Taking one for the team.

The Original Clippers Fan

Okay, I'll bite.

I haven't really known what to say about that super-unfortunate private-turned-public conversation capturing these offensive and odd statements from the Clippers Owner, Don Sterling. I have a lot of thoughts but they all just sort of run together. I guess I'll say them quickly because this topic is salient and is worth talking about.

I don't like what he said. I don't really think I felt deeply offended, though, until he made the references to clothing and housing the blacks employed by him. The rest of it mostly sounded stupid and like it wasn't meant for our ears. Clearly the man is ignorant. As is this woman for putting up with him even for two seconds. Look: I'm old enough to realize that there are people all over the place that would take issue with a key person in their life being photographed on social media with groups of people of whom they do not approve. Or that they allegedly approve of but the others in their world don't approve of. For Donald Sterling, that group was black people. Or "the minorities" as his lady friend called them. Whatever. And some folks don't care about stuff like that at all. But a lot do.

It might be wrong and ignorant and deplorable but it is what it is.

With part of her Season Ticket crew. Their hashtag is #blackandyellow (Not joking)

Look. I'm just saying that if some mom somewhere is mad because her daughter is on Facebook with a group of hippie dudes while in college and says something about it because the other moms in her tennis club are giving her grief, is that kind of the same?

Maybe. Maybe not.

I don't know. I just know that a lot of folks say and think a lot of things that aren't meant for my ears. I heard someone say this: "What would you be banned from if your private conversations were made public?" 

Okay. I guess I'm kind of proud to say that I don't think I'd be banned from anywhere. But that's beside the point.

Her man had to become a fan as a part of the courtship.

Now. Despite all THAT, I am not excusing him. Because we DID hear it and it IS public. And more than likely we never heard the worst of it. If this chick was able to record him -- and knew to record him -- she also must have known for certain that he'd say some off the wall crap worth pressing record for. Hello? This means to me that this dude is likely saying all kinds of stuff about "the minorities." Matter of fact, he's been noted to say a few not-so-nice words about black people before. 

Mmm hmmmm.

I mean, I personally see myself as a delicate woman even if he doesn't think my persuasion can be. Heh.

The main thing:

How much does this suck for the Clippers--and their fans? These dudes have put in work, man. Work. Talk about going from zeroes to heroes. And this? Now? Just. . . damn.

She has warm and cold weather Clipper gear.

My sister, JoLai, is one of the original Clipper fans. I'm dead serious. She's been a season ticket holder for 13+ years and bought them way back when half of L.A. wasn't even sure who they were. I think I even asked if they were a hockey team back then.

Ha.

Why yes, that IS Chris Paul next to her.

But seriously. JoLai bought those season tickets back when they were buy one ticket get twenty five free. Plus free parking. And a guaranteed t-shirt out of the air gun thingie. She has been down from the start. And is a HUGE fan of this team.

Yep.

Imagine her devastation when this happened. Her team has finally started to get some shine and this bulljive comes out? Dude. Those players are like her family now. And trust me, she was literally heart broken. Someone wise said something like this about her:  It's like paying and planning for a huge party and finding out that you can't go like two days before. Or worse--you got locked out of the venue.

Yeah.

Oh and before I forget. JoLai is such a HUGE and LEGIT Clipper Nation member that she was the epicenter of an article in the Los Angeles Times yesterday--specifically about her perspective as an African-American season ticket holder in this hot mess of a situation. It's a great article. Read it here. It tells it far better than I can.

What you know about a Clippers manicure?

Funny. When I tried to find the article, I saw that JoLai has been mentioned in the L.A. Times as a Clipper fan several times. Even as far back as 2001 when I still thought they were a hockey team. Ha! Now if that ain't legit you tell me what is?

I guess a part of me is mourning her loss in all of this. It's like watching someone train over a decade for the Boston Marathon and seeing them trip, fall and get knocked unconscious on mile 25. Even if you weren't the one running, it stills sucks.

Got pajama pants?

Okay. So . . . . I haven't drawn any hard lines in the sand. I do still think human beings are mostly good and don't want this to be seen as some evidence that all white people really hate us. I don't believe that. I just don't. Instead, I think some people are ignorant and products of environmental small mindedness. Which is sad but also their mental block.

You know what?

I also think this is one of those things that I would have been fine to never, ever know about. Kind of like the person who comes and confesses to her husband that she cheated on him sixteen years ago. I mean, I'm sure some good race relations discussions will come from it, but honestly? I just don't want to be in a world where inner thoughts are being made outer thoughts. I don't want them shoved in my face or stuffed down my throat. If you look at me and think "ignorant black person" or "person beneath me" -- please. Keep it in your head and on your dark, cold heart. Spare me. I mean it.

I can also pass on the selfies of Geraldo Rivera. But that's a whole 'nother hot mess and besides the point.

Sorry for the ramble. I just kind of don't know what to do with this. I seriously don't. And I wish we could just sort of turn back time and let the Clippers have their moment in the spotlight without being pummeled by tomatoes.

JoLai? I'm sorry you had to take one for the team. And even sorrier that, for you, it involved more than just your favorite basketball one.

That's all I got. 

***
Happy Wednesday. And shout out to my delicate sister Darlene JoLai aka the original Clippers fan.

What HE said.

I've heard and read so much commentary on this topic. And have had my share of several conversations on it, too. But now instead of talking I'll just point them to this. Then I'll say, "What HE said."

As a Grady elder said to me last week when we discontinued his insulin:

"Now that's what I'm ta'm'BOUT!" 

***
Happy Icy Snowy Sleety Day.

King-a-palooza.

Lift every voice and sing
Till earth and heaven ring,
Ring with the harmonies of liberty

Let our rejoicing rise
High as the listening skies,
Let it resound loud as the rolling sea.

Sing a song full of the faith that the dark past has taught us

image credit

Sing a song full of the hope that the present has brought us

 
Facing the rising sun of our new day begun
Let us march on till victory is won.

Today at the parade

 

~ James Weldon Johnson 

________________________________________________________

Every year I promise to have my act together enough to do something meaningful with my children on Martin Luther King, Jr. Day. And I suppose I haven't been too horrible over the years. I mean, we do sit down and watch "I Have a Dream" on YouTube and one year we even watched "The Drum Major Instinct"--although I'm sure that 99.9% flew over their heads. I always see the signs encouraging folks to make it a "day on" instead of a "day off." And that notion I can get with. Even if, on most years, I don't get with it personally.

Mmm hmmm.

So this year? Man, hush yo' mouth. I had my act together. Not only did we watch "I Have a Dream" AND "The Drum Major Instinct" -- we sat and talked about them, too. AND. (Mmm hmmm, there is an AND.) AND we actually made it a "day on."

Yep.

We started the morning out early with an awesome service project at a nearby school. The kids cleaned up and packed bags of toiletries for those in need. And they had fun with other kids while doing it, too. Fortunately, we could rely on Dr. King to break up any brawls or rough-housing between this energetic bunch just by saying:

"HEY! Wasn't Dr. King all about PEACE? Take it down a notch!"

Which may or may not be exactly verbatim what I said when I peeled one child out of the headlock of another.

Ah hem.

So yeah. That was awesome. And after sharing pizza with all of the volunteers, we walked out side into a day that could not have been more spectacular. "We can't just go home," I said. And of course my boys groaned when I said that but I didn't care. I was determined to spend the majority of the day doing something other than watching the boys playing video games and watching Netflix.

And so. We headed downtown to join the Martin Luther King Day Parade. We surely did. Parked our car and strolled right down Peachtree Road with the masses. Yes, we were technically with a group from school but still. We went. I was so proud that I didn't talk myself out of it.

Admittedly, the kids were kind of grumpy about the whole thing at first. But by the time we finished and ended up at Ebenezer Baptist Church where both Martin Jr. and Martin Sr. once preached? The boys were in higher spirits. I know for sure that there are things my parents did with us when I was a kid that I didn't fully appreciate until I was older. I hope our "day on" tradition ends up counting as one of those things.

I'm in love with this picture of my boys from today.

Once we got home, I popped open my laptop and we watched the King speeches on YouTube. Now this part? They were riveted. No one was horsing around or any such thing. I think his voice just sort of grabs old and young alike. As tired as they were, too, they didn't even flinch when I asked them if they wanted to watch another video. So that's when I sprung "The Drum Major Instinct" on them. (That was the one that my dad made me listen to for a punishment as a 14 year old and subsequently write a 750 word essay about.) Poopdeck was a BEAST, I tell you.

Uhhh, yeah.

So that part was cool. It really was. I asked if they wanted to hear a cool song before we closed the computer and they obliged. And I guess I should first offer the disclaimer that I don't allow my kids any reckless YouTube-watching so the idea of ANY YouTube probably feels like the equivalent of drinking soda pop to them.

Yeah.

So the song I played for them was "Lift Every Voice and Sing" which most African Americans know as the "Negro National Anthem." I'm not even sure how old I was when I first heard it or learned it, but it seems like one of those things like The Lords Prayer or the Pledge of Allegiance that you just kind of know and can say without thinking about. So I played the traditional version of it followed by the Ray Charles version and the Roland Carter arrangement of it.

Oh! Wait. . . You mean you've never heard of the Roland Carter arrangement of "Lift Every Voice and Sing?" Well. CLEARLY this means that you:

a) Did not attend a historically black college or university,
b) You did but you never, ever went to chapel
c) You totally have heard this version but just didn't realize it until you heard it again.
d) You went to an HBCU but you thought that the Roland Carter arrangement was the only arrangement of the song.

Ha.

Yeah. So this musician named Roland Carter remixed rearranged the song for a choir performance somewhere at some point. And I swear that it seems like every single concert choir at every single historically black college adopted his version. But rightfully so, man. Listening to it to the end gives you chills. Especially that mighty, mighty AAAAA-AAAAA-AAAA-AMEN that he decided to tack onto the end of it. (I think that was designed to wake us all up in chapel.)

Juuuust kidding.

So what else? Yeah. That's about it. After my King-a-palooza, I told them that they could do whatever they wanted to do. Which in my house means one thing and one thing only--video games. But that was cool.

The evening was punctuated with me going to a dinner at the home of Gunan G. from my Small Group Gamma. The group--our small group pictured above-- that all gathered to eat Gunan's mom's delicious homecooked Indian food could not have been more diverse. I looked around the room and smiled. I know that Dr. King would have been proud to see a room filled with future physicians (plus some grown up full-on professionals) of every hue laughing and talking together on the day his birthday is observed.

Yep. So our "day on" was awesome. It totally was. And you know what? I felt proud at the end of it.

And can I just say this? Today when I listened to Dr. King's booming voice speaking that famous speech over that crowd in Washington, I heard it differently. I interpreted it as really a longing for his children to have a better world. A lot of it wasn't even about him or something he'd get to enjoy in his lifetime.

And--if you ever listen to the sermon "I've Been to The Mountaintop" -- you'll know that he somehow seemed to know that his life would be abbreviated during this struggle. Yeah, he knew his days were numbered--which is really deep considering he kept on fighting even though he knew he was risking his own life. Oh? I didn't tell you? I was made to that one circa 1986 after smart-talking my mother one morning before school. Followed by 500 words on the meaning of that sermon, too. Regardless of how much homework from AP classes that I had. That's 500 words NOT including the words "the, and, or, or very." Which was very, very, very, very, very, very, very uncool of my very, very, very, very, very uncool father.

Mmm hmmmm.

Sure--like my boys, I groaned a lot about having to do all of that King-related stuff back then. But now? I appreciate those punishments more than words can say. I really, really, really, really, really, really, do. (He never said anything about "really.")

***
Happy Martin Luther King Day. Thank you--I really, really, really, really, really 'preciate y'all for reading. (How many words am I at?)

Just in case you had to work or you were like I have been in prior years, here's your dose of goodness for this day. I hope you take a moment to enjoy some it -- especially the parts you've never heard before.

First, the full lyrics to "Lift Every Voice and Sing." Deep is an understatement when it comes to this song. I think it's actually a song for everyone if you read the words. I like to think of it as a song for anyone who was once held down but is now on the edge of a breakthrough to something better.

Lift Every Voice and Sing

 
By James Weldon Johnson

Lift every voice and sing
Till earth and heaven ring,
Ring with the harmonies of Liberty;
Let our rejoicing rise
High as the listening skies,
Let it resound loud as the rolling sea.
Sing a song full of the faith that the dark past has taught us,
Sing a song full of the hope that the present has brought us,
Facing the rising sun of our new day begun
Let us march on till victory is won.

Stony the road we trod,
Bitter the chastening rod,
Felt in the days when hope unborn had died;
Yet with a steady beat,
Have not our weary feet
Come to the place for which our fathers sighed?
We have come over a way that with tears has been watered,
We have come, treading our path through the blood of the slaughtered,
Out from the gloomy past,
Till now we stand at last
Where the white gleam of our bright star is cast.

        God of our weary years,
        God of our silent tears,
        Thou who has brought us thus far on the way;
        Thou who has by Thy might Led us into the light,
        Keep us forever in the path, we pray.
        Lest our feet stray from the places, our God, where we met Thee,
        Lest, our hearts drunk with the wine of the world, we forget Thee;
        Shadowed beneath Thy hand,
        May we forever stand.
        True to our God,
        True to our native land.
______________________________

And now to bring you in on our YouTube-a-palooza. . . . .

"I Have a Dream" 

The first thing Zachary said after watching this video and seeing the crowd: 

"Wow, Mom. I didn't know it was so many white people on our side back then!" 

Isaiah said, "Yeah, he even gave them a shout out in the speech, too."

Me: 0_0




"The Drum Major Instinct" -- Best. Sermon. Ever. Still makes the hair stand on my neck.



Lift Every Voice and Sing, regular version



Lift Every Voice and Sing, Roland Carter version -- sung by the HBCU 105 voice choir at the Kennedy Center. This takes me back to college--our Tuskegee Golden Voices Choir used to ANNIHILATE this song. (Annihilate it in a GOOD way.) We'd all be in tears at the end every single time. I'm sure it was the same at your school if you attended an HBCU.



Lift Every Voice and Sing, Ray Charles version. I love his preamble with the shout out to Jeremiah and something being "shut up in his bones." Makes me think of the Grady elders--having joy "shut up in your bones" is one of those things you hear the "old saints" say. Ha ha ha.

One year later.

When can my heart beat again?
When does the pain ever end?
When do the tears stop from running over?
When does you'll get over it begin?

I hear what you're sayin'
But I swear that it's not making sense
So when can I see you?

When can I see you again?
When can my heart beat again?
When can I see you again?
And when can I breathe once again?
And when can I see you again?

~ Babyface

____________________________________________

So hard to believe that it's been an entire 365 days since that awful day when the heartbeat of a beautiful brown boy was silenced in a senseless act of impulsive violence. Yes. It's been a full year already.

And with the things this year brought to my family, I am seeing this differently, more somberly. The sudden loss of a child. No warning, no nothing. Yes. I've seen it much closer now--through the eyes of my own mother and father--in three dimensions and in highest definition.

Yes, it has been an entire year since Trayvon Martin was gunned down with a pack of Skittles and no weapons in his pocket. And yes, it was a big story in the media last year. But this year, more than ever, I know that when it was all said and done, he was somebody's baby.

I won't be at any of the vigils this evening, but I did rock my hoodie today in his memory.

And tonight I will rock my own beautiful brown boys to sleep. . .  stroking their soft skin, smelling their little boy smell, strumming her pain with my fingers. . . . all in an effort to force myself not to forget that another mother under the same moon cannot.

***
Rest in peace, Trayvon. Please find my sister and tell her we miss her. (She'll be the one rocking the crocheted hoodie.)

Playing this beautiful song for my mother, Trayvon's mother, and for any mother who knows the unnatural pain of losing a child.


You can read my posts on the boy in the hoodie here and here.

Doing the doggone thang.

"Here I am baby
Signed, Sealed, Delivered, I'm yours
(You got my future in your hands)

Here I am baby
Signed, Sealed, Delivered, I'm yours
(You got my future in your hands). . "

~ from Stevie Wonder's "Signed, Sealed, Delivered"

 

Do you have any idea how it feels to sit on your couch and see and hear an African-American woman (with whom you can fully identify) speaking to the entire world with such poise and eloquence? Of course, you do. Because, unless you were under a rock, you were watching when this one did.

Now.

Imagine seeing and hearing this in 2012 as someone who looks like her. Imagine knowing that in your own parents' lifetime that a woman just like her would have been publicly called "nigra" or "gal" straight to her beautiful face. Which means I would have, too. Publicly (not cowardly-privately as is still done to this day.)

Look.

I do have some political opinions. I do. But that's not the point of this. The point is that this shows some evolution. This. An era where Michelle Obama can take the stage baring her fit arms and shaking her beautiful hair (that you all have a better understanding of just how it got that way as readers of this blog) AND with Stevie Wonder (Stevie Wonder, y'all!) blaring in the background.

Wow.

Seeing her up there made me think of the day that I reflected on what it would have been like if I'd worked at Grady or been on the Emory faculty fifty years ago. If you read that post, you already know the answer to that: I wouldn't have been. Period. End of story. For one very simple reason that I happen to have in common with this woman pictured above.

And let's just be clear. This is not her first time on that stage. Yet  something about hearing her last night felt pivotal to me. Especially as one who looks like her. And no, she is not the first black woman to stand on a stage at the convention for a major political party. Even this year.

But.

She is the first one to take that stage this year that happens to be one with whom we can identify. And by we, I mean me. But honestly? Probably a whole lot more than me, too.

Now.

Let me just go ahead speak on this as one black woman who happens to be closely connected to many, many other black women. This woman is one that my friends and me and most sisters that I know personally can truly see pieces of ourselves in. She is our homegirl, our sorority sister, our girlfriend in the hair salon, our mentor, our double dutch buddy in the neighborhood, our style icon, our fellow mama, and our college classmate. She seems to be the one that most represents us. And while I really don't spend much time tearing down those reality housewives-slash-reality baby-mamas, I am putting my foot down and saying dammit, those black women do not represent me or any of my sista-friends.

No, they do not.

So let them entertain you. And sure, we'll admit that they entertain us (but mostly embarrass us) a little bit, too. But those women? Not a single one of them makes me stand to my feet and say, "Now that's what I'M talking about!"

No, they do not. But she did. Last night she sure did.

But I digress.

Look. I know that there's a whole world full of Michelle Obamas out there. Sisters with their terminal degrees who love their husbands and fight for their kids and try to get their exercise and who, as the sistas say, "do the doggone thang!" every single day. There is also a world full of Michelle Obamas who don't share her cocoa complexion or her educational accomplishments or even her marital status, but who identify with her "realness" just like I can.

So as for yesterday? All of us were proud. Every last Michelle Obama was on her feet and snapping her fingers. The short ones. The tall ones. The old ones. The young ones. The black ones. The white ones. And all the ones in between. 'Cause yesterday she did the doggone thang. Which pushes us to do it, too.

(Insert finger snap here.)

***
Happy Wednesday.

Now playing on my mental iPod. . . what Mrs. Obama came strutting out to the podium to. YAAAASSSSS!

What I think.

 "I am a Grady doctor. What do you think I think?"

That's what I said today to the man in the Subway lunch line who asked me what I thought about the Supreme Court upholding the Obama's signature health care law.

You know. The one that will grant millions of Americans better access to health care and improve overall public health? Yeah. That one.

He said it kind of smug-ish and confrontational-ish. Which annoyed the crap out of me.

Then when I gave him my response he returned it with a snort and a half upturned smirk.

Yeah, he did.

I started to bite and entertain that smirk. I started to go in on him and ask him how much his Brooks Brothers suit cost him and also how many times as a child he'd seen somebody cook up some crack cocaine in the same kitchen his mama cooked dinner in. I wanted to ask him how many grocery stores were in his neighborhood and, if there was one, what was the ratio between it and the liquor stores. I wanted to talk to him about how much money--no wealth--his family or even his friends' families had that went waaaay back to, like, I don't know. . .  a time when people worked for free to help with attaining said wealth.

But I didn't.

Instead, I just turned away from him and said, "Hey Marcus! You doin' alright today? I'll have the turkey on wheat--six-inch!"

Because that snort and that smirk were enough for me. Yeah, it was.

Look. I am not trying to get all political on this blog. Not today I'm not. Like him and some others, I make decent money and like keeping my money in my pocket just as much as the next person. And. I'm fortunate enough to have a job with benefits that affords my family health care.

Yet.

I realize that my position in life is only a little bit hard work and a lot of bit being blessed to be born when and where I was to the parents I have. I think poverty and poor health choices are complicated as hell. Way more complicated than just telling somebody not to get the crispy fried chicken sandwich over the grilled one. Or admonishing them to get water instead of sweet tea.

Look. I'm a Grady doctor. And I know that it isn't as simple as some want to make it. I also know that a whole lot about a whole lot in this country is messed up and unfair.

Messed up. And unfair.

 

And can I just say that I find this image above both disturbing and disappointing on more levels than I can even begin to impart here? Good, because I do.

So what do I think about all of this, Mr. Upturned-Smirk-on-Your-Face-in-Subway?

I think you and the people holding these signs need to come down to Grady Hospital so that you can meet a few people who tried to make good life choices and got sick anyway.

I also think that next time you order that ham sandwich combo in Subway, you should get the baked Lays instead of the regular ones, the six-inch instead of the twelve-inch, the wheat bread instead of white, and that you should go easy on all that mayonnaise and oil.

You should also hope you never lose that job that your badge indicated you are lucky to have--but if you do--and you keep on ordering like you ordered today in the Subway lunch line--things just might work out in your favor, too.



That's what I think.

***

Heard on rounds this morning. . . .

"Doctor. . .I don't want to die."

The patient? Not even thirty years old.

The concern? Valid.

Because, in this situation, it's a possible outcome. No matter what we do.

Damn.

***

I see you, too.

Wow. This picture speaks volumes--regardless of who you're down with politically. . . or how you feel about Al Green.

***
Happy Monday, y'all.

Needs assessment.

*Names and details changed to protect anonymity. . . .you know what's up.

Tell me more! Tell me more!

Grady Wards Fall 2011:

Finished up my history and physical exam of this ninety-something year old Grady elder and decided to make a little small talk.

"Mrs. Porter, are you from Atlanta?"

"Sho' is. Born and raised right here. Well, really more like Avondale, but you know tha's still Atlanta."

"Definitely."

"Been comin' to Gradys all my life. You know, back then Avondale was all colored."

"Is that right?"

"Sho' was. But it always was nice, you know?"

"Yes, ma'am. Avondale is still a pretty cool neighborhood if you ask me."

"Mmm hmmm.  It do pretty good."

"Children? Did you have any children?"

"All my kids they dead."

Thought about the fact that people who live to see their ninth decade may have to face the dreadful possibility of outliving their kinfolk. Put that on a post-it in my head to revisit later.

"I'm sorry to hear that, Mrs. Porter.  So. . .how many children did you have, ma'am?"

"Well. . .outta my own womb I had seb'm.  But then there was two more that I raised like they was mine so altogether tha's nine."

Took down the post-it and tried hard to get my head around outliving nine children. Realized I couldn't so put it back on the wall in my head for later.

"Wow.  That's amazing. Were the other two nieces or nephews? Or younger brothers and sisters maybe?"

"Oh, naw. They was from my husband. See, he had to chil'ren that wadn't with me in between them seb'm we had."

Wait, huh?

"Your husband had two children while. . . .uhh. . .okay."

Wasn't sure what to say next.

"Yeah. Two of our kids less than six months apart."  She laughed out loud like this was real, real funny.

At this point just sitting there confused. She kept on talking.

"See, when he was in the army, he had one baby by one lady and after the service he had another from this ol' nasty woman. You know them mamas wadn't no count so I went on and raised them myself. Sho' did. See, back then, womenfolk didn't get all bent outta shape 'bout stuff like that. Fightin' over they men and such. Naw. We jest welcomed 'em on in and took care of 'em like they was ours."

Please believe it--she was 100% serious. Do you hear me?

"You know 'cause a man got needs. And you know, depending on wha's goin' on with you and yo' body and such. . you know, like if you with-child and feelin' sick or still got the baby on the ninny a' somethin' like that you know? You ain't always up for no rompin' round.  But what can you do? A man got needs, baby."  Said this with a nonchalant shrug.

Loving. This. Story.

0_0

"Mmmm hmmm. They was some good kids, them two. Even if they didn't come out my own womb they was mine jest like all the other ones was. But they mamas?  Now tha's another story."

"So . . . you didn't really mind that your husband had babies with someone else even though you were married?"

"What you gon' do? Once the baby on the way what you gon' do but love it?"

I wasn't thinking about what I could do to the baby. Instead I thought of choice places to squarely stick my foot on said husband's body. Tried to get with what she said.  Hmmm. Okay, awww hell naw. Next I fixed my facial expression once it dawned on me that I was giving Mrs. P the hairy eyeball.

-_0

"Mmm hmmm. 'Cause see, a man got needs. And if you ain't up to meetin' his needs then tha's what happened 'fore they had all these ways to stop you from getting with-child. Nowadays I guess it ain't such an issue."

0_o

"Mmmm hmm. What other questions you won't to know?"

Smiling big and wide.  "That's all I really wanted to know for now."

"Okay, baby.  Now get on out my room so I can get me some sleep, hear?"

"Yes, ma'am."

And that was the end of that.

Sandy got that memo.

Moral of the story:


Ladies! Quit your belly-achin'! A man has needs. Needs, I tell you! 


*Uuuhhh, be right back.*

***
Happy Tuesday.


I have a feeling Sandy wasn't leaving her situation up to chance. . . I'm just sayin'.

The hands that prepared it.

image credit

"Bless this meal that we are about to receive. . .

. . .and the hands that prepared it. . . ."

____________________________________________________

"I know exactly why this happened, doctor."

"You do?"

This was the start of an exchange I had with one of my patients on rounds last week. A man in his ninth decade with a weathered face like dark tan leather but eyes with the innocent twinkle of an infant. He had just been hospitalized for worsening of his long-standing heart failure.  His complaints included the standard drill of a weak left ventricle--shortness of breath upon exertion, a "drowning sensation" when trying to lie flat, and ankles that looked exactly like they'd been padded with Play-dough.

"Too much salt.  That's what happened, I know. Too much salt."

"Wow. I appreciate your honesty," I replied while still holding the hand he'd used to greet me.  "Were you taking all of your medicines?"

"Yes, ma'am. I tekks my medicines like clockwork. But see I been moving a little more slow and with my arth-er-itis  my hands get to aching when I try to prepare a meal, see."

"Okay."

"Yeah, so I ain't been mekk-ing my own meals like usual, see.  See, normally? I cuts up and cleans my own greens, snaps my own peas, all that. All fresh. But I can't do all that so I been going over to the senior center. They got meals for the seniors over there, see. Jest three dollars."

"Hmmm."

"But, see, since they gots to mekk all that food for so many folk they gets it all from cans and such. They collards come out a can. They give you some soup, too. You know, 'cawse some of the seniors they can't chew so well."

"So you've been eating there a lot?"

"Every day. Tha's all I can do.  'Cawse my chil'ren don't live nearby. I mean, they see about me when they can, but not ev'ry day.  So thank God for that senior center or else I'd be goin' hungry."

"Hmmm, I hear you, sir. Sounds like they've been a big help." I pressed my lips together for a moment and looked down at his hands. "Your hands.  Tell me about your hands hurting you."

"Oh, well I was tekkin' some Aleves. But then my doctor say don't tekk no Aleves if you got heart failure 'cawse it can mekk your heart flare up. And look like she was right 'cawse my heart was backing up fluid when I was tekkin' them Aleves."

"Uh huh."

"But, see, them Aleves? They sho' knock that ol' Arthur back and put him in his place." He cackled and shook his head. "She, you know--my doctor--she said go on and tekk some Tylenol. But you know Tylenol don't do nothin'."

"So your hands started hurting you more?"

"Yes, ma'am. I tried some salve, too. That salve work on my knees but for the hands it ain't no count."

"I hear you."

"Yep. So my hands can't prepare my food. And the food I can get don't agree with my heart 'cawse is all salty. Not salt-shekker salty. Jest that salt that hide in it from the can, see.  That's why this happened."

"I think you are right, sir. I really think you have it exactly right."

And after that I just stood there for a few beats holding his hand in some kind of trance. Wondering what the hell I could do to help with this vicious cycle.  I rubbed my thumb over the lumpy and swollen joints of his fingers.  His knuckles rose and fell like the Rocky mountains and each finger sunk inward like a swaybacked horse.  I thought about his insight about what had happened and why he was hospitalized and marveled at how spot on he was.

"Is it okay if I examine you now?"

"Go right ahead, baby."

I smiled at him calling me "baby." It was the kind of "baby" that floats perfectly out of the mouths of elders and immediately wraps you in a cocoon of safety and love. Not that "baby" that's often preceded by "hey" that spews from the mouths of slimy dudes holding toothpicks between their teeth.

And so I carefully palpated his heart. I felt it leaping beneath my palm, pushing it back like some kind of bully in the lunch line. I lay my stethoscope down and heard the rhythmic galloping of the blood passing through his stiffened and dilated heart muscle. I inspected his neck veins and wasn't the least bit surprised to find them swollen like stuffed sausages--visible clear up to his earlobe. All of this done with him sitting almost fully upright, which wasn't exactly ideal but was the most comfortable position for him.

He took deep breaths for me as my scope traveled across his octogenarian back.  I tried not to notice a large blackhead that beckoned me to squeeze it; I quickly shook my head, closed my eyes and focused on listening to his lungs.  With each inspiration it sounded like bubbles being blown through a straw; this was why he couldn't lie flat and this was exactly what happens when a body that is sensitive to fluid gets too much salt.

"What is it about salt anyways?"  he finally asked as I mashed my finger into his doughy ankles.

"Salt is a bossy little leader and water is a total follower," I told him. "Wherever salt goes, water follows behind it. So if you get a bunch of salt in your body, the water wants to follow right behind it."

"Into your lungs and into your legs, right?" he added.

"Yep."

"And you might not know this, but into your scrotum-sack, too."

I chuckled out loud at that and nodded.  "The water follows gravity. If you are walking around and it's only a little extra fluid, it's just in your ankles. If you lie in bed then it could be on your backside or yes, even your scrotum-sack."

"Wheeeewwww-weeee. Whatchoo talkin' bout!" he exclaimed with a playful wince.

I found myself pausing again. Just standing there puffing one of my cheeks out like a child and not knowing what to do. I knew what to do in the short term, just not the long term.  Like, I could give him more diuretic to get some more fluid off of him, I could restrict his diet of salt in the hospital, and control his blood pressure--I knew that part. But as far as a longterm solution? That wasn't so easy.

The simple fact was that he had it right on. Food for masses almost always involves more sodium than somebody on a two-gram-per-day diet should have. And when that's the food that's keeping you from "goin' hungry" then honestly? What choice do you have?

Those knots and lumps on his eighty-something year-old hands had been earned. And he was right. No salve or over-the-counter pill was going to make them less stiff or less eighty-something years-old.

Damn.

"Sir?"

"Yes, baby?"

"Have you ever thought about. . .  not living by yourself?"

"No, ma'am. Not really. I likes to do for myself. Always have."

"Oh, okay."

Of course, he did. Who doesn't like (mostly) doing for themself that's full-grown? I wasn't sure what to say next, so I didn't say anything.

"Doctor?"  I looked up and noticed that sweet twinkle in his eyes again.

"Sir?"

"Don't worry. I'm 'on be okay, baby. Alright?"

I nodded while looking at him. Marveling still at his initial insight, but even more at this insight especially.

"I been through way harder than this, baby. Way harder."

I ran my hands over those pecan-colored Rocky mountains again wondering where they had toiled.  Next I caught a glimpse of his date of birth stamped on the wrist identification band--the early 1920's.  I thought about what all his hands have had had to fight since that decade and gave that hand a squeeze.  When I looked up again he was closing his eyes to catch a few winks.

"Alright then, sir," I said softly.  "I'll be back to see about you, okay?"

He didn't speak. He just squeezed my hand back and drifted to sleep.

***
Now playing on my mental iPod. . . . . by the great Bill Withers--"Grandma's Hands."

Rising to the occasion.

Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave

I am the dream and the hope of the slave

I rise

I rise

I rise

~ Maya Angelou "And Still I Rise"

On the first day of medical school, they had us all sitting in a lecture hall perched on the edges of our chairs at rapt attention.  Okay, maybe not everyone was "perched on the edges" but I can at least say we were engaged.

Because this was the start of the show. The lights were down and the curtain was up and finally the spotlight was on us.  This was it. That point where you officially get to transition from saying, "Yeah, I think I'm going to go to medical school someday" to a sho' nuff and bona fide declaration-- "I am a medical student." And it's kind of a big deal.

I remember that first day in an unusual amount of high def and detail.  A sage senior physician paced back and forth in front of the room.  His heavily starched and blindingly white coat had pristine cloth balls for button closures and his name was embroidered in an elaborate cursive above the left chest. His pockets were flat and empty with the exception of the one that held a fancy ink pen; it was as if everything he needed to know was stored perfectly in his brain. Finally, he stopped, freezing us all to stone statues like Medusa with his steely gaze. You could hear a pin drop.

"Your lives will never be the same." He spoke in this strong and deliberate tone; confident and with intention. Every syllable was enunciated as if a person on the front row needed to read his lips to get the message.  He pointed at all of us with his long index finger. "YOU are the result of what was, for many, a dream deferred. You. You are the result of hard work, you are the promise of what can be, and yes, you are the very definition of what will be. So, you see, young people. . . you owe it to more than yourselves to be excellent. You owe it to all of us and. . .  all of them."

Damn.

"Them." You know. . ."them." The "them" that couldn't go to medical school even if they wanted to or who were told that they'd never succeed if they did. Or even the "them" that did go to medical school, perhaps, but were treated unfairly by colleagues or who ironically died of blood loss after dedicating an entire career to the invention of the blood transfusion. Yep, "them."  The same "them" that had to eat in the kitchen or back on the porch when company came, and the very "them" that only counted as only 2/3 of a person for an embarrassingly long time in history. "Them." This was a lot of pressure to put on a twenty-one year old sorority girl. It's the first day of medical school and I already have to worry about not letting "them" down?

Damn. 

I guess I should share that I attended Meharry Medical College--one of the oldest historically African-American medical education institutions in the country. What this means is that, with very few exceptions, that message was being delivered to a group of promising young medical students of African descent.  For this reason, I think that senior physician with his perfectly pronounced words and with his espresso-colored complexion spoke so passionately because he'd been to the mountain top already and probably felt like he was looking into a back-to-the-future mirror.  And you know what? I remembered his speech from that day. It resonated with me because he was right. For many, this was the result of countless dreams deferred.  And I did owe it to myself and "them."

It's funny. For the last ten years, I have worked with medical students of every imaginable ethnicity. One thing I have learned for sure is that even though that message was being directed at a roomful of black future doctors, the lessons are both timeless and applicable to anyone of any race. Getting to the point of medical school, no matter who you are, is a dream come true for someone somewhere. And just like he said--yes, it is the result of some elbow grease and is swirling with promises for a future that someone somewhere only wishes they could know.

And so. This is how I approach all of the medical students with whom I work. Whether they are black, white, blue, green, short, tall, straight, gay, born here, born there, really young, really seasoned, outgoing, introverted, amazingly tri-lingual, or hopelessly uni-lingual. . . .  I tell them words quite similar to the ones I heard on my opening day.  . . .because we all have a "them."  I remind them that yes, this is a big deal, you being in medical school and yes, you do owe it to more than just you to make the most of it.

Oh yeah, I also say that even if your mama and your daddy are doctors, this medical education is yours, not theirs. You need to be the one handling it with care and you are only entitled to what you do from here forward. Not what they did. (But that doesn't mean you shouldn't let their expectation motivate you.)

Anyways.

Yesterday was the first day of school for our Class of 2015 (!) medical students. There they sat. . .  in a similar setting to me on my first day with the brightest of eyes and the bushiest of tails.  And sure, a few things were slightly different than ours back in June of 1992. . . . but those same truths were still self evident nearly twenty years later.

"You are the result of what was for many a dream deferred. You are the result of hard work, the promise of what can be, and the definition of what will be. So, you see, young people. . . you owe it to more than yourselves to be excellent. You owe it to all of us and all of them."

 In other words, rise.

*P.S.  And don't embarrass us either--or them. 

 ***
Happy Wednesday.

This made me cry this morning when I watched it. . . .now playing on my mental iPod.

Amazing.

 "Black don't crack."

~ Anonymous

On rounds this week. . . .

"Wait a minute. . . . I must be in the wrong room. I'm looking for somebody in their eighties. Pardon me for the interruption." Act like I'm leaving.

Flashes me a smile so sweet it gave me a cavity on the spot.  "You in the right room, baby.  You know I'm fixin' to make eighty-seb'm in a few more months." Sweetest little chuckle ever. Love it.

Playfully fold my arms and give her the hairy eyeball. "No way. Don't believe it." Reach over and check her wrist band. "Whaaat?" Chuckles even sweeter.

"Sho' is."

"You're in your eighties?"

Smoothing the covers over her legs. "Might even be in my nineties. . . . you know back then they ain't always keep track so good."

I smile and think of when my friend and fellow Grady doctor, Lesley M., told me last week that one of the Grady elders she saw wasn't sure of his age--"because they didn't count the barefoot years." Love the reference and wonder if her "barefoot years" were counted in that eighty-seb'm.  She looks skyward as if she's doing the math; then waves her hands and shrugs. "I says eighty-seb'm, but it may even be ninety. Who knows?"

This time we both chuckle. But hers is still sweeter. Especially the knee slap she added to this one.

I look at her and say exactly what I am thinking. "Amazing." Because it is. And she is.

"Tha's what I say every day. Amazing that the Lawd seen fit for me to be here this long. And you know, I do for myself, you know. Cooks, cleans, all that."

My mind wanders to my eighty-eight year old grandmother in rural Alabama who, like this patient, does for herself, too.  Again, I say exactly what I am thinking. "Amazing indeed."

"Is ain't it?"

Yes. Amazing that you were alive when there was a black Grady and white Grady and Martin Luther King, Sr. preaching around the corner at Ebenezer Baptist Church and when telegraphs were used instead of telephones. Amazing that somebody you know got sprayed with a fire hose and probably slapped across the face just for standing there. Even more amazing that despite that, you also turned on your cable TV in 2009 and saw a dapper young man of color sworn in as the president. Your president. President of the same country that houses this state that you were born and raised in--where a governor during your lifetime ran and won on the platform of "No, Not One!"--as in no, not one black child would integrate a school in the state of Georgia. Which, in the 1950's when all of that was going down, meant your kids.

Even if it is only eighty-seven counting the barefoot years, you've still seen a lot.

I shake my head and think, My, my, my. It bears repeating. "Amazing."

On to the business because I know I could do this part all day. And so, I get on with it. Ask my questions. Listen to her responses. Perform my examination. Review the plan. Laugh along the way. Grab all the wisdom and joy she spills all over the bed, the floor, and into my pockets. Loving every minute of her presence. Feeling her light shining. Decide to bask in it for a few more moments.

"So what's the key to being able to do for yourself at 'maybe-even-ninety?'"

"My mama always said keep your mind busy. And don't be lazy or idle. If you just set around and don't do no work, your mind go. I stays busy. I do stuff. Keep myself going. And mama also said don't be fred to work. Tha's what I mean by don't be lazy or idle."

Nod my head. Try to catch the wisdom between my fingers. Stuff that one in my sock for later.

Flash my penlight on her face. Squint my eyes. "So I have to ask an important medical question."

"What's that, baby?"  Face looks temporarily serious.

Inspect her face with the fluorescent light carefully. Raise one eyebrow. "There's a problem. I can't seem to find your wrinkles. Where are they?"

Gives me scolding but amused scowl. Then, looks around the bed playfully. Lifts the cover she just smoothed out. "Oh, dang! Musta left 'em at home!"

No--this time, really--sweetest chuckle ever.  Grab a little more of that joy to tuck in my top pocket for later.

Amazing, indeed.

::sigh::

Love it. Love her. Love this job.


***

Happy Tuesday.