The Idea

Two weeks before my internship with Physicians for a National Health Program (PNHP) began, I decided to watch the documentary 13th on Netflix.

I never considered myself someone who was too politically aware, but once COVID-19 started, I knew that needed to change. The timing felt right; it was simultaneously the middle of a pandemic and the resurgence of the Black Lives Matter movement. I was watching the news every night, and I was scrolling eagerly through social media for resources. I screenshotted picture after picture of lists of books to read, documentaries to watch, and inciting events I wasn't aware of. I was craving information.

As I watched 13th, I realized that I wanted to take notes. I didn't want to let the ideas flow through me passively. Instead, I wanted to eternalize the things I was learning, so that I could absorb it, challenge it, and form my own opinion on it. I took notes during the film, recording my shock, my horror, my disbelief. I created my own version of a fact sheet—my attempt to put as much information as I could onto 1 Google slide in a way that I understood it, in a way that was aesthetically pleasing, and in a way that I could come back to it after I'd have forgotten what I'd watched and say, "Oh yeah! It's all coming back to me now."

I was pretty proud of my work. It was made permanent, and it was mine.

On the bottom right of the fact sheet, I highlighted six names that were important to the racial narratives of crime and that were featured throughout the documentary. Quite randomly, I fixated on Kalief Browder's name—arrested on an accusation of stealing a backpack, never taking a plea deal, standing up for what he believed in, surviving prison, and committing suicide 2 years after he was released.

Searching for more to watch, the next documentary that was recommended to me was that of Kalief Browder's: a 6 part docu-series about his story. "Oh, I'm going to be really sad if I watch this," I said, but I did. And I was.

My jaw dropped even more times than when I watched 13th. I was confused as to why he was sent to Riker's Island, placed in a jungle of violence when he wasn't even convicted. I was disgusted and horrified at prison conditions within Riker's Island, and I was heartbroken when I learned that he sought out psychiatric care but was denied the opportunity to see a mental health professional.

My humanity was tugged at when correctional officers watched him hang before cutting him loose so that he could "feel the pain."

I still have yet to create a fact sheet for Kalief Browder's documentary, but the 9 pages of notes I took during his series, embedded with some profanities in all capital letters, serves as a reminder for how much his story affected me. From then on, I knew that this was a new path for me to explore more.

My independent project for PNHP as an intern was dependent on my ability to think of a topic that I really wanted to study and explore. I was asked the question: Why do you want to become a doctor? I dug around a bit in my head. I knew that patient-centered care and eliminating disparities in health care sat at the center for my aspirations in medicine. I am deeply invested in people and their care, treatment, and livelihoods.

So, I first settled on studying racial disparities in health and social determinants, but it seemed to be more of the same information that I had already studied in school. It felt forced, and I wasn't really connecting to the topic enough for an eight-week independent project. At that point, I had remembered Kalief Browder. I called up my supervisor and told her my new idea: Mental Health in Prison Systems.