Don't need no baggage.

US Rep. John Lewis, now

"People get ready, there's a train a comin'

You don't need no baggage, you just get on board

All you need is faith to hear the diesels hummin'

Don't need no ticket, you just thank the Lord."

~ from People Get Ready

This week was interesting. I saw the pendulum of life swinging back and forth. Light and then darkness. Highest highs chased down by low lows. But not so much in the sense of joy and pain or sunshine and rain, really.  Instead, this week I saw the most beautiful parts of humankind right beside the ugliest. It was simultaneously heartwarming and heartbreaking.

U.S. Representative and civil rights leader John Lewis came to speak at the boys' elementary school this week. The teachers were amazing and reflective in preparing the children for the visit. Those educators were brave in their discussions and those children were appropriately serious in learning of some of the darker parts of American history.

civil rights activist, John Lewis, then

One of the faculty from the boys' school said this in a blog comment:

"I teach at your children's school and today we have the honor of having US Representative John Lewis come to talk to the 3rd - 5th graders. In the computer lab this week I have been sharing with the students a little slice of Mr. Lewis' life and his role in the Civil Rights Movement.

It is not an easy thing to talk to 8, 9, 10 and 11 year old children about things that went on in our country not very long ago. It sometimes is literally difficult for me to talk about it without a catch in my throat.

However, like I tell my students, that to take the easy route and not talk about these things, these painful things from our history is to do a huge disservice and dishonor to the men and women who did stand up, who got arrested; got beaten; got killed so that our country could fully live up to its claim of being the land of the free."

Interestingly, the post that this faculty member commented on included this photo--in which I just noticed includes a young John Lewis on the left.

Another teacher told me that Mr. Lewis got down on one knee just like he was doing in this picture taken several decades ago. Yes, he kneeled down and connected with those kids in a way that moved her deep in her soul. It resonated with those third, fourth and fifth-graders, too.

Little did we know that he had so much practice.

And this was beautiful. That visit, the children, the lessons, the everything. Mr. Lewis giving a testimony as one of the living, breathing people that was there. Right there.

Mr. Lewis on the Edmund Pettus Bridge in Selma, Alabama.

Yes, he was there and now they were, too. Him and all of those educators determined to hold up the light and to keep that dark part of history in the past.

No, I wasn't there to personally hear Mr. Lewis, but I know that it was beautiful. I sure do. Beauty pulled out of the aftermath of ugly times. Beauty in humankind.

In this same week, I did something that I've never really ever had to do. I took down a blog post. No, not because I was thinking of having the story published somewhere or because I modified it in some way. I removed a post that felt cathartic to write and even more so to go back and reread. I had to because it revealed to me an ugly part of humanity that troubled me too much to walk straight through.

Many who come here often read the post to which I am referring; the story of this subtle yet painful racism that I perceived when scolded by a man in a pizzeria about the behavior of my children (and a group of others.) Not surprisingly, the story yielded a good number of comments from veteran readers and new readers. Some were in full agreement with my reaction to this man, and a few were not.

And the fact that some were not was cool with me. I even asked my friend Sister Moon what she thought of this and she said in so many words that as long as the person doesn't sound too crazy or offensive then yes, it's okay to not completely agree. (And those who read her, know she keeps it 100% realer than real.)

So I posted those comments right along with the others and responded with what came to my head and from my heart. But then something happened. I received a couple of other comments that weren't subtle at all and that could not--like my take on that man in the pizza parlor--be open to interpretation.

One referred to a photo of my children and said the they will be on their way to jail soon. Yes. Jail. This was the comment on a lighthearted post about banter between a 5 year old and 6 year old in the back of their mom's car. That they will soon be in a penitentiary. Because this, according to the quasi-anonymous commenter, was their destiny as black boys.

Yes.

Another suggested to me that the man in the pizza parlor was trying to teach me about social norms. The very social norms that, in his or her opinion, I had moved to a predominantly white neighborhood to partake in. (Forget the fact that I moved closer to my job.)  That person went on to say that by bringing our kids into that establishment, we robbed that environment of what many there pay to enjoy. And what I left my "own neighborhood" to get away from.

W-ow.

I got one or two other even more overtly offensive comments that I simply read once and then deleted. I realized that the post was obviously linked by someone somewhere and that this unusually ugly traffic was not doing my heart good. And this blog? I write it mostly to provoke thought and reflection-- but even more than that and along with that, I write it to celebrate humanity and human-kindness. Which almost always does my heart good.

Gag.

I know, I know. It sounds so sappy, right? But seriously? It's true. My usual party line when folks ask me about writing here is that "it's free therapy." I say that, but it's so much more than that. It's a place where we all show up with our brown skin, white skin, olive skin, thick skin, and our thin skin and feel alright. Where the believers rub elbows with the make-believers and the dis-believers, and where the elders pull up chairs right beside the teens.

It shrinks the world for me, too. When I read someone's comment and see words spelled like "favourite" and "realise" I smile big and wide. Realizing and realising that someone far away from me has something in common and that we are all so much more alike than we are different.

But those words I read this week. . . .oh, those nasty, venomous words. . . they fought hard to unravel that peaceful feeling and poison my mind. Troubling my waters and threatening me with some paranoia that I usually don't carry in my heart.

And so. I made a decision. I deleted every last one of those hateful comments. Then I tucked that post away in draft form. And yes, I know that the curious of you will want to either read the post (if you hadn't yet) or especially (hands rubbing together grubbily) see those comments word-for-word.

As for the latter, I assure you, you did not want to see those words. It would have done to you what it did to me. Left you with a feeling of dis-ease, akin to walking about with a hard pebble inside of your shoe. . . the kind of thing that makes doing something as everyday as walking feel uncomfortable and unnatural.

Yeah, like that.

Of course, I understand that people who leave comments behind a cloak of anonymity are. . .insert your favorite insult here. But still. They have hands that start up laptops and type over them just like me. Which means they exist and have feelings and beliefs and opinions.

Opinions such as:

"They got one foot in the penitentiary already, all they need is saggy pants."

Yep.

Sorry for putting that pebble in your shoe. But today? I'm shaking it right out. 'Cause me? I don't need no baggage. No, I don't.

And.

I just have to believe that human beings are inherently good. I just have to. Even if I am wrong about that, I have to hold that belief in my chest pocket as the gospel.

To survive, I must.

So I've said it before and will say it again: thank you for reading. Thank you for helping me to keep these beliefs in my grasp -- that human beings are more alike than different, and that yes, there is still human-kindness nestled deep down inside of humankind.

Yes, there is.

And you know?  That's my favorite part of it all. (And my favourite part, too.)

That's all I got today.

***
Happy Friday.

Now playing on my mental iPod. . . . . Zachary's favorite, favourite version of this song. (Curtis Mayfield, second place and Eva Cassidy, third.)

Reflection on a Tuesday: Black and White

pt. names, details, etc. changed . . . you know the deal, man
a "black and white" cookie, Brooklyn style

_____________

"Sir, I know that was a lot of information. I just want to be sure I did a good job explaining to you, okay? Can you tell me why we said you were in the hospital?"

"Sure, Miss Mannings. Y'all said I got pneumonia in my chest but then when you looked closer you saw a spot, too. Since I smoke, you want to be sure that it ain't more than just pneumonia and not something like a. . .cancer?" He smoothed the covers out over his long legs and rested his pecan colored arms on top of the blanket. His cheeks were covered with a smattering of moles and skin tags, likely from years of working out in the sun doing construction.

I drew in a deep breath. "Yes, sir. That's correct." I felt the need to make it sound less daunting. "But we aren't saying that what we saw looks exactly like cancer either, sir. I admit it was concerning." Great, now I'm backpedaling. "I mean, it's just that it's important to be sure, sir. That's why we are having you get that test by the pulmonologists or lung doctors. Do you remember what I said that test was?"

"You talking 'bout that test with the camera down your throat?"

I wished that his graphic description wasn't spot on, but it was. His wise sixty-something year old eyes didn't look the least bit fazed by the idea of something sounding so noxious as a "camera down your throat." Again, I wanted to dampen it a bit. "Umm, well. . .you know they do make you drowsy for the test and then carefully put this very small tube with a camera on it through your mouth to get to your windpipes. That's how they are able to see inside your lungs."

"Right. Down your throat, and then they stuff it in your breathing tube. That man said it's like a tree that they look down all the branches of. As I thank of it, I'm guessin' sometimes it ain't nothin' but leaves when they look, but sometimes it's something else growing on the tree that ain't 'posed to be there. Like cancer." He let out a nervous laugh.

I couldn't argue with his accurate description, and was admittedly quite impressed with the metaphor he used. The timing couldn't have been better--we had just had a lecture earlier that week on "Health Literacy" that was really driving home the importance of making certain that our patients understand what we are doing and saying. The lecture emphasized the need to say things in black and white, instead of chartreuse and celadon. Even though the plan itself wasn't that great for him, this was an example of a successful "teach back." The team listened quietly and seemed to acknowledge this as a teachable moment.

I turned toward the team and said, "It sounds like Mr. Chambers has an excellent understanding of what's going on with him!" I looked over at the patient and smiled. He returned the expression, but shortly after furrowed his brow and turned his lips to the side. Something was puzzling him. "Wait, Mr. Chambers--did I speak too soon?"

He chuckled and said, "Naw, I know what y'all doin' today. This my body. . .shoooot. . . you know I'm gon' know when it come to my body!" But then he narrowed his eyes and looked like his wheels were turning again. It was confusing.

So then I remembered the other health literacy guru tip that often gets forgotten. Instead of asking folks "do you have any questions," you pose the question the way I asked Mr. Chambers:

"Sir, what questions do you have for us?" I gestured to the medical student, Ania, who'd been carefully doting over him throughout his hospitalization.

I felt pretty sure that he would have at least one, especially with that puzzled expression he kept offering me. I was right.

"I don't have no questions for her," he spoke firmly while pointing directly at Ania the way Zachary points at Isaiah when I ask who did something, "but I DO have questions for you, Miss Manning."

I felt relieved that he was willing to ask what was obviously becoming a pressing question. "Okay, Mr. Chambers, go right ahead."

He stared at me for a few seconds like he was deciding on a Final Jeopardy answer, and finally broke the silence by saying, "Miss Manning, are you black or white?"

I raised my eyebrows in surprise and looked over at Ania who immediately blushed, initiating a domino effect with the rest of my all fair-skinned team.

Now here's the deal: I am not offended by this question, nor are my feathers ruffled in the least when it is asked--but the thing is that I usually see it coming. (See this post about Grady and the race to determine my race.) Furthermore, it always amuses me since when I look in the mirror, I see a black woman looking me squarely in the eye, albeit one with freckles.

"Am I black or white?" I repeated for clarity.

"Yeah. What are you?" He looked at me as if this were not a not-so-PC way of asking such a thing. For him, obviously it wasn't.

"What do you think I am?" My team couldn't figure out if I was embarrassed, amused or what. They shifted on their feet, somewhere between uncomfortable and intrigued.

He studied me for a few minutes and then said, "I was thankin' you was black, but I don't know. You sound black. If you ain't black, you sho' sound black."

My team was now crimson. I laughed out loud to lighten things up and let the team know that I was okay. "Okay, so here's the deal, Mr. Chambers. . .my mama, she's black and my daddy, he's black. Does that help?"

Instead of thinking this was cute, he sat there thinking as if I was Rumplestiltskin asking him to guess my name. He tapped his finger on his lip and sighed. Still in Final Jeopardy mode. I knew I'd need to let him off the hook.

"Mr. Chambers, I'm actually black." He nodded his head like that's what he was going to say and smiled. "Was there a reason you wanted to know this?"

"Honestly, doc? I was just curious. I just be wantin' to know stuff like that and I get real curious, and you seem cool so I figured I could ask."

"Does it make a difference to you? I mean, are you okay with a black doctor and . . .the rest of our doctors?" I nodded my head to Polish Ania, Taiwanese Emily, and the rest of our team of varied European descent.

"Oh yeaaaaaah," he laughed in the most unassuming way ever. "Don't matter what y'all is. I just be wantin' to know little stuff like that, tha's all. All y'all cool wit' me. Black, white, blue, whatever!"

Nice.


So that was that. My patient who might have a primary lung cancer--a possibility that he fully understood--did have a question indeed. It wasn't the kind of question I expected but that's what happens when you ask, "What questions do you have for me?" -- and that's what happens when you have the distinct pleasure of working at a place like Grady Hospital.

Elevator Observations Part V: Say it LOUD!

Grady elevator, courtesy of the iPhone
_____________________________________________________________

I stepped on the 'A' elevators at Grady which had arrived unusually fast this particular morning. Nice. A few moments later, a thirty-something year old woman reached into the door before it closed then looked at me and smiled. I glanced back at her and and nodded as the doors met and closed. She looked down in her purse to retrieve her ringing cell phone and I noticed a tattoo of a rose on her neck, barely discernible against her dark brown skin.

I briefly wondered about how one makes the decision to permanently ink the neck as opposed to some other more concealed area.

Hmmm.

Like, did she wake up one day and say to her best friend, "Yeah, girl, I'm gonna tattoo my neck today!" and then did the friend give her a hi-five and say, "Yeah, girl that'll be hot!" Hmmm. Okay, I digress. (These are the important things I allow myself to think about on the Grady elevators. )

Opted to drop this question and mind my own business (as Harry often suggests I should do.) After we selected our respective floors, I refocused my attention to checking email on my iPhone. When my elevator companion ended her phone call, I could feel her giving me the once over. There was no way this ride would take place in complete silence.  

Sigh. Here we go.

" 'Xcuse me, doc. . .you mind me askin', what are you?"

For most people that would seem like a weird question, but it wasn't to me. This question was in no way foreign, and I knew exactly what she meant. "What are you?"-- as in, what is your nationality, your origin, your background, your race? Many folks reading this have never, ever had such a query come their way. . . . . but me? Please! I didn't even flinch.

So I bet you are wondering. . . .who does that? Who randomly steps on an elevator and asks a person something like that? It's not even something that one would even think to ask a friend, let alone a perfect stranger. So really, like who does that? I'll tell you who. My people, that's who.

That's right, I said it. My people. Black folks. There is something inherent in many of us (black folks, that is) that makes us want to determine with as much quasi-accuracy as possible someone's lineage and genetic makeup. Case in point, conversation in a predominantly African-American hair salon somewhere in the United States:

"What is Mariah Carey?"

"I'm pretty sure she's biracial."

"Are you sure? I thought she was Hispanic."

"Naw. Her momma is white and I think her daddy is black."

"Uh uh! You thinking about Halle Berry!"

"Really? I'm gonna Google it." (Pulls out her laptop under the hair dryer.)

"Let me know, girl, 'cause that don't sound right."

"I'm telling you, I'm right. You just confused 'cause she keeps it real mysterious. I think she's on some 'Tiger Woods' stuff."

"Still don't sound right to me. I thought she used to date Derek Jeter."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Isn't he Puerto Rican?"

"You thinking about A. Rod."

"Oh yeah. . . . what is Derek Jeter anyway?"

Perhaps it goes back to the dilutional mixing pot that African-Americans' genetic make up was subjected to during the centuries of slavery and beyond. . . . .or back to the turn of the century when some folks did their best to "pass" and when others were shunned by their own people for looking too African. Who knows? I can tell you this, though--in the nearly one hundred times that I have been asked that question, ninety nine of the times, I was asked by someone of my same culture--an African-American. So here's the deal. The "what are you" question really is code for, "You kinda look Black, but I'm not one hundred percent sure. What are you? Latina? Indian? Biracial? From the Carribbean? Ethiopian? Erytrean? Damn! What are you?"

Maybe since I understand the complexity of this innate curiosity, I never feel offended. Sometimes my standard one word answer--"Black"--isn't enough. This day was one of those times.

"Are you like, regular black?" Loaded question.

No, I'm not kidding. That was what she said next. And so I offered her what has become my standard follow up answer, "I'm from L.A. and my folks are from Alabama. I guess I am regular black."

"You look like you got something in you. That's why I asked." Of course.

I find this whole thing amusing, especially since it is my very own people that can't seem to place their finger on my origin. Perhaps it is the freckles or the texture of my hair (depending on the day and the weather.) When I was in residency, I wore my hair a bit longer, and got this question far more frequently. Back then, it was (still my own people) asking me if I was "Indian" or "Arab." And you guessed correctly--no one Indian or Persian ever mistook me for one of their own.

Me, as a resident of ambiguous origin, circa 1999

Once I cut all my hair off into my current shorn coiffe, it shifted to this more nonspecific thing. Sometimes the person, usually a patient, will just sit there squinting at me while I talk. They hear the "sista" in my voice, but still can't be sure. Kind of like the way you speak to someone over the telephone, and from the tone of their voice get a suspicion that they may be African-American. (Admit it, you do it.) I can always tell when it's about to happen, too. I can see a "what are you" coming a mile away.

Unlike my experience during residency, I have encountered a few folks in Georgia who have gone so far as to speak another language altogether to me, particularly Amharic (a language spoken in Ethiopia.) One guy at a parking garage let me park for free after greeting me by saying, "Salam!" I'm pretty sure that it was because he thought I was from his country. Another woman pulled into a gas station and asked me directions in Amharic, and when I told her I wasn't Ethiopian, she then incredulously replied with a heavy accent, "Wow! You look like my people!" Yeah, I get that sometimes.

True colors

Last month when I was on Grady wards, one elderly black patient kept referring to Adaeze A., my Nigerian-American intern, as her "colored doctor." Nobody ever seemed to hear her say it but me. She slid it in nearly five times before I just had to say something. Finally one day when we were rounding, I asked our patient, "Wait, what did you call her?" I gestured to Adaeze.

"My colored doctor," she proudly answered with a warm and toothless smile. This was in no way meant to be offensive. My late great auntie Mac used to refer to folks as "colored" and didn't think a thing of it. This patient was no different. It was simply an eighty-five year old black woman who happened to be born and raised in the southern United States doing her best to describe the young doctor who saw her every morning.

I looked over at Adaeze, my intern, and raised my eyebrows. Fortunately, she took it all in stride. Adaeze smiled and said to the patient, "Awww, come on, Mrs. S! You know folks don't say 'colored' anymore!"

Mrs. S. shrugged and smiled. There was no way she was changing her descriptor for an entire race of people after eighty-five years. Forget it.

"So, wait a minute, Mrs. S--what does that make me then?" I playfully quipped. She cocked her head sideways and gave me the "what are you" squint.

"I'm not sure what you is," she said initially--but then I think the "sista" in my voice resonated with her a bit. "Now that I thank about it, I thank y'all is both my colored doctors. And I love y'all." She looked around the room at the rest of the team--a variety of nationalities represented--Caucasian, Indian and Persian, flanking the foot of the bed. "I love all y'all." Love that. Colored or not.

"Say it loud. . . .I'm Black and I'm Proud!" -James Brown

Ironically, no white person has ever investigated the background of my DNA nor have they ever mistaken me for not being black. (I'm just saying.) Either way, the best part of all of this is that I love being the occasionally somewhat undiscernable black woman that I am, I really do. And I'm one person who doesn't need James Brown to nudge me with his battle cry. I'm proud of who I am. Even the parts of my culture that make me shake my head and say, "Lawd have mercy, chile!"

Honestly, I love the richness of every culture, love learning about other cultures, and celebrating them all. It's tempting to lose who you are by trying to assimilate, especially in a field like medicine. . . but that's just too much work. By not watering down who I am, I blur those lines that separate my race from the next just a little more. Being true to my roots around those who befriend me welcomes them to know more than just what they see on TV or read in magazines about black people.

Just as my friend Lisa B. teaches me Yiddish and all about her Jewish culture, I have no shame in sharing with her all that is unique to my African-American roots. Hey and now, the beauty in it is that when I see an overflowing stack of laundry, I now say "Oy vey!" and when she realizes that nobody did the dishes, she says, "Aww, hell no!"


Okay, but back to the chick on the 'A' elevator. . . .the real thing that should have immediately clued her, and each and every person of color who EVER asks me the "what are you?" question, that I am indeed black is this:

1. I was 0% offended by the question, and
2. I actually knew what the hell she was asking!

Me and my "sistafriends" (present and former Grady doctors) of several hues

The Godfather of Soul concurs, circa 1968