‘THERE WERE DAYS WHEN I’D SIT IN FRONT OF MY LAPTOP AND JUST CRY’
If you thought racism only lived in slurs and abhorrent jokes made by the ignorant, then this summer provided a brutal wake-up call. First, there was the creeping realisation that people from Black, Asian and other ethnic minority communities were disproportionately becoming infected and dying from Covid-19, something confirmed by a government report that found people from these groups were twice as likely to die because of the virus. Then, a police officer in Minneapolis knelt on George Floyd’s neck until he died; worldwide outrage ensued and the Black Lives Matter movement was catapulted into the mainstream, along with urgent conversations about racism. Not just the obvious, loud, easily condemnable kind, but systemic racism that’s baked into the structure of society. Racism that can increase people’s chances of developing mental health disorders, such as psychosis and depression. Racism that can cause trauma that shows up in symptoms similar to those exhibited by people with PTSD. Racism that’s not easy to understand if you’ve not experienced it.
‘I’ve always been aware of how important it is to look after my mental health. With the exception of a low period after I lost my father, when I found solace in therapy and self-help books, I’ve been the person everyone looks to for support when they need it; I’ve managed to build a strong mind. This year – with the devastation wrought by the coronavirus, and the trauma highlighted by the Black Lives Matter movement – I’ve struggled to maintain it.
I first became aware that the pandemic was disproportionately affecting African, Asian and minority ethnic communities back in April. As one of the few Black MPS in Parliament, I was determined to keep racial inequalities on the agenda. But while I made speeches about the institutional racism behind these statistics, there were some days when I’d sit in front of my laptop and just cry. There was the news that Brent – my constituency – had the highest death rate in London; then there was the grief of those who had lost loved ones. One call in particular – from a constituent who wasn’t allowed to see her mother’s body – I’ll never forget. The following day, I switched off the news. If I didn’t recharge, I’d be no use to anyone. Soon after, I saw the video of George Floyd.
It was another layer of trauma at a time when I was mentally exhausted. But the footage also brought back a specific memory for me, aged 18; the sight of my brother, then 23, being thrown into a police van, where officers put their knees on him. I’d called the police myself after a white man threw a brick through my car window, before brandishing a knife at my brother. When the police came, they immediately arrested my brother. Recently, I asked him if he remembered it. He said: ‘Remember it? I still have scars.’
When I speak about these incidents, it takes a physical, emotional and mental toll. Exposing the police stop I was involved in [in August, Dawn was stopped by police while in a car with a friend in Hackney, East London] has shown the world that it doesn’t matter who you are, the colour of your skin is still a prevailing factor. The racist abuse I’ve received since the story has come out only proves that we need to continue the conversation.
So it’s with my constituents, my family and all the people trying to make society a better place in mind that I continue to call out the systemic racism – the injustice – that threatens millions of lives every day.’
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The Black, African and Asian Therapy Network provides culturally sensitive support. Visit baatn.org.uk