Years ago, I was searching for a new primary care physician after aging out of my pediatrician’s care. I called the office where I’d usually gone and spoke to the receptionist. She told me there were two doctors accepting new patients, Doctor A and Doctor B, and shared their office hours.
Only Doctor A’s schedule aligned with mine, so I asked to book an appointment with her. That’s when the receptionist said, “Sure, and that’s probably for the better anyway.”
Curious, I asked her what she meant. In a hushed, conspiratorial tone, she said, “Well, Doctor B is Asian, so… you know.”
I was stunned. After a brief pause to process, I responded, “Well, I’m Asian.”
Silence. The receptionist didn’t know how to respond, so I continued, “Actually, Doctor B sounds great.” She tried to backpedal, stammering, “Well, she has an accent…”
I replied cheerfully, “That’s not a problem! I grew up around my mom and aunts’ accents, so I’m pretty good at understanding them. Besides, it’s really nice to receive culturally informed care from someone who shares my background. So yeah, she sounds perfect. Sign me up.”
The receptionist mumbled something about my scheduling conflict, but I cut her off. “No, no. Go ahead and book me with Doctor B. I’ll make it work.”
Awkwardly, she scheduled the appointment. I thanked her for her help and hung up, feeling a small sense of triumph.
Of course, I never actually ended up seeing Doctor B—my schedule really didn’t allow it. But it felt worth it just to stand up against that kind of prejudice and make a point.
