Harry Potter and the Mental Health Stigma: Breaking Harmful Cultural Taboos

My first inkling of the Caribbean taboo around mental illness came to me as a Harry Potter obsessed 4th grader. My father borrowed the first Harry Potter book from the library for me. I usually rolled my eyes at his recommendations, but Harry Potter captured my imagination in a way that no book ever had. My family would even listen to the audio tapes at home because the story was so engaging. I started collecting Harry Potter books and collector items and even founded a Harry Potter fan club in my 4th grade class. The same year, I went on my first overnight trip without my parents. My 4th grade class traveled to a nature reserve in upstate New York.It started off pleasantly enough. I studied the bird exhibits, learned about trees and leaves, and paid close attention during the nature walk. I’ve always enjoyed carrying a security item with me when I travel, and this time, I brought one of my Harry Potter books. The idea was that when I needed to go into introvert mode and recharge alone, I would have a book to read. But as all readers know, books sometimes draw opinions.We stayed in log cabins with teachers assigned to each one. My cabin mates were Ashley and Nakiema. Ashley and I were friends. She was always good for an easy laugh. She often did funny imitations of schoolmates and we loved cracking jokes together when we should have been quietly copying down homework assignments.  Nakiema, I did not know as well. She had transferred into the class mid-year, fresh from Trinidad. She wore old-fashioned dresses and had a stern, pouched face. She looked like she could have been my Caribbean aunty, ready to scold and slap my hand. Needless to say, I was ill at ease in her presence. I was still a little girl and she had the air of a world-worn woman.On the first full day, after absorbing all that I could of the ecosystems exhibit, I decided to go back to my cabin to read. Ashley was taking a nap on the bunk across from me.  I sat on my bunk, ready to enjoy what I then considered to be the finest world-class literature (I kind of still do), when Nakiema walked in.She pointed at my Harry Potter book and declared,“That book is evil! It’s the devil’s book. Reading it will turn you into a witch! You’re going to Hell!”Her eyes were bulging, her yellow-brown cheeks turned red and glowed with sweat. I remember wondering if she wasn’t the witch. My own eyes stung with tears. I put down the book and wept on my bunk.There is a long history of violence and marginalization justified by accusations of witchcraft or supernatural abilities. In many parts of the Caribbean, old wives tales about witches and witch doctors, gumbies, and supernatural creatures still linger in the collective consciousness. Christianity is pushed as the civilized way to counteract supernatural forces, but Christian doctrines often conflate witchcraft with the devil and unfairly target those who are living with mental illnesses as witches or supernatural beings, making them societal outcasts who must endure scorn and violence. Even though mental illness is a severe problem in many parts of the Caribbean, including my family’s native country of Guyana, the vicious cycle of ignorance, accusation, and ostracization continues. What Nakiema said could not be true. I was a good girl, quiet and respectful. I always went to church with my mother on Sundays and said my prayers before each meal. Also, Harry Potter is AWESOME and I was fully aware that it was a fictional story. It seemed strange to me that she could miss this basic fact in her religious fervor. Lastly, although I was certainly drawn in by the whimsical magic in the story, I was more fascinated by J.K. Rowling’s ability to craft a fantasy that felt so close to reality. For me, the real magic was in the storytelling, the writing and the world-building, all of the things that drive me as a writer now. Lying on a stiff mattress, I let the tears pool in the hollows of my ears, feeling alone and far away from home. It would have been the perfect time for an owl to tap at the window and deliver my Hogwarts acceptance letter, but alas, my tears flowed undisturbed. I soon fell asleep.The next day, I noticed that Ashley was not acting like herself. She was still in bed even when we were about to leave the cabin for the day’s activities.“What’s wrong?” I asked her exposed neck. She was curled up in the thin wool blankets so that I could only see her neck and her mass of coily twists. “You don’t feel well?” Ashley turned to me. Her face was red and her eyes were puffy with tears.“I hate myself,” she told me, “I wish I were dead. I just want to kill myself.”Her words shocked me. Ashley was usually spritely and cheery, nothing like this broken girl I saw before me. This was also my first encounter with depression. In my nine-year-old mind, death was something to be avoided at all costs. I couldn’t imagine the mental agony necessary to contemplate suicide. The only thing I knew for sure was that I needed an adult, fast!I told one of our teachers that Ashley was upset and watched her comfort the girl, allowing Ashley to cry into her lap as she gently stroked her hair. Later, the teacher told me that Ashley was homesick and to forget about the whole incident, but I never did.Looking back on that weekend, I see three young girls, scared and away from home, clinging to half-formed truths for comfort. We knew nothing of the history and cultures that were already impacting our experiences. We could not have known that as Black women, as immigrants or the children of immigrants, our mental health was already at risk or that the cost for acknowledging mental health would be paid in shame, judgment, and hatred. Today, I use my voice so that young girls won’t have to endure this destructive cycle and question their worth; they can simply be.  As September rolls around, I am reminded of World Suicide Awareness Day (September 10th) and Suicide Prevention Week coming up from September 9th - 15th. Dangerous stigmas are still holding people back from acknowledging the importance of mental health, and in many cases, the stigma runs so deep that people who are ill and suffering can end up being condemned for their illness instead of being offered help. We often ask ourselves what we can do to prevent suicide. The first step is throwing away harmful superstitions and treating mental illness with the same seriousness that we would physical illnesses like cancer or heart disease. My grade-school tale also reminds me that depression can impact people at any age, even children. Instead of dismissing or judging what we don't understand, I believe it's important to educate ourselves and others on mental health so that we can move forward with compassion and understanding.