The Microaggressors: That one time I got Oprah’d

Season 31 Episode 1

“Alexis*. Alexis! ALEXIS!!!”

I peered over the I. V. pole to see who was yelling. It was middle-aged, petite, brunette white woman sending death rays with her eyes in my direction.

“Alexis, I’ve been calling your name for the past few seconds, why didn’t you answer? We really need a respiratory therapist in bed 25. Now!”

Let’s pause here for a moment. There are two very important details that you need to know. Number one, my name is not Alexis, and secondly I’m not a respiratory therapist.

“Casey*, what are you talking about? Is the patient coding next door? Do you need me to do chest compressions, give medications, how can I help?”

Three seconds go by.

“Oh my goodness. I-I-I’m so embarrassed. How unprofessional. It’s just — your hair. I-I-It’s the same. It can be really confusing.”

Let’s discuss.

1. I’ve worked with Casey for two years. I know intimate details about her life. For instance, she is a divorcee with two teenaged daughters. One’s name is McKenzie*, she loves volleyball and hopes that Nick* will ask her to prom. Her youngest daughter is Laura*. Laura is a rebel. She wants a tattoo, has snuck out of the house twice, and smokes cigarettes.

2. I’m 5'9". Alexis is 5'2". I have a dark chocolate complexion, Alexis has a honey colored hue. We both have natural hair. My 4c crown is currently twisted into perfection. Alexis’ 3c ringlets have been slicked back into a messy bun.

I zap back into my conversation with Casey.

“We don’t all look a like.” My bitterness was palpable. “Does the patient next door need attention?”

“Yes. Yes, he does. Can you help?”

“Of course.”’

Saving lives for a living is one of the most humbling experiences. There are times, despite our best efforts, newest technology, and most cutting edge research we miss the mark.

There are times that we say,

“There’s nothing else we can do. Your son will never walk again, talk again, or be able to care for himself independently.”

I remember a specific patient that we spoke these damning words over. He was a seven-old victim of child abuse. The parents reluctantly accepted these words and removed the life support. We all shed tears, and waited in anticipation of him taking his last breath. But as if it were an act of defiance against our damnation, he took one breath, then another, then another, and yet another breath. Each breath fell into the other, spiraling uncontrollably into the whirlwind that we call life. It was literally the most beautiful thing I’ve ever witnessed, because not only did he breathe, after months of rehabilitation he walked. About six months after this incident his parents brought him back to our unit. He walked up to me, and I bent down to meet him eye-to-eye. I felt his warm breath and I said, “Hello, Trey!” He said, “I know you. I remember your voice.”

A wave of pure bliss came over me. Then his raspy voice said, “Thank you.”

When Casey or any other white person “mistakes” me for someone else, simply because we have both been kissed by the sun, it’s a tool of erasure. Invisibility. It renders us monolithic. Inhuman. Cattle-like. One easily substituted for the other. I juxtapose this with my patient who had never laid eyes on me, but recognized my voice, my humanity, my individuality. For that. For that I am grateful.

*names have been changed to protect the innocent and the ignorant