What Could’ve Been, What is and What Could Be: The Grief of Marginalization
I often wondered as a child what life could’ve been had my family been “normal” and happy. What heights I could have reached, what impossible dreams could have been real, what kinds of joy could I have tasted?
My childhood was filled with daydreams, wondering about the life I could have had, wondering always about the “if only.” If only my parents spoke better English, their accents not so embarrassingly thick. If only we weren’t so poor. If only our food didn’t smell so pungent. If only my hair was pin straight and my skin porcelain white. If only mama’s hands were soft and dainty like Jessica’s mom’s, and not callous, hardened from years of farm work and destitution. If only papa was home more instead of working 16 hour days to get us out of ours.
If only they were smarter and wiser and never left Indonesia for the fools’ gold that is the American Dream.
If only we were normal. Then perhaps, perhaps everything would be different. Perhaps mama wouldn’t be so sad or papa so lonely. Perhaps everything would make sense and I’d feel like we belonged, that I belonged.
Oh, how young and naive I was! How simple I thought the solutions were. But who could really blame me? They were all I knew: my family and the world that would rather scorn them than hold them close. Younger me witnessed all the ways we didn’t fit and thought it was as simple as a puzzle—if only we were more of this and less of that, if only we were less of who we were, and more of what they desired, then we’d fit. Then, and finally then, we’d be happy.
Years have passed since those days, and since then, I’ve grown in wisdom, humility and understanding (thank goodness!). What used to be anger and resentment towards my parents, the apathy towards the golden brown of my skin, my wild and beautiful hair, our fragrant, delicious indigenous food my ancestors lovingly passed from one hungry belly to the next, has
transformed and alchemized into a radical kind of love, an unshakeable sense of justice and deep and wide sense of pride.
This transformation also brought me back to my authenticity in ways I never expected to. I traded Western religion for my ancestors’ indigenous practices, rooted in love, ancient wisdom and oneness with nature. I let go of Western individuality and embraced the truth and freedom in interconnectedness, in radical community. And most of all, as I came back to the truth of my
Indonesian heritage and our resilience, I shed shame and embraced radical love and radical self-acceptance.
I have liberated myself in infinite ways. And one thing has remained the same: the “if only.”
If only the world have nurtured all this from the start. If only the brownness of our skin, the brokenness of our English and unfamiliar tribal songs that echoed through thin apartment walls could take up as much space as our blue eyed, blonde-haired counterparts did. If only our judges, doctors, teachers looked like us and understood the way we loved and grieved and argued and learned.
Would we have been treated more like people and less like spectacle? What would it have taken to be human in their eyes?
This grief is an inextricable part of my personal liberation and the driving force behind my work as a therapist. In my joy, grief and rage, I’ve turned into a burning fire, aiming to transform the narratives of people of the global majority, of diaspora, everywhere.July was Minority Mental Health month, a month to raise awareness for the unique and special ways communities of color experience life, the ways their mental health needs vary as a result.
It is a month that brings our awareness to the oppression (e.g., racism, ableism, classism) and vast gaps in culturally-informed and culturally-oriented care that exist between white folk and marginalized communities of color.
The rich and profound narratives of marginalized communities in the United States are often not reflected in the world around them, and much less in the mental health field. Our narratives are often even warped and manipulated to paint us as villainous and harmful entities to society.
This absence and manipulation of our stories and mere existence is not merely negligent, but violently and devastatingly harmful. When the whole person is not seen nor accepted, when the whole person is actively neglected and harmed, the narratives, livelihood and survival of all communities are greatly at risk.
And so what?, you might ask. What we do? To be honest, I can’t tell you the perfect ways to create change, as all of our journeys to loving ourselves and our marginalized communities are personal and unique. And I can’t promise it happens quickly—this work has been done for all human time.
But in the spirit of community, I can share some ideas: read books by authors of color and of the global majority that speak about oppression, challenge hierarchies and practice existing horizontally instead of vertically, engage in community events of various cultures and be a learner, take time to bravely recognize the ways you function as a therapist from a place of
oppression and take the time to recognize the ways you can liberate yourself as well (as you are a victim of this too!).
Now more than ever in our living history, we are witnessing and experiencing this terrifying truth. I call all us therapists, in every corner of our nation, to be courageous and witness our marginalized communities radically. To take initiative and both name, and challenge, the systems of oppression that affect us all. To be brave and look deeply within, curiously exploring
the ways we enable harm and oppression, as a field, as communities, as individuals. To do all this in love and not shame.
Now more than ever, the call to transform the hypothetical “if only” into the tangible is imperative. Godspeed my friends! In solidarity, community and love for all.
