I hadn’t seen you in more than two months.
Wait.
I take that back. I’d seen your face in two dimensions over my computer and smart phone. I’d heard your voice, too. But I hadn’t seen you in real life.
No, I had not.
And normally? This wouldn’t be such a big deal.
In these times, it was though.
Sure. The virtual gatherings afforded me chances to study body language and feel energy. To notice enough to plan follow up calls exploring what could be a red flag.
But honestly? You weren’t one of the ones who seemed to need that.
Nope.
I still remember our first real interaction. In a bowling alley amidst your peers at the intern welcome social. Ebullient and familiar, with a wide smile and pecan-colored complexion that reminded me of my oldest son.
I recall noticing the pin you had affixed to your shirt.
When I’d see you in the hallways or at conferences, you’d always erupt into a huge grin.
You: “What’s good, Dr. M?”
Me: “Hopefully my interns!”
*laughter*
You: “You know we holding it down, Dr. M!”
Me: “No doubt!”
Then we’d exchange a high five or a fist bump.
Yup.
Then, your intern year took a sharp turn with #COVID19. A shift to pandemic schedules. Nothing seemed certain. Lucky for us, you brought that same exuberance into every space you entered. Even virtual ones.
Which we all appreciated. I know I did.
I was glad to be your PD.
But then came another swerve. And since we were already on 2 wheels with COVID, it felt like some of us might careen right off the road.
Especially us.
And no. This wasn’t new. But usually we didn’t have to process the lifeless unarmed Black bodies along with a pandemic.
Normally, I'd have seen you. Run into you in a team room or conference. But physical distancing stripped all of that away. And calls and texts didn’t seem like enough.
Plus I was mourning, too.
I worried about every resident. But I lingered on the ones like you.
Like us.
In the wake of the killings of more Black bodies, the house staff and students organized. They protested, marched, and kneeled in solidarity. Then, at the end of a particularly painful week, I saw you from afar.
At first, I wasn't sure it was you behind the mask.
But even with our diverse program, as a Black man you are an ultra-minority. It was you--make no mistake.
I offered an enthusiastic socially distant wave from across the room.
Me: “Heeey you!”
You: “Dr. M! Heeey!”
You waved back even harder. I was happy to see you.
It dawned on me that I hadn’t seen you in real life since February. You were with your team. I studied you from where I stood. Watching to see if too much of the pep had left your step. And if all of this heavy was suffocating you.
Much to my relief, you seemed okay.
We walked toward one another and paused at the obligatory 6-foot mark.
Me: “How you holding up?”
You: “I’m making it.”
Me: “It’s a lot, I know.”
You: *sigh*
*silence*
Me: “You know I’m here for you, right?”
You: *nodding* "I know."
*silence*
I felt my eyes prickle with tears. Tears of a Black mother and of a mama-bear program director. One who wants to protect her cubs from harm.
I can protect you from excessive duty hours and threats to your education. But for this, I had nothing.
Nothing.
I wish I did.
Me: “I’m glad I got to put my eyes on you.”
You: “Me, too, Dr. Manning.”
You turned to walk away, but spun on your heel back to face me. Then, before I could stop you, you briskly walked right up to me and hugged me. Hard.
I hugged you right back. Even harder.
I did.
It was irresponsible. I know it was. But it happened before I could stop it. And I didn’t stop it. I know I probably should have.
But sometimes necessity outweighs risk.
You: “I’m sorry. I needed to hug my program director.”
Me: “It’s okay. She needed to hug you, too.”
Yesterday, I saw you again.
Me: *pointing* “I see you representing your frat!”
You: *nodding* “Everywhere I go!”
Again, we exchanged knowing nods--this time our shared understanding even deeper.
I was glad to be your program director.
Now more than ever.
Yeah.✊🏾
#BLM