Letter to my White Therapist

And all White people with Good Intentions

by Eve Xin, they/them

Drawing from personal experience as a racialised client and trainee in the White-dominated psychotherapy space, the poem ‘Letter to my White Therapist’ explores a BIPOC person’s experience in Western therapy, and the dynamics that unfold in the therapy room. Eurocentric psychotherapy is complicit in colonialism and white supremacy, and this piece presents the therapeutic encounter as a medium for oppression and harm, as opposed to the safety it promises. It is a rallying call for White therapists and care professionals to decolonise their practice and bear the responsibility of not furthering harm to Global Majority clients and communities. 

Instagram: @suitcaseofpoetry

This city is not a kind place
For the rest of us who don’t look like you
Bus drivers shout at Muslim women
My Black friend gets spat on
And the security guard trails behind
When she goes for her weekly shop
In her own neighbourhood
Far worse things happen
And we don’t talk about it

But you tell me
I’m afraid you will lose yourself in this
(This—meaning the Big Scary Questions, like
How to sit with the fact that
I hurt a fellow person of colour
Because my pain has cracked open their scars
How to stitch ourselves back together
And recognise
I am both oppressed and oppressor)

Just after our session, on the streets
An angry White woman charged at me
Asking me to OPEN YOUR EYES MAN
The offensive slits of my yellow-skinned eyes
My husband shouts and runs after her
Say that again! To the camera!
What ruckus, thought the White people
Standing around the circus
Ooh, someone’s having a bad day
Just another fight, another disagreement
On the streets of London
An angry bitter city
But never Race
It is never about Race, will never be
Because we don’t want to talk about it

My gaping wounds feel too wet, too heavy for you
Horrible, horrible things have happened on this land
You feel guilty and responsible
For the collective actions of Your People
Just as I feel a collective pain
For the rest of us, who carry our wounds on our backs
Bleeding, as you turn away from the carnage
It’s a terrible thing that has happened
You feel sorry for us, upset even—well…thanks?
But horrible things continue to happen
And you continue to feel afraid
To talk about it

You tell me to look away, come back to myself
Because therapy is a safe space for Me
But all this is a part of Me
Violence and cruelty, the senseless wrong
I cannot walk away from this room, leave this behind and go
To a place I don’t have to think about the Big Scary Things
There is no safe place for people like us
And this room is no better
Because you turn away from my pain
And join the rest of my White audience
Gawking at the horror circus

You say you have good intentions
(As they all do)
Your horror and guilt a huge weight
And you don’t want to take up space
So instead you tell me that you will never understand
Will never claim to understand
No matter how hard you try, how many books you read
But your words are an empty balm, your intentions not enough
We already know that you do not understand
The question is, do you want to?
And will you finally
Talk about it?

Your White Guilt does nothing
To heal the wounds your people have caused
A heavy responsibility, dark legacy
Something you definitely did not choose
But neither did we consent to be Of Colour
And your fear of discomfort
Comes at the price of our pain
Our trauma
Our deaths
Our mental illnesses
That you tell yourself
You have helped to cure
In the safety of your therapy room
(Whose safety?)

Sit down now, and sit with me
Get uncomfortable
I want you to be wrong
I want you to make mistakes
Ask the wrong questions
Offend me. Accept my rage.
Then apologise, but only if you truly understand
And never (don’t you dare) tell me you are sorry for me
Just do better
Be better
Be wrong
Be better at being wrong
And don’t try to save the world
Because the healing is here, right here, right now
But you have to talk about it
You have to keep talking about it