In my two years as an ER nurse, I only saw three patients come in with fatal or near-fatal gunshot wounds. Three different ERs. Three different cities. Three different black men. Three different chest wounds. These instances are burned in my memory as three of only a handful of patients that I actually remember from my time in emergency rooms. Two were dead on arrival. The last one was my patient, a young man with GSWs to his chest and head whose appearance will forever be burned in my memory. He was wearing a large cross necklace, which I carefully removed and saved for his family. I never learned the outcome of that trauma, partly because he was still alive when my shift ended, but mostly because I just didn’t want to face the reality that he most likely didn’t make it. Another black man dead too soon.
Today as I’ve reflected on the events of the past few weeks, on the news stories that have been filling my Instagram feed, I thought back to those three men. What was going through my mind in those moments? If I’m honest, I assumed all of the gunshot victims had been involved with drugs or gangs or something equally as dangerous. I assumed it was bad choices that had landed them in my ER taking their last breaths. Based on the locations of the hospitals, I may have been right. But I also may have been wrong. And even while I was deeply bothered in those moments, I never stopped to reflect or consider that maybe it wasn’t bad choices. Maybe it’s the narrative I told myself to feel better. To be able to ignore the reality of racism and inequality that have been allowed to run unchecked in this country.
As I nurse, I pride myself in treating each patient with dignity, no matter his or her background or the color of their skin. But over the past few years, I’ve allowed my subconscious biases such as the ones I shared above to rise to the surface and be challenged. The things that I never say out loud but have been there since I was a child. Like “there’s always more to the story,” or “the officer was just doing his/her job,” or “racism is no longer an issue in America.” Because that is the narrative I was taught. By my family. By the news. By society. Somehow I was able to separate the news stories from my daily life, even though my friends and the people I hold dear are not all white. I never stopped to really consider the contrast between my reality as a white woman and that of my friends of color.
The death of Eric Garner was a turning point for me. I was no longer comfortable with the narrative I’d been taught. It was the first time I acknowledged physical ache in the pit of my stomach due to the injustice of it all. It was the first time that I refused to simply believe there was “more to the story.” I woke up that day.
Six years later, I’m still on the journey. I probably don’t get it right most of the time. I have no idea what I’m doing. What I do know is that there are many people whom I love dearly who personally feel the weight of racism and white privilege every day. While I will never fully understand the weight of it all, I will do everything in my power to help change the narrative through the way I mother the next generation. I am intentional about the books, dolls, shows, and conversations that I bring into my home. I read and research as much as my mom brain allows. I listen to black voices above the constant droning of white voices who continue to ignore to the realities in our nation. I’ve watched and listened and read for long enough. I refuse to remain silent any longer.
theadventuresofmrsnorth 