In December I broke up with my therapist. A white man.
Jewish. Gay. Raised in the Bronx. The Bronx Bronx—not
Riverdale. Several perspectives from which to conceive
of oppression, nevertheless, not a clue what Black mental
health might look like. To most of his questions, I
answered neither, or both. Still, it was difficult to move
on.
I have always been running. Running and asking. Asking
by running. The world calls this in a woman: fickle. I call
it terrifying and have only resisted burning down every
means of escape because I know what happens to a Black
woman without a place to—: no, because I know—
