Write what you know. (2013?)

I know about the ocean. About the cold that you have to push yourself into. About the ache in your chest if you haven’t eaten. About the shoes you wear to protect yourself against the rocky floor—against predators both imaginary and real. Against the truth of what is beneath you. You wear the shoes so that you don’t know, because not knowing what you’re actually stepping on helps to numb the fear.

I know about distance. How you set yourself goals to swim to and you realize you’re much more out of shape than you’d assumed. How distance is deceptive and sound carries in strange ways. How voices that echo as if around the corner may actually be miles away. “That’s a rain train”, my grandmother would say—when the sound carried so close you knew it was likely to rain soon. And if you’re underwater, it is impossible to tell in which direction sound is coming from.

I know about jellyfish—that if you catch them on their supple back you can avoid the stings, and that you can build rock enclosures for them, but you have to remember about the tide. When I was eight I accidentally executed fourteen jellyfish this way. They never even had a trial. I’d forgotten about the tide.

Nothing but change is guaranteed. The tide always comes in and it always leaves. This I know. I know that each summer I tried to pin down moments to last forever, but that I couldn’t stop my grandparents from aging. Their wrinkles multiplied and their backs arched in increasing curves and their movements slowed. But they were still themselves.

Things we do to numb us from feeling. Why do we want to numb ourselves? What is it we’re afraid of?

I always wanted to go skinny dipping in the ocean but was too afraid to leave my bed at the right time. It was too dark, too dangerous and too lonely. Too unknown.

I keep wanting to write about the ocean but I know it doesn’t make for a very captivating story.

I could write about one great-grandfather drowning in the ocean and another great-grandfather whose life changed dramatically after he crossed it. I could write about the first time I heard the word “shit” (my dad stepped on a starfish that my brother and sister had left out to dry) or about nearly drowning with my mom in Hawaii. We clung on to our rented boogie board and felt huge waves pummel us into the sand, but when we finally rose to the surface we both looked at each other and saw mirrored exhilaration.

I could write about the salt tears that flowed down my face while my mom and I watched a sad movie about C.S. Lewis losing his wife, and my mom turned to me on the bed and said, “I love you so much honey, I want you to know that” and she hugged me tightly and we both cried even harder, because we knew we weren’t crying about C.S. Lewis’s wife, we were really crying about Dad and Jessie.

“There’s nothing more beautiful than the way the ocean refuses to stop kissing the shoreline, no matter how many times it’s sent away.” –Sarah Kay

Statement of Diversity for the Rosalind Franklin Physician Assistant Program (I did not get in)

I have sought out and been subject to diversity through education and life experiences, and so much of my understanding of people has changed because of this. I have found that my experiences enable me to empathize with patients who confront challenges on their way to achieving their healthcare goals, and I look forward to contributing this spirit of understanding to the community at Rosalind Franklin University.

My parents felt it vital to expose their children to other cultures. My father, a native of Nova Scotia, received his masters in Islamic Studies from McGill University before meeting my mother (who had spent several years in Germany). They both became fluent in French and shortly after their marriage moved to West Africa, where they lived for fourteen years. My mother says I spoke better Pular (the language of our local Guinean community) than English. Though I would not learn the word until much later, “polyglot” was certainly a term to describe my family.

It was my parents’ desire to improve our education that brought us back to the United States. They had dreamed of moving to another country after a few years but their plans were halted when my father and sister were killed in a car crash. I was suddenly marked with a distinction of a sort no one wishes: the loss of a parent and sibling.

This confrontation with death became the first time I was aware of being “different”. My cultural experiences before had seemed normal, but now I was going through something my peers did not understand and everyone found difficult to talk about. I was acutely aware of the pain of being an outsider.

Though I bristle at the idea of “good” coming from tragedy, I have been brought into deeper empathy with those undergoing various forms of suffering. I am genuinely interested in people and including those who have been marginalized. A desire to embrace different perspectives has become the theme of my life. I have felt the pain of not being able to talk about personal crisis and struggles, and I want to help ameliorate this in others.

Countless times I have sat with patients who told me stories of family struggles, of discrimination, of lack of access to necessary treatments like dialysis, of abuse, of aging, of financial struggles and so many more. This is how I would contribute to the diversity at Rosalind Franklin University: not by distinguishing myself as separate but by seeking to understand others’ experiences and searching for ways to heal together.

There is pain in separation. As fascinating as unique experiences are, I have found that these celebrations of singularity are hard-won and only made possible after an individual is made aware of their differences. While certain people may escape childhood unscathed, the majority of us have residual pain from instances in which we believed we did not belong. Though I am unable to take away adversity, I can certainly seek restoration. I look forward to doing so with my fellow classmates and the patients we encounter.