Racial Gatekeeping: White America's Role in F@#king up Healthcare

Firstly, thank you to my 50 patrons who support this newsletter! If you want to support your mostly friendly neighborhood Black activist, consider becoming a Patron to help sustain my efforts. Your contribution can collectively make a substantial difference, even if it's just the equivalent of a few cups of coffee each month.?https://www.patreon.com/khafrejay?Now . . .

In the tapestry of American history, the quest for universal healthcare stands out as a vivid thread, often frayed by the nation's deeply rooted racial prejudices. From the early ambitions of presidents like Teddy Roosevelt to the transformative visions of Barack Obama, the path to healthcare reform has been consistently entangled with the nation's struggles with racism. While many Presidents envisioned a healthier, more equitable America, they faced staunch opposition, particularly from segments of society that viewed federal healthcare reforms as a direct threat to the racial hierarchies of their time.

Teddy Roosevelt, known for his progressive stances during the early 20th century, believed in the need for a national health service. As he campaigned in 1912 on the Progressive Party platform, one of his proposals was a national health service to ensure all Americans had access to care. However, this was a period of profound racial segregation, with the nation's institutions, public spaces, and even collective psyche deeply divided along color lines. To many white Americans, especially those in power, the mere idea of Black and white citizens sharing spaces—schools, buses, or hospitals—was unfathomable and threatening. The thought of a white individual lying on a hospital bed next to a Black one clashed with their social mores and seemed to undermine the foundations of the racial hierarchy they had carefully built and preserved. A deep-seated mistrust of federal oversight further intensified this vehement resistance. Many saw Teddy Roosevelt's vision for a national health service as a double-edged sword: It challenged the status quo of racial segregation and signified more significant federal intrusion into matters traditionally left to states or private entities. Such dual apprehensions, stemming from racial animosity and fears of federalism, combined to form a formidable obstacle, eventually derailing Roosevelt's ambitious healthcare aspirations.

Years later, Franklin D. Roosevelt, inspired partly by his cousin Teddy's earlier ambitions, took up the mantle of healthcare reform. FDR's New Deal aimed to overhaul various facets of American society, with healthcare a significant element. However, as he worked to navigate his policies through Congress, FDR faced a formidable challenge. Once again, racism played a role in obstructing progress. Southern Democrats, wielding considerable power in Congress, expressed deep reservations. They decried again that a national healthcare system would disrupt the racial status quo, leading to integrated medical facilities and threatening the Jim Crow laws that kept Black Americans subjugated. Facing these racial headwinds and the need to prioritize other New Deal initiatives, FDR ultimately had to sideline his grand vision for universal healthcare.

It was 1945, and a fresh optimism wafted through the American air. Harry Truman, becoming president in the shadows of a tumultuous World War, believed the time was ripe for change. With the horrors of the war behind them, Truman envisioned a brighter American future—one where every citizen had access to healthcare. But in the Deep South, whispers grew. They weren’t about the cost or the feasibility. They were about race. If Truman's healthcare dream came true, it would mean, once a damn gin, that Black and white people would be sharing hospitals, doctors, and clinics. This was an unspeakable reality for many in a land still gripped by Jim Crow laws.

Several decades after Truman's endeavors, the 1960s ushered in Lyndon B. Johnson, a charismatic Texan with a distinctive Southern drawl and an unyielding vision for healthcare reform. LBJ introduced Medicare and Medicaid with hopes of creating a more inclusive healthcare landscape. On the surface, LBJ, despite his Southern roots, might navigate past the racial obstacles that had stymied Truman's efforts. Yet, the media was rife with insidious undertones that reeked of the country's racial past.

Newspapers, television broadcasts, and radio shows posed pointed questions and debates about the implications of these healthcare reforms. Critics, sometimes subtly and at times more overtly, played on the fears of white Americans, insinuating that these reforms were a ploy to redistribute their "hard-earned money" to undeserving minority groups, primarily referring to Black Americans. Phrases like "welfare recipients" or "urban poor" were frequently used as coded language or dog whistles, perpetuating the idea that minority populations would be the primary beneficiaries at the expense of white taxpayers. These media tactics tapped into longstanding racial prejudices, creating a cloud of doubt and mistrust around LBJ's landmark healthcare initiatives.

Fast forward to the 1990s, and the American landscape seemed different. The country had supposedly moved past its racial issues. Enter Bill Clinton with a saxophone in one hand and a healthcare reform proposal in the other. The Clinton Health Care Plan was ambitious. But again, echoes from the past resounded. The media perpetuated images of Black "welfare queens" and discussions about "them" benefiting more than "us" filled living rooms. A wave of unease grew, rooted in age-old prejudices.

Then, as the new millennium settled in, America witnessed a groundbreaking moment: its first Black president, Barack Obama. His vision was clear - the Affordable Care Act, a plan to ensure that millions without insurance could finally breathe a sigh of relief. But with his skin color came heightened animosity. Many saw the ACA as a handout for minorities. Fueled by veiled racism, opposition was intense, with rumors and scare tactics muddying the waters.

As we take a deep dive into the annals of America's healthcare journey, we're not merely tracing a winding path; we're uncovering a roadmap that bears the scars of white supremacy's indelible mark that has affected all of our lives. No matter your race, anti-blackness has affected the health of you and everyone in your family. And the roots of racial bias and the systemic sidelining of Black interests aren't just echoes from centuries past; they're loud, resounding gongs that reverberate into the present day. Disturbingly, the trends in white America's voting behavior reveal a pattern. Historically, and with alarming consistency today, these patterns are cemented in policies and candidates that work against Black communities' rights, well-being, and interests, and you all know it.

It would be convenient, perhaps even comforting, to dismiss these as the uninformed choices of a bygone era or the isolated sentiments of a fringe group. But the reality is starker. A majority of white voters, armed with the knowledge of the implications of their choices, have repeatedly cast their lot in favor of policies and people undermining Black aspirations. Even the most liberal white people vote this way. Take San Francisco's history of overt oppression of Black communities.

The pursuit of universal healthcare serves as a stark reminder of this dynamic. It's not merely a policy debate; it's a microcosm of the more significant racial divide, a testament to a nation's priorities—or lack thereof—. As we envisage a future where every American, regardless of race or wealth, has access to quality healthcare, it's imperative to confront the uncomfortable truths. This isn't just about learning from the past; it's about challenging white America's present role in this narrative. For any genuine progress, white people have to actually come to a place where they value the health of black Americans,?and unfortunately, I don't see that happening anytime soon. As we now inhabit a country?that relinquished Roe vs. Wade?to bigots?and fascists, I have little hope?that white people?can change the?deep fractures in their community?surrounding racism?and white supremacy. I do not do justice work because I am hopeful?and not a betting man, but if I had to be, I wouldn't throw away my money betting on white America?to value black lives, periodt, not after 400 years?of empirical data.

Lastly, don't forget, if you want to support your mostly friendly neighborhood Black activist, consider becoming a Patron to help sustain my efforts. Your contribution can collectively make a substantial difference, even if it's just the equivalent of a few cups of coffee each month.?https://www.patreon.com/khafrejay

Check out my video that YouTube restricted due to me speaking out about police Murdering Black People: "Black Trauma On A Loop."

Visit my website and subscribe to stay in touch: