“You have a Chinese face,” my mom said to me.  I was ten years old, maybe twelve.  I can’t remember how it came up.  But the message was twofold and clear:  1. What makes you different from almost everybody around you is visible.  You cannot hide it, you cannot escape it.  2. People will judge you for it, so like it or not, to them, you represent us—your family, your ethnicity, all people who look like you.

That was it—straightforward truth, unvarnished.  And I understood immediately.  There was a gravity, an importance to her expression.  It was not meant to apply pressure or expectation; Ma was simply teaching me about reality so I would be prepared to meet it when I left home, whether it was at the mall or farther out in the world.  And I felt equipped to meet the challenge.  We lived in an affluent suburb.  My parents are both educated professionals.  They are still leaders in the Chinese community, heading initiatives to liaise with “Americans” in business, government, and news media.  Growing up I was known as the ‘smart’ kid—I fit the Asian nerd stereotype.  And people were impressed that I was also bilingual, could paint classical Chinese art and perform classical Chinese dance, and also play volleyball and win at statewide speech tournaments.  I thought I represented well.

I brought my Chinese-American identity with me to college, where I estimate about 20% of my fellow undergrads were Asian.  In medical school, residency, and now in practice, there are still proportionally more Asians than in the general population—we are an overrepresented minority group among physicians.  But we are still a minority, occupying proportionally few seats in medical and academic leadership. 

Once again I find myself in this strange, middle, white-adjacent space, considering how I can and should use my unique identity for the greater good.  How does an anti-racist message land differently/better/worse when I express it?  How do my white colleagues hear me differently/better/worse from/than my Black and other underrepresented minority colleagues?  Do I have a bridge role to play here?  Or should I keep my head down and my mouth shut (this is unlikely)?

Someone told me recently that our racial (and other) identities do not matter at work.  We should just think of ourselves as doctors, teachers, engineers, CEOs.  I respectfully and vehemently disagree.  If I were ‘just a doctor’ I would not be the only one fluent enough in Mandarin to care for non-English speaking Chinese patients without a translator.  If my Black colleagues were ‘just doctors,’ they would not inspire young Black kids to become doctors themselves.  If women physicians and surgeons were ‘just doctors,’ there would not be so many women physician groups all over social media, where countless of us seek reassurance that we are not insane, weak, and otherwise broken for all of the horrible, unbelievable-yet-totally-believable discriminatory experiences we endure at work in 2020.  And so many of us would not have our own stories of women in medicine who went in front and inspired us, encouraged us, and gave us the wherewithal to follow. 

Medical culture slowly evolves to see and treat patients as whole people, not just sets of diagnoses.  When will we come around to seeing ourselves and our colleagues also as whole people, interconnected, inseparable, and in need of full integration, inside and out?

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The two articles below describe well how our ‘identity blind,’ assimilation-centered work cultures harm our Black colleagues, especially now.  Please take a few minutes to read each, and really try to put yourself in the writers’ shoes.  For us, taking this perspective is a choice; not so for them.

Maintaining Professionalism In The Age of Black Death Is… A Lot  by Shenequa Golding

I just witnessed the lynching of a black man, but don’t worry Ted, I’ll have those deliverables to you end of day.

…If I am to perform my duties for 40 hours a week, it’s asinine to assume that the life I live outside of those 40 hours won’t rear its head. Whether I’m a sleep deprived single mother of two or a struggling college student who really needs this internship to graduate, the belief that only the part of me that fattens your bottom line is allowed in the workplace, is stifling.

This is magnified for young black professionals who are recruited for their culture, but told, in so many words, that their blackness and the struggles that come with it are to be left at the door.

 …Forgive us if our work isn’t up to par, we just saw a lynching. Pardon us if we’re quiet in the Zoom meetings, we’re wondering if we’ll be the next hashtag. Spare some grace if we’re not at the company happy hour, because the hour of joy that most adults look forward to has been stolen from us due to the recent string of black death.

We’re biting our tongues, swallowing our rage and fighting back tears to remain professional because expressing that hurt caused by witnessing black death is considered more unprofessional, than black men and women actually being killed.

So if you can, please, be mindful. Your black employees are dealing with a lot.

7 Things That Need To Be Said About Black Trauma In Predominantly White Workplaces  by Samantha E. Willams

You know what’s worse than America treating racism like a new album that just came out? People moving on like nothing ever happened.

Over the last few weeks, you’ve probably noticed most of your white colleagues have abandoned their outrage over George Floyd and Breonna Taylor, trading it in to enjoy summer’s finest things — sailing, bonfires and lake house getaways. But not us. Those tough and uncomfortable conversations everyone boasted about having have slowed (maybe even stopped), and once again Black trauma in the workplace has been placed back in the hands of Black employees. While I wish I could say everything about this is new or shocking, the truth is we’ve been here before.

…The day was July 7, 2016…  That morning I did all the things one does to “maintain professionalism” because let’s be real, as Black professionals we often feel like we can’t be caught slipping (aka displaying feelings). But when putting my best face forward failed, my colleague asked what was wrong? I explained my stoicism was due to Sterling’s and Castile’s death, which was ultimately the result of the racism and systemic oppression that plagues our country, constantly making Black people a target.

What came next was disappointing but not surprising. Her response was, “Well, did you know him?” In that moment, just as it had in others, it became clear that Black trauma had no place, no weight of relevance in white workplaces. This wouldn’t be the last time Black trauma was ignored, displaced or misunderstood.