Man Up and Shake it Off: Approaching Mental Health as a Latino Muslim

Asim Escarra stood on the edge of the Hancher bridge, eyes fixed on the murky waters thirty feet below. He shivered despite his baby blue hoodie, which contrasted with the black night sky. The words “You Matter” were printed in white font across his broad chest. Fog clung to the air around him, lit by an October crescent moon.

Asim didn’t know how he got to the bridge. The night began with his usual routine of dinner and homework. At some point that evening, he blacked out and woke up on the bridge. It was 11 p.m., and he was standing on his tiptoes to get a better look at the Iowa River, waist pressed against the metal railing. He wanted to step back from the edge, but there was something about the way the water moved that entranced him. He took a shaky breath, pulled out his cell phone, and called a friend.

“I’m at the river,” he said. “I don’t know how I got here, but I can’t leave. I didn’t know who else to call. It’s really bad, and I need your help.” Together, Asim and his friend walked to Mercy Hospital, where he spent four days in the psychiatric ward.

Over a year later, Asim is still battling anxiety and depression, worsened by the COVID-19 pandemic. His Latino Muslim upbringing has complicated talking about mental health with his parents. His family views conversations about mental illness, especially among men, as signs of weakness.

“Growing up, I was too afraid to talk about mental health. If I mentioned something about my mental health being bad, my parents fired back with, ‘Life sucks, get over it,’” Asim said.

Raised by parents who respect machismo culture, showing negative emotion as a young man was not an option. Islamic gender roles reinforced his father’s role as stoic leader. While Asim is candid about his mental health with friends and coworkers, he puts up a hard, emotionless shell when he is at home.

He can’t tell his parents that he feels like he is in a mold of his own body, a mold that is being squeezed tighter every time he takes a breath. At the same time, someone has launched a metaphorical firework at him. He can hear it, but he can’t tell what direction it’s coming from. His body is shaking, he can’t move, and he can’t tell if he is going to explode or implode. This is a daily experience.

“First, you question why you deserve it,” he said. “Was this intentional? Did I do something wrong to deserve this? All of a sudden, your brain is typing out words at a hundred thousand words per second, and you start freaking out.”

After the deaths of his uncle and best friend last year, both in the span of three weeks, he could not cry to mourn his loss in front of his family. He was sent back to school and expected to excel in his classes. His roommate did not speak to him. At some point, Asim snapped and wound up on that bridge.

COVID-19 made him afraid to leave the house. He spent the initial six months of the pandemic in Illinois lockdown with his family. For the first time since his hospitalization, the tightness in his chest relaxed. While his parents worked, he watched over his two younger brothers. Days stretched to feel like weeks. He had long conversations with his mother about school and work.

Asim would take a bullet for any member of his family, despite their differences. His mother is his best friend. They share what he describes as a telepathic connection; miles away, they can sense when something is wrong with the other person. After he was discharged from the hospital last year, he called her over Facetime with the hope of revealing his history with depression. When he told her, she looked at him with a mix of anger and shock and hung up the phone. He has not confided in her about his struggles with mental health since that day. Neither of his parents know the real reason he admitted himself to the hospital. Determined to keep this secret, he works as a University campus tour guide to pay off his medical bills by himself.

On the outside, Asim exudes positive energy, waving to everyone he passes on his way to class. His brown hair flops across his forehead and curls at the base of his neck, but it’s his toothy grin and soft hazel eyes that he’s known for. He is clinically big boned, though he looks like a human teddy bear: short and stout, with strong arms that give fierce hugs.

As a biomedical engineering student, Asim faces 21-credit semesters and courses laden with dense lab reports and research papers. His second job as a resident assistant provides him with three hot meals a day and a place to sleep. An average day consists of attending Zoom class, working his two jobs, and studying late into the night.

Used to interacting with dozens of people a day, COVID-19 has complicated his experiences with his friends and residents. Snapchat stories and Instagram reveal the pandemic habits of his close friends, some of whom have been hosting large, mask-less parties. He relies on video chat to interact with his residents, who he sees going to the bars in large groups on the weekends.

“My residents came here and had fucking flames lit underneath them,” he said. “They craved some sense of normalcy, so they went out and went crazy. But for me, my job depends on being healthy.”

Without his job, he would have to live at home in Illinois and wouldn’t be able to pay tuition. With his job, he risks his health on a daily basis. Locking himself in his sterile room, Asim only leaves to go to the bathroom and pick up food from the dining hall. His savings have plummeted from paying medical bills, forcing him to drop his fraternity because he can’t afford semesterly dues. He can feel himself slipping.

“I would appreciate some sort of reassurance from another guy, but other guys don’t know about mental health either, which is such a shitty thing,” he said.

Without being able to talk to his father, brothers, or close male friends about mental health, Asim resorts to other outlets. He listens to jazz music and takes naps. He reads and exercises. He looks up mental health articles online, teaching himself ways to deal with anxiety and depression that don’t require expensive therapy or medicine.

“If mental health was addressed years ago, I know I would be in a much better place,” Asim said. “Men aren’t taught how to talk about it in a healthy manner. We’re just told to man up and shake it off.”

Asim's name has been changed in this story to protect his identity, as he has requested to remain anonymous.