Not Black Enough

“Where are you from?” and “What are you?”

Even after two decades in the U.S., I still get these questions. I always wonder — what is my tell? What makes people decide, “She’s not from around here?”

And the “What are you?” question? That one always makes me want to respond with something absurd, like Doctor Barbie. Because I know the real intent behind it — it’s not curiosity; it’s suspicion. It’s a coded way of saying, You don’t fit. You don’t look or act the part. Are you even really Black? It reminds me that some believe I am catfishing my identity, a Rachel Dolezal in medicine.

After the toxic environment at Carle Foundation Hospital, I wanted to return to the Northeast. As I like to say, racism there is at least upfront — not lurking behind smiles and pleasantries like in the Midwest. If I belonged anywhere in this country, it was New York.

Harlem Hospital has been a sanctuary for Black resilience, medical excellence, and community empathy. More than just a hospital, it has been a battleground for civil rights and one of the few institutions that allowed Black doctors to train when mainstream medicine systematically excluded them. It was a haven—a place where Black physicians could practice without being suffocated by systemic racism, serving their communities with dignity and respect.

Harlem Hospital should still be that haven.

The Offer That Became a Trap

In September 2024, the Chief of Surgery at Harlem Hospital offered me a per diem pediatric surgery position. Given the hospital’s historical role in supporting Black physicians, I accepted. I believed I was stepping into a place where my expertise could serve a vulnerable community and where I could mentor the next generation of Black activist physicians.

By November, I was told my credentialing was complete. As any physician knows, credentialing is a painful, lengthy process. It’s even worse the further you are from training and the more places you’ve practiced. But Harlem Hospital’s process was a new level of hell.

Instead of stepping into my role, I was trapped in an endless cycle of bureaucratic obstruction. New and unnecessary requests arrived every week — random demands for obscure documents. Six months after signing my contract, I was asked to rewrite my CV.

Then, at the eleventh hour, the Chief of Surgery moved the goalpost yet again, demanding that I obtain adult surgical privileges. He knew full well that I was a pediatric surgeon and that this requirement was never part of my original offer.

This isn’t just administrative red tape. It’s a deliberate setup for failure.

Of the 1,200 practicing pediatric surgeons in the U.S., we are all board-certified general surgeons first. That is a requirement for our specialty certification. But I haven’t practiced adult surgery in over two decades. If I am denied credentialing in general surgery — a field I haven’t worked in since my fellowship — it will result in another National Practitioner Data Bank (NPDB) report against me.

That would be the end of my career.

Harlem Hospital: Gatekeeper or Betrayer?

Harlem Hospital, once a beacon for Black physicians, is now allowing one of its own to weaponize the very systems that were once used to keep us out of medicine.

At first, I felt betrayed. But then, I realized — I was just Charlie Brown, running up to kick the football, believing this time would be different and believing that when I look in the mirror and see a Black woman, others see the same.

But I was wrong.

I have never been given a fully functioning Black card from those I see as my own. And as much as I claim allegiance, Harlem Hospital has made it clear: You don’t belong here either.

Colorism hurts more than racism because it leaves you without a tribe.

And so, I find myself searching once again for my rainbow connection.