Being Patient

Something's been bugging me about how I've been treated by doctors since I've become an adult (when I've noticed more how people interact with me). I feel as if I've been treated with an apathetic attitude, as if I don't matter all that much. I'll go to review sites and see that most of the other patients really like the doctor so that I feel that I've seen a completely different doctor.

I now have a doctor (actually a nurse practitioner) whom I trust and think would take steps to see that my problems or concerns are addressed. When I ask questions, I'm not dismissed or given monosyllabic answers. It's a refreshing change, and unfortunately, I'm quite unused to it.

The doctor I had before her 1. did not answer my questions 2. did not seem concerned that I felt ill 3. was overall kind of rude, as if I was keeping her from doing her job somehow, even though I was her job. Yet I see the reviews and no one else has a problem. There have been many occasions in which I have been misdiagnosed (ulcers, stomach infections, obesity!) because various doctors have not felt it necessary to give me simple tests that would have shown the cause. They treated me as if I'm lying about every symptom I have.

My son's doctor is getting better now that he's getting to know us, but why should how long he's known us affect how well he treats my son? The last doctor I took him to kind of held us at arm's length. He also did that annoying thing where he asked why we were there when he was the one who requested that we make the follow-up appointment. So while the current doctor needs to work on his bedside manner, he's an improvement. I hope he takes my concerns about my son's legs seriously on our next visit.

And my husband? His experiences are sickening. For instance, two years ago he had a simple problem, but when he went to see the clinic, the doctor stood at the door and wrote him a prescription after he gave her a short description of what was wrong. She also said something might be wrong with his liver and then left the room.

The ethnicity of the doctor doesn't matter, though gender does (my family and I have been treated horribly by female doctors). Black doctors (including an Nigerian one), white doctors, Asian doctors, etc. all have a record of poor service for me and my family.

I have no idea what this means.

Chicken & Watermelon

My husband told me something extraordinarily funny: he won't eat watermelon in public. He thinks that  doing so would perpetuate a stereotype. He likes watermelon as well as any other fruit, but that particular one has too much negative meaning.

"Yeah, and then I'll bury my face in a wedge and spit out the seeds like a machine gun." He'd then demonstrate the seed spitting--side to side in an ignorant way. It was a messy eating of a person who doesn't know much. What would always make me laugh was how vehement he would look while doing it. "I's sho duz like me some waddermelons!" he'd say, pumping a fist to the side. Sometimes he'd add an irrelevant "Massah!" for effect.

There's sadness mixed in his portrayal. He can't be who he really is. If he reaches for watermelon, there's all of this judgment and contempt attached to it. It becomes a spectacle. Even if no one else around him would think that and he knew that, he'd know that image was in the collective mind. He wouldn't even eat any at a church friend's home because he said he can't in front of white people. His main problem was that it was still on the rind. It being cubed and in a bowl would have let him keep some dignity, I guess.

The simple act of showing like for a certain piece of food becomes a dilemma. I remember from my high school days an incident that occurred during our lunch. They had cooked too much fried chicken (they usually ran out of food) and since they didn't want to throw it out, they offered more portions to the students. Well, the principal came to the "black tables" first. I don't remember any of us accepting the offer, although some white kids did. We never mentioned what had happened among ourselves either. Why talk about the mundane?

Racism isn't the problem here. It helped to cement those stereotypes we can't quite run from, but that's not what I'm feeling now. It doesn't seem as if we can ever escape the past; we wear it on our backs like dowager humps.

There's all kinds of things that I don't dare do or say around those who aren't my closest friends (some of my closest friends are different ethnicities) because I don't want to be laughed at. I don't want to put an image in someone's head who doesn't know better that they will carry around with them and spread. It's beyond making a fool of me; I'm worried about making a fool of us. I think that's a little of what my husband faces when someone sets a plate of watermelon or fried chicken in front of him.

Just Stop

Please. Just stop.

I don't want to talk about "the election." Stop making this so miserable for me. I do not care who won or how he will ruin this country. I don't care.

You're telling me way too much about yourself. You're telling me what you really think of me, of my family. That isn't a good thing. It hurts my heart and frightens me.

We throw such hate at each other, scooped up from inside of us (don't worry; your supply won't be depleted). You fling it while telling me to get over it. It's just an opinion.

Your opinion stinks. I can't get it out of my clothes and my hair. I'm unallowed by tradition to state mine; this is what you get to dictate. I'd like to change those rules and you hate that. I don't need to know this. I'm trying to be your friend.

So please stop.

The Problem with Rap

"As long as it's not rap."

Then there's the awkwardness of people trying to look at me or my husband from the sides of their eyes. Trying to gauge our reactions without us noticing. But of course we notice. We see the false preoccupation with lint on shirts or pants or hair. We feel every scrape and creak of the chairs we sit in. All around us bodies make to go places, but are confined, going nowhere and everywhere at the same time.

We are black and so we must like rap. Are we offended? Not in the way one would assume. Rap is not my favorite genre of music, for one. Yet when people sneer at the thought of it, I become a target of that disdain, whether or not that was the intention (and sometimes that is the intention). At that point, I wonder what else this person is intolerant of. What else is presumed of me that they'd rather not exist?

Easily Offended or Easily Offensive (Black People Can Dance)

How should we deal with those who say or do things that can be perceived as prejudiced? Do we let that person know? Do we let it go? What if it's an ongoing situation with someone whom you are forced to interact with almost every day?

Pictured: "Blue Congealed 

Wobbling Blob of Copyright",

Abi Paramaguru

I like to avoid issues that deal with racial prejudices. It's not that I'm in denial or anything like that. It's that I'd like to move on from the whole situation of being “oppressed.” I don't like being reminded that my ethnicity or race limits me because of what others think about it. I could waste my whole life wallowing in the injustice of it. I think if I can live the life that I'm striving for that that will send a stronger message than focusing on what's wrong, what could be better. I'm trying to live better, and I think that I should be living for God and me, not somebody who's trying to keep me down.

Then there are the situations where it's not that the person is actively trying to keep me down, but his or her ignorance is nevertheless doing that. This is very difficult to deal with, when a person's intentions are not lined up with the actions the person makes. In fact, these very people may be only trying to help, but their underlying beliefs and values are doing the opposite of what they meant.

Portrayals of Characters of Color in Cartoons

Why-do-they-make-all-black-people-family-guy-same-complexion

I wasn't going to write about this topic, but as I "researched" (meaning I googled the topic for 40 minutes), I can be silent no longer.

My husband and I were thinking about how when our daughter draws herself she insists on using just the right shade of brown. This brought memories of my experiences with Crayola crayons (early 90s) and how I only had two choices: brown and "burnt sienna." If a child had fairer skin, she had the choice of "flesh," peach, tan, pink, and beige. The problem back then was the only way I could color my loved ones was to vary my pressure with my brown crayon. Lighter-skinned black people were out of luck.

A Letter to Black Hollywood

Dear Black Filmmakers, Screenwriters, and Producers,

Please stop remaking films into Black-centered comedies. They turn out bad and make people not want to see movies featuring Black people. Stop it.

Sincerely yours,

ASA

One Thousand Disappointments Part 2

I like my hair. It's so me. I wear it up; I wear it... less up and all with minimal fuss. I wash it. I let it dry. I oil it. And, if I feeling particularly bouncy, I comb it. Otherwise, I run my fingers through it until I don't catch any tangles.

Perfect hair for a lazy, lazy woman. Except, I have to wear it different on interviews so that it conforms to the standard of "neat." And my family, excluding my husband, hates it. Even people who seem to like it treat my hair as some sort of experiment or trend.