Tangential Tales and Teachable Moments.

 My dad as an Omega Psi Phi fraternity pledge marching on "the yard" at Tuskegee University, Fall 1962

(He's the one at the end of the line!)

_________________________________________

"Don't assume anything in medicine. Just because something or someone looks a certain way, doesn't mean it is or they are. Sometimes the reality can amaze you. 
Trust me. You have to dig a little deeper."

This is what I told a group of our medical students recently at Grady.


Eh.

That's what the look they gave me conveyed. They either weren't getting my point, weren't feeling my point, or both. The context was about how patients might appear disheveled or put together but they totally aren't what you thought. Or how they might look like they speak another language or will relate to something, but they don't. (Like when one of my fellow Grady doctor friends was in the Clinica Internacional and began hablas-ing in espanol to a woman with a latin surname--who spoke ingles solamente. Yeah.)  Don't assume anything, I told them. You have to dig deeper.

Eh again.

Tell y'all what. I'll provide an example. An example of how something seems one way but isn't.

Ah hah.

Now I had their attention. Woo hoo! Campfire time! By now, the medical students who work with me know that I'm always good for a story that has virtually nothing to do with medicine. Somehow, I get around to the point I'm trying to make.

Eventually.

Here's what I told them about which, hand over heart, is 100% true:

Fall 1988. . . (insert wiggly hands taking you back in time with me here)

"The Yard" (aka the campus of historic Tuskegee University)

When I was a freshman in college at Tuskegee University, it was a whole new world. I was this L.A. girl transplanted to rural Alabama and, despite the fact that Tuskegee was our family's tradition, the culture shock for me was huge.

But.

There were a few "shocks" that weren't so bad about college. For starters, there were things like. . . no curfew and no parent asking you to clean up the kitchen or take out the garbage. No hairy eyeball if you wanted to eat pizza for breakfast or cereal for dinner.

And.

There were boys. College ones. Lots of them from all parts of the country and from all walks of life. Short ones, tall ones, fair-skinned ones, cocoa-colored ones, quiet ones, loud ones, New York-big-city-cool ones, Chi-Town-midwest-swagger ones, Caribbean-smooth ones, and Sweet-as-pie-Southern ones. Whoa.

Although I never thought of myself as boy crazy, I'm not blind. Say what you want--this was a feast for freshman eyes for sure.

School Daze. . . .

During the fall semester of my freshman year, there were several fraternities and sororities going through the process of initiating new members. At historically black schools (back then), the pledges rose early in the morning and marched across the campus in a line singing like soldiers running through a military base. Their voices would ring over the entire yard as the sun was rising. We'd run to our windows, throw them open, and peer down on perched elbows. Especially at the boys.

Aaaaahh.

My favorite part was when they would reach each residence hall and then greet us each morning. The "dean of pledges" would hold up his or her hand and in the most important way ever, give them permission to speak. We'd already be packed in our windows with rollers in our hair and scarves on our heads waiting to hear them say:

"GREETINGS! MOST DISTINGUISHED, BEAUTIFUL AND INTELLIGENT LADIES OF FREDERICK DOUGLASS HALL!"

"Hey y'all!" we'd all coo and wave back (at the fraternities, that is.) When the sorority girls came around, we'd be so intimidated that we'd just sit there as frozen voyeur statuettes. One person would always accidentally say hi, followed by the sound of crickets. (We all knew that sorority pledges became sorority members, and that overexuberant speaking now could become an issue later.)

Now. Back to the boys.

There was this one pledge. Aaaah. I'd nearly break my neck getting out of bed to see his pledge line when they'd come singing up that hill on the side of my dorm. He was this dreamy, pecan colored Southern guy with ginormous dimples and unbelievable eyelashes. The first time I'd ever seen him was with his pledgebrothers walking solemnly in a line along the side of my Biology 101 class. In addition to being completely mesmerized by all of the Greek buzz that semester, I could not wait to catch a glimpse of this beautiful stranger any chance I got.

For background purposes, you need to understand how historically black greek letter organizations worked during that time. After at least one year of college and several hoops to jump through with trying to get to know the organization's members, finally (if you were lucky) you'd "make line" or get the chance to be initiated. Anyways, this meant that Cute-Pledge was at least a sophomore or junior which, to my freshman eyes, made him seem just that much more interesting and mysterious.

Okay, so literally, for six weeks, I would gasp and punch my roommate's arm every time we saw them  (read:him) walking along the campus dressed identically. Or sitting in the cafeteria with their exaggerated grimaces and shaved heads. Or quietly perched like statuesque ducks in a row as their big brothers poked fun at them in front of all us onlookers.  And because he was a "lowly" pledge, throughout this whole time, I never once heard him talk. It made him just that much more interesting-er mysterious-er.

My crush grew exponentially.

One evening, my friends and I were sitting in our dormitory watching TV.  Suddenly, we heard horns honking all over the campus and people screaming. Someone burst into the TV room and announced,

"THEY CROSSED!!! THEY CROSSED!!! COME ON!!! THEY'RE UP ON THE YARD DOING THEIR PROBATE SHOW NOW!!!! HURRY UP!!!!! WE'RE MISSING IT!!!!!"

"crossed:"  term used to describe someone making initiation into a historically black fraternity or sorority; refers to a process called "crossing the burning sands" into membership.

"probate show:"  a performance put on by new initiates of historically black fraternities and sororities

We sprinted out of the dorm as fast as we could, elbowing our way through the crowd to do our best to see. There were people everywhere. I'm talking folks in trees, sitting on shoulders, standing on cars--you name it (which believe it or not, still happens regularly to this day on black college campuses when new initiates storm their college campuses on their crossing night.) And right there in the thick of it all, was Mystery-Cute-Pledge turned Mystery-Cute-Frat Boy.  And with his new found swagger--stepping and chanting amongst his newly minted fraternity brothers-- my fascination inched up two more notches.

Later on that week, I'd see him from afar and stare waaaay too hard. Smiling all easy with his brand-spanking-new fraternity paraphernalia on and navigating through his new-found notoriety with the girls. If he got within two feet of me, I'd nearly become incontinent from the nervousness, so would somehow manage to get away before he actually spoke to me. Then, one day, something happened.

I was with three of my freshman girlfriends from my dorm hall and we'd decided to go to this fraternity party (the same fraternity as Mystery-Cute-Pledge-turned-Frat Boy.)  It was completely packed in the party, but the music was great and the energy was high. We danced and laughed in the corner when suddenly, I turned around and there he was. Him. Mystery-Cute-Pledge-turned-FB standing directly in my line of sight. Looking. Right. At. Me.

Gaaahhh!

I looked around from side to side. OMG. Nope. He was looking at me.  Then. He started walking towards me.  Thump-thump, Thump-thump. My heart was about to jump out of my chest. Finally, he was standing right in front of me. My roommate was pinching my back so hard, I thought I'd faint. Thump, thump. Thump, thump. Feeling lightheaded.

He gave me this big, flirtatious smile. Oh. My. Good. Golly. Please don't lose continence. Please don't lose continence. Those dimples sunk straight into my heart and turned my legs into noodles. I could not believe this. I could not.

I had played this out in my head a few times before, but more as a daydream during my Biology lab. Him floating up to me with a big, romantic grin complete with the whitest teeth ever -- ting! What would he say? Something suave and debonair a la Billy Dee Williams in "Mahogany?" Something shy and sweet like . . . .errr. . .somebody shy and sweet?  Maybe he'd just present a single rose or pay me a compliment. Either way, I was having full on palpitations. . . .

He leaned in so that I could hear him. Wow. Wow. Wow. Could not. Believe this.  A whiff of his cologne wafted by my nose. Okay, a slightly heavy application of . . wait. . Stetson cologne? But still. Wait. Is he wearing dress shoes without socks?  Errr. Okay. I can ignore that. Because. He's adorable. And he's standing here. Ready to talk to me. Me, the freshman. The freshman who had the ginormously ginormous crush on him for the past eight weeks.

He licked his lips. . . .placed one hand on the wall beside me. . . .and then. . . .he said over the crowd:

 "So . . .uuuhhhhhh. . . . .WHATCHO' NAME IS?"

Yes. Those were the words-- exactly, verbatim that my mysterious, sweet super crush spoke to me for the first time.  No exaggeration. Wait. I take that back.

"WHATCHO NAME IY-YUUH?"

That's more exactly how he said it. In a high-pitched, nasal, almost scary southern drawl-y, milquetoast-y voice, no less. Waaaaaahh!

You are so not my husband. Ugggh. What a let down. (In hindsight, I think the whole being dressed alike thing masked some questionable fashion sense, I'm just saying.)

So much for my big white wedding at twenty-one years old in the University Chapel. 

"Whatcho name iyyuh?" Really? Really. Worst pickup line ever. Ever. Oh, and for the record: Tuskegee alums, I refuse, do you hear me? Refuse to confirm the exact identity of mystery-cute-pledge-turned-mystery-cute-frat-boy-turned-overwhelmingly-disappointing-nonfuture-husband. And considering the fact that as a freshman I had a major crush nearly every two seconds, it could literally be anyone. So don't try to figure it out. And don't ask.

Wait. . .what was the point of this story again? 

Oh well, I can't quite remember. But it is a great story. . .and at least I have the medical students' attention now.  Ah hem. Let's talk about community-acquired pneumonia now, shall we?

Spike Lee's "School Daze" - This captures (in a Hollywood kind of way) what 

life was like for me as a freshman at a historically black college in 1988.
Watching this floods me with warm nostalgia, and probably anyone else who attended an HBCU. 

Back on "the yard" at Tuskegee University for my own Delta Sigma Theta sorority reunion in 2008
(not yelling back at those sorority girls paid off)

Everybody has a story. . . .

Ever drive down a major street in a large metropolitan city and witnessed someone erratically walking by with that dazed, drug-addicted look in their eyes? Or better yet, have you ever encountered someone who was giving you this long, drawn out story about how their car broke down, etc. and if only you could give them $5, it would be okay. . . .yet you know from the vacant look on their face that it is likely drugs? Yeah, well if you haven't then just take a trip to downtown Atlanta.

I see so, so many people whose lives have been ruined by drugs, particularly crack cocaine. The most disturbing part about it is that the majority of them look like me- black and female. It really, really sucks. . .and it can be really frustrating at times. But every now and then, I am reminded that every single one of the people I have met or cared for who uses crack cocaine has their very own story.

I was rounding recently and one of my patients, hospitalized for multiple things all of which were complicated by the fact that she was homeless and addicted to crack, had a sad look on her face that morning. When I asked her what was wrong, she gave me a half-hearted smile with a shoulder shrug and told me, "Today is my 30th birthday." Then I noticed this yellow legal pad on the tray table. She had scribbled down all about what she wished this day could be like instead and how much she wished her life could be different. We talked for a while, and I learned a lot about her. Then I thought about my 30th birthday. . . .a fabulous weekend laughing on South Beach with two of my good friends. . . .riding around in a convertible, basking in the Miami sun and sipping mojitos. . . .meeting my best friend, Lisa, in Atlanta afterward for even more celebrating. It was unforgettable.

As soon as I walked out of her room, I burst into tears. That happens to me more often than I should probably admit. (I keep waiting for this point in my career where I will become stoic and unaffected.) Crack cocaine is awful. It is a horrible, ruthless thief that robs young and gifted people of so much promise. And I see it every single day at work. Be glad if it has never occurred to you to try crack, and feel thankful if your family cherished you growing up. If that's your story, count yourself blessed. A lot of folks never even get a fighting chance- and if only they did, they might have gone on to do such great things. The late Keith Haring immortalized this truth in his art (pictured above), and Whitney Houston said it best in her latenight chat with Diane Sawyer- "Crack is wack." Talk about an understatement.


Anyways. . .the next time you see someone who clearly looks like they are "on something" just take a minute to ask yourself. . . "What's her story? How'd he end up like that? What are her talents? What did he want to be when he grew up?" And then, if that's your thing. . . .say a little prayer just for them. I know I do all the time. . . . . .


Like many of my unstably housed patients, this one went back to a downtown homeless shelter when she was discharged. . . . .where a large number of the folks there use crack. Damn.

*patient permission obtained to be subject of blog