I am not a threat. At least not in the traditional sense. I carry no weapons, have no plans for ill intent. And yet, I know that I will always be an unidentifiable potential harmful element whenever I enter a room. It is perhaps my age, my race… but, most importantly my title. The words DR. are emblazoned on my jackets, my scrubs, and cause a stir wherever I may go. If I take a seat at a table at some function or otherwise, people almost always ask what I do. I politely answer them and used to begin looking for connection. Now, where I am at, in this place and time, I wait for the nervousness of the situation to permeate.

 

Generally, the person who I’m sitting next to sits with the reality of my title and supposed status.  There is frequent disbelief, anger, and frustration that I, yes, I can call myself a doctor.  Oft times, I am questioned whether I am wearing someone else’s jacket, alluding to some supposed mix-up at the uniform store.  I am asked by doctor’s wives if I know their husbands… though there are so many of us here.  The best situation is talking to a family who knows a physician and they ask if I know them.  I know that if I answer in the negative that the veracity of my own position as a physician becomes tenuous to them. And so, I continue to breathe.

 

In this place and time, people will make polite conversation and when they find out that I am a private practice owner, many of them state that they “have to switch offices” to me.  It is a regional social reflex and as transparent in its emptiness as the passing air.  I always give people reassurance or say “thank you”, but I know that this is not the case, there is some deeper meaning to the gesture as though I need their help in some way, and I can’t seem to fathom it.

 

The longer I sit in silence, the more the nervous frustration builds.   People may ask about my education, my relationship status, the brief details of my activities, and how I am doing this “all by myself”.  They can’t seem to comprehend it.  And as I sit, the anger begins to grow.  I feel them assessing their own lives, where they are in their status, how much money they’re making, assessing their properties in some seeming contemplation of a complex algebraic equation that falls flat.  And they look at me and begin to seethe internally.

 

Yes, this has become commonplace, from the day that I received my degree, though even getting to that day was treacherous.  I listened soon afterward and saw the flattened expression in some of my family members who made a point of correcting me whenever they could, especially if they were in the medical profession.  One person who is related by marriage attempted to berate me when I had just woken up after having finished a 90-hour shift about how she was a nurse and probably knew much more than I did.  She sat in shock as I agreed and shrugged looking at her with eyes that asked what she truly needed.

 

And it was in that moment that I realized that these people were and are contending with the “other” me.  This is the me who is a doctor, a trusted professional who stands tall and confident.  The me with an impervious white shield encased in her coat and scrubs who shines in all that she does. Not a stain to mar her. And so, they try their best to do so. 

 

It is hard to be part of her.  To watch the smiles turn to sneers and the people who I know treat me with contempt and disdain.  I have come to realize that they are reacting to a cloud of assumptions that fit to make my other me into a mask.  I watch how they attempt to undermine me or treat me like some small child in need of their help.  I know that these are all responses to people not being able to consider my existence in society.

 

So many times, we hear about the poor single mother who is destitute and a wayward soul.  She is in need of a man and will do anything for one, so that she may be validated, have her voice and finally come into her true purpose in this world.  Once she finally acquires a man, the ring on her finger says it all.  She is confident, successful, and respected.  She should be listened to and regarded with care and praise. 

 

Should she decide to stay single, she becomes unfathomable, should be put in her place, and silenced. She should be stripped of titles, have her professional life ruined and shut up in a box. Over the years, I have watched as attendings, colleagues, fellow mothers, and even some family members attempt to silence my voice with humiliation. What is more frightening is as I become more successful, as the other me excels in her practice and her life, she meets more resistance.

 

I had a situation last year that started out with me seeking counsel from a group of parents that I knew. The parents whom I asked were diverse in their racial and cultural perspectives, from all different walks of life, different professions and some reassured me that they were also experiencing issues, though not to my degree. I was patted on the head as some told me that I was being “overly emotional” and in some cases, redirected concerns back to the source; as though I had not gone through the proper channels in the first place and just didn’t know what I was doing. So, I shouldered the burden of struggling through another year.

 

In a shocking turn of events, I was ultimately accused of assault by these parents. The fall out of this directly affected my immediate family and I struggled to grapple with the process of communication and healing that laid out before me.

As I walked along this journey, I kept going over the interactions that I have had with these false accusers in my mind. They all feigned surprise that I was a physician at first. Some offered fake respect, while others attempted to undermine my intelligence in public. One such mother felt comfortable with apologizing to me before stating in front of a crowd of parents that the only reason that people ask me for advice is because her own husband (a physician in training) was not socially desirable at the time; it couldn’t have possibly been my intelligence or experience.

 

In other cases, I found out from their children that they would drive by my office after-hours to ‘take a look at it”, some of the parents participated in late-night phone calls where they would harrass me and others. But, somehow, I bared the brunt of their accusations. This was because I know where I am and in what time I exist. Though people feign equality and respect, there is still a certain status quo that exists, and I am made aware every day that I am at the base of it. These parents attempted to demean my other by locking my true self up in a stereotype and they reveled in it. I watch them now as they smile as though nothing has happened, shake each other’s hands and laugh. In some cases, mission accomplished as I have been silenced in some regards… but, not in others.

 

In my disbelief, I am still astounded by what transpired last year.  I have since been able to confront some of the parents and still know that there are others who were complicit.  And so, I grapple as myself, a mother to fit in and relate, while at the same time the projection of DR. Shines upon the distant horizon like a “Bat-signal”. I feel like the final piece in a puzzle that has been wedged in slightly, at a diagonal and not fully able to fit.  I believe that the other parents saw it fitting to take me down a peg, or two with the accusation of a potential felony, but to what end? 

 

I imagine that’s how big my projection must be to them.  I see this in the people who my parents know.  My reputation all but precedes me, there is no introduction necessary, and the projection grows and stretches in all of its glory.  But this projection covers me like a huge parachute.  It is worn like a mask and does not represent the daily toil and struggle that I face as myself.  Even if I try to escape and open up to others, I know that the projection is there, threatening to grate the nerves of those who I am communing with, regardless of whether or not I mention my profession, though I rarely do.  This is because my projection and me do not look the same, we do not necessarily act the same, and yet, we are united.

 

Just the other week I went to visit family and was astounded how little they knew about me or had remembered.  I used to be a person before, now I am an entity. This entity seemingly threatens the balance if I try to speak out as myself.  But how can my voice be heard?  Why is it normal and welcome for me to be silenced? Why must my past achievements be erased for me only to contend with the projection that sits on my lap?  Why can I not take it off or have it actually be beneficial?

 

I always chuckle to myself when I see people who don’t look like me wearing scrubs.  Regardless of what their station is in the medical hierarchy, they are assumed to be physicians.  I watch, sometimes as I in my own scrubs (sometimes without the words doctor embroidered on them) am pushed aside to accommodate these inherently assumed important people who need to rush on to some imaginary appointment that awaits them.  But, I look like me and unless people take time to read the letters on my coat, I must wait to reach my own important engagement.  In order for them to see my projection, they would have to read and not just look.

 

But, in a deeper reflection, it would take a person to really stop and take their time to see me.  Beyond the coat, the scrubs, the projection.  It would take someone of great aptitude to make that connection and forge ahead.  Who knows what lies in store, but whatever it is, me and “my Other me” will continue to breathe. Together.