The Talk: Parenting for P.O.C
It was a Friday evening and I was feeling incredibly tired. However, the fatigue followed me the next day and the day after that. By Monday I had an excruciating headache, but I tried to power through my Zoom meetings for work. I squinted from the pain in my head and my throat was sore. I began to panic and to count backwards to 14 days prior.
I couldn’t breathe.
My chest felt tight.
I emailed my supervisor, ended my work day and set up a video appointment with my primary physician. I called the COVID hotline and was told to self-isolate and monitor my symptoms. I immediately packed an overnight bag for my son, and sent him to stay with his father.
As a cancer survivor, I truly thought I was going to die. I went to the local urgent care center seeking further help. Initially, the physician assistant was dismissive and stated that I was exaggerating my symptoms. I was told there were not enough tests for me to be given one. I knew the chemotherapy regimen that had treated my cancer, had left scarring on my lungs. As the PA was resistant to explore my full medical history, I advocated for myself, and sternly requested a chest X-Ray. When the results came back, they showed I had fibrous tissue in one of my lungs. The previously disinterested physician assistant changed her tone. She consulted with the attending and then provided a more comprehensive exam. I was sent home with a prescription for Vitamin C, Tylenol and a referral to a drive-thru COVID-19 testing site.
For two weeks, I was anxious with an unrelenting headache and the constant feeling of a popcorn kernel stuck in my throat. Every day, I drank turmeric and ginger tea and took vitamins. Daily, my siblings in Trinidad instructed me on how to create homemade remedies. One of my sisters was afraid that I might die and insisted that she watch me sleep on the phone. Although I was physically isolated, I felt the support and encouragement of my siblings and friends. They checked in on me, sent me groceries and my cousin even drove all the way from Brooklyn to Harlem to bring me a home cooked meal.
I spoke often with my son via FaceTime, but it was difficult. It was the longest period of time we had been apart. He didn’t understand why he couldn’t be with me. All he knew was that a virus had separated him from his mom, his school friends and the outside world.
I cried a lot.
I had a panic attack.
I read and listened to too many news reports of black men and women dying at home; their neglected bodies rotting, because no one believed that they were sick, when they had sought medical help.
Every day, I credit my support system for being there when I needed them most. Eventually, I recovered and was relieved when my son and I were finally reunited.
Yet there was more to come.
A few months ago, before the city was placed on lockdown, I moved to a new neighborhood. Built in the 1940s, the buildings in my area were constructed to house African Americans who were restricted from living in white-only buildings in lower Manhattan. Despite rapid gentrification, I was enamored with the beauty of the building and the vibrant black culture of the neighborhood. Less than a week after recovering from Covid-19, I was confronted with bias in my “up and coming” neighborhood.
After two weeks of being ill, it was almost a pleasure to be able to do my laundry, again. I placed my clothes in the communal dryers, and entered the elevator bank with my 5 year old son. We waited for the doors to close, and I was taken aback when a foot prevented them from closing. Its owner wanted to know if I had a Bank of America card. I said no, assuming that she had found a BOA card in the laundry room. She demanded that I return to the laundry room with her, because she could not find her bank card. Her tone was similar to a police officer doing a shakedown. Despite my irritation, I followed her, to prevent the situation from escalating in front of my son. I suggested she check her bag, again. When she placed her hand in her bag, she pulled out the missing card.
Before my young child, I had been dehumanized. I told the woman her actions were racist and egregious. Her defense was that she didn’t know me as a resident of the building, implying that I didn’t live there. My quick retort was, “ I don’t know you either!”
The irony of a white woman, in the 21st century, moving into a historically black space, built to house black people, accusing me of a petty crime did not go unnoticed. After I delivered a poised but eviscerating tongue lashing, she began to cry. She made sure to point out that she was not a racist. Her tears angered me more; but I remained level-headed because my son was watching.
Upstairs, in the safety of our home, my son expressed his fear and confusion over what had taken place in the laundry room. This horrible experience became a teaching moment for me to instruct him on how to stand up for himself when faced with racial bias.
As a black mother, one might wonder, how soon is too soon to have “the talk” with one’s children?
Apparently it is never too early.
What is known for sure, is that as a black person, I can be left to die when feeling ill; ignored by biased healthcare providers, accused of petty theft and arbitrarily killed for just existing. In retrospect, I’m not sure which was worse: battling COVID-19; the fear of dying due to a biased healthcare system; or my encounter with laundry room Karen.
