Privilege

When we talk about the United States, we are eager to talk about the Dream, but rarely the Disillusionment, rarely the Disenfranchisement, and rarely the Detachment. American Detachment is often equated to the convenience and privilege to only have to contemplate poverty and misfortune when it shows up in a documentary or a commercial. It is something we are, of course, keenly aware of but we usually suppress. After all, to talk about these things evokes a feeling close to guilt. Often unsaid, yet deeply felt, is the question, “why me?”. This question sits, nestled in this quiet guilt, in the chest of anyone who has ever contemplated the relative comfort of their own lives. We may earn our comfort, due to the fact that we have worked hard and made countless sacrifices, but there’s still a dissonance; upon sober reflection, there’s no clear distinction between the American medical student who’s awarded the opportunity to receive an elite education in air-conditioned walls, and the child soldier born into a Central African civil war – except the fact of privilege. This is supposed to make us feel uncomfortable. This is supposed to make us think. And most importantly, it is meant to make us act. The purpose of privilege, of which this white coat is a symbol, is not to sit in guilt, but rather the purpose of privilege is to use it in service to others.

I reflect on my own path to privilege, because I did not start there. I am the child of Nigerian immigrants who emigrated to the United States. Growing up, my family and I did not have much. My parents came to this country with no money, no family, and no home. These challenges as a first-generation American student were reflected in my academic career, which had no shortage of obstacles, and more recently threatened my ability to finish medical school. On one of my rotations, as I walked out of a patient’s room, I felt numbness and a sudden ringing in my right ear. I went on my way and drove back home thinking it would reside. That same night things took a turn for the worse. I woke up reeling with nausea, vomited four times and had vertigo. This was the beginning of an extensive diagnostic journey. The nausea and vertigo over the subsequent years improved, but the tinnitus and right-sided hearing loss remained. Life thus far had not been easy, and yet another hurdle was thrown my way. I thought, “why me?” It is interesting to see how the questions of privilege and pain are often the same. I was advised to take time off, and this was valid advice. But I chose to persist. I chose to persist not because of pride, not because of insensitivity to good advice, and certainly not because of an inflated perception of my own ability. I chose to persist because it is who I am.

You may remember I began by commenting on privilege. Sometimes those who are privileged refuse to acknowledge that word, retorting, “I’ve suffered, I’ve made sacrifices.”. The reality is that the two are not mutually exclusive. You can experience challenges in life and yet still be privileged. This, fundamentally, is the spirit of the Hippocratic oath. The oath is an acknowledgement of the privilege of medical knowledge, and a recognition that this privilege be used in service to others. I have realized that I, a Nigerian American female born to immigrants, am now a part of this privilege; and in being a part of it, I now hold the responsibility that comes with it as I journey through my medical career. The very same life experiences that have caused me headache and heartache, have made me the person I am today and strengthened me to be equipped to use my privilege in service to others.