Black Women,Black Girls,and the Covid-19 Pandemic: An Autoethnography of a Health Disparity

I can’t get the image out of my head.

Her hair gently swept into two pigtails aligning each side of her face. Those brown eyes, soft but penetrating. And that perfect smile. Who can forget it? I look at this picture and see the faint image of my own 14-year-old daughter. There she is, Mkayla Robinson, confidently standing in a gymnasium proudly holding her academic plaques and awards. The straight-A student looks bashful. Sweet. I see her. I see youth. I see possibilities. I see promise. A future built on her wildest dreams.

But it was not meant to be. On August 14, 2021, 13-year-old Mkayla Robinson died from Covid-19 complications, mere hours after testing positive. The Mississippi native was just beginning her eighth-grade year at Raleigh High School. Sadly, she won’t experience the glories of high school. No laughing with friends while standing at the lockers in the hallway. No playing the flute at the big homecoming dance. No dances, period. Not even the eighth-grade prom.

But that smile. Teeth so straight and sparkling white. I look at this smile and I think of how unfortunate it is that I am even able to see it. See, Mississippi doesn’t have a mask mandate. One day before Mkayla’s death, Governor Tate Reeves, specifically stated, “I don’t have any intention of issuing a statewide mask mandate for any category of Mississippians at this time” (Garner, 2021). Even though the Smith County School Board began requiring masks on Tuesday, August 10, 4 days before Mkayla’s death, it was much too late. Mkayla was sick by that Thursday, and ultimately, died from the illness the following Saturday. I’m left thinking of the words of her mother, Mykel Robinson:

I touched her, I talked to her, and her pulse came back. I turned and left, she coded again and that’s the last time I saw her.

Unfortunately, Mkayla’s death is not rare. As of September 2021, Mississippi leads the nation in Covid-related deaths, having recently surpassed New Jersey (Willingham, 2021). Early on, Black Mississippians accounted for 72% of all Mississippi deaths despite being less than 40% of the population (Hensley, 2020). It was only a year earlier that a 38-year-old Black woman, Shalondra Rollins, became the first person to die in Hinds County, Mississippi, after testing positive for the coronavirus 3 days earlier. Two statements that have stayed with me come from her mother:

The ambulance was driving like it was a normal day, someone coming home from work. It was no sense of urgency.

Can you imagine a 12-year-old in there trying to give her [mother] a breathing treatment and resuscitate her? That’s where my anger is at.

The startling image of Shalondra lying in a casket is imprinted in my memory. Wearing a light-colored laced dress, a pink bracelet on her wrist, her grieving mother stands above her with a black mask and blue gloves on her hands. It is an image I wish I could forget.

But I can’t, largely because this is reflective of the national trend in the United States, as the popular saying goes, “When America catches a cold, Black people get the flu.” In fact, Black Americans account for a disproportionate number of Covid-related deaths shown by a mortality rate that is 2.4 times higher than White Americans. The media and some health experts have consistently focused on African Americans having underlying conditions as a reason for the alarming number of deaths. But this myth has already been debunked by a study by Millet et al. (2020) who found the exact opposite:

The media narrative suggested that what we were seeing in terms of COVID-19 in Black communities was due to underlying health conditions. What we found is that’s actually not true. Social determinants of health such as being employed, access to health care, and others were better predictors in Black counties for disparate rates of COVID-19. (Quoted in Morgan, 2021)

The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC) describes the five social determinant factors that contribute to increased risk of contracting and dying from coronavirus as racism and discrimination; health care access and use; occupation; educational, income, and wealth gaps; and housing. As indicated above, it is these factors, not co-morbidities, that have led to the significant gap. David Williams, Professor of Public Health for Harvard’s T.H. Chan School of Public Health states, “There are two hundred black people who die every day in this country who wouldn’t die if there were no white-black differences in mortality” (Wolfe, 2020). It’s hard to put a face to the more than 73,000 Black Americans who have died due to Covid-19 complications. But I remember when Surgeon General Jerome Adams tried to. And the picture he painted was not a good one.

****

I was sitting on my gray comfortable sofa drinking out of my favorite coffee mug with the famed words of Maya Angelou inscribed on it, And Still I Rise! In the mornings, I usually take a moment to reflect and gather my thoughts. But as the pandemic was raging across the country, I began watching the 24-hr news cycle to stay informed, if not only to keep up with the number of deaths.

Suddenly, the news cycle was interrupted with breaking news from the Coronavirus Task Force of the White House. It piqued my interest, so I moved to the edge of the sofa, closer to the television. I was expecting to see Dr. Anthony Fauci, Director of the National Institute of Allergy and Infectious Diseases, and, quite frankly, the scientific face of the pandemic. Hence, I was surprised when Dr. Adams approached the podium and began speaking. He talked about masking and handwashing and avoiding crowds—things I already knew. So, I casually glanced at my coffee mug while he spoke. It was the usual blah blah blah until I heard these words:

Avoid alcohol, tobacco, and drugs. And call your friends and family. Check in on your mother; she wants to hear from you right now. And speaking of mothers, we need you to do this, if not for yourself, then for your abuela. Do it for your granddaddy, do it for your big momma, do it for your pop-pop. We need you to understand, especially in communities of color. We need you to step up and stop the spread so that we can protect those who are most vulnerable.

And Still I Rise! In anger. ’Cause I couldn’t believe yet another talking head was blaming people of color for something.

I jump up from the sofa and look around the room. I start talking to myself in a hasty quick succession of words, the academic in me spewing facts. The same facts that are now widely known due to media coverage of the pandemic:

African Americans navigate societal institutions that are plagued by racism and discrimination.

African Americans are over-represented in low wage work yet essential jobs, which places them in direct interaction with the public.

African Americans are more likely to live in multi-generational households, where it can be difficult to accommodate social distancing, and within neighborhoods that have fewer resources available should they need access to them.

African Americans have less access and receive poorer quality medical care. Some lack health insurance due to unemployment; when employed, they may be underinsured due to the cost of health care premiums.

African Americans are affected by the wealth disparity in this country, with Black families only making 10 cents for every dollar of wealth attained by a White family.

I start pacing around the room, still holding my cup of coffee. My speech even louder now as if I’m in direct conversation with someone, anyone:

Can you believe this?

He makes no mention of the racial disparities that exist?

Really?

No mention of the structural racism that has produced vast inequalities, creating a domino-effect on the lives of African Americans?

Come on! Are you kidding me?

No context for any of this! To only say that people of color suffer from the “burden of social ills”? What does this even mean?

I stand quietly in front of the television screen, pausing for a brief moment. Coffee stains slowly drip down my mug. I look at the death toll that suddenly appears on the righthand side of the television screen: 18,500 U.S. deaths.

Shame on you, Dr. Adams.

I say all of this very eloquently, but the around-the-way-Black-girl-in-me has another reaction. All niceties aside:

What the fuck????

Oh, Ro-me, Ro-me, Rome.

What

We Not Gon Do

Is land this shit on our plate!

How in the ever-lasting fuck could you say all of this?

Make it make sense Lordt!!!

I threw my coffee mug clear across the room. I watch motionless as it lands on the floor, staining my cream-colored carpet. Even though I was angry, and had every right to be, he was not fooling anybody.

Dr. Adams didn’t mention certain things, namely, that the Covid-19 pandemic has exacerbated the cracks in the system. Reyes (2020) writes,

The overrepresentation of African Americans among confirmed COVID-19 cases and number of deaths underscores the fact that the coronavirus pandemic, far from being an equalizer, is amplifying or even worsening existing social inequalities tied to race, class, and access to the health care system. (p. 300)

This is what Dr. Adams, or should I say, Jerome, didn’t tell you. Yet, he did do one thing: he gave me impetus to write this article.

After Dr. Adams’s futile and botched attempt to clearly provide further explanations of what he refers to as “the burden of social ills,” I have taken upon myself the awesome task of painting a clearer picture of said ills, including their disastrous affect. To do this, I use autoethnography. Autoethnography is

setting a scene, telling a story, weaving intricate connections among life and art, experience and theory, evocation and explanation . . . and then letting it go, hoping for readers who will bring the same careful attention to your words in the context of their own lives. (Denzin & Lincoln, 1997, p. 208)

By using autoethnography, I tell the stories behind the numbers, for oftentimes, it is the stories that are lost in a rush to compile data. In this way, I focus on the specific lives that have been touched by this devastating pandemic. Of particular importance is my focus on the experiences of Black women and girls, especially because they live at the intersection of the health disparity. As a result, my approach adheres to the tenets of Black Feminist Theory, which explores and centers the experiences of Black women within the research framework. Not only is this demonstrated above by my focus on the deaths of Mkayla Robinson and Shalondra Rollins and the inclusion of their mother’s words, it is also shown in my continued discussion on the pandemic and its effect on Black women. This is especially exhibited by an intimate look at the life and death of Rana Zoe Mungin.

Along those same lines, you will also find the story of how my own daughter, Rajah Emahn Ferdinand, was diagnosed with Covid-19. This is presented as a dual diary entry, one from me and one from her, titled Fucked-Up Shit in the World, a play on the words of Rana Zoe Mungin. Adding my daughter’s voice and experience to this important conversation is in line with my belief that Black girls should be centered in conversations about their own experiences, which is a leading principle of Black Girlhood Studies. In fact, I follow the lead of Ruth Nicole Brown, Dominique C. Hill, and especially, Venus E. Evans-Winters and the Girls of Gender Equity whose collaborative work has fueled the field of Black Girlhood Studies. They advocate for bringing Black girls into research that focuses on their lived experiences, with Evans-Winters and Girls of Gender Equity (2017) writing, “[Bring]ing girls of color into conversations about girlhood [is] a potential epoch of self-empowerment and agency, such as naming one’s own reality, speaking truth to power, and embracing ways of knowing the social world . . . ” (p. 415). This is what I aim to do by including my daughter’s full engagement of her own experience of learning she tested positive for Covid-19. As such, this writing offers a glimpse of the emotional process of receiving this devastating news, a position rarely captured in academic scholarship on the subject.

****

She sat at a fountain with a black and white shirt on emblazoned with the words, Just Do It! Her long braids flowing down to her black shorts. And that smile. That smile beautified by bright red lipstick. Black framed glasses and big gold earrings complete the look. I look at this picture and wonder what kind of person she is. Her friends describe her as captivating, as giving and sincere. They say she liked hockey, was a good cook, and loved making beautiful cakes. And she loved her family, especially her nieces and nephews. She liked musicals like Hamilton, and simply adored the Harry Potter series, even hosted costume parties of the books. They say she was devoted to her students at Bushwick Ascend Middle School here in Brooklyn.

I didn’t know Rana Zoe Mungin personally, but I find myself obsessing over the story of her death. I won’t recap the grim details here—a quick Google search reveals how major news outlets, including CNN, ABC News, and CBS News, tell the story of her untimely death. Her sister, Mia Mungin, chronicled Rana’s battle with Covid-19 on Facebook. I offer here only the basic facts minus all the flowery language. The gist of the story is

She was sick.

She went to the hospital for a Covid test.

They denied her.

Four days later, she went again.

Again, they denied her.

She went one more time a day later.

They admitted her.

Hours later, she was on a ventilator.

She died six weeks later.

I present it this way because, honestly, I don’t feel comfortable telling her story, not about her death at least. But what I can tell you is how her story connects to mine, and in that way, reveal more about her as a person. And I can use Rana’s own words to help me do that.

In fact, I found her words in the stories she wrote. She was a fiction writer, having earned an MFA at the University of Massachusetts (UMass), where links to her stories still exist. I giggle as I read, “Love, From Mexico,” especially the opening line:

The day my daddy turns fifty, my mother calls him in Mexico and says, “Happy birthday, motherfucker. I hate you.”

I read that line and know she is my type of writer. Plus, I just feel a very strong connection. Her and I both were the first to attend college in our families. There’s always something about being the first and only:

Before me, no one in my family had ever gone to college, which meant no one knew anything about sending me to college.

I shake my head in agreement, remembering my own family’s struggle in this area.

I continue to see a connection between us, Rana and I, especially when I learn about her time spent at predominately White schools. I attended Bowling Green State University (BGSU), a predominately White school in Ohio, so I know what that experience is like. Rana reawakens in me things I thought I had buried, like how I used to refer to myself as “the black dot” in a room. Of how being called a nigger directly to my face left me feeling depleted. And the exoticism. The attempts to touch my hair, to feel it’s loose coils, to wonder at its dexterity. I learn that Rana had a similar experience at UMass, an experience I just couldn’t believe. Her friend reveals how a White, male classmate told Rana “she could have gotten into any program in the country because she has ‘that Junot Díaz thing going’” and how he one day, suddenly, walked up to Rana, licked her, and wordlessly walked away (Bates, 2020). It’s those types of things that Rana captures in her writing.

But Rana had a bravery that I so often lack. I see it in her scathing column about racism in MFA programs that she wrote titled, “Dear UMass MFA”:

I must change this character to make you comfortable with what you see, because you are unable or even unwilling to accept an experience that differs from your own; or, to accept a black experience that is different from what you think it should be. I must put your comfort above my craft.

I reread those lines again, especially, “I must put your comfort above my craft.” I think about the stories I don’t tell out of fear. Out of repercussions. Out of shame. “I must put your comfort above my craft.” I lean back from my laptop and let those words sit within my body. But I still need to know more. Who was this girl? And where did she find the strength to articulate her position so clearly, to speak truth to power? I open new search browsers to keep looking.

I learn that she filed a complaint with the Massachusetts Commission Against Discrimination about her experience at UMass. But, unfortunately, “It was dismissed when the commission could not conclude that the law had been broken” (Bourne, 2020). I also learn that she lived right here in East New York, Brooklyn. Not far from me in East Flatbush. Only 3 miles away, an 18-min drive. Neighborhoods of similar composition: urban (with some urban blight), mainly Black and Hispanic, and located so deep within Brooklyn that getting home typically requires two fares (a bus and a train fare). And I learn that we even have very similar philosophies about being Black girls:

I don’t know when people started saying black girls are magic, but when I was little, it’s something that I desperately needed to hear. Not only that we were magic, but that it was okay that we were.

Her words speak to me in such an intimate manner, so much so that they become a mantra. Whispering to myself: it’s okay to be magic, it’s okay to be magic, it’s okay to be magic.

Yet, I am also disheartened to learn that we both had similar experiences with the health care system, even at the same hospital, Brookdale University Hospital. Actually, that hospital lies between our two neighborhoods. Many years ago, on a cold, winter’s night, I took my daughter to the emergency room because she was coughing excessively. She used the same words that Rana used:

I can’t breathe.

And so, I buddled her up and rushed her to the emergency room, where, after a brief examination by a medical student, they sat my daughter in front of a breathing machine and proceeded to give her a nebulizer treatment with albuterol. After the machine cut off, roughly in about 15 min, they gave me discharge papers and sent us home.

Rajah continued to cough for the next several days. I didn’t know what to do. Not wanting to return to the emergency room, I rushed her to her pediatric doctor who informed me that Rajah had Croup, “An infection of the upper airway which obstructs breathing and causes a characteristic barking cough” (Mayo Clinic, 2021). Apparently, it was supposed to clear up in 3 to 5 days, but it didn’t. She had a severe case and required further medical intervention. Needless to say, I felt like shit. Plus, I was angry that they missed this important diagnosis, because had they gotten it right, Rajah could’ve already been receiving treatment. Instead, I laid in the bed with my child night after night, watching her struggle to breathe. Talk about a mother’s guilt! But that’s a separate story.

This is what they did to Rana—they gave her albuterol and medicine for a headache. Even though she had a fever, one of the indicators of having Covid-19. When she was still short of breath 4 days later, her family called for an ambulance, who came and, again, gave her a nebulizer treatment with albuterol. According to her sister, they even implied that she was having “a panic attack” and proceeded to calm her down by talking to her about her goals and dreams. She bravely told the EMS:

My goal is not to die today.

But the EMS were not helpful. After treating her, they left for another call. Rana made it to the hospital on her own, where she was eventually admitted, as “one of the sickest patients in the hospital.”

I read this story over and over again in all the national outlets that covered it. Although more details emerge, the story is essentially the same. Yet, I keep searching. I don’t know if I am secretly searching for something in particular, but with each news article I read, a sadness steadily grows in me and I’m consumed with whatifs. What if she had returned to school to get her doctorate as she one day intended? What if she had met her goal of turning her master’s thesis, Sed Ministrare [To Minister], into a book? Admittedly, these are very lofty questions. Maybe a more pressing question is: What if they had listened to her and given her a Covid-19 test? I look at a piece written for her that uses her words:

What good is a love of words, writing and music and teaching others when it’s all filtered through the expectations of my skin? To be beautiful is not the best thing in the world. Being smart is better, to be able to sing is wonderful but breathing is best.

Unfortunately, Rana wouldn’t breathe on her own again, at least not for long. The medically induced coma didn’t help her breathe. The ventilator she was eventually placed on didn’t either. Even the drug Trump referred to as “game changing,” hydroxychloroquine, didn’t help her. Nor did the experimental drug, remdesivir, which she only received after a transfer to Manhattan’s Mount Sinai Hospital through the urging and advocacy of her family. In fact, it took a public outcry from her family and friends, a rally for her cause on Facebook, and a campaign to write to local representatives to get Rana access to quality care, all in an effort to save her life. Sadly, it didn’t. I’m consumed by What if? What if? What if? Arnett (2020) writes, “Some who knew her saw a tragic irony: The very biases that Mungin, who was Black, sought to bring attention to in her work ultimately played a role in her death.” I think now of the words that Rana has tattooed on her shoulder from her favorite author, Sandra Cisneros:

They will not know I have gone away to come back. For the ones I left behind. For the ones who cannot out.

This is what happens to Black people when they engage with the health care industry. It’s a very common refrain. Simply put, Black people are not believed when they say they are in pain. For example, a 2016 study by the University of Virginia of medical students and residents revealed that the participants believed that Black patients feel less pain because their nerve endings are less sensitive than White patients. And these are doctors in training! Even a recent health care algorithm, Optum, was found to show racial bias by favoring White patients for additional care over Black patients, even though the Black patients were sicker and had underlying conditions (Gawronski, 2019). When it comes to Black women’s pain, the distortion is even more pronounced. “For whatever reason, the healthcare industry seems to perceive that Black women have a higher tolerance for pain” (Barker, 2021). There is a sordid history of this illustrated by the father of modern gynecology, Dr. James Marion Sims, who performed medical procedures using no anesthesia on Black slaves, deeming Black women as incapable of feeling the same amount of pain as White women.

This implicit bias has a devastating effect on Black patients and has contributed to the Black maternal crisis. Fitzgerald and Hurst (2017) explain the effect of implicit bias in the health care setting, writing,

Implicit biases explain a potential dissociation between what a person explicitly believes and wants to do (e.g. treat everyone equally) and the hidden influence of negative implicit associations on her thoughts and action (e.g. perceiving a black patient as less competent and thus deciding not to prescribe the patient a medication). (p. 2)

Unfortunately, this has contributed to a disturbing rate: Black women are four times more likely to die from pregnancy complications. In fact, African Americans and other people of color are “less likely to receive needed services” even when they have insurance and income (Institute of Medicine, 2003). We see this in the case of Serena Williams and Beyonce, both who have had terrible experiences during childbirth. I’m beginning to think that this is related to Mississippi’s alarming number of pregnant women who are now dying from Covid-19—60% of them are Black. I even hate to write this, but a recent article by Rushovich et al. (2021) reveal that Black women are more likely to die from Covid-19 complications than any other group. They write, “Our results show that Black women have a higher mortality rate than both white and Asian/PI men as well as white and Asian/PI women” (p. 1698). Despite this unfortunate circumstance, Black women still face barriers in even being recognized as Covid long haulers (Cirruzzo, 2021).

As demonstrated in Rana’s case, we see the effect of the social determinants of health that I described above. Due to racism and implicit bias, the medical staff refused to listen to her and her needs, ultimately dismissing her on two occasions. The hospital where she sought care was under-funded and under-resourced, which means that they likely had limited tests for Covid-19. Plus, Rana’s sister worked as a nurse, which increased her likelihood of coming into contact with the deadly virus. The CDC finds, “Black or African Americans also account for 30% of licensed practical and licensed vocational nurses” (Mayo Clinic, 2020). As frontline workers, oftentimes in nursing homes, this places African Americans in the dangerous position of not only contracting the virus but also of passing the virus to their own family members. Although Rana had advanced degrees and worked as a teacher, she lived at home with her family in a low-income neighborhood. Sadly, her sister noted the impact of this, writing on Facebook, “Racism and health disparities . . . still continues at this day and age. The zip code in which we lives [sic] in still predetermine the type of care we receive” (Brito, 2020).

But, like I said, I didn’t know Rana personally. I only know of her, largely due to the catchphrases used in the media, “Brooklyn Teacher, Rana Zoe Mungin, 30, dies from Covid-19 after being denied testing twice” or some headline like that. I know of her death—I see her online obituary page at Hennessey Heights Funeral Home. But I also see signs of life. I look at the images that pop-up from a Google search. I see her smiling and wearing her black framed glasses as she appears with friends and family. I see her LinkedIn page. And now she has a Wikipedia entry. But one of the last things I see is her influential words, words that I can use as a jumping board:

One of the best things about making art is that it lets you confront fucked up shit in the world through the process of creating something that suddenly is bigger than just you.

****

Fucked-Up Shit in the World: April 5, 2021

My day begins like every other day.

Wake the kids for school. Cook breakfast. Then a mad rush out the door.

Except today, I have a mammogram. Third time the doctor has rescheduled this appointment. But not today. I’m not taking no for an answer.

I’m in a pretty good mood today, so I walk the fifteen minutes to the train. No problem! I get on the train and settle into my seat. Listening to my Spotify playlist of Lil’ Wayne. I love The Carter III! It gives me the right amount of energy I need to travel around this city.

Get off at my stop and walk the 20 minutes to the doctor’s office. I pass the beauty of Brooklyn—historic brownstones, tree-lined streets with birds chipping away at leftover bread, flowers protruding from local shops. I take all of this in as I walk.

Arrive at the doctor’s office. Quickly led to the mammogram section where I change into the ugly hospital gown and follow the technician’s instructions. Wow! It took every bit of 5 minutes to get this done. Afterwards, I disrobe, put my shirt back on, and leave the office.

The sun shines. Brightly. Beautifully. Not a cloud in the sky. I tilt my head slightly upward so that I can feel the sun rays on my face as I walk back to the train for the ride back home.

I listen to Lil’ Wayne. Again. And check email. Oh, a note from my editor: your forthcoming book is ready for production. OMG! OMG! Tears roll. One after the other. A huge smile on my face. Body jittery from the excitement of the news. Nothing can spoil my day. I make it back to my stop and walk—no I strut—off the train and all the way home, passing each block with a smile.

Cellphone rings.

Words going in and out: “Daughter . . . tested positive . . . Covid 19 . . . pick up from school.”

No response. Pause.

“Mrs. Ferdinand, did you hear me? Your daughter . . .”

I HEARD YOU!

Stop walking. Where am I? And where’s the sun? Lost. Confused. Sit on the sidewalk to regroup.

Screaming: Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!

Renata, get up. Get. Up.

Reroute. I walk towards my daughter’s school. I go in the office and tell them. A lot of commotion. Scramble to get her out of the classroom. I wait at the office door for her to come.

I see her walking down the hall. I smile. I pretend to see the sun.

Fucked-Up Shit in the World: April 5, 2021

My day begins like every other day.

I wake up feeling fine. Well rested from a long spring break. I get dressed. Eat. I’m out the door.

I listen to music as I walk to school. Spotify playlist of Willow Smith. I love, love, love her song, “Whip My Hair.”

I can’t wait to get to school! I know my friends can’t wait to see me. And I am right—they run up to me and hug me tightly. We talk over each other. We can’t get our words out quick enough! Talking and laughing. Talking and laughing.

1st period: Pass notes to each other. The teacher doesn’t even see us. Same ol’ stuff. Boys. Roblox. The new shirt at Shein. Who did what over break. Who likes who? All good stuff. Snickering under our breath.

2nd period: Different friends so routine starts over again. Notes, Notes, and more notes. Talking and laughing. Talking and laughing.

Lunch. Rasheeda laughed so hard milk squirted out of her mouth. Hilarious! Tammy wasted red chili beans all over her new shirt. Rahmeek made fun of how much weight Daniella gained. Too funny.

Lunch over. On my way to 3rd period. Wait. Principal approaching. Motioning for me to come closer. Wait. Am I in trouble? What does she want? And why is she looking crazy?

Stomach drops to my legs.

I look at my friends. No laughing. No talking. No notes.

“Your mother is waiting for you in the office.”

“O . . . kay.”

Walk to the office. Head down. Nervous. Afraid.

I see my mother. Smiling.

She starts talking. Words going in and out: “Tested positive . . . Covid 19 . . . Out for two weeks. Isolate.”

Room spins. Circling fast. Losing my balance. Stumbling. Bookbag falls to the floor. Gripping the wall.

“Rajah, did you hear me? You tested . . .”

I HEARD YOU!

Where’s the wall? Where’s the ground? I’m sweating. Hands shaking. Heart beating fast.

Whispering: Why me? Why me? Why me?

I look for answers in my mother’s face.

****

Full Disclosure: Initially, I did not want to write this essay. It was one of those subjects I was overwhelmed by. Even when I first began researching for this article, so many words jumped out at me

70% of deaths Dying at alarming rates Redlining Public Transit Users

Food Service Workers Bus Drivers Grocery Store Workers

Health Disparities Lead Poisoning Criminalization Stopped in Stores

Racial Empathy Gap

These words stuck out like a sore thumb, each intimidating in its own right and easily explored as a central topic of any essay. But then I thought about all the stories not told, of the Black women and girls whose lives have been erased during this pandemic. And I thought about Rajah, my own daughter. Of how she suffered for 2 weeks. The fevers that came and went. The chills that consumed her body, simultaneously causing her to sweat and freeze at the same time. I thought about the damaging psychological effect of the disease. The isolation. The threat of death looming over her like a heavy cloud. Every day she asked if she were dying, and I only had these words to offer: Not today. But there was no certainty to this. No guarantees. I essentially offered false hope.

But this isn’t an essay about false hope. Nor is it an essay to convince you to wear a mask, or socially distance, or get vaccinated for that matter. This is an essay about vantage points. Of being able to see a story from another viewpoint. And to acknowledge that even when our stories diverge, there is still something we can learn from understanding the experiences and lives of others, especially those lives that differ from our own. It asks us to dig a little bit deeper and go underneath the surface. As Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie (2009) says, “There is danger in a single story.” This essay is a lesson in that.