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Distinguishing between joy and pleasure during the pandemic
You can now buy vegan eggnog, made from almond milk. The fact that someone created this wasn’t a surprise – plant milks are taking over. That it gave me such pleasure was. It’s rich, and if you love eggnog, like all normal people, it’s amazingly satisfying when mixed in a Nespresso latte swirled creamy white and brown. It seems some things, like Netflix’s The Crown, my Peloton spin classes, long Sunday walks on the beach, and the best mushroom risotto I ever made were still pleasurable this year, despite all. I’d daresay, there was joy even in the time of COVID.
.
Pleasure is pretty constant. It pops up even in the worst times. It seems, there’s plenty to be found even now. Unless, perhaps it’s just me. The label my mother pinned on me as a boy has remained into adulthood: “Easy to please.” There’s hardly a movie I’ve seen that I didn’t like. I’m quite comfortable in the middle seat. I thought the EPIC updates this year were nice. I’ve liked the vast majority of pizzas I’ve ever eaten – even those contaminated with Truffle salt. Easy to please is a gift, not something I’ve acquired through hours of meditation or aesthetic fasts. But surely pleasure isn’t the same as joy. No one has tears of pleasure. (Not to mention, pleasure as a verb has obvious NSFW connotations; not true of joy).
No, joy is waaay bigger. Joy is shared. Joy is to the whole world. Joy is what happens when you have a baby. Pleasure is what happens when you remembered to put a burp cloth in the car. Pleasure is when three patients in a row take merely 5 minutes each. Joy is when an itchy patient is cured.
2020 was one of the most miserable years in the last century. We didn’t expect it, but we ought to have. I mean really, how many plagues have we endured? How many times has inequality led to social unrest? Many times. We, by luck and dint of hard work, have always managed to get through. Although suffering would surely have been greater during those times of sickness and loss, I don’t believe joy would have been less. Indeed, maybe it is those difficulties and that suffering that allows us to feel joy in the first place. It is only once you summit that you experience joy. The run-up is just pain.
It is no coincidence that it is now during this cold, dark, difficult part of the year that we wish joy. We’ve made it. We light the darkness with candles to joyously celebrate Mawlid, Diwali, then Hanukkah and Christmas. Had malls been open now, you’d hear amongst the din of ringing bells Rejoice! Rejoice! O Emmanuel! You’d sing along, “Joy to the world, now we sing, let the Angel voices ring.” Joy: A pleasure so great and so deserved, it is shared by all. It is good news, hope, gratitude.
A joy shared amongst us all is also coming. Through the wrenching pain of watching patients suffocate, fogged shields, and bleached masks, through canceled Thanksgivings, through weekends spent in the OR on the backlog of patients, after months spent sitting in empty clinics, though the long, orange-cone-winding lines of testing, at last, at last a vaccine is here to light the darkness.
Let the sea resound, and everything in it,
Let the rivers clap their hands,
let the mountains sing together for joy.
Joy to the world.
Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. Write to him at [email protected].
You can now buy vegan eggnog, made from almond milk. The fact that someone created this wasn’t a surprise – plant milks are taking over. That it gave me such pleasure was. It’s rich, and if you love eggnog, like all normal people, it’s amazingly satisfying when mixed in a Nespresso latte swirled creamy white and brown. It seems some things, like Netflix’s The Crown, my Peloton spin classes, long Sunday walks on the beach, and the best mushroom risotto I ever made were still pleasurable this year, despite all. I’d daresay, there was joy even in the time of COVID.
.
Pleasure is pretty constant. It pops up even in the worst times. It seems, there’s plenty to be found even now. Unless, perhaps it’s just me. The label my mother pinned on me as a boy has remained into adulthood: “Easy to please.” There’s hardly a movie I’ve seen that I didn’t like. I’m quite comfortable in the middle seat. I thought the EPIC updates this year were nice. I’ve liked the vast majority of pizzas I’ve ever eaten – even those contaminated with Truffle salt. Easy to please is a gift, not something I’ve acquired through hours of meditation or aesthetic fasts. But surely pleasure isn’t the same as joy. No one has tears of pleasure. (Not to mention, pleasure as a verb has obvious NSFW connotations; not true of joy).
No, joy is waaay bigger. Joy is shared. Joy is to the whole world. Joy is what happens when you have a baby. Pleasure is what happens when you remembered to put a burp cloth in the car. Pleasure is when three patients in a row take merely 5 minutes each. Joy is when an itchy patient is cured.
2020 was one of the most miserable years in the last century. We didn’t expect it, but we ought to have. I mean really, how many plagues have we endured? How many times has inequality led to social unrest? Many times. We, by luck and dint of hard work, have always managed to get through. Although suffering would surely have been greater during those times of sickness and loss, I don’t believe joy would have been less. Indeed, maybe it is those difficulties and that suffering that allows us to feel joy in the first place. It is only once you summit that you experience joy. The run-up is just pain.
It is no coincidence that it is now during this cold, dark, difficult part of the year that we wish joy. We’ve made it. We light the darkness with candles to joyously celebrate Mawlid, Diwali, then Hanukkah and Christmas. Had malls been open now, you’d hear amongst the din of ringing bells Rejoice! Rejoice! O Emmanuel! You’d sing along, “Joy to the world, now we sing, let the Angel voices ring.” Joy: A pleasure so great and so deserved, it is shared by all. It is good news, hope, gratitude.
A joy shared amongst us all is also coming. Through the wrenching pain of watching patients suffocate, fogged shields, and bleached masks, through canceled Thanksgivings, through weekends spent in the OR on the backlog of patients, after months spent sitting in empty clinics, though the long, orange-cone-winding lines of testing, at last, at last a vaccine is here to light the darkness.
Let the sea resound, and everything in it,
Let the rivers clap their hands,
let the mountains sing together for joy.
Joy to the world.
Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. Write to him at [email protected].
You can now buy vegan eggnog, made from almond milk. The fact that someone created this wasn’t a surprise – plant milks are taking over. That it gave me such pleasure was. It’s rich, and if you love eggnog, like all normal people, it’s amazingly satisfying when mixed in a Nespresso latte swirled creamy white and brown. It seems some things, like Netflix’s The Crown, my Peloton spin classes, long Sunday walks on the beach, and the best mushroom risotto I ever made were still pleasurable this year, despite all. I’d daresay, there was joy even in the time of COVID.
.
Pleasure is pretty constant. It pops up even in the worst times. It seems, there’s plenty to be found even now. Unless, perhaps it’s just me. The label my mother pinned on me as a boy has remained into adulthood: “Easy to please.” There’s hardly a movie I’ve seen that I didn’t like. I’m quite comfortable in the middle seat. I thought the EPIC updates this year were nice. I’ve liked the vast majority of pizzas I’ve ever eaten – even those contaminated with Truffle salt. Easy to please is a gift, not something I’ve acquired through hours of meditation or aesthetic fasts. But surely pleasure isn’t the same as joy. No one has tears of pleasure. (Not to mention, pleasure as a verb has obvious NSFW connotations; not true of joy).
No, joy is waaay bigger. Joy is shared. Joy is to the whole world. Joy is what happens when you have a baby. Pleasure is what happens when you remembered to put a burp cloth in the car. Pleasure is when three patients in a row take merely 5 minutes each. Joy is when an itchy patient is cured.
2020 was one of the most miserable years in the last century. We didn’t expect it, but we ought to have. I mean really, how many plagues have we endured? How many times has inequality led to social unrest? Many times. We, by luck and dint of hard work, have always managed to get through. Although suffering would surely have been greater during those times of sickness and loss, I don’t believe joy would have been less. Indeed, maybe it is those difficulties and that suffering that allows us to feel joy in the first place. It is only once you summit that you experience joy. The run-up is just pain.
It is no coincidence that it is now during this cold, dark, difficult part of the year that we wish joy. We’ve made it. We light the darkness with candles to joyously celebrate Mawlid, Diwali, then Hanukkah and Christmas. Had malls been open now, you’d hear amongst the din of ringing bells Rejoice! Rejoice! O Emmanuel! You’d sing along, “Joy to the world, now we sing, let the Angel voices ring.” Joy: A pleasure so great and so deserved, it is shared by all. It is good news, hope, gratitude.
A joy shared amongst us all is also coming. Through the wrenching pain of watching patients suffocate, fogged shields, and bleached masks, through canceled Thanksgivings, through weekends spent in the OR on the backlog of patients, after months spent sitting in empty clinics, though the long, orange-cone-winding lines of testing, at last, at last a vaccine is here to light the darkness.
Let the sea resound, and everything in it,
Let the rivers clap their hands,
let the mountains sing together for joy.
Joy to the world.
Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. Write to him at [email protected].
How to not miss something
It’s a mad, mad, mad world. In California, we seem bent on swelling our curve. We’d just begun bringing our patients back into the office. We felt safe, back to business. Then air raid sirens again. Retreat to the Underground. Minimize waiting room waiting, convert to telephone and video. Do what we can to protect our patients and people.
As doctors, we’ve gotten proficient at being triage nurses, examining each appointment request, and sorting who should be seen in person and who could be cared for virtually. We do it for every clinic now.
My 11 a.m. patient last Thursday was an 83-year-old Filipino man with at least a 13-year history of hand dermatitis (based on his long electronic medical record). He had plenty of betamethasone refills. There were even photos of his large, brown hands in his chart. Grandpa hands, calloused by tending his garden and scarred from fixing bikes, building sheds, and doing oil changes for any nephew or niece who asked. The most recent uploads showed a bit of fingertip fissuring, some lichenified plaques. Not much different than they looked after planting persimmon trees a decade ago. I called him early that morning to offer a phone appointment. Perhaps I could save him from venturing out.
“I see that you have an appointment with me in a few hours. If you’d like, I might be able to help you by phone instead.” “Oh, thank you, doc,” he replied. “It’s so kind of you to call. But doc, I think maybe it is better if I come in to see you.” “Are you sure?” “Oh, yes. I will be careful.”
He checked in at 10:45. When I walked into the room he was wearing a face mask and a face shield – good job! He also had a cane and U.S. Navy Destroyer hat. And on the bottom left of his plastic shield was a sticker decal of a U.S. Navy Chief Petty Officer, dress blue insignia. His hands looked just like the photos: no purpura, plenty of lentigines. Fissures, calluses, lichenified plaques. I touched them. In the unaffected areas, his skin was remarkably soft. What stories these hands told. “I was 20 years in the Navy, doc,” he said. “I would have stayed longer but my wife, who’s younger, wanted me back home.” He talked about his nine grandchildren, some of whom went on to join the navy too – but as officers, he noted with pride. Now he spends his days caring for his wife; she has dementia. He can’t stay long because she’s in the waiting room and is likely to get confused if alone for too long.
We quickly reviewed good hand care. I ordered clobetasol ointment. He was pleased; that seemed to work years ago and he was glad to have it again.
So, why did he need to come in? Clearly I could have done this remotely. “Thank you so much for seeing me, doc,” as he stood to walk out. “Proper inspections have to be done in person, right?” Yes, I thought. Otherwise, you might miss something.
Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. Write to him at [email protected].
It’s a mad, mad, mad world. In California, we seem bent on swelling our curve. We’d just begun bringing our patients back into the office. We felt safe, back to business. Then air raid sirens again. Retreat to the Underground. Minimize waiting room waiting, convert to telephone and video. Do what we can to protect our patients and people.
As doctors, we’ve gotten proficient at being triage nurses, examining each appointment request, and sorting who should be seen in person and who could be cared for virtually. We do it for every clinic now.
My 11 a.m. patient last Thursday was an 83-year-old Filipino man with at least a 13-year history of hand dermatitis (based on his long electronic medical record). He had plenty of betamethasone refills. There were even photos of his large, brown hands in his chart. Grandpa hands, calloused by tending his garden and scarred from fixing bikes, building sheds, and doing oil changes for any nephew or niece who asked. The most recent uploads showed a bit of fingertip fissuring, some lichenified plaques. Not much different than they looked after planting persimmon trees a decade ago. I called him early that morning to offer a phone appointment. Perhaps I could save him from venturing out.
“I see that you have an appointment with me in a few hours. If you’d like, I might be able to help you by phone instead.” “Oh, thank you, doc,” he replied. “It’s so kind of you to call. But doc, I think maybe it is better if I come in to see you.” “Are you sure?” “Oh, yes. I will be careful.”
He checked in at 10:45. When I walked into the room he was wearing a face mask and a face shield – good job! He also had a cane and U.S. Navy Destroyer hat. And on the bottom left of his plastic shield was a sticker decal of a U.S. Navy Chief Petty Officer, dress blue insignia. His hands looked just like the photos: no purpura, plenty of lentigines. Fissures, calluses, lichenified plaques. I touched them. In the unaffected areas, his skin was remarkably soft. What stories these hands told. “I was 20 years in the Navy, doc,” he said. “I would have stayed longer but my wife, who’s younger, wanted me back home.” He talked about his nine grandchildren, some of whom went on to join the navy too – but as officers, he noted with pride. Now he spends his days caring for his wife; she has dementia. He can’t stay long because she’s in the waiting room and is likely to get confused if alone for too long.
We quickly reviewed good hand care. I ordered clobetasol ointment. He was pleased; that seemed to work years ago and he was glad to have it again.
So, why did he need to come in? Clearly I could have done this remotely. “Thank you so much for seeing me, doc,” as he stood to walk out. “Proper inspections have to be done in person, right?” Yes, I thought. Otherwise, you might miss something.
Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. Write to him at [email protected].
It’s a mad, mad, mad world. In California, we seem bent on swelling our curve. We’d just begun bringing our patients back into the office. We felt safe, back to business. Then air raid sirens again. Retreat to the Underground. Minimize waiting room waiting, convert to telephone and video. Do what we can to protect our patients and people.
As doctors, we’ve gotten proficient at being triage nurses, examining each appointment request, and sorting who should be seen in person and who could be cared for virtually. We do it for every clinic now.
My 11 a.m. patient last Thursday was an 83-year-old Filipino man with at least a 13-year history of hand dermatitis (based on his long electronic medical record). He had plenty of betamethasone refills. There were even photos of his large, brown hands in his chart. Grandpa hands, calloused by tending his garden and scarred from fixing bikes, building sheds, and doing oil changes for any nephew or niece who asked. The most recent uploads showed a bit of fingertip fissuring, some lichenified plaques. Not much different than they looked after planting persimmon trees a decade ago. I called him early that morning to offer a phone appointment. Perhaps I could save him from venturing out.
“I see that you have an appointment with me in a few hours. If you’d like, I might be able to help you by phone instead.” “Oh, thank you, doc,” he replied. “It’s so kind of you to call. But doc, I think maybe it is better if I come in to see you.” “Are you sure?” “Oh, yes. I will be careful.”
He checked in at 10:45. When I walked into the room he was wearing a face mask and a face shield – good job! He also had a cane and U.S. Navy Destroyer hat. And on the bottom left of his plastic shield was a sticker decal of a U.S. Navy Chief Petty Officer, dress blue insignia. His hands looked just like the photos: no purpura, plenty of lentigines. Fissures, calluses, lichenified plaques. I touched them. In the unaffected areas, his skin was remarkably soft. What stories these hands told. “I was 20 years in the Navy, doc,” he said. “I would have stayed longer but my wife, who’s younger, wanted me back home.” He talked about his nine grandchildren, some of whom went on to join the navy too – but as officers, he noted with pride. Now he spends his days caring for his wife; she has dementia. He can’t stay long because she’s in the waiting room and is likely to get confused if alone for too long.
We quickly reviewed good hand care. I ordered clobetasol ointment. He was pleased; that seemed to work years ago and he was glad to have it again.
So, why did he need to come in? Clearly I could have done this remotely. “Thank you so much for seeing me, doc,” as he stood to walk out. “Proper inspections have to be done in person, right?” Yes, I thought. Otherwise, you might miss something.
Dr. Benabio is director of Healthcare Transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. Write to him at [email protected].
Examining bias
I have an automatic preference for white people over black people. This isn’t my opinion; rather, it is my implicit bias test result. I didn’t believe it at first. Trying hard to not be biased, I took the test again and received the same outcome. My reaction – disbelief – is typical for those like me: White people who believe they are good human beings.
We’ve all watched in horror the acts of violence against blacks in the news. I was shocked and disgusted. It was easy to believe, however, that I am in no way complicit in the injustice and racism I was watching. I think I’m fair and without prejudice. I have never intentionally discriminated against someone. Wanting to help, I listened to my black colleagues, staff, and patients. What I learned made me uncomfortable.
Through all this news, I’d said little to my colleagues and friends. I cannot identify with how a black person has felt recently. What if I said the wrong thing or caused offense? The safe option is to say nothing. I learned that this is a common reaction and the least helpful. The advice from one black colleague was simple: “Just ask us.” Instead of ignoring the issue, she advised me to say: “I wonder what this experience has been like for you. Would you like to share?” And, if you mean it, to add, “I stand with you.” The latter should be followed by “What can I do to help?” Or, more powerfully, “What have I done that makes me complicit?”
Some of these conversations will be uncomfortable. If you want to help, then sit with that. Feeling uncomfortable might mean you are beginning to understand.
I also heard about the excellent book “White Fragility,” by Robin DiAngelo, PhD. In it, she argues that it is difficult for white people to talk about racism because of a tendency to react with defensiveness, guilt, and sometimes anger.
Many of the chapters in the book were easy to read because they didn’t apply to me: I don’t get angry in equity, inclusion, and diversity meetings. I don’t resent affirmative action programs. But then Dr. DiAngelo got me: I believed because I’m a good person and I have no intention of being racist, I’m absolved. Her argument was enlightening. Like all white people in the United States, I have benefited from white privilege. Yes, I’ve worked hard, but I also grew up in a white family with a college-educated father. That alone afforded me academic and financial advantages, which pushed me ahead. I’ve benefited from the status quo.
I have also failed to speak up when white friends carried on about how unnecessary affirmative action programs have become. I’ve sat with sealed lips when I’ve heard comments like “As a white male, it’s a lot harder to get into prestigious schools now.” Having no intention to harm doesn’t matter; plenty of harm is done unintentionally.
I also believed that because I have good intentions, I have no racial bias. I was wrong. The test I took online is an excellent tool to combat this blind spot. It was created by Harvard researchers and is available to everyone: Take a Test. It asks you to categorize faces as good or bad and records your tiny reaction times. Based on these and other questions, it provides feedback on your personal biases.
I was surprised that I have an implicit preference for white people over black people. That’s the point. Most of us are unaware of our biases and falsely believe we are free of them. I encourage you to take the test and learn about yourself. If the result makes you uncomfortable, then sit with it. Try not to be defensive, as I was, and accept that, even if you are a good person, you can become a better one.
Based on what I’ve learned and heard in the last few weeks, I’ve committed to a few things: To acknowledge the harm done to my black and brown colleagues and my complicity even by acts of omission. To not avoid uncomfortable feelings or uncomfortable conversations. As a leader, to use my organizational status to advocate. To stand by my partners of color not only in dramatic one-time marches but also against the everyday perpetrators of microaggressions. To create a safe space and invite my colleagues, staff, friends, and patients to share.
Standing up against racism is all our responsibility. As Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. reminds us: “In the end, we will remember not the words of our enemies, but the silence of our friends.”
Dr. Benabio is director of healthcare transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. He has no disclosures related to this column. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. Write to him at [email protected].
I have an automatic preference for white people over black people. This isn’t my opinion; rather, it is my implicit bias test result. I didn’t believe it at first. Trying hard to not be biased, I took the test again and received the same outcome. My reaction – disbelief – is typical for those like me: White people who believe they are good human beings.
We’ve all watched in horror the acts of violence against blacks in the news. I was shocked and disgusted. It was easy to believe, however, that I am in no way complicit in the injustice and racism I was watching. I think I’m fair and without prejudice. I have never intentionally discriminated against someone. Wanting to help, I listened to my black colleagues, staff, and patients. What I learned made me uncomfortable.
Through all this news, I’d said little to my colleagues and friends. I cannot identify with how a black person has felt recently. What if I said the wrong thing or caused offense? The safe option is to say nothing. I learned that this is a common reaction and the least helpful. The advice from one black colleague was simple: “Just ask us.” Instead of ignoring the issue, she advised me to say: “I wonder what this experience has been like for you. Would you like to share?” And, if you mean it, to add, “I stand with you.” The latter should be followed by “What can I do to help?” Or, more powerfully, “What have I done that makes me complicit?”
Some of these conversations will be uncomfortable. If you want to help, then sit with that. Feeling uncomfortable might mean you are beginning to understand.
I also heard about the excellent book “White Fragility,” by Robin DiAngelo, PhD. In it, she argues that it is difficult for white people to talk about racism because of a tendency to react with defensiveness, guilt, and sometimes anger.
Many of the chapters in the book were easy to read because they didn’t apply to me: I don’t get angry in equity, inclusion, and diversity meetings. I don’t resent affirmative action programs. But then Dr. DiAngelo got me: I believed because I’m a good person and I have no intention of being racist, I’m absolved. Her argument was enlightening. Like all white people in the United States, I have benefited from white privilege. Yes, I’ve worked hard, but I also grew up in a white family with a college-educated father. That alone afforded me academic and financial advantages, which pushed me ahead. I’ve benefited from the status quo.
I have also failed to speak up when white friends carried on about how unnecessary affirmative action programs have become. I’ve sat with sealed lips when I’ve heard comments like “As a white male, it’s a lot harder to get into prestigious schools now.” Having no intention to harm doesn’t matter; plenty of harm is done unintentionally.
I also believed that because I have good intentions, I have no racial bias. I was wrong. The test I took online is an excellent tool to combat this blind spot. It was created by Harvard researchers and is available to everyone: Take a Test. It asks you to categorize faces as good or bad and records your tiny reaction times. Based on these and other questions, it provides feedback on your personal biases.
I was surprised that I have an implicit preference for white people over black people. That’s the point. Most of us are unaware of our biases and falsely believe we are free of them. I encourage you to take the test and learn about yourself. If the result makes you uncomfortable, then sit with it. Try not to be defensive, as I was, and accept that, even if you are a good person, you can become a better one.
Based on what I’ve learned and heard in the last few weeks, I’ve committed to a few things: To acknowledge the harm done to my black and brown colleagues and my complicity even by acts of omission. To not avoid uncomfortable feelings or uncomfortable conversations. As a leader, to use my organizational status to advocate. To stand by my partners of color not only in dramatic one-time marches but also against the everyday perpetrators of microaggressions. To create a safe space and invite my colleagues, staff, friends, and patients to share.
Standing up against racism is all our responsibility. As Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. reminds us: “In the end, we will remember not the words of our enemies, but the silence of our friends.”
Dr. Benabio is director of healthcare transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. He has no disclosures related to this column. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. Write to him at [email protected].
I have an automatic preference for white people over black people. This isn’t my opinion; rather, it is my implicit bias test result. I didn’t believe it at first. Trying hard to not be biased, I took the test again and received the same outcome. My reaction – disbelief – is typical for those like me: White people who believe they are good human beings.
We’ve all watched in horror the acts of violence against blacks in the news. I was shocked and disgusted. It was easy to believe, however, that I am in no way complicit in the injustice and racism I was watching. I think I’m fair and without prejudice. I have never intentionally discriminated against someone. Wanting to help, I listened to my black colleagues, staff, and patients. What I learned made me uncomfortable.
Through all this news, I’d said little to my colleagues and friends. I cannot identify with how a black person has felt recently. What if I said the wrong thing or caused offense? The safe option is to say nothing. I learned that this is a common reaction and the least helpful. The advice from one black colleague was simple: “Just ask us.” Instead of ignoring the issue, she advised me to say: “I wonder what this experience has been like for you. Would you like to share?” And, if you mean it, to add, “I stand with you.” The latter should be followed by “What can I do to help?” Or, more powerfully, “What have I done that makes me complicit?”
Some of these conversations will be uncomfortable. If you want to help, then sit with that. Feeling uncomfortable might mean you are beginning to understand.
I also heard about the excellent book “White Fragility,” by Robin DiAngelo, PhD. In it, she argues that it is difficult for white people to talk about racism because of a tendency to react with defensiveness, guilt, and sometimes anger.
Many of the chapters in the book were easy to read because they didn’t apply to me: I don’t get angry in equity, inclusion, and diversity meetings. I don’t resent affirmative action programs. But then Dr. DiAngelo got me: I believed because I’m a good person and I have no intention of being racist, I’m absolved. Her argument was enlightening. Like all white people in the United States, I have benefited from white privilege. Yes, I’ve worked hard, but I also grew up in a white family with a college-educated father. That alone afforded me academic and financial advantages, which pushed me ahead. I’ve benefited from the status quo.
I have also failed to speak up when white friends carried on about how unnecessary affirmative action programs have become. I’ve sat with sealed lips when I’ve heard comments like “As a white male, it’s a lot harder to get into prestigious schools now.” Having no intention to harm doesn’t matter; plenty of harm is done unintentionally.
I also believed that because I have good intentions, I have no racial bias. I was wrong. The test I took online is an excellent tool to combat this blind spot. It was created by Harvard researchers and is available to everyone: Take a Test. It asks you to categorize faces as good or bad and records your tiny reaction times. Based on these and other questions, it provides feedback on your personal biases.
I was surprised that I have an implicit preference for white people over black people. That’s the point. Most of us are unaware of our biases and falsely believe we are free of them. I encourage you to take the test and learn about yourself. If the result makes you uncomfortable, then sit with it. Try not to be defensive, as I was, and accept that, even if you are a good person, you can become a better one.
Based on what I’ve learned and heard in the last few weeks, I’ve committed to a few things: To acknowledge the harm done to my black and brown colleagues and my complicity even by acts of omission. To not avoid uncomfortable feelings or uncomfortable conversations. As a leader, to use my organizational status to advocate. To stand by my partners of color not only in dramatic one-time marches but also against the everyday perpetrators of microaggressions. To create a safe space and invite my colleagues, staff, friends, and patients to share.
Standing up against racism is all our responsibility. As Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. reminds us: “In the end, we will remember not the words of our enemies, but the silence of our friends.”
Dr. Benabio is director of healthcare transformation and chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. He has no disclosures related to this column. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on Twitter. Write to him at [email protected].