So I’m black.
I’m reminded of it every day.
To be black is to endure the death of your humanity by a thousand paper cuts.

So when a white man cut in front of me in the checkout line yesterday, I found myself enraged by the questions I had to ask myself before I could react.
1/ What might he do if I confronted him?
What might he say?
Would he yell that he felt threatened?
Would he get violent?
Would he call the police?

What harm was he capable of in this moment?
2/

I received many “Thinking of you” and “I wish I knew how to help” texts from white allies this week.
I’ve ignored most of them.
I needed to feel my rage, my crisis of faith in all of you.

But as my birthright burden dictates, I’m once again ready to continue your education.
1/ You’re fixers by nature.

Every problem should have a tangible solution
because you recognize your privilege,
and that privilege is power,
and power makes things happen right?

But you cower before the actual question you should be asking:

“What can I do about my own racism?”
2/

A doctor’s faith in the world of #covid19:

Easter is tough for me.
I was raised in Christianity, but I never believed in the resurrection.
The idea that there was one magical human in all of history who raised himself from the dead just didn’t pass muster.
Stay with me…
1/ I knew I believed in something, but a religion that discouraged my questions and demanded that I find comfort in the absolutes posed in a book that had been both written as allegory and politically edited throughout history just made me feel lonely.
And resentful.
And angry.
2/

On arrival for my NY locums this week:
Reception: Hey Doc, staying safe?
Me: Trying. Anywhere to get groceries?
Him: It's pretty grim. Can't even find milk or baby formula.
Me: Yikes.
Him: I've got my pistol on my hip in case anyone looks at my hand sanitizer the wrong way.
1/ As this crisis has unfolded, I've found that comments like this are less and less surprising to me.

The more I pay attention to the responses of our neighbors, families, and government I see that,
above all else,

our American-ness is showing.

And it's literally killing us.
2/

Just spent a night catching up with an old friend from med school.

I’ve put on a few pounds, he’s lost a few hairs from the top of his head, and we both look tired no matter the time of day.

"What's your book about?" He asked.

"It's about us."
#medtwitter
1/ He’s a black man. Brilliant with a mellow disposition.
Failed to match into Ortho at the end of Med school.
Did a year of Gen Surg internship and was accepted the next year into residency in Ortho at a program in the Deep South.
2/

A short #medtwitter thread about one of my best friends.

He is brilliant, vibrant, loud, proud, caring, and joyful.

One of the most magnetic and mesmerizing people I've ever known.

So, of course he was diagnosed with cancer two years ago.

1/ It was a rare cancer of his salivary gland.

By pure serendipity, he lived in my city, and his cancer was my specialty.

I walked him through the diagnosis, went with him to doctor visits, was there with him through a disfiguring surgery and the agony of chemo and radiation.
2/

Alright, #medtwitter. Time for your #SundayService.

My residency program accepted two new trainees a year. In 2011, one was a blond, blue-eyed, corn-fed son of the Midwest.

The other was me.
1/ We were always treated differently, and it was never more clear than in how we were perceived when we struggled.

He was always given the benefit of the doubt, encouraged that training was hard sometimes but he'd get through it.

Support was always there for him.
Unsolicited.
2/