Ray Christian (23:55)
Well, thank you Mrs. Baker. Julia. But on TV and in the movies, black folks didn't go to the hospital or doctors either. Even in the movie Shaft after the famous private detective got shot up, even he didn't go to the hospital. He went to his girlfriend and she nursed him up. John shaft just got right back up the next day and did his thing. And that personified us. There are reasons we didn't go to the hospital. There are reasons many black folks didn't go to the hospital. There's nothing a hospital would or could do. This sort of thing might be difficult to understand. And again, it goes way back. Following the end of slavery, some private institutions that were poorly funded did emerge. But following the end of reconstruction, blacks had to depend on private organizations to provide care and build hospitals. In most of the nation and the entirety of the old south, no medical care or support was provided for blacks, and blacks were specifically refused care and support. It was seen as a waste of limited resources. With limited training and support for black medical professionals, the black american community increasingly depended on private donations. Throughout the 20th century century, there were some signs of improvement, like how black soldiers stationed in the south during the 1940s created another benefit that required the federal government to build hospitals and medical resources in and around the bases. But with integration came the closing of all black hospitals, many in much needed repair and lacking adequate facilities. Now, it may be obvious, but doing this created an absence of care in many of these communities. You take all that and you add stories that have been with the black community for generations, like the tuskegee experiments, where black men were infected with syphilis and were not given treatment so they could be studied during the entire course of the disease until they died and could be autopsied. But the story that never seems to go away is about Dr. Charles Drew, a black surgeon and the scientist who invented the process for storing blood. In 1950, Dr. Drew was in a car accident, and the story for generations had said that he was denied blood when he was taken to a white hospital. This part of the story isn't true. Dr. Drew died, even despite the doctor's efforts. But it didn't matter, not to us. Because the moral of this story was, if you're black and you go to the hospital, you're going to die. The hospital was a place for desperate people, and mama was desperate. See, here I was at age 11, sick as a dumb dog, sicker than a dog, going to the doctor for the first time. I was only about seven blocks away, but in the crisp, cool air, struggling to breathe, the walk to the doctor's office nearly killed me. This doctor's office was small, but large enough to contain five or six rows of wooden chairs at each of the chairs set about 30 black women, like my mama, all dressed like they were going to church. Floors were dark, polished wood. The walls were white, with various large paintings of flowers and portraits of white men. I didn't know, but it smelled like white people's houses, which meant it had lack of certain smells. Our house smelled like grease, coal and wood. It had the smell of mold, while white people's houses smell like bleach, brick and plaster. Between the smells and the vibe, I was super nervous. I worried about what kind of shameful shit this was gonna be. Then arrived Dr. Martin, a huge white man with a thick neck that reminded me of a roll of bologna meat from the store before they sliced it. He had on a brown tie and he wore a white shirt that looked really tight. I could see that the white doctor's jacket was a struggle for him to put on. As he sat down and took off his outer jacket, he greeted everyone by saying, how are y'all doing this morning? Ain't it good that God has allowed you to live and be here? And the women, including my mama, all nodded in unison, said variations of yes, that's right. Uh huh. Yes, sir. Then he lit up the first of many cigarettes and coughed and said, you know, a lot of colored people would have better health if they had a better spirit about things. Now he went on to talk about how colored women should treat their children, their husbands, the vile nature of TV and music. I mean, it was almost like a chapel. His ruminations on life in the black community, his lectures, went on for more than 30 minutes. And through the haze of pain, fever and discomfort, it seemed like days. A nurse finally called my name. The doctor met me inside his adjacent office, still smoking a cigarette, and he motioned to my mama to sit back down. She didn't need to come in. And he started asking questions, something that became a pattern in my life and in the lives of many black Americans, doctors and authority figures. Having this deep interest in our personal life, especially when you went to the health department. From as long as I remember, white adults would pepper black children with questions like that all the time, like when people from the school board would come and we had to put on shows for them. I was not unaccustomed to that and asking about personal life. My mama cautioned us not to talk about these subjects. Playing ignorant was a survival mechanism. As he dropped cigarette ashes on my shoulder, Dr. Martin asked, what's wrong with you? Open your mouth, boy. Then you having sex? He asked, no, sir. You. You drink? No, sir. Then he asked whether I Worked. And if my daddy worked and what my daddy did for a living, and on and on. Then he stopped asking questions and told me to do something. Bend over and pull down your pants. And faster than I could react, he gave me a painful injection in the ass. Now, from exam to treatment, it only took a few moments. I got better over the next few days. This treatment did seem to work. The doctor told mom I had strep throat and probably pneumonia. And in the following weeks, various people who took part in my healing protocols took credit for what was a miracle. Healing, prayer, faith in water, oils, the root lady inspired with the fish head poultice or the piercing, thick penicillin. I survived the illness, the medicines and the healers. And yet, from the healing I received from the shot, from all my shots over the years, for all the things I know about science, about medicines, about health, now I still understand why we do these remedies. But I think about my mom when I think about my kids. My parents were illiterate. They had to ask the drugstore guy what the label said and either trust that information or try some home remedies. Now we don't waste any time getting our kids what they need, whether shots or medical care. Like the one time my daughter had this really bad stomachache. And at a certain point, my wife just said, let's take her to the doctor and see what the doctor says. And as it turned out, she had appendicitis and an obstructed bowel, and they had to perform emergency surgery. Now, she recovered swiftly, but using my mama's health care matrix, my daughter would have died. Now, I can't blame my mama. She was doing what she thought was right. I'm still here. I know a lot more now. A lot of us black folks do. I've gotten shot since that day nearly 50 years ago. And I've been to see many doctors. What's changed? Sure, I got more education on how things work, but the cynicism did grow over time. If the army gave me 100 shots before I was 20 years old, what's 100 more gonna do? I went from absolute fear to I don't care. I still get why other brave black soldiers were freaking out about getting a shot. And I still get why other black folks freak out today about getting a shot. When people ask about why we're so scared of shots and why we don't trust medicine, I just have to say, it's not that we don't trust medicine. We just don't trust people. Next time on What's Ray Saying? How black fashion influenced American culture, impacted the black community and almost changed the course of my life. Do you remember bobos? Yeah, I remember bobos, man. You got explain what bobos are. Bobos is a cheap pair of tennis shoes that you get them from the supermarket, you walk in, you go to the meat counter, you get your milk and all that. Oh, by the way, come on, you need some tennis shoes. You know, dressing black.
