(soft music)

- May 2020.

Two days after the
murder of George Floyd.

I am seeing a
two-year-old Black patient

in my primary care clinic.

He's a ball of energy,
full of joy and curiosity,

not yet aware of the
cruel inequalities

that will surely shape his
life, and already have.

My heart breaks for his mother

as she shares with
me her fears for him,

and her hope that by the
time he becomes a man,

the world will be better.

I promise his mother
that as his doctor

I will do whatever I can to
help him have a better life.

And yet this is a promise that
I'm not sure how to fulfill

and I wonder how
she perceives me,

sitting there across from her
in that cramped exam room.

Am I an allied
underrepresented minority,

or as another white person
with good intentions,

but little understanding of her

and her son's lived experience?

The truth is, I'm not
sure how to answer

that question myself.

I identify as Latina.

But I've recently
been questioning what
that means for me.

My father's parents immigrated
to the United States

from Peru, and my mother
identifies as white.

My younger sister
and I are proof

that genetics are complicated.

Her skin is much
darker than mine,

and I'm six inches
taller than she is.

She looks more
"Latina" than I do.

Recently I've wondered what role

our physical appearance
played in shaping our lives.

I realize now that my identity
has always been a choice.

Our society uses
appearance to define race

and set expectations.

My appearance does not
tell my whole story,

and I find myself
consumed by the questions

around my position as a
Latina who looks white,

and in recognizing my privilege,

I struggle to keep
hold of my identity.

Do I count as a minority?

Am I getting all the perks

without having paid the
same price as my peers?

I grew up with the trauma
of racism surrounding me,

but not directly touching me.

I can still remember
the pained expression

on my grandma's face on the
day that her car was impounded

after she was pulled
over for speeding

on her way to the airport
after her brother died.

She was flustered and sad

and the police officer didn't
understand her English.

At the time, I could
not yet understand

the complexity of
her expression,

and I could only offer a hug.

Now, I know I should
have been angry.

Angry for her, but also
angry that these situations

for which my family led to
inconvenience and shame,

might have cost someone, like
my young patient, their life.

In learning to recognize
my own privilege,

I also see the harsh reality
of injustice and indifference

based solely on the
color one's skin

won't be limited
to this generation.

I think about something
as seemingly innate

as our last name.

I take pride in being an Alejos,

but also recognize its role
in defining my identity.

And so I make a
promise to myself,

to continue putting myself
in the humbling position

to ask patients about their
experience with racism,

their fears for their children,

and their hopes for the future.

My own experience
constantly reminds me

that race is not simple
or straightforward,

and each person
experiences it differently.

However, regardless
of how I see myself,

I know society places
me among the privileged.

To ignore that is to
be part of the problem.