“You Want Our Talent, But Not Our Humanity” – The Start of Another NFL Season

Athletics, Race

The start of the football season began with an embrace of unity. What followed? An outpouring of boos from the socially distant crowd at Arrowhead stadium.

American sports are at a crossroads. In times of fear and uncertainty, we often look to athletics to provide joy, inspiration, and clarity. But social justice will no longer afford our national pastimes the ability to obscure our collective lens. Indeed, only the past few months without sports—those empty fields, dark courts, and silent stadiums—have given us the opportunity to focus our national attention on something far more important: police brutality against Black men in America. 

Being a Black athlete has never been easy. There is far too much pressure to keep your head down and to, “just play.” Yet never have we needed more from our most prominent Black icons. Recently, professional athletes, recognizing their reach and the power of symbols, have raised awareness of long-burning issues. Jackie Robinson and Muhammad Ali are smiling down from above because they know all too well playing sports in a society that reveres you as an idol but does not embrace you as a human is not tenable.

As a Black boy growing up in Washington D.C., I was nine years old when I pleaded with my parents for season tickets to see my favorite football team. My home team, Washington Football, had at one time bucked the status quo by fielding Doug Williams, the first Black Superbowl-winning MVP quarterback. I marveled at what the players had achieved on the field, however, as a child I did not see beyond. 

As a Black man, I still marvel at the athletic achievement, but I know now the more important achievements are cultural. Fifty-two years ago, Black Olympic sprinters Tommie Smith and John Carlos raised their fists during the Olympic Games in Mexico City as the “Star-Spangled Banner” began playing—a silent protest of the appalling treatment of Blacks back home in the United States. Many years later, where Tommie Smith and John Carlos once stood in protest, Colin Kaepernick and Lebron James have knelt, using their influence to start national conversations. From fists heard around the world to kneeling under the flag the debate continues as Americans are fiercely divided on whether kneeling is dishonorable or appropriate, muting the original reason for the public display—police violence towards Black men. 

Each game day, we applaud Black men for athletic achievement, but every day, we fail to protect them in society. Too often we take the violence as a given, requiring parents to continue having grim conversations with their Black sons on how to navigate themselves safely in our current America. But, at this given crossroads society must now adapt as we adjust the lens.

Seattle Seahawks Head Football Coach Pete Carroll, addressing the media, said, “We all are seeing the truth of how Black people are being treated in our streets and … law enforcement is a huge issue to our guys, because they’re frightened for their lives. They’re frightened for the lives of their loved ones and their children.” 

Coach Carroll is right. There is a Black man in your life who needs you to listen to his story, to understand the daily challenges he faces because of the color of his skin. To know that he fears for the safety of his son.

Coach Carroll continued, “Our players are screaming at us… Can you hear me? They just want to be respected, … [and] accepted just like all of our white children and families…”

As another National Football League season starts, we must use this as an opportunity for advancement. We must honor the work being done by so many to fight for justice in America. You want our talent but not our humanity and that will no longer go unnoticed. 

America is on fire and I am burning.

Life, Race

America is on fire and I, a Black man, am burning. The suffering is unbearable. There is no relief. 

I am not responsible for the blaze, but I get blamed for its destruction. I don’t know how to escape the searing heat. But what would escape even mean? This is my country, my home. When the pain drives me to beat back against the flames I am scorned, derision coming down like ash. I am told I am fighting my country, when I am fighting to save it. 

My heart breaks. I see those with the means to help me put out this fire, but they do nothing. I yell, I scream, I wave my arms and beg them to help. They look at my panic with confusion.

First there was George Floyd and now Jacob Blake. Peaceful protests and now violent riots flood American streets as the conversation on police brutality continues. 

After I published a recent editorial, a reader wrote me, explaining why a few Black men—no longer alive to be celebrated on Father’s Day, to watch a daughter earn her diploma, or to watch a son have a child of his own—should have expected the lethal violence they received.

“From all appearances, it seems that George Floyd’s death was the fault of at least one officer. But that wouldn’t have happened if Floyd hadn’t tried to pass a counterfeit $20 bill. How difficult is it not to pass counterfeit currency?”

“Eric Garner had been arrested 20 times for selling illegal cigarettes. He had to know he would be arrested again. And when he was, he resisted. He was a big guy, bigger than the officers who tried to arrest him. If he had not resisted, he would be alive today. How difficult is it not to resist arrest?”

“Laquan McDonald would not have been killed if he hadn’t been high, walking down a Chicago street waving a knife, slashing tires and stabbing windshields. The office who shot him had no business doing so, but all of that could have been avoided if McDonald had just obeyed police orders. Everyone has a legal duty to obey a police order.”

These responses and thoughts are the acrid smoke of the fire, poisoning the air we breathe. 

The smoke burns in our lungs, saps our strength, and obscures the way forward, making progress even harder. Anyone who blames a Jacob Blake or a George Floyd for his own death is blaming me for a fire I did not start and that alone I cannot extinguish. 

As fire burns hotter and the temperature rises, I am scared. I am desperate. I know I am burning because of the color of my skin. 

I feel like giving up but what would that mean? Would that mean that I would need to be open to accepting that shooting an unarmed man seven times in the back or kneeling on a man’s neck as he begs for his life is ever justified? What if others say the man is a “criminal”—what then? 

But I know I cannot give up. How could I when I see young Black and Brown boys in the flames around me, watching me, looking up at me? I see their terror and I know I need to show them that being afraid is nothing to be ashamed of, that courage is working for justice and peace in the face of your own fear. I need to show them that they deserve, as much as anyone, to tell themselves every morning, “I, too, am America.”

The power of Black women like Kamala Harris and my grandma

Race

Special to The Seattle Times

Now is the time to elect a Black woman as vice president, and I need not look any further than my own 97-year-old grandmother to understand why.

Often overlooked, Black women are at the center of the American story: They are and have long been serving in public and private spheres, as backbones of families and communities, as academics and intellectuals, and as political and civil rights leaders. Right now, many are nurses and physicians on the front lines of COVID-19, devoted to fighting a disease that threatens us all. 

The writer Janet Mock once wrote, “My grandmother and my two aunts were an exhibition in resilience and resourcefulness and Black womanhood. They rarely talked about the unfairness of the world with the words that I use now with my social justice friends, words like ‘intersectionality’ and ‘equality,’ ‘oppression,’ and ‘discrimination.’ They didn’t discuss those things because they were too busy living it, navigating it, surviving it.”

In 1923, in an America that legalized racism, inequality, hate and discrimination, my grandmother Florence Elizabeth Carmichael was born. As her 97thbirthday approached, I called to ask what she would like as a gift. After a long pause, she said, “Nothing.” Given how much she has accomplished, though, her answer was fitting: She grew up a poor Black woman in the Great Depression who, despite overwhelming adversity, earned a university degree during the Jim Crow era and raised two daughters to become international leaders in their respective fields. What more could I give her? 

Her firm rooting in a family of shared sacrifices and responsibility helped my grandmother overcome countless challenges in her America. One of eight children raised by a single mother in Millville, New Jersey, my grandmother didn’t hear many words of encouragement — but she saw plenty of action. Her mother, with the wrong skin color, struggled to find work outside the home. After many years she found a job as a seamstress in a clothing factory, but the elation she must have felt did not last long. Daily, she would be given a quota of garments to sew; unlike her white counterparts, however, the more she produced the more she was told to make. Despite the grueling work, and her doctor’s recommendations to quit, she returned. Watching her mother dress for work each morning, my grandmother would look up and see immeasurable anguish and fierce determination.

In 1963, Florence earned a bachelor’s and a master’s degree from American University at a time when few Black women were college educated. Both through actions and words, she instilled the same ambition in her two Black daughters. Ask my grandmother what she did for Alicia and Lucile, and she will tell you there is no formula. Early on Lucile took a liking to science, which resulted in a science kit for Christmas; Alicia enjoyed dancing, which led to ballet class. These were small fires Grandma turned into burning dreams. Florence may not recall what she and her daughter discussed each night at dinner, but the effect of those nightly conversations is apparent. They led Alicia Adams to become vice president of international programming and dance at the John F. Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts and her younger sister, Lucile Adams-Campbell, Ph.D., to become the first female Black Ph.D. epidemiologist in the United States.

Why is now the time for a Black woman as vice president? Black women are proven leaders. Evidence of their ability to thrive in the face of adversity, their capacity to inspire and their commitment to future generations is everywhere you look in America. Those characteristics are as necessary as they have ever been and will be pivotal in unifying our country, in showing Americans in blue states and red states that we are one. 

Like my grandmother, so many Black women will tell you they need nothing. We must honor their lived experiences by committing to resuscitate the soul of America, by building a more just and more equal society.

In her long career as a public servant, Kamala Harris has demonstrated her commitment to that cause. She has her own set of scars representative of the perseverance of herself and many women of color. She is the missing thread needed for the restoration of the quilt of America’s soul. And she is the vice president America needs and deserves for the uncertain future ahead.

Vulnerability and Where to Find It: A Doctor’s Tale

Medicine

Some patients we never forget.

She was a middle-aged white woman with brown hair and arms only a frequent gym-goer could possess. She walked through the clinic doors accompanied by her newfound love—newlyweds. My attending physician introduced himself and then it was my turn as the third-year medical student on the rotation.

She smiled in response, followed by a courteous, “Nice to meet you.” 

I had perched myself at the corner of the room against the sink at the base of what appeared to be an isosceles triangle. I was one of the bases, the neurology attending the other, and the patient and her husband represented the tip.

Here, I observed from my perch.

In her next few sentences she described how one morning, upon awakening, she noticed she was slurring her words of which she attributed to the notion of having suffered a mild stroke. In her mind, how could it be anything else? She was in her early 50s and unlike many of her friends she maintained a strict diet, a daily gym routine and a mentality to match. 

After multiple questions, some mild laughing with intermittent smiling even, the neurologist paused. He clasped his hands together as he let out a slow breath of air. 

“I firmly believe you have Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis (ALS), and the slurred speech is the beginning of this process. This is not a stroke, I’m sorry.” 

I do not know which came first—the hopeless shriek or the cascade of tears. She knew she had just been given a death sentence and despite her husband’s best efforts there was no consoling her. A tear fell from my left eye as I quickly tilted my head back looking up towards the ceiling hoping gravity would play an effect and somehow the tears would roll back into my head rather than onto my white coat. From the actions and demeanor of my attending physician it was evident he had given this news before—one too many times. Two thoughts filled my mind as sadness filled the room. 

First, I thought about the disease process itself, which I had read about the night prior characterized by “a progressive loss of motor neurons in the brain and spinal cord.” ALS is a progressive, disabling, and ultimately fatal disease of unknown cause starting with a gradual muscle weakness and wasting in the upper and lower extremities, muscle fasciculations and inevitably difficulty swallowing, phonating and breathing.1 This degenerative process continues until respiratory failure will most likely claim her life as it has so many before her.1

As my attending and I stood there watching her cry, the clock stood still. 

Why her? As time stood still, I kept asking myself. Why not her husband? Why not my attending? How would she spend her remaining months before the disease would cripple her into a wheelchair and the permanent requirement of mechanical ventilation would ensue? 

As physicians, too often, we are sculpted to believe we are invincible. We care for others at their most vulnerable time and it is always them—that is the vernacular. The patient’s tears made it clear she was not ready for such a diagnosis; she was not ready to die. I do not know if in the moment she was frightened by the certainty of death or death was far superior to the alternative life that awaited her. 

I, too, am scared of death. I am scared of being forgotten. After an obituary in a newspaper, a funeral, stories shared, beautiful words produced and dark clothing worn with covered eyes, life continues for everyone except the deceased. I wonder if any of these thoughts coursed through her mind at a rate similar to her tears.

Once her tear ducts seemingly dried up, she asked how she could obtain a second opinion. The attending told her he recommended she go to the Cleveland Clinic if she desired. She gathered her things with one tissue in hand and bloodshot eyes. As she stood up, my attending, gave her a hug she most deserved. A hug I will never forget. Once we were alone, he asked me if I was ok? “Yes, I’m ok. Thank you for asking,” I promptly replied. I thanked him for allowing me to join him in clinic then quickly left. 

I went to my car and I cried. 

I had lied. 

I was not ok. 

References:

  1. Zeller JL, Lynm C, Glass RM. Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis. JAMA. 2007;298(2):248. doi:10.1001/jama.298.2.248

Is the Road to Becoming A Physician Still Worth It?

adversity, medicine, Mentorship

In a simplistic answer, “Yes, it is. But it won’t be easy.” As my former track and field coach would tell me before an arduous workout, “If it were easy, everyone would do it.” Many are drawn to medicine with an affable desire to help others, but this task has a significant weight associated with it. Sadly, the mental anguish may lead some physicians to tell hopeful doctors that they should turn away and pursue a different occupation forgetting the excitement and enthusiasm they once felt. 

Naturally, over the course of a time period there are certain parts of our lives that change. One day you fall asleep at 20 years old, and the next day you wake up 21, now considered legally responsible enough to drink, gamble or even adopt a child. In contrast, the road to becoming a doctor is a long series of intentional and mindful decisions. Few of these decisions are big, some are medium and unlike the television shows most are small and boring. If you’re reading this you may wish, as I think I did at times, that we could instantaneously wake up a physician. But, the beauty in becoming a physician is in transforming into the version of yourself that will best fulfill this life of service. This becoming requires sacrifices in the form of no; no to certain parties, trips, weddings, and relationships. Instead, one will say yes to long, unappreciated and unapologetic hours with concomitant late nights in windowless rooms surrounded by books instead of people and silence instead of noise. Sometimes, I said yes to the no decisions and years later had to work much harder to make up for those responses. Furthermore, there are also decisions one will need to make during moments where we are no longer in control. 

Writer Anne Lamott, once penned, “When God is going to do something wonderful, he always starts with a hardship; when God is going to do something amazing, he starts with an impossibility.”

From a post-baccalaureate, non-traditional, student studying in a Starbucks coffee shop in Manassas, Virginia to addressing the audience as student body president at the Ohio State University College of Medicine graduation I had to navigate my failures to arrive at my successes. However, each piece of adversity I faced sculpted me into a more compassionate and understanding person and ultimately a better physician.

The first African American patient I treated, sixty-years in age, told me he had never seen a physician who looked like me—like us he meant.

If this dream will make you happy and give you the life you desire, then this field is for you. No one can answer this question for you, and no one should. The time will go by regardless. One day I walked into the auditorium for my first medical school course. The next, I was performing a nasal intubation in a patient with severe Down’s Syndrome readying the patient for the dentistry team to extract his diseased teeth. There is nothing like what I see or do on a daily basis. It is simply amazing, frightful, enlightening and humbling all in the same breath. As I said before, “Yes, it is worth it.” But, it’s up to you to decide that for yourself.

Commentary: Father’s Day and the moments stolen from too many black families

Fatherhood, medicine, Mentorship, Race

Originally published in Chicago Tribune, June 18th (online) & June 19th (in print), 2020

I once attended a funeral where the pastor asked the audience, “How do you continue to believe in God when your father has been taken from you?” I did not have an answer as I tried to pat my eyes dry with the few crumpled tissues I had.

For me, this Father’s Day will be another annual occasion where I will pick up the phone and on the other end will be the voice of a kindhearted, compassionate and articulate man. I will wish him a happy Father’s Day, and when I ask him for details of his plans for the day he will note that a day of relaxation awaits him. Next, he will inquire how things are for me with an unparalleled yearning, and once he has been informed of any new happenings an exchange of “I love you” and “See you soon” will conclude our conversation.

Yet for some, Father’s Day has become unrecognizable from the celebratory day it once was.

Ask Michael Brown’s father, Mike Brown Sr.

In America, black men are rarely seen as innocent and are sometimes even invisible.

Wearing my cloak of visibility — a doctor’s white coat — I kneeled on the ground recently with my head bent over in prayer and protest for 8 minutes and 46 seconds. The hardened and unforgiving cement left me wanting to change the position of my knee to lessen the discomfort, but I refused. Out of my periphery I saw other protesters switch their dependent leg. Some stood up, while some began to kneel on both knees to soften the unilateral pressure on just one.

But some pain cannot be lessened. The image of George Floyd with the knee of another man pressing into his neck — the man’s hands casually in his own pockets as he balanced himself on Floyd’s neck — is one. “Please, I cannot breathe,” he cried out prior to calling for his mother. Floyd’s words reverberate those of another black male, Eric Garner, who in 2014 was killed under police custody while uttering the very same last message. This is another example of a transformed Father’s Day that will never be what it once was.

Ask Ben Garner — Eric’s father.

Growing up, my family went to church almost every Sunday, but especially on Easter, Mother’s Day and Father’s Day. I’d be the last one to get up but after a shower and dressing in my Sunday’s best I would rush into my parents’ room —tie in hand. I would pass the tie to my father, and he’d stand behind me slowly crossing one end over the other. Then he would come around in front of me prior to securing the tie and sending me to admire the wonderful job he had done.

When I played soccer, if I looked to the sidelines there he was sporting his vest and transitional lens eyeglasses — the one where the lens changes to dark when one steps outside into the sun. I am sure those eyeglasses earned him the nickname “Mr. Cool McCool” by my teammates.

And, as I walked across the stage to receive my medical degree, I distinctly remember hearing, “Go Dr. J” coming from his seat. The joy of watching his son become a physician, when his own father could neither read nor write, is a moment I am sure he will never forget.

These are key moments that fill picture books, but for some families, those books will be left empty: Rayshard Brooks will not be there when his daughter scrapes her knee while learning to ride a bike. Ahmaud Arbery’s father will not see his young man become a father himself one day; he will forever be frozen at the age of 25. George Floyd will not be there to screen his daughter’s potential boyfriends as a rite of passage that encompasses being a “girl dad.” Michael Brown — 18 years old — had an entire future lying ahead of him with countless Father’s Days, but his father will only have the memory to replay of that smile that used to walk in the door — Skittles in hand.

We cannot go on like this. It has taken a once-in-a-lifetime mix of events: a pandemic, economic fears, political polarization and an untimely murder to clear the opaque lens through which society views us to see that we are and deserve more. This is the time to see the exhaustion in the hearts of black families who have to watch as another Father’s Day is altered due to racism and police brutality. And, we are tired.

Ask George Floyd’s 6-year-old daughter, Gianna.

Jason L. Campbell, M.D., M.S., recently known as The Tik Tok Doc, is a physician resident in the Department of Anesthesiology at Oregon Health & Science University in Portland, Oregon.

Growing up a Black man in America: Why our souls are on fire

Race

June 1, 2020 at 2:19 pm, Special to The Seattle Times

I was 7 years old when my mother yelled at me, “Stop. Listen. Stop. If you don’t start listening to me, then you’re going to get yourself killed one day. Because the cops will only say stop once.”

Like many young boys of color, the only thought I had in that moment was for my mother to release me from her tight grip and allow me to continue on my way. Many years later, many shootings later and many deaths later related to police brutality, America is at a tipping point. The souls of men of color are on fire much like the buildings and streets of America. America’s truest colors are showing, and it is a frightening sight.

In 2016, I sat in one of the largest football stadiums in the country. As the national anthem began playing, Colin Kaepernick was mocked for kneeling peacefully against police brutality only moments before the same men applauded the Black athletes whom Kaepernick symbolized. Yet another example of how being a Black man in America can feel as though our actions are continually viewed as incorrect. Protest peacefully? Wrong. Protest with violence? Wrong. On the athletic field, we are viewed as equals, but in society this bar of equality has been fractured and, some might argue, destroyed.

When and how does inaction change to action and listening result in transformation? I sit with the rage of my Black community, and I march with the nonviolent protesters. I write with no distinct answer, but there exists a perpetual myth that halts the conversation of progress: Only certain Black men become the result of such police brutality. I assure you that what has occurred with George Floyd or Ahmaud Arbery can happen to me or any male with my skin complexion. Understand, we as Black men are not given the benefit of the doubt. When I leave my home, I do not walk around with a sign that reads, “Dr. Campbell, former student-athlete at Emory University, Graduate & Former President of The Ohio State University College of Medicine student body, M.D., M.S.”

I am just another Black man.

In 2011 — as a recent graduate of Emory University and AmeriCorps member — I had just dropped my girlfriend off at her home in northeast Washington, D.C. I was driving my mother’s Lexus sedan when I fell asleep at a red light — exhausted from a 60-hour week of service. Five seconds later, I awoke. I lightly pressed my foot on the gas pedal and began advancing through the red light a moment before it turned green. As I recognized my error so too did the police officer in his car. Understandably, he pulled me over. It is what happened next that puzzled me. An Asian-American officer approached me. I was wearing a Ralph Lauren jacket, button-downed collared shirt and slacks. I provided him my ID and registration. He ran the plates. I explained it was my mother’s car, and then he asked, “Do you have any weapons in the car?”

“No,” I responded, calmly. “Mind if I check?,” he asked.

“Not at all,” I said as I stepped out of the vehicle. He dropped to one knee and looked under the car seat while reaching his arm as far as he could. He then stood up, handed me my ID back and wished me a good night. In reading this there will most certainly be a level of anger toward either my willingness or my inaction of combating his prejudice at the moment. However, a compliant voice then now allows for a provocative pen. I was alone, on a dark street in the middle of the night. It was the police officer and me.

I was just another Black man.

The concept of anti-racism has newly emerged through the weeds of complacency. This concept is the only way to move forward as a non-Black ally. The moving walkway of discrimination, prejudice and bigotry favors the racist and standing still places one in this jurisdiction of hatred. To antagonize their message, one must walk by actively fighting, disrupting and dispelling their racist tones — both overt and subtle.

In the book “The Fire Next Time,” James Baldwin wrote, “You were born into a society which spelled out with brutal clarity, and in as many ways as possible, that you were a worthless human being …”

When one watches the video of George Floyd on the ground with another man’s knee pressed into his neck, it is nearly impossible for these words not to haunt one with a distinct level of truth and accuracy. Irrelevant of profession or walk of life, we deserve an America that gives us the benefit of the doubt or at least an America that allows us to breathe.

Dear Anxiety: But Still I Stand

medicine

I scurried across the campus to the bricks that housed the Department of Psychiatry. Sneaking in the back door, I hurried to the elevator. Fifth floor, the sign read. Sweat coursed down my back as nerves ran up my spine. A conversation with this doctor was going to determine if I would be allocated an additional four to six weeks to study for my step one board examination. This is the board examination one must pass to transition from a second year to third year medical student and begin clinical rotations in the hospital. That is what they tell you. They do not tell you this is the score that almost entirely dictates what type of physician you can become. A lower score on this exam and Ear, Nose and Throat (ENT), Orthopedic, Cardiothoracic, and Plastic surgery are subspecialties you can surely kiss goodbye because these residency programs will likely never see your application.

In the corner of the waiting room, I hid behind one of the partitions set up to enhance patient confidentiality. The psychiatrist greeted me prior to ushering me into his office. A dimly lit room, a couch and two chairs welcomed me. This felt more like an audition than an appointment. My heart was not beating, it was throbbing.

Globally, approximately 1/3 of medical students are being treated for anxiety or have been diagnosed with anxiety by a clinical practitioner. For me, I had never experienced anything like this before; sleepless nights, a lack of appetite resulting in substantial weight loss, an inability to focus, tears streaming down my cheek for no apparent reason and an unending catastrophic feeling surrounding my studies and upcoming exam. At the time I felt alone. Many years later I have come to know there are many who share this story.

At the conclusion of our visit I thanked him for his time and left down the elevator and out into the cold Midwestern evening. Staring into the distance the Ohio Stadium stood proud, a gladiator’s coliseum, while a shell of myself stood frozen in the night. He would either agree these symptoms were inhibiting my studying or he would not. The fate of my future was in his hands—this man I had only met only 60 minutes prior.

The next morning my cell phone rang.

“…We are granting you four additional weeks for your studies…”

In his report, the psychiatrist had noted the anxiety levels I was experiencing dramatically hampered my ability to adequately study.

A sigh of relief set in.

The throbbing within my chest had now decreased to a dull roar that would allow me to finally sleep for the first time in weeks. I made my way to the couch and as I began falling asleep, my mind started retracing my steps to medical school.

Abruptly, I woke up to my cell phone ringing. This time it was the pharmacy—my new prescription for anti-anxiety medications was now available for pick-up.

The journey to medicine is unique to each individual who embarks on it. One commonality is that it indirectly teaches success through repeated adverse conditions and failures—it teaches perseverance. Many of the leading educators and clinicians I have met in this sphere maintain an intrinsic motivation that far outweighs their innate level of knowledge. This intrinsic motivation increases their aspirations, knowledge and purpose; aspiring to serve as a physician, understanding that knowledge precedes healing, and a purpose dedicated to caring for others.

In essence, these men and women are the ordinary ones. They are you and me. They were once pre-medical students with a dream who became medical students embarking on a journey, then resident physicians gaining the skills and knowledge to become attending physicians. Ultimately, these attending physicians continuing to turn dreams into reality for anxious pre-medical students.

This is the journey.

Commentary: Off the court, LeBron James’ vital role as father

Athletics, Fatherhood, Mentorship, Race, Sports

Originally published in Chicago Tribune, Feb 17, 2020

“I am invisible, understand, simply because people refuse to see me.” The remarkable line from author Ralph Ellison’s book “Invisible Man” may seem hard to apply to LeBron James, a 6-foot-8 African American man known for his unparalleled athleticism on the basketball court. But, for a father with unmatched enthusiasm for the success of his sons, society has struggled to view James as the loving dad that he is.

Nevertheless, slowly he is silencing the belief present in society for many years that black men do not play a role in raising their children.

James’ enthusiasm at his son’s basketball games has been seen as juvenile, outrageous and childlike to some who refuse to see the love, compassion and fortitude in his movements. I remember as a young athlete looking into the stands and seeing my father — a validation of my dedication and being. In a similar manner, I suspect James is teaching his sons one of the most important lessons my father taught me: The world is full of opportunities for you to discover, and if you must, to create.

LeBron James, who then played for the Cleveland Cavaliers, celebrates with his sons LeBron Jr. and Bryce Maximus after defeating the Atlanta Hawks during the Eastern Conference Finals of the 2015 NBA Playoffs on May 26, 2015, in Cleveland, Ohio.
LeBron James, who then played for the Cleveland Cavaliers, celebrates with his sons LeBron Jr. and Bryce Maximus after defeating the Atlanta Hawks during the Eastern Conference Finals of the 2015 NBA Playoffs on May 26, 2015, in Cleveland, Ohio.(Gregory Shamus/Getty Images)

In 1972 a young black man, trunk packed and ticket in hand, boarded a bus headed to Philadelphia. For the first time in his 18 years of life, my father, Thomas Campbell, was leaving home in pursuit of a college degree — the only one of his siblings to do so. One of eight children, born into modest beginnings, my father persevered to college at a time when only 20% of black men had achieved more than a high school diploma. This was only the beginning, as he persevered to earn a law degree.

 

Forty-six years after my father embarked on his journey, I climbed six shallow steps to receive my medical degree. In that very moment, what I struggled to understand is what my father must have felt as I was declared “Dr. Campbell.” Growing up with a father who could neither read nor write, it must have been unimaginable for my father to believe he could cement a path for my sister and me to earn five degrees between the two of us.

 

But, in actuality all of my father’s actions have continuously encouraged my sister and me to pursue opportunities he never had. Thus, the magnificence of our achievement truly belongs to him. Similarly, James continues to inspire his sons to not only dream but to believe in the realism of their dreams.

LeBron James and my father serve as shining examples of the many black fathers who have created a future for their sons to change the world — a far cry from society’s vision for young black men. These fathers exemplify a view of the world where the finish line is not dictated by the starting line, but is full of boundless direction and achievement — and is not tied to skin color.

Once criticized for their invisibility, our black fathers are now visible, illuminating their brilliance for the world in a way they always have — for us.

Why I choose to spend Christmas in a children’s hospital | Op-Ed

Race

Special to The Seattle Times, Originally Published Online and In Print (December 23, 2019)

On Christmas morning, many children excitedly race downstairs chasing the smell of  fir and are presented with an adorned tree and piles of wrapped gifts.

For kids in a children’s hospital, there is no fir smell, no tree to call their own and no racing. However, it is still a special day within the walls where smiles, laughter and joy are remembered.

Nurses walk around with Santa hats while administering medications. Christmas cookie decorating occurs down the hall in the arts and craft room if a young patient can make it in between uncomfortable procedures. “A Christmas Carol” is scheduled to play that night in the movie room. Similar to the snow outside, it is one day in the year where fears and stressors melt away as families enjoy this special time.

Reality is never far, though, and it is not uncharacteristic during the holiday season to find a hospitalized child with a disease called cystic fibrosis. Cystic fibrosis, or CF, is an inherited disease affecting mainly the lungs and digestive system. It produces a thick mucus that often clogs the lungs and obstructs the pancreas, making it difficult to breathe, causing lung infections and preventing normal digestion. As a result, the children’s hospitals becomes a second home, especially during the winter season, when respiratory diseases are in full effect, and where these young boys and girls can receive antibiotic therapy and other treatments.

On a Christmas-past morning, a stethoscope around my neck and a matching red Santa hat covering my head, I walked into Sarah’s room — a young girl with cystic fibrosis. Boughs of holly were laid above the head of her hospital bed. Her outline under the covers was made visible by Christmas lights her parents had strung up just a few hours earlier — orange, red, green and blue beacons of hope shining bright. But now, all was silent, as her father’s prayer-filled body lay asleep on the bed adjacent to her. In hopes of not waking up Sarah or her father, I slowly closed the door. Right before the door shut, I caught a glimpse of her Christmas list, which only had one item on it.

Sarah’s Christmas list: “1. A new lung for breathing.”

In actuality, Sarah needed two new lungs. Even with a lung transplant, her life expectancy is still much shorter compared to the general population. A few hours later, as I returned to Sarah’s room, a huge smile sprawled across her face as she was shaking in her chair undergoing vest therapy — the treatment needed to break up the mucus in her lungs — as the Christmas classic “Sleigh Ride” filled the room. One can imagine life is hard for these children living with chronic illnesses, but these are some of the most resilient boys and girls you may or may not ever meet.

Dec. 25 is the one day of the year families get to focus on their child’s happiness instead of the financial burden or the fear of their child’s disease. It is a day of gratitude to spend one more Christmas together as a family — a recognition that next year is not guaranteed. The exploration of gratitude and appreciation should not be seasonal, and Sarah reminds us that every week, day, hour and breath we take, matters.

This is why I choose to spend Christmas in a children’s hospital.