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Management of race in psychotherapy and supervision
On the Friday evening after the public execution of George Floyd, we were painfully reminded of the urgency to address the inadequate management of race, racism, and anti-blackness in medical education, residency training, and postgraduate continuing medical education.
The reminder did not originate from the rioting that was occurring in some cities, though we could feel the ground shifting beneath our feet as civic protests that began in U.S. cities spread around the globe. Instead, it occurred during a webinar we were hosting for psychiatry residents focused on techniques for eliminating blind spots in the management of race in clinical psychotherapy supervision. (Dr. Jessica Isom chaired the webinar, Dr. Flavia DeSouza and Dr. Myra Mathis comoderated, and Dr. Ebony Dennis and Dr. Constance E. Dunlap served as discussants.)
Our panel had presented an ambitious agenda that included reviewing how the disavowal of bias, race, racism, and anti-blackness contributes to ineffective psychotherapy, undermines the quality of medical care, and perpetuates mental health disparities. We spent some time exploring how unacknowledged and unexamined conscious and unconscious racial stereotypes affect interpersonal relationships, the psychotherapeutic process, and the supervisory experience. Our presentation included a clinical vignette demonstrating how racism, colorism, and anti-blackness have global impact, influencing the self-esteem, identity formation, and identity consolidation of immigrants as they grapple with the unique form of racism that exists in America. Other clinical vignettes demonstrated blind spots that were retroactively identified though omitted in supervisory discussions. We also discussed alternative interventions and interpretations of the material presented.1-5
Because 21st-century trainees are generally psychologically astute and committed to social justice, we did two things. First, before the webinar, we provided them access to a prerecorded explanation of object relations theorist Melanie Klein’s paranoid-schizoid and depressive positions concepts, which were applied to theoretically explain the development of race, specifically the defenses used by early colonists that contributed to the development of “whiteness” and “blackness” as social constructs, and their influence on the development of the U.S. psyche. For example, as early colonists attempted to develop new and improved identities distinct from those they had in their homelands, they used enslaved black people (and other vulnerable groups) to “other.” What we mean here by othering is the process of using an other to project one’s badness into in order to relieve the self of uncomfortable aspects and feelings originating within the self. If this other accepts the projection (which is often the case with vulnerable parties), the self recognizes, that is, identifies (locates) the bad they just projected in the other, who is now experienced as a bad-other. This is projection in action. If the other accepts the projection and behaves accordingly, for example, in a manner that reflects badness, this becomes projective identification. Conversely, if the other does not accept these projections, the self (who projects) is left to cope with aspects of the self s/he might not have the capacity to manage. By capacity, we are speaking of the Bionian idea of the ability to experience an extreme emotion while also being able to think. Without the ego strength to cope with bad aspects of the self, the ego either collapses (and is unable to think) or further projection is attempted.6-8
We have seen this latter dynamic play out repeatedly when police officers fatally shoot black citizens and then claim that they feared for their lives; these same officers have been exonerated by juries by continuing to portray the deceased victims as threatening, dangerous objects not worthy of living. We are also seeing a global movement of black and nonblack people who are in touch with a justified rage that has motivated them to return these projections by collectively protesting, and in some cases, by rioting.
Back to the webinar
In anticipating the residents’ curiosity, impatience, and anger about the lack of progress, the second thing we did was to show a segment from the “Black Psychoanalysts Speak” trailer. In the clip played, senior psychoanalyst Kirkland C. Vaughans, PhD, shares: “The issue of race so prompts excessive anxiety that it blocks off our ability to think.”
We showed this clip to validate the trainees’ frustrations about the difficulty the broader establishment has had with addressing this serious, longstanding public health problem. We wanted these young psychiatrists to know that there are psychoanalysts, psychiatrists, psychologists, and social workers who have been committed to this work, even though the contributions of this diverse group have curiously been omitted from education and training curricula.9
So, what happened? What was the painful reminder? After the formal panel presentations, a black male psychiatry resident recounted his experience in a clinical supervision meeting that had occurred several days after the murder of George Floyd. In short, a patient had shared his reactions to yet another incident of fatal police use of force and paused to ask how the resident physician, Dr. A., was doing. The question was experienced as sincere concern about the psychiatrist’s mental well-being. The resident was not sure how to answer this question since it was a matter of self-disclosure, which was a reasonable and thoughtful consideration for a seasoned clinician and, certainly, for a novice therapist. The supervisor, Dr. B., seemingly eager to move on, to not think about this, responded to the resident by saying: “Now tell me about the patient.” In other words, what had just been shared by the resident – material that featured a patient’s reaction to another killing of a black man by police and the patient’s expressed concern for his black psychiatrist, and this resident physician appropriately seeking space in supervision to process and receive guidance about how to respond – all of this was considered separate (split off from) and extraneous to the patient’s treatment and the resident’s training. This is a problem. And, unfortunately, this problem or some variation of it is not rare.
Why is this still the state of affairs when we have identified racism as a major health concern and our patients and our trainees are asking for help?
Rethinking a metaphor
Despite calls to action over the last 50 years to encourage medicine to effectively address race and racism, deficits remain in didactic education, clinical rotations, and supervisory experiences of trainees learning how to do psychodynamic psychotherapy.8-10 Earlier that evening, we used the metaphor of a vehicular blind spot to capture what we believe occurs insupervision. Like drivers, supervisors generally have the ability to see. However, there are places (times) and positions (stances) that block their vision (awareness). Racism – whether institutionalized, interpersonally mediated, or internalized – also contributes to this blindness.
As is true of drivers managing a blind spot, what is required is for the drivers – the supervisors – to lean forward or reposition themselves so as to avoid collisions, maintain safety, and continue on course. We use this metaphor because it is understood that any clinician providing psychodynamic supervision to psychiatry residents, regardless of professional discipline, has the requisite skills and training.10-13
Until May 25, we thought eliminating blind spots would be effective. But, in the aftermath of the police killing of George Floyd, our eyes have been opened.
Hiding behind the blue wall of silence is an establishment that has looked the other way while black and brown women, men, and children have come to live in fear as a result of the state-sanctioned violence that repeatedly occurs across the nation. Excessive police use of force is a public health issue of crisis magnitude. However, the house of medicine, like many other established structures in society, has colluded with the societal constructs that have supported law enforcement by remaining willfully blind, often neutral, and by refusing to make the necessary adjustments, including connecting the dots between police violence and physical and mental health.
For example, racism has never been listed even in the index of the American Psychiatric Association’s (APA) Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders.14 Being the victim of police use of force is not generally regarded as an adverse childhood experience, even though communities that are heavily policed experience harassment by law enforcement on a regular basis. The 12 causes of trauma listed on the website15 of the National Child Traumatic Stress Network – bullying, community violence, complex trauma, disasters, early childhood trauma, intimate partner violence, medical trauma, physical abuse, refugee trauma, sexual abuse, terrorism and violence, and traumatic grief – do not include maltreatment, abuse, or trauma resulting from interactions with members of law enforcement. Much of the adverse childhood experiences literature focuses on white, upper middle class children and on experiences within the home. When community level experiences, such as discrimination based on race or ethnicity, are included, as in the Philadelphia ACES study,16 as many as 40% reported ACE scores of greater than 4 for community level exposures.
As psychiatrists, we recognize the psychic underpinnings and parallels between the psychic projections onto black and brown people and the actual bullets pumped into the bodies of black and brown people; there is a lurid propensity to use these others as repositories. Those who have the privilege of being protected by law enforcement and the ability to avoid being used as containers for the psychic projections and bullets of some police officers also have the privilege of compartmentalizing and looking the other way when excessive acts of force – projections and projectiles – are used on other human beings. This partly explains why the injuries and deaths of black and brown people caused by police officers’ excessive use of force have continued even though these unjustified deaths are widely televised and disseminated via various social media platforms.
Prior to the death of George Floyd on May 25, other than the American Public Health Association, the National Medical Association (NMA) was the only major medical organization to issue a call to consider police use of force as a public health issue. In its July 2016 press release, provided in the aftermath of the death of Freddie Gray while in the custody of Baltimore police officers, the NMA summarized the scope of injuries citizens sustain during “the pre-custody (commission of a crime, during a fight, chase, and apprehension, during a siege or hostage situation, or during restraint or submission), custody (soon after being admitted to jail, during interrogation, during incarceration, or legal execution), and post-custody (revenge by police or rival criminals or after reentry into the community)” periods. It is noteworthy that the scope of these injuries is comparable to those encountered in a combat zone.17,18 According to the NMA:
“Injuries sustained by civilians at the hands of law enforcement include gunshot wounds, skull fractures, cervical spine injuries, facial fractures, broken legs, blunt trauma orbital floor fractures, laryngeal cartilage fractures, shoulder dislocations, cuts and bruises, concussions, hemorrhage, choking (positional or due to upper body holds), abdominal trauma, hemothorax, and pneumothorax. Complications of such injuries include posttraumatic brain swelling, infections following open fractures and lacerations, hydrocephalus due to blood or infection, as well as subdural and epidural hematomas and, in the most severe cases, death.”
In addition, there are multiple emotional and psychiatric sequelae of these injuries for the victims, families, upstanders, bystanders, and those viewing these images via various social media platforms. Increasingly, many are experiencing retraumatization each time a new death is reported. How do we explain that we are turning away from this as physicians and trainers of physicians? Seeing and not seeing – all of the methods used to avert one’s gaze and look the other way (to protect the psyches of nonmarginalized members of society from being disturbed and possibly traumatized) – these key defense mechanisms creep into consulting rooms and become fertile ground for the enactment described above.
Yet, there is reason to believe in change. It’s not simply because we are mental health professionals and that’s what we do. With the posting of position statements issued by major corporations and a growing number of medical organizations, many of us are experiencing a mixture of hope, anger, and sadness. Hope that widespread awareness will continue to tilt the axis of our country in a manner that opens eyes – and hearts – so that real work can be done; and anger and sadness because it has taken 400 years to receive even this level of validation.
In the meantime, we are encouraged by a joint position statement recently issued by the APA and the NMA, the first joint effort by these two medical organizations to partner and advocate for criminal justice reform. We mention this statement because the NMA has been committed to the needs of the black community since its inception in 1895, and the APA has as its mission a commitment to serve “the needs of evolving, diverse, underrepresented, and underserved patient populations” ... and the resources to do so. This is the kind of partnership that could transform words into meaningful action.19,20
Of course, resident psychiatrist Dr. A. had begun supervision with the discussion of his dyadic experience with his patient, which is set in the context of a global coronavirus pandemic that is disproportionately affecting black and brown people. And, while his peers are marching in protest, he and his fellow trainees deserve our support as they deal with their own psychic pain and prepare to steady themselves. For these psychiatrists will be called to provide care to those who will consult them once they begin to grapple with the experiences and, in some cases, traumas that have compelled them to take action and literally risk their safety and lives while protesting.
That evening, the residents were hungry for methods to fill the gaps in their training and supervision. In some cases, we provided scripts to be taken back to supervision. For example, the following is a potential scripted response for the supervisor in the enactment described above:
Resident speaking to supervisor: This is a black patient who, like many others, is affected by the chronic, repeated televised images of black men killed by police. I am also a black man.
I think what I have shared is pertinent to the patient’s care and my experience as a black male psychiatrist who will need to learn how to address this in my patients who are black and for other racialized groups, as well as with whites who might have rarely been cared for by a black man. Can we discuss this?
We also anticipated that some residents would need to exercise their right to request reassignment to another supervisor. And, until we do better at listening, seeing, and deepening our understanding, outside and inside the consulting room and in supervision, more residents might need to steer around those who have the potential to undermine training and adversely affect treatment. But, as a professional medical community in crisis, do we really want to proceed in such an ad hoc fashion?
Dr. Dunlap is a psychiatrist and psychoanalyst, and clinical professor of psychiatry and behavioral sciences at George Washington University. She is interested in the management of “difference” – race, gender, ethnicity, and intersectionality – in dyadic relationships and group dynamics; and the impact of racism on interpersonal relationships in institutional structures. Dr. Dunlap practices in Washington and has no disclosures.
Dr. Dennis is a clinical psychologist and psychoanalyst. Her interests are in gender and ethnic diversity, health equity, and supervision and training. Dr. Dennis practices in Washington and has no disclosures.
Dr. DeSouza is a PGY-4 psychiatry resident and public psychiatry fellow in the department of psychiatry at Yale University, New Haven, Conn. Her professional interests include health services development and delivery in low- and middle-income settings, as well as the intersection of mental health and spirituality. She has no disclosures.
Dr. Isom is a staff psychiatrist at the Codman Square Health Center in Dorchester, Mass., and Boston Medical Center. Her interests include racial mental health equity and population health approaches to community psychiatry. She has no disclosures.
Dr. Mathis is an addictions fellow in the department of psychiatry at Yale University and former programwide chief resident at Yale. Her interests include the intersection of racial justice and mental health, health equity, and spirituality. She has no disclosures.
References
1. Mental Health: Culture, Race, and Ethnicity. A Supplement to Mental Health: A Report of the Surgeon General. Rockville, Md.: Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration, 2001.
2. Banaji MR and Greenwald AG. Blindspot: Hidden Biases of Good People. New York: Delacorte Press, 2013.
3. Anekwe ON. Voices in Bioethics. 2014.
4. Soute BJ. The American Psychoanalyst Magazine. 2017 Winter/Spring.
5. Powell DR. J Am Psychoanal Assoc. 2019 Jan 8. doi: 10.1177/000306511881847.
6. Allen TW. The Invention of the White Race. London: Verso, 1994.
7. Klein M. Int J Psychoanal. 1946;27(pt.3-4):99-100.
8. Bion WR. (1962b). Psychoanal Q. 2013 Apr;82(2):301-10.
9. Black Psychoanalysts Speak trailer.
10. Thomas A and Sillen S. Racism and Psychiatry. New York: Brunner/Mazel, 1972.
11. Jones BE et al. Am J Psychiatry. 1970 Dec;127(6):798-803.
12. Sabshin M et al. Am J Psychiatry. 1970 Dec;126(6):787-93.
13. Medlock M et al. Am J Psychiatry. 2017 May 9. doi: 10.1176/appi.ajp-rj.2016.110206.
14. Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, fifth edition (DSM-5). Arlington, Va.: American Psychiatric Association, 2013.
15. “What is Child Trauma?” The National Child Traumatic Stress Network.
16. The Philadelphia Project. Philadelphia ACE Survey.
17. “Addressing law enforcement violence as a public health issue.” Washington: American Public Health Association. 2018 Nov 13. Policy# 20811.
18. National Medical Association position statement on police use of force. NMA 2016.
19. “APA and NMA jointly condemn systemic racism in America.” 2020 Jun 16.
20. APA Strategic Plan. 2015 Mar.
On the Friday evening after the public execution of George Floyd, we were painfully reminded of the urgency to address the inadequate management of race, racism, and anti-blackness in medical education, residency training, and postgraduate continuing medical education.
The reminder did not originate from the rioting that was occurring in some cities, though we could feel the ground shifting beneath our feet as civic protests that began in U.S. cities spread around the globe. Instead, it occurred during a webinar we were hosting for psychiatry residents focused on techniques for eliminating blind spots in the management of race in clinical psychotherapy supervision. (Dr. Jessica Isom chaired the webinar, Dr. Flavia DeSouza and Dr. Myra Mathis comoderated, and Dr. Ebony Dennis and Dr. Constance E. Dunlap served as discussants.)
Our panel had presented an ambitious agenda that included reviewing how the disavowal of bias, race, racism, and anti-blackness contributes to ineffective psychotherapy, undermines the quality of medical care, and perpetuates mental health disparities. We spent some time exploring how unacknowledged and unexamined conscious and unconscious racial stereotypes affect interpersonal relationships, the psychotherapeutic process, and the supervisory experience. Our presentation included a clinical vignette demonstrating how racism, colorism, and anti-blackness have global impact, influencing the self-esteem, identity formation, and identity consolidation of immigrants as they grapple with the unique form of racism that exists in America. Other clinical vignettes demonstrated blind spots that were retroactively identified though omitted in supervisory discussions. We also discussed alternative interventions and interpretations of the material presented.1-5
Because 21st-century trainees are generally psychologically astute and committed to social justice, we did two things. First, before the webinar, we provided them access to a prerecorded explanation of object relations theorist Melanie Klein’s paranoid-schizoid and depressive positions concepts, which were applied to theoretically explain the development of race, specifically the defenses used by early colonists that contributed to the development of “whiteness” and “blackness” as social constructs, and their influence on the development of the U.S. psyche. For example, as early colonists attempted to develop new and improved identities distinct from those they had in their homelands, they used enslaved black people (and other vulnerable groups) to “other.” What we mean here by othering is the process of using an other to project one’s badness into in order to relieve the self of uncomfortable aspects and feelings originating within the self. If this other accepts the projection (which is often the case with vulnerable parties), the self recognizes, that is, identifies (locates) the bad they just projected in the other, who is now experienced as a bad-other. This is projection in action. If the other accepts the projection and behaves accordingly, for example, in a manner that reflects badness, this becomes projective identification. Conversely, if the other does not accept these projections, the self (who projects) is left to cope with aspects of the self s/he might not have the capacity to manage. By capacity, we are speaking of the Bionian idea of the ability to experience an extreme emotion while also being able to think. Without the ego strength to cope with bad aspects of the self, the ego either collapses (and is unable to think) or further projection is attempted.6-8
We have seen this latter dynamic play out repeatedly when police officers fatally shoot black citizens and then claim that they feared for their lives; these same officers have been exonerated by juries by continuing to portray the deceased victims as threatening, dangerous objects not worthy of living. We are also seeing a global movement of black and nonblack people who are in touch with a justified rage that has motivated them to return these projections by collectively protesting, and in some cases, by rioting.
Back to the webinar
In anticipating the residents’ curiosity, impatience, and anger about the lack of progress, the second thing we did was to show a segment from the “Black Psychoanalysts Speak” trailer. In the clip played, senior psychoanalyst Kirkland C. Vaughans, PhD, shares: “The issue of race so prompts excessive anxiety that it blocks off our ability to think.”
We showed this clip to validate the trainees’ frustrations about the difficulty the broader establishment has had with addressing this serious, longstanding public health problem. We wanted these young psychiatrists to know that there are psychoanalysts, psychiatrists, psychologists, and social workers who have been committed to this work, even though the contributions of this diverse group have curiously been omitted from education and training curricula.9
So, what happened? What was the painful reminder? After the formal panel presentations, a black male psychiatry resident recounted his experience in a clinical supervision meeting that had occurred several days after the murder of George Floyd. In short, a patient had shared his reactions to yet another incident of fatal police use of force and paused to ask how the resident physician, Dr. A., was doing. The question was experienced as sincere concern about the psychiatrist’s mental well-being. The resident was not sure how to answer this question since it was a matter of self-disclosure, which was a reasonable and thoughtful consideration for a seasoned clinician and, certainly, for a novice therapist. The supervisor, Dr. B., seemingly eager to move on, to not think about this, responded to the resident by saying: “Now tell me about the patient.” In other words, what had just been shared by the resident – material that featured a patient’s reaction to another killing of a black man by police and the patient’s expressed concern for his black psychiatrist, and this resident physician appropriately seeking space in supervision to process and receive guidance about how to respond – all of this was considered separate (split off from) and extraneous to the patient’s treatment and the resident’s training. This is a problem. And, unfortunately, this problem or some variation of it is not rare.
Why is this still the state of affairs when we have identified racism as a major health concern and our patients and our trainees are asking for help?
Rethinking a metaphor
Despite calls to action over the last 50 years to encourage medicine to effectively address race and racism, deficits remain in didactic education, clinical rotations, and supervisory experiences of trainees learning how to do psychodynamic psychotherapy.8-10 Earlier that evening, we used the metaphor of a vehicular blind spot to capture what we believe occurs insupervision. Like drivers, supervisors generally have the ability to see. However, there are places (times) and positions (stances) that block their vision (awareness). Racism – whether institutionalized, interpersonally mediated, or internalized – also contributes to this blindness.
As is true of drivers managing a blind spot, what is required is for the drivers – the supervisors – to lean forward or reposition themselves so as to avoid collisions, maintain safety, and continue on course. We use this metaphor because it is understood that any clinician providing psychodynamic supervision to psychiatry residents, regardless of professional discipline, has the requisite skills and training.10-13
Until May 25, we thought eliminating blind spots would be effective. But, in the aftermath of the police killing of George Floyd, our eyes have been opened.
Hiding behind the blue wall of silence is an establishment that has looked the other way while black and brown women, men, and children have come to live in fear as a result of the state-sanctioned violence that repeatedly occurs across the nation. Excessive police use of force is a public health issue of crisis magnitude. However, the house of medicine, like many other established structures in society, has colluded with the societal constructs that have supported law enforcement by remaining willfully blind, often neutral, and by refusing to make the necessary adjustments, including connecting the dots between police violence and physical and mental health.
For example, racism has never been listed even in the index of the American Psychiatric Association’s (APA) Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders.14 Being the victim of police use of force is not generally regarded as an adverse childhood experience, even though communities that are heavily policed experience harassment by law enforcement on a regular basis. The 12 causes of trauma listed on the website15 of the National Child Traumatic Stress Network – bullying, community violence, complex trauma, disasters, early childhood trauma, intimate partner violence, medical trauma, physical abuse, refugee trauma, sexual abuse, terrorism and violence, and traumatic grief – do not include maltreatment, abuse, or trauma resulting from interactions with members of law enforcement. Much of the adverse childhood experiences literature focuses on white, upper middle class children and on experiences within the home. When community level experiences, such as discrimination based on race or ethnicity, are included, as in the Philadelphia ACES study,16 as many as 40% reported ACE scores of greater than 4 for community level exposures.
As psychiatrists, we recognize the psychic underpinnings and parallels between the psychic projections onto black and brown people and the actual bullets pumped into the bodies of black and brown people; there is a lurid propensity to use these others as repositories. Those who have the privilege of being protected by law enforcement and the ability to avoid being used as containers for the psychic projections and bullets of some police officers also have the privilege of compartmentalizing and looking the other way when excessive acts of force – projections and projectiles – are used on other human beings. This partly explains why the injuries and deaths of black and brown people caused by police officers’ excessive use of force have continued even though these unjustified deaths are widely televised and disseminated via various social media platforms.
Prior to the death of George Floyd on May 25, other than the American Public Health Association, the National Medical Association (NMA) was the only major medical organization to issue a call to consider police use of force as a public health issue. In its July 2016 press release, provided in the aftermath of the death of Freddie Gray while in the custody of Baltimore police officers, the NMA summarized the scope of injuries citizens sustain during “the pre-custody (commission of a crime, during a fight, chase, and apprehension, during a siege or hostage situation, or during restraint or submission), custody (soon after being admitted to jail, during interrogation, during incarceration, or legal execution), and post-custody (revenge by police or rival criminals or after reentry into the community)” periods. It is noteworthy that the scope of these injuries is comparable to those encountered in a combat zone.17,18 According to the NMA:
“Injuries sustained by civilians at the hands of law enforcement include gunshot wounds, skull fractures, cervical spine injuries, facial fractures, broken legs, blunt trauma orbital floor fractures, laryngeal cartilage fractures, shoulder dislocations, cuts and bruises, concussions, hemorrhage, choking (positional or due to upper body holds), abdominal trauma, hemothorax, and pneumothorax. Complications of such injuries include posttraumatic brain swelling, infections following open fractures and lacerations, hydrocephalus due to blood or infection, as well as subdural and epidural hematomas and, in the most severe cases, death.”
In addition, there are multiple emotional and psychiatric sequelae of these injuries for the victims, families, upstanders, bystanders, and those viewing these images via various social media platforms. Increasingly, many are experiencing retraumatization each time a new death is reported. How do we explain that we are turning away from this as physicians and trainers of physicians? Seeing and not seeing – all of the methods used to avert one’s gaze and look the other way (to protect the psyches of nonmarginalized members of society from being disturbed and possibly traumatized) – these key defense mechanisms creep into consulting rooms and become fertile ground for the enactment described above.
Yet, there is reason to believe in change. It’s not simply because we are mental health professionals and that’s what we do. With the posting of position statements issued by major corporations and a growing number of medical organizations, many of us are experiencing a mixture of hope, anger, and sadness. Hope that widespread awareness will continue to tilt the axis of our country in a manner that opens eyes – and hearts – so that real work can be done; and anger and sadness because it has taken 400 years to receive even this level of validation.
In the meantime, we are encouraged by a joint position statement recently issued by the APA and the NMA, the first joint effort by these two medical organizations to partner and advocate for criminal justice reform. We mention this statement because the NMA has been committed to the needs of the black community since its inception in 1895, and the APA has as its mission a commitment to serve “the needs of evolving, diverse, underrepresented, and underserved patient populations” ... and the resources to do so. This is the kind of partnership that could transform words into meaningful action.19,20
Of course, resident psychiatrist Dr. A. had begun supervision with the discussion of his dyadic experience with his patient, which is set in the context of a global coronavirus pandemic that is disproportionately affecting black and brown people. And, while his peers are marching in protest, he and his fellow trainees deserve our support as they deal with their own psychic pain and prepare to steady themselves. For these psychiatrists will be called to provide care to those who will consult them once they begin to grapple with the experiences and, in some cases, traumas that have compelled them to take action and literally risk their safety and lives while protesting.
That evening, the residents were hungry for methods to fill the gaps in their training and supervision. In some cases, we provided scripts to be taken back to supervision. For example, the following is a potential scripted response for the supervisor in the enactment described above:
Resident speaking to supervisor: This is a black patient who, like many others, is affected by the chronic, repeated televised images of black men killed by police. I am also a black man.
I think what I have shared is pertinent to the patient’s care and my experience as a black male psychiatrist who will need to learn how to address this in my patients who are black and for other racialized groups, as well as with whites who might have rarely been cared for by a black man. Can we discuss this?
We also anticipated that some residents would need to exercise their right to request reassignment to another supervisor. And, until we do better at listening, seeing, and deepening our understanding, outside and inside the consulting room and in supervision, more residents might need to steer around those who have the potential to undermine training and adversely affect treatment. But, as a professional medical community in crisis, do we really want to proceed in such an ad hoc fashion?
Dr. Dunlap is a psychiatrist and psychoanalyst, and clinical professor of psychiatry and behavioral sciences at George Washington University. She is interested in the management of “difference” – race, gender, ethnicity, and intersectionality – in dyadic relationships and group dynamics; and the impact of racism on interpersonal relationships in institutional structures. Dr. Dunlap practices in Washington and has no disclosures.
Dr. Dennis is a clinical psychologist and psychoanalyst. Her interests are in gender and ethnic diversity, health equity, and supervision and training. Dr. Dennis practices in Washington and has no disclosures.
Dr. DeSouza is a PGY-4 psychiatry resident and public psychiatry fellow in the department of psychiatry at Yale University, New Haven, Conn. Her professional interests include health services development and delivery in low- and middle-income settings, as well as the intersection of mental health and spirituality. She has no disclosures.
Dr. Isom is a staff psychiatrist at the Codman Square Health Center in Dorchester, Mass., and Boston Medical Center. Her interests include racial mental health equity and population health approaches to community psychiatry. She has no disclosures.
Dr. Mathis is an addictions fellow in the department of psychiatry at Yale University and former programwide chief resident at Yale. Her interests include the intersection of racial justice and mental health, health equity, and spirituality. She has no disclosures.
References
1. Mental Health: Culture, Race, and Ethnicity. A Supplement to Mental Health: A Report of the Surgeon General. Rockville, Md.: Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration, 2001.
2. Banaji MR and Greenwald AG. Blindspot: Hidden Biases of Good People. New York: Delacorte Press, 2013.
3. Anekwe ON. Voices in Bioethics. 2014.
4. Soute BJ. The American Psychoanalyst Magazine. 2017 Winter/Spring.
5. Powell DR. J Am Psychoanal Assoc. 2019 Jan 8. doi: 10.1177/000306511881847.
6. Allen TW. The Invention of the White Race. London: Verso, 1994.
7. Klein M. Int J Psychoanal. 1946;27(pt.3-4):99-100.
8. Bion WR. (1962b). Psychoanal Q. 2013 Apr;82(2):301-10.
9. Black Psychoanalysts Speak trailer.
10. Thomas A and Sillen S. Racism and Psychiatry. New York: Brunner/Mazel, 1972.
11. Jones BE et al. Am J Psychiatry. 1970 Dec;127(6):798-803.
12. Sabshin M et al. Am J Psychiatry. 1970 Dec;126(6):787-93.
13. Medlock M et al. Am J Psychiatry. 2017 May 9. doi: 10.1176/appi.ajp-rj.2016.110206.
14. Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, fifth edition (DSM-5). Arlington, Va.: American Psychiatric Association, 2013.
15. “What is Child Trauma?” The National Child Traumatic Stress Network.
16. The Philadelphia Project. Philadelphia ACE Survey.
17. “Addressing law enforcement violence as a public health issue.” Washington: American Public Health Association. 2018 Nov 13. Policy# 20811.
18. National Medical Association position statement on police use of force. NMA 2016.
19. “APA and NMA jointly condemn systemic racism in America.” 2020 Jun 16.
20. APA Strategic Plan. 2015 Mar.
On the Friday evening after the public execution of George Floyd, we were painfully reminded of the urgency to address the inadequate management of race, racism, and anti-blackness in medical education, residency training, and postgraduate continuing medical education.
The reminder did not originate from the rioting that was occurring in some cities, though we could feel the ground shifting beneath our feet as civic protests that began in U.S. cities spread around the globe. Instead, it occurred during a webinar we were hosting for psychiatry residents focused on techniques for eliminating blind spots in the management of race in clinical psychotherapy supervision. (Dr. Jessica Isom chaired the webinar, Dr. Flavia DeSouza and Dr. Myra Mathis comoderated, and Dr. Ebony Dennis and Dr. Constance E. Dunlap served as discussants.)
Our panel had presented an ambitious agenda that included reviewing how the disavowal of bias, race, racism, and anti-blackness contributes to ineffective psychotherapy, undermines the quality of medical care, and perpetuates mental health disparities. We spent some time exploring how unacknowledged and unexamined conscious and unconscious racial stereotypes affect interpersonal relationships, the psychotherapeutic process, and the supervisory experience. Our presentation included a clinical vignette demonstrating how racism, colorism, and anti-blackness have global impact, influencing the self-esteem, identity formation, and identity consolidation of immigrants as they grapple with the unique form of racism that exists in America. Other clinical vignettes demonstrated blind spots that were retroactively identified though omitted in supervisory discussions. We also discussed alternative interventions and interpretations of the material presented.1-5
Because 21st-century trainees are generally psychologically astute and committed to social justice, we did two things. First, before the webinar, we provided them access to a prerecorded explanation of object relations theorist Melanie Klein’s paranoid-schizoid and depressive positions concepts, which were applied to theoretically explain the development of race, specifically the defenses used by early colonists that contributed to the development of “whiteness” and “blackness” as social constructs, and their influence on the development of the U.S. psyche. For example, as early colonists attempted to develop new and improved identities distinct from those they had in their homelands, they used enslaved black people (and other vulnerable groups) to “other.” What we mean here by othering is the process of using an other to project one’s badness into in order to relieve the self of uncomfortable aspects and feelings originating within the self. If this other accepts the projection (which is often the case with vulnerable parties), the self recognizes, that is, identifies (locates) the bad they just projected in the other, who is now experienced as a bad-other. This is projection in action. If the other accepts the projection and behaves accordingly, for example, in a manner that reflects badness, this becomes projective identification. Conversely, if the other does not accept these projections, the self (who projects) is left to cope with aspects of the self s/he might not have the capacity to manage. By capacity, we are speaking of the Bionian idea of the ability to experience an extreme emotion while also being able to think. Without the ego strength to cope with bad aspects of the self, the ego either collapses (and is unable to think) or further projection is attempted.6-8
We have seen this latter dynamic play out repeatedly when police officers fatally shoot black citizens and then claim that they feared for their lives; these same officers have been exonerated by juries by continuing to portray the deceased victims as threatening, dangerous objects not worthy of living. We are also seeing a global movement of black and nonblack people who are in touch with a justified rage that has motivated them to return these projections by collectively protesting, and in some cases, by rioting.
Back to the webinar
In anticipating the residents’ curiosity, impatience, and anger about the lack of progress, the second thing we did was to show a segment from the “Black Psychoanalysts Speak” trailer. In the clip played, senior psychoanalyst Kirkland C. Vaughans, PhD, shares: “The issue of race so prompts excessive anxiety that it blocks off our ability to think.”
We showed this clip to validate the trainees’ frustrations about the difficulty the broader establishment has had with addressing this serious, longstanding public health problem. We wanted these young psychiatrists to know that there are psychoanalysts, psychiatrists, psychologists, and social workers who have been committed to this work, even though the contributions of this diverse group have curiously been omitted from education and training curricula.9
So, what happened? What was the painful reminder? After the formal panel presentations, a black male psychiatry resident recounted his experience in a clinical supervision meeting that had occurred several days after the murder of George Floyd. In short, a patient had shared his reactions to yet another incident of fatal police use of force and paused to ask how the resident physician, Dr. A., was doing. The question was experienced as sincere concern about the psychiatrist’s mental well-being. The resident was not sure how to answer this question since it was a matter of self-disclosure, which was a reasonable and thoughtful consideration for a seasoned clinician and, certainly, for a novice therapist. The supervisor, Dr. B., seemingly eager to move on, to not think about this, responded to the resident by saying: “Now tell me about the patient.” In other words, what had just been shared by the resident – material that featured a patient’s reaction to another killing of a black man by police and the patient’s expressed concern for his black psychiatrist, and this resident physician appropriately seeking space in supervision to process and receive guidance about how to respond – all of this was considered separate (split off from) and extraneous to the patient’s treatment and the resident’s training. This is a problem. And, unfortunately, this problem or some variation of it is not rare.
Why is this still the state of affairs when we have identified racism as a major health concern and our patients and our trainees are asking for help?
Rethinking a metaphor
Despite calls to action over the last 50 years to encourage medicine to effectively address race and racism, deficits remain in didactic education, clinical rotations, and supervisory experiences of trainees learning how to do psychodynamic psychotherapy.8-10 Earlier that evening, we used the metaphor of a vehicular blind spot to capture what we believe occurs insupervision. Like drivers, supervisors generally have the ability to see. However, there are places (times) and positions (stances) that block their vision (awareness). Racism – whether institutionalized, interpersonally mediated, or internalized – also contributes to this blindness.
As is true of drivers managing a blind spot, what is required is for the drivers – the supervisors – to lean forward or reposition themselves so as to avoid collisions, maintain safety, and continue on course. We use this metaphor because it is understood that any clinician providing psychodynamic supervision to psychiatry residents, regardless of professional discipline, has the requisite skills and training.10-13
Until May 25, we thought eliminating blind spots would be effective. But, in the aftermath of the police killing of George Floyd, our eyes have been opened.
Hiding behind the blue wall of silence is an establishment that has looked the other way while black and brown women, men, and children have come to live in fear as a result of the state-sanctioned violence that repeatedly occurs across the nation. Excessive police use of force is a public health issue of crisis magnitude. However, the house of medicine, like many other established structures in society, has colluded with the societal constructs that have supported law enforcement by remaining willfully blind, often neutral, and by refusing to make the necessary adjustments, including connecting the dots between police violence and physical and mental health.
For example, racism has never been listed even in the index of the American Psychiatric Association’s (APA) Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders.14 Being the victim of police use of force is not generally regarded as an adverse childhood experience, even though communities that are heavily policed experience harassment by law enforcement on a regular basis. The 12 causes of trauma listed on the website15 of the National Child Traumatic Stress Network – bullying, community violence, complex trauma, disasters, early childhood trauma, intimate partner violence, medical trauma, physical abuse, refugee trauma, sexual abuse, terrorism and violence, and traumatic grief – do not include maltreatment, abuse, or trauma resulting from interactions with members of law enforcement. Much of the adverse childhood experiences literature focuses on white, upper middle class children and on experiences within the home. When community level experiences, such as discrimination based on race or ethnicity, are included, as in the Philadelphia ACES study,16 as many as 40% reported ACE scores of greater than 4 for community level exposures.
As psychiatrists, we recognize the psychic underpinnings and parallels between the psychic projections onto black and brown people and the actual bullets pumped into the bodies of black and brown people; there is a lurid propensity to use these others as repositories. Those who have the privilege of being protected by law enforcement and the ability to avoid being used as containers for the psychic projections and bullets of some police officers also have the privilege of compartmentalizing and looking the other way when excessive acts of force – projections and projectiles – are used on other human beings. This partly explains why the injuries and deaths of black and brown people caused by police officers’ excessive use of force have continued even though these unjustified deaths are widely televised and disseminated via various social media platforms.
Prior to the death of George Floyd on May 25, other than the American Public Health Association, the National Medical Association (NMA) was the only major medical organization to issue a call to consider police use of force as a public health issue. In its July 2016 press release, provided in the aftermath of the death of Freddie Gray while in the custody of Baltimore police officers, the NMA summarized the scope of injuries citizens sustain during “the pre-custody (commission of a crime, during a fight, chase, and apprehension, during a siege or hostage situation, or during restraint or submission), custody (soon after being admitted to jail, during interrogation, during incarceration, or legal execution), and post-custody (revenge by police or rival criminals or after reentry into the community)” periods. It is noteworthy that the scope of these injuries is comparable to those encountered in a combat zone.17,18 According to the NMA:
“Injuries sustained by civilians at the hands of law enforcement include gunshot wounds, skull fractures, cervical spine injuries, facial fractures, broken legs, blunt trauma orbital floor fractures, laryngeal cartilage fractures, shoulder dislocations, cuts and bruises, concussions, hemorrhage, choking (positional or due to upper body holds), abdominal trauma, hemothorax, and pneumothorax. Complications of such injuries include posttraumatic brain swelling, infections following open fractures and lacerations, hydrocephalus due to blood or infection, as well as subdural and epidural hematomas and, in the most severe cases, death.”
In addition, there are multiple emotional and psychiatric sequelae of these injuries for the victims, families, upstanders, bystanders, and those viewing these images via various social media platforms. Increasingly, many are experiencing retraumatization each time a new death is reported. How do we explain that we are turning away from this as physicians and trainers of physicians? Seeing and not seeing – all of the methods used to avert one’s gaze and look the other way (to protect the psyches of nonmarginalized members of society from being disturbed and possibly traumatized) – these key defense mechanisms creep into consulting rooms and become fertile ground for the enactment described above.
Yet, there is reason to believe in change. It’s not simply because we are mental health professionals and that’s what we do. With the posting of position statements issued by major corporations and a growing number of medical organizations, many of us are experiencing a mixture of hope, anger, and sadness. Hope that widespread awareness will continue to tilt the axis of our country in a manner that opens eyes – and hearts – so that real work can be done; and anger and sadness because it has taken 400 years to receive even this level of validation.
In the meantime, we are encouraged by a joint position statement recently issued by the APA and the NMA, the first joint effort by these two medical organizations to partner and advocate for criminal justice reform. We mention this statement because the NMA has been committed to the needs of the black community since its inception in 1895, and the APA has as its mission a commitment to serve “the needs of evolving, diverse, underrepresented, and underserved patient populations” ... and the resources to do so. This is the kind of partnership that could transform words into meaningful action.19,20
Of course, resident psychiatrist Dr. A. had begun supervision with the discussion of his dyadic experience with his patient, which is set in the context of a global coronavirus pandemic that is disproportionately affecting black and brown people. And, while his peers are marching in protest, he and his fellow trainees deserve our support as they deal with their own psychic pain and prepare to steady themselves. For these psychiatrists will be called to provide care to those who will consult them once they begin to grapple with the experiences and, in some cases, traumas that have compelled them to take action and literally risk their safety and lives while protesting.
That evening, the residents were hungry for methods to fill the gaps in their training and supervision. In some cases, we provided scripts to be taken back to supervision. For example, the following is a potential scripted response for the supervisor in the enactment described above:
Resident speaking to supervisor: This is a black patient who, like many others, is affected by the chronic, repeated televised images of black men killed by police. I am also a black man.
I think what I have shared is pertinent to the patient’s care and my experience as a black male psychiatrist who will need to learn how to address this in my patients who are black and for other racialized groups, as well as with whites who might have rarely been cared for by a black man. Can we discuss this?
We also anticipated that some residents would need to exercise their right to request reassignment to another supervisor. And, until we do better at listening, seeing, and deepening our understanding, outside and inside the consulting room and in supervision, more residents might need to steer around those who have the potential to undermine training and adversely affect treatment. But, as a professional medical community in crisis, do we really want to proceed in such an ad hoc fashion?
Dr. Dunlap is a psychiatrist and psychoanalyst, and clinical professor of psychiatry and behavioral sciences at George Washington University. She is interested in the management of “difference” – race, gender, ethnicity, and intersectionality – in dyadic relationships and group dynamics; and the impact of racism on interpersonal relationships in institutional structures. Dr. Dunlap practices in Washington and has no disclosures.
Dr. Dennis is a clinical psychologist and psychoanalyst. Her interests are in gender and ethnic diversity, health equity, and supervision and training. Dr. Dennis practices in Washington and has no disclosures.
Dr. DeSouza is a PGY-4 psychiatry resident and public psychiatry fellow in the department of psychiatry at Yale University, New Haven, Conn. Her professional interests include health services development and delivery in low- and middle-income settings, as well as the intersection of mental health and spirituality. She has no disclosures.
Dr. Isom is a staff psychiatrist at the Codman Square Health Center in Dorchester, Mass., and Boston Medical Center. Her interests include racial mental health equity and population health approaches to community psychiatry. She has no disclosures.
Dr. Mathis is an addictions fellow in the department of psychiatry at Yale University and former programwide chief resident at Yale. Her interests include the intersection of racial justice and mental health, health equity, and spirituality. She has no disclosures.
References
1. Mental Health: Culture, Race, and Ethnicity. A Supplement to Mental Health: A Report of the Surgeon General. Rockville, Md.: Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration, 2001.
2. Banaji MR and Greenwald AG. Blindspot: Hidden Biases of Good People. New York: Delacorte Press, 2013.
3. Anekwe ON. Voices in Bioethics. 2014.
4. Soute BJ. The American Psychoanalyst Magazine. 2017 Winter/Spring.
5. Powell DR. J Am Psychoanal Assoc. 2019 Jan 8. doi: 10.1177/000306511881847.
6. Allen TW. The Invention of the White Race. London: Verso, 1994.
7. Klein M. Int J Psychoanal. 1946;27(pt.3-4):99-100.
8. Bion WR. (1962b). Psychoanal Q. 2013 Apr;82(2):301-10.
9. Black Psychoanalysts Speak trailer.
10. Thomas A and Sillen S. Racism and Psychiatry. New York: Brunner/Mazel, 1972.
11. Jones BE et al. Am J Psychiatry. 1970 Dec;127(6):798-803.
12. Sabshin M et al. Am J Psychiatry. 1970 Dec;126(6):787-93.
13. Medlock M et al. Am J Psychiatry. 2017 May 9. doi: 10.1176/appi.ajp-rj.2016.110206.
14. Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, fifth edition (DSM-5). Arlington, Va.: American Psychiatric Association, 2013.
15. “What is Child Trauma?” The National Child Traumatic Stress Network.
16. The Philadelphia Project. Philadelphia ACE Survey.
17. “Addressing law enforcement violence as a public health issue.” Washington: American Public Health Association. 2018 Nov 13. Policy# 20811.
18. National Medical Association position statement on police use of force. NMA 2016.
19. “APA and NMA jointly condemn systemic racism in America.” 2020 Jun 16.
20. APA Strategic Plan. 2015 Mar.
Hashtag medicine: #ShareTheMicNowMed highlights Black female physicians on social media
Prominent female physicians are handing over their social media platforms today to black female physicians as part of a campaign called #ShareTheMicNowMed.
The social media event, which will play out on both Twitter and Instagram, is an offshoot of #ShareTheMicNow, held earlier this month. For that event, more than 90 women, including A-list celebrities like Ellen DeGeneres, Julia Roberts, and Senator Elizabeth Warren, swapped accounts with women of color, such as “I’m Still Here” author Austin Channing Brown, Olympic fencer Ibtihaj Muhammad, and #MeToo founder Tarana Burke.
The physician event will feature 10 teams of two, with one physician handing over her account to her black female counterpart for the day. The takeover will allow the black physician to share her thoughts about the successes and challenges she faces as a woman of color in medicine.
“It was such an honor to be contacted by Arghavan Salles, MD, PhD, to participate in an event that has a goal of connecting like-minded women from various backgrounds to share a diverse perspective with a different audience,” Minnesota family medicine physician Jay-Sheree Allen, MD, told Medscape Medical News. “This event is not only incredibly important but timely.”
Only about 5% of all active physicians in 2018 identified as Black or African American, according to a report by the Association of American Medical Colleges. And of those, just over a third are female, the report found.
“I think that as we hear those small numbers we often celebrate the success of those people without looking back and understanding where all of the barriers are that are limiting talented black women from entering medicine at every stage,” another campaign participant, Chicago pediatrician Rebekah Fenton, MD, told Medscape Medical News.
Allen says that, amid continuing worldwide protests over racial injustice, prompted by the death of George Floyd while in Minneapolis police custody last month, the online event is very timely and an important way to advocate for black lives and engage in a productive conversation.
“I believe that with the #ShareTheMicNowMed movement we will start to show people how they can become allies. I always say that a candle loses nothing by lighting another candle, and sharing that stage is one of the many ways you can support the Black Lives Matters movement by amplifying black voices,” she said.
Allen went on to add that women in medicine have many of the same experiences as any other doctor but do face some unique challenges. This is especially true for female physicians of color, she noted.
To join the conversation follow the hashtag #ShareTheMicNowMed all day on Monday, June 22, 2020.
This article originally appeared on Medscape.com.
Prominent female physicians are handing over their social media platforms today to black female physicians as part of a campaign called #ShareTheMicNowMed.
The social media event, which will play out on both Twitter and Instagram, is an offshoot of #ShareTheMicNow, held earlier this month. For that event, more than 90 women, including A-list celebrities like Ellen DeGeneres, Julia Roberts, and Senator Elizabeth Warren, swapped accounts with women of color, such as “I’m Still Here” author Austin Channing Brown, Olympic fencer Ibtihaj Muhammad, and #MeToo founder Tarana Burke.
The physician event will feature 10 teams of two, with one physician handing over her account to her black female counterpart for the day. The takeover will allow the black physician to share her thoughts about the successes and challenges she faces as a woman of color in medicine.
“It was such an honor to be contacted by Arghavan Salles, MD, PhD, to participate in an event that has a goal of connecting like-minded women from various backgrounds to share a diverse perspective with a different audience,” Minnesota family medicine physician Jay-Sheree Allen, MD, told Medscape Medical News. “This event is not only incredibly important but timely.”
Only about 5% of all active physicians in 2018 identified as Black or African American, according to a report by the Association of American Medical Colleges. And of those, just over a third are female, the report found.
“I think that as we hear those small numbers we often celebrate the success of those people without looking back and understanding where all of the barriers are that are limiting talented black women from entering medicine at every stage,” another campaign participant, Chicago pediatrician Rebekah Fenton, MD, told Medscape Medical News.
Allen says that, amid continuing worldwide protests over racial injustice, prompted by the death of George Floyd while in Minneapolis police custody last month, the online event is very timely and an important way to advocate for black lives and engage in a productive conversation.
“I believe that with the #ShareTheMicNowMed movement we will start to show people how they can become allies. I always say that a candle loses nothing by lighting another candle, and sharing that stage is one of the many ways you can support the Black Lives Matters movement by amplifying black voices,” she said.
Allen went on to add that women in medicine have many of the same experiences as any other doctor but do face some unique challenges. This is especially true for female physicians of color, she noted.
To join the conversation follow the hashtag #ShareTheMicNowMed all day on Monday, June 22, 2020.
This article originally appeared on Medscape.com.
Prominent female physicians are handing over their social media platforms today to black female physicians as part of a campaign called #ShareTheMicNowMed.
The social media event, which will play out on both Twitter and Instagram, is an offshoot of #ShareTheMicNow, held earlier this month. For that event, more than 90 women, including A-list celebrities like Ellen DeGeneres, Julia Roberts, and Senator Elizabeth Warren, swapped accounts with women of color, such as “I’m Still Here” author Austin Channing Brown, Olympic fencer Ibtihaj Muhammad, and #MeToo founder Tarana Burke.
The physician event will feature 10 teams of two, with one physician handing over her account to her black female counterpart for the day. The takeover will allow the black physician to share her thoughts about the successes and challenges she faces as a woman of color in medicine.
“It was such an honor to be contacted by Arghavan Salles, MD, PhD, to participate in an event that has a goal of connecting like-minded women from various backgrounds to share a diverse perspective with a different audience,” Minnesota family medicine physician Jay-Sheree Allen, MD, told Medscape Medical News. “This event is not only incredibly important but timely.”
Only about 5% of all active physicians in 2018 identified as Black or African American, according to a report by the Association of American Medical Colleges. And of those, just over a third are female, the report found.
“I think that as we hear those small numbers we often celebrate the success of those people without looking back and understanding where all of the barriers are that are limiting talented black women from entering medicine at every stage,” another campaign participant, Chicago pediatrician Rebekah Fenton, MD, told Medscape Medical News.
Allen says that, amid continuing worldwide protests over racial injustice, prompted by the death of George Floyd while in Minneapolis police custody last month, the online event is very timely and an important way to advocate for black lives and engage in a productive conversation.
“I believe that with the #ShareTheMicNowMed movement we will start to show people how they can become allies. I always say that a candle loses nothing by lighting another candle, and sharing that stage is one of the many ways you can support the Black Lives Matters movement by amplifying black voices,” she said.
Allen went on to add that women in medicine have many of the same experiences as any other doctor but do face some unique challenges. This is especially true for female physicians of color, she noted.
To join the conversation follow the hashtag #ShareTheMicNowMed all day on Monday, June 22, 2020.
This article originally appeared on Medscape.com.
Race and race relations: Be curious, not furious
Racism has been around for a very long time, and we still have a long way to go to eradicate it, in all of its forms. Racism can be subtle, such as not offering employment to a fully qualified candidate or lowering your level of care because of the color of a person’s skin. Also, you never know if the future will place you in the same position as that of the person you are discriminating against or excluding. Diversity through the mixture of cultures and races is what provides a richness to our communities and our country.
No matter what race we may be, we all are human and deserve to be treated and respected as such. The patient you misunderstood, feared, or dismissed could be the same person who helps you become a better physician. For instance, one of my teenage patients of Chinese descent confessed one day that she was feeling depressed, sometimes to the point of suicidal ideation. However, she was adamant that I not report this condition to her parents. From her, I learned that mental illness, such as depression, are taboo subjects in Asian cultures. This information enabled me to be more sensitive with handling this patient’s condition and treatment.
In many cities across America, people have been protesting the recent tragic death of Mr. George Floyd, an African American man killed by a white police officer. In the past few months, unfortunately, we have seen similar cases of racist acts against African Americans. Sadly, this is nothing new.
There are examples of racist acts against other racial groups as well. Since the coronavirus pandemic became global news, Asian Americans have faced a wave of intense xenophobia in the United States. Be mindful that one race suffering injustice in one country could themselves be racist against another group given the opportunity. An example of this was reported in an April 16, 2020, article in the Los Angeles Times. The events took place in Guangzhou, China. The article reported that Africans living there were harassed, targeted, and evicted from their homes in the port city following the positive COVID-19 tests of five Nigerians. Instead of imposing quarantine based on contact history, China’s response has been based on race amid the coronavirus crisis. Stories like this remind us that racism is not just black and white, but can occur by any dominant culture against the minority. To be clear, not everyone is a racist.
Fear of the unknown causes misunderstanding and weakens the relationship between a pediatrician and the patient. Instead, let us “be curious and not furious.”1 We may look different on the outside, but inside we are all human, with feelings, desires, and dreams. An example of being misunderstood is commonly observed as others stereotype African American populations. For example, an African American mother may be described as rude, loud, and disrespectful by those in your office. Such labeling fails to take the time necessary to understand the other’s perspective, and it dismisses her. Why might she be acting this way? What false assumptions are you making? How would you react if you were frequently disrespected or dismissed? How would you react if you had to worry about being physically harmed? Your visage could appear to be angry or guarded – not exactly welcoming or pleasant. It is much easier to quickly dismiss such a patient and not be sincerely interested in what she or her child’s medical needs may be. Such a disposition only results in frustrating outcomes and the destruction of trust between a patient and the provider.
Although I encounter racism daily in my work, I strive to put aside those violations as I treat my patients and interact with their parents. The decision to be inquisitive and empathetic is a conscious one, which can disarm strangers, allowing for trust to be built. It can engender a smile as well.
Teachers frequently refer parents to us when their children are having learning or behavioral difficulties in school. One challenging case for me involved a Latino boy with learning difficulties. The mother, who does not speak English, had been struggling with getting help for her son. I decided to attend a meeting for the patient’s Individualized Education Plan (IEP) at his school (an IEP is a requirement of the Individuals with Disabilities Education Act, or IDEA). My presence at the meeting, given that I am also fluent in Spanish, provided a bridge in communication between the parent and the teachers. Moreover, my presence persuaded the patient’s teachers to be more aggressive in designing an individualized plan to truly help my patient. Latino and African American students commonly suffer from disparities in health and education. In my own practice, I also work toward improving disparities within Latino and African American communities through medical education initiatives. There is so much we, as pediatricians, can do to advocate for these communities.
The absence of empathy leading to the killing of Mr. Floyd admittedly is not the same as what generates an inadequate IEP or the desire to avoid a “loud” parent. Even so, any lack of empathy lowers the quality of patient care. It takes conscious effort to be open to helping someone you do not innately understand. Quality pediatric care cannot happen where racism and misunderstanding exist between a patient and provider. Until we truly stop being selfish, the issue of racism will continue to resurface. One impactful way the majority population can help people of color is by not being a bystander to injustice. Inaction makes you an accomplice to the racist act. We must be brave – “be curious, not furious.” Remember that an injustice to one culture eventually becomes an injustice against us all. Being open to what is different, new, or not well known is how a culture becomes richer and even better.
Dr. Mba Wright is a primary care pediatrician practicing in Sacramento, Calif., for more than 14 years. She has no relevant financial disclosures. Email her at [email protected].
Reference
1. “Going the Distance: Finding and Keeping Lifelong Love” (New York, N.Y.: Doubleday, 1991).
Racism has been around for a very long time, and we still have a long way to go to eradicate it, in all of its forms. Racism can be subtle, such as not offering employment to a fully qualified candidate or lowering your level of care because of the color of a person’s skin. Also, you never know if the future will place you in the same position as that of the person you are discriminating against or excluding. Diversity through the mixture of cultures and races is what provides a richness to our communities and our country.
No matter what race we may be, we all are human and deserve to be treated and respected as such. The patient you misunderstood, feared, or dismissed could be the same person who helps you become a better physician. For instance, one of my teenage patients of Chinese descent confessed one day that she was feeling depressed, sometimes to the point of suicidal ideation. However, she was adamant that I not report this condition to her parents. From her, I learned that mental illness, such as depression, are taboo subjects in Asian cultures. This information enabled me to be more sensitive with handling this patient’s condition and treatment.
In many cities across America, people have been protesting the recent tragic death of Mr. George Floyd, an African American man killed by a white police officer. In the past few months, unfortunately, we have seen similar cases of racist acts against African Americans. Sadly, this is nothing new.
There are examples of racist acts against other racial groups as well. Since the coronavirus pandemic became global news, Asian Americans have faced a wave of intense xenophobia in the United States. Be mindful that one race suffering injustice in one country could themselves be racist against another group given the opportunity. An example of this was reported in an April 16, 2020, article in the Los Angeles Times. The events took place in Guangzhou, China. The article reported that Africans living there were harassed, targeted, and evicted from their homes in the port city following the positive COVID-19 tests of five Nigerians. Instead of imposing quarantine based on contact history, China’s response has been based on race amid the coronavirus crisis. Stories like this remind us that racism is not just black and white, but can occur by any dominant culture against the minority. To be clear, not everyone is a racist.
Fear of the unknown causes misunderstanding and weakens the relationship between a pediatrician and the patient. Instead, let us “be curious and not furious.”1 We may look different on the outside, but inside we are all human, with feelings, desires, and dreams. An example of being misunderstood is commonly observed as others stereotype African American populations. For example, an African American mother may be described as rude, loud, and disrespectful by those in your office. Such labeling fails to take the time necessary to understand the other’s perspective, and it dismisses her. Why might she be acting this way? What false assumptions are you making? How would you react if you were frequently disrespected or dismissed? How would you react if you had to worry about being physically harmed? Your visage could appear to be angry or guarded – not exactly welcoming or pleasant. It is much easier to quickly dismiss such a patient and not be sincerely interested in what she or her child’s medical needs may be. Such a disposition only results in frustrating outcomes and the destruction of trust between a patient and the provider.
Although I encounter racism daily in my work, I strive to put aside those violations as I treat my patients and interact with their parents. The decision to be inquisitive and empathetic is a conscious one, which can disarm strangers, allowing for trust to be built. It can engender a smile as well.
Teachers frequently refer parents to us when their children are having learning or behavioral difficulties in school. One challenging case for me involved a Latino boy with learning difficulties. The mother, who does not speak English, had been struggling with getting help for her son. I decided to attend a meeting for the patient’s Individualized Education Plan (IEP) at his school (an IEP is a requirement of the Individuals with Disabilities Education Act, or IDEA). My presence at the meeting, given that I am also fluent in Spanish, provided a bridge in communication between the parent and the teachers. Moreover, my presence persuaded the patient’s teachers to be more aggressive in designing an individualized plan to truly help my patient. Latino and African American students commonly suffer from disparities in health and education. In my own practice, I also work toward improving disparities within Latino and African American communities through medical education initiatives. There is so much we, as pediatricians, can do to advocate for these communities.
The absence of empathy leading to the killing of Mr. Floyd admittedly is not the same as what generates an inadequate IEP or the desire to avoid a “loud” parent. Even so, any lack of empathy lowers the quality of patient care. It takes conscious effort to be open to helping someone you do not innately understand. Quality pediatric care cannot happen where racism and misunderstanding exist between a patient and provider. Until we truly stop being selfish, the issue of racism will continue to resurface. One impactful way the majority population can help people of color is by not being a bystander to injustice. Inaction makes you an accomplice to the racist act. We must be brave – “be curious, not furious.” Remember that an injustice to one culture eventually becomes an injustice against us all. Being open to what is different, new, or not well known is how a culture becomes richer and even better.
Dr. Mba Wright is a primary care pediatrician practicing in Sacramento, Calif., for more than 14 years. She has no relevant financial disclosures. Email her at [email protected].
Reference
1. “Going the Distance: Finding and Keeping Lifelong Love” (New York, N.Y.: Doubleday, 1991).
Racism has been around for a very long time, and we still have a long way to go to eradicate it, in all of its forms. Racism can be subtle, such as not offering employment to a fully qualified candidate or lowering your level of care because of the color of a person’s skin. Also, you never know if the future will place you in the same position as that of the person you are discriminating against or excluding. Diversity through the mixture of cultures and races is what provides a richness to our communities and our country.
No matter what race we may be, we all are human and deserve to be treated and respected as such. The patient you misunderstood, feared, or dismissed could be the same person who helps you become a better physician. For instance, one of my teenage patients of Chinese descent confessed one day that she was feeling depressed, sometimes to the point of suicidal ideation. However, she was adamant that I not report this condition to her parents. From her, I learned that mental illness, such as depression, are taboo subjects in Asian cultures. This information enabled me to be more sensitive with handling this patient’s condition and treatment.
In many cities across America, people have been protesting the recent tragic death of Mr. George Floyd, an African American man killed by a white police officer. In the past few months, unfortunately, we have seen similar cases of racist acts against African Americans. Sadly, this is nothing new.
There are examples of racist acts against other racial groups as well. Since the coronavirus pandemic became global news, Asian Americans have faced a wave of intense xenophobia in the United States. Be mindful that one race suffering injustice in one country could themselves be racist against another group given the opportunity. An example of this was reported in an April 16, 2020, article in the Los Angeles Times. The events took place in Guangzhou, China. The article reported that Africans living there were harassed, targeted, and evicted from their homes in the port city following the positive COVID-19 tests of five Nigerians. Instead of imposing quarantine based on contact history, China’s response has been based on race amid the coronavirus crisis. Stories like this remind us that racism is not just black and white, but can occur by any dominant culture against the minority. To be clear, not everyone is a racist.
Fear of the unknown causes misunderstanding and weakens the relationship between a pediatrician and the patient. Instead, let us “be curious and not furious.”1 We may look different on the outside, but inside we are all human, with feelings, desires, and dreams. An example of being misunderstood is commonly observed as others stereotype African American populations. For example, an African American mother may be described as rude, loud, and disrespectful by those in your office. Such labeling fails to take the time necessary to understand the other’s perspective, and it dismisses her. Why might she be acting this way? What false assumptions are you making? How would you react if you were frequently disrespected or dismissed? How would you react if you had to worry about being physically harmed? Your visage could appear to be angry or guarded – not exactly welcoming or pleasant. It is much easier to quickly dismiss such a patient and not be sincerely interested in what she or her child’s medical needs may be. Such a disposition only results in frustrating outcomes and the destruction of trust between a patient and the provider.
Although I encounter racism daily in my work, I strive to put aside those violations as I treat my patients and interact with their parents. The decision to be inquisitive and empathetic is a conscious one, which can disarm strangers, allowing for trust to be built. It can engender a smile as well.
Teachers frequently refer parents to us when their children are having learning or behavioral difficulties in school. One challenging case for me involved a Latino boy with learning difficulties. The mother, who does not speak English, had been struggling with getting help for her son. I decided to attend a meeting for the patient’s Individualized Education Plan (IEP) at his school (an IEP is a requirement of the Individuals with Disabilities Education Act, or IDEA). My presence at the meeting, given that I am also fluent in Spanish, provided a bridge in communication between the parent and the teachers. Moreover, my presence persuaded the patient’s teachers to be more aggressive in designing an individualized plan to truly help my patient. Latino and African American students commonly suffer from disparities in health and education. In my own practice, I also work toward improving disparities within Latino and African American communities through medical education initiatives. There is so much we, as pediatricians, can do to advocate for these communities.
The absence of empathy leading to the killing of Mr. Floyd admittedly is not the same as what generates an inadequate IEP or the desire to avoid a “loud” parent. Even so, any lack of empathy lowers the quality of patient care. It takes conscious effort to be open to helping someone you do not innately understand. Quality pediatric care cannot happen where racism and misunderstanding exist between a patient and provider. Until we truly stop being selfish, the issue of racism will continue to resurface. One impactful way the majority population can help people of color is by not being a bystander to injustice. Inaction makes you an accomplice to the racist act. We must be brave – “be curious, not furious.” Remember that an injustice to one culture eventually becomes an injustice against us all. Being open to what is different, new, or not well known is how a culture becomes richer and even better.
Dr. Mba Wright is a primary care pediatrician practicing in Sacramento, Calif., for more than 14 years. She has no relevant financial disclosures. Email her at [email protected].
Reference
1. “Going the Distance: Finding and Keeping Lifelong Love” (New York, N.Y.: Doubleday, 1991).
Examining bias
I have an automatic preference for white people over black people. This isn’t my opinion; rather, it is my implicit bias test result. I didn’t believe it at first. Trying hard to not be biased, I took the test again and received the same outcome. My reaction – disbelief – is typical for those like me: White people who believe they are good human beings.
We’ve all watched in horror the acts of violence against blacks in the news. I was shocked and disgusted. It was easy to believe, however, that I am in no way complicit in the injustice and racism I was watching. I think I’m fair and without prejudice. I have never intentionally discriminated against someone. Wanting to help, I listened to my black colleagues, staff, and patients. What I learned made me uncomfortable.
Through all this news, I’d said little to my colleagues and friends. I cannot identify with how a black person has felt recently. What if I said the wrong thing or caused offense? The safe option is to say nothing. I learned that this is a common reaction and the least helpful. The advice from one black colleague was simple: “Just ask us.” Instead of ignoring the issue, she advised me to say: “I wonder what this experience has been like for you. Would you like to share?” And, if you mean it, to add, “I stand with you.” The latter should be followed by “What can I do to help?” Or, more powerfully, “What have I done that makes me complicit?”
Some of these conversations will be uncomfortable. If you want to help, then sit with that. Feeling uncomfortable might mean you are beginning to understand.
I also heard about the excellent book “White Fragility,” by Robin DiAngelo, PhD. In it, she argues that it is difficult for white people to talk about racism because of a tendency to react with defensiveness, guilt, and sometimes anger.
Many of the chapters in the book were easy to read because they didn’t apply to me: I don’t get angry in equity, inclusion, and diversity meetings. I don’t resent affirmative action programs. But then Dr. DiAngelo got me: I believed because I’m a good person and I have no intention of being racist, I’m absolved. Her argument was enlightening. Like all white people in the United States, I have benefited from white privilege. Yes, I’ve worked hard, but I also grew up in a white family with a college-educated father. That alone afforded me academic and financial advantages, which pushed me ahead. I’ve benefited from the status quo.
I have also failed to speak up when white friends carried on about how unnecessary affirmative action programs have become. I’ve sat with sealed lips when I’ve heard comments like “As a white male, it’s a lot harder to get into prestigious schools now.” Having no intention to harm doesn’t matter; plenty of harm is done unintentionally.
I also believed that because I have good intentions, I have no racial bias. I was wrong. The test I took online is an excellent tool to combat this blind spot. It was created by Harvard researchers and is available to everyone: Take a Test. It asks you to categorize faces as good or bad and records your tiny reaction times. Based on these and other questions, it provides feedback on your personal biases.
I was surprised that I have an implicit preference for white people over black people. That’s the point. Most of us are unaware of our biases and falsely believe we are free of them. I encourage you to take the test and learn about yourself. If the result makes you uncomfortable, then sit with it. Try not to be defensive, as I was, and accept that, even if you are a good person, you can become a better one.
Based on what I’ve learned and heard in the last few weeks, I’ve committed to a few things: To acknowledge the harm done to my black and brown colleagues and my complicity even by acts of omission. To not avoid uncomfortable feelings or uncomfortable conversations. As a leader, to use my organizational status to advocate. To stand by my partners of color not only in dramatic one-time marches but also against the everyday perpetrators of microaggressions. To create a safe space and invite my colleagues, staff, friends, and patients to share.
Standing up against racism is all our responsibility. As Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. reminds us: “In the end, we will remember not the words of our enemies, but the silence of our friends.”
Dr. Benabio is director of healthcare transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. He has no disclosures related to this column. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. Write to him at [email protected].
I have an automatic preference for white people over black people. This isn’t my opinion; rather, it is my implicit bias test result. I didn’t believe it at first. Trying hard to not be biased, I took the test again and received the same outcome. My reaction – disbelief – is typical for those like me: White people who believe they are good human beings.
We’ve all watched in horror the acts of violence against blacks in the news. I was shocked and disgusted. It was easy to believe, however, that I am in no way complicit in the injustice and racism I was watching. I think I’m fair and without prejudice. I have never intentionally discriminated against someone. Wanting to help, I listened to my black colleagues, staff, and patients. What I learned made me uncomfortable.
Through all this news, I’d said little to my colleagues and friends. I cannot identify with how a black person has felt recently. What if I said the wrong thing or caused offense? The safe option is to say nothing. I learned that this is a common reaction and the least helpful. The advice from one black colleague was simple: “Just ask us.” Instead of ignoring the issue, she advised me to say: “I wonder what this experience has been like for you. Would you like to share?” And, if you mean it, to add, “I stand with you.” The latter should be followed by “What can I do to help?” Or, more powerfully, “What have I done that makes me complicit?”
Some of these conversations will be uncomfortable. If you want to help, then sit with that. Feeling uncomfortable might mean you are beginning to understand.
I also heard about the excellent book “White Fragility,” by Robin DiAngelo, PhD. In it, she argues that it is difficult for white people to talk about racism because of a tendency to react with defensiveness, guilt, and sometimes anger.
Many of the chapters in the book were easy to read because they didn’t apply to me: I don’t get angry in equity, inclusion, and diversity meetings. I don’t resent affirmative action programs. But then Dr. DiAngelo got me: I believed because I’m a good person and I have no intention of being racist, I’m absolved. Her argument was enlightening. Like all white people in the United States, I have benefited from white privilege. Yes, I’ve worked hard, but I also grew up in a white family with a college-educated father. That alone afforded me academic and financial advantages, which pushed me ahead. I’ve benefited from the status quo.
I have also failed to speak up when white friends carried on about how unnecessary affirmative action programs have become. I’ve sat with sealed lips when I’ve heard comments like “As a white male, it’s a lot harder to get into prestigious schools now.” Having no intention to harm doesn’t matter; plenty of harm is done unintentionally.
I also believed that because I have good intentions, I have no racial bias. I was wrong. The test I took online is an excellent tool to combat this blind spot. It was created by Harvard researchers and is available to everyone: Take a Test. It asks you to categorize faces as good or bad and records your tiny reaction times. Based on these and other questions, it provides feedback on your personal biases.
I was surprised that I have an implicit preference for white people over black people. That’s the point. Most of us are unaware of our biases and falsely believe we are free of them. I encourage you to take the test and learn about yourself. If the result makes you uncomfortable, then sit with it. Try not to be defensive, as I was, and accept that, even if you are a good person, you can become a better one.
Based on what I’ve learned and heard in the last few weeks, I’ve committed to a few things: To acknowledge the harm done to my black and brown colleagues and my complicity even by acts of omission. To not avoid uncomfortable feelings or uncomfortable conversations. As a leader, to use my organizational status to advocate. To stand by my partners of color not only in dramatic one-time marches but also against the everyday perpetrators of microaggressions. To create a safe space and invite my colleagues, staff, friends, and patients to share.
Standing up against racism is all our responsibility. As Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. reminds us: “In the end, we will remember not the words of our enemies, but the silence of our friends.”
Dr. Benabio is director of healthcare transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. He has no disclosures related to this column. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. Write to him at [email protected].
I have an automatic preference for white people over black people. This isn’t my opinion; rather, it is my implicit bias test result. I didn’t believe it at first. Trying hard to not be biased, I took the test again and received the same outcome. My reaction – disbelief – is typical for those like me: White people who believe they are good human beings.
We’ve all watched in horror the acts of violence against blacks in the news. I was shocked and disgusted. It was easy to believe, however, that I am in no way complicit in the injustice and racism I was watching. I think I’m fair and without prejudice. I have never intentionally discriminated against someone. Wanting to help, I listened to my black colleagues, staff, and patients. What I learned made me uncomfortable.
Through all this news, I’d said little to my colleagues and friends. I cannot identify with how a black person has felt recently. What if I said the wrong thing or caused offense? The safe option is to say nothing. I learned that this is a common reaction and the least helpful. The advice from one black colleague was simple: “Just ask us.” Instead of ignoring the issue, she advised me to say: “I wonder what this experience has been like for you. Would you like to share?” And, if you mean it, to add, “I stand with you.” The latter should be followed by “What can I do to help?” Or, more powerfully, “What have I done that makes me complicit?”
Some of these conversations will be uncomfortable. If you want to help, then sit with that. Feeling uncomfortable might mean you are beginning to understand.
I also heard about the excellent book “White Fragility,” by Robin DiAngelo, PhD. In it, she argues that it is difficult for white people to talk about racism because of a tendency to react with defensiveness, guilt, and sometimes anger.
Many of the chapters in the book were easy to read because they didn’t apply to me: I don’t get angry in equity, inclusion, and diversity meetings. I don’t resent affirmative action programs. But then Dr. DiAngelo got me: I believed because I’m a good person and I have no intention of being racist, I’m absolved. Her argument was enlightening. Like all white people in the United States, I have benefited from white privilege. Yes, I’ve worked hard, but I also grew up in a white family with a college-educated father. That alone afforded me academic and financial advantages, which pushed me ahead. I’ve benefited from the status quo.
I have also failed to speak up when white friends carried on about how unnecessary affirmative action programs have become. I’ve sat with sealed lips when I’ve heard comments like “As a white male, it’s a lot harder to get into prestigious schools now.” Having no intention to harm doesn’t matter; plenty of harm is done unintentionally.
I also believed that because I have good intentions, I have no racial bias. I was wrong. The test I took online is an excellent tool to combat this blind spot. It was created by Harvard researchers and is available to everyone: Take a Test. It asks you to categorize faces as good or bad and records your tiny reaction times. Based on these and other questions, it provides feedback on your personal biases.
I was surprised that I have an implicit preference for white people over black people. That’s the point. Most of us are unaware of our biases and falsely believe we are free of them. I encourage you to take the test and learn about yourself. If the result makes you uncomfortable, then sit with it. Try not to be defensive, as I was, and accept that, even if you are a good person, you can become a better one.
Based on what I’ve learned and heard in the last few weeks, I’ve committed to a few things: To acknowledge the harm done to my black and brown colleagues and my complicity even by acts of omission. To not avoid uncomfortable feelings or uncomfortable conversations. As a leader, to use my organizational status to advocate. To stand by my partners of color not only in dramatic one-time marches but also against the everyday perpetrators of microaggressions. To create a safe space and invite my colleagues, staff, friends, and patients to share.
Standing up against racism is all our responsibility. As Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. reminds us: “In the end, we will remember not the words of our enemies, but the silence of our friends.”
Dr. Benabio is director of healthcare transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. He has no disclosures related to this column. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. Write to him at [email protected].
‘I can’t breathe’: Health inequity and state-sanctioned violence
One might immediately think of the deaths of Eric Garner, George Floyd, or even the fictional character Radio Raheem from Spike Lee’s critically acclaimed film, “Do the Right Thing,” when they hear the words “I can’t breathe.” These words are a cry for help. The deaths of these unarmed black men is devastating and has led to a state of rage, palpable pain, and protest across the world.
However, in this moment, I am talking about the health inequity exposed by the COVID-19 pandemic. Whether it be acute respiratory distress syndrome (ARDS) secondary to severe COVID-19, or the subsequent hypercoagulable state of COVID-19 that leads to venous thromboembolism, many black people in this country are left breathless. Many black patients who had no employee-based health insurance also had no primary care physician to order a SARS-CoV2 PCR lab test for them. Many of these patients have preexisting conditions, such as asthma from living in redlined communities affected by environmental racism. Many grew up in food deserts, where no fresh-produce store was interested enough to set up shop in their neighborhoods. They have been eating fast food since early childhood, as a fast-food burger is still cheaper than a salad. The result is obesity, an epidemic that can lead to diabetes mellitus, hypertension that can lead to coronary artery disease, stroke, and end-stage renal disease.
Earlier in my career, I once had a colleague gleefully tell me that all black people drank Kool-Aid while in discussion of the effects of high-sugar diets in our patients; this colleague was sure I would agree. Not all black people drink Kool-Aid. Secondary to my fear of the backlash that can come from the discomfort of “white fragility” that Robin DiAngelo describes in her New York Times bestseller by the same name, ”White Fragility: Why It’s So Hard for White People to Talk About Racism,” I refrained from expressing my own hurt, and I did not offer explicit correction. I, instead, took a serious pause. That pause, which lasted only minutes, seemed to last 400 years. It was a brief reflection of the 400 years of systemic racism seeping into everyday life. This included the circumstances that would lead to the health inequities that result in the health disparities from which many black patients suffer. It is that same systemic racism that could create two America’s in which my colleague might not have to know the historic context in which that question could be hurtful. I retorted with modified shock and a chuckle so that I could muster up enough strength to repeat what was said and leave it open for reflection. The goal was for my colleague to realize the obvious implicit bias that lingered, despite intention. The chuckle was also to cover my pain.
Whether we know it or not, we all carry some form of implicit bias, regardless of race, class, gender, ethnicity, sexual preference, or socioeconomic status. In this case, it is the same implicit bias that causes physicians to ignore some black patients when they have said that they are in pain. A groundbreaking April 2016 article in Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences, “Racial Bias in Pain Assessment and Treatment Recommendations, and False Beliefs about Biological Differences Between Blacks and Whites” (doi: 10.1073/pnas.1516047113), revealed that racial disparities in pain assessment and treatment recommendations can be directly connected to the racial bias of the provider. It could be possible that this phenomenon has affected black patients who have walked into clinics and emergency departments and said, “I’m short of breath. I think that I might have coronavirus and need to be tested.” It may be that same implicit bias that has cut the air supply to a patient encounter. Instead of inquiring further, the patient might be met with minimum questions while their provider obtains their history and physical. Assumptions and blame on behavior and lack of personal responsibility secretly replace questions that could have been asked. Differentials between exacerbations and other etiologies are not explored. Could that patient have been sent home without a SARS-CoV2 polymerase chain reaction test? Well, what if the tests were in short supply? Sometimes they may have been sent home without a chest x-ray. In most cases, there are no funds to send them home with a pulse oximeter.
The act of assuming a person’s story that we consider to be one dimensional is always dangerous – and even more so during this pandemic. That person we can relate to – secondary to a cool pop culture moment, a TikTok song, or a negative stereotype – is not one dimensional. That assumption and that stereotype can make room for implicit bias. That same implicit bias is the knee on a neck of any marginalized patient. Implicit bias is the choke hold that slowly removes the light and life from a person who has a story, who has a family, and who has been an essential worker who can’t work from home. That person is telling us that they can’t breathe, but sometimes the only things seen are comorbidities through a misinformed or biased lens that suggest an assumed lack of personal responsibility. In a May 2020 New England Journal of Medicine perspective, “Racial health disparities and Covid-19” (doi: 10.1056/NEJMp2012910), Merlin Chowkwanyun, PhD, MPH, and Adolph L. Reed Jr., PhD, caution us against creating race-based explanations for presumed behavioral patterns.
Systemic racism has created the myth that the playing field has been leveled since the end of enslavement. It hasn’t. That black man, woman, or nonbinary person is telling you “I can’t breathe. I’m tired. I’m short of breath ... I have a cough ... I’m feeling weak these days, Doc.” However, implicit bias is still that knee that won’t let up. It has not let up. Communities with lower-income black and Hispanic patients have already seen local hospitals and frontline workers fight to save their lives while losing their own to COVID-19. We all witnessed the battle for scarce resources and PPE [personal protective equipment]. In contrast, some wealthy neighborhoods have occupants who most likely have access to a primary care physician and more testing centers.
As we reexamine ourselves and look at these cases of police brutality against unarmed black men, women, and children with the appropriate shame and outrage, let us reflect upon the privileges that we enjoy. Let us find our voice as we speak up for black lives. Let us look deeply into the history of medicine as it relates to black patients by reading “Medical Apartheid: The Dark History of Medical Experimentation on Black Americans from Colonial Times to the Present” by Harriet A. Washington. Let us examine that painful legacy, which, while having moments of good intention, still carries the stain of indifference, racism, neglect, and even experimentation without informed consent.
Why should we do these things? Because some of our black patients have also yelled or whispered, “I can’t breathe,” and we were not always listening either.
Dr. Ajala is a hospitalist and associate site director for education at Grady Memorial Hospital in Atlanta. She is a member of the executive council for SHM’s Care for Vulnerable Populations special interest group.
One might immediately think of the deaths of Eric Garner, George Floyd, or even the fictional character Radio Raheem from Spike Lee’s critically acclaimed film, “Do the Right Thing,” when they hear the words “I can’t breathe.” These words are a cry for help. The deaths of these unarmed black men is devastating and has led to a state of rage, palpable pain, and protest across the world.
However, in this moment, I am talking about the health inequity exposed by the COVID-19 pandemic. Whether it be acute respiratory distress syndrome (ARDS) secondary to severe COVID-19, or the subsequent hypercoagulable state of COVID-19 that leads to venous thromboembolism, many black people in this country are left breathless. Many black patients who had no employee-based health insurance also had no primary care physician to order a SARS-CoV2 PCR lab test for them. Many of these patients have preexisting conditions, such as asthma from living in redlined communities affected by environmental racism. Many grew up in food deserts, where no fresh-produce store was interested enough to set up shop in their neighborhoods. They have been eating fast food since early childhood, as a fast-food burger is still cheaper than a salad. The result is obesity, an epidemic that can lead to diabetes mellitus, hypertension that can lead to coronary artery disease, stroke, and end-stage renal disease.
Earlier in my career, I once had a colleague gleefully tell me that all black people drank Kool-Aid while in discussion of the effects of high-sugar diets in our patients; this colleague was sure I would agree. Not all black people drink Kool-Aid. Secondary to my fear of the backlash that can come from the discomfort of “white fragility” that Robin DiAngelo describes in her New York Times bestseller by the same name, ”White Fragility: Why It’s So Hard for White People to Talk About Racism,” I refrained from expressing my own hurt, and I did not offer explicit correction. I, instead, took a serious pause. That pause, which lasted only minutes, seemed to last 400 years. It was a brief reflection of the 400 years of systemic racism seeping into everyday life. This included the circumstances that would lead to the health inequities that result in the health disparities from which many black patients suffer. It is that same systemic racism that could create two America’s in which my colleague might not have to know the historic context in which that question could be hurtful. I retorted with modified shock and a chuckle so that I could muster up enough strength to repeat what was said and leave it open for reflection. The goal was for my colleague to realize the obvious implicit bias that lingered, despite intention. The chuckle was also to cover my pain.
Whether we know it or not, we all carry some form of implicit bias, regardless of race, class, gender, ethnicity, sexual preference, or socioeconomic status. In this case, it is the same implicit bias that causes physicians to ignore some black patients when they have said that they are in pain. A groundbreaking April 2016 article in Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences, “Racial Bias in Pain Assessment and Treatment Recommendations, and False Beliefs about Biological Differences Between Blacks and Whites” (doi: 10.1073/pnas.1516047113), revealed that racial disparities in pain assessment and treatment recommendations can be directly connected to the racial bias of the provider. It could be possible that this phenomenon has affected black patients who have walked into clinics and emergency departments and said, “I’m short of breath. I think that I might have coronavirus and need to be tested.” It may be that same implicit bias that has cut the air supply to a patient encounter. Instead of inquiring further, the patient might be met with minimum questions while their provider obtains their history and physical. Assumptions and blame on behavior and lack of personal responsibility secretly replace questions that could have been asked. Differentials between exacerbations and other etiologies are not explored. Could that patient have been sent home without a SARS-CoV2 polymerase chain reaction test? Well, what if the tests were in short supply? Sometimes they may have been sent home without a chest x-ray. In most cases, there are no funds to send them home with a pulse oximeter.
The act of assuming a person’s story that we consider to be one dimensional is always dangerous – and even more so during this pandemic. That person we can relate to – secondary to a cool pop culture moment, a TikTok song, or a negative stereotype – is not one dimensional. That assumption and that stereotype can make room for implicit bias. That same implicit bias is the knee on a neck of any marginalized patient. Implicit bias is the choke hold that slowly removes the light and life from a person who has a story, who has a family, and who has been an essential worker who can’t work from home. That person is telling us that they can’t breathe, but sometimes the only things seen are comorbidities through a misinformed or biased lens that suggest an assumed lack of personal responsibility. In a May 2020 New England Journal of Medicine perspective, “Racial health disparities and Covid-19” (doi: 10.1056/NEJMp2012910), Merlin Chowkwanyun, PhD, MPH, and Adolph L. Reed Jr., PhD, caution us against creating race-based explanations for presumed behavioral patterns.
Systemic racism has created the myth that the playing field has been leveled since the end of enslavement. It hasn’t. That black man, woman, or nonbinary person is telling you “I can’t breathe. I’m tired. I’m short of breath ... I have a cough ... I’m feeling weak these days, Doc.” However, implicit bias is still that knee that won’t let up. It has not let up. Communities with lower-income black and Hispanic patients have already seen local hospitals and frontline workers fight to save their lives while losing their own to COVID-19. We all witnessed the battle for scarce resources and PPE [personal protective equipment]. In contrast, some wealthy neighborhoods have occupants who most likely have access to a primary care physician and more testing centers.
As we reexamine ourselves and look at these cases of police brutality against unarmed black men, women, and children with the appropriate shame and outrage, let us reflect upon the privileges that we enjoy. Let us find our voice as we speak up for black lives. Let us look deeply into the history of medicine as it relates to black patients by reading “Medical Apartheid: The Dark History of Medical Experimentation on Black Americans from Colonial Times to the Present” by Harriet A. Washington. Let us examine that painful legacy, which, while having moments of good intention, still carries the stain of indifference, racism, neglect, and even experimentation without informed consent.
Why should we do these things? Because some of our black patients have also yelled or whispered, “I can’t breathe,” and we were not always listening either.
Dr. Ajala is a hospitalist and associate site director for education at Grady Memorial Hospital in Atlanta. She is a member of the executive council for SHM’s Care for Vulnerable Populations special interest group.
One might immediately think of the deaths of Eric Garner, George Floyd, or even the fictional character Radio Raheem from Spike Lee’s critically acclaimed film, “Do the Right Thing,” when they hear the words “I can’t breathe.” These words are a cry for help. The deaths of these unarmed black men is devastating and has led to a state of rage, palpable pain, and protest across the world.
However, in this moment, I am talking about the health inequity exposed by the COVID-19 pandemic. Whether it be acute respiratory distress syndrome (ARDS) secondary to severe COVID-19, or the subsequent hypercoagulable state of COVID-19 that leads to venous thromboembolism, many black people in this country are left breathless. Many black patients who had no employee-based health insurance also had no primary care physician to order a SARS-CoV2 PCR lab test for them. Many of these patients have preexisting conditions, such as asthma from living in redlined communities affected by environmental racism. Many grew up in food deserts, where no fresh-produce store was interested enough to set up shop in their neighborhoods. They have been eating fast food since early childhood, as a fast-food burger is still cheaper than a salad. The result is obesity, an epidemic that can lead to diabetes mellitus, hypertension that can lead to coronary artery disease, stroke, and end-stage renal disease.
Earlier in my career, I once had a colleague gleefully tell me that all black people drank Kool-Aid while in discussion of the effects of high-sugar diets in our patients; this colleague was sure I would agree. Not all black people drink Kool-Aid. Secondary to my fear of the backlash that can come from the discomfort of “white fragility” that Robin DiAngelo describes in her New York Times bestseller by the same name, ”White Fragility: Why It’s So Hard for White People to Talk About Racism,” I refrained from expressing my own hurt, and I did not offer explicit correction. I, instead, took a serious pause. That pause, which lasted only minutes, seemed to last 400 years. It was a brief reflection of the 400 years of systemic racism seeping into everyday life. This included the circumstances that would lead to the health inequities that result in the health disparities from which many black patients suffer. It is that same systemic racism that could create two America’s in which my colleague might not have to know the historic context in which that question could be hurtful. I retorted with modified shock and a chuckle so that I could muster up enough strength to repeat what was said and leave it open for reflection. The goal was for my colleague to realize the obvious implicit bias that lingered, despite intention. The chuckle was also to cover my pain.
Whether we know it or not, we all carry some form of implicit bias, regardless of race, class, gender, ethnicity, sexual preference, or socioeconomic status. In this case, it is the same implicit bias that causes physicians to ignore some black patients when they have said that they are in pain. A groundbreaking April 2016 article in Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences, “Racial Bias in Pain Assessment and Treatment Recommendations, and False Beliefs about Biological Differences Between Blacks and Whites” (doi: 10.1073/pnas.1516047113), revealed that racial disparities in pain assessment and treatment recommendations can be directly connected to the racial bias of the provider. It could be possible that this phenomenon has affected black patients who have walked into clinics and emergency departments and said, “I’m short of breath. I think that I might have coronavirus and need to be tested.” It may be that same implicit bias that has cut the air supply to a patient encounter. Instead of inquiring further, the patient might be met with minimum questions while their provider obtains their history and physical. Assumptions and blame on behavior and lack of personal responsibility secretly replace questions that could have been asked. Differentials between exacerbations and other etiologies are not explored. Could that patient have been sent home without a SARS-CoV2 polymerase chain reaction test? Well, what if the tests were in short supply? Sometimes they may have been sent home without a chest x-ray. In most cases, there are no funds to send them home with a pulse oximeter.
The act of assuming a person’s story that we consider to be one dimensional is always dangerous – and even more so during this pandemic. That person we can relate to – secondary to a cool pop culture moment, a TikTok song, or a negative stereotype – is not one dimensional. That assumption and that stereotype can make room for implicit bias. That same implicit bias is the knee on a neck of any marginalized patient. Implicit bias is the choke hold that slowly removes the light and life from a person who has a story, who has a family, and who has been an essential worker who can’t work from home. That person is telling us that they can’t breathe, but sometimes the only things seen are comorbidities through a misinformed or biased lens that suggest an assumed lack of personal responsibility. In a May 2020 New England Journal of Medicine perspective, “Racial health disparities and Covid-19” (doi: 10.1056/NEJMp2012910), Merlin Chowkwanyun, PhD, MPH, and Adolph L. Reed Jr., PhD, caution us against creating race-based explanations for presumed behavioral patterns.
Systemic racism has created the myth that the playing field has been leveled since the end of enslavement. It hasn’t. That black man, woman, or nonbinary person is telling you “I can’t breathe. I’m tired. I’m short of breath ... I have a cough ... I’m feeling weak these days, Doc.” However, implicit bias is still that knee that won’t let up. It has not let up. Communities with lower-income black and Hispanic patients have already seen local hospitals and frontline workers fight to save their lives while losing their own to COVID-19. We all witnessed the battle for scarce resources and PPE [personal protective equipment]. In contrast, some wealthy neighborhoods have occupants who most likely have access to a primary care physician and more testing centers.
As we reexamine ourselves and look at these cases of police brutality against unarmed black men, women, and children with the appropriate shame and outrage, let us reflect upon the privileges that we enjoy. Let us find our voice as we speak up for black lives. Let us look deeply into the history of medicine as it relates to black patients by reading “Medical Apartheid: The Dark History of Medical Experimentation on Black Americans from Colonial Times to the Present” by Harriet A. Washington. Let us examine that painful legacy, which, while having moments of good intention, still carries the stain of indifference, racism, neglect, and even experimentation without informed consent.
Why should we do these things? Because some of our black patients have also yelled or whispered, “I can’t breathe,” and we were not always listening either.
Dr. Ajala is a hospitalist and associate site director for education at Grady Memorial Hospital in Atlanta. She is a member of the executive council for SHM’s Care for Vulnerable Populations special interest group.
Racism: Developmental perspective can inform tough conversations
Can we help our pediatric patients with the complicated problems of racism, especially if we are privileged (and even white) professionals? We may not have experienced discrimination, but we can still advise and address it. Racist discrimination, fear, trauma, or distress may produce or exacerbate conditions we are treating.
Three levels of racism impact children’s health and health care: “structural or institutional” policies that influence social determinants of health; “personally mediated” differential treatment based on assumptions about one’s abilities, motives, or intents; and the resulting “internalization” of stereotypes into one’s identity, undermining confidence, self-esteem, and mental health. We can help advocate about structural racism and ensure equity within our offices, but how best to counsel the families and children themselves?
Racism includes actions of “assigning value based on the social interpretation of how a person looks” (Ethn Dis. 2008;18[4]:496-504). “Social interpretations” develop from an early age. Newborns detect differences in appearance and may startle or cry seeing a parent’s drastic haircut or new hat. Parents generally know to use soothing words and tone, bring the difference into view gradually, smile and comfort the child, and explain the change; these are good skills for later, too. Infants notice skin color, which, unlike clothes, is a stable feature by which to recognize parents. Social interpretation of these differences is cued from the parents’ feelings and reactions. Adults naturally transmit biases from their own past unless they work to dampen them. If the parent was taught to regard “other” as negative or is generally fearful, the child mirrors this. Working to reduce racism thus requires parents (and professionals) to examine their prejudices to be able to convey positive or neutral reactions to people who are different. Parents need to show curiosity, positive affect, and comfort about people who are different, and do well to seek contact and friendships with people from other groups and include their children in these relationships. We can encourage this outreach plus ensure diversity and respectful interactions in our offices.
Children from age 3 years value fairness and are upset seeing others treated unfairly – easily understanding “not fair” or “mean.” If the person being hurt is like them in race, ethnicity, religion, gender, or sexual preference, they also fear for themselves, family, and friends. Balance is needed in discussing racism to avoid increasing fear or overpromising as risks are real and solutions difficult. Children look to adults for understanding and evidence of action to feel safer, rather than helpless. We should state that leaders are working on “making the rules more fair,” ensuring that people “won’t be allowed do it again,” and “teaching that everyone deserves respect.” Even better, parents and children can generate ideas about child actions, giving them some power as an antidote to anxiety. Age-related possibilities might include drawing a picture of people getting along, talking at show-and-tell, writing a note to officials, making a protest sign, posting thoughts on Facebook, or protesting.
With age, the culture increasingly influences a child’s attitudes. Children see lots of teasing and bullying based on differences from being overweight or wearing glasses, to skin color. It is helpful to interpret for children that bullies are insecure, or sometimes have been hurt, and they put other people down to feel better than someone else. Thinking about racist acts this way may reduce the desire for revenge and a cycle of aggression. Effective anti-bullying programs help children recognize bullying, see it as an emergency that requires their action, tell adults, and take action. This action could be surrounding the bully, standing tall, making eye contact, having a dismissive retort, or asking questions that require the bully to think, such as “What do you want to happen by doing this?” We can coach our patients and their parents on these principles as well as advising schools.
Children need to be told that those being put down or held down – especially those like them – have strengths; have made discoveries; have produced writings, art, and music; have shown military bravery, moral leadership, and resistance to discrimination, but it is not the time to show strength when confronted by a gun or police. We can use and arm parents with examples to discuss strengths and accomplishments to help buffer the child from internalization of racist stereotypes. Children need positive role models who look like them; parents can seek out diverse professionals in their children’s lives, such as dentists, doctors, teachers, clergy, mentors, or coaches. We, and parents, can ensure that dolls and books are available, and that the children’s shows, movies, and video games are watched together and include diverse people doing good or brave things. These exposures also are key to all children becoming anti-racist.
Parents can be advised to initiate discussion of racism because children, detecting adult discomfort, may avoid the topic. We can encourage families to give their point of view; otherwise children simply absorb those of peers or the press. Parents should tell their children, “I want you to be able to talk about it if someone is mean or treats you unfairly because of [the color of your skin, your religion, your sex, your disability, etc.]. You might feel helpless, or angry, which is natural. We need to talk about this so you can feel strong. Then we can plan on what we are going to do.” The “sandwich” method of “ask-give information-ask what they think” can encourage discussion and correct misperceptions.
Racist policies have succeeded partly by adult “bullies” dehumanizing the “other.” Most children can consider someone else’s point of view by 4½ years old, shaped with adult help. Parents can begin by telling babies, “That hurts, doesn’t it?” asking toddlers and older, “How would you feel if ... [someone called you a name just because of having red hair]?” or “How do you think she feels when ... [someone pushes her out of line because she wears certain clothes]?” in cases of grabbing, not sharing, hitting, bullying, etc. Older children and teens can analyze more abstract situations when asked, “What if you were the one who ... [got expelled for mumbling about the teacher]?” or “What if that were your sister?” or “How would the world be if everyone ... [got a chance to go to college]?” We can encourage parents to propose these mental exercises to build the child’s perspective-taking while conveying their opinions.
Experiences, including through media, may increase or decrease fear; the child needs to have a supportive person moderating the exposure, providing a positive interpretation, and protecting the child from overwhelm, if needed.
Experiences are insufficient for developing anti-racist attitudes; listening and talking are needed. The first step is to ask children about what they notice, think, and feel about situations reflecting racism, especially as they lack words for these complicated observations. There are television, Internet, and newspaper examples of both racism and anti-racism that can be fruitfully discussed. We can recommend watching or reading together, and asking questions such as, “Why do you think they are shouting [protesting]?” “How do you think the [victim, police] felt?” or “What do you think should be done about this?”
It is important to acknowledge the child’s confusion, fear, anxiety, sadness, or anger as normal and appropriate, not dismissing, too quickly reassuring, or changing the subject, even though it’s uncomfortable.
Physicians and nurse practitioners can make a difference by being aware of our privilege and biases, being open, modeling discussion, screening for impact, offering strategies, advocating with schools, and providing resources such as therapy or legal counsel, as for other social determinants of health.
Dr. Howard is assistant professor of pediatrics at Johns Hopkins University, Baltimore, and creator of CHADIS (https://www.site.chadis.com/). She had no other relevant disclosures. Dr. Howard’s contribution to this publication was as a paid expert to MDedge News. E-mail her at [email protected].
Can we help our pediatric patients with the complicated problems of racism, especially if we are privileged (and even white) professionals? We may not have experienced discrimination, but we can still advise and address it. Racist discrimination, fear, trauma, or distress may produce or exacerbate conditions we are treating.
Three levels of racism impact children’s health and health care: “structural or institutional” policies that influence social determinants of health; “personally mediated” differential treatment based on assumptions about one’s abilities, motives, or intents; and the resulting “internalization” of stereotypes into one’s identity, undermining confidence, self-esteem, and mental health. We can help advocate about structural racism and ensure equity within our offices, but how best to counsel the families and children themselves?
Racism includes actions of “assigning value based on the social interpretation of how a person looks” (Ethn Dis. 2008;18[4]:496-504). “Social interpretations” develop from an early age. Newborns detect differences in appearance and may startle or cry seeing a parent’s drastic haircut or new hat. Parents generally know to use soothing words and tone, bring the difference into view gradually, smile and comfort the child, and explain the change; these are good skills for later, too. Infants notice skin color, which, unlike clothes, is a stable feature by which to recognize parents. Social interpretation of these differences is cued from the parents’ feelings and reactions. Adults naturally transmit biases from their own past unless they work to dampen them. If the parent was taught to regard “other” as negative or is generally fearful, the child mirrors this. Working to reduce racism thus requires parents (and professionals) to examine their prejudices to be able to convey positive or neutral reactions to people who are different. Parents need to show curiosity, positive affect, and comfort about people who are different, and do well to seek contact and friendships with people from other groups and include their children in these relationships. We can encourage this outreach plus ensure diversity and respectful interactions in our offices.
Children from age 3 years value fairness and are upset seeing others treated unfairly – easily understanding “not fair” or “mean.” If the person being hurt is like them in race, ethnicity, religion, gender, or sexual preference, they also fear for themselves, family, and friends. Balance is needed in discussing racism to avoid increasing fear or overpromising as risks are real and solutions difficult. Children look to adults for understanding and evidence of action to feel safer, rather than helpless. We should state that leaders are working on “making the rules more fair,” ensuring that people “won’t be allowed do it again,” and “teaching that everyone deserves respect.” Even better, parents and children can generate ideas about child actions, giving them some power as an antidote to anxiety. Age-related possibilities might include drawing a picture of people getting along, talking at show-and-tell, writing a note to officials, making a protest sign, posting thoughts on Facebook, or protesting.
With age, the culture increasingly influences a child’s attitudes. Children see lots of teasing and bullying based on differences from being overweight or wearing glasses, to skin color. It is helpful to interpret for children that bullies are insecure, or sometimes have been hurt, and they put other people down to feel better than someone else. Thinking about racist acts this way may reduce the desire for revenge and a cycle of aggression. Effective anti-bullying programs help children recognize bullying, see it as an emergency that requires their action, tell adults, and take action. This action could be surrounding the bully, standing tall, making eye contact, having a dismissive retort, or asking questions that require the bully to think, such as “What do you want to happen by doing this?” We can coach our patients and their parents on these principles as well as advising schools.
Children need to be told that those being put down or held down – especially those like them – have strengths; have made discoveries; have produced writings, art, and music; have shown military bravery, moral leadership, and resistance to discrimination, but it is not the time to show strength when confronted by a gun or police. We can use and arm parents with examples to discuss strengths and accomplishments to help buffer the child from internalization of racist stereotypes. Children need positive role models who look like them; parents can seek out diverse professionals in their children’s lives, such as dentists, doctors, teachers, clergy, mentors, or coaches. We, and parents, can ensure that dolls and books are available, and that the children’s shows, movies, and video games are watched together and include diverse people doing good or brave things. These exposures also are key to all children becoming anti-racist.
Parents can be advised to initiate discussion of racism because children, detecting adult discomfort, may avoid the topic. We can encourage families to give their point of view; otherwise children simply absorb those of peers or the press. Parents should tell their children, “I want you to be able to talk about it if someone is mean or treats you unfairly because of [the color of your skin, your religion, your sex, your disability, etc.]. You might feel helpless, or angry, which is natural. We need to talk about this so you can feel strong. Then we can plan on what we are going to do.” The “sandwich” method of “ask-give information-ask what they think” can encourage discussion and correct misperceptions.
Racist policies have succeeded partly by adult “bullies” dehumanizing the “other.” Most children can consider someone else’s point of view by 4½ years old, shaped with adult help. Parents can begin by telling babies, “That hurts, doesn’t it?” asking toddlers and older, “How would you feel if ... [someone called you a name just because of having red hair]?” or “How do you think she feels when ... [someone pushes her out of line because she wears certain clothes]?” in cases of grabbing, not sharing, hitting, bullying, etc. Older children and teens can analyze more abstract situations when asked, “What if you were the one who ... [got expelled for mumbling about the teacher]?” or “What if that were your sister?” or “How would the world be if everyone ... [got a chance to go to college]?” We can encourage parents to propose these mental exercises to build the child’s perspective-taking while conveying their opinions.
Experiences, including through media, may increase or decrease fear; the child needs to have a supportive person moderating the exposure, providing a positive interpretation, and protecting the child from overwhelm, if needed.
Experiences are insufficient for developing anti-racist attitudes; listening and talking are needed. The first step is to ask children about what they notice, think, and feel about situations reflecting racism, especially as they lack words for these complicated observations. There are television, Internet, and newspaper examples of both racism and anti-racism that can be fruitfully discussed. We can recommend watching or reading together, and asking questions such as, “Why do you think they are shouting [protesting]?” “How do you think the [victim, police] felt?” or “What do you think should be done about this?”
It is important to acknowledge the child’s confusion, fear, anxiety, sadness, or anger as normal and appropriate, not dismissing, too quickly reassuring, or changing the subject, even though it’s uncomfortable.
Physicians and nurse practitioners can make a difference by being aware of our privilege and biases, being open, modeling discussion, screening for impact, offering strategies, advocating with schools, and providing resources such as therapy or legal counsel, as for other social determinants of health.
Dr. Howard is assistant professor of pediatrics at Johns Hopkins University, Baltimore, and creator of CHADIS (https://www.site.chadis.com/). She had no other relevant disclosures. Dr. Howard’s contribution to this publication was as a paid expert to MDedge News. E-mail her at [email protected].
Can we help our pediatric patients with the complicated problems of racism, especially if we are privileged (and even white) professionals? We may not have experienced discrimination, but we can still advise and address it. Racist discrimination, fear, trauma, or distress may produce or exacerbate conditions we are treating.
Three levels of racism impact children’s health and health care: “structural or institutional” policies that influence social determinants of health; “personally mediated” differential treatment based on assumptions about one’s abilities, motives, or intents; and the resulting “internalization” of stereotypes into one’s identity, undermining confidence, self-esteem, and mental health. We can help advocate about structural racism and ensure equity within our offices, but how best to counsel the families and children themselves?
Racism includes actions of “assigning value based on the social interpretation of how a person looks” (Ethn Dis. 2008;18[4]:496-504). “Social interpretations” develop from an early age. Newborns detect differences in appearance and may startle or cry seeing a parent’s drastic haircut or new hat. Parents generally know to use soothing words and tone, bring the difference into view gradually, smile and comfort the child, and explain the change; these are good skills for later, too. Infants notice skin color, which, unlike clothes, is a stable feature by which to recognize parents. Social interpretation of these differences is cued from the parents’ feelings and reactions. Adults naturally transmit biases from their own past unless they work to dampen them. If the parent was taught to regard “other” as negative or is generally fearful, the child mirrors this. Working to reduce racism thus requires parents (and professionals) to examine their prejudices to be able to convey positive or neutral reactions to people who are different. Parents need to show curiosity, positive affect, and comfort about people who are different, and do well to seek contact and friendships with people from other groups and include their children in these relationships. We can encourage this outreach plus ensure diversity and respectful interactions in our offices.
Children from age 3 years value fairness and are upset seeing others treated unfairly – easily understanding “not fair” or “mean.” If the person being hurt is like them in race, ethnicity, religion, gender, or sexual preference, they also fear for themselves, family, and friends. Balance is needed in discussing racism to avoid increasing fear or overpromising as risks are real and solutions difficult. Children look to adults for understanding and evidence of action to feel safer, rather than helpless. We should state that leaders are working on “making the rules more fair,” ensuring that people “won’t be allowed do it again,” and “teaching that everyone deserves respect.” Even better, parents and children can generate ideas about child actions, giving them some power as an antidote to anxiety. Age-related possibilities might include drawing a picture of people getting along, talking at show-and-tell, writing a note to officials, making a protest sign, posting thoughts on Facebook, or protesting.
With age, the culture increasingly influences a child’s attitudes. Children see lots of teasing and bullying based on differences from being overweight or wearing glasses, to skin color. It is helpful to interpret for children that bullies are insecure, or sometimes have been hurt, and they put other people down to feel better than someone else. Thinking about racist acts this way may reduce the desire for revenge and a cycle of aggression. Effective anti-bullying programs help children recognize bullying, see it as an emergency that requires their action, tell adults, and take action. This action could be surrounding the bully, standing tall, making eye contact, having a dismissive retort, or asking questions that require the bully to think, such as “What do you want to happen by doing this?” We can coach our patients and their parents on these principles as well as advising schools.
Children need to be told that those being put down or held down – especially those like them – have strengths; have made discoveries; have produced writings, art, and music; have shown military bravery, moral leadership, and resistance to discrimination, but it is not the time to show strength when confronted by a gun or police. We can use and arm parents with examples to discuss strengths and accomplishments to help buffer the child from internalization of racist stereotypes. Children need positive role models who look like them; parents can seek out diverse professionals in their children’s lives, such as dentists, doctors, teachers, clergy, mentors, or coaches. We, and parents, can ensure that dolls and books are available, and that the children’s shows, movies, and video games are watched together and include diverse people doing good or brave things. These exposures also are key to all children becoming anti-racist.
Parents can be advised to initiate discussion of racism because children, detecting adult discomfort, may avoid the topic. We can encourage families to give their point of view; otherwise children simply absorb those of peers or the press. Parents should tell their children, “I want you to be able to talk about it if someone is mean or treats you unfairly because of [the color of your skin, your religion, your sex, your disability, etc.]. You might feel helpless, or angry, which is natural. We need to talk about this so you can feel strong. Then we can plan on what we are going to do.” The “sandwich” method of “ask-give information-ask what they think” can encourage discussion and correct misperceptions.
Racist policies have succeeded partly by adult “bullies” dehumanizing the “other.” Most children can consider someone else’s point of view by 4½ years old, shaped with adult help. Parents can begin by telling babies, “That hurts, doesn’t it?” asking toddlers and older, “How would you feel if ... [someone called you a name just because of having red hair]?” or “How do you think she feels when ... [someone pushes her out of line because she wears certain clothes]?” in cases of grabbing, not sharing, hitting, bullying, etc. Older children and teens can analyze more abstract situations when asked, “What if you were the one who ... [got expelled for mumbling about the teacher]?” or “What if that were your sister?” or “How would the world be if everyone ... [got a chance to go to college]?” We can encourage parents to propose these mental exercises to build the child’s perspective-taking while conveying their opinions.
Experiences, including through media, may increase or decrease fear; the child needs to have a supportive person moderating the exposure, providing a positive interpretation, and protecting the child from overwhelm, if needed.
Experiences are insufficient for developing anti-racist attitudes; listening and talking are needed. The first step is to ask children about what they notice, think, and feel about situations reflecting racism, especially as they lack words for these complicated observations. There are television, Internet, and newspaper examples of both racism and anti-racism that can be fruitfully discussed. We can recommend watching or reading together, and asking questions such as, “Why do you think they are shouting [protesting]?” “How do you think the [victim, police] felt?” or “What do you think should be done about this?”
It is important to acknowledge the child’s confusion, fear, anxiety, sadness, or anger as normal and appropriate, not dismissing, too quickly reassuring, or changing the subject, even though it’s uncomfortable.
Physicians and nurse practitioners can make a difference by being aware of our privilege and biases, being open, modeling discussion, screening for impact, offering strategies, advocating with schools, and providing resources such as therapy or legal counsel, as for other social determinants of health.
Dr. Howard is assistant professor of pediatrics at Johns Hopkins University, Baltimore, and creator of CHADIS (https://www.site.chadis.com/). She had no other relevant disclosures. Dr. Howard’s contribution to this publication was as a paid expert to MDedge News. E-mail her at [email protected].
Consider the stresses experienced by LGBTQ people of color
Given that Pride month is coinciding with so much upheaval in our community around racism and oppression, it is important to discuss the overlap in the experiences of both LGBTQ and people of color (POC).
The year 2020 will go down in history books. We will always remember the issues faced during this critical year. At least I hope so, because as we have seen, history repeats itself. How do these issues that we are currently facing relate to LGBTQ youth? The histories are linked. One cannot look at the history of LGBTQ rights without looking at other civil rights movements, particularly those for black people. The timing of these social movements often intertwined, both being inspired by and inspiring each other. For example, Bayard Rustin worked with Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. as an organizer for the March on Washington for Jobs and Freedom in addition to being a public advocate for gay rights later on in his life. Similarly, the Stonewall Uprising that is known by many to be one of the first acts of the gay liberation movement, prominently featured Marsha P. Johnson (a black, transgender, self-identified drag queen) and Sylvia Rivera (a Latina American transgender rights activist). As we reflect on these histories, it is important to think about the effect of minority stress and intersectionality and how this impacts LGBTQ-POC and their health disparities.
Minority stress shows that . One example of such stressors is microaggressions – brief interactions that one might not realize are discriminatory or hurtful, but to the person on the receiving end of such comments, they are harmful and they add up. A suspicious look from a store owner as one browses the aisles of a local convenience store, a comment about how one “doesn’t’ seem gay” or “doesn’t sound black” all are examples of microaggressions.
Overt discrimination, expectation of rejection, and hate crimes also contribute to minority stress. LGBTQ individuals often also have to hide their identity whereas POC might not be able to hide their identity. Experiencing constant bombardment of discrimination from the outside world can lead one to internalize these thoughts of homophobia, transphobia, or racism.
Minority stress becomes even more complicated when you apply the theoretical framework of intersectionality – overlapping identities that compound one’s minority stress. Lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, and queer people of color (LGBTQ-POC) are a classic example of intersecting identities. They may experience racism from the LGBT community or homophobia/transphobia from their own racial or ethnic community in addition to the discrimination they already face from the majority population for both identities. Some LGBTQ people of color may feel the need to choose between these two identities, forcing them to compartmentalize one aspect of their identity from the other. Imagine how stressful that must be! In addition, LGBTQ-POC are less likely to come out to family members.
Most of us are aware that health disparities exist, both for the LGBTQ community as well as for racial and ethnic minorities; couple these together and the effect can be additive, placing LGBTQ-POC at higher risk for adverse health outcomes. In the late 1990s, racial and ethnic minority men having sex with men made up 48% of all HIV infection cases, a number that is clearly disproportionate to their representation in our overall society. Given both LGBTQ and POC have issues accessing care, one can only imagine that this would make it hard to get diagnosed or treated regularly for these issues.
Transgender POC also are particularly vulnerable to health disparities. The 2015 U.S. Transgender Survey looked at the experiences of over 28,000 transgender people in the United States, but the survey also broke down the experiences for transgender people of color. Black transgender individuals were more likely than their black cisgender counterparts to experience unemployment (20% vs. 10%) and poverty (38% vs. 24%). They were more likely to experience homelessness compared with the overall transgender sample (42% vs. 30%) and more likely to have been sexually assaulted in their lives (53% vs. 47%). Understandably, 67% of black transgender respondents said they would feel somewhat or very uncomfortable asking the police for help.
The findings were similar for Latinx transgender respondents: 21% were unemployed compared with the overall rate of unemployment for Latinx in the United States at 7%, and 43% were living in poverty compared with 18% of their cisgender peers.
Perhaps the most striking result among American Indian and Alaska Native respondents was that 57% had experienced homelessness – nearly twice the rate of the survey sample overall (30%). For the transgender Asian and Native Hawaiian/Pacific Islander respondents, 32% were living in poverty and 39% had experienced serious psychological distress in the month before completing the survey.
So please, check in on your patients, friends, and family that identify as both LGBTQ and POC. Imagine how scary this must be for LGBTQ youth of color. They can be targeted for both their race and their sexuality and/or gender identity.
Dr. Lawlis is assistant professor of pediatrics at the University of Oklahoma Health Sciences Center, Oklahoma City, and an adolescent medicine specialist at OU Children’s. She has no relevant financial disclosures. Email her at [email protected].
Given that Pride month is coinciding with so much upheaval in our community around racism and oppression, it is important to discuss the overlap in the experiences of both LGBTQ and people of color (POC).
The year 2020 will go down in history books. We will always remember the issues faced during this critical year. At least I hope so, because as we have seen, history repeats itself. How do these issues that we are currently facing relate to LGBTQ youth? The histories are linked. One cannot look at the history of LGBTQ rights without looking at other civil rights movements, particularly those for black people. The timing of these social movements often intertwined, both being inspired by and inspiring each other. For example, Bayard Rustin worked with Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. as an organizer for the March on Washington for Jobs and Freedom in addition to being a public advocate for gay rights later on in his life. Similarly, the Stonewall Uprising that is known by many to be one of the first acts of the gay liberation movement, prominently featured Marsha P. Johnson (a black, transgender, self-identified drag queen) and Sylvia Rivera (a Latina American transgender rights activist). As we reflect on these histories, it is important to think about the effect of minority stress and intersectionality and how this impacts LGBTQ-POC and their health disparities.
Minority stress shows that . One example of such stressors is microaggressions – brief interactions that one might not realize are discriminatory or hurtful, but to the person on the receiving end of such comments, they are harmful and they add up. A suspicious look from a store owner as one browses the aisles of a local convenience store, a comment about how one “doesn’t’ seem gay” or “doesn’t sound black” all are examples of microaggressions.
Overt discrimination, expectation of rejection, and hate crimes also contribute to minority stress. LGBTQ individuals often also have to hide their identity whereas POC might not be able to hide their identity. Experiencing constant bombardment of discrimination from the outside world can lead one to internalize these thoughts of homophobia, transphobia, or racism.
Minority stress becomes even more complicated when you apply the theoretical framework of intersectionality – overlapping identities that compound one’s minority stress. Lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, and queer people of color (LGBTQ-POC) are a classic example of intersecting identities. They may experience racism from the LGBT community or homophobia/transphobia from their own racial or ethnic community in addition to the discrimination they already face from the majority population for both identities. Some LGBTQ people of color may feel the need to choose between these two identities, forcing them to compartmentalize one aspect of their identity from the other. Imagine how stressful that must be! In addition, LGBTQ-POC are less likely to come out to family members.
Most of us are aware that health disparities exist, both for the LGBTQ community as well as for racial and ethnic minorities; couple these together and the effect can be additive, placing LGBTQ-POC at higher risk for adverse health outcomes. In the late 1990s, racial and ethnic minority men having sex with men made up 48% of all HIV infection cases, a number that is clearly disproportionate to their representation in our overall society. Given both LGBTQ and POC have issues accessing care, one can only imagine that this would make it hard to get diagnosed or treated regularly for these issues.
Transgender POC also are particularly vulnerable to health disparities. The 2015 U.S. Transgender Survey looked at the experiences of over 28,000 transgender people in the United States, but the survey also broke down the experiences for transgender people of color. Black transgender individuals were more likely than their black cisgender counterparts to experience unemployment (20% vs. 10%) and poverty (38% vs. 24%). They were more likely to experience homelessness compared with the overall transgender sample (42% vs. 30%) and more likely to have been sexually assaulted in their lives (53% vs. 47%). Understandably, 67% of black transgender respondents said they would feel somewhat or very uncomfortable asking the police for help.
The findings were similar for Latinx transgender respondents: 21% were unemployed compared with the overall rate of unemployment for Latinx in the United States at 7%, and 43% were living in poverty compared with 18% of their cisgender peers.
Perhaps the most striking result among American Indian and Alaska Native respondents was that 57% had experienced homelessness – nearly twice the rate of the survey sample overall (30%). For the transgender Asian and Native Hawaiian/Pacific Islander respondents, 32% were living in poverty and 39% had experienced serious psychological distress in the month before completing the survey.
So please, check in on your patients, friends, and family that identify as both LGBTQ and POC. Imagine how scary this must be for LGBTQ youth of color. They can be targeted for both their race and their sexuality and/or gender identity.
Dr. Lawlis is assistant professor of pediatrics at the University of Oklahoma Health Sciences Center, Oklahoma City, and an adolescent medicine specialist at OU Children’s. She has no relevant financial disclosures. Email her at [email protected].
Given that Pride month is coinciding with so much upheaval in our community around racism and oppression, it is important to discuss the overlap in the experiences of both LGBTQ and people of color (POC).
The year 2020 will go down in history books. We will always remember the issues faced during this critical year. At least I hope so, because as we have seen, history repeats itself. How do these issues that we are currently facing relate to LGBTQ youth? The histories are linked. One cannot look at the history of LGBTQ rights without looking at other civil rights movements, particularly those for black people. The timing of these social movements often intertwined, both being inspired by and inspiring each other. For example, Bayard Rustin worked with Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. as an organizer for the March on Washington for Jobs and Freedom in addition to being a public advocate for gay rights later on in his life. Similarly, the Stonewall Uprising that is known by many to be one of the first acts of the gay liberation movement, prominently featured Marsha P. Johnson (a black, transgender, self-identified drag queen) and Sylvia Rivera (a Latina American transgender rights activist). As we reflect on these histories, it is important to think about the effect of minority stress and intersectionality and how this impacts LGBTQ-POC and their health disparities.
Minority stress shows that . One example of such stressors is microaggressions – brief interactions that one might not realize are discriminatory or hurtful, but to the person on the receiving end of such comments, they are harmful and they add up. A suspicious look from a store owner as one browses the aisles of a local convenience store, a comment about how one “doesn’t’ seem gay” or “doesn’t sound black” all are examples of microaggressions.
Overt discrimination, expectation of rejection, and hate crimes also contribute to minority stress. LGBTQ individuals often also have to hide their identity whereas POC might not be able to hide their identity. Experiencing constant bombardment of discrimination from the outside world can lead one to internalize these thoughts of homophobia, transphobia, or racism.
Minority stress becomes even more complicated when you apply the theoretical framework of intersectionality – overlapping identities that compound one’s minority stress. Lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, and queer people of color (LGBTQ-POC) are a classic example of intersecting identities. They may experience racism from the LGBT community or homophobia/transphobia from their own racial or ethnic community in addition to the discrimination they already face from the majority population for both identities. Some LGBTQ people of color may feel the need to choose between these two identities, forcing them to compartmentalize one aspect of their identity from the other. Imagine how stressful that must be! In addition, LGBTQ-POC are less likely to come out to family members.
Most of us are aware that health disparities exist, both for the LGBTQ community as well as for racial and ethnic minorities; couple these together and the effect can be additive, placing LGBTQ-POC at higher risk for adverse health outcomes. In the late 1990s, racial and ethnic minority men having sex with men made up 48% of all HIV infection cases, a number that is clearly disproportionate to their representation in our overall society. Given both LGBTQ and POC have issues accessing care, one can only imagine that this would make it hard to get diagnosed or treated regularly for these issues.
Transgender POC also are particularly vulnerable to health disparities. The 2015 U.S. Transgender Survey looked at the experiences of over 28,000 transgender people in the United States, but the survey also broke down the experiences for transgender people of color. Black transgender individuals were more likely than their black cisgender counterparts to experience unemployment (20% vs. 10%) and poverty (38% vs. 24%). They were more likely to experience homelessness compared with the overall transgender sample (42% vs. 30%) and more likely to have been sexually assaulted in their lives (53% vs. 47%). Understandably, 67% of black transgender respondents said they would feel somewhat or very uncomfortable asking the police for help.
The findings were similar for Latinx transgender respondents: 21% were unemployed compared with the overall rate of unemployment for Latinx in the United States at 7%, and 43% were living in poverty compared with 18% of their cisgender peers.
Perhaps the most striking result among American Indian and Alaska Native respondents was that 57% had experienced homelessness – nearly twice the rate of the survey sample overall (30%). For the transgender Asian and Native Hawaiian/Pacific Islander respondents, 32% were living in poverty and 39% had experienced serious psychological distress in the month before completing the survey.
So please, check in on your patients, friends, and family that identify as both LGBTQ and POC. Imagine how scary this must be for LGBTQ youth of color. They can be targeted for both their race and their sexuality and/or gender identity.
Dr. Lawlis is assistant professor of pediatrics at the University of Oklahoma Health Sciences Center, Oklahoma City, and an adolescent medicine specialist at OU Children’s. She has no relevant financial disclosures. Email her at [email protected].
I am part of the problem
Race is not something I’ve spent that much time contemplating. I grew up in Elizabeth, N.J., a city of just over 100,000, in the 1970s and attended public schools where people came in all shapes and colors; diversity came with the turf, it wasn’t something anyone needed to strive for.
My high school had more than 4,000 students with roughly even numbers of white, black, and Hispanic students. Armed police patrolled the halls, the thick aroma of weed settled in the stairwells and restrooms, girls brought their babies to school to show them off on half-days, and the “preppies” wore Fair Isle sweaters and played on the tennis team. The school’s campus was brand new and every lab, studio, and athletic amenity was state of the art; at the time, it was the most expensive public high school ever built in America. There were black teachers, librarians, and administrators, and segregation was something we read about in history books. I lived in a world of Technicolor and the Civil Rights movement of the 1960s, while still fresh in the minds of the adults, was something that showed up on black-and-white footage from another time.
My world became both wealthier and whiter when I went to college. There were minority students, but many of the black students at the University of Pennsylvania chose to live in the W.E.B. Du Bois College House.
People are often more comfortable being with others who share their backgrounds and this makes for an interesting conundrum: We all agree that desegregation is a good thing, but not everyone wishes to be told either where to go or not go, and there is an odd unbalance to creating a safe place for black students to be, one that both integrates and separates them from the larger community. Perhaps all our lines get fuzzy – I recall when I was on the Maryland Psychiatric Society Women’s Committee and a male psychiatrist signed up to join us – he was politely told that he could not join, but 20 years later, I’m wondering if it was okay to exclude a man who expressed interest in women’s issues.
In medical school, we were taught to note a patient’s age, race, and marital status, and we might learn that certain illnesses were more prevalent in certain populations, but there was no discussion of racial inequities in health care or anywhere else.
What was really different about the world back then, however, was what we didn’t see and what we didn’t talk about. Social media has opened a world where we can share our pain in the moment and we can band together to speak out against crimes and injustices in every realm. From the MeToo moments, to racially motivated police brutality. Cell phone cameras let us record and publicize these moments so the world can be the judge. George Floyd’s sadistic murder by a police officer, as other officers stood by and watched 8 minutes and 46 seconds of torture, left us all triggered, distressed, angry, sad, and activated. Maybe now we can make real progress on a discussion that began in 1992 with the videotape of Rodney King’s assault, a discussion we’ve had over and over to no avail.
Obviously, I have also been provoked by the events of the past weeks – like many Americans, I’ve paused to wonder how I can help the cause, both personally and as a psychiatrist. I would not normally write about racial topics – as a white woman I can listen, but I don’t feel this pain in the same way as someone who has lived with a lifetime of discrimination and oppression. Dr. Lorenzo Norris and Dr. Brandon Newsome,two black psychiatrists, put out a special edition of the MDEdge Psychcast, “The fallout from George Floyd’s death,” and Dr. Norris noted that two of his white colleagues told him they thought of checking on him, but they didn’t know what to say. Yes, I thought, that’s exactly it, I don’t know what to say and I worry that I might unintentionally say something that would worsen someone else’s pain. Staying silent has always seemed to be the safest option. With this article, I’m moving from a place of comfort.
I started my career with a mix of private practice and community psychiatry. There were things I loved about working in a community clinic: the social aspects of being part of a team, seeing a full range of psychopathology, and treating patients in which the racial and ethnic demographics mirrored that of the community. There were things I didn’t like, however. The pay was low, there were constant institutional requirements that were not relevant to the practice of psychiatry, and my relationship with the patients as their prescriber was much less fulfilling than the relationship I have with those I see for both psychotherapy and medication. Ultimately, the hospital shift to electronic medical records was the final distraction that caused me to leave community work.
Like roughly half of psychiatrists in private practice, I don’t participate with commercial or public insurance plans. Early in my career, I worked in a group setting with billing secretaries, and I did participate with Blue Cross, but even with administrative help, nothing about this was easy, and when I left to do solo practice, I left insurance participation behind. I love the autonomy of my career, I’m proud of the care I am able to give in this setting, and I don’t miss the hassles. But – the out-of-pocket cost of care is higher and the effort of trying to get reimbursed falls to the patient. It means that most of the patients I see have the means to pay for care, none are impoverished or homeless, and while I work in a city that is 62% black, black patients make up a small percentage of my caseload. I don’t think I am unique in this; I would be shocked if any white private practice psychiatrist who specializes in psychotherapy is serving a racially proportionate population. As we start to embrace the idea that people don’t neatly divide into being racist or not, and that bias affects us all, we must acknowledge that medical practices that don’t support racially balanced access to care are part of the problem.
Amy R. Greensfelder, LMSW, is the executive director of Maryland’s Pro Bono Counseling Project (PBCP), an organization that coordinates mental health professionals in private practice in Maryland to volunteer their services to those with limited resources. PBCP has found that 50% of those seeking services share that they are black or African American, and an additional 5% identify as multiracial. Of all of those seeking care approximately 65% are black, Indigenous, or People of Color (BIPOC), and and 14% are Latino/a/x/Hispanic. She says: “We see the racial composition of our clients as a direct demonstration of who is being left behind in the mental health system as it’s currently set up, as BIPOC individuals are represented to a greater degree in our clients than they are in the general population of Maryland. During our intake interview, we provide an opportunity for clients to share if there are certain characteristics they are looking for in a therapist – often black clients share that they would prefer to be matched with a black therapist or a therapist who has received specific training on working with black clients.”
While 13% of the American population is black, only 4% of physicians, 2% of psychiatrists, and 4% of psychologists are black. In her Psychology Today blog post, “Why African Americans Avoid Psychotherapy,” Monnica T. Williams, PhD, notes: “Apprehension about clashing with the values or worldview of the clinician can cause ambivalence about seeking help, and this may be especially true for the many who believe that mental health treatment was designed by white people for white people.” Dr. Williams notes that black Americans also are less likely to seek care because of increased stigma and fear of judgment, concerns about the treatment process, and fears of being involuntarily hospitalized, cost and lack of insurance, and finally logistical issues with work, transportation, and family responsibilities.
George Floyd’s tragic death has led us to a moment of crisis. It’s my hope that the dialogue is now galvanized to make meaningful changes toward fixing racial inequities. I am part of the problem and these conversations need to include more equitable access to psychiatric care.
My thanks to Rachel Donabedian and Gina Henderson for their help with this article.
Dr. Miller is coauthor of “Committed: The Battle Over Involuntary Psychiatric Care” (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University, 2016). She has a private practice and is assistant professor of psychiatry and behavioral sciences at Johns Hopkins, both in Baltimore.
Race is not something I’ve spent that much time contemplating. I grew up in Elizabeth, N.J., a city of just over 100,000, in the 1970s and attended public schools where people came in all shapes and colors; diversity came with the turf, it wasn’t something anyone needed to strive for.
My high school had more than 4,000 students with roughly even numbers of white, black, and Hispanic students. Armed police patrolled the halls, the thick aroma of weed settled in the stairwells and restrooms, girls brought their babies to school to show them off on half-days, and the “preppies” wore Fair Isle sweaters and played on the tennis team. The school’s campus was brand new and every lab, studio, and athletic amenity was state of the art; at the time, it was the most expensive public high school ever built in America. There were black teachers, librarians, and administrators, and segregation was something we read about in history books. I lived in a world of Technicolor and the Civil Rights movement of the 1960s, while still fresh in the minds of the adults, was something that showed up on black-and-white footage from another time.
My world became both wealthier and whiter when I went to college. There were minority students, but many of the black students at the University of Pennsylvania chose to live in the W.E.B. Du Bois College House.
People are often more comfortable being with others who share their backgrounds and this makes for an interesting conundrum: We all agree that desegregation is a good thing, but not everyone wishes to be told either where to go or not go, and there is an odd unbalance to creating a safe place for black students to be, one that both integrates and separates them from the larger community. Perhaps all our lines get fuzzy – I recall when I was on the Maryland Psychiatric Society Women’s Committee and a male psychiatrist signed up to join us – he was politely told that he could not join, but 20 years later, I’m wondering if it was okay to exclude a man who expressed interest in women’s issues.
In medical school, we were taught to note a patient’s age, race, and marital status, and we might learn that certain illnesses were more prevalent in certain populations, but there was no discussion of racial inequities in health care or anywhere else.
What was really different about the world back then, however, was what we didn’t see and what we didn’t talk about. Social media has opened a world where we can share our pain in the moment and we can band together to speak out against crimes and injustices in every realm. From the MeToo moments, to racially motivated police brutality. Cell phone cameras let us record and publicize these moments so the world can be the judge. George Floyd’s sadistic murder by a police officer, as other officers stood by and watched 8 minutes and 46 seconds of torture, left us all triggered, distressed, angry, sad, and activated. Maybe now we can make real progress on a discussion that began in 1992 with the videotape of Rodney King’s assault, a discussion we’ve had over and over to no avail.
Obviously, I have also been provoked by the events of the past weeks – like many Americans, I’ve paused to wonder how I can help the cause, both personally and as a psychiatrist. I would not normally write about racial topics – as a white woman I can listen, but I don’t feel this pain in the same way as someone who has lived with a lifetime of discrimination and oppression. Dr. Lorenzo Norris and Dr. Brandon Newsome,two black psychiatrists, put out a special edition of the MDEdge Psychcast, “The fallout from George Floyd’s death,” and Dr. Norris noted that two of his white colleagues told him they thought of checking on him, but they didn’t know what to say. Yes, I thought, that’s exactly it, I don’t know what to say and I worry that I might unintentionally say something that would worsen someone else’s pain. Staying silent has always seemed to be the safest option. With this article, I’m moving from a place of comfort.
I started my career with a mix of private practice and community psychiatry. There were things I loved about working in a community clinic: the social aspects of being part of a team, seeing a full range of psychopathology, and treating patients in which the racial and ethnic demographics mirrored that of the community. There were things I didn’t like, however. The pay was low, there were constant institutional requirements that were not relevant to the practice of psychiatry, and my relationship with the patients as their prescriber was much less fulfilling than the relationship I have with those I see for both psychotherapy and medication. Ultimately, the hospital shift to electronic medical records was the final distraction that caused me to leave community work.
Like roughly half of psychiatrists in private practice, I don’t participate with commercial or public insurance plans. Early in my career, I worked in a group setting with billing secretaries, and I did participate with Blue Cross, but even with administrative help, nothing about this was easy, and when I left to do solo practice, I left insurance participation behind. I love the autonomy of my career, I’m proud of the care I am able to give in this setting, and I don’t miss the hassles. But – the out-of-pocket cost of care is higher and the effort of trying to get reimbursed falls to the patient. It means that most of the patients I see have the means to pay for care, none are impoverished or homeless, and while I work in a city that is 62% black, black patients make up a small percentage of my caseload. I don’t think I am unique in this; I would be shocked if any white private practice psychiatrist who specializes in psychotherapy is serving a racially proportionate population. As we start to embrace the idea that people don’t neatly divide into being racist or not, and that bias affects us all, we must acknowledge that medical practices that don’t support racially balanced access to care are part of the problem.
Amy R. Greensfelder, LMSW, is the executive director of Maryland’s Pro Bono Counseling Project (PBCP), an organization that coordinates mental health professionals in private practice in Maryland to volunteer their services to those with limited resources. PBCP has found that 50% of those seeking services share that they are black or African American, and an additional 5% identify as multiracial. Of all of those seeking care approximately 65% are black, Indigenous, or People of Color (BIPOC), and and 14% are Latino/a/x/Hispanic. She says: “We see the racial composition of our clients as a direct demonstration of who is being left behind in the mental health system as it’s currently set up, as BIPOC individuals are represented to a greater degree in our clients than they are in the general population of Maryland. During our intake interview, we provide an opportunity for clients to share if there are certain characteristics they are looking for in a therapist – often black clients share that they would prefer to be matched with a black therapist or a therapist who has received specific training on working with black clients.”
While 13% of the American population is black, only 4% of physicians, 2% of psychiatrists, and 4% of psychologists are black. In her Psychology Today blog post, “Why African Americans Avoid Psychotherapy,” Monnica T. Williams, PhD, notes: “Apprehension about clashing with the values or worldview of the clinician can cause ambivalence about seeking help, and this may be especially true for the many who believe that mental health treatment was designed by white people for white people.” Dr. Williams notes that black Americans also are less likely to seek care because of increased stigma and fear of judgment, concerns about the treatment process, and fears of being involuntarily hospitalized, cost and lack of insurance, and finally logistical issues with work, transportation, and family responsibilities.
George Floyd’s tragic death has led us to a moment of crisis. It’s my hope that the dialogue is now galvanized to make meaningful changes toward fixing racial inequities. I am part of the problem and these conversations need to include more equitable access to psychiatric care.
My thanks to Rachel Donabedian and Gina Henderson for their help with this article.
Dr. Miller is coauthor of “Committed: The Battle Over Involuntary Psychiatric Care” (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University, 2016). She has a private practice and is assistant professor of psychiatry and behavioral sciences at Johns Hopkins, both in Baltimore.
Race is not something I’ve spent that much time contemplating. I grew up in Elizabeth, N.J., a city of just over 100,000, in the 1970s and attended public schools where people came in all shapes and colors; diversity came with the turf, it wasn’t something anyone needed to strive for.
My high school had more than 4,000 students with roughly even numbers of white, black, and Hispanic students. Armed police patrolled the halls, the thick aroma of weed settled in the stairwells and restrooms, girls brought their babies to school to show them off on half-days, and the “preppies” wore Fair Isle sweaters and played on the tennis team. The school’s campus was brand new and every lab, studio, and athletic amenity was state of the art; at the time, it was the most expensive public high school ever built in America. There were black teachers, librarians, and administrators, and segregation was something we read about in history books. I lived in a world of Technicolor and the Civil Rights movement of the 1960s, while still fresh in the minds of the adults, was something that showed up on black-and-white footage from another time.
My world became both wealthier and whiter when I went to college. There were minority students, but many of the black students at the University of Pennsylvania chose to live in the W.E.B. Du Bois College House.
People are often more comfortable being with others who share their backgrounds and this makes for an interesting conundrum: We all agree that desegregation is a good thing, but not everyone wishes to be told either where to go or not go, and there is an odd unbalance to creating a safe place for black students to be, one that both integrates and separates them from the larger community. Perhaps all our lines get fuzzy – I recall when I was on the Maryland Psychiatric Society Women’s Committee and a male psychiatrist signed up to join us – he was politely told that he could not join, but 20 years later, I’m wondering if it was okay to exclude a man who expressed interest in women’s issues.
In medical school, we were taught to note a patient’s age, race, and marital status, and we might learn that certain illnesses were more prevalent in certain populations, but there was no discussion of racial inequities in health care or anywhere else.
What was really different about the world back then, however, was what we didn’t see and what we didn’t talk about. Social media has opened a world where we can share our pain in the moment and we can band together to speak out against crimes and injustices in every realm. From the MeToo moments, to racially motivated police brutality. Cell phone cameras let us record and publicize these moments so the world can be the judge. George Floyd’s sadistic murder by a police officer, as other officers stood by and watched 8 minutes and 46 seconds of torture, left us all triggered, distressed, angry, sad, and activated. Maybe now we can make real progress on a discussion that began in 1992 with the videotape of Rodney King’s assault, a discussion we’ve had over and over to no avail.
Obviously, I have also been provoked by the events of the past weeks – like many Americans, I’ve paused to wonder how I can help the cause, both personally and as a psychiatrist. I would not normally write about racial topics – as a white woman I can listen, but I don’t feel this pain in the same way as someone who has lived with a lifetime of discrimination and oppression. Dr. Lorenzo Norris and Dr. Brandon Newsome,two black psychiatrists, put out a special edition of the MDEdge Psychcast, “The fallout from George Floyd’s death,” and Dr. Norris noted that two of his white colleagues told him they thought of checking on him, but they didn’t know what to say. Yes, I thought, that’s exactly it, I don’t know what to say and I worry that I might unintentionally say something that would worsen someone else’s pain. Staying silent has always seemed to be the safest option. With this article, I’m moving from a place of comfort.
I started my career with a mix of private practice and community psychiatry. There were things I loved about working in a community clinic: the social aspects of being part of a team, seeing a full range of psychopathology, and treating patients in which the racial and ethnic demographics mirrored that of the community. There were things I didn’t like, however. The pay was low, there were constant institutional requirements that were not relevant to the practice of psychiatry, and my relationship with the patients as their prescriber was much less fulfilling than the relationship I have with those I see for both psychotherapy and medication. Ultimately, the hospital shift to electronic medical records was the final distraction that caused me to leave community work.
Like roughly half of psychiatrists in private practice, I don’t participate with commercial or public insurance plans. Early in my career, I worked in a group setting with billing secretaries, and I did participate with Blue Cross, but even with administrative help, nothing about this was easy, and when I left to do solo practice, I left insurance participation behind. I love the autonomy of my career, I’m proud of the care I am able to give in this setting, and I don’t miss the hassles. But – the out-of-pocket cost of care is higher and the effort of trying to get reimbursed falls to the patient. It means that most of the patients I see have the means to pay for care, none are impoverished or homeless, and while I work in a city that is 62% black, black patients make up a small percentage of my caseload. I don’t think I am unique in this; I would be shocked if any white private practice psychiatrist who specializes in psychotherapy is serving a racially proportionate population. As we start to embrace the idea that people don’t neatly divide into being racist or not, and that bias affects us all, we must acknowledge that medical practices that don’t support racially balanced access to care are part of the problem.
Amy R. Greensfelder, LMSW, is the executive director of Maryland’s Pro Bono Counseling Project (PBCP), an organization that coordinates mental health professionals in private practice in Maryland to volunteer their services to those with limited resources. PBCP has found that 50% of those seeking services share that they are black or African American, and an additional 5% identify as multiracial. Of all of those seeking care approximately 65% are black, Indigenous, or People of Color (BIPOC), and and 14% are Latino/a/x/Hispanic. She says: “We see the racial composition of our clients as a direct demonstration of who is being left behind in the mental health system as it’s currently set up, as BIPOC individuals are represented to a greater degree in our clients than they are in the general population of Maryland. During our intake interview, we provide an opportunity for clients to share if there are certain characteristics they are looking for in a therapist – often black clients share that they would prefer to be matched with a black therapist or a therapist who has received specific training on working with black clients.”
While 13% of the American population is black, only 4% of physicians, 2% of psychiatrists, and 4% of psychologists are black. In her Psychology Today blog post, “Why African Americans Avoid Psychotherapy,” Monnica T. Williams, PhD, notes: “Apprehension about clashing with the values or worldview of the clinician can cause ambivalence about seeking help, and this may be especially true for the many who believe that mental health treatment was designed by white people for white people.” Dr. Williams notes that black Americans also are less likely to seek care because of increased stigma and fear of judgment, concerns about the treatment process, and fears of being involuntarily hospitalized, cost and lack of insurance, and finally logistical issues with work, transportation, and family responsibilities.
George Floyd’s tragic death has led us to a moment of crisis. It’s my hope that the dialogue is now galvanized to make meaningful changes toward fixing racial inequities. I am part of the problem and these conversations need to include more equitable access to psychiatric care.
My thanks to Rachel Donabedian and Gina Henderson for their help with this article.
Dr. Miller is coauthor of “Committed: The Battle Over Involuntary Psychiatric Care” (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University, 2016). She has a private practice and is assistant professor of psychiatry and behavioral sciences at Johns Hopkins, both in Baltimore.
Cardiology societies unite to denounce racist violence
The death of George Floyd and other African Americans spurred the Association of Black Cardiologists, the American Heart Association, and the American College of Cardiology to join forces and issue an urgent letter denouncing recent and ongoing events.
Starting off by acknowledging that these are “difficult and disturbing times,” the presidents of the three societies tied the violence into the bigger public health picture. “Like cardiovascular disease, acts of violence and racism are core causes of psychosocial stress that promote poor well-being and cardiovascular health, especially for communities of color.”
“It’s not just one quick solution, one quick letter. It’s more of an ongoing project to raise awareness and have really defined projects. We want to have goals, tactics, and measurable outcomes. We want to make sure it’s not just a banner on the wall,” Athena Poppas, MD, president of the American College of Cardiology and one of three physicians signing the letter, said in an interview.
The Association of Black Cardiologists drafted the statement and asked the AHA and ACC if they wanted to sign on. “It felt important to join them and follow their lead,” she said. “There is a clear link between psychosocial stress and discrimination and health equity in the communities.”
Interestingly, the ABC and ACC have an existing partnership, one that included creating a “Campaign for the Future” a little more than a year ago. One of the focuses is on reducing health disparities and starting a diversity and inclusion task force that later became a committee. The groups held a joint board of trustees meeting at Morehouse University, Atlanta, in January 2020. Thinking about that time, Dr. Poppas added, “who knew what was about to transpire over the next few months?”
The letter is only one component of an ongoing effort to “find concrete ways to make change, both within the college and within our profession,” added Dr. Poppas, chief of cardiology and professor of medicine at Brown University, Providence, R.I., and director of the Lifespan Cardiovascular Institute of Rhode Island, Miriam Hospitals, and Newport Hospitals. “Thereby, there is good data that you affect health equity in the population as well.”
“We DENOUNCE incidents of racism and violence that continue to ravage our communities,” the society leaders wrote in the letter. “Given that heart disease and stroke are the leading causes of death for communities of color, particularly African Americans who have the lowest life expectancy of all racial/ethnic groups living in the United States, we are extremely disturbed by violent acts that cut to the core of the lives of our community.”
Other societies released similar statements. For example, the American College of Physicians expressed “grave concern” about recent events and the American Medical Association released a statement entitled “Police brutality must stop.”
A cardiologist speaks out
“Thank you to my organizations, the Association of Black Cardiologists and the American College of Cardiology, for taking a stand,” Travis C. Batts, MD, said in a video statement posted to YouTube on June 2, 2020.
“As an African American male who has sons, brothers, and friends who are also African American, I oftentimes have angst, particularly with my sons. Despite what I do to create an environment that cultivates education and puts them in the right position, there are some people who would stop just at how they look when they approach them,” Dr. Batts said.
“I always have that fear as a father that at some point they may engage with law enforcement – and it may not turn out the way we want it to,” said Dr. Batts, chairman of medical sub-specialties and medical director of the cardiology clinic at Wilford Hall Ambulatory Surgical Center at Lackland Air Force Base, Tex. He also is an associate professor of cardiovascular medicine for the Uniformed Services University of the Health Sciences, Bethesda, Md., and is an adjunct assistant professor at Texas A&M University. He went on in the video to describe how a personal encounter with police years ago changed his life.
The urgent letter from the cardiology societies speaks to health care disparities, Dr. Batts said, “but it doesn’t stop there. It talks about their goals to balance these issues that we see as a pervasive problem in our community.”
The societies point out that George Floyd’s death is not an isolated incident. “Mr. Floyd’s death comes on the heels of other recent incidents caught on camera. In another 2020 incident, Ahmaud Arbery was shot and killed while jogging in his hometown of Brunswick, Ga. Christian Cooper is fortunately alive and well to speak to the Memorial Day incident in New York’s Central Park where he was accused of threatening the life of a woman while bird watching.” They added that “another senseless death involves officers entering the Louisville, Kent., home of emergency medical technician Breonna Taylor.”
Dr. Batts said this portion of the statement was particularly poignant: “We stand and link arms in solidarity with efforts to dismantle systems that maintain excess morbidity and mortality, especially among vulnerable populations and those historically oppressed. Indeed, our collective vast membership, many of whom are at the front lines of clinical health care, has taken an oath to decisively and with kindness, compassion and grace act to relieve suffering related to ‘I can’t breathe’ in order to preserve life.”
A Positive Response
The response to the urgent letter has been “overwhelmingly positive,” Dr. Poppas said. “This isn’t political, per se. This is really about justice, about health equity, and about being moral and conscious human beings. People I hadn’t heard from in years said, ‘thank you for doing this.’ ” The comments on social media were “almost uniformly positive,” she added. “There is always one or two people who feel this isn’t what cardiology is about.”
“Although making a statement is important, so is doing the hard work to make change,” Dr. Poppas said. The goal involves “rolling up our sleeves and spending the time, the money and the energy to make changes – so 5-10 years from now, it looks different.”
In addition to Dr. Poppas, Michelle A. Albert, MD, MPH, president of the Association of Black Cardiologists and Robert A. Harrington, MD, president of the American Heart Association, signed the letter. Dr. Pappas and Dr. Batts had no relevant disclosures.
The death of George Floyd and other African Americans spurred the Association of Black Cardiologists, the American Heart Association, and the American College of Cardiology to join forces and issue an urgent letter denouncing recent and ongoing events.
Starting off by acknowledging that these are “difficult and disturbing times,” the presidents of the three societies tied the violence into the bigger public health picture. “Like cardiovascular disease, acts of violence and racism are core causes of psychosocial stress that promote poor well-being and cardiovascular health, especially for communities of color.”
“It’s not just one quick solution, one quick letter. It’s more of an ongoing project to raise awareness and have really defined projects. We want to have goals, tactics, and measurable outcomes. We want to make sure it’s not just a banner on the wall,” Athena Poppas, MD, president of the American College of Cardiology and one of three physicians signing the letter, said in an interview.
The Association of Black Cardiologists drafted the statement and asked the AHA and ACC if they wanted to sign on. “It felt important to join them and follow their lead,” she said. “There is a clear link between psychosocial stress and discrimination and health equity in the communities.”
Interestingly, the ABC and ACC have an existing partnership, one that included creating a “Campaign for the Future” a little more than a year ago. One of the focuses is on reducing health disparities and starting a diversity and inclusion task force that later became a committee. The groups held a joint board of trustees meeting at Morehouse University, Atlanta, in January 2020. Thinking about that time, Dr. Poppas added, “who knew what was about to transpire over the next few months?”
The letter is only one component of an ongoing effort to “find concrete ways to make change, both within the college and within our profession,” added Dr. Poppas, chief of cardiology and professor of medicine at Brown University, Providence, R.I., and director of the Lifespan Cardiovascular Institute of Rhode Island, Miriam Hospitals, and Newport Hospitals. “Thereby, there is good data that you affect health equity in the population as well.”
“We DENOUNCE incidents of racism and violence that continue to ravage our communities,” the society leaders wrote in the letter. “Given that heart disease and stroke are the leading causes of death for communities of color, particularly African Americans who have the lowest life expectancy of all racial/ethnic groups living in the United States, we are extremely disturbed by violent acts that cut to the core of the lives of our community.”
Other societies released similar statements. For example, the American College of Physicians expressed “grave concern” about recent events and the American Medical Association released a statement entitled “Police brutality must stop.”
A cardiologist speaks out
“Thank you to my organizations, the Association of Black Cardiologists and the American College of Cardiology, for taking a stand,” Travis C. Batts, MD, said in a video statement posted to YouTube on June 2, 2020.
“As an African American male who has sons, brothers, and friends who are also African American, I oftentimes have angst, particularly with my sons. Despite what I do to create an environment that cultivates education and puts them in the right position, there are some people who would stop just at how they look when they approach them,” Dr. Batts said.
“I always have that fear as a father that at some point they may engage with law enforcement – and it may not turn out the way we want it to,” said Dr. Batts, chairman of medical sub-specialties and medical director of the cardiology clinic at Wilford Hall Ambulatory Surgical Center at Lackland Air Force Base, Tex. He also is an associate professor of cardiovascular medicine for the Uniformed Services University of the Health Sciences, Bethesda, Md., and is an adjunct assistant professor at Texas A&M University. He went on in the video to describe how a personal encounter with police years ago changed his life.
The urgent letter from the cardiology societies speaks to health care disparities, Dr. Batts said, “but it doesn’t stop there. It talks about their goals to balance these issues that we see as a pervasive problem in our community.”
The societies point out that George Floyd’s death is not an isolated incident. “Mr. Floyd’s death comes on the heels of other recent incidents caught on camera. In another 2020 incident, Ahmaud Arbery was shot and killed while jogging in his hometown of Brunswick, Ga. Christian Cooper is fortunately alive and well to speak to the Memorial Day incident in New York’s Central Park where he was accused of threatening the life of a woman while bird watching.” They added that “another senseless death involves officers entering the Louisville, Kent., home of emergency medical technician Breonna Taylor.”
Dr. Batts said this portion of the statement was particularly poignant: “We stand and link arms in solidarity with efforts to dismantle systems that maintain excess morbidity and mortality, especially among vulnerable populations and those historically oppressed. Indeed, our collective vast membership, many of whom are at the front lines of clinical health care, has taken an oath to decisively and with kindness, compassion and grace act to relieve suffering related to ‘I can’t breathe’ in order to preserve life.”
A Positive Response
The response to the urgent letter has been “overwhelmingly positive,” Dr. Poppas said. “This isn’t political, per se. This is really about justice, about health equity, and about being moral and conscious human beings. People I hadn’t heard from in years said, ‘thank you for doing this.’ ” The comments on social media were “almost uniformly positive,” she added. “There is always one or two people who feel this isn’t what cardiology is about.”
“Although making a statement is important, so is doing the hard work to make change,” Dr. Poppas said. The goal involves “rolling up our sleeves and spending the time, the money and the energy to make changes – so 5-10 years from now, it looks different.”
In addition to Dr. Poppas, Michelle A. Albert, MD, MPH, president of the Association of Black Cardiologists and Robert A. Harrington, MD, president of the American Heart Association, signed the letter. Dr. Pappas and Dr. Batts had no relevant disclosures.
The death of George Floyd and other African Americans spurred the Association of Black Cardiologists, the American Heart Association, and the American College of Cardiology to join forces and issue an urgent letter denouncing recent and ongoing events.
Starting off by acknowledging that these are “difficult and disturbing times,” the presidents of the three societies tied the violence into the bigger public health picture. “Like cardiovascular disease, acts of violence and racism are core causes of psychosocial stress that promote poor well-being and cardiovascular health, especially for communities of color.”
“It’s not just one quick solution, one quick letter. It’s more of an ongoing project to raise awareness and have really defined projects. We want to have goals, tactics, and measurable outcomes. We want to make sure it’s not just a banner on the wall,” Athena Poppas, MD, president of the American College of Cardiology and one of three physicians signing the letter, said in an interview.
The Association of Black Cardiologists drafted the statement and asked the AHA and ACC if they wanted to sign on. “It felt important to join them and follow their lead,” she said. “There is a clear link between psychosocial stress and discrimination and health equity in the communities.”
Interestingly, the ABC and ACC have an existing partnership, one that included creating a “Campaign for the Future” a little more than a year ago. One of the focuses is on reducing health disparities and starting a diversity and inclusion task force that later became a committee. The groups held a joint board of trustees meeting at Morehouse University, Atlanta, in January 2020. Thinking about that time, Dr. Poppas added, “who knew what was about to transpire over the next few months?”
The letter is only one component of an ongoing effort to “find concrete ways to make change, both within the college and within our profession,” added Dr. Poppas, chief of cardiology and professor of medicine at Brown University, Providence, R.I., and director of the Lifespan Cardiovascular Institute of Rhode Island, Miriam Hospitals, and Newport Hospitals. “Thereby, there is good data that you affect health equity in the population as well.”
“We DENOUNCE incidents of racism and violence that continue to ravage our communities,” the society leaders wrote in the letter. “Given that heart disease and stroke are the leading causes of death for communities of color, particularly African Americans who have the lowest life expectancy of all racial/ethnic groups living in the United States, we are extremely disturbed by violent acts that cut to the core of the lives of our community.”
Other societies released similar statements. For example, the American College of Physicians expressed “grave concern” about recent events and the American Medical Association released a statement entitled “Police brutality must stop.”
A cardiologist speaks out
“Thank you to my organizations, the Association of Black Cardiologists and the American College of Cardiology, for taking a stand,” Travis C. Batts, MD, said in a video statement posted to YouTube on June 2, 2020.
“As an African American male who has sons, brothers, and friends who are also African American, I oftentimes have angst, particularly with my sons. Despite what I do to create an environment that cultivates education and puts them in the right position, there are some people who would stop just at how they look when they approach them,” Dr. Batts said.
“I always have that fear as a father that at some point they may engage with law enforcement – and it may not turn out the way we want it to,” said Dr. Batts, chairman of medical sub-specialties and medical director of the cardiology clinic at Wilford Hall Ambulatory Surgical Center at Lackland Air Force Base, Tex. He also is an associate professor of cardiovascular medicine for the Uniformed Services University of the Health Sciences, Bethesda, Md., and is an adjunct assistant professor at Texas A&M University. He went on in the video to describe how a personal encounter with police years ago changed his life.
The urgent letter from the cardiology societies speaks to health care disparities, Dr. Batts said, “but it doesn’t stop there. It talks about their goals to balance these issues that we see as a pervasive problem in our community.”
The societies point out that George Floyd’s death is not an isolated incident. “Mr. Floyd’s death comes on the heels of other recent incidents caught on camera. In another 2020 incident, Ahmaud Arbery was shot and killed while jogging in his hometown of Brunswick, Ga. Christian Cooper is fortunately alive and well to speak to the Memorial Day incident in New York’s Central Park where he was accused of threatening the life of a woman while bird watching.” They added that “another senseless death involves officers entering the Louisville, Kent., home of emergency medical technician Breonna Taylor.”
Dr. Batts said this portion of the statement was particularly poignant: “We stand and link arms in solidarity with efforts to dismantle systems that maintain excess morbidity and mortality, especially among vulnerable populations and those historically oppressed. Indeed, our collective vast membership, many of whom are at the front lines of clinical health care, has taken an oath to decisively and with kindness, compassion and grace act to relieve suffering related to ‘I can’t breathe’ in order to preserve life.”
A Positive Response
The response to the urgent letter has been “overwhelmingly positive,” Dr. Poppas said. “This isn’t political, per se. This is really about justice, about health equity, and about being moral and conscious human beings. People I hadn’t heard from in years said, ‘thank you for doing this.’ ” The comments on social media were “almost uniformly positive,” she added. “There is always one or two people who feel this isn’t what cardiology is about.”
“Although making a statement is important, so is doing the hard work to make change,” Dr. Poppas said. The goal involves “rolling up our sleeves and spending the time, the money and the energy to make changes – so 5-10 years from now, it looks different.”
In addition to Dr. Poppas, Michelle A. Albert, MD, MPH, president of the Association of Black Cardiologists and Robert A. Harrington, MD, president of the American Heart Association, signed the letter. Dr. Pappas and Dr. Batts had no relevant disclosures.
#WhiteCoats4BlackLives: A ‘platform for good’
like those on vivid display during the COVID-19 pandemic.
Sporadic protests – with participants in scrubs or white coats kneeling for 8 minutes and 46 seconds in memory of George Floyd – have quickly grown into organized, ongoing, large-scale events at hospitals, medical campuses, and city centers in New York, Indianapolis, Atlanta, Austin, Houston, Boston, Miami, Portland, Sacramento, Los Angeles, Philadelphia, and Albuquerque, among others.
The group WhiteCoats4BlackLives began with a “die-in” protest in 2014, and the medical student–run organization continues to organize, with a large number of protests scheduled to occur simultaneously on June 5 at 1:00 p.m. Eastern Time.
“It’s important to use our platform for good,” said Danielle Verghese, MD, a first-year internal medicine resident at Thomas Jefferson University Hospital in Philadelphia, who helped recruit a small group of students, residents, and pharmacy school students to take part in a kneel-in on May 31 in the city’s Washington Square Park.
“As a doctor, most people in society regard me with a certain amount of respect and may listen if I say something,” Dr. Verghese said.
Crystal Nnenne Azu, MD, a third-year internal medicine resident at Indiana University, who has long worked on increasing diversity in medicine, said she helped organize a march and kneel-in at the school’s Eskenazi Hospital campus on June 3 to educate and show support.
Some 500-1,000 health care providers in scrubs and white coats turned out, tweeted one observer.
“Racism is a public health crisis,” Dr. Azu said. “This COVID epidemic has definitely raised that awareness even more for many of our colleagues.”
Disproportionate death rates in blacks and Latinos are “not just related to individual choices but also systemic racism,” she said.
The march also called out police brutality and the “angst” that many people feel about it, said Dr. Azu. “People want an avenue to express their discomfort, to raise awareness, and also show their solidarity and support for peaceful protests,” she said.
A June 4 protest and “die-in” – held to honor black and indigenous lives at the University of New Mexico Health Sciences campus in Albuquerque – was personal for Jaron Kee, MD, a first-year family medicine resident. He was raised on the Navajo reservation in Crystal, New Mexico, and has watched COVID-19 devastate the tribe, adding insult to years of health disparities, police brutality, and neglect of thousands of missing and murdered indigenous women, he said.
Participating is a means of reassuring the community that “we’re allies and that their suffering and their livelihood is something that we don’t underrecognize,” Dr. Kee said. These values spurred him to enter medicine, he said.
Eileen Barrett, MD, MPH, a hospitalist and assistant professor of internal medicine at the University of New Mexico School of Medicine, who also attended the “die-in,” said she hopes that peers, in particular people of color, see that they have allies at work “who are committed to being anti-racist.”
It’s also “a statement to the community at large that physicians and other healthcare workers strive to be anti-racist and do our best to support our African American and indigenous peers, students, patients, and community members,” she said.
Now is different
Some residents said they felt particularly moved to act now – as the country entered a second week of protests in response to George Floyd’s death and as the COVID-19 pandemic highlighted the devastating toll of health disparities.
“This protest feels different to me,” said Ian Fields, MD, a urogynecology fellow at Oregon Health Sciences University (OHSU) School of Medicine. “The events over the last couple of weeks were just a big catalyst for this to explode,” he said.
“I was very intent, as a white male physician, just coming to acknowledge the privilege that I have, and to do something,” Dr. Fields said, adding that as an obstetrician-gynecologist, he sees the results of health disparities daily. He took part in a kneel-in and demonstration with OHSU colleagues on June 2 at Portland’s Pioneer Courthouse Square.
It’s okay to be sad and mourn, Dr. Fields said, but, he added, “nobody needs our tears necessarily right now. They need us to show up and to speak up about what we see going on.”
“It feels like it’s a national conversation,” said Dr. Verghese. The White Coats movement is “not an issue that’s confined to the black community – this is not an issue that’s a ‘black thing’ – this is a humanitarian thing,” she said.
Dr. Verghese, an Indian American who said that no one would mistake her for being white, said she still wants to acknowledge that she has privilege, as well as biases. All the patients in the COVID-19 unit where she works are African American, but she said she hadn’t initially noticed.
“What’s shocking is that I didn’t think about it,” she said. “I do have to recognize my own biases.”
Protesting During a Pandemic
Despite the demands of treating COVID-19 patients, healthcare professionals have made the White Coat protests a priority, they said. Most – but not all – of the White Coats protests have been on medical campuses, allowing health care professionals to quickly assemble and get back to work. Plus, all of the protests have called on attendees to march and gather safely – with masks and distancing.
“Seeing that we are working in the hospital, it’s important for us to be wearing our masks, to be social distancing,” Dr. Azu said. Organizers asked attendees to ensure that they protested in a way that kept them “from worsening the COVID epidemic,” said Dr. Azu.
Unlike many others, the first protest in Portland was in conjunction with a larger group that assembles every evening in the square, said Dr. Fields. The physician protesters were wearing masks and maintaining distance from each other, especially when they kneeled, he said.
The protests have provided an escape from the futility of not being able to do anything for COVID-19 patients except to provide support, said Dr. Verghese. “In so many ways, we find ourselves powerless,” she said.
Protesting, Dr. Verghese added, was “one tiny moment where I got to regain my sense of agency, that I could actually do something about this.”
This article first appeared on Medscape.com.
like those on vivid display during the COVID-19 pandemic.
Sporadic protests – with participants in scrubs or white coats kneeling for 8 minutes and 46 seconds in memory of George Floyd – have quickly grown into organized, ongoing, large-scale events at hospitals, medical campuses, and city centers in New York, Indianapolis, Atlanta, Austin, Houston, Boston, Miami, Portland, Sacramento, Los Angeles, Philadelphia, and Albuquerque, among others.
The group WhiteCoats4BlackLives began with a “die-in” protest in 2014, and the medical student–run organization continues to organize, with a large number of protests scheduled to occur simultaneously on June 5 at 1:00 p.m. Eastern Time.
“It’s important to use our platform for good,” said Danielle Verghese, MD, a first-year internal medicine resident at Thomas Jefferson University Hospital in Philadelphia, who helped recruit a small group of students, residents, and pharmacy school students to take part in a kneel-in on May 31 in the city’s Washington Square Park.
“As a doctor, most people in society regard me with a certain amount of respect and may listen if I say something,” Dr. Verghese said.
Crystal Nnenne Azu, MD, a third-year internal medicine resident at Indiana University, who has long worked on increasing diversity in medicine, said she helped organize a march and kneel-in at the school’s Eskenazi Hospital campus on June 3 to educate and show support.
Some 500-1,000 health care providers in scrubs and white coats turned out, tweeted one observer.
“Racism is a public health crisis,” Dr. Azu said. “This COVID epidemic has definitely raised that awareness even more for many of our colleagues.”
Disproportionate death rates in blacks and Latinos are “not just related to individual choices but also systemic racism,” she said.
The march also called out police brutality and the “angst” that many people feel about it, said Dr. Azu. “People want an avenue to express their discomfort, to raise awareness, and also show their solidarity and support for peaceful protests,” she said.
A June 4 protest and “die-in” – held to honor black and indigenous lives at the University of New Mexico Health Sciences campus in Albuquerque – was personal for Jaron Kee, MD, a first-year family medicine resident. He was raised on the Navajo reservation in Crystal, New Mexico, and has watched COVID-19 devastate the tribe, adding insult to years of health disparities, police brutality, and neglect of thousands of missing and murdered indigenous women, he said.
Participating is a means of reassuring the community that “we’re allies and that their suffering and their livelihood is something that we don’t underrecognize,” Dr. Kee said. These values spurred him to enter medicine, he said.
Eileen Barrett, MD, MPH, a hospitalist and assistant professor of internal medicine at the University of New Mexico School of Medicine, who also attended the “die-in,” said she hopes that peers, in particular people of color, see that they have allies at work “who are committed to being anti-racist.”
It’s also “a statement to the community at large that physicians and other healthcare workers strive to be anti-racist and do our best to support our African American and indigenous peers, students, patients, and community members,” she said.
Now is different
Some residents said they felt particularly moved to act now – as the country entered a second week of protests in response to George Floyd’s death and as the COVID-19 pandemic highlighted the devastating toll of health disparities.
“This protest feels different to me,” said Ian Fields, MD, a urogynecology fellow at Oregon Health Sciences University (OHSU) School of Medicine. “The events over the last couple of weeks were just a big catalyst for this to explode,” he said.
“I was very intent, as a white male physician, just coming to acknowledge the privilege that I have, and to do something,” Dr. Fields said, adding that as an obstetrician-gynecologist, he sees the results of health disparities daily. He took part in a kneel-in and demonstration with OHSU colleagues on June 2 at Portland’s Pioneer Courthouse Square.
It’s okay to be sad and mourn, Dr. Fields said, but, he added, “nobody needs our tears necessarily right now. They need us to show up and to speak up about what we see going on.”
“It feels like it’s a national conversation,” said Dr. Verghese. The White Coats movement is “not an issue that’s confined to the black community – this is not an issue that’s a ‘black thing’ – this is a humanitarian thing,” she said.
Dr. Verghese, an Indian American who said that no one would mistake her for being white, said she still wants to acknowledge that she has privilege, as well as biases. All the patients in the COVID-19 unit where she works are African American, but she said she hadn’t initially noticed.
“What’s shocking is that I didn’t think about it,” she said. “I do have to recognize my own biases.”
Protesting During a Pandemic
Despite the demands of treating COVID-19 patients, healthcare professionals have made the White Coat protests a priority, they said. Most – but not all – of the White Coats protests have been on medical campuses, allowing health care professionals to quickly assemble and get back to work. Plus, all of the protests have called on attendees to march and gather safely – with masks and distancing.
“Seeing that we are working in the hospital, it’s important for us to be wearing our masks, to be social distancing,” Dr. Azu said. Organizers asked attendees to ensure that they protested in a way that kept them “from worsening the COVID epidemic,” said Dr. Azu.
Unlike many others, the first protest in Portland was in conjunction with a larger group that assembles every evening in the square, said Dr. Fields. The physician protesters were wearing masks and maintaining distance from each other, especially when they kneeled, he said.
The protests have provided an escape from the futility of not being able to do anything for COVID-19 patients except to provide support, said Dr. Verghese. “In so many ways, we find ourselves powerless,” she said.
Protesting, Dr. Verghese added, was “one tiny moment where I got to regain my sense of agency, that I could actually do something about this.”
This article first appeared on Medscape.com.
like those on vivid display during the COVID-19 pandemic.
Sporadic protests – with participants in scrubs or white coats kneeling for 8 minutes and 46 seconds in memory of George Floyd – have quickly grown into organized, ongoing, large-scale events at hospitals, medical campuses, and city centers in New York, Indianapolis, Atlanta, Austin, Houston, Boston, Miami, Portland, Sacramento, Los Angeles, Philadelphia, and Albuquerque, among others.
The group WhiteCoats4BlackLives began with a “die-in” protest in 2014, and the medical student–run organization continues to organize, with a large number of protests scheduled to occur simultaneously on June 5 at 1:00 p.m. Eastern Time.
“It’s important to use our platform for good,” said Danielle Verghese, MD, a first-year internal medicine resident at Thomas Jefferson University Hospital in Philadelphia, who helped recruit a small group of students, residents, and pharmacy school students to take part in a kneel-in on May 31 in the city’s Washington Square Park.
“As a doctor, most people in society regard me with a certain amount of respect and may listen if I say something,” Dr. Verghese said.
Crystal Nnenne Azu, MD, a third-year internal medicine resident at Indiana University, who has long worked on increasing diversity in medicine, said she helped organize a march and kneel-in at the school’s Eskenazi Hospital campus on June 3 to educate and show support.
Some 500-1,000 health care providers in scrubs and white coats turned out, tweeted one observer.
“Racism is a public health crisis,” Dr. Azu said. “This COVID epidemic has definitely raised that awareness even more for many of our colleagues.”
Disproportionate death rates in blacks and Latinos are “not just related to individual choices but also systemic racism,” she said.
The march also called out police brutality and the “angst” that many people feel about it, said Dr. Azu. “People want an avenue to express their discomfort, to raise awareness, and also show their solidarity and support for peaceful protests,” she said.
A June 4 protest and “die-in” – held to honor black and indigenous lives at the University of New Mexico Health Sciences campus in Albuquerque – was personal for Jaron Kee, MD, a first-year family medicine resident. He was raised on the Navajo reservation in Crystal, New Mexico, and has watched COVID-19 devastate the tribe, adding insult to years of health disparities, police brutality, and neglect of thousands of missing and murdered indigenous women, he said.
Participating is a means of reassuring the community that “we’re allies and that their suffering and their livelihood is something that we don’t underrecognize,” Dr. Kee said. These values spurred him to enter medicine, he said.
Eileen Barrett, MD, MPH, a hospitalist and assistant professor of internal medicine at the University of New Mexico School of Medicine, who also attended the “die-in,” said she hopes that peers, in particular people of color, see that they have allies at work “who are committed to being anti-racist.”
It’s also “a statement to the community at large that physicians and other healthcare workers strive to be anti-racist and do our best to support our African American and indigenous peers, students, patients, and community members,” she said.
Now is different
Some residents said they felt particularly moved to act now – as the country entered a second week of protests in response to George Floyd’s death and as the COVID-19 pandemic highlighted the devastating toll of health disparities.
“This protest feels different to me,” said Ian Fields, MD, a urogynecology fellow at Oregon Health Sciences University (OHSU) School of Medicine. “The events over the last couple of weeks were just a big catalyst for this to explode,” he said.
“I was very intent, as a white male physician, just coming to acknowledge the privilege that I have, and to do something,” Dr. Fields said, adding that as an obstetrician-gynecologist, he sees the results of health disparities daily. He took part in a kneel-in and demonstration with OHSU colleagues on June 2 at Portland’s Pioneer Courthouse Square.
It’s okay to be sad and mourn, Dr. Fields said, but, he added, “nobody needs our tears necessarily right now. They need us to show up and to speak up about what we see going on.”
“It feels like it’s a national conversation,” said Dr. Verghese. The White Coats movement is “not an issue that’s confined to the black community – this is not an issue that’s a ‘black thing’ – this is a humanitarian thing,” she said.
Dr. Verghese, an Indian American who said that no one would mistake her for being white, said she still wants to acknowledge that she has privilege, as well as biases. All the patients in the COVID-19 unit where she works are African American, but she said she hadn’t initially noticed.
“What’s shocking is that I didn’t think about it,” she said. “I do have to recognize my own biases.”
Protesting During a Pandemic
Despite the demands of treating COVID-19 patients, healthcare professionals have made the White Coat protests a priority, they said. Most – but not all – of the White Coats protests have been on medical campuses, allowing health care professionals to quickly assemble and get back to work. Plus, all of the protests have called on attendees to march and gather safely – with masks and distancing.
“Seeing that we are working in the hospital, it’s important for us to be wearing our masks, to be social distancing,” Dr. Azu said. Organizers asked attendees to ensure that they protested in a way that kept them “from worsening the COVID epidemic,” said Dr. Azu.
Unlike many others, the first protest in Portland was in conjunction with a larger group that assembles every evening in the square, said Dr. Fields. The physician protesters were wearing masks and maintaining distance from each other, especially when they kneeled, he said.
The protests have provided an escape from the futility of not being able to do anything for COVID-19 patients except to provide support, said Dr. Verghese. “In so many ways, we find ourselves powerless,” she said.
Protesting, Dr. Verghese added, was “one tiny moment where I got to regain my sense of agency, that I could actually do something about this.”
This article first appeared on Medscape.com.