Harlem
By Langston Hughes (1902-1967)
What happens to a dream deferred?
Does it dry up
Like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore—
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over—
like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.
Or does it explode?
Amid the most deadly and disruptive pandemic in our nation’s history, which has disproportionately ravaged communities of color, the events of the past week remind us that inequities and injustices for Black people and communities of color in this country are compounded and facilitated by historic and consistent violence, in part stemming from the very institutions sworn to protect us. These events, both recently and throughout our country’s history, are not by mistake, but the result of behavioral patterns and mindsets rooted in regressive ideals cultivated by long-standing structural and behavioral racism.
In the spirit of authenticity, I too must admit that these events have made me angry. Our Black and brown families have been unnecessarily and disproportionately dying; some of these outcomes and events are simply no longer possible to rationalize; and frankly, I’ve struggled now more than ever to find adequate answers. When our students and mentees here at Mount Sinai ask why we are still struggling with these issues, decades after the Civil Rights movement and hundreds of years since Emancipation, I’m at a loss.
Rereading literature introduced to me in the 1970s has proven therapeutic in this moment—the truths within landmark poems and books both painful and empowering. A recent note from one of our colleagues referenced the poem “Harlem”—part of a longer work by Langston Hughes called “Montage of a Dream Deferred”—and it reminded me why it’s among my favorites. The poem, originally published in 1951, is a stark reminder of the urgency for a clear call to action during moments of extreme racial discord, such as the one in which we find ourselves. We can no longer defer the dream of racial and social equity and justice for Black and brown communities.
This past Tuesday and again today, our Mount Sinai family took an important step in meaningfully standing with and supporting communities of color as we came together for “nine minutes of solidarity” outside of hospitals throughout the Health System. This moment was a painful opportunity to reflect on the inequities, injustices, and persistent disparate health outcomes that impact communities of color. I know this pain firsthand. In these nine minutes, I reflected on the premature death of my older brothers, and was reminded why 40 years later, I can still feel the despair, fear, and hopelessness of growing up in Brooklyn.
That said, amid the pain and anguish of those nine minutes, there was hope and promise. This was a sentinel moment for us as a community and for Mount Sinai as an institution. This moment however, will turn into action only if we have the will and the courage to seize the opportunity and to demonstrate authenticity as inclusive leaders in supporting our staff, our learners, our patients, and our communities—particularly communities of color. Only then will we have a true marker of change.
There is no easy way to respond to the deeply rooted problems of our nation, city, school, or Health System, but in my mind, we have an obligation to address them head-on and to lead. Silence and inaction are not only unacceptable, but also unproductive. Our moment of solidarity this week as a Mount Sinai community demonstrates both the urgency and readiness for substantive change—there is no looking back, except to learn.
As we consider what the “new normal” will be following COVID-19, I propose we also take this moment to explore what the new normal in our quest for justice and against racism will look like.
At Mount Sinai, to start, it will be up to us as leaders, and as a community, to tackle racism and bias head-on—starting with tough conversations and the development of a sustainable, clear, transformational, and systemic path forward from the already strong foundation we’ve built so far. With a solid base of existing and emerging programs and initiatives, including the Racism and Bias Initiative in the School of Medicine and our work with Unconscious Bias education and training, we are uniquely positioned to smartly and intentionally integrate, scale, and accelerate these efforts. Important components of a strategy should include opportunities for healing; ongoing opportunities for listening; open and authentic dialogue; deep learning from and with each other; activating allies across cultural groups; effectively and regularly communicating with our employees; and leveraging this moment.
I certainly don’t have all the answers, but I look forward to hearing from our community in the coming weeks and months. I am convinced that the answer for the future lies within us.
We are stronger and better together. My hope is that we will ALL commit to making our great institution even better, knowing that we can muster the courage to be uncomfortable at times, and even vulnerable; some of you have never had this as an option. Let’s be on the right side when we look back on this history!
In closing, at least for now, I must share a few lines of hope and promise from another of my favorite poems…
Still I Rise
By Maya Angelou (1928-2014)
You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I’ll rise.
Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I’ll rise.
Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops,
Weakened by my soulful cries?
You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I’ll rise.
Out of the huts of history’s shame
I rise
Up from a past that’s rooted in pain
I rise
I’m a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that’s wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.
Let’s remain united in solidarity, caring for all with dignity and respect.
BLACK LIVES MATTER!
Humbly,
Gary