I am Black. I am a woman. I am a physician.
My education took me from public schools in New Orleans, Louisiana, to the Ivy League halls of Brown University. I returned to post-Katrina New Orleans for my medical education, then went to the Washington, D.C., area for an internal medicine residency and allergy and immunology fellowship training at the National Institutes of Health (NIH).
I’ve practiced medicine on both coasts. I was one of only six Black students in my medical school class, one of a mere three Black residents in my residency class and the only Black allergy and immunology fellow in my class. I was the only Black physician in my group at my last hospital appointment. I am very aware of my Blackness, yet the impact of COVID-19’s racial disparities still surprised me. (I am aware of the impact of COVID-19 on all communities of color, but as a Black woman I have chosen to focus this essay on my personal experience and perspective.)
During a recent Zoom conference call with colleagues, I suddenly realized that, while I have had several family members, family friends and acquaintances who have fallen ill with and died of COVID-19, my colleagues have had none. The single obvious difference between my colleagues and me? I am Black, and New Orleans is my hometown.
In my family, five cousins tested positive for COVID-19. Two recovered quickly. One required ventilator support and recovered. Sadly, two died. Another cousin, a nurse, developed symptoms after caring for COVID-19 patients, but ultimately tested negative (I am convinced it was a false negative result). Each day there is another call, text or post about someone I know who has gotten sick or passed away from COVID-19. The grief and anxiety is profound, especially when compounded by recent news of police violence against and harassment of Black people.
I know I am not alone. A recent poll showed Black Americans are twice as likely to know someone who has tested positive or died from COVID-19. Why? It is complicated. Underlying health disparities and social determinants of health play a large role. But, Black Americans have also had less access to COVID-19 testing and medical care. We have been turned away from testing sites, and our symptoms have been minimized. For too many, this has proven fatal. For others it is yet another reminder that Black Americans are not afforded the same opportunities as other Americans, even during a pandemic.
Exclusion of Black Americans is not new. I have studied and researched racism, bias, ignorance and misconceptions in medicine and clinical research. I think about issues related to access to fair opportunities to good medical care and work to ensure access for my patients.
Each day there is another call, text or post about someone I know who has gotten sick or passed away from COVID-19. The grief and anxiety is profound, especially when compounded by recent news of police violence against and harassment of Black people.
During my allergy and immunology fell