White Coats

Years later when I was hired to work as a caseworker at Kings County Hospital, I donned a white coat and was given an office and told that I would cover forty-one clinics.

The second or third week there one of those aging Spanish couples, dressed in black, sat patiently on the benches with others who were also waiting. Finally I was able to beckon them into my office. They had heard that I spoke Spanish. I nodded. Before coming to the hospital, the only time I had ever spoken Spanish was in Ponce, Puerto Rico with Dona Edilmira, the housekeeper-cook of the young woman who was then my sister-in-law. When the house was still, the children in bed, I would sit with Dona Edilmira, chatting in Spanish about food and the children in the family, struggling with my sparse knowledge of Spanish,

somewhat augmented by four years of High School Latin, three and a half years of French, and a natural disposition for languages.

Now this aging Puerto Rican couple had brought a letter that puzzled them. The letter stated in both English and Spanish: This is not a bill. It spoke of Senora Rodriguez’s stay in the hospital at so much per day, and below, set off very prominently was a figure in the thousands. A shocking sum to contemplate, particularly if one lives on Social Security. In the best Spanish that I could muster, I explained that the letter was to tell them that Medicare — the Government — had paid for her stay in the hospital, that the letter was to provide information, nada mas, nothing more.

Sighs of relief issued from those pale lips in unison. In fact, they seemed to do everything in unison, like two trees that have grown so close their roots have knotted and intertwined. They thanked me and addressed me as “Doctor.” I explained that I was not a doctor, that I was a social worker. They smiled again, and we all shook hands.

A week or so later I saw my aging Spanish couple waiting their turn on the benches. When I beckoned them into my office, we exchanged greetings like old friends. I urged them to sit down, but they declined, explaining that they had bought me a black fountain pen. Doctors carried black pens, they said. Mr. Rodriguez took the fountain pen out of its box. They urged me to put it into the pocket of my white coat, the pen pocket.

The two admired the effect of the black pen against my white coat, and I felt my Spanish had improved immeasurably. We shook hands again, and they bade the doctor goodbye.