Race in America

I've been watching the controversy surrounding the arrest of professor Gates in the news with a mix of disgust and hope.

Having not been there at the time, there is no way I can even presume to accurately comment on the events that happened. Though I can speak to my experiences and history as they relate to the subject.

Someone asked me once a long time ago if I was a racist. In all intellectual honesty I would have to say "yes". I am a white male raised in the south. Growing up (initially in the rural south), the use of the "N" word was as routine as saying "good morning".

Paradoxically, I was always told to speak to older African-Americans with respect "Mr. James" or "Miss Mary". Something I still catch myself doing to this day, using first names instead of last.

I echoed what I heard in and around my family. Once we moved to the city in the early 1970's, my interaction with African-Americans became more frequent and I discovered that the nonchalant derogatory racial terms were not as nonchalant or harmless as I had grown up being accustomed to. Folks with brown skin changed from "those N's down the road" to kids I played with. Teachers that cared about me.

Being dropped off a school once in 5th grade, I had asked my father to drop me off at the corner because I wanted to talk to a friend of mine who was the crossing guard. I was puzzled and hurt by my father's chastising me saying "yeah, that's right, go ahead and hang around your little black friend". I didn't see anything wrong with my wanting to hang around him. He was a cool kid. I'm 45 and I still haven't figured out what the old man's problem was.

The worst beating I ever got was at the hands of a young girl (African-American) in elementary school. I, trying to be cute, repeated a racial joke I had heard at home, and she chased me down and beat the hell out of me. Now, I had been hit harder before and since with greater injuries, but what made this the worst beating was that I deserved every hit; the fact that I had injured a playmate with my words is a guilt that I still carry with me. She was my friend and the image of her with tears in her eyes as she chased me down still linger in my memory. I had hurt my friend and that made the blows sting that much more. (Sorry Roxanne if you're still alive and around).

As a result, much of my response to African-Americans since then has been constant re-evaluation of everything that I do and think. I don't trust my initial response or thoughts. Everyday I practice mental exercises of "what would I do if this person was (different race than what they were)". If someone says we have a consult for new doctor so-and-so, I make it an exercise to picture that individual as a mirage of different race/genders, just to get my mind out of that habit. I've been doing this for decades now, and am getting better at it. But the image of Roxanne's tears keep me vigilant.

When deciding if I was going to vote for Obama, I asked myself. Would I vote for him if he were white? The answer based on what I heard from his was "yes". That's what Dr. King taught me.
To judge another man based on his character and not the color of his skin.

Now, on the other side of the coin.

I haven't been Christian for over 30 years. I've been sitting in my wife's Methodist church for going on 19 years and only now have I started actually talking to anyone. Still have my shields up and ready for a fight, but I've relaxed a little.

Just as my not being Christian, and having a history of being hassled by Evangelicals (once physically with the threat of violence) has caused me to keep my shields up and claws out, the legitimate hurt and anger that some African-Americans feel at both the historical and current discrimination that they experience do affect their perceptions just as my perceptions are affected by the predatory wack-jobs.

For example, my fifth grade teacher(African-American), yanking me out of the lunch line for cutting up and putting me in the back of the line (Yes, I was cutting up. Yes, I deserved it). As she had grabbed me pretty firmly but without injury, I was rubbing my arm because it hurt. Her sharp response was "don't worry, it (her color) didn't rub off". It took me about a week to figure out what she was talking about. Her past painful experiences, caused her to misinterpret my rubbing my arm as racially motivated rather that the physical response to pain that it was. I had done the same many times before and since when the old white principal grabbed me (that woman had a bony grip like a vise and don't ask me about that paddle!).

As a nurse, missing narcotics ended up summoning all the nurses on the shift down for drug screening. This was just standard operating procedure. A young African-American nurse very angrily commented "yeah, we're back in plantation time,.. drag all of us in..." Her past experiences and the resulting anger caused her to miss the fact that the old white guy (me) was first in line and heading down to the lab without complaint.

I have had to reprimand coworkers before for inappropriate behavior, unsafe care of patients (a CNA disconnecting the hub of a central line and leaving it off is a massive no-no regardless of race), only to be accused of picking on them because of race. No, I didn't write the individual up because the individual was African-American, I wrote the individual up because they almost killed my patient.

I suspect something similar was operating in professor Gates' house. The police coming on strong as they often do because they don't know what they're walking in to.

Professor Gates, given the hell he has seen in his life, responding defensively and things escalating from there.

I voted for and support President Obama and am disappointed in his response to the issue. I suspect his life experiences and friendship with professor Gates colored his judgment. Natural response, but as president, he doesn't have the luxury of letting his natural responses/feelings enter into the job.

Who was at fault in the Gates' house? Everyone. You, me, the cops, professor Gates.

Who can fix it? Everyone.

What affects one of us, affects all of us.

Practice, Practice, Practice...

I've been pretty burned out at work as of late (no surprise to anyone really).

My wife has lamented "I remember when you loved your job", and there was a time when I felt that I was really doing something worthwhile in nursing.

For a very long time, I felt frustrated with the amount of patient care I got to do versus the amount of time doing paperwork I had to do. I joked that I had stopped being a nurse a long time ago and now I was just a scribe.

This had been the status quo for a long time, and I had made peace with it rationalizing that it was a price I had to pay in order to have those precious moments of actually being able to "do nursing"; to actually be able to care for, connect with, and make a difference with a patient.

Recently, however, those moments have been getting fewer and farther between. The space between taken up by individuals that were using the hospital for a hotel (3 hots and a cot) by uttering those magic words "I'm going to kill myself", or those using the hospital to get their fix of what ever they were addicted to and had no intention of seeking treatment.

The most consistent cure I've seen for suicidal ideation and command hallucinations is "check day". When the SSI checks come out.

It wouldn't be so bad if it wasn't that those individuals are so disruptive to the unit that I spend more time being the "policeman" for their game playing and limit testing that I can't take care of the really ill people.

Given the economy I've chosen to sit put for the time being. Now is not a time to be venturing out and making wholesale changes. The grass may be greener on the other side of the fence but I know it's because of all the bullsh*t over there that makes the grass so lush (compost joke).

I am using each day as an opportunity for "Buddha practice"; being mindful of the act of doing an action, not being invested in the outcome. The feel of keys under my fingers as I endlessly type, the feel of the floor against my sneakers as I walked up and down the hall.

Some days it's easier than others.