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The humid night is barely any cooler than the day. The sky feels low, somehow. The street is lined with balconies and signs hanging underneath. No breeze to swing them. The windows glow with light, as do the embers of a few grills on the sidewalk, offering brisket and sausage. The people stream by, shouldering past each other on the sidewalk. Cars foolishly creep down the narrow street as people dart in between, following the music. The sound pours from the buildings, rolling down the front steps, cascading through the windows, drawing the crowds in. Blues and jazz bloom from old gnarled hands and wrinkled cheeks. The new generation plucks the bass. Scratchy throats croon at the microphone. Lazy swipes caress washboards. The people push to the bar then slide back to the stage with drink in hand. They exchange glances and sway with the music. This night the kaleidoscope sees polo shirts, checkered button downs, sunglasses hanging down the back, Sperry’s scraping the floor. I am there, too. All our white faces, paying to be entertained by the black men playing the music. We part as one of the performers moves through the throng between sets, tip jar in hand, the lone stain.
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The sky is blue. The grass is green. The free shirts are yellow. I am part of the MLK brigade– a day on (of service), not a day off. I am in Central City beautifying a neighborhood park. The baseball field called my name. Edging the base paths, turning up the dirt around home plate, repairing the fencing along the dugouts and in the outfield. My hands are raw from working with the shovel, my yellow shirt is dark with sweat, and my hair-challenged head is almost certainly burnt. I straighten up, stretch out my back, and lean against my shovel. Looking around, I think of the man whom we are honoring today. As my thoughts drift through time and thought, I think of my part in all this. Who have I touched? Who have I changed? How am I part of the solution? The faces of important people in my life surface, crossroads in my youth come back in to focus. This is hard. There aren’t many. Thinking about my inner circle of family and friends, I realize I can count on one hand my black friends. Surpassing segregation, in all its structural fortifications, is going to be hard.
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The spokes in my wheels blur as I ride my blue bike along Simon Bolivar, past Washington Park, through the heart of Central City. On my way to the hospital, this is my favorite part of the commute. Bright shotgun houses stack up along the road. The neutral ground separates the traffic. Street art tells stories on the walls of the old public pool. But I just pass through. I am perceived as bold to willingly go through Central City. I like that, being thought of as bold. Yes, this neighborhood is the source of many of the staggering statistics on violence, but they are people, too. It is not a blighted land. It should not be whispered about and tip-toed around. I wave to those on the porches, I nod to the men working under the hoods. I smile at the children waiting for the school bus. But I do not stay. Is that enough?
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Graduation. Four years of medical school and I get to watch the class I entered with walk across the stage. Yes, a pang of envy turns within me, but more than that, I am filled with pride. My classmates rise, hoods donned, diplomas in hand, and descend as physicians. I watch as three African-Americans accept their hard earned degree. All are women. In a city over fifty percent black and at an institution which prides itself on diversity and community involvement, there are three African-American women becoming medical doctors in a class of 185. Is it my place to be proud of them, particularly them? When the ceremony ends I exit and move between the mingling groups of families and friends. I am looking for Denise and Carol. My study family. Two of my closest friends. With them I no longer feel out of place. Together we pose for a picture, Denise, Carol, Gregg. Honduras, Taiwan, USA. The diversity of my study family was not intentional, but some accidents are rooted in purpose.
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I am never happier than when family or friends from two different worlds meet. My twin brother Scott and now sister-in-law Lisa are out by the pool. The grill is smoking and being tended to loosely. Conversation bubbles between the groups. Everyone is relieved to take a break from medical school and relax. Denise from Honduras, Emma from Honduras, Carol a local but parents from Taiwan, Jerry from Zimbabwe, Jason’s parents from the Philippines, Charles from China, Phil from Germany, Du from Vietnam, Lan from China. I don’t think of this image until later, when my brother mentions my multi-cultural friends and when events are such that my thoughts wander frequently to race, but it makes me happy. It’s a start- this sharing and mixing.
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My parents are telling a story about a kid. This kid was likely in the wrong place at the wrong time. Probably falsely accused, he was nonetheless taken in and met with much skepticism. Young, there were suspicions of drug involvement, violence, and theft. Frustrated and embarrassed by the injustice of the situation, I sympathized with him. Why do people do this? As I listened to more of the story– the context, the neighborhood, the stereotypical clothing– I tried to find a reason why the police would wrongly accuse. Nothing I had heard quite made sense. Suddenly, I realized I am waiting to hear if he is black or not.
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Back on the baseball field at Kirkwood High school. Kirkwood is a West County suburb school that buses in some inner city kids. It has a neighborhood called Meachem Park that I never saw growing up. It is where the majority of the African-Americans live. Four black players are on the baseball team. Well, one is half. Two twins are significantly whiter than the darkest, because being black is a spectrum. The darkest would always frustrate me because he was so “paranoid” about “it’s because I’m black.” I always thought he was blowing it out of proportion. He was way too defensive. There is no way that is a problem at our school. Mothers of black kids say and teach the same things as mothers of white kids. Social interactions, housing applications, drug penalties are all the same not matter what the skin color. Right? “It’s because I’m black” rings more true to me, now.
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On rounds at Tulane Hospital. The hallways are a weird white and brown that make me think of wood panelling from the sixties. Nurses busily attend to patients in their Tulane green scrubs. Pagers alarm, wheels chairs or IV stands roll by, binders spring open and closed. I start my presentation on the patient I saw that afternoon in the ER. My history of present illness starts with age and gender and race…the story continues, detailing the length and severity of the event that brought him in, any other co-morbidities, allergies, home medications, social situation. We make our plan, visit the patient, and move on to the next room. It is from the outside looking in that I am able to question the importance of commenting on the patient’s race. What image am I painting? Yes, certain illness are more prevalent and have a different natural history according to certain population groups. But am I the expert identifier? Do I ask the patient how he self-identifies? Is that really pertinent to this illness? I wonder.
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The retelling makes me cringe, though I was not present. Thank God I was not present. A weekend night. One of my roommates drunkenly draws the parallel between the name of a medical student applicant we are hosting and feces. This roommate is white. The applicant is black. He dresses well, speaks well, and is evidently not black enough. He is more fake black, according to another presumably drunk roommate, himself a dark black, which in some minds may make it acceptable for him to say that. One could argue context, or that it was all a joke. None of this is acceptable to me. My own roommates and close friends. I don’t know what to say. I am sorry.
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Church on Sunday. Blessed Sacrament St. Joan of Arc. An Uptown church with a downhome message. A predominantly black congregation, I sit in front of the choir next to my New Orleans mother, Lula. Tyrone conducts, the drummer and keyboard player rock their shaved heads and sunglasses, the base player adds a toothpick sticking out from between his lips. Father Chuck presides and directs this celebration as only he can. This spring day the community is recognizing its graduates. Students from pre-K, kindergarten, and five middle schoolers. Seven high schoolers are all going to college. College students, a pharmacy doctorate, two PhD recipients, and an orthopedic surgery resident also stand up to be recognized. Am impressive group. An accomplishment not taken for granted. They are examples to everyone. They are the pride of the church family. They are breaking the stereotype.
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“Hi, my name is _____.” “Cool, I’m Gregg.” “Where are you from?” “St. Louis” “Oh. It’s crazy what’s happening there, isn’t it?” “Yeah, it’s crazy.” “I can’t believe how ridiculous those protestors are being. They try to make everything about race.” Ferguson has made global news. Civil unrest mixes peaceful protest aimed at constructive dialogue with disorganized and purposeless violence and destruction. The media’s power and responsibility is never greater than during these times. The conversation about race and police discrimination is everywhere. At least, it appears that way. Much of the conversation is actually diverted to the events and behaviors which occurred after the fact, not to the event or the historical forces that led to the fact. I wish I could be back home in solidarity. I wish people would not make assumptions about how this white upper class male feels about the issue. “No, it’s not ridiculous. It’s about time.”
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Leaving My Comfort Zone 