Diversity in Medicine

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. I might be good, but that doesn’t mean I’m free of bias or exonerated from the harm being inflicted on people of color.

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 dermnews@mdedge.com.

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. I might be good, but that doesn’t mean I’m free of bias or exonerated from the harm being inflicted on people of color.

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 dermnews@mdedge.com.

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. I might be good, but that doesn’t mean I’m free of bias or exonerated from the harm being inflicted on people of color.

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 dermnews@mdedge.com.

One might immediately think of the deaths of Eric Garner, George Floyd, or even the fictional character Radio Raheem from Spike Lee’s critically acclaimed film, “Do the Right Thing,” when they hear the words “I can’t breathe.” These words are a cry for help. The deaths of these unarmed black men is devastating and has led to a state of rage, palpable pain, and protest across the world.

However, in this moment, I am talking about the health inequity exposed by the COVID-19 pandemic. Whether it be acute respiratory distress syndrome (ARDS) secondary to severe COVID-19, or the subsequent hypercoagulable state of COVID-19 that leads to venous thromboembolism, many black people in this country are left breathless. Many black patients who had no employee-based health insurance also had no primary care physician to order a SARS-CoV2 PCR lab test for them. Many of these patients have preexisting conditions, such as asthma from living in redlined communities affected by environmental racism. Many grew up in food deserts, where no fresh-produce store was interested enough to set up shop in their neighborhoods. They have been eating fast food since early childhood, as a fast-food burger is still cheaper than a salad. The result is obesity, an epidemic that can lead to diabetes mellitus, hypertension that can lead to coronary artery disease, stroke, and end-stage renal disease. 

Earlier in my career, I once had a colleague gleefully tell me that all black people drank Kool-Aid while in discussion of the effects of high-sugar diets in our patients; this colleague was sure I would agree. Not all black people drink Kool-Aid. Secondary to my fear of the backlash that can come from the discomfort of “white fragility” that Robin DiAngelo describes in her New York Times bestseller by the same name, ”White Fragility: Why It’s So Hard for White People to Talk About Racism,” I refrained from expressing my own hurt, and I did not offer explicit correction. I, instead, took a serious pause. That pause, which lasted only minutes, seemed to last 400 years. It was a brief reflection of the 400 years of systemic racism seeping into everyday life. This included the circumstances that would lead to the health inequities that result in the health disparities from which many black patients suffer. It is that same systemic racism that could create two America’s in which my colleague might not have to know the historic context in which that question could be hurtful. I retorted with modified shock and a chuckle so that I could muster up enough strength to repeat what was said and leave it open for reflection. The goal was for my colleague to realize the obvious implicit bias that lingered, despite intention. The chuckle was also to cover my pain.

Whether we know it or not, we all carry some form of implicit bias, regardless of race, class, gender, ethnicity, sexual preference, or socioeconomic status. In this case, it is the same implicit bias that causes physicians to ignore some black patients when they have said that they are in pain. A groundbreaking April 2016 article in Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences, “Racial Bias in Pain Assessment and Treatment Recommendations, and False Beliefs about Biological Differences Between Blacks and Whites” (doi: 10.1073/pnas.1516047113), revealed that racial disparities in pain assessment and treatment recommendations can be directly connected to the racial bias of the provider. It could be possible that this phenomenon has affected black patients who have walked into clinics and emergency departments and said, “I’m short of breath. I think that I might have coronavirus and need to be tested.” It may be that same implicit bias that has cut the air supply to a patient encounter. Instead of inquiring further, the patient might be met with minimum questions while their provider obtains their history and physical. Assumptions and blame on behavior and lack of personal responsibility secretly replace questions that could have been asked. Differentials between exacerbations and other etiologies are not explored. Could that patient have been sent home without a SARS-CoV2 polymerase chain reaction test? Well, what if the tests were in short supply? Sometimes they may have been sent home without a chest x-ray. In most cases, there are no funds to send them home with a pulse oximeter.

The act of assuming a person’s story that we consider to be one dimensional is always dangerous – and even more so during this pandemic. That person we can relate to – secondary to a cool pop culture moment, a TikTok song, or a negative stereotype – is not one dimensional. That assumption and that stereotype can make room for implicit bias. That same implicit bias is the knee on a neck of any marginalized patient. Implicit bias is the choke hold that slowly removes the light and life from a person who has a story, who has a family, and who has been an essential worker who can’t work from home. That person is telling us that they can’t breathe, but sometimes the only things seen are comorbidities through a misinformed or biased lens that suggest an assumed lack of personal responsibility. In a May 2020 New England Journal of Medicine perspective, “Racial health disparities and Covid-19” (doi: 10.1056/NEJMp2012910), Merlin Chowkwanyun, PhD, MPH, and Adolph L. Reed Jr., PhD, caution us against creating race-based explanations for presumed behavioral patterns.

Systemic racism has created the myth that the playing field has been leveled since the end of enslavement. It hasn’t. That black man, woman, or nonbinary person is telling you “I can’t breathe. I’m tired. I’m short of breath ... I have a cough ... I’m feeling weak these days, Doc.” However, implicit bias is still that knee that won’t let up. It has not let up. Communities with lower-income black and Hispanic patients have already seen local hospitals and frontline workers fight to save their lives while losing their own to COVID-19. We all witnessed the battle for scarce resources and PPE [personal protective equipment]. In contrast, some wealthy neighborhoods have occupants who most likely have access to a primary care physician and more testing centers.

As we reexamine ourselves and look at these cases of police brutality against unarmed black men, women, and children with the appropriate shame and outrage, let us reflect upon the privileges that we enjoy. Let us find our voice as we speak up for black lives. Let us look deeply into the history of medicine as it relates to black patients by reading “Medical Apartheid: The Dark History of Medical Experimentation on Black Americans from Colonial Times to the Present” by Harriet A. Washington. Let us examine that painful legacy, which, while having moments of good intention, still carries the stain of indifference, racism, neglect, and even experimentation without informed consent.

Why should we do these things? Because some of our black patients have also yelled or whispered, “I can’t breathe,” and we were not always listening either.
 

Dr. Ajala is a hospitalist and associate site director for education at Grady Memorial Hospital in Atlanta. She is a member of the executive council for SHM’s Care for Vulnerable Populations special interest group.

One might immediately think of the deaths of Eric Garner, George Floyd, or even the fictional character Radio Raheem from Spike Lee’s critically acclaimed film, “Do the Right Thing,” when they hear the words “I can’t breathe.” These words are a cry for help. The deaths of these unarmed black men is devastating and has led to a state of rage, palpable pain, and protest across the world.

However, in this moment, I am talking about the health inequity exposed by the COVID-19 pandemic. Whether it be acute respiratory distress syndrome (ARDS) secondary to severe COVID-19, or the subsequent hypercoagulable state of COVID-19 that leads to venous thromboembolism, many black people in this country are left breathless. Many black patients who had no employee-based health insurance also had no primary care physician to order a SARS-CoV2 PCR lab test for them. Many of these patients have preexisting conditions, such as asthma from living in redlined communities affected by environmental racism. Many grew up in food deserts, where no fresh-produce store was interested enough to set up shop in their neighborhoods. They have been eating fast food since early childhood, as a fast-food burger is still cheaper than a salad. The result is obesity, an epidemic that can lead to diabetes mellitus, hypertension that can lead to coronary artery disease, stroke, and end-stage renal disease. 

Earlier in my career, I once had a colleague gleefully tell me that all black people drank Kool-Aid while in discussion of the effects of high-sugar diets in our patients; this colleague was sure I would agree. Not all black people drink Kool-Aid. Secondary to my fear of the backlash that can come from the discomfort of “white fragility” that Robin DiAngelo describes in her New York Times bestseller by the same name, ”White Fragility: Why It’s So Hard for White People to Talk About Racism,” I refrained from expressing my own hurt, and I did not offer explicit correction. I, instead, took a serious pause. That pause, which lasted only minutes, seemed to last 400 years. It was a brief reflection of the 400 years of systemic racism seeping into everyday life. This included the circumstances that would lead to the health inequities that result in the health disparities from which many black patients suffer. It is that same systemic racism that could create two America’s in which my colleague might not have to know the historic context in which that question could be hurtful. I retorted with modified shock and a chuckle so that I could muster up enough strength to repeat what was said and leave it open for reflection. The goal was for my colleague to realize the obvious implicit bias that lingered, despite intention. The chuckle was also to cover my pain.

Whether we know it or not, we all carry some form of implicit bias, regardless of race, class, gender, ethnicity, sexual preference, or socioeconomic status. In this case, it is the same implicit bias that causes physicians to ignore some black patients when they have said that they are in pain. A groundbreaking April 2016 article in Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences, “Racial Bias in Pain Assessment and Treatment Recommendations, and False Beliefs about Biological Differences Between Blacks and Whites” (doi: 10.1073/pnas.1516047113), revealed that racial disparities in pain assessment and treatment recommendations can be directly connected to the racial bias of the provider. It could be possible that this phenomenon has affected black patients who have walked into clinics and emergency departments and said, “I’m short of breath. I think that I might have coronavirus and need to be tested.” It may be that same implicit bias that has cut the air supply to a patient encounter. Instead of inquiring further, the patient might be met with minimum questions while their provider obtains their history and physical. Assumptions and blame on behavior and lack of personal responsibility secretly replace questions that could have been asked. Differentials between exacerbations and other etiologies are not explored. Could that patient have been sent home without a SARS-CoV2 polymerase chain reaction test? Well, what if the tests were in short supply? Sometimes they may have been sent home without a chest x-ray. In most cases, there are no funds to send them home with a pulse oximeter.

The act of assuming a person’s story that we consider to be one dimensional is always dangerous – and even more so during this pandemic. That person we can relate to – secondary to a cool pop culture moment, a TikTok song, or a negative stereotype – is not one dimensional. That assumption and that stereotype can make room for implicit bias. That same implicit bias is the knee on a neck of any marginalized patient. Implicit bias is the choke hold that slowly removes the light and life from a person who has a story, who has a family, and who has been an essential worker who can’t work from home. That person is telling us that they can’t breathe, but sometimes the only things seen are comorbidities through a misinformed or biased lens that suggest an assumed lack of personal responsibility. In a May 2020 New England Journal of Medicine perspective, “Racial health disparities and Covid-19” (doi: 10.1056/NEJMp2012910), Merlin Chowkwanyun, PhD, MPH, and Adolph L. Reed Jr., PhD, caution us against creating race-based explanations for presumed behavioral patterns.

Systemic racism has created the myth that the playing field has been leveled since the end of enslavement. It hasn’t. That black man, woman, or nonbinary person is telling you “I can’t breathe. I’m tired. I’m short of breath ... I have a cough ... I’m feeling weak these days, Doc.” However, implicit bias is still that knee that won’t let up. It has not let up. Communities with lower-income black and Hispanic patients have already seen local hospitals and frontline workers fight to save their lives while losing their own to COVID-19. We all witnessed the battle for scarce resources and PPE [personal protective equipment]. In contrast, some wealthy neighborhoods have occupants who most likely have access to a primary care physician and more testing centers.

As we reexamine ourselves and look at these cases of police brutality against unarmed black men, women, and children with the appropriate shame and outrage, let us reflect upon the privileges that we enjoy. Let us find our voice as we speak up for black lives. Let us look deeply into the history of medicine as it relates to black patients by reading “Medical Apartheid: The Dark History of Medical Experimentation on Black Americans from Colonial Times to the Present” by Harriet A. Washington. Let us examine that painful legacy, which, while having moments of good intention, still carries the stain of indifference, racism, neglect, and even experimentation without informed consent.

Why should we do these things? Because some of our black patients have also yelled or whispered, “I can’t breathe,” and we were not always listening either.
 

Dr. Ajala is a hospitalist and associate site director for education at Grady Memorial Hospital in Atlanta. She is a member of the executive council for SHM’s Care for Vulnerable Populations special interest group.

One might immediately think of the deaths of Eric Garner, George Floyd, or even the fictional character Radio Raheem from Spike Lee’s critically acclaimed film, “Do the Right Thing,” when they hear the words “I can’t breathe.” These words are a cry for help. The deaths of these unarmed black men is devastating and has led to a state of rage, palpable pain, and protest across the world.

However, in this moment, I am talking about the health inequity exposed by the COVID-19 pandemic. Whether it be acute respiratory distress syndrome (ARDS) secondary to severe COVID-19, or the subsequent hypercoagulable state of COVID-19 that leads to venous thromboembolism, many black people in this country are left breathless. Many black patients who had no employee-based health insurance also had no primary care physician to order a SARS-CoV2 PCR lab test for them. Many of these patients have preexisting conditions, such as asthma from living in redlined communities affected by environmental racism. Many grew up in food deserts, where no fresh-produce store was interested enough to set up shop in their neighborhoods. They have been eating fast food since early childhood, as a fast-food burger is still cheaper than a salad. The result is obesity, an epidemic that can lead to diabetes mellitus, hypertension that can lead to coronary artery disease, stroke, and end-stage renal disease. 

Earlier in my career, I once had a colleague gleefully tell me that all black people drank Kool-Aid while in discussion of the effects of high-sugar diets in our patients; this colleague was sure I would agree. Not all black people drink Kool-Aid. Secondary to my fear of the backlash that can come from the discomfort of “white fragility” that Robin DiAngelo describes in her New York Times bestseller by the same name, ”White Fragility: Why It’s So Hard for White People to Talk About Racism,” I refrained from expressing my own hurt, and I did not offer explicit correction. I, instead, took a serious pause. That pause, which lasted only minutes, seemed to last 400 years. It was a brief reflection of the 400 years of systemic racism seeping into everyday life. This included the circumstances that would lead to the health inequities that result in the health disparities from which many black patients suffer. It is that same systemic racism that could create two America’s in which my colleague might not have to know the historic context in which that question could be hurtful. I retorted with modified shock and a chuckle so that I could muster up enough strength to repeat what was said and leave it open for reflection. The goal was for my colleague to realize the obvious implicit bias that lingered, despite intention. The chuckle was also to cover my pain.

Whether we know it or not, we all carry some form of implicit bias, regardless of race, class, gender, ethnicity, sexual preference, or socioeconomic status. In this case, it is the same implicit bias that causes physicians to ignore some black patients when they have said that they are in pain. A groundbreaking April 2016 article in Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences, “Racial Bias in Pain Assessment and Treatment Recommendations, and False Beliefs about Biological Differences Between Blacks and Whites” (doi: 10.1073/pnas.1516047113), revealed that racial disparities in pain assessment and treatment recommendations can be directly connected to the racial bias of the provider. It could be possible that this phenomenon has affected black patients who have walked into clinics and emergency departments and said, “I’m short of breath. I think that I might have coronavirus and need to be tested.” It may be that same implicit bias that has cut the air supply to a patient encounter. Instead of inquiring further, the patient might be met with minimum questions while their provider obtains their history and physical. Assumptions and blame on behavior and lack of personal responsibility secretly replace questions that could have been asked. Differentials between exacerbations and other etiologies are not explored. Could that patient have been sent home without a SARS-CoV2 polymerase chain reaction test? Well, what if the tests were in short supply? Sometimes they may have been sent home without a chest x-ray. In most cases, there are no funds to send them home with a pulse oximeter.

The act of assuming a person’s story that we consider to be one dimensional is always dangerous – and even more so during this pandemic. That person we can relate to – secondary to a cool pop culture moment, a TikTok song, or a negative stereotype – is not one dimensional. That assumption and that stereotype can make room for implicit bias. That same implicit bias is the knee on a neck of any marginalized patient. Implicit bias is the choke hold that slowly removes the light and life from a person who has a story, who has a family, and who has been an essential worker who can’t work from home. That person is telling us that they can’t breathe, but sometimes the only things seen are comorbidities through a misinformed or biased lens that suggest an assumed lack of personal responsibility. In a May 2020 New England Journal of Medicine perspective, “Racial health disparities and Covid-19” (doi: 10.1056/NEJMp2012910), Merlin Chowkwanyun, PhD, MPH, and Adolph L. Reed Jr., PhD, caution us against creating race-based explanations for presumed behavioral patterns.

Systemic racism has created the myth that the playing field has been leveled since the end of enslavement. It hasn’t. That black man, woman, or nonbinary person is telling you “I can’t breathe. I’m tired. I’m short of breath ... I have a cough ... I’m feeling weak these days, Doc.” However, implicit bias is still that knee that won’t let up. It has not let up. Communities with lower-income black and Hispanic patients have already seen local hospitals and frontline workers fight to save their lives while losing their own to COVID-19. We all witnessed the battle for scarce resources and PPE [personal protective equipment]. In contrast, some wealthy neighborhoods have occupants who most likely have access to a primary care physician and more testing centers.

As we reexamine ourselves and look at these cases of police brutality against unarmed black men, women, and children with the appropriate shame and outrage, let us reflect upon the privileges that we enjoy. Let us find our voice as we speak up for black lives. Let us look deeply into the history of medicine as it relates to black patients by reading “Medical Apartheid: The Dark History of Medical Experimentation on Black Americans from Colonial Times to the Present” by Harriet A. Washington. Let us examine that painful legacy, which, while having moments of good intention, still carries the stain of indifference, racism, neglect, and even experimentation without informed consent.

Why should we do these things? Because some of our black patients have also yelled or whispered, “I can’t breathe,” and we were not always listening either.
 

Dr. Ajala is a hospitalist and associate site director for education at Grady Memorial Hospital in Atlanta. She is a member of the executive council for SHM’s Care for Vulnerable Populations special interest group.

Can we help our pediatric patients with the complicated problems of racism, especially if we are privileged (and even white) professionals? We may not have experienced discrimination, but we can still advise and address it. Racist discrimination, fear, trauma, or distress may produce or exacerbate conditions we are treating. I have found it often revealing to ask: “Have you, your child, or your family had an experience with racism that may be contributing to today’s concern?”

Tverdokhlib/Shutterstock

Three levels of racism impact children’s health and health care: “structural or institutional” policies that influence social determinants of health; “personally mediated” differential treatment based on assumptions about one’s abilities, motives, or intents; and the resulting “internalization” of stereotypes into one’s identity, undermining confidence, self-esteem, and mental health. We can help advocate about structural racism and ensure equity within our offices, but how best to counsel the families and children themselves?

Racism includes actions of “assigning value based on the social interpretation of how a person looks” (Ethn Dis. 2008;18[4]:496-504). “Social interpretations” develop from an early age. Newborns detect differences in appearance and may startle or cry seeing a parent’s drastic haircut or new hat. Parents generally know to use soothing words and tone, bring the difference into view gradually, smile and comfort the child, and explain the change; these are good skills for later, too. Infants notice skin color, which, unlike clothes, is a stable feature by which to recognize parents. Social interpretation of these differences is cued from the parents’ feelings and reactions. Adults naturally transmit biases from their own past unless they work to dampen them. If the parent was taught to regard “other” as negative or is generally fearful, the child mirrors this. Working to reduce racism thus requires parents (and professionals) to examine their prejudices to be able to convey positive or neutral reactions to people who are different. Parents need to show curiosity, positive affect, and comfort about people who are different, and do well to seek contact and friendships with people from other groups and include their children in these relationships. We can encourage this outreach plus ensure diversity and respectful interactions in our offices.

Children from age 3 years value fairness and are upset seeing others treated unfairly – easily understanding “not fair” or “mean.” If the person being hurt is like them in race, ethnicity, religion, gender, or sexual preference, they also fear for themselves, family, and friends. Balance is needed in discussing racism to avoid increasing fear or overpromising as risks are real and solutions difficult. Children look to adults for understanding and evidence of action to feel safer, rather than helpless. We should state that leaders are working on “making the rules more fair,” ensuring that people “won’t be allowed do it again,” and “teaching that everyone deserves respect.” Even better, parents and children can generate ideas about child actions, giving them some power as an antidote to anxiety. Age-related possibilities might include drawing a picture of people getting along, talking at show-and-tell, writing a note to officials, making a protest sign, posting thoughts on Facebook, or protesting.

With age, the culture increasingly influences a child’s attitudes. Children see lots of teasing and bullying based on differences from being overweight or wearing glasses, to skin color. It is helpful to interpret for children that bullies are insecure, or sometimes have been hurt, and they put other people down to feel better than someone else. Thinking about racist acts this way may reduce the desire for revenge and a cycle of aggression. Effective anti-bullying programs help children recognize bullying, see it as an emergency that requires their action, tell adults, and take action. This action could be surrounding the bully, standing tall, making eye contact, having a dismissive retort, or asking questions that require the bully to think, such as “What do you want to happen by doing this?” We can coach our patients and their parents on these principles as well as advising schools.

Children need to be told that those being put down or held down – especially those like them – have strengths; have made discoveries; have produced writings, art, and music; have shown military bravery, moral leadership, and resistance to discrimination, but it is not the time to show strength when confronted by a gun or police. We can use and arm parents with examples to discuss strengths and accomplishments to help buffer the child from internalization of racist stereotypes. Children need positive role models who look like them; parents can seek out diverse professionals in their children’s lives, such as dentists, doctors, teachers, clergy, mentors, or coaches. We, and parents, can ensure that dolls and books are available, and that the children’s shows, movies, and video games are watched together and include diverse people doing good or brave things. These exposures also are key to all children becoming anti-racist.

Parents can be advised to initiate discussion of racism because children, detecting adult discomfort, may avoid the topic. We can encourage families to give their point of view; otherwise children simply absorb those of peers or the press. Parents should tell their children, “I want you to be able to talk about it if someone is mean or treats you unfairly because of [the color of your skin, your religion, your sex, your disability, etc.]. You might feel helpless, or angry, which is natural. We need to talk about this so you can feel strong. Then we can plan on what we are going to do.” The “sandwich” method of “ask-give information-ask what they think” can encourage discussion and correct misperceptions.

Racist policies have succeeded partly by adult “bullies” dehumanizing the “other.” Most children can consider someone else’s point of view by 4½ years old, shaped with adult help. Parents can begin by telling babies, “That hurts, doesn’t it?” asking toddlers and older, “How would you feel if ... [someone called you a name just because of having red hair]?” or “How do you think she feels when ... [someone pushes her out of line because she wears certain clothes]?” in cases of grabbing, not sharing, hitting, bullying, etc. Older children and teens can analyze more abstract situations when asked, “What if you were the one who ... [got expelled for mumbling about the teacher]?” or “What if that were your sister?” or “How would the world be if everyone ... [got a chance to go to college]?” We can encourage parents to propose these mental exercises to build the child’s perspective-taking while conveying their opinions.

Experiences, including through media, may increase or decrease fear; the child needs to have a supportive person moderating the exposure, providing a positive interpretation, and protecting the child from overwhelm, if needed.

Experiences are insufficient for developing anti-racist attitudes; listening and talking are needed. The first step is to ask children about what they notice, think, and feel about situations reflecting racism, especially as they lack words for these complicated observations. There are television, Internet, and newspaper examples of both racism and anti-racism that can be fruitfully discussed. We can recommend watching or reading together, and asking questions such as, “Why do you think they are shouting [protesting]?” “How do you think the [victim, police] felt?” or “What do you think should be done about this?”

It is important to acknowledge the child’s confusion, fear, anxiety, sadness, or anger as normal and appropriate, not dismissing, too quickly reassuring, or changing the subject, even though it’s uncomfortable.

Physicians and nurse practitioners can make a difference by being aware of our privilege and biases, being open, modeling discussion, screening for impact, offering strategies, advocating with schools, and providing resources such as therapy or legal counsel, as for other social determinants of health.
 

Dr. Howard is assistant professor of pediatrics at Johns Hopkins University, Baltimore, and creator of CHADIS (https://www.site.chadis.com/). She had no other relevant disclosures. Dr. Howard’s contribution to this publication was as a paid expert to MDedge News. E-mail her at pdnews@mdedge.com.

Can we help our pediatric patients with the complicated problems of racism, especially if we are privileged (and even white) professionals? We may not have experienced discrimination, but we can still advise and address it. Racist discrimination, fear, trauma, or distress may produce or exacerbate conditions we are treating. I have found it often revealing to ask: “Have you, your child, or your family had an experience with racism that may be contributing to today’s concern?”

Tverdokhlib/Shutterstock

Three levels of racism impact children’s health and health care: “structural or institutional” policies that influence social determinants of health; “personally mediated” differential treatment based on assumptions about one’s abilities, motives, or intents; and the resulting “internalization” of stereotypes into one’s identity, undermining confidence, self-esteem, and mental health. We can help advocate about structural racism and ensure equity within our offices, but how best to counsel the families and children themselves?

Racism includes actions of “assigning value based on the social interpretation of how a person looks” (Ethn Dis. 2008;18[4]:496-504). “Social interpretations” develop from an early age. Newborns detect differences in appearance and may startle or cry seeing a parent’s drastic haircut or new hat. Parents generally know to use soothing words and tone, bring the difference into view gradually, smile and comfort the child, and explain the change; these are good skills for later, too. Infants notice skin color, which, unlike clothes, is a stable feature by which to recognize parents. Social interpretation of these differences is cued from the parents’ feelings and reactions. Adults naturally transmit biases from their own past unless they work to dampen them. If the parent was taught to regard “other” as negative or is generally fearful, the child mirrors this. Working to reduce racism thus requires parents (and professionals) to examine their prejudices to be able to convey positive or neutral reactions to people who are different. Parents need to show curiosity, positive affect, and comfort about people who are different, and do well to seek contact and friendships with people from other groups and include their children in these relationships. We can encourage this outreach plus ensure diversity and respectful interactions in our offices.

Children from age 3 years value fairness and are upset seeing others treated unfairly – easily understanding “not fair” or “mean.” If the person being hurt is like them in race, ethnicity, religion, gender, or sexual preference, they also fear for themselves, family, and friends. Balance is needed in discussing racism to avoid increasing fear or overpromising as risks are real and solutions difficult. Children look to adults for understanding and evidence of action to feel safer, rather than helpless. We should state that leaders are working on “making the rules more fair,” ensuring that people “won’t be allowed do it again,” and “teaching that everyone deserves respect.” Even better, parents and children can generate ideas about child actions, giving them some power as an antidote to anxiety. Age-related possibilities might include drawing a picture of people getting along, talking at show-and-tell, writing a note to officials, making a protest sign, posting thoughts on Facebook, or protesting.

With age, the culture increasingly influences a child’s attitudes. Children see lots of teasing and bullying based on differences from being overweight or wearing glasses, to skin color. It is helpful to interpret for children that bullies are insecure, or sometimes have been hurt, and they put other people down to feel better than someone else. Thinking about racist acts this way may reduce the desire for revenge and a cycle of aggression. Effective anti-bullying programs help children recognize bullying, see it as an emergency that requires their action, tell adults, and take action. This action could be surrounding the bully, standing tall, making eye contact, having a dismissive retort, or asking questions that require the bully to think, such as “What do you want to happen by doing this?” We can coach our patients and their parents on these principles as well as advising schools.

Children need to be told that those being put down or held down – especially those like them – have strengths; have made discoveries; have produced writings, art, and music; have shown military bravery, moral leadership, and resistance to discrimination, but it is not the time to show strength when confronted by a gun or police. We can use and arm parents with examples to discuss strengths and accomplishments to help buffer the child from internalization of racist stereotypes. Children need positive role models who look like them; parents can seek out diverse professionals in their children’s lives, such as dentists, doctors, teachers, clergy, mentors, or coaches. We, and parents, can ensure that dolls and books are available, and that the children’s shows, movies, and video games are watched together and include diverse people doing good or brave things. These exposures also are key to all children becoming anti-racist.

Parents can be advised to initiate discussion of racism because children, detecting adult discomfort, may avoid the topic. We can encourage families to give their point of view; otherwise children simply absorb those of peers or the press. Parents should tell their children, “I want you to be able to talk about it if someone is mean or treats you unfairly because of [the color of your skin, your religion, your sex, your disability, etc.]. You might feel helpless, or angry, which is natural. We need to talk about this so you can feel strong. Then we can plan on what we are going to do.” The “sandwich” method of “ask-give information-ask what they think” can encourage discussion and correct misperceptions.

Racist policies have succeeded partly by adult “bullies” dehumanizing the “other.” Most children can consider someone else’s point of view by 4½ years old, shaped with adult help. Parents can begin by telling babies, “That hurts, doesn’t it?” asking toddlers and older, “How would you feel if ... [someone called you a name just because of having red hair]?” or “How do you think she feels when ... [someone pushes her out of line because she wears certain clothes]?” in cases of grabbing, not sharing, hitting, bullying, etc. Older children and teens can analyze more abstract situations when asked, “What if you were the one who ... [got expelled for mumbling about the teacher]?” or “What if that were your sister?” or “How would the world be if everyone ... [got a chance to go to college]?” We can encourage parents to propose these mental exercises to build the child’s perspective-taking while conveying their opinions.

Experiences, including through media, may increase or decrease fear; the child needs to have a supportive person moderating the exposure, providing a positive interpretation, and protecting the child from overwhelm, if needed.

Experiences are insufficient for developing anti-racist attitudes; listening and talking are needed. The first step is to ask children about what they notice, think, and feel about situations reflecting racism, especially as they lack words for these complicated observations. There are television, Internet, and newspaper examples of both racism and anti-racism that can be fruitfully discussed. We can recommend watching or reading together, and asking questions such as, “Why do you think they are shouting [protesting]?” “How do you think the [victim, police] felt?” or “What do you think should be done about this?”

It is important to acknowledge the child’s confusion, fear, anxiety, sadness, or anger as normal and appropriate, not dismissing, too quickly reassuring, or changing the subject, even though it’s uncomfortable.

Physicians and nurse practitioners can make a difference by being aware of our privilege and biases, being open, modeling discussion, screening for impact, offering strategies, advocating with schools, and providing resources such as therapy or legal counsel, as for other social determinants of health.
 

Dr. Howard is assistant professor of pediatrics at Johns Hopkins University, Baltimore, and creator of CHADIS (https://www.site.chadis.com/). She had no other relevant disclosures. Dr. Howard’s contribution to this publication was as a paid expert to MDedge News. E-mail her at pdnews@mdedge.com.

Can we help our pediatric patients with the complicated problems of racism, especially if we are privileged (and even white) professionals? We may not have experienced discrimination, but we can still advise and address it. Racist discrimination, fear, trauma, or distress may produce or exacerbate conditions we are treating. I have found it often revealing to ask: “Have you, your child, or your family had an experience with racism that may be contributing to today’s concern?”

Tverdokhlib/Shutterstock

Three levels of racism impact children’s health and health care: “structural or institutional” policies that influence social determinants of health; “personally mediated” differential treatment based on assumptions about one’s abilities, motives, or intents; and the resulting “internalization” of stereotypes into one’s identity, undermining confidence, self-esteem, and mental health. We can help advocate about structural racism and ensure equity within our offices, but how best to counsel the families and children themselves?

Racism includes actions of “assigning value based on the social interpretation of how a person looks” (Ethn Dis. 2008;18[4]:496-504). “Social interpretations” develop from an early age. Newborns detect differences in appearance and may startle or cry seeing a parent’s drastic haircut or new hat. Parents generally know to use soothing words and tone, bring the difference into view gradually, smile and comfort the child, and explain the change; these are good skills for later, too. Infants notice skin color, which, unlike clothes, is a stable feature by which to recognize parents. Social interpretation of these differences is cued from the parents’ feelings and reactions. Adults naturally transmit biases from their own past unless they work to dampen them. If the parent was taught to regard “other” as negative or is generally fearful, the child mirrors this. Working to reduce racism thus requires parents (and professionals) to examine their prejudices to be able to convey positive or neutral reactions to people who are different. Parents need to show curiosity, positive affect, and comfort about people who are different, and do well to seek contact and friendships with people from other groups and include their children in these relationships. We can encourage this outreach plus ensure diversity and respectful interactions in our offices.

Children from age 3 years value fairness and are upset seeing others treated unfairly – easily understanding “not fair” or “mean.” If the person being hurt is like them in race, ethnicity, religion, gender, or sexual preference, they also fear for themselves, family, and friends. Balance is needed in discussing racism to avoid increasing fear or overpromising as risks are real and solutions difficult. Children look to adults for understanding and evidence of action to feel safer, rather than helpless. We should state that leaders are working on “making the rules more fair,” ensuring that people “won’t be allowed do it again,” and “teaching that everyone deserves respect.” Even better, parents and children can generate ideas about child actions, giving them some power as an antidote to anxiety. Age-related possibilities might include drawing a picture of people getting along, talking at show-and-tell, writing a note to officials, making a protest sign, posting thoughts on Facebook, or protesting.

With age, the culture increasingly influences a child’s attitudes. Children see lots of teasing and bullying based on differences from being overweight or wearing glasses, to skin color. It is helpful to interpret for children that bullies are insecure, or sometimes have been hurt, and they put other people down to feel better than someone else. Thinking about racist acts this way may reduce the desire for revenge and a cycle of aggression. Effective anti-bullying programs help children recognize bullying, see it as an emergency that requires their action, tell adults, and take action. This action could be surrounding the bully, standing tall, making eye contact, having a dismissive retort, or asking questions that require the bully to think, such as “What do you want to happen by doing this?” We can coach our patients and their parents on these principles as well as advising schools.

Children need to be told that those being put down or held down – especially those like them – have strengths; have made discoveries; have produced writings, art, and music; have shown military bravery, moral leadership, and resistance to discrimination, but it is not the time to show strength when confronted by a gun or police. We can use and arm parents with examples to discuss strengths and accomplishments to help buffer the child from internalization of racist stereotypes. Children need positive role models who look like them; parents can seek out diverse professionals in their children’s lives, such as dentists, doctors, teachers, clergy, mentors, or coaches. We, and parents, can ensure that dolls and books are available, and that the children’s shows, movies, and video games are watched together and include diverse people doing good or brave things. These exposures also are key to all children becoming anti-racist.

Parents can be advised to initiate discussion of racism because children, detecting adult discomfort, may avoid the topic. We can encourage families to give their point of view; otherwise children simply absorb those of peers or the press. Parents should tell their children, “I want you to be able to talk about it if someone is mean or treats you unfairly because of [the color of your skin, your religion, your sex, your disability, etc.]. You might feel helpless, or angry, which is natural. We need to talk about this so you can feel strong. Then we can plan on what we are going to do.” The “sandwich” method of “ask-give information-ask what they think” can encourage discussion and correct misperceptions.

Racist policies have succeeded partly by adult “bullies” dehumanizing the “other.” Most children can consider someone else’s point of view by 4½ years old, shaped with adult help. Parents can begin by telling babies, “That hurts, doesn’t it?” asking toddlers and older, “How would you feel if ... [someone called you a name just because of having red hair]?” or “How do you think she feels when ... [someone pushes her out of line because she wears certain clothes]?” in cases of grabbing, not sharing, hitting, bullying, etc. Older children and teens can analyze more abstract situations when asked, “What if you were the one who ... [got expelled for mumbling about the teacher]?” or “What if that were your sister?” or “How would the world be if everyone ... [got a chance to go to college]?” We can encourage parents to propose these mental exercises to build the child’s perspective-taking while conveying their opinions.

Experiences, including through media, may increase or decrease fear; the child needs to have a supportive person moderating the exposure, providing a positive interpretation, and protecting the child from overwhelm, if needed.

Experiences are insufficient for developing anti-racist attitudes; listening and talking are needed. The first step is to ask children about what they notice, think, and feel about situations reflecting racism, especially as they lack words for these complicated observations. There are television, Internet, and newspaper examples of both racism and anti-racism that can be fruitfully discussed. We can recommend watching or reading together, and asking questions such as, “Why do you think they are shouting [protesting]?” “How do you think the [victim, police] felt?” or “What do you think should be done about this?”

It is important to acknowledge the child’s confusion, fear, anxiety, sadness, or anger as normal and appropriate, not dismissing, too quickly reassuring, or changing the subject, even though it’s uncomfortable.

Physicians and nurse practitioners can make a difference by being aware of our privilege and biases, being open, modeling discussion, screening for impact, offering strategies, advocating with schools, and providing resources such as therapy or legal counsel, as for other social determinants of health.
 

Dr. Howard is assistant professor of pediatrics at Johns Hopkins University, Baltimore, and creator of CHADIS (https://www.site.chadis.com/). She had no other relevant disclosures. Dr. Howard’s contribution to this publication was as a paid expert to MDedge News. E-mail her at pdnews@mdedge.com.

Given that Pride month is coinciding with so much upheaval in our community around racism and oppression, it is important to discuss the overlap in the experiences of both LGBTQ and people of color (POC).

The year 2020 will go down in history books. We will always remember the issues faced during this critical year. At least I hope so, because as we have seen, history repeats itself. How do these issues that we are currently facing relate to LGBTQ youth? The histories are linked. One cannot look at the history of LGBTQ rights without looking at other civil rights movements, particularly those for black people. The timing of these social movements often intertwined, both being inspired by and inspiring each other. For example, Bayard Rustin worked with Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. as an organizer for the March on Washington for Jobs and Freedom in addition to being a public advocate for gay rights later on in his life. Similarly, the Stonewall Uprising that is known by many to be one of the first acts of the gay liberation movement, prominently featured Marsha P. Johnson (a black, transgender, self-identified drag queen) and Sylvia Rivera (a Latina American transgender rights activist). As we reflect on these histories, it is important to think about the effect of minority stress and intersectionality and how this impacts LGBTQ-POC and their health disparities.

Minority stress shows that stigmatized minority groups face chronic stressors that ultimately lead to physical and emotional responses, thus affecting long-term health outcomes. One example of such stressors is microaggressions – brief interactions that one might not realize are discriminatory or hurtful, but to the person on the receiving end of such comments, they are harmful and they add up. A suspicious look from a store owner as one browses the aisles of a local convenience store, a comment about how one “doesn’t’ seem gay” or “doesn’t sound black” all are examples of microaggressions.

Overt discrimination, expectation of rejection, and hate crimes also contribute to minority stress. LGBTQ individuals often also have to hide their identity whereas POC might not be able to hide their identity. Experiencing constant bombardment of discrimination from the outside world can lead one to internalize these thoughts of homophobia, transphobia, or racism.

Minority stress becomes even more complicated when you apply the theoretical framework of intersectionality – overlapping identities that compound one’s minority stress. Lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, and queer people of color (LGBTQ-POC) are a classic example of intersecting identities. They may experience racism from the LGBT community or homophobia/transphobia from their own racial or ethnic community in addition to the discrimination they already face from the majority population for both identities. Some LGBTQ people of color may feel the need to choose between these two identities, forcing them to compartmentalize one aspect of their identity from the other. Imagine how stressful that must be! In addition, LGBTQ-POC are less likely to come out to family members.

Most of us are aware that health disparities exist, both for the LGBTQ community as well as for racial and ethnic minorities; couple these together and the effect can be additive, placing LGBTQ-POC at higher risk for adverse health outcomes. In the late 1990s, racial and ethnic minority men having sex with men made up 48% of all HIV infection cases, a number that is clearly disproportionate to their representation in our overall society. Given both LGBTQ and POC have issues accessing care, one can only imagine that this would make it hard to get diagnosed or treated regularly for these issues.

Transgender POC also are particularly vulnerable to health disparities. The 2015 U.S. Transgender Survey looked at the experiences of over 28,000 transgender people in the United States, but the survey also broke down the experiences for transgender people of color. Black transgender individuals were more likely than their black cisgender counterparts to experience unemployment (20% vs. 10%) and poverty (38% vs. 24%). They were more likely to experience homelessness compared with the overall transgender sample (42% vs. 30%) and more likely to have been sexually assaulted in their lives (53% vs. 47%). Understandably, 67% of black transgender respondents said they would feel somewhat or very uncomfortable asking the police for help.

The findings were similar for Latinx transgender respondents: 21% were unemployed compared with the overall rate of unemployment for Latinx in the United States at 7%, and 43% were living in poverty compared with 18% of their cisgender peers.

Perhaps the most striking result among American Indian and Alaska Native respondents was that 57% had experienced homelessness – nearly twice the rate of the survey sample overall (30%). For the transgender Asian and Native Hawaiian/Pacific Islander respondents, 32% were living in poverty and 39% had experienced serious psychological distress in the month before completing the survey.

So please, check in on your patients, friends, and family that identify as both LGBTQ and POC. Imagine how scary this must be for LGBTQ youth of color. They can be targeted for both their race and their sexuality and/or gender identity.
 

Dr. Lawlis is assistant professor of pediatrics at the University of Oklahoma Health Sciences Center, Oklahoma City, and an adolescent medicine specialist at OU Children’s. She has no relevant financial disclosures. Email her at pdnews@mdedge.com.

Given that Pride month is coinciding with so much upheaval in our community around racism and oppression, it is important to discuss the overlap in the experiences of both LGBTQ and people of color (POC).

The year 2020 will go down in history books. We will always remember the issues faced during this critical year. At least I hope so, because as we have seen, history repeats itself. How do these issues that we are currently facing relate to LGBTQ youth? The histories are linked. One cannot look at the history of LGBTQ rights without looking at other civil rights movements, particularly those for black people. The timing of these social movements often intertwined, both being inspired by and inspiring each other. For example, Bayard Rustin worked with Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. as an organizer for the March on Washington for Jobs and Freedom in addition to being a public advocate for gay rights later on in his life. Similarly, the Stonewall Uprising that is known by many to be one of the first acts of the gay liberation movement, prominently featured Marsha P. Johnson (a black, transgender, self-identified drag queen) and Sylvia Rivera (a Latina American transgender rights activist). As we reflect on these histories, it is important to think about the effect of minority stress and intersectionality and how this impacts LGBTQ-POC and their health disparities.

Minority stress shows that stigmatized minority groups face chronic stressors that ultimately lead to physical and emotional responses, thus affecting long-term health outcomes. One example of such stressors is microaggressions – brief interactions that one might not realize are discriminatory or hurtful, but to the person on the receiving end of such comments, they are harmful and they add up. A suspicious look from a store owner as one browses the aisles of a local convenience store, a comment about how one “doesn’t’ seem gay” or “doesn’t sound black” all are examples of microaggressions.

Overt discrimination, expectation of rejection, and hate crimes also contribute to minority stress. LGBTQ individuals often also have to hide their identity whereas POC might not be able to hide their identity. Experiencing constant bombardment of discrimination from the outside world can lead one to internalize these thoughts of homophobia, transphobia, or racism.

Minority stress becomes even more complicated when you apply the theoretical framework of intersectionality – overlapping identities that compound one’s minority stress. Lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, and queer people of color (LGBTQ-POC) are a classic example of intersecting identities. They may experience racism from the LGBT community or homophobia/transphobia from their own racial or ethnic community in addition to the discrimination they already face from the majority population for both identities. Some LGBTQ people of color may feel the need to choose between these two identities, forcing them to compartmentalize one aspect of their identity from the other. Imagine how stressful that must be! In addition, LGBTQ-POC are less likely to come out to family members.

Most of us are aware that health disparities exist, both for the LGBTQ community as well as for racial and ethnic minorities; couple these together and the effect can be additive, placing LGBTQ-POC at higher risk for adverse health outcomes. In the late 1990s, racial and ethnic minority men having sex with men made up 48% of all HIV infection cases, a number that is clearly disproportionate to their representation in our overall society. Given both LGBTQ and POC have issues accessing care, one can only imagine that this would make it hard to get diagnosed or treated regularly for these issues.

Transgender POC also are particularly vulnerable to health disparities. The 2015 U.S. Transgender Survey looked at the experiences of over 28,000 transgender people in the United States, but the survey also broke down the experiences for transgender people of color. Black transgender individuals were more likely than their black cisgender counterparts to experience unemployment (20% vs. 10%) and poverty (38% vs. 24%). They were more likely to experience homelessness compared with the overall transgender sample (42% vs. 30%) and more likely to have been sexually assaulted in their lives (53% vs. 47%). Understandably, 67% of black transgender respondents said they would feel somewhat or very uncomfortable asking the police for help.

The findings were similar for Latinx transgender respondents: 21% were unemployed compared with the overall rate of unemployment for Latinx in the United States at 7%, and 43% were living in poverty compared with 18% of their cisgender peers.

Perhaps the most striking result among American Indian and Alaska Native respondents was that 57% had experienced homelessness – nearly twice the rate of the survey sample overall (30%). For the transgender Asian and Native Hawaiian/Pacific Islander respondents, 32% were living in poverty and 39% had experienced serious psychological distress in the month before completing the survey.

So please, check in on your patients, friends, and family that identify as both LGBTQ and POC. Imagine how scary this must be for LGBTQ youth of color. They can be targeted for both their race and their sexuality and/or gender identity.
 

Dr. Lawlis is assistant professor of pediatrics at the University of Oklahoma Health Sciences Center, Oklahoma City, and an adolescent medicine specialist at OU Children’s. She has no relevant financial disclosures. Email her at pdnews@mdedge.com.

Given that Pride month is coinciding with so much upheaval in our community around racism and oppression, it is important to discuss the overlap in the experiences of both LGBTQ and people of color (POC).

The year 2020 will go down in history books. We will always remember the issues faced during this critical year. At least I hope so, because as we have seen, history repeats itself. How do these issues that we are currently facing relate to LGBTQ youth? The histories are linked. One cannot look at the history of LGBTQ rights without looking at other civil rights movements, particularly those for black people. The timing of these social movements often intertwined, both being inspired by and inspiring each other. For example, Bayard Rustin worked with Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. as an organizer for the March on Washington for Jobs and Freedom in addition to being a public advocate for gay rights later on in his life. Similarly, the Stonewall Uprising that is known by many to be one of the first acts of the gay liberation movement, prominently featured Marsha P. Johnson (a black, transgender, self-identified drag queen) and Sylvia Rivera (a Latina American transgender rights activist). As we reflect on these histories, it is important to think about the effect of minority stress and intersectionality and how this impacts LGBTQ-POC and their health disparities.

Minority stress shows that stigmatized minority groups face chronic stressors that ultimately lead to physical and emotional responses, thus affecting long-term health outcomes. One example of such stressors is microaggressions – brief interactions that one might not realize are discriminatory or hurtful, but to the person on the receiving end of such comments, they are harmful and they add up. A suspicious look from a store owner as one browses the aisles of a local convenience store, a comment about how one “doesn’t’ seem gay” or “doesn’t sound black” all are examples of microaggressions.

Overt discrimination, expectation of rejection, and hate crimes also contribute to minority stress. LGBTQ individuals often also have to hide their identity whereas POC might not be able to hide their identity. Experiencing constant bombardment of discrimination from the outside world can lead one to internalize these thoughts of homophobia, transphobia, or racism.

Minority stress becomes even more complicated when you apply the theoretical framework of intersectionality – overlapping identities that compound one’s minority stress. Lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, and queer people of color (LGBTQ-POC) are a classic example of intersecting identities. They may experience racism from the LGBT community or homophobia/transphobia from their own racial or ethnic community in addition to the discrimination they already face from the majority population for both identities. Some LGBTQ people of color may feel the need to choose between these two identities, forcing them to compartmentalize one aspect of their identity from the other. Imagine how stressful that must be! In addition, LGBTQ-POC are less likely to come out to family members.

Most of us are aware that health disparities exist, both for the LGBTQ community as well as for racial and ethnic minorities; couple these together and the effect can be additive, placing LGBTQ-POC at higher risk for adverse health outcomes. In the late 1990s, racial and ethnic minority men having sex with men made up 48% of all HIV infection cases, a number that is clearly disproportionate to their representation in our overall society. Given both LGBTQ and POC have issues accessing care, one can only imagine that this would make it hard to get diagnosed or treated regularly for these issues.

Transgender POC also are particularly vulnerable to health disparities. The 2015 U.S. Transgender Survey looked at the experiences of over 28,000 transgender people in the United States, but the survey also broke down the experiences for transgender people of color. Black transgender individuals were more likely than their black cisgender counterparts to experience unemployment (20% vs. 10%) and poverty (38% vs. 24%). They were more likely to experience homelessness compared with the overall transgender sample (42% vs. 30%) and more likely to have been sexually assaulted in their lives (53% vs. 47%). Understandably, 67% of black transgender respondents said they would feel somewhat or very uncomfortable asking the police for help.

The findings were similar for Latinx transgender respondents: 21% were unemployed compared with the overall rate of unemployment for Latinx in the United States at 7%, and 43% were living in poverty compared with 18% of their cisgender peers.

Perhaps the most striking result among American Indian and Alaska Native respondents was that 57% had experienced homelessness – nearly twice the rate of the survey sample overall (30%). For the transgender Asian and Native Hawaiian/Pacific Islander respondents, 32% were living in poverty and 39% had experienced serious psychological distress in the month before completing the survey.

So please, check in on your patients, friends, and family that identify as both LGBTQ and POC. Imagine how scary this must be for LGBTQ youth of color. They can be targeted for both their race and their sexuality and/or gender identity.
 

Dr. Lawlis is assistant professor of pediatrics at the University of Oklahoma Health Sciences Center, Oklahoma City, and an adolescent medicine specialist at OU Children’s. She has no relevant financial disclosures. Email her at pdnews@mdedge.com.

Race is not something I’ve spent that much time contemplating. I grew up in Elizabeth, N.J., a city of just over 100,000, in the 1970s and attended public schools where people came in all shapes and colors; diversity came with the turf, it wasn’t something anyone needed to strive for.

My high school had more than 4,000 students with roughly even numbers of white, black, and Hispanic students. Armed police patrolled the halls, the thick aroma of weed settled in the stairwells and restrooms, girls brought their babies to school to show them off on half-days, and the “preppies” wore Fair Isle sweaters and played on the tennis team. The school’s campus was brand new and every lab, studio, and athletic amenity was state of the art; at the time, it was the most expensive public high school ever built in America. There were black teachers, librarians, and administrators, and segregation was something we read about in history books. I lived in a world of Technicolor and the Civil Rights movement of the 1960s, while still fresh in the minds of the adults, was something that showed up on black-and-white footage from another time.

My world became both wealthier and whiter when I went to college. There were minority students, but many of the black students at the University of Pennsylvania chose to live in the W.E.B. Du Bois College House.

People are often more comfortable being with others who share their backgrounds and this makes for an interesting conundrum: We all agree that desegregation is a good thing, but not everyone wishes to be told either where to go or not go, and there is an odd unbalance to creating a safe place for black students to be, one that both integrates and separates them from the larger community. Perhaps all our lines get fuzzy – I recall when I was on the Maryland Psychiatric Society Women’s Committee and a male psychiatrist signed up to join us – he was politely told that he could not join, but 20 years later, I’m wondering if it was okay to exclude a man who expressed interest in women’s issues.

In medical school, we were taught to note a patient’s age, race, and marital status, and we might learn that certain illnesses were more prevalent in certain populations, but there was no discussion of racial inequities in health care or anywhere else.

What was really different about the world back then, however, was what we didn’t see and what we didn’t talk about. Social media has opened a world where we can share our pain in the moment and we can band together to speak out against crimes and injustices in every realm. From the MeToo moments, to racially motivated police brutality. Cell phone cameras let us record and publicize these moments so the world can be the judge. George Floyd’s sadistic murder by a police officer, as other officers stood by and watched 8 minutes and 46 seconds of torture, left us all triggered, distressed, angry, sad, and activated. Maybe now we can make real progress on a discussion that began in 1992 with the videotape of Rodney King’s assault, a discussion we’ve had over and over to no avail.

Obviously, I have also been provoked by the events of the past weeks – like many Americans, I’ve paused to wonder how I can help the cause, both personally and as a psychiatrist. I would not normally write about racial topics – as a white woman I can listen, but I don’t feel this pain in the same way as someone who has lived with a lifetime of discrimination and oppression. Dr. Lorenzo Norris and Dr. Brandon Newsome,two black psychiatrists, put out a special edition of the MDEdge Psychcast, “The fallout from George Floyd’s death,” and Dr. Norris noted that two of his white colleagues told him they thought of checking on him, but they didn’t know what to say. Yes, I thought, that’s exactly it, I don’t know what to say and I worry that I might unintentionally say something that would worsen someone else’s pain. Staying silent has always seemed to be the safest option. With this article, I’m moving from a place of comfort.

I started my career with a mix of private practice and community psychiatry. There were things I loved about working in a community clinic: the social aspects of being part of a team, seeing a full range of psychopathology, and treating patients in which the racial and ethnic demographics mirrored that of the community. There were things I didn’t like, however. The pay was low, there were constant institutional requirements that were not relevant to the practice of psychiatry, and my relationship with the patients as their prescriber was much less fulfilling than the relationship I have with those I see for both psychotherapy and medication. Ultimately, the hospital shift to electronic medical records was the final distraction that caused me to leave community work.

Like roughly half of psychiatrists in private practice, I don’t participate with commercial or public insurance plans. Early in my career, I worked in a group setting with billing secretaries, and I did participate with Blue Cross, but even with administrative help, nothing about this was easy, and when I left to do solo practice, I left insurance participation behind. I love the autonomy of my career, I’m proud of the care I am able to give in this setting, and I don’t miss the hassles. But I struggle with the fact that this is not the socially responsible thing to do – the out-of-pocket cost of care is higher and the effort of trying to get reimbursed falls to the patient. It means that most of the patients I see have the means to pay for care, none are impoverished or homeless, and while I work in a city that is 62% black, black patients make up a small percentage of my caseload. I don’t think I am unique in this; I would be shocked if any white private practice psychiatrist who specializes in psychotherapy is serving a racially proportionate population. As we start to embrace the idea that people don’t neatly divide into being racist or not, and that bias affects us all, we must acknowledge that medical practices that don’t support racially balanced access to care are part of the problem.

Amy R. Greensfelder, LMSW, is the executive director of Maryland’s Pro Bono Counseling Project (PBCP), an organization that coordinates mental health professionals in private practice in Maryland to volunteer their services to those with limited resources. PBCP has found that 50% of those seeking services share that they are black or African American, and an additional 5% identify as multiracial. Of all of those seeking care approximately 65% are black, Indigenous, or People of Color (BIPOC), and and 14% are Latino/a/x/Hispanic. She says: “We see the racial composition of our clients as a direct demonstration of who is being left behind in the mental health system as it’s currently set up, as BIPOC individuals are represented to a greater degree in our clients than they are in the general population of Maryland. During our intake interview, we provide an opportunity for clients to share if there are certain characteristics they are looking for in a therapist – often black clients share that they would prefer to be matched with a black therapist or a therapist who has received specific training on working with black clients.”

While 13% of the American population is black, only 4% of physicians, 2% of psychiatrists, and 4% of psychologists are black. In her Psychology Today blog post, “Why African Americans Avoid Psychotherapy,” Monnica T. Williams, PhD, notes: “Apprehension about clashing with the values or worldview of the clinician can cause ambivalence about seeking help, and this may be especially true for the many who believe that mental health treatment was designed by white people for white people.” Dr. Williams notes that black Americans also are less likely to seek care because of increased stigma and fear of judgment, concerns about the treatment process, and fears of being involuntarily hospitalized, cost and lack of insurance, and finally logistical issues with work, transportation, and family responsibilities.

George Floyd’s tragic death has led us to a moment of crisis. It’s my hope that the dialogue is now galvanized to make meaningful changes toward fixing racial inequities. I am part of the problem and these conversations need to include more equitable access to psychiatric care.
 

My thanks to Rachel Donabedian and Gina Henderson for their help with this article.


Dr. Miller is coauthor of “Committed: The Battle Over Involuntary Psychiatric Care” (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University, 2016). She has a private practice and is assistant professor of psychiatry and behavioral sciences at Johns Hopkins, both in Baltimore.

Race is not something I’ve spent that much time contemplating. I grew up in Elizabeth, N.J., a city of just over 100,000, in the 1970s and attended public schools where people came in all shapes and colors; diversity came with the turf, it wasn’t something anyone needed to strive for.

My high school had more than 4,000 students with roughly even numbers of white, black, and Hispanic students. Armed police patrolled the halls, the thick aroma of weed settled in the stairwells and restrooms, girls brought their babies to school to show them off on half-days, and the “preppies” wore Fair Isle sweaters and played on the tennis team. The school’s campus was brand new and every lab, studio, and athletic amenity was state of the art; at the time, it was the most expensive public high school ever built in America. There were black teachers, librarians, and administrators, and segregation was something we read about in history books. I lived in a world of Technicolor and the Civil Rights movement of the 1960s, while still fresh in the minds of the adults, was something that showed up on black-and-white footage from another time.

My world became both wealthier and whiter when I went to college. There were minority students, but many of the black students at the University of Pennsylvania chose to live in the W.E.B. Du Bois College House.

People are often more comfortable being with others who share their backgrounds and this makes for an interesting conundrum: We all agree that desegregation is a good thing, but not everyone wishes to be told either where to go or not go, and there is an odd unbalance to creating a safe place for black students to be, one that both integrates and separates them from the larger community. Perhaps all our lines get fuzzy – I recall when I was on the Maryland Psychiatric Society Women’s Committee and a male psychiatrist signed up to join us – he was politely told that he could not join, but 20 years later, I’m wondering if it was okay to exclude a man who expressed interest in women’s issues.

In medical school, we were taught to note a patient’s age, race, and marital status, and we might learn that certain illnesses were more prevalent in certain populations, but there was no discussion of racial inequities in health care or anywhere else.

What was really different about the world back then, however, was what we didn’t see and what we didn’t talk about. Social media has opened a world where we can share our pain in the moment and we can band together to speak out against crimes and injustices in every realm. From the MeToo moments, to racially motivated police brutality. Cell phone cameras let us record and publicize these moments so the world can be the judge. George Floyd’s sadistic murder by a police officer, as other officers stood by and watched 8 minutes and 46 seconds of torture, left us all triggered, distressed, angry, sad, and activated. Maybe now we can make real progress on a discussion that began in 1992 with the videotape of Rodney King’s assault, a discussion we’ve had over and over to no avail.

Obviously, I have also been provoked by the events of the past weeks – like many Americans, I’ve paused to wonder how I can help the cause, both personally and as a psychiatrist. I would not normally write about racial topics – as a white woman I can listen, but I don’t feel this pain in the same way as someone who has lived with a lifetime of discrimination and oppression. Dr. Lorenzo Norris and Dr. Brandon Newsome,two black psychiatrists, put out a special edition of the MDEdge Psychcast, “The fallout from George Floyd’s death,” and Dr. Norris noted that two of his white colleagues told him they thought of checking on him, but they didn’t know what to say. Yes, I thought, that’s exactly it, I don’t know what to say and I worry that I might unintentionally say something that would worsen someone else’s pain. Staying silent has always seemed to be the safest option. With this article, I’m moving from a place of comfort.

I started my career with a mix of private practice and community psychiatry. There were things I loved about working in a community clinic: the social aspects of being part of a team, seeing a full range of psychopathology, and treating patients in which the racial and ethnic demographics mirrored that of the community. There were things I didn’t like, however. The pay was low, there were constant institutional requirements that were not relevant to the practice of psychiatry, and my relationship with the patients as their prescriber was much less fulfilling than the relationship I have with those I see for both psychotherapy and medication. Ultimately, the hospital shift to electronic medical records was the final distraction that caused me to leave community work.

Like roughly half of psychiatrists in private practice, I don’t participate with commercial or public insurance plans. Early in my career, I worked in a group setting with billing secretaries, and I did participate with Blue Cross, but even with administrative help, nothing about this was easy, and when I left to do solo practice, I left insurance participation behind. I love the autonomy of my career, I’m proud of the care I am able to give in this setting, and I don’t miss the hassles. But I struggle with the fact that this is not the socially responsible thing to do – the out-of-pocket cost of care is higher and the effort of trying to get reimbursed falls to the patient. It means that most of the patients I see have the means to pay for care, none are impoverished or homeless, and while I work in a city that is 62% black, black patients make up a small percentage of my caseload. I don’t think I am unique in this; I would be shocked if any white private practice psychiatrist who specializes in psychotherapy is serving a racially proportionate population. As we start to embrace the idea that people don’t neatly divide into being racist or not, and that bias affects us all, we must acknowledge that medical practices that don’t support racially balanced access to care are part of the problem.

Amy R. Greensfelder, LMSW, is the executive director of Maryland’s Pro Bono Counseling Project (PBCP), an organization that coordinates mental health professionals in private practice in Maryland to volunteer their services to those with limited resources. PBCP has found that 50% of those seeking services share that they are black or African American, and an additional 5% identify as multiracial. Of all of those seeking care approximately 65% are black, Indigenous, or People of Color (BIPOC), and and 14% are Latino/a/x/Hispanic. She says: “We see the racial composition of our clients as a direct demonstration of who is being left behind in the mental health system as it’s currently set up, as BIPOC individuals are represented to a greater degree in our clients than they are in the general population of Maryland. During our intake interview, we provide an opportunity for clients to share if there are certain characteristics they are looking for in a therapist – often black clients share that they would prefer to be matched with a black therapist or a therapist who has received specific training on working with black clients.”

While 13% of the American population is black, only 4% of physicians, 2% of psychiatrists, and 4% of psychologists are black. In her Psychology Today blog post, “Why African Americans Avoid Psychotherapy,” Monnica T. Williams, PhD, notes: “Apprehension about clashing with the values or worldview of the clinician can cause ambivalence about seeking help, and this may be especially true for the many who believe that mental health treatment was designed by white people for white people.” Dr. Williams notes that black Americans also are less likely to seek care because of increased stigma and fear of judgment, concerns about the treatment process, and fears of being involuntarily hospitalized, cost and lack of insurance, and finally logistical issues with work, transportation, and family responsibilities.

George Floyd’s tragic death has led us to a moment of crisis. It’s my hope that the dialogue is now galvanized to make meaningful changes toward fixing racial inequities. I am part of the problem and these conversations need to include more equitable access to psychiatric care.
 

My thanks to Rachel Donabedian and Gina Henderson for their help with this article.


Dr. Miller is coauthor of “Committed: The Battle Over Involuntary Psychiatric Care” (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University, 2016). She has a private practice and is assistant professor of psychiatry and behavioral sciences at Johns Hopkins, both in Baltimore.

Race is not something I’ve spent that much time contemplating. I grew up in Elizabeth, N.J., a city of just over 100,000, in the 1970s and attended public schools where people came in all shapes and colors; diversity came with the turf, it wasn’t something anyone needed to strive for.

My high school had more than 4,000 students with roughly even numbers of white, black, and Hispanic students. Armed police patrolled the halls, the thick aroma of weed settled in the stairwells and restrooms, girls brought their babies to school to show them off on half-days, and the “preppies” wore Fair Isle sweaters and played on the tennis team. The school’s campus was brand new and every lab, studio, and athletic amenity was state of the art; at the time, it was the most expensive public high school ever built in America. There were black teachers, librarians, and administrators, and segregation was something we read about in history books. I lived in a world of Technicolor and the Civil Rights movement of the 1960s, while still fresh in the minds of the adults, was something that showed up on black-and-white footage from another time.

My world became both wealthier and whiter when I went to college. There were minority students, but many of the black students at the University of Pennsylvania chose to live in the W.E.B. Du Bois College House.

People are often more comfortable being with others who share their backgrounds and this makes for an interesting conundrum: We all agree that desegregation is a good thing, but not everyone wishes to be told either where to go or not go, and there is an odd unbalance to creating a safe place for black students to be, one that both integrates and separates them from the larger community. Perhaps all our lines get fuzzy – I recall when I was on the Maryland Psychiatric Society Women’s Committee and a male psychiatrist signed up to join us – he was politely told that he could not join, but 20 years later, I’m wondering if it was okay to exclude a man who expressed interest in women’s issues.

In medical school, we were taught to note a patient’s age, race, and marital status, and we might learn that certain illnesses were more prevalent in certain populations, but there was no discussion of racial inequities in health care or anywhere else.

What was really different about the world back then, however, was what we didn’t see and what we didn’t talk about. Social media has opened a world where we can share our pain in the moment and we can band together to speak out against crimes and injustices in every realm. From the MeToo moments, to racially motivated police brutality. Cell phone cameras let us record and publicize these moments so the world can be the judge. George Floyd’s sadistic murder by a police officer, as other officers stood by and watched 8 minutes and 46 seconds of torture, left us all triggered, distressed, angry, sad, and activated. Maybe now we can make real progress on a discussion that began in 1992 with the videotape of Rodney King’s assault, a discussion we’ve had over and over to no avail.

Obviously, I have also been provoked by the events of the past weeks – like many Americans, I’ve paused to wonder how I can help the cause, both personally and as a psychiatrist. I would not normally write about racial topics – as a white woman I can listen, but I don’t feel this pain in the same way as someone who has lived with a lifetime of discrimination and oppression. Dr. Lorenzo Norris and Dr. Brandon Newsome,two black psychiatrists, put out a special edition of the MDEdge Psychcast, “The fallout from George Floyd’s death,” and Dr. Norris noted that two of his white colleagues told him they thought of checking on him, but they didn’t know what to say. Yes, I thought, that’s exactly it, I don’t know what to say and I worry that I might unintentionally say something that would worsen someone else’s pain. Staying silent has always seemed to be the safest option. With this article, I’m moving from a place of comfort.

I started my career with a mix of private practice and community psychiatry. There were things I loved about working in a community clinic: the social aspects of being part of a team, seeing a full range of psychopathology, and treating patients in which the racial and ethnic demographics mirrored that of the community. There were things I didn’t like, however. The pay was low, there were constant institutional requirements that were not relevant to the practice of psychiatry, and my relationship with the patients as their prescriber was much less fulfilling than the relationship I have with those I see for both psychotherapy and medication. Ultimately, the hospital shift to electronic medical records was the final distraction that caused me to leave community work.

Like roughly half of psychiatrists in private practice, I don’t participate with commercial or public insurance plans. Early in my career, I worked in a group setting with billing secretaries, and I did participate with Blue Cross, but even with administrative help, nothing about this was easy, and when I left to do solo practice, I left insurance participation behind. I love the autonomy of my career, I’m proud of the care I am able to give in this setting, and I don’t miss the hassles. But I struggle with the fact that this is not the socially responsible thing to do – the out-of-pocket cost of care is higher and the effort of trying to get reimbursed falls to the patient. It means that most of the patients I see have the means to pay for care, none are impoverished or homeless, and while I work in a city that is 62% black, black patients make up a small percentage of my caseload. I don’t think I am unique in this; I would be shocked if any white private practice psychiatrist who specializes in psychotherapy is serving a racially proportionate population. As we start to embrace the idea that people don’t neatly divide into being racist or not, and that bias affects us all, we must acknowledge that medical practices that don’t support racially balanced access to care are part of the problem.

Amy R. Greensfelder, LMSW, is the executive director of Maryland’s Pro Bono Counseling Project (PBCP), an organization that coordinates mental health professionals in private practice in Maryland to volunteer their services to those with limited resources. PBCP has found that 50% of those seeking services share that they are black or African American, and an additional 5% identify as multiracial. Of all of those seeking care approximately 65% are black, Indigenous, or People of Color (BIPOC), and and 14% are Latino/a/x/Hispanic. She says: “We see the racial composition of our clients as a direct demonstration of who is being left behind in the mental health system as it’s currently set up, as BIPOC individuals are represented to a greater degree in our clients than they are in the general population of Maryland. During our intake interview, we provide an opportunity for clients to share if there are certain characteristics they are looking for in a therapist – often black clients share that they would prefer to be matched with a black therapist or a therapist who has received specific training on working with black clients.”

While 13% of the American population is black, only 4% of physicians, 2% of psychiatrists, and 4% of psychologists are black. In her Psychology Today blog post, “Why African Americans Avoid Psychotherapy,” Monnica T. Williams, PhD, notes: “Apprehension about clashing with the values or worldview of the clinician can cause ambivalence about seeking help, and this may be especially true for the many who believe that mental health treatment was designed by white people for white people.” Dr. Williams notes that black Americans also are less likely to seek care because of increased stigma and fear of judgment, concerns about the treatment process, and fears of being involuntarily hospitalized, cost and lack of insurance, and finally logistical issues with work, transportation, and family responsibilities.

George Floyd’s tragic death has led us to a moment of crisis. It’s my hope that the dialogue is now galvanized to make meaningful changes toward fixing racial inequities. I am part of the problem and these conversations need to include more equitable access to psychiatric care.
 

My thanks to Rachel Donabedian and Gina Henderson for their help with this article.


Dr. Miller is coauthor of “Committed: The Battle Over Involuntary Psychiatric Care” (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University, 2016). She has a private practice and is assistant professor of psychiatry and behavioral sciences at Johns Hopkins, both in Baltimore.

The death of George Floyd and other African Americans spurred the Association of Black Cardiologists, the American Heart Association, and the American College of Cardiology to join forces and issue an urgent letter denouncing recent and ongoing events.

Starting off by acknowledging that these are “difficult and disturbing times,” the presidents of the three societies tied the violence into the bigger public health picture. “Like cardiovascular disease, acts of violence and racism are core causes of psychosocial stress that promote poor well-being and cardiovascular health, especially for communities of color.”

“It’s not just one quick solution, one quick letter. It’s more of an ongoing project to raise awareness and have really defined projects. We want to have goals, tactics, and measurable outcomes. We want to make sure it’s not just a banner on the wall,” Athena Poppas, MD, president of the American College of Cardiology and one of three physicians signing the letter, said in an interview.

The Association of Black Cardiologists drafted the statement and asked the AHA and ACC if they wanted to sign on. “It felt important to join them and follow their lead,” she said. “There is a clear link between psychosocial stress and discrimination and health equity in the communities.”

Interestingly, the ABC and ACC have an existing partnership, one that included creating a “Campaign for the Future” a little more than a year ago. One of the focuses is on reducing health disparities and starting a diversity and inclusion task force that later became a committee. The groups held a joint board of trustees meeting at Morehouse University, Atlanta, in January 2020. Thinking about that time, Dr. Poppas added, “who knew what was about to transpire over the next few months?”

The letter is only one component of an ongoing effort to “find concrete ways to make change, both within the college and within our profession,” added Dr. Poppas, chief of cardiology and professor of medicine at Brown University, Providence, R.I., and director of the Lifespan Cardiovascular Institute of Rhode Island, Miriam Hospitals, and Newport Hospitals. “Thereby, there is good data that you affect health equity in the population as well.”

“We DENOUNCE incidents of racism and violence that continue to ravage our communities,” the society leaders wrote in the letter. “Given that heart disease and stroke are the leading causes of death for communities of color, particularly African Americans who have the lowest life expectancy of all racial/ethnic groups living in the United States, we are extremely disturbed by violent acts that cut to the core of the lives of our community.”

Other societies released similar statements. For example, the American College of Physicians expressed “grave concern” about recent events and the American Medical Association released a statement entitled “Police brutality must stop.”

A cardiologist speaks out

“Thank you to my organizations, the Association of Black Cardiologists and the American College of Cardiology, for taking a stand,” Travis C. Batts, MD, said in a video statement posted to YouTube on June 2, 2020.

“As an African American male who has sons, brothers, and friends who are also African American, I oftentimes have angst, particularly with my sons. Despite what I do to create an environment that cultivates education and puts them in the right position, there are some people who would stop just at how they look when they approach them,” Dr. Batts said.

“I always have that fear as a father that at some point they may engage with law enforcement – and it may not turn out the way we want it to,” said Dr. Batts, chairman of medical sub-specialties and medical director of the cardiology clinic at Wilford Hall Ambulatory Surgical Center at Lackland Air Force Base, Tex. He also is an associate professor of cardiovascular medicine for the Uniformed Services University of the Health Sciences, Bethesda, Md., and is an adjunct assistant professor at Texas A&M University. He went on in the video to describe how a personal encounter with police years ago changed his life.

The urgent letter from the cardiology societies speaks to health care disparities, Dr. Batts said, “but it doesn’t stop there. It talks about their goals to balance these issues that we see as a pervasive problem in our community.”

The societies point out that George Floyd’s death is not an isolated incident. “Mr. Floyd’s death comes on the heels of other recent incidents caught on camera. In another 2020 incident, Ahmaud Arbery was shot and killed while jogging in his hometown of Brunswick, Ga. Christian Cooper is fortunately alive and well to speak to the Memorial Day incident in New York’s Central Park where he was accused of threatening the life of a woman while bird watching.” They added that “another senseless death involves officers entering the Louisville, Kent., home of emergency medical technician Breonna Taylor.”

Dr. Batts said this portion of the statement was particularly poignant: “We stand and link arms in solidarity with efforts to dismantle systems that maintain excess morbidity and mortality, especially among vulnerable populations and those historically oppressed. Indeed, our collective vast membership, many of whom are at the front lines of clinical health care, has taken an oath to decisively and with kindness, compassion and grace act to relieve suffering related to ‘I can’t breathe’ in order to preserve life.”

A Positive Response

The response to the urgent letter has been “overwhelmingly positive,” Dr. Poppas said. “This isn’t political, per se. This is really about justice, about health equity, and about being moral and conscious human beings. People I hadn’t heard from in years said, ‘thank you for doing this.’ ” The comments on social media were “almost uniformly positive,” she added. “There is always one or two people who feel this isn’t what cardiology is about.”

“Although making a statement is important, so is doing the hard work to make change,” Dr. Poppas said. The goal involves “rolling up our sleeves and spending the time, the money and the energy to make changes – so 5-10 years from now, it looks different.”

In addition to Dr. Poppas, Michelle A. Albert, MD, MPH, president of the Association of Black Cardiologists and Robert A. Harrington, MD, president of the American Heart Association, signed the letter. Dr. Pappas and Dr. Batts had no relevant disclosures.

The death of George Floyd and other African Americans spurred the Association of Black Cardiologists, the American Heart Association, and the American College of Cardiology to join forces and issue an urgent letter denouncing recent and ongoing events.

Starting off by acknowledging that these are “difficult and disturbing times,” the presidents of the three societies tied the violence into the bigger public health picture. “Like cardiovascular disease, acts of violence and racism are core causes of psychosocial stress that promote poor well-being and cardiovascular health, especially for communities of color.”

“It’s not just one quick solution, one quick letter. It’s more of an ongoing project to raise awareness and have really defined projects. We want to have goals, tactics, and measurable outcomes. We want to make sure it’s not just a banner on the wall,” Athena Poppas, MD, president of the American College of Cardiology and one of three physicians signing the letter, said in an interview.

The Association of Black Cardiologists drafted the statement and asked the AHA and ACC if they wanted to sign on. “It felt important to join them and follow their lead,” she said. “There is a clear link between psychosocial stress and discrimination and health equity in the communities.”

Interestingly, the ABC and ACC have an existing partnership, one that included creating a “Campaign for the Future” a little more than a year ago. One of the focuses is on reducing health disparities and starting a diversity and inclusion task force that later became a committee. The groups held a joint board of trustees meeting at Morehouse University, Atlanta, in January 2020. Thinking about that time, Dr. Poppas added, “who knew what was about to transpire over the next few months?”

The letter is only one component of an ongoing effort to “find concrete ways to make change, both within the college and within our profession,” added Dr. Poppas, chief of cardiology and professor of medicine at Brown University, Providence, R.I., and director of the Lifespan Cardiovascular Institute of Rhode Island, Miriam Hospitals, and Newport Hospitals. “Thereby, there is good data that you affect health equity in the population as well.”

“We DENOUNCE incidents of racism and violence that continue to ravage our communities,” the society leaders wrote in the letter. “Given that heart disease and stroke are the leading causes of death for communities of color, particularly African Americans who have the lowest life expectancy of all racial/ethnic groups living in the United States, we are extremely disturbed by violent acts that cut to the core of the lives of our community.”

Other societies released similar statements. For example, the American College of Physicians expressed “grave concern” about recent events and the American Medical Association released a statement entitled “Police brutality must stop.”

A cardiologist speaks out

“Thank you to my organizations, the Association of Black Cardiologists and the American College of Cardiology, for taking a stand,” Travis C. Batts, MD, said in a video statement posted to YouTube on June 2, 2020.

“As an African American male who has sons, brothers, and friends who are also African American, I oftentimes have angst, particularly with my sons. Despite what I do to create an environment that cultivates education and puts them in the right position, there are some people who would stop just at how they look when they approach them,” Dr. Batts said.

“I always have that fear as a father that at some point they may engage with law enforcement – and it may not turn out the way we want it to,” said Dr. Batts, chairman of medical sub-specialties and medical director of the cardiology clinic at Wilford Hall Ambulatory Surgical Center at Lackland Air Force Base, Tex. He also is an associate professor of cardiovascular medicine for the Uniformed Services University of the Health Sciences, Bethesda, Md., and is an adjunct assistant professor at Texas A&M University. He went on in the video to describe how a personal encounter with police years ago changed his life.

The urgent letter from the cardiology societies speaks to health care disparities, Dr. Batts said, “but it doesn’t stop there. It talks about their goals to balance these issues that we see as a pervasive problem in our community.”

The societies point out that George Floyd’s death is not an isolated incident. “Mr. Floyd’s death comes on the heels of other recent incidents caught on camera. In another 2020 incident, Ahmaud Arbery was shot and killed while jogging in his hometown of Brunswick, Ga. Christian Cooper is fortunately alive and well to speak to the Memorial Day incident in New York’s Central Park where he was accused of threatening the life of a woman while bird watching.” They added that “another senseless death involves officers entering the Louisville, Kent., home of emergency medical technician Breonna Taylor.”

Dr. Batts said this portion of the statement was particularly poignant: “We stand and link arms in solidarity with efforts to dismantle systems that maintain excess morbidity and mortality, especially among vulnerable populations and those historically oppressed. Indeed, our collective vast membership, many of whom are at the front lines of clinical health care, has taken an oath to decisively and with kindness, compassion and grace act to relieve suffering related to ‘I can’t breathe’ in order to preserve life.”

A Positive Response

The response to the urgent letter has been “overwhelmingly positive,” Dr. Poppas said. “This isn’t political, per se. This is really about justice, about health equity, and about being moral and conscious human beings. People I hadn’t heard from in years said, ‘thank you for doing this.’ ” The comments on social media were “almost uniformly positive,” she added. “There is always one or two people who feel this isn’t what cardiology is about.”

“Although making a statement is important, so is doing the hard work to make change,” Dr. Poppas said. The goal involves “rolling up our sleeves and spending the time, the money and the energy to make changes – so 5-10 years from now, it looks different.”

In addition to Dr. Poppas, Michelle A. Albert, MD, MPH, president of the Association of Black Cardiologists and Robert A. Harrington, MD, president of the American Heart Association, signed the letter. Dr. Pappas and Dr. Batts had no relevant disclosures.

The death of George Floyd and other African Americans spurred the Association of Black Cardiologists, the American Heart Association, and the American College of Cardiology to join forces and issue an urgent letter denouncing recent and ongoing events.

Starting off by acknowledging that these are “difficult and disturbing times,” the presidents of the three societies tied the violence into the bigger public health picture. “Like cardiovascular disease, acts of violence and racism are core causes of psychosocial stress that promote poor well-being and cardiovascular health, especially for communities of color.”

“It’s not just one quick solution, one quick letter. It’s more of an ongoing project to raise awareness and have really defined projects. We want to have goals, tactics, and measurable outcomes. We want to make sure it’s not just a banner on the wall,” Athena Poppas, MD, president of the American College of Cardiology and one of three physicians signing the letter, said in an interview.

The Association of Black Cardiologists drafted the statement and asked the AHA and ACC if they wanted to sign on. “It felt important to join them and follow their lead,” she said. “There is a clear link between psychosocial stress and discrimination and health equity in the communities.”

Interestingly, the ABC and ACC have an existing partnership, one that included creating a “Campaign for the Future” a little more than a year ago. One of the focuses is on reducing health disparities and starting a diversity and inclusion task force that later became a committee. The groups held a joint board of trustees meeting at Morehouse University, Atlanta, in January 2020. Thinking about that time, Dr. Poppas added, “who knew what was about to transpire over the next few months?”

The letter is only one component of an ongoing effort to “find concrete ways to make change, both within the college and within our profession,” added Dr. Poppas, chief of cardiology and professor of medicine at Brown University, Providence, R.I., and director of the Lifespan Cardiovascular Institute of Rhode Island, Miriam Hospitals, and Newport Hospitals. “Thereby, there is good data that you affect health equity in the population as well.”

“We DENOUNCE incidents of racism and violence that continue to ravage our communities,” the society leaders wrote in the letter. “Given that heart disease and stroke are the leading causes of death for communities of color, particularly African Americans who have the lowest life expectancy of all racial/ethnic groups living in the United States, we are extremely disturbed by violent acts that cut to the core of the lives of our community.”

Other societies released similar statements. For example, the American College of Physicians expressed “grave concern” about recent events and the American Medical Association released a statement entitled “Police brutality must stop.”

A cardiologist speaks out

“Thank you to my organizations, the Association of Black Cardiologists and the American College of Cardiology, for taking a stand,” Travis C. Batts, MD, said in a video statement posted to YouTube on June 2, 2020.

“As an African American male who has sons, brothers, and friends who are also African American, I oftentimes have angst, particularly with my sons. Despite what I do to create an environment that cultivates education and puts them in the right position, there are some people who would stop just at how they look when they approach them,” Dr. Batts said.

“I always have that fear as a father that at some point they may engage with law enforcement – and it may not turn out the way we want it to,” said Dr. Batts, chairman of medical sub-specialties and medical director of the cardiology clinic at Wilford Hall Ambulatory Surgical Center at Lackland Air Force Base, Tex. He also is an associate professor of cardiovascular medicine for the Uniformed Services University of the Health Sciences, Bethesda, Md., and is an adjunct assistant professor at Texas A&M University. He went on in the video to describe how a personal encounter with police years ago changed his life.

The urgent letter from the cardiology societies speaks to health care disparities, Dr. Batts said, “but it doesn’t stop there. It talks about their goals to balance these issues that we see as a pervasive problem in our community.”

The societies point out that George Floyd’s death is not an isolated incident. “Mr. Floyd’s death comes on the heels of other recent incidents caught on camera. In another 2020 incident, Ahmaud Arbery was shot and killed while jogging in his hometown of Brunswick, Ga. Christian Cooper is fortunately alive and well to speak to the Memorial Day incident in New York’s Central Park where he was accused of threatening the life of a woman while bird watching.” They added that “another senseless death involves officers entering the Louisville, Kent., home of emergency medical technician Breonna Taylor.”

Dr. Batts said this portion of the statement was particularly poignant: “We stand and link arms in solidarity with efforts to dismantle systems that maintain excess morbidity and mortality, especially among vulnerable populations and those historically oppressed. Indeed, our collective vast membership, many of whom are at the front lines of clinical health care, has taken an oath to decisively and with kindness, compassion and grace act to relieve suffering related to ‘I can’t breathe’ in order to preserve life.”

A Positive Response

The response to the urgent letter has been “overwhelmingly positive,” Dr. Poppas said. “This isn’t political, per se. This is really about justice, about health equity, and about being moral and conscious human beings. People I hadn’t heard from in years said, ‘thank you for doing this.’ ” The comments on social media were “almost uniformly positive,” she added. “There is always one or two people who feel this isn’t what cardiology is about.”

“Although making a statement is important, so is doing the hard work to make change,” Dr. Poppas said. The goal involves “rolling up our sleeves and spending the time, the money and the energy to make changes – so 5-10 years from now, it looks different.”

In addition to Dr. Poppas, Michelle A. Albert, MD, MPH, president of the Association of Black Cardiologists and Robert A. Harrington, MD, president of the American Heart Association, signed the letter. Dr. Pappas and Dr. Batts had no relevant disclosures.

Participants in the growing #WhiteCoats4BlackLives protest against racism say it is a chance to use their status as trusted messengers, show themselves as allies of people of color, and demonstrate that they are intimately familiar with how racism has contributed to health disparities, like those on vivid display during the COVID-19 pandemic.

Sporadic protests – with participants in scrubs or white coats kneeling for 8 minutes and 46 seconds in memory of George Floyd – have quickly grown into organized, ongoing, large-scale events at hospitals, medical campuses, and city centers in New York, Indianapolis, Atlanta, Austin, Houston, Boston, Miami, Portland, Sacramento, Los Angeles, Philadelphia, and Albuquerque, among others.

Sarah Mariano

Now is different

Some residents said they felt particularly moved to act now – as the country entered a second week of protests in response to George Floyd’s death and as the COVID-19 pandemic highlighted the devastating toll of health disparities.

“This protest feels different to me,” said Ian Fields, MD, a urogynecology fellow at Oregon Health Sciences University (OHSU) School of Medicine. “The events over the last couple of weeks were just a big catalyst for this to explode,” he said.

“I was very intent, as a white male physician, just coming to acknowledge the privilege that I have, and to do something,” Dr. Fields said, adding that as an obstetrician-gynecologist, he sees the results of health disparities daily. He took part in a kneel-in and demonstration with OHSU colleagues on June 2 at Portland’s Pioneer Courthouse Square.

It’s okay to be sad and mourn, Dr. Fields said, but, he added, “nobody needs our tears necessarily right now. They need us to show up and to speak up about what we see going on.”

“It feels like it’s a national conversation,” said Dr. Verghese. The White Coats movement is “not an issue that’s confined to the black community – this is not an issue that’s a ‘black thing’ – this is a humanitarian thing,” she said.

Dr. Verghese, an Indian American who said that no one would mistake her for being white, said she still wants to acknowledge that she has privilege, as well as biases. All the patients in the COVID-19 unit where she works are African American, but she said she hadn’t initially noticed.

“What’s shocking is that I didn’t think about it,” she said. “I do have to recognize my own biases.”

Protesting During a Pandemic

Despite the demands of treating COVID-19 patients, healthcare professionals have made the White Coat protests a priority, they said. Most – but not all – of the White Coats protests have been on medical campuses, allowing health care professionals to quickly assemble and get back to work. Plus, all of the protests have called on attendees to march and gather safely – with masks and distancing.

“Seeing that we are working in the hospital, it’s important for us to be wearing our masks, to be social distancing,” Dr. Azu said. Organizers asked attendees to ensure that they protested in a way that kept them “from worsening the COVID epidemic,” said Dr. Azu.

Unlike many others, the first protest in Portland was in conjunction with a larger group that assembles every evening in the square, said Dr. Fields. The physician protesters were wearing masks and maintaining distance from each other, especially when they kneeled, he said.

The protests have provided an escape from the futility of not being able to do anything for COVID-19 patients except to provide support, said Dr. Verghese. “In so many ways, we find ourselves powerless,” she said.

Protesting, Dr. Verghese added, was “one tiny moment where I got to regain my sense of agency, that I could actually do something about this.”

This article first appeared on Medscape.com.

Participants in the growing #WhiteCoats4BlackLives protest against racism say it is a chance to use their status as trusted messengers, show themselves as allies of people of color, and demonstrate that they are intimately familiar with how racism has contributed to health disparities, like those on vivid display during the COVID-19 pandemic.

Sporadic protests – with participants in scrubs or white coats kneeling for 8 minutes and 46 seconds in memory of George Floyd – have quickly grown into organized, ongoing, large-scale events at hospitals, medical campuses, and city centers in New York, Indianapolis, Atlanta, Austin, Houston, Boston, Miami, Portland, Sacramento, Los Angeles, Philadelphia, and Albuquerque, among others.

Sarah Mariano

Now is different

Some residents said they felt particularly moved to act now – as the country entered a second week of protests in response to George Floyd’s death and as the COVID-19 pandemic highlighted the devastating toll of health disparities.

“This protest feels different to me,” said Ian Fields, MD, a urogynecology fellow at Oregon Health Sciences University (OHSU) School of Medicine. “The events over the last couple of weeks were just a big catalyst for this to explode,” he said.

“I was very intent, as a white male physician, just coming to acknowledge the privilege that I have, and to do something,” Dr. Fields said, adding that as an obstetrician-gynecologist, he sees the results of health disparities daily. He took part in a kneel-in and demonstration with OHSU colleagues on June 2 at Portland’s Pioneer Courthouse Square.

It’s okay to be sad and mourn, Dr. Fields said, but, he added, “nobody needs our tears necessarily right now. They need us to show up and to speak up about what we see going on.”

“It feels like it’s a national conversation,” said Dr. Verghese. The White Coats movement is “not an issue that’s confined to the black community – this is not an issue that’s a ‘black thing’ – this is a humanitarian thing,” she said.

Dr. Verghese, an Indian American who said that no one would mistake her for being white, said she still wants to acknowledge that she has privilege, as well as biases. All the patients in the COVID-19 unit where she works are African American, but she said she hadn’t initially noticed.

“What’s shocking is that I didn’t think about it,” she said. “I do have to recognize my own biases.”

Protesting During a Pandemic

Despite the demands of treating COVID-19 patients, healthcare professionals have made the White Coat protests a priority, they said. Most – but not all – of the White Coats protests have been on medical campuses, allowing health care professionals to quickly assemble and get back to work. Plus, all of the protests have called on attendees to march and gather safely – with masks and distancing.

“Seeing that we are working in the hospital, it’s important for us to be wearing our masks, to be social distancing,” Dr. Azu said. Organizers asked attendees to ensure that they protested in a way that kept them “from worsening the COVID epidemic,” said Dr. Azu.

Unlike many others, the first protest in Portland was in conjunction with a larger group that assembles every evening in the square, said Dr. Fields. The physician protesters were wearing masks and maintaining distance from each other, especially when they kneeled, he said.

The protests have provided an escape from the futility of not being able to do anything for COVID-19 patients except to provide support, said Dr. Verghese. “In so many ways, we find ourselves powerless,” she said.

Protesting, Dr. Verghese added, was “one tiny moment where I got to regain my sense of agency, that I could actually do something about this.”

This article first appeared on Medscape.com.

Participants in the growing #WhiteCoats4BlackLives protest against racism say it is a chance to use their status as trusted messengers, show themselves as allies of people of color, and demonstrate that they are intimately familiar with how racism has contributed to health disparities, like those on vivid display during the COVID-19 pandemic.

Sporadic protests – with participants in scrubs or white coats kneeling for 8 minutes and 46 seconds in memory of George Floyd – have quickly grown into organized, ongoing, large-scale events at hospitals, medical campuses, and city centers in New York, Indianapolis, Atlanta, Austin, Houston, Boston, Miami, Portland, Sacramento, Los Angeles, Philadelphia, and Albuquerque, among others.

Sarah Mariano

Now is different

Some residents said they felt particularly moved to act now – as the country entered a second week of protests in response to George Floyd’s death and as the COVID-19 pandemic highlighted the devastating toll of health disparities.

“This protest feels different to me,” said Ian Fields, MD, a urogynecology fellow at Oregon Health Sciences University (OHSU) School of Medicine. “The events over the last couple of weeks were just a big catalyst for this to explode,” he said.

“I was very intent, as a white male physician, just coming to acknowledge the privilege that I have, and to do something,” Dr. Fields said, adding that as an obstetrician-gynecologist, he sees the results of health disparities daily. He took part in a kneel-in and demonstration with OHSU colleagues on June 2 at Portland’s Pioneer Courthouse Square.

It’s okay to be sad and mourn, Dr. Fields said, but, he added, “nobody needs our tears necessarily right now. They need us to show up and to speak up about what we see going on.”

“It feels like it’s a national conversation,” said Dr. Verghese. The White Coats movement is “not an issue that’s confined to the black community – this is not an issue that’s a ‘black thing’ – this is a humanitarian thing,” she said.

Dr. Verghese, an Indian American who said that no one would mistake her for being white, said she still wants to acknowledge that she has privilege, as well as biases. All the patients in the COVID-19 unit where she works are African American, but she said she hadn’t initially noticed.

“What’s shocking is that I didn’t think about it,” she said. “I do have to recognize my own biases.”

Protesting During a Pandemic

Despite the demands of treating COVID-19 patients, healthcare professionals have made the White Coat protests a priority, they said. Most – but not all – of the White Coats protests have been on medical campuses, allowing health care professionals to quickly assemble and get back to work. Plus, all of the protests have called on attendees to march and gather safely – with masks and distancing.

“Seeing that we are working in the hospital, it’s important for us to be wearing our masks, to be social distancing,” Dr. Azu said. Organizers asked attendees to ensure that they protested in a way that kept them “from worsening the COVID epidemic,” said Dr. Azu.

Unlike many others, the first protest in Portland was in conjunction with a larger group that assembles every evening in the square, said Dr. Fields. The physician protesters were wearing masks and maintaining distance from each other, especially when they kneeled, he said.

The protests have provided an escape from the futility of not being able to do anything for COVID-19 patients except to provide support, said Dr. Verghese. “In so many ways, we find ourselves powerless,” she said.

Protesting, Dr. Verghese added, was “one tiny moment where I got to regain my sense of agency, that I could actually do something about this.”

This article first appeared on Medscape.com.

Dermatologic treatment of patients with skin of color offers specific challenges. Studies have reported structural, morphologic, and physiologic distinctions among different ethnic groups,¹ which may account for distinct clinical presentations of skin disease seen in patients with skin of color. Patients with skin of color are at increased risk for specific dermatologic conditions, such as postinflammatory hyperpigmentation, keloid development, and central centrifugal cicatricial alopecia.^2,3 Furthermore, although skin cancer is less prevalent in patients with skin of color, it often presents at a more advanced stage and with a worse prognosis compared to white patients.⁴

Individuals with skin of color make up the majority of the world’s population and a rapidly expanding portion of the US population. By the year 2044, more than half of all Americans are projected to belong to an ethnic group that is currently a minority. By 2060, the population of citizens identifying with 2 or more races will increase by 226%, the Asian population is projected to grow by 128%, the Hispanic population will increase by 115%, and the black population will increase by 42%.⁵ The racial and ethnic composition of the United States is evolving, and dermatologic care must evolve accordingly to address patients’ unique concerns. It is essential for future dermatologists to be knowledgeable about dermatologic conditions presenting in patients of various ethnic backgrounds.

Prior studies have demonstrated the need for increased exposure, education, and training in diseases pertaining to skin of color in US dermatology residency programs.^6-8 The aim of this study was to assess if dermatologists in-training feel that their residency curriculum sufficiently educates them on the needs of patients with skin of color.

Methods

A 10-question anonymous survey was emailed to 109 dermatology residency programs to evaluate the attitudes of dermatology residents about their exposure to patients with skin of color and their skin-of-color curriculum. The study included individuals 18 years or older who were current residents in a dermatology program accredited by the Accreditation Council for Graduate Medical Education. Responses were measured on a 1 to 3 Likert scale, ranging from agree, neutral, and disagree. Data were analyzed using the Fisher exact test, and the statistical significance was set at P<.05.

Results

Forty-three dermatology residents completed the survey. Respondents self-selected their regions, with 8 (19%) from the Northeast (NE), 7 (16%) from the Southeast (SE), 12 (28%) from the Midwest (MW), 8 (19%) from the Southwest (SW), and 8 (18%) from the Northwest (NW)(Table 1). Overall, 31 (72%) respondents agreed that their practice treats a diverse patient population. Respondents who agreed most often were from the NE, SE, and SW. Less than two-thirds of respondents from the MW agreed, and only half of respondents from the NW agreed (Table 2). Although 37% of all respondents agreed that a dedicated multiethnic skin clinic is important for residents, 5 (63%) NE residents disagreed with this statement compared to 5 (42%) MW residents and 5 (63%) NW residents who agreed (P<.005). Overall, 39 (91%) respondents agreed that dedicated lectures on skin conditions in skin of color patients are important to gain competence in treating patients. Only 4 respondents were neutral to this question, 2 (17%) MW residents and 2 (25%) SW residents. When asked if reading textbook chapters on multiethnic skin is important to gain competence, 36 (83%) respondents agreed. Two respondents disagreed, 1 (13%) from the NE and 1 (8%) from the MW. Overall, 23% of respondents agreed that a rotation dedicated to skin of color is important to build competency. There was a significant difference in responses between the NE and MW (P=.032) and between the NE and NW (P=.019). Furthermore, 19 (44%) respondents agreed that having a faculty member or departmental expert is important for residents to gain competence in treating conditions affecting skin of color. Again, there was a significant difference in responses between the NE and MW (P=.003) and between the SE and MW (P=.009).

When asked the number of hours of lecture per month necessary to gain competence in conditions affecting patients with skin of color, 67% agreed that 1 to 5 hours was sufficient (Table 3). There were significant differences in the responses between the NE and SE (P=.024) and the SE and MW (P=.007). Of all respondents, 53% reported 1 to 5 months of clinical training are needed to gain competence in treating conditions affecting patients with skin of color, with significant differences in responses between the NE and MW (P<.001), the NE and SW (P=.019), and the SE and MW (P=.015)(Table 4).

Comment

Responses varied by practicing region. Less ethnically diverse regions, such as the MW and NW, were more likely to agree that dedicated clinics and rotations are important to gain competence compared to more ethnically diverse regions such as the NE, SE, and SW. Overall, more residents reported that dedicated lectures and textbook chapters were important to gain competency compared to dedicated clinics or rotations.

Although interactive lectures and textbook readings are important for obtaining a foundational understanding of dermatologic disease, they cannot substitute for clinical interactions and hands-on experience treating patients with skin of color.⁹ Not only do clinical interactions encourage independent reading and the study of encountered diagnoses, but intercommunication with patients may have a more profound and lasting impact on residents’ education.

Different regions of the United States have varying distributions of patients with skin of color, and dermatology residency program training reflects these disparities.⁶ In areas of less diversity, dermatology residents examine, diagnose, and treat substantially fewer patients with skin of color. The desire for more diverse training supports the prior findings of Nijhawan et al⁶ and is reflected in the responses we received in our study, whereby residents from the less ethnically diversified regions of the MW and NW were more likely to agree that clinics and rotations were necessary for training in preparation to sufficiently address the needs of patients with skin of color.

One way to compensate for the lack of ethnic diversity encountered in areas such as the MW and NW would be to develop educational programs featuring experts on skin of color.⁶ These specialists would not only train dermatology residents in areas of the country currently lacking ethnic diversity but also expand the expertise for treating patients with skin of color. Additionally, dedicated multiethnic skin clinics and externships devoted solely to treating patients with skin of color could be encouraged for residency training.⁶ Finally, community outreach through volunteer clinics may provide residents exposure to patients with skin of color seeking dermatologic care.¹⁰

This study was limited by the small number of respondents, but we were able to extract important trends and data from the collected responses. It is possible that respondents felt strongly about topics involving patients with skin of color, and the results were skewed to reflect individual bias. Additional limitations included not asking respondents for program names and population density (eg, urban, suburban, rural). Future studies should be directed toward analyzing how the diversity of the local population influences training in patients with skin of color, comparing program directors’ perceptions with residents’ perceptions on training in skin of color, and assessing patient perception of residents’ training in skin of color.

Conclusion

In the last decade it has become increasingly apparent that the US population is diversifying and that patients with skin of color will comprise a substantial proportion of the future population,^8,11 which emphasizes the need for dermatology residency programs to ensure that residents receive adequate training and exposure to patients with skin of color as well as the distinct skin diseases seen more commonly in these populations.¹²

Dermatologic treatment of patients with skin of color offers specific challenges. Studies have reported structural, morphologic, and physiologic distinctions among different ethnic groups,¹ which may account for distinct clinical presentations of skin disease seen in patients with skin of color. Patients with skin of color are at increased risk for specific dermatologic conditions, such as postinflammatory hyperpigmentation, keloid development, and central centrifugal cicatricial alopecia.^2,3 Furthermore, although skin cancer is less prevalent in patients with skin of color, it often presents at a more advanced stage and with a worse prognosis compared to white patients.⁴

Individuals with skin of color make up the majority of the world’s population and a rapidly expanding portion of the US population. By the year 2044, more than half of all Americans are projected to belong to an ethnic group that is currently a minority. By 2060, the population of citizens identifying with 2 or more races will increase by 226%, the Asian population is projected to grow by 128%, the Hispanic population will increase by 115%, and the black population will increase by 42%.⁵ The racial and ethnic composition of the United States is evolving, and dermatologic care must evolve accordingly to address patients’ unique concerns. It is essential for future dermatologists to be knowledgeable about dermatologic conditions presenting in patients of various ethnic backgrounds.

Prior studies have demonstrated the need for increased exposure, education, and training in diseases pertaining to skin of color in US dermatology residency programs.^6-8 The aim of this study was to assess if dermatologists in-training feel that their residency curriculum sufficiently educates them on the needs of patients with skin of color.

Methods

A 10-question anonymous survey was emailed to 109 dermatology residency programs to evaluate the attitudes of dermatology residents about their exposure to patients with skin of color and their skin-of-color curriculum. The study included individuals 18 years or older who were current residents in a dermatology program accredited by the Accreditation Council for Graduate Medical Education. Responses were measured on a 1 to 3 Likert scale, ranging from agree, neutral, and disagree. Data were analyzed using the Fisher exact test, and the statistical significance was set at P<.05.

Results

Forty-three dermatology residents completed the survey. Respondents self-selected their regions, with 8 (19%) from the Northeast (NE), 7 (16%) from the Southeast (SE), 12 (28%) from the Midwest (MW), 8 (19%) from the Southwest (SW), and 8 (18%) from the Northwest (NW)(Table 1). Overall, 31 (72%) respondents agreed that their practice treats a diverse patient population. Respondents who agreed most often were from the NE, SE, and SW. Less than two-thirds of respondents from the MW agreed, and only half of respondents from the NW agreed (Table 2). Although 37% of all respondents agreed that a dedicated multiethnic skin clinic is important for residents, 5 (63%) NE residents disagreed with this statement compared to 5 (42%) MW residents and 5 (63%) NW residents who agreed (P<.005). Overall, 39 (91%) respondents agreed that dedicated lectures on skin conditions in skin of color patients are important to gain competence in treating patients. Only 4 respondents were neutral to this question, 2 (17%) MW residents and 2 (25%) SW residents. When asked if reading textbook chapters on multiethnic skin is important to gain competence, 36 (83%) respondents agreed. Two respondents disagreed, 1 (13%) from the NE and 1 (8%) from the MW. Overall, 23% of respondents agreed that a rotation dedicated to skin of color is important to build competency. There was a significant difference in responses between the NE and MW (P=.032) and between the NE and NW (P=.019). Furthermore, 19 (44%) respondents agreed that having a faculty member or departmental expert is important for residents to gain competence in treating conditions affecting skin of color. Again, there was a significant difference in responses between the NE and MW (P=.003) and between the SE and MW (P=.009).

When asked the number of hours of lecture per month necessary to gain competence in conditions affecting patients with skin of color, 67% agreed that 1 to 5 hours was sufficient (Table 3). There were significant differences in the responses between the NE and SE (P=.024) and the SE and MW (P=.007). Of all respondents, 53% reported 1 to 5 months of clinical training are needed to gain competence in treating conditions affecting patients with skin of color, with significant differences in responses between the NE and MW (P<.001), the NE and SW (P=.019), and the SE and MW (P=.015)(Table 4).

Comment

Responses varied by practicing region. Less ethnically diverse regions, such as the MW and NW, were more likely to agree that dedicated clinics and rotations are important to gain competence compared to more ethnically diverse regions such as the NE, SE, and SW. Overall, more residents reported that dedicated lectures and textbook chapters were important to gain competency compared to dedicated clinics or rotations.

Although interactive lectures and textbook readings are important for obtaining a foundational understanding of dermatologic disease, they cannot substitute for clinical interactions and hands-on experience treating patients with skin of color.⁹ Not only do clinical interactions encourage independent reading and the study of encountered diagnoses, but intercommunication with patients may have a more profound and lasting impact on residents’ education.

Different regions of the United States have varying distributions of patients with skin of color, and dermatology residency program training reflects these disparities.⁶ In areas of less diversity, dermatology residents examine, diagnose, and treat substantially fewer patients with skin of color. The desire for more diverse training supports the prior findings of Nijhawan et al⁶ and is reflected in the responses we received in our study, whereby residents from the less ethnically diversified regions of the MW and NW were more likely to agree that clinics and rotations were necessary for training in preparation to sufficiently address the needs of patients with skin of color.

One way to compensate for the lack of ethnic diversity encountered in areas such as the MW and NW would be to develop educational programs featuring experts on skin of color.⁶ These specialists would not only train dermatology residents in areas of the country currently lacking ethnic diversity but also expand the expertise for treating patients with skin of color. Additionally, dedicated multiethnic skin clinics and externships devoted solely to treating patients with skin of color could be encouraged for residency training.⁶ Finally, community outreach through volunteer clinics may provide residents exposure to patients with skin of color seeking dermatologic care.¹⁰

This study was limited by the small number of respondents, but we were able to extract important trends and data from the collected responses. It is possible that respondents felt strongly about topics involving patients with skin of color, and the results were skewed to reflect individual bias. Additional limitations included not asking respondents for program names and population density (eg, urban, suburban, rural). Future studies should be directed toward analyzing how the diversity of the local population influences training in patients with skin of color, comparing program directors’ perceptions with residents’ perceptions on training in skin of color, and assessing patient perception of residents’ training in skin of color.

Conclusion

In the last decade it has become increasingly apparent that the US population is diversifying and that patients with skin of color will comprise a substantial proportion of the future population,^8,11 which emphasizes the need for dermatology residency programs to ensure that residents receive adequate training and exposure to patients with skin of color as well as the distinct skin diseases seen more commonly in these populations.¹²

Dermatologic treatment of patients with skin of color offers specific challenges. Studies have reported structural, morphologic, and physiologic distinctions among different ethnic groups,¹ which may account for distinct clinical presentations of skin disease seen in patients with skin of color. Patients with skin of color are at increased risk for specific dermatologic conditions, such as postinflammatory hyperpigmentation, keloid development, and central centrifugal cicatricial alopecia.^2,3 Furthermore, although skin cancer is less prevalent in patients with skin of color, it often presents at a more advanced stage and with a worse prognosis compared to white patients.⁴

Individuals with skin of color make up the majority of the world’s population and a rapidly expanding portion of the US population. By the year 2044, more than half of all Americans are projected to belong to an ethnic group that is currently a minority. By 2060, the population of citizens identifying with 2 or more races will increase by 226%, the Asian population is projected to grow by 128%, the Hispanic population will increase by 115%, and the black population will increase by 42%.⁵ The racial and ethnic composition of the United States is evolving, and dermatologic care must evolve accordingly to address patients’ unique concerns. It is essential for future dermatologists to be knowledgeable about dermatologic conditions presenting in patients of various ethnic backgrounds.

Prior studies have demonstrated the need for increased exposure, education, and training in diseases pertaining to skin of color in US dermatology residency programs.^6-8 The aim of this study was to assess if dermatologists in-training feel that their residency curriculum sufficiently educates them on the needs of patients with skin of color.

Methods

A 10-question anonymous survey was emailed to 109 dermatology residency programs to evaluate the attitudes of dermatology residents about their exposure to patients with skin of color and their skin-of-color curriculum. The study included individuals 18 years or older who were current residents in a dermatology program accredited by the Accreditation Council for Graduate Medical Education. Responses were measured on a 1 to 3 Likert scale, ranging from agree, neutral, and disagree. Data were analyzed using the Fisher exact test, and the statistical significance was set at P<.05.

Results

Forty-three dermatology residents completed the survey. Respondents self-selected their regions, with 8 (19%) from the Northeast (NE), 7 (16%) from the Southeast (SE), 12 (28%) from the Midwest (MW), 8 (19%) from the Southwest (SW), and 8 (18%) from the Northwest (NW)(Table 1). Overall, 31 (72%) respondents agreed that their practice treats a diverse patient population. Respondents who agreed most often were from the NE, SE, and SW. Less than two-thirds of respondents from the MW agreed, and only half of respondents from the NW agreed (Table 2). Although 37% of all respondents agreed that a dedicated multiethnic skin clinic is important for residents, 5 (63%) NE residents disagreed with this statement compared to 5 (42%) MW residents and 5 (63%) NW residents who agreed (P<.005). Overall, 39 (91%) respondents agreed that dedicated lectures on skin conditions in skin of color patients are important to gain competence in treating patients. Only 4 respondents were neutral to this question, 2 (17%) MW residents and 2 (25%) SW residents. When asked if reading textbook chapters on multiethnic skin is important to gain competence, 36 (83%) respondents agreed. Two respondents disagreed, 1 (13%) from the NE and 1 (8%) from the MW. Overall, 23% of respondents agreed that a rotation dedicated to skin of color is important to build competency. There was a significant difference in responses between the NE and MW (P=.032) and between the NE and NW (P=.019). Furthermore, 19 (44%) respondents agreed that having a faculty member or departmental expert is important for residents to gain competence in treating conditions affecting skin of color. Again, there was a significant difference in responses between the NE and MW (P=.003) and between the SE and MW (P=.009).

When asked the number of hours of lecture per month necessary to gain competence in conditions affecting patients with skin of color, 67% agreed that 1 to 5 hours was sufficient (Table 3). There were significant differences in the responses between the NE and SE (P=.024) and the SE and MW (P=.007). Of all respondents, 53% reported 1 to 5 months of clinical training are needed to gain competence in treating conditions affecting patients with skin of color, with significant differences in responses between the NE and MW (P<.001), the NE and SW (P=.019), and the SE and MW (P=.015)(Table 4).

Comment

Responses varied by practicing region. Less ethnically diverse regions, such as the MW and NW, were more likely to agree that dedicated clinics and rotations are important to gain competence compared to more ethnically diverse regions such as the NE, SE, and SW. Overall, more residents reported that dedicated lectures and textbook chapters were important to gain competency compared to dedicated clinics or rotations.

Although interactive lectures and textbook readings are important for obtaining a foundational understanding of dermatologic disease, they cannot substitute for clinical interactions and hands-on experience treating patients with skin of color.⁹ Not only do clinical interactions encourage independent reading and the study of encountered diagnoses, but intercommunication with patients may have a more profound and lasting impact on residents’ education.

Different regions of the United States have varying distributions of patients with skin of color, and dermatology residency program training reflects these disparities.⁶ In areas of less diversity, dermatology residents examine, diagnose, and treat substantially fewer patients with skin of color. The desire for more diverse training supports the prior findings of Nijhawan et al⁶ and is reflected in the responses we received in our study, whereby residents from the less ethnically diversified regions of the MW and NW were more likely to agree that clinics and rotations were necessary for training in preparation to sufficiently address the needs of patients with skin of color.

One way to compensate for the lack of ethnic diversity encountered in areas such as the MW and NW would be to develop educational programs featuring experts on skin of color.⁶ These specialists would not only train dermatology residents in areas of the country currently lacking ethnic diversity but also expand the expertise for treating patients with skin of color. Additionally, dedicated multiethnic skin clinics and externships devoted solely to treating patients with skin of color could be encouraged for residency training.⁶ Finally, community outreach through volunteer clinics may provide residents exposure to patients with skin of color seeking dermatologic care.¹⁰

This study was limited by the small number of respondents, but we were able to extract important trends and data from the collected responses. It is possible that respondents felt strongly about topics involving patients with skin of color, and the results were skewed to reflect individual bias. Additional limitations included not asking respondents for program names and population density (eg, urban, suburban, rural). Future studies should be directed toward analyzing how the diversity of the local population influences training in patients with skin of color, comparing program directors’ perceptions with residents’ perceptions on training in skin of color, and assessing patient perception of residents’ training in skin of color.

Conclusion

In the last decade it has become increasingly apparent that the US population is diversifying and that patients with skin of color will comprise a substantial proportion of the future population,^8,11 which emphasizes the need for dermatology residency programs to ensure that residents receive adequate training and exposure to patients with skin of color as well as the distinct skin diseases seen more commonly in these populations.¹²

This is the second of a two-part article on the role of racism and bias in the U.S. maternal mortality crisis and part of an ongoing Ob.Gyn. News feature series on the crisis. Part one of the story explored existing data, societal factors, and patient experiences related to structural racism, overt racism, and implicit bias as factors contributing to racial disparities in maternal outcomes. Here we explore potential solutions for addressing the inequities as proposed by thought leaders and key stakeholders.



The emerging racial disparities in COVID-19 incidence and outcomes in the United States are on a collision course with long-standing racial disparities in U.S. maternal care and mortality.

Maternal health advocates are bracing for the impact, but in the spotlight that the pandemic is training on the inequities and the health system changes taking shape in its wake, some also see hope for a shift in at least one important driver of the racial health disparities: access to care.

Non-Hispanic black women are at least three times more likely than Hispanic women and non-Hispanic white women to experience pregnancy-related death, and indigenous women are more than twice as likely, according to the latest data from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention’s National Center for Health Statistics. The added strain COVID-19 is putting on the system stands to further limit the access to care that many pregnant women of color experience and to exacerbate racial disparities, panelists agreed during a recent National Maternal Health Patient Centered Outcomes Research Network webinar entitled “The Impact of COVID-19 on Black, Brown, and Native Pregnant People.”

“The saying is that ‘the virus doesn’t discriminate,’ but it understands our biases, right? So, the virus takes advantage of the weaknesses in our system,” said panelist Joia A. Crear-Perry, MD, an ob.gyn. and founder and president of the National Birth Equity Collaborative (NBEC), a New Orleans–based research, training, and advocacy organization working to optimize black maternal and infant health.
 

Hope for solutions from the ashes of a pandemic

The weaknesses in the system that Dr. Crear-Perry spoke of are in many ways a product of structural racism as described in a conceptual report in The Lancet, titled “America: Equity and Equality in Health,” which dug into the entrenched and tangled historical roots of racist sociological and political factors that formed a foundation for health inequity over time.

Today, people of color remain more likely to be excluded from access to health insurance and adequate health care. The authors defined structural racism as “the totality of ways in which societies foster racial discrimination through mutually reinforcing systems of housing, education, employment, earnings, benefits, credit, media, health care, and criminal justice.” Today, largely as a result of these “reinforcing systems,” people of color remain more likely to be excluded from access to health insurance and adequate health care. At the same time, and for the same reasons, they are more likely to work in the service industry, be essential workers, and use mass transit, each of which increases the risk of exposure to COVID-19, Dr. Crear-Perry explained.

“It’s important for us to know that, for maternal mortality, it’s the same thing that happens,” she said. That means the focus on COVID-19–related disparities helps magnify and elevate the conversation regarding similar disparities in maternal outcomes.

It also means that some of the care delivery solutions embraced and facilitated amid the pandemic, such as extension of Medicaid coverage for up to a year after giving birth and broader use and insurance coverage of telemedicine, could finally gain traction; those are solutions long-sought by advocates like Dr. Crear-Perry and others as a means for alleviating racial disparities in maternal outcomes and addressing the maternal mortality crisis.

Therein lies the hope, she explained in an interview. “Some of the policies that we know would have been helpful prior to COVID-19 now are being seen as really important.”
 

Solution: Extending coverage

During a May 7 virtual Congressional hearing on “America’s Two Public Health Crises: The Impact of COVID-19 on Racial Inequities and Maternal Mortality in the U.S.,” cosponsored by the American College of Obstetricians and Gynecologists, the March of Dimes, and the NBEC, Dr. Crear-Perry further explained the importance of extended coverage and care access.

Asked what Congress could do immediately to “ensure that the pandemic does not compound the nation’s maternal mortality crisis, including unacceptable rates among black women,” she didn’t hesitate.

“Well, it would be amazing if we could get Medicaid extended for 12 months post delivery,” she said. “As you can imagine right now, we have moms who are birthing in hospitals where they have to worry about, 2 months later, not having coverage for themselves.”

If that mom is exposed to COVID-19 and has no insurance coverage and a newborn at home, the likelihood that she will call a provider if she develops symptoms is low, Dr. Crear-Perry said. “This is a great opportunity for us to really rethink some of those policies that we know are barriers, that we have created for people to be able to thrive after they have a baby and during child birth.”

Current policies are centered around an arbitrary cutoff of about 6 weeks for postpartum care, but the CDC reports that a third of all postpartum deaths occur between 1 week and 12 months after birth.

“We need our policies to reflect the current knowledge and the science,” she said. “Just like babies have automatic insurance coverage for a year later, mothers should have the same.”

Medicaid finances nearly half of all births in the United States, according to a 2019 Kaiser Family Foundation brief, which explained that federal law requires Medicaid coverage for only 60 days post partum for women who are eligible. Decisions regarding coverage after 60 days are determined by individual states; those that expanded Medicaid under the Affordable Care Act typically allow extended coverage – but only with reapplication at 60 days.

Many women in nonexpansion states become uninsured after pregnancy-related coverage ends, as do some in expansion states for whom reapplying is a hurdle too high to clear with a newborn baby to care for at home, Dr. Crear-Perry said.

Addressing these coverage gaps is key to improving access, and it is a core component of the Black Maternal Health Momnibus Act of 2020, a nine-bill package introduced in March by Rep. Lauren Underwood (D-Ill.), Rep. Alma Adams (D-N.C.), Sen. Kamala Harris (D-Calif.), and members of the Black Maternal Health Caucus to “fill gaps in existing legislation to comprehensively address every dimension of the Black maternal health crisis in America.”

One bill in the package addresses extended coverage with a goal to “promote innovative payment models to incentivize high-quality maternity care and continuity of health insurance coverage from pregnancy through labor and delivery and up to 1 year post partum.” Another focuses on promoting alternative ways to access care, such as through telemedicine.

Solution: Expanding care access

“There is a need for the democratization of care,” Dr. Crear-Perry said. “There is a need for people to have more ways to get care. This idea that the only way you can get prenatal care is you have to come to me at my office, has been a burden for working people for a long, long time.”

The COVID-19 pandemic necessitates increased use of telemedicine, but building blocks to allow patients to use it effectively must be put in place, she said. That means expanding broadband access, providing patients with blood pressure cuffs and other tools for use remotely, and expanding reimbursement to include not just video, but also phone calls.

Heart Safe Motherhood, a University of Pennsylvania text-based intervention developed to address postpartum hypertension – a leading cause of maternal morbidity and mortality, and at the start of the program, the leading cause of 7-day readmissions among obstetric patients, demonstrated the value of such approaches to care.

The program involves remote blood pressure monitoring using a digital monitor provided to at-risk patients at discharge. Text-based monitoring reminders encourage patients to check their blood pressure twice daily for the first 7 days.

“In our randomized, controlled trial, we saw our ability to meet ACOG guidelines on postpartum blood monitoring leap from 0% to 82%, compared to in-person office visits and 7-day readmissions from hypertension drop from 3% to 0%,” an update at the program website states.

ACOG

Rebekah Gee, MD, an ob.gyn. and director of the Louisiana State University Health System in New Orleans, also noted the importance of finding ways to deliver care “that are outside the traditional norm.

“Telemedicine, home visiting ... I think there are a wide variety of ways,” she said, noting that these kind of approaches not only help circumvent roadblocks to care, such as lack of transportation, but also can feel more personal and approachable for some women.
 

Solution: Measuring, investing, diversifying, respecting

The aims of other bills in the Momnibus Act also mirror several solutions proposed by maternal health advocates interviewed for this article. Among them are:

• Development of improved data collection processes and quality measures to better understand the factors that contribute to the crisis overall and among special populations, and to inform solutions for addressing them.
• Investments in social determinants of health that influence maternal health outcomes, like housing, transportation, and nutrition.
• Commitment to the growth and diversification of the perinatal workforce to ensure that every mom receives maternity care and support from people she can trust to provide quality care and treat her with respect.

The latter is one that Dr. Gee, Dr. Crear-Perry, and others particularly emphasized.

“We need patient advocates like doulas, midwives and others who are better listeners and better able to advocate for patients,” Dr. Gee said. This would better allow for women’s desires in the childbirth experience to be addressed appropriately, she said, adding that this is something that “frankly, a lot of doctors do not have the time to do.”

That’s why the efforts to address maternal mortality have to focus on the health care system, not just on doctors’ behavior with respect to bias, she said.

Dr. Gee also said there is a need for culturally appropriate literacy and numeracy communications “that respect how people seek and understand information.” This varies by population, which is why it’s important to provide the same approach to care “no matter what the patient looks like,” while also understanding that different patients communicate in different ways.

A 2019 study published in Social Science & Medicine underscored how communication differences can affect outcomes; using a national sample of women who gave birth in U.S. hospitals, the authors found that those who had declined care for themselves or their infant during their childbirth hospitalization were more likely to report receiving poor treatment based on race or ethnicity. They concluded that, in the context of childbirth care, women – particularly black women – pay a penalty for what is perceived as uncooperative behavior.

This is another area where doulas and other patient advocates can help, Dr. Gee said.

Doulas have long been an integral part of the birthing process for many women, particularly women of color, and evidence suggests the supportive care they provide helps to improve outcomes. In fact, several states – including Oregon, Minnesota, and New York, among others – have expanded or have proposed expanding Medicaid coverage to include doula services for pregnant beneficiaries, a move cheered by doula associations and other maternal health advocates.

In many ways, it’s about “respectful maternity care,” which is something Dr. Crear-Perry has been working to promote through the NBEC in partnership with ACOG and the Robert Wood Johnson Foundation. It’s also something the World Health Organization has promoted by establishing global standards for such care.

“We’re hoping to socialize that as a norm in United States ... to really see what it would look like to value what birthing people want and to see them as partners in their birth,” she said.

However, the 2019 Giving Voice to Mothers study demonstrating consistently higher rates of mistreatment during obstetrical care for women of color than for comparable white women shows that the United States is falling short of those standards. The national study of 2,700 women examined how race, ethnicity, and place of birth interact with the experience of receiving maternity care in the United States, and showed that 1 in 6 experienced one or more types of mistreatment – with consistently higher rates among women of color, even after adjusting for interactions between race and other maternal characteristics, Saraswathi Veda, MD, of the Birth Place Lab and professor of midwifery at the University of British Columbia, Vancouver, and colleagues reported in Reproductive Health.
 

Solution: Listening, learning, reflecting, partnering

Timoria McQueen Saba, birth trauma survivor and maternal health advocate, has described experiencing instances of mistreatment throughout her obstetric care, and like Dr. Crear-Perry, she said trust and collaboration in care is imperative for improving outcomes.

“I think the most important thing you can do is really consider a patient a partner in the care you give them,” she said during a panel discussion at the 2019 ACOG annual meeting. “You’re not experts in their lived experience ... center a patient’s voice or the voice of a patient’s family. Incorporate that into your learning.”

During a virtual workshop held May 19-20 by the Eunice Kennedy Shriver National Institute of Child Health and Human Development, Judette Louis, MD, chair of the department of obstetrics and gynecology at the University of South Florida, Tampa, and president of the Society of Maternal-Fetal Medicine, provided practical guidance for addressing racism and implicit bias in practice and in research to reduce disparities in outcomes.

In an interview, she summarized her key points, reiterating solutions proposed by Dr. Gee and Dr. Crear-Perry and addressed in the Momnibus Act, and also offering a few others:

First, put aside the notion that disparities are genetically driven. For a variety of reasons, that just doesn’t make sense. For one thing, not all blacks are African American.

“My family is from the Caribbean,” she said. “Is it really conceivable that we’re all so similar?”

Look also at the disparities among Native Americans, she said. “How can you take 500 distinct tribes that live across a wide geographic area and lump them into one group and assume that they are similar?”

The problem is racism, not race. “When you keep saying ‘it’s about race, it’s about race, it’s about race’ – that sends a message to the person who is of that race that there is something inherently broken about [them],” she said.

Recognize that the roots of the problem run deep. Learn about and support efforts to address the underlying structural factors that contribute to the problem, Dr. Louis emphasized, and recognize your own bias. “We all have it. The key is to recognize [biases] and mitigate them when taking care of patients.”

That’s easier said than done, at least judging by one survey of maternal-fetal medicine specialists in which 84% of respondents agreed that disparities impact practice, but only 29% agreed their own personal biases affect how they care for patients, she noted.

Tools are available to help individuals identify implicit bias, and training programs for health care providers can help, as well, she said. Implicit bias tests and training programs that help to identify and address bias and racism on individual and organizational levels are increasingly available through academic centers, health systems, and advocacy organizations.

Hope for solutions: Progress and promise

Like Dr. Crear-Perry, Dr. Louis sees hope for reducing disparities and improving maternal outcomes.

In another survey of SMFM members to identify the practice issues most important to them, racial disparities ranked in the top three.

“It says a lot that our [maternal-fetal medicine specialists] really see this as a problem and they want it fixed,” she said. “And I think it says that a lot of people need to work on this, not just us.”

Indeed, many are engaged in that work. Veronica Gillispie, MD, medical director of the Louisiana Perinatal Quality Collaborative and Pregnancy-Associated Mortality Review, has been instrumental in recent initiatives to improve maternal outcomes in Louisiana, and she too said she feels optimistic.

“I am hopeful and I do see signs of hope,” she said in an interview.

Teams that she works with and trains seem invested, institutions are increasingly implementing faculty training on racism and bias, and Oschner Health, where Dr. Gillispie practices as an ob.gyn., appointed its first chief diversity officer in February.

Medical students she works with are attuned to the issues of racism, bias, and disparities, and they show a desire to enact change, she said. “They already get it, and they are working to make it better.”

Dr. Crear-Perry also predicts practice-changing results from studies looking at the delivery of obstetrical care and the role of supportive care, and she pointed out another aspect of the COVID-19 crisis that provides an important lesson for health care providers who care for birthing people: the scarcity of personal protective equipment amid the pandemic.

“My friends who are ob.gyns., who are now not getting access to the things they need to stay safe to practice medicine and who are feeling very marginalized at this moment, feeling not valued – that’s how birthing people [of color] feel,” she said. “I’m hoping that builds a sense of empathy.

”I’m hoping at the end of this crisis, that those ob.gyns. will think of patients as allies in fighting for more access to health for everybody and for more resources to do their work,” Dr. Crear-Perry said. “We’re all in this together.”

sworcester@mdedge.com

This is the second of a two-part article on the role of racism and bias in the U.S. maternal mortality crisis and part of an ongoing Ob.Gyn. News feature series on the crisis. Part one of the story explored existing data, societal factors, and patient experiences related to structural racism, overt racism, and implicit bias as factors contributing to racial disparities in maternal outcomes. Here we explore potential solutions for addressing the inequities as proposed by thought leaders and key stakeholders.



The emerging racial disparities in COVID-19 incidence and outcomes in the United States are on a collision course with long-standing racial disparities in U.S. maternal care and mortality.

Maternal health advocates are bracing for the impact, but in the spotlight that the pandemic is training on the inequities and the health system changes taking shape in its wake, some also see hope for a shift in at least one important driver of the racial health disparities: access to care.

Non-Hispanic black women are at least three times more likely than Hispanic women and non-Hispanic white women to experience pregnancy-related death, and indigenous women are more than twice as likely, according to the latest data from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention’s National Center for Health Statistics. The added strain COVID-19 is putting on the system stands to further limit the access to care that many pregnant women of color experience and to exacerbate racial disparities, panelists agreed during a recent National Maternal Health Patient Centered Outcomes Research Network webinar entitled “The Impact of COVID-19 on Black, Brown, and Native Pregnant People.”

“The saying is that ‘the virus doesn’t discriminate,’ but it understands our biases, right? So, the virus takes advantage of the weaknesses in our system,” said panelist Joia A. Crear-Perry, MD, an ob.gyn. and founder and president of the National Birth Equity Collaborative (NBEC), a New Orleans–based research, training, and advocacy organization working to optimize black maternal and infant health.
 

Hope for solutions from the ashes of a pandemic

The weaknesses in the system that Dr. Crear-Perry spoke of are in many ways a product of structural racism as described in a conceptual report in The Lancet, titled “America: Equity and Equality in Health,” which dug into the entrenched and tangled historical roots of racist sociological and political factors that formed a foundation for health inequity over time.

Today, people of color remain more likely to be excluded from access to health insurance and adequate health care. The authors defined structural racism as “the totality of ways in which societies foster racial discrimination through mutually reinforcing systems of housing, education, employment, earnings, benefits, credit, media, health care, and criminal justice.” Today, largely as a result of these “reinforcing systems,” people of color remain more likely to be excluded from access to health insurance and adequate health care. At the same time, and for the same reasons, they are more likely to work in the service industry, be essential workers, and use mass transit, each of which increases the risk of exposure to COVID-19, Dr. Crear-Perry explained.

“It’s important for us to know that, for maternal mortality, it’s the same thing that happens,” she said. That means the focus on COVID-19–related disparities helps magnify and elevate the conversation regarding similar disparities in maternal outcomes.

It also means that some of the care delivery solutions embraced and facilitated amid the pandemic, such as extension of Medicaid coverage for up to a year after giving birth and broader use and insurance coverage of telemedicine, could finally gain traction; those are solutions long-sought by advocates like Dr. Crear-Perry and others as a means for alleviating racial disparities in maternal outcomes and addressing the maternal mortality crisis.

Therein lies the hope, she explained in an interview. “Some of the policies that we know would have been helpful prior to COVID-19 now are being seen as really important.”
 

Solution: Extending coverage

During a May 7 virtual Congressional hearing on “America’s Two Public Health Crises: The Impact of COVID-19 on Racial Inequities and Maternal Mortality in the U.S.,” cosponsored by the American College of Obstetricians and Gynecologists, the March of Dimes, and the NBEC, Dr. Crear-Perry further explained the importance of extended coverage and care access.

Asked what Congress could do immediately to “ensure that the pandemic does not compound the nation’s maternal mortality crisis, including unacceptable rates among black women,” she didn’t hesitate.

“Well, it would be amazing if we could get Medicaid extended for 12 months post delivery,” she said. “As you can imagine right now, we have moms who are birthing in hospitals where they have to worry about, 2 months later, not having coverage for themselves.”

If that mom is exposed to COVID-19 and has no insurance coverage and a newborn at home, the likelihood that she will call a provider if she develops symptoms is low, Dr. Crear-Perry said. “This is a great opportunity for us to really rethink some of those policies that we know are barriers, that we have created for people to be able to thrive after they have a baby and during child birth.”

Current policies are centered around an arbitrary cutoff of about 6 weeks for postpartum care, but the CDC reports that a third of all postpartum deaths occur between 1 week and 12 months after birth.

“We need our policies to reflect the current knowledge and the science,” she said. “Just like babies have automatic insurance coverage for a year later, mothers should have the same.”

Medicaid finances nearly half of all births in the United States, according to a 2019 Kaiser Family Foundation brief, which explained that federal law requires Medicaid coverage for only 60 days post partum for women who are eligible. Decisions regarding coverage after 60 days are determined by individual states; those that expanded Medicaid under the Affordable Care Act typically allow extended coverage – but only with reapplication at 60 days.

Many women in nonexpansion states become uninsured after pregnancy-related coverage ends, as do some in expansion states for whom reapplying is a hurdle too high to clear with a newborn baby to care for at home, Dr. Crear-Perry said.

Addressing these coverage gaps is key to improving access, and it is a core component of the Black Maternal Health Momnibus Act of 2020, a nine-bill package introduced in March by Rep. Lauren Underwood (D-Ill.), Rep. Alma Adams (D-N.C.), Sen. Kamala Harris (D-Calif.), and members of the Black Maternal Health Caucus to “fill gaps in existing legislation to comprehensively address every dimension of the Black maternal health crisis in America.”

One bill in the package addresses extended coverage with a goal to “promote innovative payment models to incentivize high-quality maternity care and continuity of health insurance coverage from pregnancy through labor and delivery and up to 1 year post partum.” Another focuses on promoting alternative ways to access care, such as through telemedicine.

Solution: Expanding care access

“There is a need for the democratization of care,” Dr. Crear-Perry said. “There is a need for people to have more ways to get care. This idea that the only way you can get prenatal care is you have to come to me at my office, has been a burden for working people for a long, long time.”

The COVID-19 pandemic necessitates increased use of telemedicine, but building blocks to allow patients to use it effectively must be put in place, she said. That means expanding broadband access, providing patients with blood pressure cuffs and other tools for use remotely, and expanding reimbursement to include not just video, but also phone calls.

Heart Safe Motherhood, a University of Pennsylvania text-based intervention developed to address postpartum hypertension – a leading cause of maternal morbidity and mortality, and at the start of the program, the leading cause of 7-day readmissions among obstetric patients, demonstrated the value of such approaches to care.

The program involves remote blood pressure monitoring using a digital monitor provided to at-risk patients at discharge. Text-based monitoring reminders encourage patients to check their blood pressure twice daily for the first 7 days.

“In our randomized, controlled trial, we saw our ability to meet ACOG guidelines on postpartum blood monitoring leap from 0% to 82%, compared to in-person office visits and 7-day readmissions from hypertension drop from 3% to 0%,” an update at the program website states.

ACOG

Rebekah Gee, MD, an ob.gyn. and director of the Louisiana State University Health System in New Orleans, also noted the importance of finding ways to deliver care “that are outside the traditional norm.

“Telemedicine, home visiting ... I think there are a wide variety of ways,” she said, noting that these kind of approaches not only help circumvent roadblocks to care, such as lack of transportation, but also can feel more personal and approachable for some women.
 

Solution: Measuring, investing, diversifying, respecting

The aims of other bills in the Momnibus Act also mirror several solutions proposed by maternal health advocates interviewed for this article. Among them are:

• Development of improved data collection processes and quality measures to better understand the factors that contribute to the crisis overall and among special populations, and to inform solutions for addressing them.
• Investments in social determinants of health that influence maternal health outcomes, like housing, transportation, and nutrition.
• Commitment to the growth and diversification of the perinatal workforce to ensure that every mom receives maternity care and support from people she can trust to provide quality care and treat her with respect.

The latter is one that Dr. Gee, Dr. Crear-Perry, and others particularly emphasized.

“We need patient advocates like doulas, midwives and others who are better listeners and better able to advocate for patients,” Dr. Gee said. This would better allow for women’s desires in the childbirth experience to be addressed appropriately, she said, adding that this is something that “frankly, a lot of doctors do not have the time to do.”

That’s why the efforts to address maternal mortality have to focus on the health care system, not just on doctors’ behavior with respect to bias, she said.

Dr. Gee also said there is a need for culturally appropriate literacy and numeracy communications “that respect how people seek and understand information.” This varies by population, which is why it’s important to provide the same approach to care “no matter what the patient looks like,” while also understanding that different patients communicate in different ways.

A 2019 study published in Social Science & Medicine underscored how communication differences can affect outcomes; using a national sample of women who gave birth in U.S. hospitals, the authors found that those who had declined care for themselves or their infant during their childbirth hospitalization were more likely to report receiving poor treatment based on race or ethnicity. They concluded that, in the context of childbirth care, women – particularly black women – pay a penalty for what is perceived as uncooperative behavior.

This is another area where doulas and other patient advocates can help, Dr. Gee said.

Doulas have long been an integral part of the birthing process for many women, particularly women of color, and evidence suggests the supportive care they provide helps to improve outcomes. In fact, several states – including Oregon, Minnesota, and New York, among others – have expanded or have proposed expanding Medicaid coverage to include doula services for pregnant beneficiaries, a move cheered by doula associations and other maternal health advocates.

In many ways, it’s about “respectful maternity care,” which is something Dr. Crear-Perry has been working to promote through the NBEC in partnership with ACOG and the Robert Wood Johnson Foundation. It’s also something the World Health Organization has promoted by establishing global standards for such care.

“We’re hoping to socialize that as a norm in United States ... to really see what it would look like to value what birthing people want and to see them as partners in their birth,” she said.

However, the 2019 Giving Voice to Mothers study demonstrating consistently higher rates of mistreatment during obstetrical care for women of color than for comparable white women shows that the United States is falling short of those standards. The national study of 2,700 women examined how race, ethnicity, and place of birth interact with the experience of receiving maternity care in the United States, and showed that 1 in 6 experienced one or more types of mistreatment – with consistently higher rates among women of color, even after adjusting for interactions between race and other maternal characteristics, Saraswathi Veda, MD, of the Birth Place Lab and professor of midwifery at the University of British Columbia, Vancouver, and colleagues reported in Reproductive Health.
 

Solution: Listening, learning, reflecting, partnering

Timoria McQueen Saba, birth trauma survivor and maternal health advocate, has described experiencing instances of mistreatment throughout her obstetric care, and like Dr. Crear-Perry, she said trust and collaboration in care is imperative for improving outcomes.

“I think the most important thing you can do is really consider a patient a partner in the care you give them,” she said during a panel discussion at the 2019 ACOG annual meeting. “You’re not experts in their lived experience ... center a patient’s voice or the voice of a patient’s family. Incorporate that into your learning.”

During a virtual workshop held May 19-20 by the Eunice Kennedy Shriver National Institute of Child Health and Human Development, Judette Louis, MD, chair of the department of obstetrics and gynecology at the University of South Florida, Tampa, and president of the Society of Maternal-Fetal Medicine, provided practical guidance for addressing racism and implicit bias in practice and in research to reduce disparities in outcomes.

In an interview, she summarized her key points, reiterating solutions proposed by Dr. Gee and Dr. Crear-Perry and addressed in the Momnibus Act, and also offering a few others:

First, put aside the notion that disparities are genetically driven. For a variety of reasons, that just doesn’t make sense. For one thing, not all blacks are African American.

“My family is from the Caribbean,” she said. “Is it really conceivable that we’re all so similar?”

Look also at the disparities among Native Americans, she said. “How can you take 500 distinct tribes that live across a wide geographic area and lump them into one group and assume that they are similar?”

The problem is racism, not race. “When you keep saying ‘it’s about race, it’s about race, it’s about race’ – that sends a message to the person who is of that race that there is something inherently broken about [them],” she said.

Recognize that the roots of the problem run deep. Learn about and support efforts to address the underlying structural factors that contribute to the problem, Dr. Louis emphasized, and recognize your own bias. “We all have it. The key is to recognize [biases] and mitigate them when taking care of patients.”

That’s easier said than done, at least judging by one survey of maternal-fetal medicine specialists in which 84% of respondents agreed that disparities impact practice, but only 29% agreed their own personal biases affect how they care for patients, she noted.

Tools are available to help individuals identify implicit bias, and training programs for health care providers can help, as well, she said. Implicit bias tests and training programs that help to identify and address bias and racism on individual and organizational levels are increasingly available through academic centers, health systems, and advocacy organizations.

Hope for solutions: Progress and promise

Like Dr. Crear-Perry, Dr. Louis sees hope for reducing disparities and improving maternal outcomes.

In another survey of SMFM members to identify the practice issues most important to them, racial disparities ranked in the top three.

“It says a lot that our [maternal-fetal medicine specialists] really see this as a problem and they want it fixed,” she said. “And I think it says that a lot of people need to work on this, not just us.”

Indeed, many are engaged in that work. Veronica Gillispie, MD, medical director of the Louisiana Perinatal Quality Collaborative and Pregnancy-Associated Mortality Review, has been instrumental in recent initiatives to improve maternal outcomes in Louisiana, and she too said she feels optimistic.

“I am hopeful and I do see signs of hope,” she said in an interview.

Teams that she works with and trains seem invested, institutions are increasingly implementing faculty training on racism and bias, and Oschner Health, where Dr. Gillispie practices as an ob.gyn., appointed its first chief diversity officer in February.

Medical students she works with are attuned to the issues of racism, bias, and disparities, and they show a desire to enact change, she said. “They already get it, and they are working to make it better.”

Dr. Crear-Perry also predicts practice-changing results from studies looking at the delivery of obstetrical care and the role of supportive care, and she pointed out another aspect of the COVID-19 crisis that provides an important lesson for health care providers who care for birthing people: the scarcity of personal protective equipment amid the pandemic.

“My friends who are ob.gyns., who are now not getting access to the things they need to stay safe to practice medicine and who are feeling very marginalized at this moment, feeling not valued – that’s how birthing people [of color] feel,” she said. “I’m hoping that builds a sense of empathy.

”I’m hoping at the end of this crisis, that those ob.gyns. will think of patients as allies in fighting for more access to health for everybody and for more resources to do their work,” Dr. Crear-Perry said. “We’re all in this together.”

sworcester@mdedge.com

This is the second of a two-part article on the role of racism and bias in the U.S. maternal mortality crisis and part of an ongoing Ob.Gyn. News feature series on the crisis. Part one of the story explored existing data, societal factors, and patient experiences related to structural racism, overt racism, and implicit bias as factors contributing to racial disparities in maternal outcomes. Here we explore potential solutions for addressing the inequities as proposed by thought leaders and key stakeholders.



The emerging racial disparities in COVID-19 incidence and outcomes in the United States are on a collision course with long-standing racial disparities in U.S. maternal care and mortality.

Maternal health advocates are bracing for the impact, but in the spotlight that the pandemic is training on the inequities and the health system changes taking shape in its wake, some also see hope for a shift in at least one important driver of the racial health disparities: access to care.

Non-Hispanic black women are at least three times more likely than Hispanic women and non-Hispanic white women to experience pregnancy-related death, and indigenous women are more than twice as likely, according to the latest data from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention’s National Center for Health Statistics. The added strain COVID-19 is putting on the system stands to further limit the access to care that many pregnant women of color experience and to exacerbate racial disparities, panelists agreed during a recent National Maternal Health Patient Centered Outcomes Research Network webinar entitled “The Impact of COVID-19 on Black, Brown, and Native Pregnant People.”

“The saying is that ‘the virus doesn’t discriminate,’ but it understands our biases, right? So, the virus takes advantage of the weaknesses in our system,” said panelist Joia A. Crear-Perry, MD, an ob.gyn. and founder and president of the National Birth Equity Collaborative (NBEC), a New Orleans–based research, training, and advocacy organization working to optimize black maternal and infant health.
 

Hope for solutions from the ashes of a pandemic

The weaknesses in the system that Dr. Crear-Perry spoke of are in many ways a product of structural racism as described in a conceptual report in The Lancet, titled “America: Equity and Equality in Health,” which dug into the entrenched and tangled historical roots of racist sociological and political factors that formed a foundation for health inequity over time.

Today, people of color remain more likely to be excluded from access to health insurance and adequate health care. The authors defined structural racism as “the totality of ways in which societies foster racial discrimination through mutually reinforcing systems of housing, education, employment, earnings, benefits, credit, media, health care, and criminal justice.” Today, largely as a result of these “reinforcing systems,” people of color remain more likely to be excluded from access to health insurance and adequate health care. At the same time, and for the same reasons, they are more likely to work in the service industry, be essential workers, and use mass transit, each of which increases the risk of exposure to COVID-19, Dr. Crear-Perry explained.

“It’s important for us to know that, for maternal mortality, it’s the same thing that happens,” she said. That means the focus on COVID-19–related disparities helps magnify and elevate the conversation regarding similar disparities in maternal outcomes.

It also means that some of the care delivery solutions embraced and facilitated amid the pandemic, such as extension of Medicaid coverage for up to a year after giving birth and broader use and insurance coverage of telemedicine, could finally gain traction; those are solutions long-sought by advocates like Dr. Crear-Perry and others as a means for alleviating racial disparities in maternal outcomes and addressing the maternal mortality crisis.

Therein lies the hope, she explained in an interview. “Some of the policies that we know would have been helpful prior to COVID-19 now are being seen as really important.”
 

Solution: Extending coverage

During a May 7 virtual Congressional hearing on “America’s Two Public Health Crises: The Impact of COVID-19 on Racial Inequities and Maternal Mortality in the U.S.,” cosponsored by the American College of Obstetricians and Gynecologists, the March of Dimes, and the NBEC, Dr. Crear-Perry further explained the importance of extended coverage and care access.

Asked what Congress could do immediately to “ensure that the pandemic does not compound the nation’s maternal mortality crisis, including unacceptable rates among black women,” she didn’t hesitate.

“Well, it would be amazing if we could get Medicaid extended for 12 months post delivery,” she said. “As you can imagine right now, we have moms who are birthing in hospitals where they have to worry about, 2 months later, not having coverage for themselves.”

If that mom is exposed to COVID-19 and has no insurance coverage and a newborn at home, the likelihood that she will call a provider if she develops symptoms is low, Dr. Crear-Perry said. “This is a great opportunity for us to really rethink some of those policies that we know are barriers, that we have created for people to be able to thrive after they have a baby and during child birth.”

Current policies are centered around an arbitrary cutoff of about 6 weeks for postpartum care, but the CDC reports that a third of all postpartum deaths occur between 1 week and 12 months after birth.

“We need our policies to reflect the current knowledge and the science,” she said. “Just like babies have automatic insurance coverage for a year later, mothers should have the same.”

Medicaid finances nearly half of all births in the United States, according to a 2019 Kaiser Family Foundation brief, which explained that federal law requires Medicaid coverage for only 60 days post partum for women who are eligible. Decisions regarding coverage after 60 days are determined by individual states; those that expanded Medicaid under the Affordable Care Act typically allow extended coverage – but only with reapplication at 60 days.

Many women in nonexpansion states become uninsured after pregnancy-related coverage ends, as do some in expansion states for whom reapplying is a hurdle too high to clear with a newborn baby to care for at home, Dr. Crear-Perry said.

Addressing these coverage gaps is key to improving access, and it is a core component of the Black Maternal Health Momnibus Act of 2020, a nine-bill package introduced in March by Rep. Lauren Underwood (D-Ill.), Rep. Alma Adams (D-N.C.), Sen. Kamala Harris (D-Calif.), and members of the Black Maternal Health Caucus to “fill gaps in existing legislation to comprehensively address every dimension of the Black maternal health crisis in America.”

One bill in the package addresses extended coverage with a goal to “promote innovative payment models to incentivize high-quality maternity care and continuity of health insurance coverage from pregnancy through labor and delivery and up to 1 year post partum.” Another focuses on promoting alternative ways to access care, such as through telemedicine.

Solution: Expanding care access

“There is a need for the democratization of care,” Dr. Crear-Perry said. “There is a need for people to have more ways to get care. This idea that the only way you can get prenatal care is you have to come to me at my office, has been a burden for working people for a long, long time.”

The COVID-19 pandemic necessitates increased use of telemedicine, but building blocks to allow patients to use it effectively must be put in place, she said. That means expanding broadband access, providing patients with blood pressure cuffs and other tools for use remotely, and expanding reimbursement to include not just video, but also phone calls.

Heart Safe Motherhood, a University of Pennsylvania text-based intervention developed to address postpartum hypertension – a leading cause of maternal morbidity and mortality, and at the start of the program, the leading cause of 7-day readmissions among obstetric patients, demonstrated the value of such approaches to care.

The program involves remote blood pressure monitoring using a digital monitor provided to at-risk patients at discharge. Text-based monitoring reminders encourage patients to check their blood pressure twice daily for the first 7 days.

“In our randomized, controlled trial, we saw our ability to meet ACOG guidelines on postpartum blood monitoring leap from 0% to 82%, compared to in-person office visits and 7-day readmissions from hypertension drop from 3% to 0%,” an update at the program website states.

ACOG

Rebekah Gee, MD, an ob.gyn. and director of the Louisiana State University Health System in New Orleans, also noted the importance of finding ways to deliver care “that are outside the traditional norm.

“Telemedicine, home visiting ... I think there are a wide variety of ways,” she said, noting that these kind of approaches not only help circumvent roadblocks to care, such as lack of transportation, but also can feel more personal and approachable for some women.
 

Solution: Measuring, investing, diversifying, respecting

The aims of other bills in the Momnibus Act also mirror several solutions proposed by maternal health advocates interviewed for this article. Among them are:

• Development of improved data collection processes and quality measures to better understand the factors that contribute to the crisis overall and among special populations, and to inform solutions for addressing them.
• Investments in social determinants of health that influence maternal health outcomes, like housing, transportation, and nutrition.
• Commitment to the growth and diversification of the perinatal workforce to ensure that every mom receives maternity care and support from people she can trust to provide quality care and treat her with respect.

The latter is one that Dr. Gee, Dr. Crear-Perry, and others particularly emphasized.

“We need patient advocates like doulas, midwives and others who are better listeners and better able to advocate for patients,” Dr. Gee said. This would better allow for women’s desires in the childbirth experience to be addressed appropriately, she said, adding that this is something that “frankly, a lot of doctors do not have the time to do.”

That’s why the efforts to address maternal mortality have to focus on the health care system, not just on doctors’ behavior with respect to bias, she said.

Dr. Gee also said there is a need for culturally appropriate literacy and numeracy communications “that respect how people seek and understand information.” This varies by population, which is why it’s important to provide the same approach to care “no matter what the patient looks like,” while also understanding that different patients communicate in different ways.

A 2019 study published in Social Science & Medicine underscored how communication differences can affect outcomes; using a national sample of women who gave birth in U.S. hospitals, the authors found that those who had declined care for themselves or their infant during their childbirth hospitalization were more likely to report receiving poor treatment based on race or ethnicity. They concluded that, in the context of childbirth care, women – particularly black women – pay a penalty for what is perceived as uncooperative behavior.

This is another area where doulas and other patient advocates can help, Dr. Gee said.

Doulas have long been an integral part of the birthing process for many women, particularly women of color, and evidence suggests the supportive care they provide helps to improve outcomes. In fact, several states – including Oregon, Minnesota, and New York, among others – have expanded or have proposed expanding Medicaid coverage to include doula services for pregnant beneficiaries, a move cheered by doula associations and other maternal health advocates.

In many ways, it’s about “respectful maternity care,” which is something Dr. Crear-Perry has been working to promote through the NBEC in partnership with ACOG and the Robert Wood Johnson Foundation. It’s also something the World Health Organization has promoted by establishing global standards for such care.

“We’re hoping to socialize that as a norm in United States ... to really see what it would look like to value what birthing people want and to see them as partners in their birth,” she said.

However, the 2019 Giving Voice to Mothers study demonstrating consistently higher rates of mistreatment during obstetrical care for women of color than for comparable white women shows that the United States is falling short of those standards. The national study of 2,700 women examined how race, ethnicity, and place of birth interact with the experience of receiving maternity care in the United States, and showed that 1 in 6 experienced one or more types of mistreatment – with consistently higher rates among women of color, even after adjusting for interactions between race and other maternal characteristics, Saraswathi Veda, MD, of the Birth Place Lab and professor of midwifery at the University of British Columbia, Vancouver, and colleagues reported in Reproductive Health.
 

Solution: Listening, learning, reflecting, partnering

Timoria McQueen Saba, birth trauma survivor and maternal health advocate, has described experiencing instances of mistreatment throughout her obstetric care, and like Dr. Crear-Perry, she said trust and collaboration in care is imperative for improving outcomes.

“I think the most important thing you can do is really consider a patient a partner in the care you give them,” she said during a panel discussion at the 2019 ACOG annual meeting. “You’re not experts in their lived experience ... center a patient’s voice or the voice of a patient’s family. Incorporate that into your learning.”

During a virtual workshop held May 19-20 by the Eunice Kennedy Shriver National Institute of Child Health and Human Development, Judette Louis, MD, chair of the department of obstetrics and gynecology at the University of South Florida, Tampa, and president of the Society of Maternal-Fetal Medicine, provided practical guidance for addressing racism and implicit bias in practice and in research to reduce disparities in outcomes.

In an interview, she summarized her key points, reiterating solutions proposed by Dr. Gee and Dr. Crear-Perry and addressed in the Momnibus Act, and also offering a few others:

First, put aside the notion that disparities are genetically driven. For a variety of reasons, that just doesn’t make sense. For one thing, not all blacks are African American.

“My family is from the Caribbean,” she said. “Is it really conceivable that we’re all so similar?”

Look also at the disparities among Native Americans, she said. “How can you take 500 distinct tribes that live across a wide geographic area and lump them into one group and assume that they are similar?”

The problem is racism, not race. “When you keep saying ‘it’s about race, it’s about race, it’s about race’ – that sends a message to the person who is of that race that there is something inherently broken about [them],” she said.

Recognize that the roots of the problem run deep. Learn about and support efforts to address the underlying structural factors that contribute to the problem, Dr. Louis emphasized, and recognize your own bias. “We all have it. The key is to recognize [biases] and mitigate them when taking care of patients.”

That’s easier said than done, at least judging by one survey of maternal-fetal medicine specialists in which 84% of respondents agreed that disparities impact practice, but only 29% agreed their own personal biases affect how they care for patients, she noted.

Tools are available to help individuals identify implicit bias, and training programs for health care providers can help, as well, she said. Implicit bias tests and training programs that help to identify and address bias and racism on individual and organizational levels are increasingly available through academic centers, health systems, and advocacy organizations.

Hope for solutions: Progress and promise

Like Dr. Crear-Perry, Dr. Louis sees hope for reducing disparities and improving maternal outcomes.

In another survey of SMFM members to identify the practice issues most important to them, racial disparities ranked in the top three.

“It says a lot that our [maternal-fetal medicine specialists] really see this as a problem and they want it fixed,” she said. “And I think it says that a lot of people need to work on this, not just us.”

Indeed, many are engaged in that work. Veronica Gillispie, MD, medical director of the Louisiana Perinatal Quality Collaborative and Pregnancy-Associated Mortality Review, has been instrumental in recent initiatives to improve maternal outcomes in Louisiana, and she too said she feels optimistic.

“I am hopeful and I do see signs of hope,” she said in an interview.

Teams that she works with and trains seem invested, institutions are increasingly implementing faculty training on racism and bias, and Oschner Health, where Dr. Gillispie practices as an ob.gyn., appointed its first chief diversity officer in February.

Medical students she works with are attuned to the issues of racism, bias, and disparities, and they show a desire to enact change, she said. “They already get it, and they are working to make it better.”

Dr. Crear-Perry also predicts practice-changing results from studies looking at the delivery of obstetrical care and the role of supportive care, and she pointed out another aspect of the COVID-19 crisis that provides an important lesson for health care providers who care for birthing people: the scarcity of personal protective equipment amid the pandemic.

“My friends who are ob.gyns., who are now not getting access to the things they need to stay safe to practice medicine and who are feeling very marginalized at this moment, feeling not valued – that’s how birthing people [of color] feel,” she said. “I’m hoping that builds a sense of empathy.

”I’m hoping at the end of this crisis, that those ob.gyns. will think of patients as allies in fighting for more access to health for everybody and for more resources to do their work,” Dr. Crear-Perry said. “We’re all in this together.”

sworcester@mdedge.com

The Navajo people have dealt with adversity that has tested our strength and resilience since our creation. In Navajo culture, the Holy People or gods challenged us with Naayee (monsters). We endured and learned from each Naayee, hunger, and death to name a few adversities. The COVID-19 pandemic, or “Big Cough” (Dikos Nitsaa’igii -19 in Navajo language) is a monster confronting the Navajo today. It has had significant impact on our nation and people.

The Navajo have the most cases of the COVID-19 virus of any tribe in the United States, and numbers as of May 31, 2020, are 5,348, with 246 confirmed deaths.¹ The Navajo Nation, which once lagged behind New York, has reported the largest per-capita infection rate in the United States.

These devastating numbers, which might be leveling off, are associated with Navajo people having higher-than-average numbers of diabetes, heart disease, and cancer. This is compounded with 30%-40% of homes having no electricity or running water, and a poverty rate of about 38%.²

Geographical and cultural factors also contribute to the inability to gain a foothold in mitigating the number of cases. The Navajo Nation is the largest tribe in the United States, covering 27,000 square miles over an arid, red rock expanse with canyons and mountains. The population is over 250,000,³ and Navajo have traditionally lived in matrilineal clan units throughout the reservation, the size of West Virginia. The family traditional dwelling, called a “hogan,” often is clustered together. Multiple generations live together in these units. The COVID-19 virus inflicted many Navajo and rapidly spread to the elderly in these close-proximity living quarters.

Most Navajo live away from services and grocery stores and travel back and forth for food and water, which contributes to the virus rapidly being transmitted among the community members. Education aimed at curbing travel and spread of the virus was issued with curfews, commands to stay at home and keep social distance, and protect elders. The Navajo leadership and traditional medicine people, meanwhile, advised the people to follow their cultural values by caring for family and community members and providing a safe environment.
 

Resources are spread out

There are only 13 stores in this expansive reservation,⁴ so tribal members rely on traveling to border towns, such as Farmington and Gallup, N.M., Families usually travel to these towns on weekends to replenish food and supplies. There has been a cluster of cases in Gallup, N.M., so to reduce the numbers, the town shut itself off from outsiders – including the Navajo people coming to buy food, do laundry, and get water and feed for livestock. This has affected and stressed the Navajo further in attempting to access necessities.

Access to health care is already challenging because of lack of transportation and distance. This has made it more difficult to access COVID-19 testing and more challenging to get the results back. The Indian Health Service has been the designated health care system for the Navajo since 1955. The Treaty of Bosque Redondo, signed by the Navajo in 1868, included the provision of health care, as well as education in exchange for tracts of land, that included the Navajo homeland or Dinetah.⁵

The Indian Health Service provides care with hospitals and clinics throughout the reservation. Some of the IHS facilities have been taken over by the Navajo, so there are four Navajo tribally controlled hospitals, along with one private hospital. Coordination of care for a pandemic is, therefore, more challenging to coordinate. This contributes to problems with coordination of the health care, establishing alternate care sites, accessing personal protective equipment, and providing testing sites. The Navajo Nation Council is working hard to equitably distribute the $600 million from the CARES Act.⁶

Dealing with the pandemic is compromised by chronic underfunding from the U.S. government. The treaty obligation of the U.S. government is to provide health care to all federally recognized Native Americans. The IHS, which has been designated to provide that care for a tribal person, gets one-third the Medicare dollars for health care provided for a person in the general population.⁷ Health factors have led to the public health issues of poorly controlled diabetes, obesity, and coronary artery disease, which is related to this underfunding and the high rate of COVID-19 cases. Parts of the reservation are also exposed to high levels of pollution from oil and gas wells from the coal-fueled power plants. Those exposed to these high levels of pollutions have a higher than average number of cases of COVID-19, higher than in areas where the pollution is markedly lower.⁸

The Navajo are having to rely on the strength and resilience of traditional Navajo culture and philosophy to confront this monster, Dikos Nitsaa’igii’ 19. We have relied on Western medicine and its limited resources but now need to empower the strength from our traditional ways of knowing. We have used this knowledge in times of adversity for hundreds of years. The Navajo elders and medicine people have reminded us we have dealt with monsters and know how to endure hardship and be resilient. This helps to ameliorate mental health conditions, but there are still issues that remain challenging.

Those having the virus go through times of shortness of breath, which produces anxiety and panic. The risk of death adds further stress, and for a family-oriented culture, the need to isolate from family adds further stress. For the elderly and young people with more serious disease having to go to the hospital alone without family, often far from home, is so challenging. Connecting family by phone or social media with those stricken is essential to decrease anxiety and isolation. Those infected with the virus can learn breathing exercises, which can help the damage from the virus and decrease emotional activation and triggers. Specific breathing techniques can be taught by medical providers. An effective breathing technique to reduce anxiety is coherent breathing, which is done by inhaling 6 seconds and exhaling for 6 seconds without holding your breath. Behavioral health practitioners are available in the tribal and IHS mental health clinics to refer patients to therapy support to manage anxiety and are available by telemedicine. Many of these programs are offering social media informational sessions for the Navajo community. Navajo people often access traditional healing for protection prayers and ceremonies. Some of the tribal and IHS programs provide traditional counselors to talk to. The Navajo access healing that focuses on restoring balance to the body, mind, and spirit.

Taking action against the virus by social distancing, hand washing, and wearing masks can go a long way in reducing anxiety and fear about getting the virus. Resources to help the Navajo Nation are coming from all over the world, from as far as Ireland,⁹ Doctors Without Borders, ¹⁰ and University of San Francisco.¹¹

Two resources that provide relief on the reservation are the Navajo Relief Fund and United Natives.
 

References

1. Navaho Times. 2020 May 27.

2. Ingalls A et al. BMC Obes. 2019 May 6. doi: 10.1186/s40608-019-0233-9.

3. U.S. Census 2010, as reported by discovernavajo.com.

4. Gould C et al. “Addressing food insecurity on the Navajo reservation through sustainable greenhouses.” 2018 Aug.

5. Native Knowledge 360. Smithsonian Institution. “Bosque Redondo.”

6. Personal communication, Carl Roessel Slater, Navajo Nation Council delegate.

7. IHS Profile Fact Sheet.

8. Wu X et al. medRxiv. 2020 Apr 27.

9. Carroll R. ”Irish support for Native American COVID-19 relief highlights historic bond.” The Guardian. 2020 May 9.

10. Capatides C. “Doctors Without Borders dispatches team to the Navajo Nation” CBS News. 2020 May 11.

11. Weiler N. “UCSF sends second wave of health workers to Navajo Nation.” UCSF.edu. 2020 May 21.
 

Dr. Roessel is a Navajo board-certified psychiatrist practicing in Santa Fe, N.M., working with the local indigenous population. She has special expertise in cultural psychiatry; her childhood was spent growing up in the Navajo Nation with her grandfather, who was a Navajo medicine man. Her psychiatric practice focuses on integrating indigenous knowledge and principles. Dr. Roessel is a distinguished fellow of the American Psychiatric Association. She has no disclosures.

The Navajo people have dealt with adversity that has tested our strength and resilience since our creation. In Navajo culture, the Holy People or gods challenged us with Naayee (monsters). We endured and learned from each Naayee, hunger, and death to name a few adversities. The COVID-19 pandemic, or “Big Cough” (Dikos Nitsaa’igii -19 in Navajo language) is a monster confronting the Navajo today. It has had significant impact on our nation and people.

The Navajo have the most cases of the COVID-19 virus of any tribe in the United States, and numbers as of May 31, 2020, are 5,348, with 246 confirmed deaths.¹ The Navajo Nation, which once lagged behind New York, has reported the largest per-capita infection rate in the United States.

These devastating numbers, which might be leveling off, are associated with Navajo people having higher-than-average numbers of diabetes, heart disease, and cancer. This is compounded with 30%-40% of homes having no electricity or running water, and a poverty rate of about 38%.²

Geographical and cultural factors also contribute to the inability to gain a foothold in mitigating the number of cases. The Navajo Nation is the largest tribe in the United States, covering 27,000 square miles over an arid, red rock expanse with canyons and mountains. The population is over 250,000,³ and Navajo have traditionally lived in matrilineal clan units throughout the reservation, the size of West Virginia. The family traditional dwelling, called a “hogan,” often is clustered together. Multiple generations live together in these units. The COVID-19 virus inflicted many Navajo and rapidly spread to the elderly in these close-proximity living quarters.

Most Navajo live away from services and grocery stores and travel back and forth for food and water, which contributes to the virus rapidly being transmitted among the community members. Education aimed at curbing travel and spread of the virus was issued with curfews, commands to stay at home and keep social distance, and protect elders. The Navajo leadership and traditional medicine people, meanwhile, advised the people to follow their cultural values by caring for family and community members and providing a safe environment.
 

Resources are spread out

There are only 13 stores in this expansive reservation,⁴ so tribal members rely on traveling to border towns, such as Farmington and Gallup, N.M., Families usually travel to these towns on weekends to replenish food and supplies. There has been a cluster of cases in Gallup, N.M., so to reduce the numbers, the town shut itself off from outsiders – including the Navajo people coming to buy food, do laundry, and get water and feed for livestock. This has affected and stressed the Navajo further in attempting to access necessities.

Access to health care is already challenging because of lack of transportation and distance. This has made it more difficult to access COVID-19 testing and more challenging to get the results back. The Indian Health Service has been the designated health care system for the Navajo since 1955. The Treaty of Bosque Redondo, signed by the Navajo in 1868, included the provision of health care, as well as education in exchange for tracts of land, that included the Navajo homeland or Dinetah.⁵

The Indian Health Service provides care with hospitals and clinics throughout the reservation. Some of the IHS facilities have been taken over by the Navajo, so there are four Navajo tribally controlled hospitals, along with one private hospital. Coordination of care for a pandemic is, therefore, more challenging to coordinate. This contributes to problems with coordination of the health care, establishing alternate care sites, accessing personal protective equipment, and providing testing sites. The Navajo Nation Council is working hard to equitably distribute the $600 million from the CARES Act.⁶

Dealing with the pandemic is compromised by chronic underfunding from the U.S. government. The treaty obligation of the U.S. government is to provide health care to all federally recognized Native Americans. The IHS, which has been designated to provide that care for a tribal person, gets one-third the Medicare dollars for health care provided for a person in the general population.⁷ Health factors have led to the public health issues of poorly controlled diabetes, obesity, and coronary artery disease, which is related to this underfunding and the high rate of COVID-19 cases. Parts of the reservation are also exposed to high levels of pollution from oil and gas wells from the coal-fueled power plants. Those exposed to these high levels of pollutions have a higher than average number of cases of COVID-19, higher than in areas where the pollution is markedly lower.⁸

The Navajo are having to rely on the strength and resilience of traditional Navajo culture and philosophy to confront this monster, Dikos Nitsaa’igii’ 19. We have relied on Western medicine and its limited resources but now need to empower the strength from our traditional ways of knowing. We have used this knowledge in times of adversity for hundreds of years. The Navajo elders and medicine people have reminded us we have dealt with monsters and know how to endure hardship and be resilient. This helps to ameliorate mental health conditions, but there are still issues that remain challenging.

Those having the virus go through times of shortness of breath, which produces anxiety and panic. The risk of death adds further stress, and for a family-oriented culture, the need to isolate from family adds further stress. For the elderly and young people with more serious disease having to go to the hospital alone without family, often far from home, is so challenging. Connecting family by phone or social media with those stricken is essential to decrease anxiety and isolation. Those infected with the virus can learn breathing exercises, which can help the damage from the virus and decrease emotional activation and triggers. Specific breathing techniques can be taught by medical providers. An effective breathing technique to reduce anxiety is coherent breathing, which is done by inhaling 6 seconds and exhaling for 6 seconds without holding your breath. Behavioral health practitioners are available in the tribal and IHS mental health clinics to refer patients to therapy support to manage anxiety and are available by telemedicine. Many of these programs are offering social media informational sessions for the Navajo community. Navajo people often access traditional healing for protection prayers and ceremonies. Some of the tribal and IHS programs provide traditional counselors to talk to. The Navajo access healing that focuses on restoring balance to the body, mind, and spirit.

Taking action against the virus by social distancing, hand washing, and wearing masks can go a long way in reducing anxiety and fear about getting the virus. Resources to help the Navajo Nation are coming from all over the world, from as far as Ireland,⁹ Doctors Without Borders, ¹⁰ and University of San Francisco.¹¹

Two resources that provide relief on the reservation are the Navajo Relief Fund and United Natives.
 

References

1. Navaho Times. 2020 May 27.

2. Ingalls A et al. BMC Obes. 2019 May 6. doi: 10.1186/s40608-019-0233-9.

3. U.S. Census 2010, as reported by discovernavajo.com.

4. Gould C et al. “Addressing food insecurity on the Navajo reservation through sustainable greenhouses.” 2018 Aug.

5. Native Knowledge 360. Smithsonian Institution. “Bosque Redondo.”

6. Personal communication, Carl Roessel Slater, Navajo Nation Council delegate.

7. IHS Profile Fact Sheet.

8. Wu X et al. medRxiv. 2020 Apr 27.

9. Carroll R. ”Irish support for Native American COVID-19 relief highlights historic bond.” The Guardian. 2020 May 9.

10. Capatides C. “Doctors Without Borders dispatches team to the Navajo Nation” CBS News. 2020 May 11.

11. Weiler N. “UCSF sends second wave of health workers to Navajo Nation.” UCSF.edu. 2020 May 21.
 

Dr. Roessel is a Navajo board-certified psychiatrist practicing in Santa Fe, N.M., working with the local indigenous population. She has special expertise in cultural psychiatry; her childhood was spent growing up in the Navajo Nation with her grandfather, who was a Navajo medicine man. Her psychiatric practice focuses on integrating indigenous knowledge and principles. Dr. Roessel is a distinguished fellow of the American Psychiatric Association. She has no disclosures.

The Navajo people have dealt with adversity that has tested our strength and resilience since our creation. In Navajo culture, the Holy People or gods challenged us with Naayee (monsters). We endured and learned from each Naayee, hunger, and death to name a few adversities. The COVID-19 pandemic, or “Big Cough” (Dikos Nitsaa’igii -19 in Navajo language) is a monster confronting the Navajo today. It has had significant impact on our nation and people.

The Navajo have the most cases of the COVID-19 virus of any tribe in the United States, and numbers as of May 31, 2020, are 5,348, with 246 confirmed deaths.¹ The Navajo Nation, which once lagged behind New York, has reported the largest per-capita infection rate in the United States.

These devastating numbers, which might be leveling off, are associated with Navajo people having higher-than-average numbers of diabetes, heart disease, and cancer. This is compounded with 30%-40% of homes having no electricity or running water, and a poverty rate of about 38%.²

Geographical and cultural factors also contribute to the inability to gain a foothold in mitigating the number of cases. The Navajo Nation is the largest tribe in the United States, covering 27,000 square miles over an arid, red rock expanse with canyons and mountains. The population is over 250,000,³ and Navajo have traditionally lived in matrilineal clan units throughout the reservation, the size of West Virginia. The family traditional dwelling, called a “hogan,” often is clustered together. Multiple generations live together in these units. The COVID-19 virus inflicted many Navajo and rapidly spread to the elderly in these close-proximity living quarters.

Most Navajo live away from services and grocery stores and travel back and forth for food and water, which contributes to the virus rapidly being transmitted among the community members. Education aimed at curbing travel and spread of the virus was issued with curfews, commands to stay at home and keep social distance, and protect elders. The Navajo leadership and traditional medicine people, meanwhile, advised the people to follow their cultural values by caring for family and community members and providing a safe environment.
 

Resources are spread out

There are only 13 stores in this expansive reservation,⁴ so tribal members rely on traveling to border towns, such as Farmington and Gallup, N.M., Families usually travel to these towns on weekends to replenish food and supplies. There has been a cluster of cases in Gallup, N.M., so to reduce the numbers, the town shut itself off from outsiders – including the Navajo people coming to buy food, do laundry, and get water and feed for livestock. This has affected and stressed the Navajo further in attempting to access necessities.

Access to health care is already challenging because of lack of transportation and distance. This has made it more difficult to access COVID-19 testing and more challenging to get the results back. The Indian Health Service has been the designated health care system for the Navajo since 1955. The Treaty of Bosque Redondo, signed by the Navajo in 1868, included the provision of health care, as well as education in exchange for tracts of land, that included the Navajo homeland or Dinetah.⁵

The Indian Health Service provides care with hospitals and clinics throughout the reservation. Some of the IHS facilities have been taken over by the Navajo, so there are four Navajo tribally controlled hospitals, along with one private hospital. Coordination of care for a pandemic is, therefore, more challenging to coordinate. This contributes to problems with coordination of the health care, establishing alternate care sites, accessing personal protective equipment, and providing testing sites. The Navajo Nation Council is working hard to equitably distribute the $600 million from the CARES Act.⁶

Dealing with the pandemic is compromised by chronic underfunding from the U.S. government. The treaty obligation of the U.S. government is to provide health care to all federally recognized Native Americans. The IHS, which has been designated to provide that care for a tribal person, gets one-third the Medicare dollars for health care provided for a person in the general population.⁷ Health factors have led to the public health issues of poorly controlled diabetes, obesity, and coronary artery disease, which is related to this underfunding and the high rate of COVID-19 cases. Parts of the reservation are also exposed to high levels of pollution from oil and gas wells from the coal-fueled power plants. Those exposed to these high levels of pollutions have a higher than average number of cases of COVID-19, higher than in areas where the pollution is markedly lower.⁸

The Navajo are having to rely on the strength and resilience of traditional Navajo culture and philosophy to confront this monster, Dikos Nitsaa’igii’ 19. We have relied on Western medicine and its limited resources but now need to empower the strength from our traditional ways of knowing. We have used this knowledge in times of adversity for hundreds of years. The Navajo elders and medicine people have reminded us we have dealt with monsters and know how to endure hardship and be resilient. This helps to ameliorate mental health conditions, but there are still issues that remain challenging.

Those having the virus go through times of shortness of breath, which produces anxiety and panic. The risk of death adds further stress, and for a family-oriented culture, the need to isolate from family adds further stress. For the elderly and young people with more serious disease having to go to the hospital alone without family, often far from home, is so challenging. Connecting family by phone or social media with those stricken is essential to decrease anxiety and isolation. Those infected with the virus can learn breathing exercises, which can help the damage from the virus and decrease emotional activation and triggers. Specific breathing techniques can be taught by medical providers. An effective breathing technique to reduce anxiety is coherent breathing, which is done by inhaling 6 seconds and exhaling for 6 seconds without holding your breath. Behavioral health practitioners are available in the tribal and IHS mental health clinics to refer patients to therapy support to manage anxiety and are available by telemedicine. Many of these programs are offering social media informational sessions for the Navajo community. Navajo people often access traditional healing for protection prayers and ceremonies. Some of the tribal and IHS programs provide traditional counselors to talk to. The Navajo access healing that focuses on restoring balance to the body, mind, and spirit.

Taking action against the virus by social distancing, hand washing, and wearing masks can go a long way in reducing anxiety and fear about getting the virus. Resources to help the Navajo Nation are coming from all over the world, from as far as Ireland,⁹ Doctors Without Borders, ¹⁰ and University of San Francisco.¹¹

Two resources that provide relief on the reservation are the Navajo Relief Fund and United Natives.
 

References

1. Navaho Times. 2020 May 27.

2. Ingalls A et al. BMC Obes. 2019 May 6. doi: 10.1186/s40608-019-0233-9.

3. U.S. Census 2010, as reported by discovernavajo.com.

4. Gould C et al. “Addressing food insecurity on the Navajo reservation through sustainable greenhouses.” 2018 Aug.

5. Native Knowledge 360. Smithsonian Institution. “Bosque Redondo.”

6. Personal communication, Carl Roessel Slater, Navajo Nation Council delegate.

7. IHS Profile Fact Sheet.

8. Wu X et al. medRxiv. 2020 Apr 27.

9. Carroll R. ”Irish support for Native American COVID-19 relief highlights historic bond.” The Guardian. 2020 May 9.

10. Capatides C. “Doctors Without Borders dispatches team to the Navajo Nation” CBS News. 2020 May 11.

11. Weiler N. “UCSF sends second wave of health workers to Navajo Nation.” UCSF.edu. 2020 May 21.
 

Dr. Roessel is a Navajo board-certified psychiatrist practicing in Santa Fe, N.M., working with the local indigenous population. She has special expertise in cultural psychiatry; her childhood was spent growing up in the Navajo Nation with her grandfather, who was a Navajo medicine man. Her psychiatric practice focuses on integrating indigenous knowledge and principles. Dr. Roessel is a distinguished fellow of the American Psychiatric Association. She has no disclosures.