This year is a landmark time for nurses and the world. We celebrated Florence Nightingale's 200th birthday, we're enduring a pandemic that has disproportionally affected African Americans and people of color, and we're embracing a social justice movement and a national call to action. In my view, nurses have a place in virtually all national narratives. As an African American, I'm convinced that this year's events, particularly following the death of George Floyd, give us an unparalleled opportunity for leadership.
For me, it starts very simply, with how we think of being allies. I have an idea that when some people hear the word "ally," it signals they're being asked to carry someone to help them advance. I want to share my story with you to assist you to change your perspective. Because when you grow up in a world that discriminates against you, allies are so precious that sometimes you protect them more than you protect yourself. And it certainly would never occur to you to overuse them.
Let me explain. Long ago, I was a young, impressionable African American student who was told that I would be "out of place" as an RN. The message was clear: My kind wasn't suited to be in the nursing profession. But it went even further, with the dean of the local university's Bachelor of Science in Nursing program refusing to admit African Americans into the program as a matter of principle.
But I had an ally. He saw that I was focused and had a dream to be a nurse. He gave me the following advice: "Be patient. Get your associate degree and your pre-nursing credits done and wait for the dean to retire."
I didn't need much. This person, this ally, gave me a different path. He didn't take responsibility for my career. He didn't do my coursework or take my tests for me. And no one took away the years of waiting from me. I did all those things on my own. But where I would be without those words of advice about what I could do to prepare myself, I honestly don't know.
It's important for me to share this with you now because I was silent then. I acquiesced. I didn't tell anyone the secret I had learned about the dean. I didn't even tell my own mother about why I was delaying going to the university when my grades in high school were fine and I was going to nursing school again after finishing my associate degree.
I didn't tell my mother because she was my greatest ally and advocate. Discrimination and prejudice are big and scary, and sometimes you're afraid to share these experiences with the ones you love most because you worry it will break them. When you're confronted with discrimination and prejudice, you carefully weigh how you'll ask for help from your allies and advocates.
When I thought of what my mother had gone through to raise me as a single woman, I did the mental math for her and protected her. I'd seen her make sacrifices for me and I decided that, although this was a serious impediment to my life and a visible example of discrimination, she had done enough. I would silently shoulder this burden and wait; when the dean retired, my life would move forward.
Until George Floyd, I forgot that I had protected my mother. And I forgot that I waited, that my hopes and dreams were delayed because of the color of my skin. I forgot how much heaviness I took on so I could hide a secret about a dean who didn't admit people of color to the nursing program. And I forgot that all I needed were just a few words of advice telling me not to kill my dream and to prepare myself to move ahead, that my time was coming.
I didn't need much. But those few words became a guiding light that gave me my start when my time finally came. I'm sharing this so you understand that the people of color whom you manage may not need much to improve their lives.
When civil rights leaders and advocates demand an end to systemic racism, referring to the systems that keep racial inequality in wealth, housing, politics, education and, yes, healthcare, in place, it can sound overwhelming. But as managers of our teams, sometimes it isn't that complicated. Being an ally is much easier than you think. I didn't need much. And I'm guessing that the people of color who report to you don't either.
I'm grateful for the opportunity to lend my perspective to this important national narrative as we define what racism as a public health crisis means. I thank Dr. Raso for asking me to add my voice alongside hers as a fellow nurse leader and patient advocate.
What 2020 has taught us is that we need each other, and we all have an opportunity to end racial injustice. And what better year to start this work than during the International Year of the Nurse and Midwife? It's going to take all of us committing to doing better-as human beings, as leaders, and as allies-to make a difference.