Confessions of an Administrative Fellow: A Reflection on being Young, Gifted and Black in 2020

Like many aspiring black healthcare professionals before me, I entered the industry with a single mission; to heal black people by addressing racial inequities in healthcare. This wasn’t any other social justice warrior mantra I had adopted from my peer group. My upbringing and educational experiences had contributed to my understanding of how I could “fight the fight.”

During my final year in grad school, I was fortunate enough to be offered an on-site interview at one of the nation’s leading academic medical centers where I am currently a fellow. I can remember the plane ride from Atlanta to St. Louis like it was yesterday. Partly, because I was crying the entire flight. My family and I had come a long way.

The crying didn’t stop on the plane. In one of my interviews I was asked what drove me to pursue a career in healthcare. I thought about my parents who I had seen my whole life dedicate the careers to the upliftment of black and brown communities across the country. As I began to respond, tears started rolling down my eyes.

I felt guilty for pursuing anything other than being with my parents after grad school. My dad’s condition was deteriorating rapidly, and my mother was struggling to provide care for him. I was assured I was right where my parents wanted me to be.

My father was born in 1949 in Greenwood, Mississippi, when Jim Crow was in its prime.

I remember my dad used to always stress the importance of brushing your teeth. He didn’t have his first dental visit until he was 17 years old. He left Mississippi as a teenager leaving behind a deeply impoverished community, underdeveloped and systematically destroyed by years of oppression. He would go on to become a leader in public education, focusing his career primarily on boys of color.

My dad’s biggest ask of me was to go to college. Being black, successful and a change agent for your community was a marathon, not a sprint. And to my dad, college was the best way to make sure you were in the race.

Days after my onsite interview, I received a call in Atlanta that I had been offered the fellowship. I called my parents overwhelmed with emotion, letting them know of the good news.

Prior to starting my fellowship, I attended three different Historically Black Colleges and Universities (HBCUs), receiving degrees from two. I had been molded in an environment around other brilliant, young, diverse black students. I had begun to see the power in learning and growing together. I was surrounded by people who were committed to restoring and healing black communities across the country. I was inspired and the future looked bright.

As an HBCU student, I felt that my education was only as valuable as my contribution to black communities. As students, we were taught that in order to make change, you had to have a “seat at the table.”

My fellowship was the seat, and I was finally at the table. 

I’ve had the opportunity to work on a variety of projects and initiatives, broadening my understanding of healthcare. One project related to developing an adult Sickle Cell program was revealing. I was shadowing a team of nurses dedicated to providing care for our adult Sickle Cell patients. It is important to note that the entire team was Black. After hours of observing their practice, interacting with patients and engaging in rich conversation, one nurse made a comment that will forever resonate with me.

“We are just as underserved as the patients we care for.” 

These words highlighted the immense challenge advancing health equity would be. Despite being at one of the nation’s leading medical institutions and having the expertise and cultural competence to deliver excellent care, a team of nurses were impacted by the same bias and systematic exclusion that impacted our patients.

My dad and I would trade stories about my rookie experiences in healthcare and his in education. He would talk about the strategies he used to overcome his own challenges when advocating for change for black and brown children. I would lament how the “seat at the table” was an illusion. That if we were happy with a seat, we might as well be sitting by the door. He would always remind me it was a marathon, not a sprint.

In one of our last conversations, my father shared with me how proud he was of how far I had come and how committed I was to advancing our people forward. I was in a meeting days after returning from winter break when my mom called me on my work phone. This was rare so I instantly knew something was wrong. My father had passed away. 

In many ways, my father’s life expectancy was shaped by his upbringing during Jim Crow. His health was pre-determined by history. Racism was his pre-existing condition.

The relationship between contemporary issues in Black America and our health remains the same. No situation can speak better to this than the inequities that came to surface during the COVID-19 pandemic.

And now, months after the onset of the pandemic, there is much civil unrest among Black America regarding the same historic practices that continue to perpetuate a system that was never built with equity in mind.

My parents have modeled for me what true resiliency looks like in the face of calamity and social adversity.

I encourage young black professionals across industries to empower each other and to look for new ways to bring about true change for our community. We are a part of a new generation, and while we may face similar challenges to those that came before us, ultimately, the marathon continues.