So here’s the deal — I am alive today because of black men. I am a functioning human being and a relatively capable mother because of black men. Black male doctors, to be specific. The people who went an extra mile
The first was a doctor who correctly diagnosed my chronic post-traumatic stress when such a thing seemed unthinkable for a privately educated white girl with excellent grades and the penchant of charming her teachers and professors to the point that no one could understand what was wrong with me — I was so smart! So funny! How could I have a screaming void inside of me?
The second was a doctor at Howard University who, earlier this year, helped me tackle and unravel the years of abuse I had gone through while working in Russia, taking care to get my medication right, to get the dosage right, and to remind me that yes, shit happens, and no, it doesn’t have to define who you are.
Both of these men could’ve just gone through the motions when I became their patient, as many other doctors in my life had done. Because they made different choices, I am a different person.
Try as we might, we can’t avoid the pathos and the irony in that — some of the vulnerable members of American society, its historic targets, are also the ones who will go to bat for its most privileged members. From an early age, in my native Ukraine, I grew up with a fear of being hunted when my family was targeted by the mob. Is it any wonder that a black doctor would recognize that hunted feeling for what it was? Let alone have the tools to show me how to deal with it?
I came to the United States as an immigrant, and can therefore afford to be philosophical about its past. All nations and kingdoms are built on suffering and blood. Nobody can change the past, though we can still reckon with it. It is in that reckoning that we can tackle the present and learn to give a fuck about the future — not just for our own children, but for everyone’s children.
This is why, when I think about change, I think about change starting in our own backyards and streets, in the secret compartments of the heart. George Floyd’s daughter, Gianna, was recently in a viral video, saying, “Daddy changed the world!” I saw some people scoff at that — some out of pure racism and spite, others because they saw nothing good ultimately coming from George Floyd’s horrific murder, and moved to pity the supposed naivete of the child. But as a character in one of my favorite books, The Master and Margarita, says about fate and legacy and bloodlines, “The deck is shuffled in a peculiar fashion.” Gianna knows something that many of us adults, worn down by the world, have failed to grasp. Anyone of us can be a catalyst, a hero — whether through our choices, or our suffering, or both.
I watched racists make fun of the outpouring of grief for George Floyd. He was just some nobody with a criminal record, they said. Of course, we all know that even children who have barely had a chance at life can and have been murdered by police with impunity. And then the racists find reasons to explain while this is normal, actually. But even if this didn’t happen — what they are really getting at is that George Floyd didn’t deserve life. Or, even, dignity in death.
George Floyd wasn’t like those nice doctors who helped you, Natalia, they’ll say. Because some of us are given life, others are told they must “earn” it. Some families are allowed their grief, others better hope their slain loved one was saintly to be deemed worthy enough of remembering. Is grief sometimes performative? Sure. Performance itself is an important part of how we function in society. It can make or break the bonds between us. We believe certain mourning rituals to be good for societal cohesion, and upholding our shared values — why shouldn’t we collectively mourn a black man who was the victim of a sadistic slaying in broad daylight, and who was somebody’s dad, somebody’s brother, somebody’s friend? Especially when many of us must wonder if their son, or their brother, or their friend is next?
If you know me, you know I’m not big on beating my chest, and I hate overused words, and am generally a bit of a contrarian, but I am stuck on the word “community” a lot these days. It means something. It’s the way in which we ensure that we interact with each other in more profound ways. It’s a means of positively affecting each other. Community isn’t always nice. We can annoy each other, misunderstand each other, disagree, and so on. As long as we trust each other, and believe in each other’s humanity, we can keep on keeping on, though.
Belief in magic is a big part of keeping the threads of your life together. The irrational, the seemingly impossible, is what we draw strength from when everything all around us is going to hell. We hold on in the tempest, we hold on to each other, because we hear the voice of God (or the universe, or whatever you want to call the force that pulses through everything, and which we frequently acknowledge only in our darkest moments). That voice can be heard in the unlikeliest places, it can come from the unlikeliest people. I have heard it throughout my very own, very unlikely life. It’s speaking to an entire nation these days. I don’t know what happens next, but I am asking you, please, to take heart and listen.
Image credit: Daniel Lobo