2nd Glimpse: It's Not White, It's Human!

Ps: If you’d like, please listen to the audio below as you read. It's beautiful!

Dear Gentle Readers,

“Being sick is your body’s way of telling you that you’re way too awesome and you need to slow down so everybody else can catch up.” At least, that’s what I told myself every day for the past five days as I fought illness. It’s for you, too, if you’re not feeling well:-) It’s awesome to be alive and here again to share yet another glimpse of my musings with you all :-)

I hope you have been filling your lives with a healthy dose of questioning. There’s no such thing as overdosing, though. If you missed my first glimpse, please read the first few sentences of my previous post and then some to get your first dose of questioning. It’s never too late!  

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Lately, I have been reflecting on my high school life. I was amazed by how much growth I  experienced in those six years. I went to Lycee Notre Dame de Citeaux in Kigali for my first three years of high school and later went to College Marie Reine de la Paix in Rwamagana, where I graduated. I spent most of these years worried about getting the correct answers to test questions, and I rarely paused to see how far I had come. Now, I know that I’m still young and that there is more I have yet to see, but isn’t that what makes life exciting? You never know what tomorrow brings!  

So, back in high school, I was different or quirky, a sophisticated way to put it. There are things that I loved and found beautiful that most of my classmates labeled as “white.” I liked the smell of the rain and sat on the windowsill for the wind to better slap my face. I loved the feeling of the first light droplets of rain as they sent shivers down my spine when I danced in the rain. But this was labeled “white.” I loved the warmth that filled my heart when I sat for hours drinking in the beauty of the full moon, but that was white, too! I loved lying in the grass and gazing into the deep blue eyes of the sky as I took in its vastness. But I couldn’t do this and get away without eyes watching and classmates teasing me that I acted white. I didn’t mind; I learned not to mind the hard way.

While this was harmless for me and other kids, some things to which this label was attached were. Showing excitement by jumping up and down or other “crazy” ways, crying, being vulnerable, fighting for what you believe in, and more were seen as white. Depression, too, was and still is one of them. Growing up, I was taught that telling people my problems was a big weakness and that I should leave it all in. When I went to school, I was tired of keeping it together, so occasionally, I talked about it with some people or even raised conversations on topics such as happiness and mental health. So many people told me that being depressed was for the rich and for white people. 

At first, I thought that it was just my classmates, my family, or kids being kids. However, even after graduating and moving out, I found the same beliefs in my neighbors and other people I met in different circles. For so many people, depression was for grown-ups, and not just any grown-ups. Rich, white grown-ups!

But guess what? Losing a loved one, going into an accident, or losing yourself is not white, or yellow, or black, for that matter. It’s human. Being hurt is human, so why should you not feel the pain? Why should you not be depressed? Why should you not express it? Why should you not seek help? Going to therapy is not white! While mental health awareness is not famous in Africa and our country, Rwanda, it doesn’t mean that we don’t have the scars and the pain. In fact, we have so many of them. We just need to stop being dismissive and bottling it up.

I have also realized that by calling depression white and putting other labels on mental health, society tends to run away from issues that need to be dealt with. Sometimes, it is a way of shifting the responsibility for things that need to be done to others. Sometimes, it is denial or delusion. Convincing oneself that a problem is not there over and over again and hoping that it will somehow go away. 

As kids, we grow up being taught this like other things until it becomes our new normal. We are told to stop crying every time we fall or smile, even when we’re unhappy; over time, this becomes routine. A few years later, when we fall down or get hurt, we don’t dare cry, first because we’re afraid that our parents will hear us, and later because it just happens. It becomes wired in us, and we don’t think about it.

As we grow older, we forget the topics of pain, mental and physical, and we rarely explore those conversations at home or school. We are groomed to forget or ignore that such feelings exist. Some of us are lucky to find a way back to vulnerability and authenticity, but even then, our views are twisted. For those who are not lucky at all, sometimes we even struggle with depression, but we don’t know it. We keep telling ourselves to keep our lives together and look strong, to fake it until we make it. But what matters most: how we look or how we feel?

Today, more than ever, we need to reflect on our stereotypes about depression and mental health and unlearn some of the biases we consciously or unconsciously acquired. Being sad is not white, and talking about our sadness certainly isn’t. I invite you all to be the change you want to see among your friends, in your families, and in your communities. Let’s discuss mental health without any stigma but as a topic from which we have much to learn. Then, maybe then, we will finally understand that being human is not white and stargazing is for everyone, no matter the color of their skin!

Yours truly,

inicole