The Color of Madness: The Far-Reaching Impact of Racial Oppression on the Black Female Psyche

By Krystal Black

The Color of Madness is the true story of my eldest sister, Ciska, second of nine offspring. Some may recognize themselves or a loved one or an acquaintance in this individual, who watches the horizon of her hopes recede as she grows older and becomes more aware of her world. After winning a much-coveted scholarship at the age of eleven, Ciskas future promises to be as bright as the firework hurled over the fence into the backyard by neighbors eager to congratulate her and the family. However, like a shooting star, she very briefly lights up the world around her with her brilliance before disintegrating into oblivion. Indeed, her inability to adapt to absurd racial biases will plunge her loved ones into daily havoc and challenge her sanity. Consequently, Ciska repudiates a world that rejects her and seeks refuge among the insane in an attempt to preserve her sanity.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Oct 21, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524645670

Krystal Black

Krystal Black is a bilingual poetry-writer born in a francophone British colony. She spent the first nineteen years of her life on that multiethnic island-country often heralded for its racial harmony. She then migrated to Germany, where she worked in telecommunications before meeting and following her husband to the US. There, she pursued a degree in Education. As a graduate student, she taught college French on teaching assistantships before embarking on a twenty-six-year career as a public school teacher. The story of Ciska, a young woman suffering from schizophrenia, is not unique but had to be told nonetheless. And who could tell it better than someone whose life experiences closely parallel those of the main character without leading to the same fate. Indeed, as a younger sister, the author of The Color of Madness has firsthand knowledge of the tragic life story of her sibling. Krystal Black loses no time in pointing the finger at the real culprit in Ciska’s story—racism. Not sexism, not classism, not ageism, not cultism. Indeed, most, if not all, of Ciska’s life experiences that humiliate, negate, and repudiate involve her racial identity from early childhood to young adulthood with special emphasis on adolescence.

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The

Color

of Madness

The Far-Reaching Impact of Racial Oppression on the Black Female Psyche

KRYSTAL BLACK

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AuthorHouse™

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© 2016 Krystal Black. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 10/19/2016

ISBN: 978-1-5246-4568-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5246-4566-3 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5246-4567-0 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2016917323

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and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

Foreword

Dedication

Acknowledgments

Chapter I Childhood Years

Chapter II Pre and Early Teen-Years

Chapter III The Shooting Star

Chapter IV Superimposed Pathologies

Chapter V Downward Spiral

Chapter VI Cracking the Mold

Chapter VII Remission

Chapter VIII Turbulent Years

Chapter IX Shadow-Boxing

Chapter X The Mantra

Chapter XI Obsession

Chapter XII Life-Buoy

Chapter XIII Staying Connected

Chapter XIV Relapse

Chapter XV Eye of the Cyclone

Chapter XVI The Last Straw

Chapter XVII Self-Preservation

Chapter XVIII Messiah

Chapter XIX Too Lucid to be Insane

Chapter XX Epilogue

Retreat from Madness

FOREWORD

‘T he Color of Madness’ is the true story of an exceptionally bright girl born in the 1950’s to a Creole family of eleven. An ominous frown that splits the baby’s forehead seems to predict a future split of personality.

The names of all characters have been altered for the protection of their identity and privacy.

DEDICATION

T his work is first and foremost an attempt to pay homage to my eldest sister’s genius, pride, courage and Calvary.

To my father, the trailblazer, who would not allow roadblocks to prevent him from advancing towards his goals.

To my mother and all mothers whose love fails to grasp the global magnitude of their Black daughters’ plight.

To the late psychiatrist Dr. Welsing for her professional validation of my contention through her statement: Within the history of every Black mental patient would be aspects and dimensions of racism.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I am forever grateful towards my father for bequeathing to me his love of books.

My gratitude goes also to son Russell, daughter Makéda, their father Walter and our grandson Jordon for believing in my ability to write about this story.

Thank you Dr. Onyegam and Dr. Egar for your invaluable suggestions and advice.

Finally, thank you friends, relatives, in-laws and acquaintances for your encouragement.

CHAPTER I

Childhood Years

The Omen

F rançoise Hardy, Françoise Sagan, Françoise Dorléac. What do these three women have in common? I mean, besides the obvious: sharing a seemingly popular first name.

They are house-hold names in France and across much of the francophone world. But more importantly, as it pertains to this narrative, they were role-models to my eldest sister who, when she was a teenager, kept newspaper and magazine clippings of those celebrities in a giant white notebook. Especially of Françoise Hardy who had a hit pop-song in 1964 and became an overnight teen sensation at 17. My sister, a melomaniac, never tired of singing Françoise Hardy’s melancholic love songs. Françoise Sagan wrote her first best-selling novel at the age of 19 and Françoise Dorléac was a budding actress whose career was curtailed by a fatal car crash. What my eldest sister admired most about her three idols, besides their talent, was the symbolic meaning of their first name and the personality traits it’s rumored to connote: pride and free spirit.

My eldest sister, whose first name also connotes pride and a free spirit, had some idea that she was named after my father. However I doubt if she realized, as I did much later, that she was possibly perpertuating a tradition that required the eldest daughter to be named after the father. I had noticed that naming pattern among several relatives and had concluded that it must be one of those African traditions that had miraculously survived the enslavement of African peoples by Europeans and remained imprinted in the subconscious. Indeed I know of three female relatives, two of them my seniors by more than a decade who, as first daughters, have been named after their fathers.

My eldest sister took great pride in her first name, to the extent that it gave her a special status within the family unit and something in common with those three celebrities. She never missed an opportunity to gloat about it, going as far as hinting at a possible personal renown in the future, like her three idols.

My eldest sister, Ciska, entered this world with a split forehead, a forehead split in two by a frown, a frown that shortened her eyebrows, even while she slept. My mother pointed to that frown often, every time the family browsed over the few faded family photos. In her opinion that frown was an omen.

In those good old days of no radio and no television in the average household, family gatherings were a frequent occurrence on lazy rainy Sunday afternoons, at our home anyway. The gatherings usually consisted of my mother surrounded by the steadily growing number of my siblings, and me. We never reached the soccer-team number of eleven, as planned by my father, but came pretty close. Indeed, after two miscarriages, the symbolic figure nine was reached and my mother announced her retirement from childbearing.

A couple of us hovered over my mother’s shoulders. The younger ones were perched on the arms of her bamboo armchair or sat at her feet. We passed the photos around, marveling at pictures of elders we never knew and at those of younger versions of my mother and father. Whom was mom trying to fool? No way those slim, trim, smiling youngsters and our parents were the same people. They may bear some resemblance to our parents, but that’s about it. The younger siblings, especially, were in total disbelief. They remained unconvinced that their parents had a first life.

We did not own a photo-album in those days, a luxury. Such items were not even to be found in most shops. Why it never occurred to any one of us to explore our innate creativity and to attempt to invent our own crude homemade album, I’ll never understand. A photo-album has to be bought, not made, to have any value. This must be a third-world thing: Consuming as opposed to producing.

Anything imported was generally held in higher regards than anything local. While it was true that many imported items such as dairy products and leather goods were in fact of better quality than their local counterparts, this predilection for anything imported had been extended to include such items as canned meat, canned fruits and canned milk. Hosts would proudly serve their honored guests tea, with condensed, as opposed to fresh, milk. In those days, local dairy farmers would make daily home-deliveries of their unpasteurized milk which had to be boiled by the consumers. As the milkman would measure and pour the milk in my mother’s bowl, the aroma of fresh raw cow’s milk was strong enough to attract all the stray cats in the neighborhood. When boiled, the milk would yield a thick, rich, velvety cream that rose to the top and attested to the freshness of the product. In that same spirit of reverence for anything imported, canned peaches would make their way to the dining table on special occasions only, which, in retrospect, was not a bad thing. For Christmas and on New Year’s, the odorless slices of canned peaches (which, by the way, were less affordable than fresh fruits) soaked in their syrup alongside fragrant and succulent fresh mangoes, lychees and pineapples.

Other displays of such third-world mindset never ceased to amaze me later on in life. For example, while visiting the family after seven years of living abroad, I once watched my sister as she swept the floors. Instead of collecting the trash on a piece of cardboard (in the absence of an official made-in-China dustpan) and throwing it in the trash-can, she pushed it outside in the yard, then proceeded to sweep the yard later, thus creating double work for herself!

Then there was the clothe-line issue! My Afro-American mother-in-law first brought it to my attention one day while I was hanging some clothes on her clothe-line. The way I operated was archaic, and I fully agreed. Why, before securing it with pins, fold the laundered item in half over the line, the way it was done during the pre-clothe-pin era? Why not have it hang fully spread out, for faster drying? Is such mind-set a remnant of our age-old attachment to tradition as inherited from our African ancestors? Tradition over practicality? I obtained the response to that conjecture a few months later.

While pursuing graduate studies and residing in the married student housing complex, I once observed a neighbor, the wife of a fellow-student, as she hung out clothes in the above-described manner. When questioned, ignoring my suggestions, she replied: That’s the way it’s done at home. I see no reason to change. She was from Nigeria.

But let’s resume our photo-viewing session! My father was usually absent from those gatherings for the simple reason that, as a longshoreman, he worked different shifts that included nights, weekends and even holidays. He had to remain available, to stay on call on account of delayed ships or ships that reached the port earlier than expected. In those good old days, ‘On Call’ unfortunately, did not mean that he awaited a phone call from his boss. But then again, who owned a phone in those days beside law-enforcement and health-care employees? Instead he would look over towards the harbor every hour or so to see if any new ship had docked. Indeed, as our home stood in an elevated area, at the foot of the mountain range surrounding the city, the harbor was fully visible from home by all family members, except for the unknowingly myopic ones, which included me. Considering my own vision to be the standard and using it as a yardstick, I did not really believe those who described the different ships at berth. How could they see those ships at such a distance, without binoculars? My father was even able to identify the different ships as Dutch, South-African or Australian. Those of his fellow longshoremen whose residences did not enjoy a view of the harbor had to go in person to the workplace just in case a ship showed up.

Although my father’s line of work called for relentlessly long hours, ‘between-harvests’ time, to use his expression, did bring him some respite every now and then. Indeed the sugar-industry was then the country’s main source of revenue; it has since been supplanted by the tourist-industry. So, every now and then, my father was able to take his rightful place in our family tableau-vivant.

The frowning baby in my mother’s arms was her second child and eldest daughter, Ciska. The photo, which dates back to 1952, had been taken in a studio, of course, since a personal camera was then an extremely rare commodity. My father is standing next to my mother who is seated and holding her newborn daughter. My eldest brother, then one year old, is standing between my parents. A rare and much cherished family photo that is part of the family heirloom, as no such picture exists of the other siblings.

My mother rejected the suggestion that the baby’s frown might just be a case of indigestion or hunger, or an expression of discomfort: Irritated babies, hungry babies, sick babies, don’t just frown silently! They whine or cry! A premonitory birthmark foreshadowing doom and gloom, that’s what this is. My mother refused to budge from her position. Later as we were growing up, my mother was to make frequent references to that frown, whenever Ciska, as a child, would act recalcitrant, disobedient or downright rebellious. As an adolescent, she had absolutely no regard for my mother’s parental authority. In the history of mother-daughter relationships, theirs had to have been the most dysfunctional that ever existed.

My personal interpretation of that frown is that Ciska, even in her unconscious state as an infant, must have somehow sensed that she had stepped into a hostile world where she would be served more than her fair share of alienation. She frowned, probably because she was already absorbing negative energy from her immediate environment. The maternal embrace was not succeeding in bringing feelings of safety and security. General and Child Psychiatrist Dr. Frances Cress Welsing seems to support and confirm that interpretation. In her work entitled The Isis Papers, the keys to the Colors, on page 2188, she states: The newborn infant can tell from the mother’s first touch whether she is pleased or disappointed with its color, appearance and gender. Certainly later the child can tell the mother’s respect for Blackness by comments she makes about who is a pretty girl, who is a handsome boy and who has the proverbial good and bad hair.

Ciska started displaying an uncommon intelligence very early on, an intelligence that, no doubt, accounted for a heightened sense of self-awareness and perceptiveness that caused her to overanalyze her interactions with the world to the point of seeming paranoia. Coupled with that uncommon intelligence or maybe produced by it, was an authoritative, proud and defiant nature. She could not stand blatant injustice. She was about ten years old when she decided to abstain from doing house-chores because, as in most households, those were assigned solely to female children. In households with male children only, the mother was the ‘bonne à tout faire’.

How come boys are dispensed from doing house-chores? Naturally she never received an answer to that question since she was questioning the natural order of things that no female child in any family had ever challenged.

The boys in my family had but one responsibility: collecting firewood from the neighboring hills weekly or monthly or as needed. In Ciska’s eyes, that was not even a chore. That was an expedition full of the promise of fun and excitement. The curious and adventurous little girl that I was shared her big sister’s view.

One seasonal activity begrudged by neither the boys nor the girls, and for obvious reasons, was the hauling and disposing of chopped cacti whenever my father trimmed the hedges. He had us competing with each other for the fastest round-trip to the dumpsite, the only thing slowing us down being the prickly thorns and the pungent, poisonous milky substance streaming from the green cacti. Don’t let that stuff get in your eyes. You will go blind! Obviously a scare tactic on the part of my parents, because I have never heard of any such case of blindness; eye inflammation at best. We were remunerated according to the number of baskets we emptied at the dumpsite.

Daily unremunerated chores, however, were solely the lot of the girls. And they included washing dishes, cleaning the house, sweeping, dusting, mopping, cleaning after and bathing the younger siblings. Running errands was the lot of whoever happened to be around at the time my mother needed someone for a quick trip to the store. And let’s not forget plant-watering and yard-sweeping. As teenagers, the girls’ chores also included laundry by hand and ironing, while my mother continued to launder and to iron her sons’ clothes. Ciska had a problem with that set-up even though it was indeed the norm in most families, or maybe precisely because it was the norm. To her that was grossly unfair, not to mention that she considered house-chores totally beneath her and a total waste of precious study-time.

Another area in which Ciska challenged my parents’ authority, especially my mother’s, was religious practice. Our ancestors’ enslavement by the French, followed by colonization by the British, had long guaranteed our unfailing loyalty to Christianity. As practicing Catholics, we went to confession on Saturdays and attended mass on Sundays. In those days and still today, Sunday service was primarily an opportunity for the congregation in general and the young congregants in particular, to showcase their sartorial elegance. In some well-to-do communities, Sunday morning services had transformed the church aisles into walk-ways for fashion-shows that reached their crescendo during communion, when you had to walk all the way up to the altar to receive the Eucharist before returning to your pew. The last communicants to reach their seats were