THICK…
My 6 month old child, myself and my plain standard run of the mill Target hoodie were new admits to out second hospital. During the hospital rounds, most of the doctors, nurses and staff were nice. They took notes, but the conversation was not engaging. My theories about his condition were not researched or entertained.
Typically, I had to go to work before the doctors made their rounds to my son’s room, so my mother articulated my concerns and theories about my kid’s health to the doctor (and anyone else who would listen),. Each morning, after I arrived at work, I would send her a text message of what to say and what to bring to the doctors’ attention. No traction.
One day, I arrived at the hospital prior to the shift change, coming straight from my office. I was able to attend the late afternoon rounds, a rare occurrence. However, this rare occasion became a game changer. Was it my outfit? Perhaps, it was the very standard lawyer bag. I do not know, and I will not make assumptions. But this time, when I articulated my concerns, the same concerns articulated all week, the doctors listened. Not only did we talk about my son’s hospital care, but we chuckled like old friends about my alma mater, my job, my professional success. The more I unintentionally distanced myself from black and instead showed “Special Black” characteristics—a dynamic explored in Thick: And Other Essays—the better my son’s care became.
Thick. Immediately I thought about music videos and the body type I am not fortunate enough to possess, which as a black woman in love with trap music, it is an interesting juxtaposition. So, what did I do? I put the book, titled Thick, on my reading list. I had no idea what the book would contain, but the title, Thick, had me (and my imagination) at first sight.
In a nutshell, Thick is a collection of essays shedding light on experiences of the author, Tressie McMillian Cottom, an uber educated* black woman raised in the South while infusing the complexities of race, gender, background and status. Immediately, I felt a connection.
This is not a book review; however, I do suggest you all go and read this book. It is an entertaining, enlightening, and educational (aka E3), which is not an easy feat. The chapters that resonated with me most were “Dying to Be Competent" and “Black is Over (or, Special Black).”
“Dying to Be Competent” hit home in a way very few authored experiences ever have. My kiddo is medically fragile. To add more confusion to his life, even though he is extremely medically intensive, to the naked eye he may appear typical. I am grateful for his life regardless of our (or his) challenges. In Thick, Dr. McMillan Cottom shared her experience of birthing a premature child. Unfortunately, the child died four days later. As if that were not traumatic enough, she felt marginalized and discounted by the very medical professionals she HAD to entrust to save her and her unborn baby.
Dr. McMillian Cottom wrote, “[t]o get the ‘healthcare’ promised by the bureaucracy, it helps tremendously if the bureaucracy assumes that you are competent.” This sentence is a WORD! My kiddo has spent his entire life in and out of hospitals in many different states. For now, I will focus on his first year of life. It was during that first year that I realized the medical field was not exempt from the biases that surround black women and their families.
Each human on this planet has biases, most of which are unconscious. I was raised in an environment that gave great deference (and even superhuman status) to certain vocations and professions, including doctors, pastors, and lawyers. But doctors are human too. Therefore, doctors have biases. The kid and I lived in a hospital for the majority of his first year of life. Our home base was the hospital, so, naturally I made myself at home. That means walking around the hospital in hoodies, hair wraps, sweats, and baggy t-shirts. I did not dress in the way one might expect of a very capable and excellent lawyer. And why should I? I was living in a cold, miserable hospital with zero privacy. I dressed for comfort and survival. What does a very capable and excellent lawyer even look like while living in a hospital with an ill child?
Have you ever experienced a doctor ignore you while in your kid’s hospital room discussing your child’s care? I know…. the nerve. Then, during the next room visit the doctor asks you about your alma mater. Why the sudden need to spark conversation? This is not an interview. This is not a social event. This is in a hospital room that I am in only to receive care for my child.
How many times had my perceived status as a regular black woman impacted my medical care or the medical care of my child? Why was my kid not offered physical therapy in the ICU like the other white kids? Was it because I was a black woman presumed to be on Medicaid and thus not able to afford this treatment? No, this is not in my head. Without ever sharing that I needed anything or sharing any tidbits about my background, I was told to visit a certain office in the hospital for reduced rate diapers. I thought, “how nice, this hospital has everything.” Until I arrived and realized it was for Medicaid, a service that I did not qualify for. I later found out that most of the ICU staff thought I was an unwed, unemployed teenage mother. Good for them, 1 out of 3! When in fact, I was 28 years old, working as an attorney in one of the state’s premier law firms. Was my forced and rushed C-section a result of disparities in care and concern based on race? Unfortunately, this experience is not unique. Many other black women, including myself, share Dr. McMillan Cottom’s experience of being overlooked or marginalized by medical professionals.
The experiences described above are not unique to one hospital or one state. My family and I have experienced this and more at hospitals throughout the country. Nor is the “special treatment” that comes with being perceived as having a higher status. It is actually not special treatment; it is the norm for certain people. But it is not the norm for me. This tension is what I hope to remove. I will continue to advocate, share my story, and share the skills I have learned with others in hopes of mitigating the biases and providing others with the tools to confront biases
For me, sometimes being considered a “Special Black” has afforded my child more attention, better care and first dibs on the video games when my kid was stuck in the hospital. Even then we would invite others to play with us. And other times, “Special Black” or just regular black begat the same experience. Similar to Dr. McMillan Cottom, I will continue to be as “black-black as I can be [because I know] the false choice between black-black and worthy black is a trap.” The truth is that no amount of education, nice clothes, or money will ever separate me from any other black person – and I do not want it too. In reality, despite me periodically finding the magic portion. It is short lived. There is no magic formula. Does anyone recall Serena Williams’ experience (here)? Special black, black-black, black child, rich black and black mother – there is no difference. The experience exists (here) and it should not.
I do not want special privileges because the powers that be have separated me from who I am. I know that the so-called special treatment, if fortunate enough to receive it, that may exist in the hospital room, definitely, does not extend beyond the walls of the hospital. Therefore, there is much work to be done. It is worth it. Lives depend on it.
~Constance Dionne
P.S. My sister from another, Tara Grove, served as the editor for Thick. I am a proud friend. Read more about Tressie McMillian Cottom here or here.
Note: At a later date, there will be a part two of this post. I barely scratched the surface. So much to unpack here. I hope you enjoyed!
* I use “uber educated” to describe the elite education so many black women receive in hopes of advancing the generation, only to never be respected for that education by the majority in power.