Black Doctors COVID-19 Consortium’s 24-hour clinic is not a feel-good story | Opinion

Over the last 10 days I have watched laudatory news coverage of the Black Doctors COVID-19 Consortium (BDCC) portrayed as heroes in the quest to vaccinate Black Philadelphians. But my experience at their 24-hour mass vaccination clinic on Feb. 19 was grueling and dehumanizing. I don’t think the consortium should be portrayed as heroes, nor are they villains. They, like all of us who waited for hours in the cold, were casualties of systemic racism.

BDCC was formed to bridge the gap in COVID-19 testing caused by systemic racism that has left too many Black neighborhoods in our city disproportionately vulnerable. Blacks, Latinos, and First Nations/Indigenous people are dying on average 1.9 to 2.4 times as often as whites and are being hospitalized 2.9 to 3.7 times the rate of whites.

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As a 50-year-old Black woman, I’ve become accustomed to pervasive systemic indifference, and at times outright hostility to Black survival, well-being, and success. I have a very rare lung disease, take an immune-suppressing medication to treat it, and have had my share of difficult experiences on a health journey where I can count on one finger the number of Black practitioners I’ve had. I’ve learned to ration my outrage.

So, I was excited to learn that the BDCC would expand its work to provide COVID-19 vaccinations. The city Public Health Department’s debacle with Philly Fighting COVID saw the unqualified start-up abandon its commitments to Black neighborhoods, so many in our community hoped that BDCC would make things right.

I also love movies and all their corny storytelling, so it was easy for me to romanticize the idea of Black doctors rescuing us Black people in a moment of crisis. The BDCC efforts felt like a comforting “We got you,” from my own people, and the idea of a 24-hour mass vaccination clinic sounded badass. I wanted to be a part of it.

So on Feb. 19 at 11 a.m., I parked near the huge Liacouras Center at Temple University. It had been freezing rain earlier that morning and was in the low 30s. I was accompanied by my 20-year-old cousin. We planned to take turns in line and in the warmth of the car. I had been warned the wait could be as long as four hours.

Yet in four hours, I only got halfway down 15th Street. It was not until 9 p.m. that I even reached the front of the building.

At this event targeting people at high risk for death from COVID-19, we were left standing in freezing, snowy weather for what would total over 12 hours. My lower back was killing me and my legs and hips were stiff from standing mostly stationary in the cold. My energy waned without adequate food.

I tried my best to maintain social distance in the crowded line with hundreds of other people. We were told that the bathrooms in the Liacouras Center were off-limits and had to find bathrooms in local restaurants or the supermarket a few blocks away. (I drank limited water so I wouldn’t have to pee.) Each hour I agonized over whether I should stay in line or abandon the situation, whether getting vaccinated would be worth all of this pain. I grew anxious wondering whether they would run out of vaccine before I got to the front of the line.

» READ MORE: In the middle of the night on a frigid North Philly sidewalk, coronavirus vaccine desperation turned to hope

Feeling ignored was the worst part. BDCC personnel would stick their head out the door to scan the lines, but not interact with the crowd. At around 9:30 p.m. in the front of the building, a BDCC worker came out to tell us we would be next to come inside in about 10 to 15 minutes. Two hours later we had not moved, with no word about what was happening. Emotions erupted and members of the crowd banged on the door, trying to get the attention of anyone inside to give us information. At almost 11:30 p.m., I began to cry out of anger and despair. One woman near me crouched down on the ground on all fours, sobbing. This experience had broken us down. We were freezing, mentally drained, and emotionally devastated. We desperately needed to get inside and get warm.

Finally, at around 11:45 p.m., a large group of us were let inside and led directly into the arena seating. BDCC staff eventually came around to caringly and professionally administer our vaccinations — after themselves having to endure 12-hour shifts.

I got vaccinated at 1:10 a.m., 14 hours after I had arrived. While I am glad to have been vaccinated, I would never knowingly make that choice again. I never imagined a public health intervention would be such a punishing experience.

It is unacceptable that BDCC did not adequately prepare for the logistical challenges of running a 24-hour vaccination site in the freezing weather. There needed to be capacity to handle the size of the crowd, warmth, and shelter for people waiting in line, access to bathrooms, clear communication, and wheelchair service for those who needed it. If BDCC or any other group does not have the capacity to meet basic standards of humanity and safety, they should stick to working at a smaller scale or develop partnerships with those who understand the logistics. In their attempts to do good, they took on too much and replicated the ways our systems fail Black people, leaving us out in the cold.

“Let’s not forget that the consortium took on this task because the city was absent.”

Let’s not forget that the consortium took on this task because the city was absent, and have since said they won’t host another 24-hour site without more support from officials. Why did the city rely on a group of volunteer doctors to close the enormous racial disparity gap in COVID-19 testing and vaccination? Why would the city just outsource the needs of an entire community without providing enough funding and expertise? Why did the city not vet the BDCC plans more closely? The city is as much to blame for what happened.

No matter how much we want to believe feel-good narratives about the BDCC “saving the day,” the reality is this is a story of deep racial injustice. It is about the Black community being left to fend for itself without enough resources. It is about the deep structural racism in our city government and society that places Black people at the margins of our concern. Let’s tell that story. Paint that picture. And then we can have a real conversation about how the city can use our money equitably to care for all its people.

Amadee Braxton is a nonprofit consultant, president of Leeway Foundation, and host for WURD Radio. She lives in West Philadelphia.