Category: Nonfiction

Categories
Informal-curriculum Nonfiction Observations

Name-calling.

Let me start by saying that it actually doesn’t happen that often.

The yelling and screaming usually comes from men who aren’t under my care. It often happens when I’m talking with my patients or when I am just walking past a cell block.

Sometimes, it is repetitive yelling that sounds like a metronome:

WHORE! WHORE! WHORE! WHORE!

Sometimes, it is a tirade:

F-CKING SLUT, you’re a F-CKING SLUT, d-mn whore, F-CKING C-NT, YOU HEAR ME? YOU’RE A F-CKING SLUT, YOU F-CKING B-TCH, yes, YOU, you’re a F-CKING BITCH…

Other men take issue with my short hair and assert that I am a lesbian:

You’re a LESBIAN, aren’t you? What the F-CK is wrong with you, LESBO? Why don’t you like dick? F-CKING LESBIAN, you and your F-CKING SHORT HAIR…

For reasons I don’t understand, it is uncommon for men to yell racial slurs at me.[1. No one in jail has yet to call me a “chink“—at least not to my face or when I am in earshot. I did have a patient who would intersperse his sentences with musical phrases: “Ching chong ding ding ting tang…”. He didn’t do this with anyone else. He also refused to believe that I am a physician. He insisted, “There’s no way you’re a doctor. Women can’t be doctors. You’re probably just a clinical assistant. Women aren’t smart enough to be doctors.” I steered the conversation elsewhere.]

I have since learned that those men who yell synonyms for commercial sex workers at me or insist that I am a lesbian become more enraged when I ask them to stop yelling. Usually it goes something like this:

Maria: “Hi. Could you please stop yelling for ten minutes so I can talk to the guy over there? It’s hard for me to hear him.”

Inmate: [spewing more hatred at a louder volume and a greater frequency]

This response differs from other men who yell for different reasons. Often the men who scream about the crimes of the government, the arrival of the aliens, the ghosts in the machines, and the coming of the Antichrist will acknowledge my request and kindly stop yelling. Some can’t stay quiet for more than three minutes, but they try.

On occasion, the men who are my patients—and sometimes these are the same men who proclaim that they are actually machines and not humans, or they can’t string together coherent sentences—will scream past me to the men yelling malicious things: “SHUT THE F-CK UP!”

Their imperatives often go unheeded.

Hearing this vitriol doesn’t bother me too much. I mean, it bothers me enough to write a blog post about it, but such behaviors make me wonder more about the suffering of these men. Perhaps these men are screaming at me because I am on the other side of their cell doors and they feel anger with their lack of freedom. Perhaps these men don’t like the inherent power differential between them and me in a setting like the jail. In an effort to assert dominance a man may shout misogynistic things at me because he is trying to close the gap between his status and my status. Maybe women in his past have done terrible things to him.

My male colleagues have mentioned that these same inmates might insist that they are gay. Otherwise, most of the commentary these men lob against my male colleagues are death threats. This is in contrast to the threats I receive; men usually threaten to rape me. (Let’s be clear: Such threats are rare.) And it is not necessarily the men who scream hateful things at me who threaten rape.

What people say and what they do aren’t always congruent, whether in the jail or elsewhere. Consider the men in jail who have been charged or convicted many times of sexual assault. They may never shout anything at female staff. Some of these men show great courtesy; they look me in the eye; they say “please”, “thank you”, and offer gracious social smiles.

One wonders what they do not say out loud.

Some people will judge you just based on how you look. To some men, women are malignant deviants; they induce fear and loathing. Some men decide that the best course of action is to hurl hatred at women.

Sometimes, they might do even worse things.

Categories
Nonfiction Observations

Enclosed.

When the elevator doors slid open, there were twelve men inside the car. Two wore black officer uniforms; the others wore unmarked and faded tops and pants. They all looked at me in silence.

They all saw me hesitate.

“Do you want to get on?” one officer barked. It was a command phrased in the form of a question.

As I took a step forward, one officer stepped out of the elevator. The inmates, wearing not scarlet letters but, instead, red uniforms and cheerless expressions, moved towards the perimeter of the car. The second officer in the elevator took a step backwards, creating a square of space.

I took my assigned spot and the other officer stepped back onto the elevator to close the square. My eyes could only see his folded arms across his broad chest. The light breath of the other officer moved across the back of my neck. The inmates cast their glances—heavy, light, and of all shapes and sizes—at me. I heard my heart beating in my ears.

As the elevator lurched into motion, the air thickened in my chest:

  • If a fight breaks out, I can’t escape.
  • If someone touches me, I won’t know who.
  • If something happens to me right now, who will be more likely to help me…?

The elevator jiggled to a stop and the doors slid open.

“Excuse me.” My voice did not waver, though my confidence did.

Without saying a word the officer stepped out of the elevator. The inmates rearranged themselves in silence. Cool air blew past me as I walked into the elevator bay.

I exhaled.

Categories
Homelessness Nonfiction Observations Seattle

Street Scenes.

The woman walking in front of me on the sidewalk was wearing a short skirt and a sleeveless blouse. After stepping out of the street he readjusted the strap of the large duffel bag on his shoulder and began to drift towards her. Uneven stubble covered his face and his hair stuck out in several directions.

“Hi,” he said, smiling with both his eyes and lips. “How are you?”

She swept past him without turning her head. Unfazed, he then saw me.

“OH, COME ON!” he exclaimed, his voice more delighted than annoyed. He clearly recognized me.

As he continued to grin at me, I offered, “Hi.” I know you, too…

“Hi! How are you?” he greeted, his voice warm and his eyes bright.

“Fine, thank you. How are you?” You were one of my patients, but from where…?

“I’m good, thanks. It’s so nice to see you!” Neither one of us stopped walking, though he slowed down just as I began to cross the street.

I waved good-bye to him. He waved back.

Oh! I last saw you in jail! You thought you were a machine! You told me that everyone could read your thoughts! You shouted at the walls of your cell—

—and how much better you look now![1. The moment someone changes out of a hospital gown or a jail uniform into casual clothes he will immediately look more healthy, independent, and dignified.]

My father was telling me a story as we walked past the corner store. I’m not sure if he saw the man approach me.

“Hey, can you spare some change?”

Turning my head with a small smile and looking at his face, I said, “No.”

“Oh, hey now,” the man said, starting to walk next to me. He then reached out and stroked my arm. “I just want to touch you.”

“DON’T TOUCH ME!” I shouted, still walking. The man stopped. My father, taken aback, looked at the man over his shoulder, though remained silent.

“Go on,” I said lightly to my father, who then did. However, I didn’t hear anything he said. Did that actually just happen?[2. In my years of working with people who are homeless it has been rare for anyone to touch me. This includes people who were actively psychotic or acutely intoxicated. Furthermore, when people have touched me, it was within the bounds of social convention: We shook hands, gave high fives, bumped fists. Hence my alarm after this man touched me.]

The yellow sign on the fence reads: “Illegal activities and loitering not permitted.”

Within the confines of the fence are at least ten tents arranged in a half circle. Some are reinforced with several layers of duct tape. Others are covered with blue tarps.

A small barbecue grill, round and uncovered, is in the center of the circle.

A freeway ramp is on the other side of the fence. Trucks with 18 wheels, cars running on electricity alone, clunkers painted different colors, sleek sedans with round logos, and vans carrying kids, groceries, sporting equipment, and DVDs roll past.

The camps have grown this year.

Categories
Medicine Nonfiction Observations Seattle Systems

On What Medical Directors “Should” Look Like.

I recently answered a survey about race. One question asked:

“If you ask to speak to the leader of your organization, can you expect to see someone of your race?”

I snorted. I didn’t mean to. I just had never thought about that before.

In my previous job my title[1. As I have noted elsewhere, “titles, at the end of the day, are just words.“] was “medical director”. During the first few months of that job the title felt alien to me. It was as if people at work said, “Oh, Dr. Yang? She’s the one over there with the blonde hair.” Meanwhile, I’d touch my black locks, feeling perplexed.

Early on I conducted interviews to hire staff. One applicant, a psychiatrist, was a Caucasian man in his early 50s. His greying brown hair was cropped close to his head. A striped burgundy necktie adorned the light blue dress shirt underneath his navy blue suit. Cuff links poked out from under his sleeves. A silver pen was clipped into the breast pocket of his jacket.

Turning to the program manager, I murmured, “THAT guy looks like a medical director, not me!”

She, a Caucasian woman, laughed before she said, “Yeah, you’re right!”

In the jobs I’ve held the medical directors have all been Caucasian males, with the exception of my first job: He was Asian. In residency training the chair of the department was a Caucasian male. The paintings and photographs of leadership that lined the halls of the medical school were all of aging Caucasian men.

That’s how I came to learn that medical directors don’t look like me; they’re older white men.

Leadership at this agency believed I had sufficient qualifications and hired me, an Asian female, to serve as the medical director. However, the idea that someone in this position “should” be an older white male persisted in my mind.

What does it mean that I felt doubts about my ability to work as a medical director simply because of the way I look?[2. While this post is focused on race, it could easily focus on sex, too: Most medical directors are men.]

Categories
Nonfiction Observations Reflection

Baseball Rituals.

Prior to attending a minor league baseball game recently, I learned about racing events that occur at certain ballparks:

“Baseball is so schlocky,” I said after viewing a YouTube video of the Presidents with their oversized heads teetering along the perimeter of the field. “No other professional sport has anything like this.”

“That’s not true,” my husband replied. “They throw octopuses onto the ice in hockey.”

After learning that, indeed, there is a Legend of the Octopus, I still expressed skepticism: “Could you imagine a whole bunch of sausages running around on a football field?”

“Football has cheerleaders,” my husband retorted.

Good point.

The mascot was busy at the minor league baseball game. Not only did Rhubarb the Reindeer hustle around the stadium with a flag at the start of the game, but he also came out in boxing regalia at one point and, later, wearing a dress shirt and slacks, “performed” a Talking Heads song.

A few rows behind us a man with a voice rattling with gravel shouted at the players:

This is baseball, not first base ball!
Communicate!
Boring!

His son started shouting similar things at the players. When we turned around to see who they were, we realized that the higher pitched voice did not come from his son; it came from his wife.

When the 7th inning came around, we all stood up and sang “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” in different keys. I then ate some Cracker Jack.

I wondered if all this schlock these rituals are meant to appease our short attention spans. Ball 1, ball 2, strike 1… the man with the gravel in his throat shouts unsolicited advice, people get up to buy hot dogs and beer, the bugle calls “Charge!” It’s hard to wait. We want stuff to happen.

Then I wondered if these rituals give us simple comfort while everything else changes. Even if my boss doesn’t give me enough time or credit for the work I do or my wife is angry at me for reasons I think are ridiculous or my kid is not meeting my academic expectations or my friends are worried I have a drinking problem or my boyfriend has hit me twice this week or I lost all of my savings at the casino or my sister died in a car crash last month…

… at least I know that I can caterwaul “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” in the 7th inning, Rhubarb the Reindeer will dance on top of the dugout, and the pierogies will race.