My early years of elementary school were filled with many happy childhood memories with family and friends, but they also reflect a pretty dark and challenging period of my life. When I was seven years old, I got some of the most shocking news of my life at the time. My parents sat me down and had to explain to their little girl that they were no longer going to live with each other… they were going to be seeking a separation. At such a young age, I felt helpless as I did not understand why this was happening. After that conversation I had to observe over a period of time my dad slowly move his things out of our house and into his new apartment. During this period, I especially felt lonely considering my two older brothers were moved out by this point and therefore I was the main one that felt the brunt of the impact. My new normal was staying primarily with my mom during the week and going to my dad’s every other weekend. Although my parents were always respectful of each other during this difficult time and always stressed their love and support for me in which I still continued a happy and healthy childhood, the impact of their separation took a negative toll on my physical health.

I started suffering extreme separation anxiety in a way I never experienced before, however, I never knew how to really cope with the separation so my emotions would bottle up and instead impact my body. The biggest symptom I experienced were two types of stomach problems, the most dangerous being purging. I went through a phase in which my anxiety got to the point that I was unable to swallow, like it literally scared me to swallow food, I physically could not do it. It was like I had fears of choking or something. Instead I would find myself chewing my food but instead of swallowing it, I would either spit it into a napkin or into the toilet. I went what seems like a long time without being caught however, I still remember vividly the day my mom caught me. We had gone out to Applebees after she picked me up from daycare as a special treat and I ordered my favorite, chicken tenders and fries. Not long into our meal she noticed me using multiple napkins and balling them up as if I was hiding something. When she noticed what I was doing, we immediately headed home and she called my dad. What a stressful night. Soon after, I was visiting doctors left and right to see what was wrong until I finally received a diagnosis… acid reflux. It sounded good at the time but between you and me as I reflect now, I think my issue was a cry for help or seeking attention during such a difficult time. I was placed on medicine and eventually (although it took some time) I was comfortable eating again. However, although purging was no longer a problem for me, the anxieties from it still lingered in that I still have anxiety eating in front of people because sometimes for sake of comfortability I have to eat slower. So, when I eat with people and they finish first it is extremely uncomfortable as I feel like now, I’m being judged and stared at.

Luckily by the time I was nine my parents reunited and have been happily married since, however I found myself still suffering from the trauma of their separation. Although I was no longer purging, a new stomach problem emerged which stemmed from separation anxiety. No longer was I just experiencing separation anxiety of when I was with one parent and not the other, but it extended to other family and friends closest to me. I never wanted to leave my parents as I always had the constant fear of them separating again or even worse while I was gone. My best friend who I had literally gone to Puerto with for two weeks the summer prior to their separation and had no issues, I was no longer able to even sleepover one night at her house. There were multiple times that my mom had to pick me up from her house or somewhere we were hanging out because anxiety would consume me until the point that I had terrible stomachaches. My symptoms were still being blamed on my acid reflux diagnosis however, as I sit here at almost 22 years old, I have a better understanding of my body and recognize the true toll stress and anxiety have on me.

From a fairly young age I was exposed to those that suffered with both cognitive and physical disabilities as during my first couple of years of elementary school, the institution would host disability awareness days in which we would each partner up with kids with special needs. There would be games and food, just an indoor carnival type vibe. These events really humbled me as I realized the realities that other children faced and saw how they are either unable or have to adjust to ways of life in which society would view as simply “normal” or the “expectation.” After experiencing these bonds with them, I was more socially and consciously aware of the unfortunate negative receptions that they would also get. Towards the end of my elementary school years, I had started attending a summer camp where my mom worked and one of her coworkers also had a son who attended that we will call J. Although J was much older than me and had technically maxed out of the age limit to be a camper his cognitive disability allowed for him to stay much longer. When learning about J and his disability, as elementary schooler it’s understandably difficult to fully comprehend his situation. So, the adults around me always explained his disability to me as basically his brain was similar to that of a two year old’s, like cognitively. When J would speak, it could sometimes be difficult to understand him because he couldn’t really formulate complete sentences and the way he spoke equated to that of a toddler. However, for me, I just saw him as J, I embraced his differences and made sure to be his friend, not treating him any differently. One time during lunch, I was sitting with my friends and J sat at this table with some random girls that started bullying and making fun of him for his disability and it was extremely sad because J started crying. When I saw what was happening, I immediately got up. I stepped in and told them to knock it off and had him sit with me. I was nit going to tolerate that.

Years later, when I was in high school disability became personal within my life once again when another coworker of my mom introduced me to her son that I’ll call JJ who has muscular dystrophy that he developed around the age of eight. This was much different than my previous friendship with J because in this case JJ’s disability was physical as he was in a wheelchair since he is unable to walk, rather than cognitive. Senior year of high school he asked me to go be his prom date in which I so gladly accepted. Being in a compacted area at the prom venue in which there were many long dresses and crowds of people dancing, I could sense JJ start to feel uncomfortable because he felt like he was unable to dance  or maneuver in the so called ‘traditional’ sense. I was not going to allow his disability to define him or make him feel less then, so I got out there and started dancing with him and people even caught on and danced with us.

Lastly, growing up as the youngest child of six kids,  I have seen my fair share of them starting their own families and with that gaining the title of Aunt or Tía as some of them call me. However, during my senior year of high school my family, especially my dad became ecstatic because he was going to be a grandfather! Now this title was nothing abnormal to him because my dad has other grandchildren and a handful more of great-grandchildren. However, what made the birth of this Christmas Eve baby extra special was he would be able to carry the last name. This meant a lot to my family. Our other close family members are predominately girls; therefore, our last name would have most likely ‘gone extinct’ if you will. When we found out she was in labor, we became so excited  However, this excitement quickly shifted to pure terror when the baby was finally born because he lost oxygen over a period time which stopped his brain from working properly. As a result, he has to constantly have his mucus suctioned out manually through a tube since he can’t break it down on his own. He also is unable to hold his neck up on his own or sit up straight. He is unable to speak or move his hands and feet. Pretty much the most he can do is blink and make some noises here and there. His journey has been very hard to witness but we are extremely happy because three years later and he has made progress! He is even going to be starting school which we never thought he’d be able to do with a bus picking him up and everything!

To understand this unfortunate phenomenon that spreads across hospitals both nationally and internationally, I will be focusing on the terrifying ordeal that a black woman who remains unidentified described in a TIME magazine interview entitled “I was Pregnant and in Crisis. All the Doctors and Nurses saw was an Incompetent Black Woman.”

The woman’s ordeal began when she was four months pregnant and sometime after experiencing persistent feelings of discomfort she began to bleed while at work. From the jump the women understood that the odds would be stacked against her in the workplace and realized that she could not make a scene. If she would’ve “overplayed” her pain and suffering, she could be subject to criticisms from her white peers of laziness and seen as being dramatic. As a result, the woman made sure to complete the work assigned to her before she called her husband to pick her up from work.

Once the woman arrived, she found herself having to wait in the waiting room for at least 30 minutes despite calling ahead to make an appointment and describe her symptoms. The bleeding got so severe that she bled through the waiting room chair. It wasn’t until then that the nurses expressed any ounce of concern and finally took her to see the doctor. However, the Doctor’s explanation was dense. He gave her a diagnosis of being “fat “and tried to assure her that the spotting was “normal.” And just like that, she was sent home. Later that night, the woman began experiencing severe butt pain and when she eventually called the nurse, she dismissed it as constipation and suggested that she try to use the bathroom. The pain lasted about three days with the woman unable to sleep more than fifteen minutes over that time span.

After returning to the hospital, the nurses were now implying that the woman had eaten something bad which is why she was in so much pain but “begrudgingly” agreed to finally do an ultrasound and the results were stunning. What appeared in the women’s ultrasound were “three babies” but the problem was the woman was only pregnant with one. It was quickly determined that the other two ‘babies’ were actually large tumors. With that information the doctor dismissed the woman with a lack of concern stating, “If you make it through the night without going into preterm labor, I’d be surprised.” The woman was then moved into the maternity ward where she was reprimanded by nurse saying that she had actually been in labor for three days and should’ve said something.

Following these intense days of pain that would not end, the woman was finally wheeled into the operating room to deliver her baby. After arriving into the operating room, the pain was so severe that she began falling in and out of consciousness. For one moment that she woke up, the woman began screaming profanities in response to the pain as many pregnant women in labor do but to no surprise, she found herself being reprimanded again. The woman began begging for an epidural in which the anesthesiologist took forever to arrive to her side and when he did, threatened the woman that if she didn’t quiet down she would not receive the epidural.

After passing out once the woman received her epidural, it was time for her deliver her baby, a girl, who died after her first breath. As if the ordeal hadn’t been heartbreaking enough, the nurse left the woman the most chilling words aster it was “over.” The nurse said, “Just so you know, there was nothing we could have done, because you did not tell us you were in labor.”

https://time.com/5494404/tressie-mcmillan-cottom-thick-pregnancy-competent/

https://www.nbcnews.com/news/us-news/how-training-doctors-implicit-bias-could-save-lives-black-mothers-n873036

https://www.heart.org/en/news/2019/02/20/why-are-black-women-at-such-high-risk-of-dying-from-pregnancy-complications

I was born and raised in a small town in Harford County, MD. Where according to the most recent ACS, my town was 74.47% white and only 16.00% black or African American and is just a bridge crossing away from entering Cecil County, MD an area where confederate flags are ‘normal ‘and areas with relationships with the KKK. The only places I felt my blackness was embraced was within my home and my church which was a predominately black. The county school systems were predominately white as well as the general population.

From first to eighth grade, I was placed in a Catholic School. Go figure, I was the only person of color within that whole building. The thing is however, although I was not oblivious to the fact that physically, on the account of my skin color and hair texture I was different from my peers, I noticed my race was rarely a topic of discussion. I was never treated any differently from my friends and honestly did not think much of my differences.

However, there would be circumstances in which my differences were evident when we would be talking about racism in history class and I would have to be warned ahead of time that the “N word” would be used and people looking at me during those class discussions. There was even one occasion where my class had a substitute teacher and she was trying to get my attention and instead of just asking another student “who is that?” she asked, “who’s the black girl?” I began to really pay attention to the elephant in the room now.

When high school rolled around, I was no longer at catholic and instead enrolled in our county’s technical high school. I was excited to finally be exposed to a diverse learning environment with more people that looked like me, but that excitement was quickly short lived.

I was so used to just being “the black girl” in my previous school however, I was learning the variations in being black and dealing with constant questions of my “true identity.” I was now facing the sub categorization of being labeled “light skinned with curly hair” and dealt with the ignorance from those around me, the constant “really what are you?” “Are you sure you’re not mixed with…?” etc. I was constantly seen as biracial, Native American and even Hispanic, never “fully black” and it would get to the point where I would feel the need to show proof through pictures of my parents. Not only was my skin and hair the topic of discussion, but how I spoke and carried myself was also. I was frequently told “I speak so proper” and people would turn their heads if my opinions or interests didn’t match typical black stereotypes. This was damaging to my identity as these statements came from both my white and black peers and I would feel like I couldn’t relate to both and had to pick one or at times certain groups didn’t accept me for me. I believe it was during this time that without even realizing it I found myself struggling with this phenomenology of racial embodiment.

https://www.verywellmind.com/what-is-colorism-5077380

https://www.nccj.org/colorism-0