Microaggressions

Death by a thousand cuts: a recent encounter that reminded me, this is STILL America, lest I forget

Photo by Anastasiia T. on Unsplash

As soon as I walked into the room, I immediately felt the air shift. I watched as the late middle-aged body seated in front of me stiffen shoulders and arms with subtle shifts to their posture. I smiled to greet this face with tightened lips slightly curled into a smile that exuded smugness. As I introduced myself in name and title, they appeared uncomfortable but not unfriendly. It wasn’t until further into the visit that my nervous system got a spike of adrenaline. The terse nature of their words cut like knives into my character. Their questions were asked with the presumption that my starting point was off, a suboptimal uneducated opinion at best. I happened to be, on that day, the underqualified stand in for the real doctor.

I’ve had similar encounters in the past. Meeting someone that decided at first glance I was incompetent. These moments catch me a little off guard because my initial visits are mostly pleasant. Perhaps initially a little irritable but with time and space warmth permeates. When I encounter a more intense exchange so quickly, I take a pause to breathe slow and not speak or act from a place of feeling while I fix my face. I cycle through shock, anger, frustration and grief. These feelings reverberate through my body quickly yet with enough time to leave a mark of remembrance. A familiar dance that I have come to know well yet still begrudgingly will my body through the choreography centuries old.

I feel these moments on a cellular level, epigenetics unlocked by familiar triggers. I first feel the quickening of my heartbeat, one that remains rapid throughout the exchanged and later, when the threat has passed, transitions into a slowed heaviness. I feel my breathing pick up speed with each inhale catching higher in my chest. I listen to their questions drenched in skepticism. I calmly yet firmly reintroduce my role and give an earnest attempt at translating what I’m doing into terms they can understand. My voice slightly trembles, the kind that arrives when you are speaking while nervous, pushing through the jitters to be loud enough to be heard. I speak slowly with the understanding that there is nothing I can say that will change the opinion of a mind rigidly decided before I utter my first word. Biases bury themselves deep in our spirits and our subconscious, often the first to arrive in initial encounters. The split-second flash of fear or disgust that guides actions that can often lead to lives lost quickly or that suffer from a slow burning over time. People dying from psychic wounds where healing is stalled due to repeated re-injury.

Microaggressions are a large part of one of many elements connected to the stress and pain of engaging in spaces that can turn toxic. A study by Dr. Bailey et al found that Black folks will often present to the doctor for depression when the symptoms are more severe and persistent. (1) In the study some of the common complaints were interpersonal “they do not like me” or “they question my worth.” I see this study as an example of how death by a thousand cuts can occur on the mental and psychic level that then trickle down to the physical and the social.

The trauma that lives in all of our bodies is old-old. It impacts how we respond to threat, real or imagined. My body remembers what it was like to feel this feeling before this recurrence, tracing back to origins that existed before I was born.

Survival for many was made possible by the large spiritual communities in which most first seek help. Practices with ancient remnants passed on through centuries of abuse. Sometimes that’s not enough but that does not negate the fact that spiritual connection is powerful and helpful to many as it is for me.

When I have moments like these, and I have time to really process what occurred, I take these moments to my ancestors as way of collective release. They have a deep knowing; they’ve been here before. It helps that I’m reminded that these experiences are outliers, that the evidence of my work is in the fruit, which is sweet most days. I recall testimonials and feedback that suggest something different, a more authentic version of me. A perspective that suggests that I am actually pretty good at what I do and getting better. I quiet the part of my mind that perks up during these types of encounters to remind me “see, you aren’t as great as you think you are.” I tell the little voice that has been with me since childhood to take several seats. That this is not the trip we are taking today. I give myself pep talks and pampering with my ancestors encouraging me on. I believe these actions help tend to the wounds that I, like most other Black folks in this society, carry daily while busy trying to live. There is a blessing in releasing these toxins from our spirits. There is a blessing in awareness of who we truly are, protection too. My ancestors lift me higher in these moments, they remind me that this encounter does not get to steal my joy or blemish my worth and for this I am thankful.

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My ancestors reminded me of this song.

Reference:

1. Bailey RK, Mokonogho J, Kumar A. Racial and ethnic differences in depression: current perspectives. Neuropsychiatr Dis Treat. 2019 Feb 22;15:603-609. doi: 10.2147/NDT.S128584. PMID: 30863081; PMCID: PMC6390869.