What I Don't Know

My mother adopted two girls, Kiki and Crystal, when my sister Lauren and I were in college. Kiki and Crystal are sisters who were just two and three years old at the time. Lauren and I grew up in Fairfield, Connecticut, a predominately white, middle class town, and Kiki and Crystal were from Bridgeport, the next town over—night and day in terms of demographics. We are White and Jewish. They are Black and Chinese and Christian. Every year since they were adopted, my mom celebrated the holidays with both a blue and white Hanukkah bush and a Christmas tree.

All four of us were raised in the same house by the same mother. Even though I was many years older than Kiki and Crystal, then away at college, then working while they grew up, we attended each other’s graduations, family holidays, and took vacations together. While we had issues over the years like every family, race wasn’t one of them (and least not overtly)—until recently.

As adults, Kiki and Crystal chose to live close to our mom. They saw her every Sunday for brunch, took her to doctors’ appointments and, as her health started to decline, checked in with her aides daily. Lauren and I live a few hours away, and we were deeply grateful that they were right around the corner.

During one of our mom’s many hospital visits, Kiki called me and said that she could not get the attention of the nurse or the attending doctor and was getting frustrated.

“They won’t give me the time of day.”

I was on my way to the hospital, and within a few minutes of being there, I got the attention and the information that we needed.

First I thought that maybe it was an age thing. Kiki is younger, and I am the older and “wiser” sister. Except for the fact that Kiki is 35—hardly a kid—and so much wiser. I have zero knowledge about medicine and get squeamish even walking into a hospital, while she's a lab technician who’s studying to be a nurse.

Of course I can't say definitively why this happened, but it wasn’t the first time, and it very likely won’t be the last.

Over the last few months, I shared a number of stories of my mom and saying goodbye to her over Facetime. It was Kiki who was on the phone every day (at least once) with the hospice team and social workers dealing with our mom's medication, asking the right questions, and making sure she wasn’t in pain.

Wherever we are today, this is happening. Someone who feels invisible is supporting us or someone we love.

Let's honor our relationship with that person first by noticing them.

Writer Roxanne Gay wrote a powerful piece in her new New York Times column, Work Friend. She published a question many of us are asking: “Is it safe to keep employing a cleaner?” Her answer is a stark reminder of privilege: “Wrong question, lady.” The question from anonymous in Oregon is this:

“Is it safe to keep employing her? I am home when she cleans, so I stay in the guest bedroom/office with the door closed. After she leaves, I use sanitizing wipes on counters, door knobs, toilet handles, etc. to remove any remaining bacteria from items she has touched. I leave her check out and I don’t stand close to her when we speak.”

In response Gay writes, “You are asking the wrong questions, which is callous at best. You should be asking if it is safe for Maria to be around you.”

How many times a day are we asking the wrong question? At work, on Zoom, with our family, or socially-distant friends? As we watch the news in horror, in fear, and with so much sadness, how many times do our questions reinforce our own privilege and affirm someone else’s invisibility?

I sure don’t have the answers. But I'm going to learn to ask the right questions.