What We Carry: A Coming-of-Age Tale of Grief, Therapy, and Reckoning

by Christian M. Ivey

“What We Carry” is a powerful coming-of-age story that follows Drew, a young Black college student grappling with grief, anxiety, and the long shadow of racial trauma. 

Get yo ass up, Drew! My alarm rang, a nasty, raggedy rang, almost soundin’ like it was yellin’ at me. Get yo ass up, Drew! It yanked me from the darkness and peace I crave so much nowadays. I searched through the random shit that littered my bed for my phone, my hands goin’ deeper in the vortex between my sheet and cover. Get yo ass up, Drew! I found it, turned off the alarm, and forced myself out of bed. I grabbed my towels and dragged myself into the shared bathroom hallway.

I wanted to take a bath, but my house was only clean enough to take showers. My roommates aren’t necessarily nasty; they are white, and our cleaning differs enough that it feels like home but not the crib. When I was younger, I lived with Granny; that’s all I used to do. Granny believed showers use more water than takin’ baths did because it was runnin’ water. Somethin’ ‘bout it hits a meter every time the water goes down the drain. Old school logic. I missed her, though, ‘bout as bad as I missed takin’ baths.

The shower was okay, but a bath would have been better. I got out when I heard my alarm goin’ off again. Get yo ass up, Drew! I thought I turned it off, but I must’ve just hit snooze. Alarmed, silenced until tomorrow, dressed comfortably in a navy t-shirt, blue jeans, and black Converse. I couldn’t decide if I should smoke or not.

Weed has been my savior in coping with the weight of the world recently, but I could never find the right dosage to alleviate my anxiety and keep me focused. I found myself wantin’ to be high or higher, even when there was nothin’ happenin’. It scares me a bit ‘cause I don’t know when somethin’ is goin’ on with me or some early stage of addiction. I’m goin’ to therapy today; I should be good with a small hit. I had a hybrid, Bubblegum”something.  

I lightly packed my one”hitter, lit, and inhaled… the smoke sat in my lungs like water soakin’ in a sponge. It burned, but I was taught to hold it in for at least five seconds, or you’re just wastin’ it. I’m poor, so I can’t afford to waste, especially no good shit. One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi, four Mississippi, five Mississippi… I exhaled. The smoke floated out of me magically; for a brief moment, in between breaths, the exhaled smoke formed a Casper-like shape. A breath of fresh air came in quickly after, washin’ over my body in a deep, cool wave, and my Casper vanished just as soon as he came. After sprayin’ cologne on my wrist and rubbin’ it where my blood ran hot. I was out the door; I had therapy today and wanted to make it on time.

University Place was borin’ compared to the District. The sun was never bright enough, and the moon never got too close. The most excitin’ thing that happened Monday through Friday was rush hour traffic, but the lack of excitement developed into a sort of peace for me. I was always in a state of annoyance, and being content was something nice for once. Plus, on the weekends, I would escape into the District to drink and dance my immediate worries away, which was just enough to hold me off til the following weekend. I had goals out here to finish school. Since being broken, I feel like a character in the wrong show. 

I walked into the Counseling Center fifteen minutes late, but no one’s ever anything but fifteen minutes late nowadays. I waved to the receptionist, whom I could probably have a chance with if this wasn’t a Counseling Center. Drew, Drew, Drew, she waved at me in a way that made my feet move independently.

I pretended I couldn’t hear her but looked her way because I couldn’t resist. I actually couldn’t. When I got close enough to the desk, our eyes connected… I pulled out my earphones, smiled, and leaned on the counter. “Tiff, so sorry I’m late, I said with a smirk and calm eyes. Tiff was just my type: brown skin, hair dark as coal, soft hazel eyes that reminded me of a sunset, honesty, and a cutie with a bit of booty. Every time I saw her, it was like seein’ her for the first time. She wore this cute ass mango”orange dress with little cut-outs that were placed strategically to make me horny, these sandals that didn’t fluster my masculinity, and a fresh face that was beautiful at first. Still, upon lettin’ yo eyes linger…, it would become sexy before you could realize it. She’s such an enticin’ woman who exudes such a magic force, and she knows it, which made me want her even more.

“Don’t be sorry to me, Drew. She tilted her head and stared at me like she was my mama; her hair bounced in a way that tickled my heart. Be sorry to Dr. Wilkins for wasting her time.

“I will tell her I am when I get in her office. I looked into her soft eyes. I had been at least fifteen minutes late for almost all my sessions, and each time Tiff was here, she would give me a talkin‘ to. I wanted to be on time, but it never happened; the best I could match was five minutes late. It has gotten to the point where Dr. Wilkins started schedulin’ an hour and a half block instead of just one hour. It was never intentional, but…

“You better. Tiff smiled, and I smiled; her smile did that to me. I wanted to do things to her, not just fuck her but somethin‘ that would equate to fuckin’ her but not fuckin’ her. She made me care and want to know more about her, some sort of superpower that I thought I was too broken to feel. She knows you’re on CP time. You can head into the office; she’s ready when you are. She waved me off and went back to whatever she had to do.  

I could’ve stayed her whole shift just lookin’ at her. She was that fine; it’s so unfair she ain’t mine. It’s the minimum of what you deserve since all I’ve been through. I forced myself to leave her and do what I came here for. “Thanks, Tiff. I smiled, and she smiled back as I walked past the lousy paint, cheap Ikea office décor, and some other random people who, like I, couldn’t keep their crazy wrapped tight without talkin’ to someone. Granny would call me a fool for goin’ to therapy; she might not hate the idea since Dr. Wilkin was Black. 

I opened the door that was labeled Dr. Patricia E. Wilkins and sat down quickly in a leather chair that looked like it had been soaked in cow’s blood. Her office was dark enough to cause a chill to overcome me. The blinds were closed, but enough light crept through the openings for me to see her and her to see me. She sat at her decorated desk. On the left was a simple desktop computer, and to the right, photos of her white husband and their two lightskinned kids, maybe twins. I think a picture of her mother, possibly her siblings. I glimpsed into her life, but in some odd fashion, her Black roots and bein’ with that white man has made us kindred. 

Across from where I sat was the one and only Dr. Patricia Wilkins. Her face was welcomin’, and her legs were crossed. “Hello, Drew, she said directly. She was somebody’s auntie because she made me feel guilty without doin’ anythin’, but lookin’ at me and sayin’ my name is a skill developed by experience, not talent.

“Dr. Wilkins, I’m sorry I’m late,” I mumbled. I wasn’t sorry about that, but Granny raised me to hold back my honesty when it wasn’t polite.

“I know, Drew. I loved how she entertained me. Shall we start now?”

“Yeah,” I answered.

Dr. Wilson’s hair kept distractin’ me. It’s usually permed and down to her shoulders. Currently, it’s in a ponytail. Granny would say it ain’t professional, but I’m not her. 

“Looking back, we have made excellent progress in managing your stress and creating and sustaining stability in your life.” 

“I agree; I’ve been feeling better, specifically after meetin’ you. I left the dorms for a room near campus, a year lease. I feel like the increase in privacy and not being around white people all the time is helping.”

“Good.” She smiled just long enough for me to see that she was proud. I hate my room and the other seven people, three cats, and two dogs that live in the house, too. I thought I would share this, but I ain’t want to tarnish the only stable news I had to share with her. When somethin’ negative happens, I get embarrassed.

“It’s not ideal, but it’s not with my mom, and since Granny is gone… it is the best I got for now.” I can only try and do my best. 

“And that’s enough. You are enough.” 

“I know.” 

“It’s okay to remind yourself, especially during the stress you’ve been dealing with. Give yourself credit, Drew. Not many students can handle your course load and deal with things in the manner you have. And look, you’re almost finished, a Junior this year.”

“I know.” When said like that, I’m proud of what I’ve done and am doin’, but it don’t change how I feel. I’m not in control of that. 

“What did you do when you noticed you started feeling sad?” 

I smoked before I came here, but hate to be a disappointment. I wouldn’t say it’s sad. I thought it was, though, but it’s heavier. She looked at me, her brown eyes full of concern. I wondered if she thought she could save me. Is there any salvation for a man, though? 

“I’ve been smokin’.”

“Marijuana still?”

“Yes, and only when I’m out of the District with friends.” I lied; I smoke every morning, every afternoon, every night. It’s one of the only things that helps me feel lighter… 

I wanted to tweet a meme and add a caption about me lyin’ to my therapist while in therapy as proof that I need therapy, but then I thought the people who think I attempted suicide might not find that as funny. I’ve been tryin’ to care more about the people who care about me. 

“Have you found other outlets to help strengthen and support you when things aren’t ideal?”

“Readin’ has helped a lot. Well, it’s a book on tape. It has nothin’ to do with school, but it allows me to relax without havin’ to smoke. I let the story immerse me and take me far away from the weight.” 

“That all sounds good. Remember, Drew, you aren’t in this alone. Creating your stable environment and support systems doesn’t just mean you and your memories of Granny with some marijuana. We don’t know the effects marijuana has on your brain… Did you have something specific you’d like to talk about today?”

“I’ve been thinkin’ ‘bout the incident that happened when I switched high schools with Dre’Shaun and Chester lately. Facebook reminded me that it was Dre’Shaun’s birthday today.” 

“Okay, let’s begin.”

“I am here to make progress and get my life back on track. Part of that would be addressin’ issues that are branch issues of the larger ones.” 

“I agree. Again, you’re doing very well, Drew. Give yourself some credit. It’s been five months, and you’ve made fantastic progress.” I loved how she saw the best in me, but hated how she didn’t notice it wasn’t enough. I’m broken. 

 A few strands of her less-permed hair snuck out of her ponytail. I wanted to ask if she was going natural, but then decided it could be offensive. Also, I didn’t want to distract her from helpin’ me, so I chopped it up as she was havin’ an unruly hair day, but her hair wasn’t that bad. 

She uncrossed her legs, adjusted herself, and a silver necklace that seemed to defy her wishes. “You’re welcome.”

“I’ll start at the beginning. I remember Granny wakin’ me up too early. She called my name over and over and over until I succumbed and answered back. The house was too small for me to ignore her.”

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I crossed my legs. “I got up and went to take a bath. There wasn’t a workin’ shower head in the house we lived in. Granny didn’t believe in takin’ showers anyway.  Like every mornin’, I filled a pot with water and brought it to a boil on the stove. Poured dishwashin’ liquid into the tub, put the stopper in, and turned on the water, which only ran cold. When the water was high enough, I turned it off, poured the boilin’ water into the tub, and swished it around to even out the heat. If granny noticed no splashin’ or didn’t hear me moving around, she would always say, stop fallin’ asleep in that damn tub; you gon’ drown one day. 

“Clearly, you’re here now talking about it. Why did you think she would tell you this?”

 Her tone shifted as if she had found the secret to my madness. I hoped she did, or at least a bandaid.   

“She may have known someone or heard about someone drownin’ by fallin’ asleep in the tub. Granny had a million reasons for everythin’.”

She crossed her legs. “Why did you try to nap in the tub and not get ready quicker than to nap?

I uncrossed mine. “I” I” I did it to see what it was like to drown. I would close my eyes and submerge under the warm, soapy water. It would always start with emptiness… darkness, like when you go to sleep. Then, a light would trickle in from somewhere until it owned everythin’. I would have to breathe before discovering what happened when the light fully conquered.”

“What does the light mean to you?”

“Nothin’, really. It just happens when I’m submerged.”

“Do you want to experience it again?”

“I want to feel weightless again.” I thought, may as well address it now. “That’s how I even got here. I wasn’t tryin’ to kill myself. I guess I stayed under too long ‘cause it felt so good. And I just needed a break.”

Her eyes had lost their shine but were uniquely her own in an unusual way. They were warm, very family-like, or as if she had watched some kids before. Then I remembered she had her own, but I’ve never been convinced that she watches her kids. 

“Okay. I believe you when you say you didn’t try to commit suicide before, but what you did almost caused you to drown.” 

She adjusted her thick thighs in her gray pantssuit and white blouse. She was the kind of woman that the longer you looked at her, the more of her you would notice. I continued. 

“Yes, I realize that.” I felt like she didn’t believe me. But I ironed my clothes and ate her oatmeal; this is our routine. We’ve been doing this since I was a little, little boy. She asked me to tell her something I had learned at school, Monday through Friday, before I left to get on the bus. I would tell her about Shakespeare or some math equation I had recently discovered. I smiled, and Dr. Wilkins mimicked me. I feel as if she understands what bein’ raised by a Grandmother was like.

Your Granny looked out for you. I was still distracted by Dr. Wilkins’s odd appearance. She looked comfortable but not comfortable.

“Yeah, I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for her. Not, like, literally, but literally. And that day, she looked me in the eyes and said, you show can keep up with those hunkies; you gonna be a problem for them when you get older. They don’t like no smart Black folks. You better keep your head low and make it through to graduate. You show them you too smart, and they gonna hurt you. Or something like that. I mean, every white person ain’t racist, right?”

I knew she wouldn’t answer the question; I had noticed in my first session with her that she was married to a white man. I almost requested a new therapist, but thought not to hold that against her ‘cause, you know, love is love. But could she fix me, someone plagued by white people when she’s lettin’ a colonizer dick her down?

 Instead of answering, she annoyingly asked. 

“What are your thoughts on this?”

“I see white people and others bein’ racist towards Black people all the time. It used to be just when I experienced it, or like, when Granny would tell me some examples to go with her warnin’s. But now it’s every day, every other hour, it seems like at times. I get very anxious in a low-key way because I can’t escape it. “

“Why not just stop using social media?” 

“How?” My question was met with silence. Seein’ Black people hurt, die, or readin’ the article, mainly the titles, but who we were done wrong… consistently. And, like, I want to do somethin’ about it. I don’t know what that could be, but somethin’ at least for myself.

“What could you do?”

“I don’t know,” I said it so fast that it was too late to catch myself. It was so frustratin’, the topic and feelin’s and all. 

She instantly understood my taboo and said, “Drew, do you know what we said about it?”

“I know, I swear I know, but I have no idea what to do to make myself feel better. I can’t just stop usin’ somethin’ that has become a norm in society, and I don’t want to stop usin’ it. It’s crazy because I don’t feel like the issue is not knowin’; it’s just how I feel after knowin’. Most times, I don’t even feel like I have ownership of my body. Like, any interpretation of my blackness could lead to me or people like me dying. I can’t control death. I can’t do nothin’ but carry all of this.”

She surprised me with, “There it is, Drew, you can’t control it.”

My hard yet cool brown eyes felt weird. I couldn’t decide if I was about to cry or if my high was buzzin’. “I know it’s easier said than done, though.

She sat up firmly and leaned in towards me, even though we were too far apart for it to be a gesture of directness, but I knew what she was going for, so I accepted it as such. “Since the beginning of our sessions, we’ve concluded that you must protect yourself. Racism in America is like pollution in the air. We know the problem; there is no quick fix. You’re just absorbing it all the time, poisoning you. You must protect yourself. Racism is a real trauma that not many will care to know or understand, but it is valid. The way you feel is valid; you are valid, Drew. You’re brave for taking it on and trying your best to understand things in and out of your control. You must find a balance to protect yourself and your mask to dilute the pollution.

I met her halfway; I sat up and focused on her. I am still unsure if my high or emotions are winnin’ the inner battle, but I said. “But, like, in America, it seems that being white equates to being different from color. What’s whiteness when not in opposition to, to… I looked down at my arm, dark and slim. To this? How can I protect myself from how people will react to the blackness of my skin, to the nappiness of my hair, or, like, how I talk, speak, or even where I’m from?

I pushed the conversation to an honest point. She adjusted herself and sat back in her chair. “I am unsure. There are a multitude of complexities that go into understanding social constructs such as race in America. Since we can’t solve them all tomorrow, we must devise ways to function. To continue, you can do somethin’ about the things that cause you so much hurt. 

“One of the World’s greatest mysteries, I guess. Shit, we can’t even get white folks to stop saying nigga and change their mascots from Native Americans.

Dr. Wilkins laughed lightly, and I nodded in agreement. Since we cannot solve America’s race problem in an hour, would you like to proceed with the story?

I had forgotten all about the damn story. “Where I grew up, only some of the teachers were white and some cops, but, like, not really anyone else worth noticin’. Yeah! So, like, I never really thought about white people all too much until I transferred to an all-white school. It wasn’t an all-white school, but it felt like it was. The first day, the shock of so many white people threw me for a loop. Like, I ain’t never been around so many of them, like, all the time, just like on TV. I felt like most of my life had been a lie, and now I’m in the real America. Where nobody gives a fuck about Black people unless they makin’ money off them.

“Yes, please continue. 

“Real America is where people who ain’t white and/or rich are a livin’ commodity. There’s profit off of our control and our deaths. It annoyed me endlessly that I couldn’t trust anyone at this white school. I talked to no one unless a teacher spoke to me. I sat and ate lunch alone for a very long time until one day, I got invited to the Black kids’ table. It was nice to have a slight sense of comfort and community, and an overall lonely and antagonizing’ environment. 

“Let’s explore what made the environment antagonizing, specifically, about that day.

I lied. “I don’t know.

“What we say about, I don’t know, Drew.

“The white people.

“What about them specifically?

I looked away as if I was searchin’ my mind for the correct answer. I was tryin’ to push down my high; it had risen to my surface, and I felt it was on in my eyes. “Okay, like I told you before, I always felt smart when in classes with them… I felt average, which wasn’t the worst thing in the world since I had been tryin’ to escape being that smart one. I didn’t want to be smart, but I felt I had to, especially when I was the only black person in my classes or work… I always felt like a vast spotlight was on me, like being a smart, capable, honest, professional black person. I don’t think that person exists, and someone broken like me could never be that kind of person. 

She asked, and I couldn’t help but feel like she didn’t need to interrupt me. “How did it make you feel?

“To prove that me and other Black people ain’t how white people think, act, and portray us. I feel like white people always have their eye on me, waitin’ for me to be “black” as if it amazes them that I am not pickin’ cotton or shuckin’ and jivin’ out on the corner for a quarter or two.

“This is when you started to realize the oppressive environment and the pollution of America.

“I was in AP Biology, mostly bored with everything and everyone. This guy was named Chester. Walked past my desk and knocked my papers on the floor. This was something that happened a lot. I retaliated by finding a reason to walk past his desk and hit his stuff on the floor. This day, a group of others hyped him up and knocked things off each other’s desks. He had reached a point where it no longer mattered. It was just another part of Bio.

Chester Black was the definition of a triflin’, redneck, racist ass person. His face and nose were thin and pale, red in the creases. He had a few freckles, but not enough to highlight it. He was tall and skinny, but not lanky like me. His hair was of an orange color; he told everyone that it was Strawberry blond. She started to speak, but I continued. “In place of knocking my papers from my desk every chance he got, he also would launch mad racist shit at me. One day in English, I wrote a poem about being hard on the outside and soft on the inside, and after recitin’ it, he decided to start callin’ me Black Punk. Black Punk, Black Punk, Black Punk, you’re gonna write another poem for us less soulful white folks.

“That’s awful. Did you tell the teachers anything?

“No, ‘cause they were white, what were they goin’ to do?

“I see.”

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I continued. “Yeah, and the way he said Punk was like how in the old films where white people would be in blackface with red lips stuck and dancing ‘round lookin’ foolish for white folks’ entertainment. You know, what I’m talkin’ bout?

“Yes”. She answered warmly.

“That’s how he would say it, as if he was one of them. It irritated the shit out of me. Puss-say. I imitated the best I could.

“I can only imagine.

I said. –So, one day in AP Bio, he knocked my shit off my desk as he always did, and I was like, what the fuck is wrong with you? He followed up with you think I’m scared to fight you because you’re Black?

She shook her head. Oh wow.”

I got excited. My high was ridin’ every emotion. “I was over it completely! I struggled with whoopin’ his ass but couldn’t see myself fightin’ a white person in a white school. I would be expected to fight him; it wouldn’t be smart. Also, Granny would have killed me back then. So, I looked around, unsure why, when I knew the only other black person there was Dre’Shaun.

Dre’Shaun Jameson, I didn’t know him, but we knew of each other. I know of him from Ottawa, a small city in the ghettos of Maryland. We were both born and raised there and somehow ended up in this school and this class. Dre’Shaun carried himself in a way I never could, like, he was cool. He was like Shaft, but wasn’t ridiculous with his words or actions. His skin was darker than night, with lips to match, and he kept his hair in braids to the back. His clothes were always too baggy, and I was sure he gettin’ high and fuckin’ hoes since thirteen. That’s all I wanted to do in high school was, you know, have sex.

“Why Dre’Shaun?

I lied again. “I don’t know.  

She looked hurt by my words. –Drew?

I sighed and rolled my eyes tryin’ to contain my high; it felt good to do so. “I told him to get his hoe ass up out of my face before we have some problems. Go be in Dre’Shaun’s ear or somethin’!  Dre’Shaun, who was sleepin’ now, woke up and mugged the hell out of me, then laid his big head back down. Chester said, why, when I can be in your face, Black Punk.

“Wow. Couldn’t tell if she was just continuin’ on or shocked.

I nodded. –Yeah, I lost it after that. I jumped up, yellin’, I told yo hoe ass to run up out my face, but you keep tryin’ me with yo racist shit. Chester walked up to me and pushed me. My blood was replaced with fire, and I launched after him. I could only get three hits in, and he scratched my left eye as the teacher pulled me away. As I got dragged out of the classroom, I caught Dre’Shaun in my non-scratched eye. He smiled and nodded.

Once in the Principal’s office, I complained and argued racism to a white woman, against the Zero Tolerance Policy. It wasn’t until I started talkin’ bout social media and goin’ to the news that my expulsion turned into a one-day suspension. Chester got suspended for two days.

“How does it make you feel you had to be in that situation?

I sighed deeply. I was mad as shit ‘cause Granny was gonna get in my ass for actin’ a fool, and she did. I also thought I shouldn’t have to have this shit in my life. I was madly disappointed that I tried to play out Dre’Shaun, who ain’t deserve that! Like, I was bein’ like white people assumin’ things, negative things, about Black people and directin’ racism and violence his way. I didn’t deserve to deal with Chester, but I thought Dre’Shaun did. For what, though? ‘Cause he black, too? ‘Cause he can fight?

She made sure her warm eyes met my cool ones. It’s not stupid, Drew. This is your reality. This is your life, and it’s hard and not always amazing, but it’s yours. You’re owning up to your past, challenging your insecurities and demons head-on, and being brave; there is nothing wrong with that. You are working to heal yourself, accepting your faults but not letting them be your limit. 

I decided to come to her because she listens. It’s been a minute since Granny, and nobody listened to me. Plus, there was no judgment. We’ve almost reached our full hour, Drew. 

“I talked that much, huh? We both chuckled a good chuckle, too.

“No, it’s good. Today was perfect; you got some stuff off your chest. You also realized something important that day and said it aloud today! You explained why it was wrong, how that made you feel, and how it went against your present. You’re a better person. 

“I guess so…

I left Dr. Wilkin’s office moody but feelin’ lighter and better. I thought I could tolerate my mom for a few hours just to take a bath, so some good came out of it.

I opened my Facebook app and looked through the birthdays. I went to Dre’Shaun Jameson’s page. I clicked the message icon. I typed:

Dre,

Happy Birthday man. Hope it’s a lit one.

I just thought about that shit from senior with Chester and my bad about that man. I don’t know what I was on. 

 As soon as I walked around the corner passin’ a fake plant in a lovely vase, but there was no way anyone thought it could be genuine, my eyes connected with the back of Tiff’s head. Her hair was big, had tight curls, and seemed more like protection for her peanut-shaped head. She looked productive at the receptionist’s desk with two of her coworkers. My mood adjusted.

Hey, how was everything? She asked just as I was ‘bout to pretend not to see her. Her soft eyes sparkled like diamonds. I always wanted those eyes on me, and I couldn’t help but smile when they were.

The funny thing is she reminded me of my Granny. Secretly southern, they moved up north to a busy city to feed the hunger in her heart. “It was Amazin’. I swear, Dr. Wilkins might be God herself. I know how much Tiff idolized Dr. Wilkins, so I play up my admiration for her when around her. I don’t think she noticed at all; I think she thinks I love the lady. I mean, it’s not that I don’t… 

“She might be. She laughed in the cutest way possible, and I couldn’t decide if it was because she knew the song where Gucci Mane says, Bitch, I might be… or she was playin’ into my fake but real admiration for Dr. Wilkins. I decided on both, which means 50% of this conversation is active flirtin’, and I may need to make a move.

I mumbled. “Hey, Tiff…

“Yeah?

“Would you like to go for drinks at a Happy Hour or to dinner or something? She smiled, and I smiled, as we always do.

“Sure, only because you’re so smart.

My phone buzzed. I looked at the lock screen. It was a notification from Dre’Shaun:

I ain’t even gonna hold you. I don’t even remember what happened, lol, but good lookin’.