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Why am I always expected to be strong?

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Thomas Chatterton Williams at home in Paris this summer with his wife and children, from left, Marlow, Valentine and Saul. By Thomas Chatterton Williams. I left the cafeteria where my brother, Clarence, was racing the wooden kit car he built with the older Boy Scouts, and made my way down the long corridor to the restroom.

The building was virtually empty on a Saturday and charged with that faint lawlessness of school not in session. When I finished, I fixed myself in the mirror and, on the way out, ran and leapt to swing from the high bar joining the metal stalls to the tiled wall.

In third grade, this was hard to do, a feat of superior athleticism that I savored even in the absence of a witness. The bounce in my legs linked me with my favorite athletes. I wore my hair like them, too, shaved low on the sides and back and slightly higher on top with a laser-sharp part engraved on the left.

As my feet thrust forward, the door shot open and B. An eighth grader, the eldest of three freckled, blond, almost farcically preppy brothers — Irish Catholic but still WASPier than the sons of Italians, Poles and Ukrainians who formed the backbone of the student body at our parochial school — he watched me dismount.

In his costume of boat shoes and Dockers, B. I made to pass him on the way out, but he blocked me, his smile turning menacing. I tried again to step around him, at a loss for words; he blocked my way again, looming over me, still with that smirk. Out of nothing more than instinct, I shoved past him with all the determination an 8-year-old can gather.

He let me go, but I could hear his laughter behind me as I made my way back to the cafeteria, my heart pumping staccato, my face singed with the heat of self-awareness, my inexperienced mind fumbling for the meaning behind what had just transpired. But I knew enough to know that I could not tell my father what happened. I could see his reaction — see him shoot from his leather desk chair where he spent a majority of weekends as well as weekdays bent over a book. If I had told him what that white boy said to me in the restroom, Pappy — as we called my father, in a nod to his Southern roots — would have descended into an indescribable fury, the memory of which can tense me up to this day.

He would have lost a week of work and concentration — that was as certain as two and two is four. A fatherless boy raised in Jim Crow Texas, my dad was a tenacious autodidact, the first in his family to get a college degree. His fury over the mind-boggling injustice of lesser men and even their children thinking they had something over him because of nothing greater than the tint of skin and weft of hair was something I could not fully share.

Rather, it was something I learned very early to empathize with in my deepest core and to anticipate as best I could. I failed to do this some time later, on a gorgeous fall afternoon when Pappy made the trip himself to pick me up from school.

He seemed to be in a good mood. It was hot outside. Somehow we began to speak about sports, which ones I was good at and which might intrigue me. Basketball was my great love, but in those days baseball mattered, too. I sensed a level of approval in the way he was regarding me. I was old enough now to be let in on this masculine secret. Intellectual development was paramount to my father, of course, but he was hardly a geek.

He was a man who happened to be of a certain Southern culture and a certain age, and his talents and tastes had been molded accordingly. That I was not only academically inclined but physically promising pleased him, and both aspects of the self were to be cultivated, that was obviously true. The sun shone warmly on me through the windshield, relaxing my mind, which wandered ahead into my room to lose my school uniform and rush outside to play.

I remember: the ignition churning; that old Benz K-turning; Pappy gesturing at my very white classmates loitering. I had not yet spent significant time with the other black boys I would come to know and acculturate myself to, the boys from the redlined peripheries of my small town who were a lot like the boys from the larger, all-black neighborhoods beyond it, boys who seemed older than me even when they might be younger, who threw their hands at each other habitually — and skillfully — both in earnestness and in jest.

I was still a few years away from familiarity with any of that, and boxing was something that I had only ever seen my father do. I remember the enormous, generations-old frustration in his exclamation in the car.

Despite a dusting of freckles under the eyes and a prominent nose, no one has ever described him as anything but black. His appearance, along with the strength of his persona, allowed me to assume that the Williams family identity would forever be in his image, even though my mother is unambiguously white — blond-haired, blue-eyed and descended on all sides from Northern European Protestant stock.

His grandmother was married to a man born in the final year of chattel slavery. Since I was very young, I understood that Texas was not so much where my father came from as where he never wanted to return to. My brother and I were raised in a small but gloriously book-crammed house by loving and devoted parents who came from elsewhere. They kept few photographs or clues to the past and valorized individuality, cultivation and self-creation over membership in any particular lineage or clan.

I did not have the language for it then, but compared with all of my Polish and Italian and Puerto Rican and black and Irish neighbors and classmates, what was odd about my parents was just how uninterested in their ancestry they seemed. To speak about a thing clearly you must first be able to name it. To speak about yourself, you must first be able to assemble a sense of origin. As I write this, a tab on my laptop displays a pastel pie chart of my ancestral-geographical makeup.

I scrutinize the color-coded slices for meaning. This lopsided ratio surprised me, though it should not have. My aunt came back I am well aware that my situation is not yet, and may not ever be, a terribly common one, and that I have experienced a specific set of breaks and good fortune outside my own control that have contributed powerfully to my own sense of autonomy in the world.

Growing up, I understood myself to be black, and yet I was also exposed to whiteness through my mother and most though certainly not all members of her family in nonantagonistic, positively nurturing ways. Today, my children, who are roughly a fifth West African descended, are so blond-haired and fair-skinned that they can blend in with the locals when we travel in Sweden. What we can control is what we make of those differences.

It has become commonplace to acknowledge the following point, but it bears repeating anyway: The idea of racial classification, as we understand it now, stretches back only to Enlightenment Europe. I have stayed in inns in Germany that have been continuously operating longer than this calamitous thought. And yet I am convinced that we will never overcome the evils of racism as long as we fail first to imagine and then to conjure a world free of racial categorization and the hierarchies it necessarily implies.

But from time to time, once a year or less frequently, the phone would ring, and his voice would grow folksier, maybe even slower, and he would chat with some relation for an hour, sometimes more.

I tried to picture the faces of these phantom men and women who — incredibly, to me — knew who my father was, knew from what world he had come, but imagine as I would, I had no idea what lives they might lead.

When Pappy hung up, whatever link had been temporarily forged with the past immediately receded from our home, and it was obvious the subject was closed. After all, the evidence, like those books, was all around me. In that basement, we had a treadmill, stationary bikes and resistance machines, in addition to medicine balls, benches and weights. There was a professional-grade heavy bag and a speed bag in the garage, as well as full sets of headgear and scarlet-red Everlast gloves. Only looking back on it now do I realize that my father must have anticipated that he would train us.

There would be intermittent lessons throughout my childhood and adolescence, moments of instruction snatched in the hallway or kitchen in which he patiently demonstrated to me where to place my feet, how to hunch my shoulders — chin down, protect the neck — and how to parry a blow. Pappy was unhittable, at least for me, whip-fast with the hands, torso and head well into his 60s. It was beautiful to witness what he could do. Is there anything more wonderful than watching your father soar?

Perhaps, I imagine now, it is equaled only in the pleasure of imparting — really transmitting — something of yourself to your child.

One evening thrusts beyond the fog of childhood memory like a rocky peak glimpsed from an airplane window. It is a hard space, with hard tiled floors cracking to expose the concrete underneath — the most undomesticated part of the house by far. The air is cool and damp on the hottest day of the year. It is an uncomfortable space, with nowhere to sit. You have to stand. You have to work out or remove a book from one of the shelves and read. When you descend into this space, you have to improve yourself in some demonstrable way.

He throws straight jabs, repeatedly, on the chin, which astonish the boy, who has never been hit like that before. Has never been hit at all. He withstands several more blows to the jaw and chin, the imprecision of the bulky gloves allowing one to graze the nose, flooding his eyes with salty tears. I have no recollection of how that session ended, whether on a good or bad or neutral note.

As it turned out, I never did muster the discipline to learn how to box. But even as a very small child, I understood that Pappy was only showing me the sincerest kind of care.

Looking back, I am most jarred by the sheer artificiality of the endeavor. The genes I share with my father and others who look like us, which have kinked my hair and tinted my skin, do not carry within them a set of prescribed behaviors. Blackness was what you loved and what in turn loved or at least accepted you, what you found offensive or, more to the point, to whom your presence might constitute an offense. The s will not go down in history as a particularly incisive political epoch in the history of black America.

She took a position in the San Diego County War on Poverty program, in Otay Mesa — the same neighborhood as the conservative Baptist church where her father was the minister — and became the director of a center providing basic social and recreational services to low-income black and Mexican families.

One evening, she hosted a community meeting and invited the executive director of the county agency to speak. As the fastidious Southerner standing before her carefully laid out his vision of social justice, my mother listened rapt, feeling as if he were speaking not just to her but from her, putting into words the inchoate jumble of thoughts that had been stirring in her mind for years.

They began working together, and she fell in love with this man and his mission all at once, deciding that she would marry him.

Nine years her senior, my father took longer to reciprocate. He was wary of the ludicrous, irrational resistance he knew in his bones would be coming for them. Only the year before, the Supreme Court had ruled on Loving v. Virginia, invalidating so-called racial-integrity laws that barred interracial unions in certain states, yet a Gallup poll showed a vast majority of white Americans more than 70 percent still opposed the idea of black people and white people marrying.

My parents, justifiably fearful of compromising his position in the community and her relationship with her family and church, found it impossible to acknowledge each other romantically in public — an excruciating racial tax that boggles my mind to think they were forced to pay. After five circumspect years, my father proposed, once he was convinced that they were individually robust enough to withstand the ostracism and scrutiny they would surely encounter, especially once they decided to have children.

There are photos of my mother with the family that was hers before we became her own, which I have to scrutinize at length before I can recognize who she is. Who is this brood, with all that blond hair bleached a blazing shade by the California sun? One photo in which Mom is around 16, in the early s, has her standing alongside her parents and young siblings.

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Why am I always expected to be strong? What happens when I want to be vulnerable? A number of years ago my wife really challenged me with this statement. What was bubbling underneath the surface came out. She looked at me with tears in her eyes and expressed how frustrating things were for her.

Not just as a woman, but a black woman, expected to carry the emotional burden of me, the children as something of primacy while pushing down her own emotions. I was thrown by this. What did she mean she was the strong one? Did I not give support? What the heck, was I not just as much a parent to our kids? And then I started to unpack it. I realised that as a woman who is incredibly practical family members go to her first. Madeline can sort it. She can be guaranteed to get things done.

No matter how cool I am she is the first goto emotionally for my daughters. How does she ask for help when everyone assumes that she has got her shit together? Not long after I spoke to other Black women in my family and friendships circles about the same theme and very often the themes were repeated. If parents are ill they are the assumed to be the primary caregivers, emotional support for siblings, pillars of strength for men in the family or strong wives for men.

This constant expectation of being strong plays out in so many areas that way too often Black men, and indeed the wider culture often tend to ignore how damaging and dangerous it is.

Even if women worked just as hard there was an expectation that on top of everything else they would provide emotional support to everyone, cook and ensure the house ran like clockwork.

Breaking out of the habit as a male is a continuous journey. When you see so much of it around you. I see the same in the African communities. Sometimes even more so where the ideology of this patriarchal figure dominates. In our homes. Our faith groups. In sickness and in health The knock on effect on this is that at its core the healthcare of Black women too often is treated as secondary. Harrowing reports on the lack of treatment of Black women with mental health problems in comparison to say white women paint a horrid picture.

Things like depression, panic disorders and PTSD dismissed or not treated. Whatever biases played out here without a doubt much can be linked to the assumption around mental strength when in fact they just need help. The famous incident of Serena Williams, a high profile Black celebrity, having complications after childbirth amplified the point raised from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, that Black women in the United States are over three times more likely to die from pregnancy or childbirth-related causes.

Without a doubt, we can argue all day about the causes of obesity, high blood pressure and hypertension that affect Black women in this instance, but even so often the conscious and unconscious biases around pain treatment and recognition for Black women in the healthcare system remain.

Most recently, Kim Porter, the former partner of Sean Combs, passed away after complaining of chest pains. In our own experience, I remember the birth of our first child.

The last straw came when one doctor got the death stare from me when his inspection looked more like a violation than patient care. I said enough was enough and I was not prepared to see my wife go through this. I was tired and helpless watching my wife go through this and they were arguing about last resorts.

And even then the information that should have been given was lacking. How do I know? Because the whole process was explained in a far superior way when we had a planned caesarian for daughter number two.

If you are two members of staff in a workplace from a Black background, there is a very high chance that people are going to confuse you. My wife used to work for an IT reseller. She was one of two Black women on the sales floor. They looked different. In terms of height, shape and complexion. Would you know the difference between the two below? A total disregard of what makes them unique and something not replicated as a norm for white women, heck anyone else in the company.

It got to a head one day when my dear wife had to stand up in the middle of the floor and shout out. Her name is Lyris. We are two different women who just happen to Black.

Please get our name right. Needless to say, the conversations afterwards were an otherwise confident woman that is my wife would be second guessing whether members of staff got the point or just saw her as the angry Black women hurt my soul. And yet, as a small minority of the overall workforce, even in a densely populated city like London, the narratives for Black women are so often the same.

Having coached a number of emerging and senior Black women over the years these incidences are the tip of the iceberg. Often we are closeted in London because many of the stories in work that I hear happen outside of the metropolitan areas are even worse! Codeswitching, where our language and demeanour is different at work than it is with our personal group, is a cognitive load many Black professionals know they have to cope with as standard.

Yet we all know that when this happens for many people it is problematic. As a Black male, I realised the privilege I have in many of these spaces is unequivocal. I can boast about having worked hard so having no time for imposter syndrome, but I have seen how people defer to me in conversations. Even as I run my own business with my wife, who is the boss, it has happened time and time again where the authority is assumed to be wholly mine.

Even when I amplify that she is the boss and the ideas are hers, behaviour change in this space is a continuous tiresome load. I have come to learn that often when Black female friends I know just want a hug, or to meet for a coffee or have a call and just let off steam, this is not a time for me to offer advice. But to get a small peek into a world that whilst I can empathise with, have no idea how much those microaggressions and thousand cuts take their toll.

Strong Relationships Black women are told they have to work twice as hard to get half the reward. They aced school, college and university. Only to find when they do emerge that finding a dude or women who will let them be themselves, be vulnerable, laugh hard from the belly is tough and frustrating. Finding that balance of intellectual, emotional and spiritual congruity is tough. Especially if you are not part of an existing group at say a church, graduate group, workplace or anything else.

I could go into the racial biases inherent in most dating apps, but……. Neither have we learnt to develop a sense of empathy as to how we can co-partner, rather than try to rescue, Black women who are fed up of being strong. I am talking about when a woman is speaking her mind and actually wants to be listened to on an issue that might be jarring.

Asking better questions rather assuming. Whilst I am not one to use celebrities to make my point have done it twice already here a recent interview with Michelle Williams and Chad Johnson brought it home in their show Chad Loves Michelle.

In this episode, a counselling session brought up the issue of race. For me, I find it hard to fathom how anyone can be in an interracial relationship and not expect that the subject of race will not rear its head at some time.

Reducing her narrative to a barbed retort about whether she was having a mental episode was very damaging. I hope they get to resolve that kind of thinking before they marry. There is a real challenge in this space which means that navigating relationships when the expectation of Black women being strong is just as important as any other part of their lives.

Language and words are so important, but for the sanctity of many Black women, I think it is incumbent upon us as men to meet them halfway. I can only speak on hetero relationships here, but I am sure it applies to all To challenge assumptions to ask better questions and to assure that we can be there for them too. One of the best things for our relationship was counselling.

I also share this with my daughters. For me it is highly dangerous for Black women to think that they have to be constantly strong. It is dangerous spiritually, emotionally, intellectually and in our relationships to assume this. Of course I am sure this is a benchmark for all women of all shades but I can only speak on the experiences of Black women with whom I spend most of my time. Without apology. I believe as men, especially Black men, it is important to be attuned to this. To have open conversations with each other as youngers and elders.

How can we ensure both physically and mentally that we can be as supportive of them as they are of us. That rather be in this space where they are always in survival mode that across all areas of wellbeing, they can thrive.

To all the Black women in my life, thank you for patience and understanding, and I hope I can continue to do right by you. Sign in. Get started. Race Education Beliefs Gender Politics. David McQueen Follow. Served strong. Black Women Resilience Relationships Counselling. Writing without filter. TallBlackOneSugar Follow.

Black my wife up