Our youth are crying out. But who hears their voices?

As a mental health provider, I’ve worked with people of various socioeconomic and ethnic backgrounds, hailing from urban, suburban, rural and some international communities during my career. I’ve learned that socioemotional and psychological challenges don’t discriminate, but our willingness to see each other’s pain often does.

Last week, I participated in a panel discussion around Mental Health First Aid for providers. We discussed unique challenges, opportunities, and engagement strategies in overcoming barriers and biases in work with the faith, African American, Latino, LGBTQ, and veteran populations. While we acknowledged the obvious connection of PTSD with veteran population, panelists lifted up less recognized traumatic experiences of ICE raids on immigrant children and families, and rejection and isolation on our young LGBTQ siblings.

We also discussed combating personal biases, as competency requires constant moral inventory to see each other’s pain. I acknowledged to the group my living commitment to atonement and fighting my own biases, including regrettable past words as a young person. Helping others heal requires seeing, owning, and atoning for my own human shortcomings, a process available to all who are willing.

When asked by an audience member about PTSD in the African American community, I said the black experience in the nation has been a recurring cycle of intergenerational trauma, accompanied by resilience on repeat. However, our nation has never truly appreciated or recognized it as such. Our constantly repackaged trauma has been invalidated with words like “get over it” versus the respect of “never forget.” As I described the pain of having to set very firm rules with my 5-year-old son about playing with his bright colored water gun only in our fenced in backyard and nowhere else in the age of Tamir Rice and Trayvon Martin, I teared up. The African American moderator came over and put an arm around me. Later, another African American man whom I had not met came up, shed a tear, shared an embrace, and said he has had similar thoughts raising his 2 year old. We acknowledged our humanities, simply letting each other know, “I see you.”

In the past couple of weeks, I have listened to a small group of high school students from various schools discuss how mental health challenges at their schools are glossed over, as stretched counselors can only focus on classes. I have watched West Charlotte High School deal not only with the challenge of sports inequities, but powerfully carry the huge weight of representing a disrespected community. I’ve seen the strength of the principal, staff, students, community, and alumni who responded in that moment by saying to each other, “I see you.”

I also saw video of a black basketball player from Ardrey Kell choke up when trying to discuss the confusing impact of hate speech from someone he saw as family. Young brother, I see you. Finally, I watched young scholars and faculty from Walter G Byers respond to an unexpected immediate closing of their year-round program by brilliantly advocating for a Summer STEM program to help the transition. Young scholars, I see you.

The young people in this community are bright, resilient, insightful, and in many cases trying to protect themselves and heal from pain. At a minimum as adults, we can affirm them. We see you. We need to.

This story was originally published March 15, 2019 at 11:38 AM.