Thursday, July 25, 2013

Blac/k/q venacular Part I: My gift, my calling, has made room for me...



I have a saying, "Blak folk don't do therapy." 

It dont say, "Blaq folk are ignorant or clueless to our needs."          

It dont say, "Blac folk need non-Black folk to come heal           and                       save us." 

I said, "Blak folk don't do therapy," to who's who.

I was asked in return, "Then why become an [art] therapist?" 

I didn't feel like explaining.  

Power and privilege makes one think they deserve an answer from us Black girls                       on demand.

Speak, answer, twerk, cry, be enraged, tell yo story...on demand.   

"I want to see you angry              to get mad.         If I were you, I would be mad." 

Well           in all ways of none            are you me.  

Let me reintroduce myself,  I am a shealer a.k.a.     ARTherapist.

The arts                creative expression is my modality.   

The arts and expression are how Blac/k/q folk have healed throughout the African Diaspora f o r e v e r.                

I aint got no couch for you to come sit on             but i'll help you build one if that's what you need.   

I got some tools. 

I got some destigmaticized and dismantled "therapy "that we can re-imagine.  

I got some of dat good good―I got my gift, my calling that has made room for me. 

I got that calling on my life to co-create healing spaces:
spaces to acknowledge the hurts                             pains                    and the                happy                   joys       
spaces to reflect          
spaces to process          
spaces to heal  
spaces to muddle through the shit          
spaces to cry     
spaces to speak
spaces to be heard         
spaces to ask for counsel                     
spaces to pray
spaces to meditate
spaces to                             sit           stand                     walk                       dance                    run                         shout
spaces to come up with our own plans to heal                 
spaces to dream
spaces to give ourselves permission to...    
spaces NOT to be a monolith
spaces to explain without having to give a backstory      
spaces to dream              
spaces to be affirmed
spaces where we are given information to make informed decisions     
spaces where we can tend to our mental health in the context of our whole, uncompartmentalized selves
spaces to be our layered selves                    
spaces where Blac/k/q is not a disease, tho we may have a dis-ease   
spaces where even if there are severe/complex mental health challenges        we aint just put away    we aint just doped up
spaces where mental health is individual               
familial                 
and community-centered
spaces where we are the experts            of ourselves     
spaces where we have resources
spaces where we can tell our stories  our way   with our voice         using our talk
spaces to re-imagine our narratives
spaces to restore ourselves
spaces to art in all its many way
spaces where we deconstruct crazy        and simultaneously dismantle systems of oppression
spaces where we have the deserving luxury to heal...to be...transform....build....and/or act
                                                                                               
I am thankful for reading this article by Erin “Mari” Morales-Williams this morning cuz I thought I was flipping my lid because as I look at the jobs being offered I aint interested in them. They are not doing what I think therapy should be doing for people who look like me. I am not my sistas and brothas keeper, I am my sistas and my brothas and I want us to have radical healing spaces where we can heal, act and build simultaneously. This does not mean that I don't want to hone my clinical skills, I do, but it's how and where I do it that I will not compromise.  Also, the Universe will not let me settle for slave labor.  I am free and my resources are abundant, cuz my gift, my calling, has made room for me and God has entered where she already abides.

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