"I can't breathe."
As medical students, we are taught to jump into action when we hear these words. They are universally recognized as a cry for help to which we should respond immediately and do whatever it takes to help our patients breathe again.
I heard the same words on a video last week. Except instead of a team of responders rushing to a patient's rescue, on the other side of the screen I watched a Black man scream in horror as his neck was crushed under the knee of a white police officer against the floor. "I can't breathe!" he exclaimed, but no one was there to save him. After over 7 minutes of suffering his body went limp. George Floyd had just been murdered.
George Floyd was a 46-year-old Houston native determined to become "," but his aspirations were blunted by a preventable murder at the hands of police brutality.
Moments like these make it especially difficult to be a Black medical student. After being traumatized by graphic videos of Black suffering, much like Black people across the country, we are tasked to come to class and pretend like nothing is wrong -- when in reality everything is. We exist in dual realities, one as a medical student and one as a Black person in America. These two identities are often at odds with one another, an internal battle our non-Black peers are completely unaware of.
An example of this was in my professor's cheery greeting to students as we began our lecture the same morning I watched the murder of George Floyd. "Good morning everyone! How was the long weekend?" Some of my classmates then unmuted themselves on Zoom to share with us stories about exciting hikes and adventures they had over the weekend. I was happy for them. But behind my fictitious smile I was grieving in silence because I had just watched a Black man get killed on camera while he pleaded "I can't breathe." Horrific memories of Eric Garner exclaiming the same words in . But as the only in my small learning group, there was no one to talk to.
My classmates seemed unfazed by the latest news. I thought to myself, maybe they hadn't seen the video yet? Or maybe they did but had become numb to Black pain. Class went on, business as usual, and medical-school me didn't rumble a word about George Floyd.
Luckily, I found solace in our Black student group chat. While class was "business as usual," my classmates shared messages of grief and communal support:
"Feeling particularly tired. I hope you all are safe and well wherever you may be."
"Tired was my exact sentiment. I saw the video right before bed last night and I was like I can't."
That weekend was particularly challenging for Black students. Less than 24 hours before the viral video of George Floyd's murder, another video was circulated. It showed a white woman, , calling the police on a Black birder in Central Park after he, per park protocol, asked her to put a leash on her dog. "I'm going to tell them there's an African American man threatening my life!" she snarked, pulling down her face mask. In her words was coded language that Black people know all too well. It contained the same racism, power, and privilege that led to the fatal end of George Floyd and so many other Black lives.
In the past month Black students across the country have had to mourn the murder of , 25, who was chased down and killed by two white men while jogging in Glynn County, Georgia. The murder of , 26, an emergency medical technician who was wrongfully shot eight times by police in her home in Louisville, Kentucky. Now we must also mourn the fatal shooting of , 38, a Black transgender man whose life was taken by Tallahassee police. As we grieve these tragic killings, we also concurrently mourn the disproportionate impact COVID-19 has had on our communities.
Black people continue to become infected and die with . They are less likely to get testing and treatment, more likely to present to the hospital with more advanced cases of the disease, and have been the due to COVID-19 social distancing and face cover policies. Additionally, Black people are among the most at risk from premature state reopening. COVID-19 the Great Exacerbator has elucidated the epidemic within the pandemic: racism.
All this taken together it should be clear why Black students may find it difficult to "have a good weekend" during these challenging times. Due to the in academic medicine, many of us are limited in whom we can talk to as we confront the psychological toll of the turmoil around us. While we normally lean on our community for support, COVID-19 has limited our ability to connect with one another. Some of us may have limited while others may not have private spaces to talk at home. Our community support has been relegated to group texts and Zoom messages, and with the level of trauma we are experiencing, it's simply not enough.
Medical institutions have a responsibility to ensure the mental wellbeing of all students. This includes supporting Black students as we deal with heightened levels of personal and community trauma due to the harm inflicted on us by racism. This support could come in the form of offering a moment of silence before class to acknowledge the unjust suffering and brutalization of Black people or creating safe spaces for Black students to grieve. But silence should not be an option. Universities' silence in response to these tragic events is a sign of complicity which can only be avoided by action and .
These small gestures will not dismantle racism within the medical institution overnight. It would be naïve to pretend otherwise. But these gestures set a precedent for the entire institution, sending a message that "We stand with our students, validate their pain and will support them both as medical students and as human beings." A reminder to all that Black lives matter, despite what societal messages may convey.
Black medical students cannot continue to suffer in silence, and we must shift the paradigm of "business as usual" to create space for the grieving and healing needed for our success. Now is the time for medical institutions to demonstrate that our presence means more than Black and brown faces on pamphlets and brownie points for diversity, but that our lives and wellness truly matter to them. Black medical students can't breathe and it's time our educators support us with oxygen like they would any other patient in need.
is an activist, writer, and first-year student at Harvard ľֱ School. Her commentary on social justice and health equity has been featured in NPR, WBUR, Teen Vogue, and Undark Magazine, among others.