“As a Black woman, I can never appear too passionate or too unhappy, because this quickly can and has been misconstrued as me being an ‘angry Black woman.’ As a minority and as a woman, we must always be aware of our stereotypes.”

— Dr. Amanda J. Calhoun, “Resident Column: Layers,” which originally appeared in Connecticut Psychiatrist, a publication of the Connecticut Psychiatric Society, Vol. 57, No. 2, Spring 2020. The full text is below.

I am a psychiatrist in training. I am also an activist in training. I will never have the luxury of “just focusing on the medicine.” If I did, it would be like looking the other way, ignoring a crucial layer of my life.

I grew up watching my parents advocate for my brother, who has severe autism, all the time. Mom and Dad, an inpatient clinical pharmacist and child/adolescent psychiatrist, were fortunate to even have the language to discuss the complexities of my brother’s medications. They provided pushback against psychiatrists who slumped be- hind their computers at my brother’s appointments, diving immediately into discussions about dosage increases, without look- ing up from their screens once. Mom placed calls of concern to the staff at his residential home, who failed to notice that my brother was dressed in old, ratty clothing, despite having newly bought apparel.

But on top of that layer, on top of the constant battle that only those with disabled family members can truly understand, there was another layer.

I remember a White couple, who lived down the street from my brother’s residential home, threatening to press legal charges against him. A group of boys were tampering with streetlights. The couple asserted that they “saw one who looked like my brother,” which is code for: one of the boys looked Black. I remember my mother, very calmly and shrewdly, saying “My son is extremely autistic. He doesn’t have any friends. I wish that was him whom you saw.” The couple was quiet after that. Now, as a psychiatry trainee, I am doing my best to model my parent’s poised, yet vigilant, activism, but some- times, I have trouble.

One day, I was interviewing one of my patients. He was a complex kid, in all realms of the biopsychosocial model. Extremely intelligent and self-motivated, but badly in need of an advocate. He was a ward of the state with a DCF worker who seemed overworked and exhausted. But, there was another layer.

“Another patient called me a nigger today. He kept chanting it,” he said softly, hanging his head in embarrassment. The pieces fell into place. I learned that staff were present, but watched the scenario happen with no intervention. No one said anything to the patient tormenting mine. No one came to my patient to ask if he was okay after being repeatedly called such a historically loaded, traumatizing word. My blood began to boil. “So basically, no one did ANYTHING?!” I questioned thunderously. I quickly lowered my voice and glanced at my attending. Another layer. As a Black woman, I can never appear too passionate or too unhappy, because this quickly can and has been misconstrued as me being an “angry Black woman.” As a minority and as a woman, we must always be aware of our stereotypes. “It’s okay,” insisted my patient, attempting to comfort me. “People chant nigger at my school too,” he whispered.

I felt powerless, just like my patient. My idea to hold a staff meeting was politely declined. I told my colleague, who had just arrived for their night shift, what happened. We went together to check in with my patient and to apologize for what he endured. I wrote some emails to leadership, hoping to change how racism is responded to in the future. But, it makes me wonder, what if I hadn’t been there? What if I hadn’t had the energy to advocate for him, as my parents have for my brother? And even more importantly, what is happening to Black boys out there and why aren’t we doing a better job of protecting them?