Black Queer Migration and Mental Health

Artwork by Richard Kahwagi. Photos by Chris Briggs and Sir Manuel on Unsplash

One of the biggest revelations that therapy has produced for me is having a better understanding of the weight that identity has in our lives. Some would say the more, the merrier but for the case of myself choosing to move overseas and adding the “immigrant” tag to my life; I was unprepared for the mental, and therefore, physical strain this decision would place upon me which would eventually lead me to seek out professional help.

In my mind there’s a thin line between expat and immigrant, and it’s marked in the sand by one of race, capital, class, and the perception of privilege. I was well acquainted with how these things played into the formation of my life in America and thought that I was more than ready to migrate abroad to the UK for my last degree–at least I thought I was. From accessing work, to social care, experiencing isolation and even discrimination, all based on my national identity, and finally finding a consoler who redefined “home” for me; the language and experiences of becoming an immigrant would soon be integrated into my Black queer Working-class lexicon and my mental status. The external became the internal as my mental health took centre stage for the first time; all because my passport was a different color.  

I know it may seem strange to think of Americans as “immigrants”, but this is true. I bypass the loaded “expatriate/expat” phrase because the only thing that makes the two words different is one’s privilege, or our collective fantasies we have about nations and shared collective wealth. Not all Americans have money or racial or sexual privileges; this is true for every nation. My father drives trucks for a living and my mother works in special education. University for me, like most Americans, was obtained through federal loan programs opposed to out of pocket cost. We are now working upper-middle class people which fed into my journey of migrating across the Atlantic. No one in my family or circle had ever lived outside of the country and the only guidance I had was white women on YouTube that backpacked through Europe–which is a privilege in itself. I say all of this to acknowledge privilege that comes with that navy blue passport, but in the same vein does not deny the pitfalls of being othered because of one’s nationality upon migrating. 

One of the biggest sources of mental strain for me was getting a job. Even in my native country work was not a given for me, so I knew finding income in the UK would be a challenge even before I touched down. I felt inadequate being that the majority of my skill sets lied in education and retail-oriented customer service. Working in education as a foreigner without teaching credentials only left the latter as an option. The job centre at my school got me a gig at a call-centre for the Alumni office. It was around £7 an hour and happened at night. Sadly, this didn’t work out because of my inability and lack of passion to sell; especially to people over the phone who were jarred by my American accent. Standing out because of my race was one thing but receiving comments about my accent from disgruntled graduates just added insult to injury. It felt regenerative: like learning to walk and talk all over again. My direct, cheerful, and baritone voice–which made me stand out for all the right reasons back at home–became all the wrong ones here. Overall, it took me about 3 months to find the stable income I have now, but the monthly paying schedule was another mental hurdle that really took a toll. Being that I was used to a weekly/bi-monthly payment schedule back at home, the once-a-month payment schedule made it take much longer for me to get a full working check. Back home I also had no limit on the amount of work I could do, but the visa restrictions would soon prove to be another unexpected wall to break. On a Tier 4 student visa you are only allowed to work 20 hours a week. Even if you’re able to cover your room and board, living off a part-time wage in London with existing bills is not a viable option for most–I was no exception. I had worked so hard to become financially independent during my time in Brooklyn, but now had to start over and to be blunt - I felt like a failure. My mental state was constantly being dictated by my bank account. I had a roof but barely any food in my cupboards and extra activities were out of the question. I would steal here and there from the self-checkout to make sure my main meals were taken care of and part of me knows that I didn’t have to, but I didn’t want anyone bailing me out because I had chosen to move abroad - no one else. 

After securing a job, another major source of mental strain and distress for me was not knowing how to navigate my immigrant status. Whether it was using the NHS or dealing with microaggressions or overtly nationalist statements at work, the process of integrating was daunting and unquenchable. People have a myriad of responses towards me as a Black American, and I can say that I’ve seen them all; from the overly zealous love of our folklore around rolling hills and excess big mac meals to the well place and justifiable hatred for state imperialism and global exploitation, and perceived lack of global affairs and geography - I’ve felt almost all of it. My immigrant and queer identity have been brought to the forefront more here, opposed to my racial identity back home in the states. This mentally stunted me because it was new and hard to manoeuvre - the national and sexual discrimination. Back home, I knew where homophobia dwelled and learned how to sidestep it and I was also a part of the ruling nationality (while still being a second-class citizen because of my race and class) which meant this was not a major factor to me. But everything seemed to flip once I moved abroad, and the territory was strange and dangerous. From harassment at my part-time job: which once included a man trying to hire me for roofing because he “knew I needed the money” to homophobic slurs based on my colourful attire; in my mind, my racial identification was dwarfed by my national and sexual identity for the first time to me. Mentally, I felt like a 3rd class citizen. No matter how much I exceled in my studies, articles I wrote, talks I gave, and degrees I had obtained; I had to tick the box “Black/other” every time. People only thought of me as useful when it came to conversations around America, Racism, or guns and outside of these matters I was useless. 

In doing a PhD program the act of self-isolation is inherently a part of the scholastic journey. But being across the Atlantic while during COVID was something I didn’t sign up for. I would spend months not seeing or talking to another person. The days would blend, and time would begin to slip away as I immersed myself in text and research. There would be days that I would wake up and not understand where I was, how I got there, or what I was doing in this place. Even when restrictions were lifted, I would rotate cafés to do work at just to change up my daily routine because it became so continuous and monotonous. I had friends at work, and soon some outside, but integrating into people’s lives who were working professionals in London often left little time for chit-chats and catch-ups. I truly believe that if it wasn’t for the world stopping due to COVID, some of the close friends I have recently made would not have been obtained. People, including myself, were forced to take time out to focus on interpersonal relationships.

I know that this story reads as if “moving to the UK was the worst decision of this man’s life” but that is the furthest thing from the truth. Being pushed to my breaking point, I was lucky enough to have a job that offered mental health services and found a therapist that I have been seeing now for about two years. I had lost a family and fell out with someone I cared romantically for as well as long term friends, and it was too much to hold on to. One of the most memorable sessions to me is when she helped me determine that I needed to define what “home” was for me, because I kept looking for it in places and people. Going beyond the physical, the possibilities became limitless, and I began to not blame myself for many things and understood more what I was responsible for and controlled in my life. It has also helped me to understand myself and how I navigate this far, far away land more efficiently. Meeting other queer immigrants who echoed my experiences also reaffirmed my state-of-affairs and –maybe even more than therapy–helped me see the light at the end of the tunnel.

To find out more about talking therapies and how you can access those services visit: https://www.nhs.uk/mental-health/talking-therapies-medicine-treatments/talking-therapies-and-counselling/nhs-talking-therapies/