Reflection

Participating in the roundtable “Psychoanalyzing the Apocalypse” in the time of Covid was an intellectually intriguing endeavor. We began by ruminating on a world devastated by illness and death. Having to grieve not only people but homes, jobs, school, friends, the world as we knew it. Could we go back to how it was or is this the new normal? I wanted to hold out hope that the virus would abate and that there would be a light at the end of the tunnel.

We were encouraged by prompts Daniel supplied. We answered as best we could, as our daily responsibilities allowed. The round table broke down for me when I responded to a post that made assumptions about who is ‘us’ analysts who help and ‘them’ who need our help. That ‘we’ should get out of our offices, take our work into the “community” – to people of color who may not be able to afford our fees – and to open our offices to people who look different from ourselves. I asked where I, a black analyst, fit in that equation.

And then there was silence. About a week later the panelist responsible for the post offered an apology. Then more silence. By the time I was able to post again, the silence had taken a firm hold. I acknowledged the panelist’s post and moved on to talk about something that had little to do with race. The silence, the unacknowledged comment that dared to bring race into the space, served the purpose of keeping me in my place, so to speak. I do not think that anyone sees issues through one lens. I see the world through the lens of being Black. Being a woman. Being a Black woman. A queer Black woman. The list goes on, as it does for everyone. As a black psychoanalyst, my training and practice cannot be separated. I felt let down and disappointed.

By May, I was furious, as I wrote my last two posts. The pandemic-Covid-19 – the apocalypse – had not abated. The number dead from the virus, the toll it has taken on communities of color, health care workers, low income workers. Businesses closed for good. New Yo