Psychiatric residents speech

August 20-21. 2014
A Message of Recovery for Psychiatric Residents
Worcester Recovery Center and Hospital
Russell D. Pierce, Director, Office of Recovery and
Empowerment
If there is one thing that I want to accomplish today that is
to counter the notion of ‘otherizing’ one another so nicely
described by the poet, Langston Hughes:
I, too, sing America.
I am the darker brother.
They send me to eat in the kitchen
When company comes,
But I laugh,
And eat well,
And grow strong.
Tomorrow,
I'll be at the table

When company comes.
Nobody'll dare
Say to me,
"Eat in the kitchen,"
Then.
Besides,
They'll see how beautiful I am
And be ashamed—
I, too, am America.
What this poem means to me and perhaps to some of you
who have experienced recovery in your own lives—from
failures, divorce, bad relationships—or just circumstance,
is that we often felt alone, but my purpose here at the
moment is address in some small way recovery as a part of
historical process and how people who have been
marginalized over time have gained voice.
Let us begin:
Through all the sorrow of the sorrow song, there breathes a
hope in the ultimate justice of things, so said the great
thinker W.B. Du Bois. What this means to me is that
suffering can be endured through song and dance, that

distress can be endured through the mystery of music, but
perhaps more importantly, that wrongs will be righted and
justice instituted. I am proud to be a carrier of a rich
tradition of reform movements across our nation’s history
including the mental health reform movements that dates
back in this Commonwealth to the nineteenth century with
the work of Dorothea Dix
Let us note at the outset that “recovery” does mean
something more than “getting better”—it does involve a
fundamental shift in how we define ourselves in communal
life with the full range of rights and responsibilities of
citizenship. In this regard, we are not only talking about
symptom abatement, normalizing, and the provision of
housing and employment supports. No, we are talking
about and must talk about people reclaiming their lives,
dream and aspirations.
See, Slade, M., World Psychiatry, Uses and Abuses of
Recovery, Vol. 13. Issue 1-pgs 12-20, February 2014.
To share a personal note: I am often asked how have I
overcome so much, so much hardship, pain and loss. I
think the answers lies in childhood experiences and I had a
good childhood. I can recall my mother saying ever so
sweetly to me that life ‘ain’t easy’—which I interpreted
even then that ‘rejection’ is part of the life course, not so
much because you were black, even though that would
certainly contribute to it, but because difficulties and
adversities affect everyone. When I was young I would
listen intently to both sermons and gospels that would

inspire me with truths, if not satisfaction, songs that had
words to the effect, “God bless the child that got his own,
that mama may have, papa may have, but God bless the
child who has his own.’ So powerful.
So today I am not going to discuss or render comments in
the typical way that some people do—amounting to a
‘working of the wounds’—not instead, I am going to offer
some reflections that actually may benefit those of you—
and us who are involved in the day-to-day strivings of
ordinary lives, sometimes complicated by misfortunes and
specifically conditions related to well-being and health.
But my aim today is not to delve deeply into the consumer
rights movement. I will leave that for anther time—
perhaps another invitation.
I am delighted to join with you today—in fact, over the last
two days, in a discussion of recovery and how this
innovative approach to clinical practice can cash out in the
therapeutic alliance between persons with lived experience
and those of you who are—or about to enter the caring
professions. In some ways, I view psychiatry and
counseling in much the same way I started to view law as a
student—as something akin to caring, a form of ministry if
you will to the afflicted, the suffering. I viewed the law as
a form of ministry, helping the soul, helping those to
witness the majesty of the Lord in action: to health and to
repair and to restoration. Perhaps, this grew out of
traditions and childhood, but it was the centerpiece of my
early studies—the influence of the church and community,

and even the philosophies of Augustine and others,
including Thoreau and Emerson.
What I want to talk with you today however is not pure
philosophy or even the theory and history of our movement
of recovery, for others are more ably to do than I am at this
moment. What I do want to discuss with you is my journey
as an individual who has been afforded many opportunities
to walk through doors of entry and access—and in the
process how I have come to view life and the challenges it
offers to us, whether in recovery or not. Far too often we
think that only those who have been labeled with a
diagnosis can speak intelligently or exclusively on pain and
pathos, whereas human beings have been dealing with
struggles for hundreds of years. I am just as interested in
your stories as well as my own—and perhaps, we will
discuss both.
But let me begin with an acknowledgment of those who
have influenced me thus far—and of course, that would be
my family, especially my mother and grandmother, who
always told me to work hard, study hard, learn as much as
you can—both formally and informally, and never forget
from whence you can because you are going to meet the
same people going up the ladder as when you are coming
down. I must say they were indeed correct.
They also taught me that you might have to work twice as
hard for half as much—and certainly there were no
guarantees that life was a rose garden, or that all people

would marvel at your talents and celebrate your successes.
The lessons of humility were early taught—and I recognize
the lack of it even when I am involved in treatment settings
—making me pause again, to consider, whether or not we
can actually teach through pedagogy good behavior,
manners, respect and overall conduct, that is the basis for a
good therapeutic relationship.
My goal here for the moment is not to chastise you or to
even instruct you, but to infuse the idea that equal respect
and consideration for the person does not happen by
accident or luck and chance. It takes purposeful effort and
commitment. This dedication to principle is hard and
requires us all, in the helping professions, to which you are
entering, to engage in frank conversations about race,
gender, class and privilege particularly unearned privilege
and the micro-aggressions associated with. I have found it
instructive to learn about a people’s history, culture and
beliefs in my effort to become a friend, ally, or supporter.
Without appreciating these frames of references and
context, we cannot begin to have a full and authentic
conversation with one another. I often say that we do not
take introductions seriously—meaning that when we see
someone unfamiliar to us, we may say—hi, goodbye and be
on our way, not stopping to long enough to possibly
witness pain or pleasure or even discuss what lies beneath
that veil of identity or mask.
This is more so, at least in my experience, in the treatment
setting, where those who are assuming to care for others are

pressed by economies and policies, to spend about fifteen
minutes figuring out what is wrong with you, as opposed to
what is right with you—or even asking what has happened
to you to bring you to this point. But my larger point today
is not to focus on this. I want my message to reflect a
journey of one who lives and thrives in community life,
unbounded by diagnosis, not because I am in denial or even
lack insight, but as I hinted at earlier, I was brought up
through traditions centuries old to struggle, to endure
whatever label—and somehow to summon the strength of
the ancestors to carry on. I do not think we can
underestimate these protective and resiliency factors in our
work together in communities, especially in communities
of color.
A strong sense of history has brought me through many a
challenge—a diagnosis, unemployment, homelessness,
congregate living, loss of friendships—and the death of
loved ones. The soul, however, is a complex thing. The
soul, the interior of our being and hearts is a wonderful part
of each of us. In it we find the rich resources to survive,
endure, and as the writers say, to prevail.
I am told that there is something called the ‘idiom of
distress’ that a culture and a people practice and believe.
The message here is that we all exhibit pain in a certain
way—and for those that minister to the spirit and the soul,
there is a way of believing and acting that causes that stress
to be revealed, let us say for divine or spiritual redress. As
an African American, I have sought refuge not only in
history or law—or even in a doctor’s office, but also

through the songs of Areatha Franklin and Denyce Graves
—and the sermons of Rev. Woods, my childhood preacher
at the local African Methodist Episcopal Church.
Earlier, I spoke about influences—those people and
institutions that impact my life and impart wisdom. I have
always been bewildered when interviewers ask the question
of ‘who has influenced you’—not because it is an unfair
inquiry. I just find it hard to leave anyone out—or anything
out. My remarks today have been in the making over a
lifetime—influenced by artists, musicians, painters,
intellectuals, teachers and friends. I must also at this point
say that the magnificent poet Maya Angelou was a major
influence with her poem—“Still, I Rise’—as was Langston
Hughes when he wrote—‘life ain’t been no crystal stair.’
These are what are meant by the idioms of distress in my
view—the underpinning of a cultural belief system that
serve to edify and strengthen people in the toughest of
times. I have found the words of preachers uplifting and
strengthening even in moments of crisis, which can mark
the onset of illness—and it this particular understanding
that I can only hope that doctors and psychiatrists apply to
their practice, which to me brings recovery to practice, an
appreciation of cultural context and milieu.
As I stated at the outset, others can and perhaps already
have given you a glimpse into the recovery model, which to
me is less a model than an attitude. But I will not dwell on
that for now.

What has gotten me to this point in life? It has taken a lot
of hard work—delayed gratification, and then some. But I
take delight that I am not a statistic. I have a decent job
and work in a climate that is extraordinary—as is this
opportunity to speak with you here today, and I am grateful
to Dr. Sanders, a colleague, who has made it all possible. I
realize everyday as I salute the dawn that I am fortunate—
fortunate to be here in such a charming city, and to sit in
the Commissioner’s Office, as I and my team attempt to
give voice to peers across the Commonwealth.
Work has always been a defining characteristic for me—
even when I worked in local eateries and restaurants,
school cafeterias, and even cleaning out bathrooms,
working in filing room, sitting on non-profit boards, all
gave me definition and strength. A particular joy and
satisfaction was working as a public health advisor at the
Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services
Administration (SAMHSA) in Maryland, and helping in
some way to move mental health systems forward. These
assignments provided me sufficient ego-strength, if you
will, and cash, to realize the dream of societal integration
and participation, that underlies the Olmstead Decision, but
yet for many of us, is the unfinished business of years of
prolonged advocacy for those with disabilities.
Let me just say a word about ‘disability’—I think it is
important that we do not use language to consign people to
roles not of their own choosing or making, and for me it
has been important to surround myself with people and

professionals who do not casually toss around terms
without attention to context. I am reminded again of Maya
Angelou—who said ‘I may not remember what you said, or
how you said it, but I will never forget how you made me
feel’. It has been disheartening to hearing those, even those
who minister to the soul and spirit, and for certain those
who treat the body and mind, say things like you are sick,
you are unwell, you will always be on medications—or that
you will always be in our care.
The purpose of a hopeful psychiatry is not to be hope
sapping as one of my colleagues described it, but hope-
moving and infusing. How we deliver messages to one
another is crucial and as I have suggested understanding the
idiom or speech of a people is important—as is their
history, music and voice tell us. We must understand why
the ‘caged bird sings’—it sings because it wants to be both
loved and freed, freed from hunger, isolation, trauma and
racism. In this realm of thinking, we must to the maximum
extent possible understand why choice and relationship are
key to the therapeutic alliance. We must encourage healthy
risk taking, and understand that all interactions, including
the interaction between you as caring professionals and
peers entails some risk, but that the potential reward is
great. Just like character formation takes time and
responsibility and example, so too does choice take time
and cultivation—we can not presume that it will occur just
because we desire it or wish it to be—it take hard work, an
appreciation for the fullness of the person we are
connecting with, and avoiding snap judgments incapable of
reversal or refinements.

Even where I sit, I know how it feels to be an ‘outsider’—
but this fact alone does not discourage me, for as I learned
long ago being the ‘other’ can give one certain advantages
—and we must all learn to take advantage of our
disadvantages. I point this out not to criticize, but to let
you know that the struggle is not over—that it continues,
even among those who are allied with us. The ‘other’ has
an obligation to teach—to hopefully inspire, hopefully to
become part of the solution—and not ‘captured’ as they say
in law by structures, or otherwise co-opted. I have said
elsewhere that one of the things that I like about my role is
to challenge—to challenge assumptions about the
aspirations, talents and creativity of a still, perhaps, the last
marginalized group in America.
Yet, I see progress. Like the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King,
Jr. said, I may not get to the mountain top with you, but as
a people I can promise you that one day we shall overcome.
In this vein I too realize, not only with this invitation today
and incredibly with my appointment to the position of
Director of the Office of Recovery that a greater justice has
been extended to those of us in recovery.—your recovery
and ours. That, is to say, it is both possible for individuals
and institutions to change..

Psychiatric residents speech

More Related Content

Viewers also liked

Similar to Psychiatric residents speech

Recently uploaded

Psychiatric residents speech