I’m never particularly nervous the night before a gynecology appointment. Sure, it’s on my mind in some capacity but usually nothing more than “Hm. What should I wear?” I’ll spend a few minutes picking out an appropriate outfit—one with few buttons, a wide neck, something easy to take on and off at 10:15 in the morning and still look good once back in the office. This little fashion show tradition adds some levity to my most vulnerable appointment of the year.
For those who’ve never been and for those dying to know, a trip to the gynecologist means stripping down to my socks, getting my breasts fondled, scooching my ass forward just a teensy bit more, butterflying my legs open, and feeling a doctor insert her fingers into my vagina. All this while being reminded to relax.
I will admit, a part of my sex drive temporarily dies with each visit to the gyno. Our bodies are all uniquely beautiful but for me the yearly tuneup is a fluorescent-lit reminder of my body’s capacity and limit. Whether it’s the parenting magazines in the lobby, the cord blood donation pamphlets, the model uterus next to the sink or the stucco ceiling I stare up at as a little pressure is applied to my cervix, it all makes me feel a bit blah.
But honestly, after 15+ years going to these appointments, it truly isn’t that bad. What makes it a not-so-thrilling-doctor-appointment is what makes most doctor appointments not so thrilling: naked + vulnerability = not so thrilling. Or in the case of the dentist, not naked rather, uh, wide open?
But what I didn’t realize about my annual, semi-uncomfortable doctor appointment was the very uncomfortable history baked into it.
I recently attended an online class through one of my very favorite sites, Allbodies. The class Race, Gender and American Gynecology was taught by Dr. Deirdre Cooper Owens, one of two Black women in the country running a medical humanities program. I didn’t know what a medical humanities program was until reading the description of the University of Nebraska-Lincoln’s program where Dr. Cooper Owens is the Director. The program is described as an “interdisciplinary program designed to support students' learning about the social and cultural contexts of health, illness and medical care.” The site beckons future students to ”Explore health within a larger context.”
In less than an hour, Dr. Cooper Owens deftly taught and explored the subject of American Gynecology more than any history or sex-ed course ever dared themselves to. I’ve gotten used to knowing that most components of my everyday life and routine are usually credited to some group of white, male inventors and founders. But when Dr. Cooper Owens invited us to see how the white, male ‘founders of gynecology’ really gained their notoriety and certificates and statues, it was a horrifying reality.
Enslaved, Black women were oftentimes the subjects for these doctors to perfect their procedures like ovariotomies, fistula surgeries, even the very speculum that is inserted into us every visit. Without anesthesia, and worse, without consent, the bodies of these women were considered a business agreement between their owners and the doctors performing on them. And it goes without saying, it wasn’t their bodies that were celebrated or even portrayed in the textbooks, their images often replaced by illustrations of white women.
Black women like Matilda Stamper, Lucy, Anarcha, Betsey, and countless other unnamed enslaved women were the test subjects for men who would go on to be honored. The unethical decisions made by these torturers were rarely second guessed since the Black woman was not only viewed as property but viewed as immodest, hypersexual and unworthy of having her pain and humility considered.
I thought back to the reasons I dislike going to the gynecologist. The slight discomfort, the time out of my day, the awkward moment when I confess I didn’t give myself a breast self-examination and, no, I’m not on any birth control. My own personal annoyances suddenly seemed surface and small compared to the trauma of the early stages of this practice.
Unfortunately, when I’m sitting in the doctor’s office I rarely give any thought to my health within a “larger context.” Rarely am I considering the ‘human’ side of medical history outside of my own experience. Through Dr. Deidre Cooper Owens’ class, I understood why lessons surrounding the larger context of health, especially this one, were so important. The structural problems of medical racism today are better understood when we know their past. How is the barbaric work of our ‘fathers’ disguised today and how can I recognize it, question it and call it out?
Why is that statue being removed? Why are racial disparities in gynecologic care prevalent? Why does Manhattan doctor Dr. Kameelah Phillips refer to her speculum as “Lucy”?
So relax? Not quite yet.
Buy Deidre Cooper Owens’ book Medical Bondage: Race, Gender, and the Origins of American Gynecology
Race, Gender + American Gynecology is offered free through Allbodies.