It is rare that others see beyond the “-ism vortex” and first recognize my talents. As a person living at the intersection of three marginalized identities, I often wonder where I fall in the political agenda of big decision makers.

—Crystal Emery, filmmaker and writer

FIVE

The Many Layers of Black Fatigue

I remember my uncle Don from when I was growing up. He was my mother’s youngest brother (she had two brothers and a sister, Frances, after whom I am named), who had been adopted by the family. “Wayward” was the nice word that was used by other family members to describe him. He ran away from home when he was 16 and had numerous “careers,” including that of an evangelical minister for a time. Uncle Don was a drifter, an alcoholic, who would frequently show up on our doorstep, unannounced, always in the middle of the night. Most times he was drunk, incoherent, and destitute. He would stay for a week or maybe even months and then leave as abruptly as he had appeared, and nobody knew where he went or when he would return.

My mother (and, by extension, my father, albeit reluctantly) was the only one in the family who unconditionally supported and defended Uncle Don. Uncle Don always knew that he could find refuge at our house. I was too young initially to understand Uncle Don’s story. It was not until I was a teenager that my mother shared with me that Uncle Don was gay. It was never clear to me whether he really ran away from home as a teenager (that was always the story) or whether he was put out because of his sexual orientation. I remember overhearing my other uncles, with whom he had lived growing up, call him all kinds of vile names and pretty much disown him.

I think Uncle Don was in his late 40s when he and Tony started their relationship. Tony was a master chef. I loved going to Toronto, Ontario to visit Uncle Don and Tony because we would be treated to the most amazing gourmet meals. He made the best Caesar salad from scratch. Tony took care of Uncle Don, who, until his death at about age 60, had a drinking problem that resulted in some pretty bizarre behaviors that I will not share here.

I share Uncle Don’s story because he was a Black, gay man. His sexual orientation added another stigmatized identity. A stigmatized identity is defined as an identity that is socially devalued with negative stereotypes and beliefs attached to it. Being gay in the late 1950s and 1960s was clearly a shunned identity, and Uncle Don did not really come out until he met Tony. As a matter of fact, I remember him having a girlfriend named Monica for a time. I cannot imagine the emotional turmoil that Uncle Don endured in trying to be who he was in a world where he was rejected—a world that categorized gays as aberrant and homosexuality as something someone needed to be cured of. My aunt Frances was more accepting, like my mother, but she lived with her brothers in an extended-family situation and Uncle Don could not go home. He was not able to navigate his two stigmatized identities very well and died carrying the pain of his family’s and society’s rejection.

There has long been a belief that Black people, by and large, are antigay. Antigay sentiments in the Black community, as in any community, come from various sources—religion, conceptions of respectability, and heteronormative beliefs. However, since Uncle Don’s generation, attitudes have shifted significantly. According to a 2019 Pew Research study, 62 percent of whites support same-sex marriage, as do 58 percent of Hispanics and 51 percent of Blacks.¹ Almost 70 percent of Black people oppose policies that would allow businesses to refuse services to LGBTQ individuals.² The message today from Black leaders is that Black people are no more homophobic than any other group. While this is somewhat reassuring, the fact that a higher percentage of Blacks than whites disapprove of gay marriage means that Black LGBTQ individuals are still more likely to carry the stress of an intragroup stigmatized identity, which can be even more stressful when those close to you do not accept you.

Even though homosexuality is not as stigmatized as it was 50 years ago, according to a 2019 Yale University School of Public Health study, 83 percent of the world’s LGBTQ population is still closeted.³ According to the authors of the study, “Concealment takes its toll through the stress of hiding and also because it can keep sexual minorities away from each other and from adequate public health attention. But in many places around the world, concealment and its stressors are safer than the alternative.”

Forty-six percent of the LGBTQ community in the United States remains closeted in the workplace, compared with 50 percent in 2008.⁴ They carry the daily stress of accidentally saying something that would reveal their sexual orientation or gender identity. Trying to manage all of this can lead to lower productivity and performance and ultimately job loss. The Supreme Court only ruled in June 2020 that the LGBTQ community is covered under the Civil Rights Act of 1964, which makes employment discrimination illegal.⁵ Before that ruling, only 21 states and the District of Columbia had such legislation.

My friend and colleague Judith Katz,⁶ a thought leader in diversity, developed a list of heterosexual privileges. I have adapted a few here to point out what causes fatigue for those who identify as other than heterosexual.

• I can hold hands, touch, and dance with the person I love in public without fear of others’ reactions.
• I can share openly with colleagues, friends, and family the news of falling in love, anniversaries, details of vacations, or what I did last weekend.
• I can talk about the person I love without fear of losing my job.
• I can keep pictures of the person I love on my desk without fear of reprisal, harassment, or being accused of flaunting my sexuality.
• If I am considered for a work transfer, the company will often support me in finding employment for my significant other.
• I will not be discriminated against in finding a place to live.
• I do not have to be subjected to jokes and slurs and outright hatred on a daily basis because of my sexual orientation.
• I do not fear being turned away from my house of worship because of whom I love.
• I do not have to live my life in secret, lie to people I love, or fear being rejected and condemned by my parents or family.
• I do not have to fear that I will be attacked or beaten because of whom I love.

I italicized the word “fear” to highlight it as the recurring emotion. In chapter 4, I shared the relationship of fear to health outcomes. Fear is often compounded when you live with more than one stigmatized identity.

Race, Sexual Orientation or Gender Identity, Religion, and Citizenship

Race and sexual orientation are just two permutations of intersectionality, a term coined by Kimberlé Crenshaw,⁷ professor at both Columbia Law School and the University of California, Los Angeles, originally to address the perpetual exclusion of Black women in feminist, antiracist discourse. The definition now takes on a broader meaning. Intersectionality recognizes that group identities, such as race, gender, sexuality, class, religion, ability, citizenship or immigration status, age, and so on, overlap and intersect in dynamic ways that shape and continually reshape an individual’s experience. There are multiple forms of privilege and oppression based on the various combinations. My uncle Don is an example of just one such combination that serves to compound Black fatigue.

During one of The Winters Group’s Engaging in Bold, Inclusive Conversations trainings, one of the participants shared that he is gay, a Muslim, and from the Middle East. He said, “This is three strikes against me. When I wait for the train at the metro, I don’t stand near the edge in fear that someone might push me into an oncoming train.” His fear stemmed from an incident reported on the news in which a person was arrested for attempting to do just that as she shouted, “I hate all Muslims and want to kill them.”

Let us consider the experience of seeking medical care as someone who is Black, poor, and identifies as nonbinary. “Nonbinary,” also referred to as genderqueer, is a spectrum of gender identities that are not exclusively masculine or feminine—identities that are outside the gender binary of male-female. Chapter 4 chronicles the health disparities that exist for people who are visibly Black. Now compound this with gender identities that are not even understood by many in the medical profession. For example, intake forms and medical records might not allow gender options other than male or female, which leads to misgendering nonbinary patients. Such patients then must educate medical staff, which can be a fatiguing, stressful experience. Research shows that at least 25 percent of those who identify as nonbinary avoid seeking treatment because they fear discrimination based on gender identity.⁸ Now add the fear of discrimination based on race and this exponentially increases the stress that can lead to trauma and inequitable life experiences and outcomes.

In November 2019, the Human Rights Campaign issued a report entitled A National Epidemic: Fatal Anti-transgender Violence in the United States in 2019. The annual report revealed that between January and November 2019, at least 22 transgender and gender-nonconforming people were killed in the United States, and all but one were Black. Also, since January 2013, the Human Rights Campaign has documented more than 150 transgender and gender-nonconforming people who were victims of fatal violence; at least 127 (84 percent) were people of color. “Transgender women of color are living in crisis, especially Black transgender women. The toxic intersection of racism, sexism, transphobia and easy access to guns conspire to deny so many members of the transgender and gender non-conforming community access to housing, employment and other necessities to survive and thrive.”⁹

Race, Sex, Parental Status, and Income

Imagine that a single Black mother with three children, classified as low income, is looking for a place to live. Her race, gender, income, and single motherhood are all stigmatized identities that layer to create multiple opportunities for fatigue from trying to navigate unjust systems. Chapter 3 points out that redlining is still an issue for Black people, limiting the choices of where we can live. And low-income people pay at least 50 percent of their salaries in housing costs, compared with 33 percent for those not living in poverty.¹⁰ Compounding that, poor Black women are evicted at higher rates than poor men. “Black men are locked up and Black women are locked out” is how a study by the MacArthur Foundation put it. It analyzed evictions in Milwaukee, where Black women were 9.6 percent of the population and 30 percent of the evictions. Low wages and children were two contributing factors. The researchers also found that men were more likely to confront landlords and dare them to go through eviction proceedings, while women avoided the landlord, explaining that the eviction notice terrified them. The researchers called out the gender dynamic at play. Men often agree to perform other services such as maintenance around the building in lieu of rent. Women tend to just try to avoid the landlord.¹¹ Women with young children who are already working low-wage jobs do not have the time or energy to perform other services, and too often the other service that the landlord demands is “sex for rent.” Eviction sets off a series of other consequences that increase stress and fatigue. Evictees often lose their possessions. If they can keep their possessions, they may incur storage fees. The children may have to change schools. Legal evictions include a court record, which can affect a family’s ability to find acceptable alternate housing. An eviction can also lead to job loss because of the time away from work to address the situation. Studies also show that eviction can affect a mother’s mental health, with higher rates of depression reported as long as two years after the move. The above mentioned MacArthur Foundation Study asserts “Eviction is not just a condition of poverty; it is a cause of it.”¹² In addition to Milwaukee, other areas that have disproportionate eviction rates include Richmond; North Charleston, South Carolina; Hampton, Virginia; Newport News, Virginia; and Jackson, Mississippi.¹³

Not only do poor Black mothers have difficulties with housing, studies show that they struggle more to find affordable childcare than white people. Federal programs such as the Child Care and Development Block Grant and Head Start, targeted toward low-income families with young children, only fund about 15 percent of eligible families, and the subsidy amount is too low to support the cost of high-quality childcare.¹⁴ Faced with the prospect of continuing to work for low wages and not being able to afford childcare and adequate housing, quitting your job and applying for public assistance may be your last resort. If you make this choice, yet another stigma will be added to your identity—welfare mother or welfare “queen,” which carries stereotypes of being lazy and unmotivated. While we thought that this characterization had subsided from when it was popularly spouted during the Reagan era, President Donald Trump signed an executive order in 2018 requiring recipients of federal aid in housing, food, and health care to be employed to receive aid. The order is interpreted by social justice advocates as an attempt by the administration to purge the assistance rolls by forcing out people they believe are taking advantage of the system.¹⁵ The requirements ignore important systemic barriers to employment, such as housing, transportation, childcare, and other medical and social barriers.

If you can empathize, perhaps you can feel the stress and even trauma associated with navigating systems that intentionally or unintentionally discriminate against every one of your salient identities. It is fatiguing.

Race, Sex, and Disability

Crystal Emery is a filmmaker and writer. She identifies as an African American female with a disability—she is a wheelchair-riding quadriplegic. She writes in a 2016 Time online piece,¹⁶ “I exist as a triple threat to our society’s normative conceptions (white, male, able-bodied).” She says that she never knows what people see first: her disability, her Blackness, or her gender. “It is rare that others see beyond the ‘-ism vortex’ and first recognize my talents.” She goes on to say, “As a person living at the intersection of three marginalized identities, I often wonder where I fall in the political agenda of big decision makers.”

Emery’s creative work is routinely challenged with questions like, “Did someone make the film for you?” or “Did someone else write this article?” The stereotype that many people have of someone who looks like her is that she has limited capabilities. She says she is left wondering, Do they question my talent because I am Black? A woman? Or someone in a wheelchair? I can’t imagine how fatiguing it is for her to have to contend with such questions.

SUMMARY

Living with layers of marginalized identities can exponentially increase Black fatigue, creating one insurmountable obstacle after another. These experiences often lead to internalized oppression, described in chapter 2, which leads to the physiological and psychological ills described in chapter 4.

We must be more aware and acknowledge the layers of identities that compound fatigue. Black people need to be self-aware of the intersections and address each identity separately as well as in combination. This can be difficult, triggering, and, yes, fatiguing. Seeking support for stress and trauma from professionals who are equipped to address the layers of identities may be helpful. If professional help is not accessible, talking with trusted friends who may share the same identities or seeking out healing circles or other support groups, as described in chapter 4, may be useful.

We must stop the one-identity approach of addressing racism. We all have multiple identities, and Black people almost always have more than one marginalized identity—Black and female; Black and gay; Black and poor. And as described in this chapter, we might be navigating more than two marginalized identities. There are many different combinations of intersections that can potentially increase Black fatigue.

The next three chapters explore Black fatigue for those who identify as Black women, Black men, and Black children. I thought it important to talk about intersectionality first and then share how fatigue plays out at the intersection of the two most visible identities—race and gender for Black men and Black women—and lastly how it manifests in Black children.