I blame the boy with brown curls and rosy cheeks who made me smile at the thought of him. I blame Carie Underwood for having me believe that I could be the “All-American Girl” she sang about. Most of all I blame that big purple dinosaur, Barney. 

When I was young, television helped me escape. From my cold living room floor, I watched Barney and was transported. In his world, there was no real conflict or worries. Barney taught me that love solved problems, bridged gaps, and conquered all. When problems arose, I took Barney’s advice and attempted to solve them with love. 

Over time, I knew that Barney was wrong. 

The culminating reality check happened in the summer. To volunteer for a local hospital’s diaper bank, I was required to provide updated bloodwork. I headed to their recommended clinic, where the white nurse struggled to draw my blood. She had me drink water and wait 30 minutes, and as I sat in the waiting room I cursed myself for not drinking enough water before the appointment. 

When I returned, I saw she had called in reinforcements when three nurses and a stack of needles greeted me. The team applied the tourniquet and peered at my arm in search of a vein. Several times they thought they’d found one, but not a drop of blood came out. 

“Come in next week,” they said. “There’s a nurse who has been doing this for 35 years; she’ll get your blood in no time.” I came in a week later and even this veteran nurse could not draw my blood. She recommended that I go up the street, but I felt discouraged.

When I visited the phlebotomist's office, however, she drew my blood almost immediately. Seeing the shock on my face, she said, “With us, you really have to know how to feel for a vein because you can’t see them on darker complexions.” And I understood.

I am sure my three white nurses meant well, but the experience opened my eyes to flaws in the medical system. How many Black patients don’t have access to medical professionals who understand how to draw their blood? What happens if I have a more serious medical concern and no one responsible for my treatment knows how to help me? 

Fewer than 5% of doctors in the U.S. are Black, but we account for 13% of the population. A 2016 study showed that over 40 percent of first and second-year medical students believed the myth that Black people have thicker skin than white people, and Black patients are 40% less likely to receive medication for acute pain compared to white patients. The lack of diversity in the medical field hurts Black people in this country.

We do not live in a world where love conquers all, where everyone cares for one another despite their differences. There is something in Barney’s words, though, that might be true. If we look at all the beautiful cultures in the United States, we will find that people take care of each other within their community. So we can break barriers and truly care for and love one another.

I want to shift the statistics and become the doctor I haven’t had. I still blame Barney for instilling in me a need to love and care for everyone equally. Because of him, however, I will not only understand how to draw blood from the nervous Black girl in my office but also how to reassure and treat the boy with the brown curls and rosy cheeks who has sprained his ankle. I will be the All-American Doctor who cares for all Americans.