Bryant, who was elected in December to head the nation’s largest organization for psychologists, grew up on these benches. It was here that he first met people he suffered from (racism, gun violence, addiction) and saw how they could recover.
“You all raised me,” Bryant said, addressing the black congregation. for the first time since the pandemic began. And let me tell you, I haven’t forgotten.
Bryant, a full professor at Pepperdine University in Los Angeles, is an ordained elder in the African Methodist Episcopal Church, an outspoken sexual assault survivor, the daughter of two ministers, and the sister of a popular Georgia pastor who recently participated in a hunger strike for voting rights. He spent part of his adolescence in Liberia, where he witnessed the start of its first civil war.
Bryant represents a different future for psychology, his colleagues say, at a turning point for the field where both providers and recipients of attention have long been disproportionately white.
President Biden recently promised more mental health support for “black and brown communities” devastated by the pandemic, although an eruption of high profile suicides over the past year suggests the problem is deeper and more intransigent than officials anticipate. Even before the pandemic, suicide rates were increasing among black teens faster than any other racial or ethnic group. Demand of culturally sensitive and accessible mental health services has increased compared to worsening of depression and anxiety between blacks and Latinos, although according to 2019 census datafewer than one in five psychologists are people of color and fewer than one in 30 are black.
Those pushing to remake the field see Bryant as a key figure with the potential to make a tangible difference.
He has spent his career studying trauma recovery and was among the first psychologists to claim, some two decades ago, that racism can be traumatic. She’s unapologetic about working outside of formal conventions, whether that means starting to sing while she’s giving keynote addresses, talking about her recovery from sexual assault on your podcast, or going to Instagram as “Dr. Thema” to talk about black liberation with his 306,000 followers.
Now, he is preparing to head the 130,000-member APA, an influential organization that, among other things, sets guidelines for psychological treatment and practice, promotes research, and provides expertise that shapes legislation and judicial decisions. Bryant says her goal is to bring “psychology to people.”
She wants to host a conference in Washington that focuses on practical ways to deal with trauma, inviting laypeople, rather than just licensed psychologists, to speak and participate. She wants to develop codes on “decolonizing psychology”, showing mental health professionals how to use song, dance and other forms of culture in their treatment. And she wants to produce a documentary that highlights psychologists of color and what they are doing to expand access to care.
Miguel Gallardo, a Pepperdine psychologist, said Bryant’s proposals for the partnership are simply an extension of how she approaches her own work. At her clinic, he often meets clients who have never received any formal treatment but know about Bryant’s podcast or follow her on Instagram, he said. She has helped set an example for younger psychologists. turning to TikTok and other social media to remove the stigma of mental illness and reach people who are unable or unwilling to seek therapy.
“The systems that BIPOC communities try to seek services from are not designed for them,” said Gallardo, who is Latino. “[Bryant] she has a way that is so unique to her of reaching out to them… She kind of represents their experiences.”
Shavonne Moore-Lobban, a black psychologist based in DC, said she was at a convention a few years ago where Bryant started singing in the middle of a talk. When an audience member later told him, “I didn’t know we could sing in APA,” Bryant responded, “I didn’t know you couldn’t.”
“She has a fluidity,” Moore-Lobban said. “But if you know who she is, you know that she’s actually not outside the realm of her grounding her.”
The people Bryant grew up with at Bethel were often skeptical of the medical establishment and rarely spoke openly about mental illness, he said. But they had their own ways of dealing with suffering. They would find catharsis singing gospel songs or dancing to soul and hip-hop. They would grieve in healing circles or trust their father, Pastor John Bryant. Her first exposure to mental health was mixed with discussions of art, justice, and work, and now, as a clinical psychologist, she has made this approach her trademark.
Talk about research on it. online page where she publishes videos of herself dancing outdoors in june nineteenth observation. She studies the Bible critically, especially when she comes across what she calls “suspicious texts,” but she is also quick to speak up when she hears practitioners mock clients who turn to prayer in distress. Women and people of color value religion in higher rates that white men often point out.
So who does the field leave out if you rule out religion? Who is lost if deep and rigorous mental health care is thought to only occur within the four walls of a clinic?
“The things that she says sometimes, I want to run for cover,” her father, John Bryant, said on a recent afternoon. Retired in Baltimore with his wife, he sometimes feels his heart race, he said, when he watches his daughter speak about the trauma of white supremacy to a packed white Mississippi auditorium.
“Oh, but she always does it with a smile,” replied Cecelia Williams Bryant. “She speaks the truth with love.”
Three black women led the APA before Bryant, all elected in the last five years. Although the association remains predominantly white, there has been some anxiety in recent years that psychologists of color are dominating discussions about the future of the field, said Melba Vásquez, who is Latina and became the first woman of color to lead. the APA in 2011. .
Some professionals have said on private list servers that the association’s focus on fairness is detracting from its other functions, Vasquez said. Others have said they don’t like the APA statement, released last year, apologizing for its role in “promoting, perpetuating and failing to challenge” racism, Gallardo said. A psychologist resigned from the association citing the letter as a reason, an APA spokesman said.
“Psychologists are people,” Vasquez said. “And people feel threatened by change and difference.”
The rejection is part of why he chose to endorse Bryant’s campaign last year even though former association leaders rarely endorse presidential candidates. Bryant’s commitment to fairness comes naturally, Vasquez said. “And she is highly, highly effective.”
Bryant said she doesn’t mind people being uncomfortable with who she is or what she stands for, not after she left Baltimore for Liberia and then Durham, North Carolina, to attend Duke University. But she sometimes needs to “refill her cup,” she said. It’s part of why she came home.
At Bethel, his sermon touched in various turns on the biblical chapter Luke 2, the pandemic, the war in Ukraine and the Underground Railroad. He urged people to let go of toxic relationships and “come home.” He left many in tears.
Kimberly Thomas Jones, 61, lined up with dozens of people to shake hands with the preacher after the service. She grew up in Baltimore and, for as long as she can remember, her grandmother, who survived Jim Crow, told her to “play it right,” to stick together regardless of the situation. It took her until age 55 to see a therapist for a traumatic incident she experienced as a child. She now, as a teacher, can’t help but worry about the black kids in her classes who seem anxious or withdrawn.
“That was a powerful, powerful message,” Thomas Jones told Bryant, holding up both hands.
“I needed to hear that,” another woman said as she approached Bryant, her eyes moist.
“I felt like it was just for me,” said a third woman.
Bryant posed for photos and hugged parishioners for an hour. After leaving Baltimore, she kept thinking about the conversations she had at Bethel, she said. They were central to her work.
