Why Black Lives Matter to a White Pediatrician

My heart hurts. Sometimes I find it hard to reconcile all the beauty in this world with all the hatred I see in people. Two years ago, I went to India to perform a research project with Operation Smile in Guwahati, a city only a few hours away from Dhaka where the brutal café massacre occurred. My travel companion and I left India early because we didn’t feel safe. Members of the military aimed guns at us and laughed at our startled faces. A man crossed the street to spit at our feet in disgust.  It was the first time I had ever been the subject of overt racism and it left a lasting impression. I felt like a target and I wondered if this is how black Americans feel everyday in their homes.

As a white female, I sometimes find it hard to find my voice when others are struck down. I feel awkward publicly supporting the #BlackLivesMatter movement not knowing what my place is or where the boundaries lie. I stay silent because I don’t want to offend anyone, but the reality is, my silence is offensive.

Recently, two black men were killed by police in front of their families. Two fellow Emory students have been brutally killed and over 200 people in Baghdad were murdered by ISIS in a single attack. When Starbucks chose to use red cups without snowflakes this past year people lost their minds. When a gorilla was shot in a zoo people were literally sobbing about it. Where is the outrage for Baghdad? Where are the tears for Baton Rouge?

How can we let our neighbors and friends live in constant fear? Run and you will get shot. Comply and you will get shot.  I cannot pretend to understand what it must feel like to tell your children to be afraid of the police.  To grow up in a country where being black or Muslim or different leaves you open to harassment and acts of cruelty.

Clearly, I grew up privileged and isolated which is why it’s taken me so long to realize that the America I always believed valued diversity and was a “melting pot” for art and culture is really a smoldering cauldron for many of our most vulnerable children.

As a pediatrician in Chicago, I find it difficult to answer questions about gangs and gun violence. I provide AAP approved answers to gun safety and alerting families and police but I cant help but recognize how isolated I am from the lives they must lead.

I feel the need to write this because I have a voice and a platform when so many others are silenced. Maybe my intentions will be misconstrued or misunderstood. Maybe my words wont make a difference but I have to at least try. How else can I look my patients in the eyes?

Lately, I am constantly reminded of the following:

First they came for the Socialists, and I did not speak out—
Because I was not a Socialist.

Then they came for the Trade Unionists, and I did not speak out—
Because I was not a Trade Unionist.

Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out—
Because I was not a Jew.

Then they came for me—and there was no one left to speak for me.

Violence against one of our children is violence against all of our children.  We must take a stand together. We are not democrats, republicans, white or black. We are Americans and we are human beings.

To the black families out there: I freely admit that I am ignorant to your situation. I do not understand what it is like to be you and it is not your duty to make me. But know that I am a friend. That I will fight for you. That I will lend a voice or a hand or a shoulder to cry on.  Please know that you are not alone. I mourn your children’s death and I will continue to fight for their rights in the best way I know how.