My Concussion Story, Part 3: Waking up to White Privilege and Vulnerability

I was angry at first. I was frustrated with the doctors and with the Internet I had sought advice from and with my friends and with everyone who had tried to help and give advice. I was furious with myself for being reckless on my bike and for making the mistakes I did after that.

If only I had been given the pertinent information about concussions from the beginning, this whole thing could have been avoided! If only I had skipped jiujitsu that day, my life would be running along just fine! If only I had been able to contact experienced friends and doctors earlier, I would probably be out there running a marathon and have finished my dissertation already!

However, another voice crept into my mind: You. Are. So. Privileged. 

Sure, I didn’t have access to good doctors or correct information about concussions for the first five weeks after my concussion. But after that I had the resources and privilege to return to the States for world-class medical care, which is something very few people can say.

What about other people who don’t have access to information or health care, and even if they did, could not have sought treatment? What about those who suffer brain injuries as victims of war, police brutality, domestic violence, or for the sake of voyeuristic entertainment (read: American football and MMA)? What do they do?

I imagined the wives with heads slammed against the wall as victims of domestic violence. The men whose heads are concussed from the police bludgeon. The football players who have no other choice but to ram their heads and necks into their opponents for the morbid enjoyment of spectators—fans who will never know their pain, and who will never know the consequences of their obsession with victory and gratuitous consumerism of the NFL. The fans who cheer when a player goes down, not knowing that their enthusiasm is fueling a violent sport that leaves untold victims in its wake.

Meanwhile, I could not deny my extreme privilege staring at me in the face. I had the time, resources, money, and support to take time off of work. What about those who are sick but cannot take a break? The mothers and fathers, for example, working to feed their children--sewing shoes, assembling iPhones, picking up trash, hoeing the fields, delivering cases of bottled water for 15 hours a day—not because they want to, but because they have no other choice for survival. 

During the acute stages of the injury, especially the first two months, I couldn’t read much so I listened to audio books. At one point while I was still in China, I listened the phenomenal and breath-taking masterpiece titled Between the World and Me by Ta-Nehisi Coates. I was standing in my kitchen preparing dinner when I heard these words from his book, which is written as a letter to his 15-year old son (if you are living under a rock and don’t know who Ta-Nehisi Coates is, to understand the context of the following quote note that he is a black man writing to his black son):

“I am sorry that I cannot make it okay. I am sorry that I cannot save you—but not that sorry. Part of me thinks that your very vulnerability brings you closer to the meaning of life, just as for others, the quest to believe oneself white divides them from it. The fact is that despite their [white people] dreams, their lives are also not inviolable. When their own vulnerability becomes real—when the police decide that tactics intended for the ghetto should enjoy wider usage, when their armed society shoots down their children, when nature sends hurricanes against their cities—they are shocked in a way that those of us who were born and bred to understand cause and effect can never be. And I would not have you live like them. You have been cast into a race in which the wind is always at your face and the hounds are always at your heels. And to varying degrees this is true of all life. The difference is that you do not have the privilege of living in ignorance of this essential fact.” Page 106-107

I love this quote and it rings so true, as it did for me when I got a concussion: white people are so often shocked when their life is threatened as if we’re not vulnerable to crises and death the way the rest of the human race is.

Perhaps the white dream is to avoid suffering, to live a life of ease, of smiles and rainbows and puppies and kittens and Instagram. But maybe avoiding suffering is not what life is about. What if we’ve got it all wrong?

Maybe the meaning of life is to be found in our suffering, in our vulnerability and dependency on others. For perhaps when we recognize our human vulnerability and depend on others for help, comfort, and companionship, that is when our life has real meaning.

I’m not saying I now understand what it’s like to be black, or to be a person of color. That is a whole other level of fear and vulnerability that I will never know. I’m saying that TNC’s words helped open up my eyes to the way we as white people don’t truly know vulnerability--we don't experience continual threats on our bodies and our lives as a part of our everyday lives--and so we are often unaware of the fragility of our existence, and perhaps in this way our lives are lacking in a major way. At the same time, we live in a bubble of safety and imaginary vulnerability that our white privilege affords us, giving us confidence but also shell-shocking us when that bubble bursts.

On a day in China when I was feeling particularly sorry for myself, I listened to a "Women of the Hour" podcast featuring a girl with cerebral palsy, which instantly put my temporary illness into perspective: I would get better. Many people do not get better. And she said something on the podcast that continues to stick with me as I reflect on this experience:

“Disability is an inherent part of the human experience.”

And so, it is…for all of us. Whether we have an illness, an injury, or a genetic trait, we all have something that doesn’t work perfectly. Our weaknesses and disabilities are perhaps where our greatest strengths and experiences come from.

-->

Readers of my blog know that vulnerability has been a theme in my life for a long time. It’s only now that I realize a little more fully that as a white, able-bodied person, I did not know true vulnerability until the van collided with my body. And perhaps, that threat to my life was what I needed most to wake up to my privilege, to wake up to my human vulnerability, to realize the short moment in time that is our life, and perhaps to help me realize that, as TNC said, our vulnerabilities bring us closer to the meaning of life as being imbedded in our connections with others.

My Concussion Story, Part 2: The Injury

It was as if some cruel gods had read my blog post about how the pain of the tattoo allowed me to empathize with the pain of my grandfather’s illness.

“HAHAHA!” I imagined them cackling, “She thought a misally 3 hours of pain would help her know his pain?? She does not know pain and she does not know how he felt the last 13 years of his life. She does not know vulnerability. She abuses her body and her mind. She takes her health for granted.

She wants to feel pain? She wants to know her grandfather’s illness? She wants to experience what her grandfather went through? Let’s show her pain.”

And so then, on a day bursting with hope for the future and stress-filled exhaustion, topped with my burning desire to please others, the cruel gods reached down, and set a rock in front of the flowing creek that was my life. As the stream collided with the rock with unexpected force, the creek was set to flow in a different direction.

In the days that followed, I made a series of decisions that coincided with one another just so to make my initial brain injury worsen. I have heard others describe concussions (aka Mild Traumatic Brain Injuries) this way, and it is an apt description: If your brain is a computer, yours is replaced with an old one that is slow and clunky. My brain processed slowly as if through a fog, and the room wobbled as I walked. When I laid in bed, it seemed as if the bed was floating. 

Insomnia is one common symptom of concussions. In a cruel twist of fate, the one thing that I needed the most--sleep--was almost impossible to get as I laid in a bed that was floating, in a room that was spinning, with ears that were ringing, and with a head that was pounding. 

You know when you’ve been working hard on the computer for about 9 hours, and you’re reading but you’re not actually taking in any information? Your eyes glaze the page, and you try to read something, or work on something, but your brain feels like its shutting down for the day? That moment when you say to yourself, “I’m no longer being productive, I should probably go home”? So then you go to happy hour and have a beer, or perhaps a puff of a joint, and you feel a little dizzy and confused and not quite in control of your emotions?

That was me. All the time. It was trippy AF. 

(As I write this 4 months later, I still can’t imagine having a drink and enjoying it. I had enough of that out-of-control, dizzy feeling to last a lifetime, it seems.)

This wasn’t how I imagined it. I thought I was either invincible or dead. I never imagined I would get hit and survive, left to suffer with a brain so unfamiliar and so unlike anything I had ever experienced.

Before this, I had never consciously felt the physical consequences of working too hard. I had always been rewarded for my hard work. Suddenly, my whole world shifted. Now, if I worked too hard, I was left to suffer the consequences with earth-shattering headaches, panic attacks, and exhaustion that would last for days.

The physical pain was the easiest to deal with. I could take pills for that. I happily took the pills prescribed to me for concussion sufferers. But I would have to learn that the path to healing requires so much more than just popping a pill. Concussion recovery requires a new lifestyle, a new way of thinking and a new way of being: taking things slow, taking lots of breaks, and lots of deep breathing exercises to relieve anxiety and stress. 

3 months after the accident, I sat in a theater in Chicago sitting next to my cousins as tears streamed uncontrollably down my face when I listened to the closing line of the play: “Maybe the dead are meant to help the living find their path.”

And I thought of my grandfather then. A football player, and later a workaholic (so my family tells me) professor of chemical engineering at an R-1 institution, the same place where I was now getting treatment for my concussion: the University of Michigan. My dream had always been to be a university professor at an R-1. Was he helping me find my path by showing me, through the only way I would listen, that I was not on the path to fulfillment?

My life as I knew it had ended. But perhaps now I was seeing more clearly. Perhaps now I would be able to find my path. 

My Concussion Story, Part 1: The Accident

At the airport in Moscow, I sent my finished proposal to my adviser. After my computer ran out of battery, I sat reading Pema Chodrun’s Places That Scare You for the second time, reflecting on one of her passages:

“All too frequently we relate like timid birds who don’t dare to leave the nest. Here we sit in a nest that’s getting pretty smelly and that hasn’t served its function for a very long time. No one is arriving to feed us. No one is protecting us and keeping us warm. And yet we keep hoping mother bird will arrive. We could do ourselves the ultimate favor and finally get out of that nest… we can ask ourselves this question: ‘Do I prefer to grow up and relate to life directly, or do I choose to live and die in fear?’”

--> I reflected on my workaholism then, my tendency to expect satisfaction and validation from working hard, and yet somehow always feeling empty. 

After my red-eye flight, I went home and, in typical Robo-Sarah fashion, I filled the day with emails and writing. Before I knew it, it was time to go to jiujitsu. Exhausted from my trip and sleep-deprived from the overnight flight, I considered not going to training, but felt guilty having just missed the past 10 days for my trip. I decided to go and prepared for the 30 minute bike trip.

It was cold and I considered wearing a hat to keep my ears from getting cold. Rather than wear a hat, I decided to wrap a headscarf around my ears and put my helmet on top of that. I put my pollution mask on, and raced out the door, running 20 minutes late. The air in my tires was low, so I raced around the dark back alleys of my neighborhood. The sun had already completely set and it was pitch black except for the lights of oncoming cars. I went looking for a bike shop to fill up my tires because my usual one was closed. Panicked about being late to class, I was pedaling down an alley when a van abruptly pulled out from behind a parked car and crossed my lane as he made a left turn. I saw him coming, and felt his headlights on me. I swerved.

This happens to me all the time in Urumqi. The driver usually sees me and brakes, and I swerve out of the way just in time.

This time he didn’t see me and the van collided with my body. As I soared through the air, propelled forward by the inertia of my forward pedaling interrupted by the collision with the van, I didn’t scream. I had only this thought: 

I want to live; I have so much more that I still want to say.

Russian trip, part 2

After my first couple days in Moscow, I spent the next four days at the conference (the one that paid for my airfare, visa, and lodging-yay!). The conference was held a couple hours (43 km to be exact) outside of Moscow at the Russian Academy of Sciences’ “holiday home.” Such officially sanctioned holiday homes were apparently a common feature of government and academic institutions during the Soviet era as a place bureaucrats (aka apachilik) went on vacation during holidays and on the weekends to rest, and/or wine and dine themselves and visiting dignitaries. The toilets barely flushed, we didn’t have hot water, there was no Wifi, we got served rotten meat one day, and one of the girls found a rat in her room. We giggled about the stereotypical Soviet accommodations, but most of us having done research in western China, we weren’t surprised. It was more than cozy and warm enough, and that’s what was most important. Most of us didn’t even go outside during the conference, spending all three meals and free time in the conference halls/the bar. The conference was held from Sunday-Wednesday, with most of the presentations on Monday and Tuesday. Much to my nerve’s relief, I presented on Monday afternoon, grateful to get it out of the way so I could get drunk at the Monday night banquet where the vodka was flowing.

The attendees and presenters were a mix of UGs who had grown up in the Soviet Union, UGs who had immigrated to the US and Australia, and foreigners (i.e. Americans, Frenchies, Russians and Brits) studying UGs. It was a mix of research ranging from ancient archaeological digs to the Cultural Revolution to contemporary pop music culture in Urumqi. Our common languages ranged from English, to Russian, to Uyghur, to Chinese. Most people could speak at least 4 languages, most commonly the last four just mentioned. However, sometimes this resulted in old Russian men droning on for (I’m not kidding) an hour in Russian, which left much of it useless for me.

However, during the coffee breaks and happy hours, we had boisterous conversations about the Uyghur LGBT community, ethical research practices (to ask or not ask for consent? What is guerrilla subversive research in an authoritarian setting?), Uyghur refugees fighting in Syria, and crazy stories from crossing the border from Kazakhstan into Xinjiang during the 90s (I was a spectator for the latter). It was particularly inspiring for me to meet in person for the first time Uyghur scholars whom I had read their books, a bit of a celebrity sightings for me. All in all, it was an incredible experience for me as a young scholar to meet with and bond with other scholars studying and interested in the same things that I am. We bonded over our shared nerdiness.

After the conference ended on Wednesday, I sat at a coffee shop in downtown Moscow working on the paper I had just presented since my host said she wasn’t available until after 8 pm. I then took the subway to my new couch surfing host where I would spend the next 3 nights. I wasn’t sure how to get there after I got out of the subway station, so I waited at the closest intersection until a friendly-looking woman made eye contact with me. Zdrastvutjie, I said, Hello. And then said I’m sorry I don’t speak Russian in Russian, and I asked her in English if she spoke English. She said yes, she is studying English now. She read the address of my couch surfing host and graciously walked me all the way to the hosts’ house. During our walk, she said she is in finance and works at the bank, pointing to the towering skyscraper by the subway station. She said she was coming home from work. When I commented on how late it was, she said that most of her co-workers work until 9 or 10 pm, and are always working all the time. We chatted all the way, thank god I had her to guide me because there were lots of turns—I would have never found it otherwise (I couldn’t use Google maps or anything since I didn’t have a Russian SIM card).

As we were walking toward the apartment, I heard my name: “Sarah!” A long-haired guy was there. I had suspected my host had a boyfriend or husband because she had said, “we look forward to seeing you.” He said to me, “no English,” but indicated that I should follow him. I said goodbye to my new friend, and told her I would add her on Whatsapp.

He led me to their apartment, and as soon as I walked in, I was suddenly accosted by the strong smell of sweaty feet, cat, and litter box. I felt my eyes grow wider and wider as I saw a cat dart into the next room, a panic feeling spreading through my whole body as I silently freaked out. I’m allergic to cats. They should have a warning on their couch surfing page saying that they have a cat!

The girl greeted me, and I was surprised and confused. The girl in the picture was thin and playing a flute in a sleeveless black dress. This girl was very obese. Did I get sort of catfished?? 

She showed me to the couch. Her English was conversant, though her boyfriend didn’t have any English skills. “Am I sleeping here?” I barely managed to squeak out. “Of course!” she said cheerfully. It was a tiny couch, not much larger than a loveseat. And it was in the same room as the couple’s bed, where the smell of feet and B.O. grew stronger as her boyfriend entered with nothing but a bathrobe tied around his waist and his long, greasy hair flowing around his shoulders. They got me a cup of water, which the cat instantly started to help himself to, lapping up the water out of my cup.

I sat down on the couch, exhausted, as the cat started to attack me, biting my toes and scratching at my leg, and I silently started to freak out. I added the girl who walked with me here on Whattsapp and told myself, “I will ask her tomorrow if I could move into her place.”

The animal attacking me was actually a kitten, and an energetic (and must not have been spayed) one at that. He went on hunting missions the whole evening, the couple laughing and egging it on by dragging a string around the floor and throwing a small yellow ball around the room, which the cat would then fetch and bring it back to the owner. The girl laughed, saying, “Sometimes I don’t know if we have a cat or a dog! Such a crazy cat!” No kidding…

“Can I take a shower?” I asked.

“Not right now, the washing machine is broken and I’m doing laundry right now, so can you wait?”

I laid down on the couch and read my book on Kindle, starting to calm down as I put my life back into perspective as I read about a poor community in Brazil where most mothers lose an average of 5-6 children during their life time (a great book called Death Without Weeping by Nancy Scheper-Hughes which I highly recommend).

The hosts and I awkwardly ignored each other as we negotiated around the small room.

 “The washer is done, you can take a shower now.” I negotiated and maneuvered myself around the micro-bathroom and too hot water, pleased that all my experience in China has made me a pro at this stuff (i.e. uncomfortable showers) by now. When I got back to the bedroom after my shower, the couple was in bed cuddling. I almost puked from awkwardness. And I would have to sleep in the same room with them. Oh, god.

I read more of my book, and after not too long, they turned out the lights. The boyfriend stayed up on his computer, but I was tired enough to fall asleep almost instantly.

In the middle of the night, I was suddenly woken up by the feeling of claws digging into my calves. The cat was attacking me, on some kind of hunt instinct, rapidly running and darting around the room, occasionally returning to my couch and pouncing on me.

Somehow I managed to fall back asleep, only to be woken by something scratching my boob. I instantly sat straight up, looking left and right for that damn cat, but I didn’t see anything running away. Weird, I must have been dreaming. As soon as I fell back asleep, I felt it again. This time there was no mistake: something just clawed at my chest.

Fucking cat! I screamed silently inside my head. But again, I could see nothing, and didn’t hear it run or jump away. I sat up, backing away from where I was sleeping, thinking the cat was hiding in the blankets. Then I saw it: the cat’s paw reaching up out of a gap between the cushion and the frame, turning it’s claw back and forth in a scarily similar imitation of a submarine head spout looking out from under the water, scratching the air. WTF, I wanted to scream. This cat is literally insane. The girl was not joking!

I tried to get more rest, but was awoken again when their alarm clocks went off and they started getting ready for work. I packed a bag for the day, and told them I would be home late. Never really one to do touristy stuff, I found my way via subway to a jiujitsu gym. I asked them if I could join their classes, and they ended up charging me though I was hoping to train for free.

In my stressed-out flurry of conference preparation and proposal writing, I hadn’t even packed any training gear, a rash guard, or a gi. Luckily, I had remembered to pack a sports bra and black leggings. So, after paying the fee and getting the time for the evening class, I went shopping for some t-shirts to train in, and clean underwear (I hadn’t packed enough to account for training sessions). Then I stopped at a restaurant and worked on my proposal for a few hours until class, which involved an embarrassing encounter with the wait staff who didn’t speak English and I had to mime my way through it.

The next 3 days involved a blur of gi and no-gi training multiple times a day. At the gym, I had the privilege of training with 3 Brazilian black belts and 1 purple belt, and several very excellent and athletic white belt ladies. It was a very welcoming and enthusiastic gym and I can say this was the cherry on the whipped cream topped cake that was my trip to Russia. 

Yes, I forgot my blue belt!! 

After training, I would get gyro wraps (TO DIE FOR!) afterward at the street vendor. I could speak in Uyghur to the kabob guys (they were from Kirghizstan so we could understand each other!), since they didn’t speak English and I didn’t speak Russian.

On my second night, I was looking at my sweaty and red-faced self, and my huge backpack taking up space in my living room, and a little voice came on in my head. Stop being so pretentious, you fool! Since they’re messy and smelly, that gives you space to be a little messy and smelly too. You should be grateful for the free room! Stop judging and you can give yourself some space to be comfortable here despite all your messy stuff. I had to admit, I had felt a little awkward in Tatiana’s pristinely clean apartment, afraid of her judging eyes if I was being messy.

I took a deep breath, smiled, and said to my host, “how did you learn English? It’s really good.” It turns out that she had gone to a special technical school growing up where you just focus on one subject instead of several subjects, and her school was one such school where English was the focus and they only spoke English 24/7. “I haven’t spoken English in many years. It used to be much better,” she told me. She’s now a computer programmer, which is helpful to know English to do, she said.

I complimented her on her English, and we chatted about our lives. It was really nice sitting there, sharing a moment, and suddenly I didn’t feel awkward at all, but rather quite happy that they offered this space for me. On Saturday morning, they even made me pancakes before I left, hauling my huge backpackers backpack to the gym for one last training session before my 9 pm flight.