“In the end, we will remember not the words of our enemies, but the silence of our friends.”   -Dr. Martin Luther King

One of the conundrums I face when writing stories from my nursing career is the question “whose story is it?” For instance, does observing an act of racism give the observer the right to tell the story of what happened to another person? Does telling the story with the intent of exposing the ugliness of racism make it okay?

by julianna paradisi

It’s February, Black History Month. How can a white woman, a registered nurse, discuss race issues in a profession in which only 7.8% of the workforce is black without sounding ignorant, or worse, racist herself? Once or twice in the past I’ve made well-intended comments that revealed my own blind spots when talking about race. Fortunately, these were brought to my attention by friends who understood my good intentions, however misguided. I’m grateful for their support, and compassion. Like learning a new language, using the right words when talking about race requires commitment, practice, and a little bit of courage.

‘Here’s the chart. Answer the man’s questions.’

Years ago, I encountered a surgeon I’d never met before who repeatedly asked me for updates about his patient’s status. But I wasn’t the patient’s nurse. I kept redirecting him to a coworker seated nearby at the nurses’ desk; she was the patient’s nurse. My confusion about his seeming inability to grasp what I kept saying to him turned into shocked outrage when my colleague rose from her seat, brought me the chart, and said, “Here’s the chart. Answer the man’s questions.”

Suddenly, I understood what was happening: The surgeon was refusing to discuss his patient’s care with my colleague because she was black (and a damn good nurse).

I was mortified to be associated with this physician on the basis of skin color. I felt that at our core we had nothing in common.

I struggled to hold back my anger while answering his questions in short, clipped sentences punctuated with “Yes, doctor,” a response that nurses and physicians know is code for a much harsher expletive. Dismissing our obvious hostility, he nonchalantly wrote a couple of new orders and scribbled a quick progress note before he left.

Why didn’t we confront him? Because he was unknown to us and thus unpredictable. And his patient, a fresh post-op, needed his nurses and surgeon to communicate to keep him safe. We made the patient’s safety our priority.

We did not remain silent, though. Together, we acted on our anger. Together, we reported the surgeon’s behavior to our nurse manager. Then we took our complaint to the medical director of our unit.

We were never informed of the outcome of our report, but I never saw or heard of that surgeon again. To my knowledge, an apology was never offered.

A fear of talking about racism.

The response we received within the organization was largely supportive. In this, we may have been fortunate. A 2019 research article in the Online Journal of Issues in Nursing included a few relevant observations or findings: Many nurse managers report feeling unprepared to handle or discuss workplace race issues. In some cases, complaints about racism are downplayed or dismissed. Many black nurses are weary of having to explain covert racism to white managers and nursing instructors. And many nurse faculty avoid addressing the issue for fear of saying the wrong thing.

In addition, there is a short supply of black nurse managers and nursing instructors.

Is it wrong for me to write this story? It’s not my intent to violate my coworker, my friend, but if nurses don’t talk about racism openly, it will continue to persist. We can’t advocate for ourselves as nurses if we are not willing to advocate for all nurses.