Arnetha V. Bishop Memorial Scholarship

"Therapy is for rich white people." These are the words that were embossed in the core of my memory up until eight years ago, and I'm well into my 40s. More disheartening than that idea was the idea of how difficult it would be to find a therapist who looked like me. That idea, however, was anchored in the coldest, most disappointing truth. I wanted a Black male therapist who knew how to approach LGBTQ+ issues. After nine months of searching, I found a brown therapist. That's when I looked up the statistic: Only 5.1% of all therapists and counselors are Black. Of that 5.1%, only 1% is male. And only 2% of all psychiatrists are Black. I grew up in the South and was the target of much racial discrimination, so much so that I thought it was a way of life and that my need for spaces to be safe enough to work out my life's issues were far and few between. The thing about a need is just because it goes unmet doesn't mean that it disappears. Unhealthy habits surface and emotional regulation becomes a far cry. I know this because of both research and experience. I remember my first therapy session. I proudly committed, "I don't really trust this guy. So I'm not gonna show much outside of certainty. I'll play cool." Five minutes in, I was a sobbing mess. But I left that session affirmed, a little more connected, and with more uncomfortable questions than I knew what to do with. I quickly found out what people meant by "doing the work." The impact on my life after a few months was monumental. And while I realized the importance of mental health, being in therapy was not why I decided to work in mental health. It was Ava DuVernay's "When They See Us." I could only get through the first half of the first episode before hot tears heavy with anger clawed their way down my cheeks. It made me think about the plight of Black men and black individuals, and on my own accord, I started a podcast addressing those things. Then I came across and article about intergenerational trauma and the epigenetics associated with maladaptive behavior and how my great, great-great-grandmother's trauma still affects me. That's when it hit me that therapy isn't for rich white people. It was more easily accessible by rich white people. Who, then, is servicing my community? I gathered my anger, flipped it into active passion, and enrolled in an MS program for Clinical Mental Health Counseling to not only add to the solution but also create nuanced resources that administer specifically to the Black community. I have a strong background in the arts and entertainment so naturally, my ideas to make a positive impact all float around that area. As an example, barbershops and beauty shops. Black men and women find these spaces where they can talk about their issues, clown on one another, support one another, and sometimes get deep. How cool would it be to have a reality show where a licensed therapist traveled all around the country to different barbershops and beauty salons and talked mental health while uptown fades and sister locs are being done? The need is great for language and tools and while I cannot be *the* solution, I can most certainly be a part of the solution and hopefully inspire others to do the same.