Recently , leading the world in a pandemic that has disproportionately impacted Black, Latinx and Indigenous communities. In Chicago, we鈥檝e witnessed , while the disinherited languish in despair.
With all these challenges, some hospitals and public health professionals have asked, 鈥淗ow do we help community members understand the ongoing risks of contracting COVID-19?鈥 And, 鈥淲hat can health care providers do to convince people of color to receive the vaccine?鈥
I have a better question: How might hospitals and health professionals see themselves differently, so their approach to healing communities of color is rooted in revolutionary love, community self-determination and anti-racism?
To be sure, a growing number of health care organizations are increasingly more aware of racial inequities, and some may recognize their shortcomings and complicity. But recognition is not enough. Whatever 鈥渉elp鈥 comes from the health community must be informed by voices on the ground.
Seventy percent of Black Americans know someone who has died or been hospitalized due to COVID-19. We understand the risks. But the history and impact of runs deep. Flanked by real or perceived risks on both sides, we hope to trust those with levers of power.
Still, trust must be earned.
Trust requires a comprehensive approach to community wellness, alongside, and not just the push to test and vaccinate. Distrust will calcify if this is not done. Trust us.
Trust requires a commitment to community health infrastructure. There should be FQHCs (federally qualified health/wellness centers) in every Chicago neighborhood crippled by gun violence (the other pandemic) and chronic mental health and drug use disorders.
Trust requires a replication of ; perhaps like those that create opportunities for youth to be community health ambassadors in their neighborhoods: knocking on doors, conducting community needs assessments and cultivating relationships while being trained and skilled up to pursue opportunities in the health profession.
In Chicago, 脱衣直播 along with 鈥 a group of health care providers committed to 鈥渂uilding a healthier West Side鈥濃 have piloted such initiatives, but more hospitals, community-based organizations, public officials and business leaders need to step up.
The ivory tower approach does not work. Hospitals and health professionals must see community empowerment and community health as inextricable.
Shaka King beautifully illustrated this in his recently released historical drama, 鈥淛udas and the Black Messiah.鈥 Perhaps the most heart-wrenching and inspiring scene is near the end when Chairman Fred Hampton (embodied by Daniel Kaluuya) finds himself facing five years of imprisonment for trumped-up charges. He鈥檚 surrounded by family and friends trying to convince him and Deborah Johnson, who鈥檚 37 weeks pregnant, to flee the country:
鈥淵ou could be in Havana in less than 24 hours. 鈥 They have some of the best doctors in the world.鈥
鈥淟ook, Algeria got Minister Eldridge (Cleaver) 鈥 not to mention bungalows by the sea 鈥 .鈥
鈥淐uba is a hop and a skip away 鈥 (and) there鈥檚 a network of safe houses headin鈥 south.鈥
The exasperated Chairman Fred stops the debate:
鈥淵鈥檃ll spendin鈥 all this time talkin鈥 about me goin鈥 to Algerian bungalows, when you need to be talkin鈥 about how we gonna build this [expletive] medical clinic. You know how many people we can save in five years? With a medical clinic in the middle of the West Side [of Chicago]?鈥
The heart of Chairman Fred鈥檚 philosophy of revolutionary love is on full display. And like most inspiring art, the scene points beyond itself, forcing us to face ourselves, our condition, our possibilities and the ways we might serve one another, not ourselves.
For many young West Garfield Park natives like myself, 鈥渂uilding a (expletive) medical clinic鈥 is long overdue.
And if the ultimate vaccine is community and neighborhood health, we all should see the courage, strategies and resources to match.
