness or joy.

• Generalized Anxiety Disorder: Sometimes, I cannot avoid obsessing or panicking over even small things, like going to a family dinner.

• Depression, Anxiety, and Chronic Insomnia: Sometimes, I lay in bed with looping thoughts, or I don’t sleep for a day or two.

At a previous stage in life, my habit for a few years was to drink until none of these things mattered, or to the point of total debilitation—no work and no play. Barely any time outside my bed.

            A year into graduate school and nearly four years into my grocery list of mental illnesses, I felt myself slipping into another major depression. My psychiatrist had switched up my medications, and the changes made things worse. The downward slope of my mental health became a slip-and-slide. Sleep was no longer a foregone conclusion.  My cat’s food and water bowls would be as empty as my memory of when they were last full—perhaps two days, maybe only a few hours. I was never sure.

            Three months after the first medication change, I was boarding a plane to Los Angeles for a writers conference. The flight was only an hour from Phoenix, one I’ve flown dozens of times since my undergraduate years in the Southern California city. This time, however, it wasn’t the usual standard-sized jet. It was what my mom calls a “puddle jumper,” a small jet used for short flights, with one row of seats on the left side, two rows down the right, and not nearly enough room to straighten my back while standing. As we boarded, elbows and shoulders and thighs and knees spilled over the two slender adjacent seats. Enough proximity to easily bump heads across the aisle.

            The moment I sat down, it occurred to me that once we landed, everyone on that plane would be standing. At precisely the same time. Shoulder to shoulder. Bags bumping asses and backs of legs. Breathing down each other’s collars. Unable to move more than an inch or two, much less the distance needed to escape if anything went wrong.

            What might go wrong?

            My heart might beat so fast that it would leave me unconscious—or worse.

            Before we took off, I made a mad rush down the skinny aisle of the plane up to the front—bumping shoulders, and bopping heads—so I could explain myself to the flight attendant.

            The attendant reassured me with a smile, “My mom experiences the same thing when she flies, so I totally understand.” She explained that she would keep everyone seated when we landed, allowing me to de-plane first.

            That time I got lucky.

            I now understand how much more likely it is that not all flight attendants will sympathize. The odds are much higher that other attendants would have followed airline policy and determined that I had a medical condition that disqualified me from flying in the first place.

***

            These realities provided the portal which enabled me to better identify the similarities between my experiences with mental illness and my loved ones’ experiences with their Blackness. We were able to outstrip our differences by thinking of each other through the similarities of our individual stories.

            It is in the similarities with our experiences that Jessie and I came to understand each other more deeply. His fear became more real to me. His anger was more visceral to me. His trauma, more tangible.

            It is also in these similarities with our experiences that I began to understand why Genelle’s parents prepared her for the world in which she would exist. The specifics of our situations are different. Still, Genelle and I both have challenges facing us that require preparation and intention. As I evaluate how I can help her understand my life, it informs me about what questions to ask about understanding her experience. It provides me the context to care more deeply and urgently, not solely for my loved ones, but for all Black people. Truly, for humans of all kinds.         

            Dr. Ibram X. Kendi says in his book How to be an Antiracist, “Like fighting an addiction, being an antiracist requires persistent self-awareness, constant self-criticism, and regular self-examination.” When I exchange the words ‘mental illness’ for ‘addiction,’ I get the same message. For me, it begins where I am willing to embrace self-criticism. Then, engaging self-awareness and self-examination are the dive into identifying the similarities between Jessie, Genelle, and myself.             It is not necessary that we understand perfectly or that we be able to walk in precisely the same pair of shoes. What matters to me and Genelle and Jessie—to all of us—is our acknowledgment that we each have a pair of shoes. And we can learn to walk in stride with one another. It is here that we can each identify how to understand and relate. And it is here that we can find our voice and speak.