Do Better

by Rachel Ricketts

  My mom loved entertaining, and our home was a hub of social gatherings and celebrations. Christmas, Thanksgiving, and especially Easter were holidays to be cherished, and she went all out with table settings, four-course meals, and exquisite decor. To attend one of her dinner parties was an experience of the senses—every part of you left warmer and wiser. And really freakin’ full! My mom celebrated everything. When I went off to college, I would regularly receive handwritten cards for all occasions, but her dis-ease stole her ability to partake in the things she most loved, like writing, cooking, and hosting.

  Prior to her diagnosis, my mom had been one of the first female stockbrokers in Canada, working at a Toronto firm by eighteen. Though she started as a receptionist, she was bright and the partners picked up on her electricity right away. Not only was my mom a young Jamaican, she was “yella,” considered neither Black nor white, but rather a racial mixture disregarded and unaccepted by both. She would tell me tales of walking the streets and getting spit on. By everyone. Her culmination of Black, South Asian, and white ancestry not quite making the cultural cut of 1960s racial politics. The isolation and ongoing oppression causing her great grief. There was an Italian guy she had wanted to marry, but his family wouldn’t allow him to be with a “colored” girl. She was heartbroken. Tired of the misogynoir, my mom moved back to her hometown in Kingston. Unfortunately, she also moved back to a country in crisis.

  When my mom returned in the mid-’70s, Jamaica was in the midst of its most violent political conflict to date. On more than one occasion she was chased and shot at by random men for no reason. After the second such occurrence, where the police refused to believe or assist her, she became depressed, hopeless, and suicidal. A psychiatrist diagnosed her with phobic “hysteria.” It was the ’70s after all, so medicalized misogyny was alive and well! My mom was scared and stressed. The whole experience was so disturbing she left Jamaica never to return, and never spoke of what happened.

  After her second departure from Jamaica, my mom worked for another securities firm out west, but when the big stock market crash of 1987 hit, she lost everything. Her white male counterparts protected one another to save their estates while throwing her under the bus. In the midst of that crash, she met and married my father, a Jamaican survivor of physical and other abuses himself. She wound up badly beaten and locked in closets at my father’s hand, all while pregnant with me. Meaning I have experienced abuse from the womb. When my father laid his hands on me, my mom left with nothing but the clothes on her back and baby Rachel in her arms.

  In addition to enduring the impact of white supremacy through intimate partners, capitalist greed, and postcolonial disarray, my mother also suffered severe psychic pain resulting from sexual violence. In the course of writing this book, I discovered that she was sexually abused as a child, not only by a family friend but likely also by her own mother, my grandmother, an alcoholic hypochondriac who inflicted emotional, verbal, and sexual violence on several members of my family. Learning this was painful beyond words, and I hold a lot of anger at my grandmother for her horrendous acts, but I also acknowledge she was a survivor of abuse herself.

  I, like my mother, like her mother before her, inherited traumas passed down the ancestral line from environmental and genetic influences alike. As Iyanla Vanzant says, “In the womb, we marinate in the energy that becomes the foundation of our beginnings, our sense of self.”3

  INHERITED TRAUMA

  An emerging science has found links between the traumas our ancestors endured and impacts on our physical, mental, and emotional well-being. Epigenetics, also known as inherited trauma, is much debated by modern white-washed science, but the premise is that the expression of a gene is altered or modified in some way by an environmental factor, for example childhood abuse or a lifetime of enslavement, without changing the DNA code itself. Several mice studies have shown how trauma can pass down the familial line. One study found that mice who were repeatedly shocked while smelling cherry blossom developed a flinch (i.e., trauma response) when exposed to the scent on its own. The mice began to equate cherry blossom with pain. Nothing “shocking” about that (pardon my pun!), but scientists also found that the offspring of those mice exhibited a similar trauma response when exposed to the scent of cherry blossom. And it gets more wild! The grandbabies of the mice who were shocked also exhibited a heightened sensitivity to the cherry blossom scent. The trauma was subtly altered between the three generations, but it was there. It was inherited.4 In humxns, a small study found that the descendants of Holocaust survivors had epigenetic changes to a gene linked to their stress hormone, resulting in higher states of stress for the survivors’ offspring. Even if the trauma is altered and lessened in later generations, the impact of inheriting our ancestors’ trauma can be massive. Particularly for Black and Indigenous women+ whose ancestors have faced kidnapping, enslavement, genocide, and all-out oppression for hundreds of years. Harvard bioethicist LeManuel “Lee” Bitsoi argues, “Native healers, medicine people, and elders have always known this and it is common knowledge in Native oral traditions.”5 It is what Bonnie Duran, associate professor at the University of Washington School of Public Health, calls a “colonial health deficit.”6

  POST-TRAUMATIC SLAVE SYNDROME

  Not only do we inherit ancestral trauma through our genes but also from our environment, referred to as historical, multigenerational, or intergenerational trauma. Within the Black American context, Dr. Joy DeGruy has coined this phenomenon “Post-Traumatic Slave Syndrome,” or PTSS.7 Her research concluded that PTSS is the set of intergenerational maladaptive behaviors, beliefs, and actions originating as our ancestors’ survival strategies to cope with the extreme stress caused by enslavement, systemic racism, and anti-Blackness, including lynching, Jim Crow laws, sterilization, and mass incarceration.8 As Dr. DeGruy asserts, “We’re talking about multiple traumas over lifetimes and generations.… Living in Black skin is a whole other level of stress.”9 Be it America, Canada, or the Caribbean, the impact of the enslavement of Africans worldwide has left a wake of inner and outer turmoil across the Black diaspora. In my case, inherited and intergenerational trauma has contributed to and/or manifested as cycles of abuse, addiction, and chronic illnesses throughout my ancestry. My Black American family members, with the strongest and longest legacy of enslavement, have suffered the most harms. Still, we didn’t just inherit trauma, we inherited resilience too. Black folx are some of the most adaptable people on the planet, because we were forced to be. Though white folx benefit greatly from the oppression of all BI&PoC, we have a stronger hold on community and survival. Our oppressors harm themselves by harming us.

  INHERITING DOMINANCE

  There are adverse impacts to being the dominator as well as being the dominated. Those who carry out the oppression of others deprive themselves of our must humxn need: connection. As Dr. Tarakali shares, dominant group members face a disruption of their understanding of or felt sense of interconnectedness with those members of the group they are oppressing. In addition, children in dominant groups fear losing connection with and acceptance from their dominant caregivers and/or community in the event they do not fulfil the societal, implied, often unconscious expectations of the dominant group.10 In this way, domination is very much inherited from our environment and upbringing and it creates grave harm for all. For white or white-passing folx, many, if not most, of whom have ancestors who committed unspeakable harms toward communities of color, the intergenerational trauma that derives from being descendants of people who could commit such atrocious acts, be it on a communal or personal scale, is not something we ought to take lightly. Harming others also harms you. And the shame and guilt and all the repressed emotions that go along with them live on across generations. As does the harm of having to erase one’s culture to belong to whiteness.

  Those who oppress others are in their own world of pain. When I witness white men+ out in the woods with hoods, not only do I observe violent aggressors, I obs
erve people in pain. People who are hurt, scared, disconnected, and in need of somewhere to place the anger that arises as a result of a desire not to feel their deep feelings. I witness people who absorbed the pain of their ancestors and, as was also often passed down their familial line, choose to inflict their pain on BI&PoC. As Bessel van der Kolk, author of The Body Keeps the Score, has said, “Our capacity to destroy one another is matched by our capacity to heal one another. Restoring relationships and community is central to restoring well-being.”11 Trauma begets trauma and the cycle has and will continue unless white folx and other dominators actively seek to stamp it out in themselves. Only then can we stamp out the impacts those traumas have on the most marginalized.

  THE MINDBODY

  As an only child, I hung on my mother’s every word. Plus, she said everything with such conviction it was hard not to! But, as her MS progressed and traumas became more evident, I began to understand where she was stuck. Stuck in stories, in shame, and in serious suffering. My commitment to my personal growth (and a shit ton of therapy) had illuminated the codependent nature of our relationship and the areas I needed to address in order for us to heal. I had always put my mom and her needs first, even as a child, but after decades as her primary caregiver it was time for me to begin to care for myself too. By the summer of 2015 we were no longer speaking every day as we had for my lifetime before. But she phoned me while I was at work, and in that discussion, she again told me atrocities that made me leave my body. It was yet another account of being abandoned by the caregiver she depended on and her hands being unable to dial her modified phone to let me, or anyone else, know. Of being left in soiled, feces-filled diapers for fourteen hours at a time. Of occupational therapists undermining her Black pain and social workers misconstruing her Black anger. An ongoing tragic tale of how the government refused to give her the money she needed for sufficient care and was once again trying to fuck her out of essential items. I was used to these stories by now. But the impact of these accounts never ceased to soften. I could never adequately brace for the impact of the violent acts committed toward her or the pathology of her predicament. So, in order to prevent myself from completely falling apart, I peaced from my body. Dissociated from my physical self and compartmentalized this egregious information until I was able to get there to help remedy another terrible situation. My mom also lived in a near-permanent dissociated state in order to merely survive her day. As her hardships became increasingly acute, my ability to handle it all became increasingly dysfunctional. I was burned the fuck out and, to be honest, was tired of dealing with it. I didn’t want to play mom anymore. To be “Miss Fix-It.” Lawyering myself up and preparing for battle against oppressive people and institutions alike. I was just tired. As I would later learn, these are also classic symptoms of trauma.

  * * *

  Trauma can manifest as fatigue, dissociation, a reduced ability to deal with stress, feeling helpless, anxiety, hypervigilance, etc. We often feel trauma is reserved solely for the most egregious of occurrences, but studies have shown it’s not all that extraordinary. Any experience that is distressing or emotionally painful, that overwhelms your ability to cope and leaves you feeling powerless, can result in some spectrum of trauma. Especially if it occurs during childhood, which happens more than we may think. Studies have shown that on average 61 percent of adults have experienced at least one type of Adverse Childhood Experience (ACE) before turning eighteen, and one in six people have experienced four or more types (myself included). These include abuse, divorce, or witnessing violence in our home or community, all of which can result in trauma, even if we are unaware of it.12

  As Dr. Gabor Maté, author of When the Body Says No, shares, “The essence of trauma is disconnection from ourselves,” it is the separation of our mind from our emotions.13 But our mind is not separate from the body; in fact leading experts refer to it as “the mindbody” to encapsulate their inherent interconnectedness—a foundational concept in traditional Chinese and other Eastern medicines.14 Basically, anything that promotes a repression of our emotional state, especially challenging emotions like anger and grief, can adversely impact our health. Things like being oppressed because of your race or gender identity, feeling overwhelmed at the state of the world, or being abandoned by a caretaker as a child. When it becomes too painful for us to stay connected, we disconnect as a defense. For me, the disconnect came from a culmination of navigating white supremacy in my own life while also working tirelessly to help care for my mom, who was not only suffering as a result of a lifetime of trauma stemming partially from systemic oppression, but mired in a medical and social institution founded and steeped in racism, sexism, and ableism. Like many other Black women+, my mother and I were forced to deal with the compounding impact of white supremacy from both the ancestral trauma and the tangible daily oppression it created.

  Because the mindbody are one and the same, our emotional trauma can manifest into physical disease, or the body’s response to a lack of inner peace. It is unsurprising that my mom, who never felt sufficiently safe to share and thus heal her traumas, wound up stuck in her own body. Debilitated and unable to move. Paralyzed by fears of white supremacy’s creation. The stress, trauma, and repressed rage transmuted into chronic illness, as though my enslaved ancestors’ shackles were replaced by mental ones. The cause of MS remains elusive to this day, though it is known that there is a genetic and environmental element, with many believing stress plays a significant factor. This is in no way to blame my mom for her illness, at all, but as Dr. Maté explains, when we repress our emotions we relegate them to the unconscious realm, which, to be blunt, totally fucks with our body’s defenses.15 This can lead to those defenses turning against us rather than offering protection. Impacts of mindbody disconnect are most often found in folx with a long history of trauma and emotional repression, which creates stress on the body and usually manifests as chronic illnesses like cancer, Alzheimer’s, or autoimmune disorders like… MS!

  HOW TO KILL YOUR MOTHER

  It was a midsummer’s day when I got the call. I was rushing out the door when she called to tell me of yet another traumatic incident. She had suffered more abuse by caretakers’ hands. Her pain was constant and immeasurable, and though she needed 24/7 care, it wasn’t financially feasible. As an attorney and daughter, I had done all I could to fight for and defend her. But we were at a loss. I told her how much I loved her but that I couldn’t keep being her only source of support. “Mom, I think it’s time we find you a therapist so we can get you the emotional support you deserve,” I said. For the first time in a long time she broke down. “I know, honey,” she said, “I can’t do this anymore and it’s only getting worse. I think it’s time for me to die.”

  Those words were utterly heartbreaking, but deep inside I also felt something like relief. After decades of supporting her as her only child and primary caregiver, constantly fighting with the racist systems that strived to keep her stuck, I wasn’t sure how I was going to survive decades to come of being her primary source of support. In fact, I often wondered if I would be the one who died first trying to manage it all. The truth is there was no place that would sufficiently support my mom. Nowhere for a neurotypical quadriplegic Black woman in chronic, untouchable pain to try to have a life. That’s not to say it’s not possible; it is to say that a racist, ableist, sexist, and capitalist society did not prioritize caring for her or those like her in order to make it so. Folx of all abilities live thriving, joyful lives, but my mother was and could not. Her days were confined to ensuring basic survival. And survival was no easy thing within the white supremacist institution charged with her care and the impacts of trauma from a lifetime of various injustices. Her immense suffering manifested as physical pain but also hopelessness, anxiety, loneliness, and loss of meaning. In short, it consumed her entire existence. No matter how hard we tried, with our limited resources, the oppressive obstacles, and the magnitude of her repressed traumas, it just wasn’t in the star
s. White supremacist capitalism wants us to live as long as possible so we can produce as much as possible, without any care for our well-being, or lack thereof, while the institutionalized fear of death makes many a rich white man richer. Sure, my mom could live, as in inhale oxygen, but she couldn’t have any kind of life. Dying while she still had some semblance of dignity felt like the only option left.

  * * *

  Our family doc and I thought that moving her to a hospice with 24/7 care would allow her to pass in peace. She could finally get the pain medication she needed, as she no longer required all her mental functioning to handle her underfunded staff and ensure they didn’t harm her. However, as it turns out, it’s not always so easy to die. It’s a sacred and special process, and both your mind and body must be totally on board, otherwise, you’re stayin’ put. The mindbody is for real! Hospitals terrified my mom and for good reason, given her prior experiences of being mistreated by doctors from the age of eight when she was involuntarily used as an experimental birth control subject by Americans in Jamaica. This justified fear is shared by many other Black women+ who, for example, have a maternal death rate twelve times that of white women in New York City hospitals.16

  My mom was moved to a hospice named after a white saint (cuz aren’t they all), and from there I did everything in my power to help her find relief. To help her die. Assisted suicide wasn’t yet legal, so we were on our own. Left to whispers behind shut doors and rampaging her drug cabinet for a “killer cocktail.”