Being Brown in the Whitewashed World of Recovery

If you walk into a twelve-step meeting in Olympia, Washington, you might be the only brown face in the room. The Pacific Northwest, while more diverse than it was in the past, is still a very white place. I really didn’t notice it while I was in the Army, this feeling of being other. The military is a great equalizer. You live, sleep, laugh, and cry with each other; you are united in so much commonality that you have no other option but to depend on one another.

An old paratrooper brother of mine, Brandon, recently reminisced about the friends that become family you make in the Army, people that, as it says in the big book of AA, “would not normally mix.” Brandon is a corn-fed white guy from Oklahoma, and I am a brown guy from California. We would think we had nothing in common if we met another way, say, we were sitting a few barstools apart from each other. But those bar stools just happened to be on Base.

Starting your journey into sobriety as a person of color (POC)

In the Latino culture, in which I was raised, admitting you are powerless over anything, especially alcohol, is an admission of weakness. We don’t do weak; we don’t admit to uncontrollable problems to our friends and family. I was taught to manage my own problems – this is being a man.

Walking into the rooms

There is a feeling of being alone and isolated in a room where the faces don’t look like yours. Can they understand where I’m coming from? Not only am I a POC, I’m also a veteran of America’s longest war. I scanned the room, looking for another veteran. It’s hard to explain how I can do that. After 20 years of combat, I can just see it. Sometimes a bracelet or a tattoo tips me off, but it’s more instinctive than anything. Finding none, I scanned the room looking for a brown face. I felt scared. Even though no one noticed.

The first step is admitting that I am powerless over alcohol. How the hell will I admit that out loud? Especially in a room full of strangers. What’s it going to take for me to say those words? I know now that it takes great courage and strength to admit your struggle. I’m very open with my sobriety. Being sober out loud is essential for me. I believe it helps others feel ok admitting defeat.

I did meet one other person of color in the group eventually. Steph H., a black man, who became a friend and brother to me over time. I wanted to understand his experience, as I have seen it’s harder to be accepted the darker your skin is.

When I asked him how he felt walking into the rooms for the first time, he admitted, “I felt a little intimidated, like most people wouldn’t understand the challenges of a person of color. I dealt with this feeling most of my life. I’ve learned that was an obstacle I’d place in front of me that would contribute to focusing on differences instead of similarities.”

Next, I wanted to know if he felt, like me, that culturally, it was difficult to admit that alcohol had power over him.

“I don’t know if there’s any culture where that’s not difficult,” he replied. “It was difficult because I needed to admit to being powerless over drugs and alcohol. Not being able to quit on my own was ego bruising. I remember a family member who quit on their own, and when I saw that, I thought I could do that as well. Turns out I could not, and I needed help.

And finally, I wanted to know how he thought we could use this experience of being other in the largely white world of recovery. So, I asked him how best we can mentor our young men in the community.

His response, while directed toward young men of color, applies to all in recovery. “By sharing our experiences with others so they know they’re not alone and there are people they can talk to that can understand their struggles and challenges.”

I agree, we must be out front showing that it can be done. Showing that it’s a great act of courage to admit you are powerless and need help. It’s not “masculinity” that keeps us from admitting it. It’s the fear of showing vulnerability to our friends and family. To be strong and to have courage means you do what it takes, even when you’re scared. There can be no courage without fear. 

I need to keep showing others what they can have by recovering out loud. Sobriety is a treasure, and if I keep it all to myself, I am preventing others from uncovering the gold that is a sober life.

Check Phillip Vitela on the Sober Dad Crew Podcast

Welcome to the Speak Out Speak Loud section of The Sober Curator, a space echoing Madonna’s call to “Express yourself!” This is where our readers and contributors take center stage, sharing their transformative sobriety journeys. Often, sobriety uncovers hidden talents, abilities, and new avenues of self-expression. By sharing these stories, we not only facilitate personal healing but also offer hope to those still navigating the path of recovery. So, let’s raise our voices, Speak Out, and Speak Loud! In doing so, we combat the silence that often shrouds addiction, offering solace and inspiration. We invite you to share your unique expressions of recovery here—be it through videos, poems, art, essays, opinion pieces, or music. We can’t wait to hear from you! Please email us at [email protected] or DM us on social!

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SOBER SPOTLIGHT goes even deeper into exploring the stories of people in recovery.

SOBER SPOTLIGHT: From Blackouts & Migraines to the Spotlight: Rebekka Johnson & Anne Gregory of the Non Drinking Buddies Podcast Unfiltered « The Sober Curator

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