America's health system betrays Black people like me. But I got the COVID vaccine anyway.

I received my first dose of Pfizer's mRNA COVID-19 vaccine in December 2020 and received the second dose on Monday, Jan. 11, 2021. Truthfully — I was nervous. Although tens of millions of Americans still wait for their chance to be vaccinated, I found myself uniquely positioned for early voluntary access because of my job at the United States Department of State.

I have a privileged background and have no issue discussing it. My parents are Ivy Leaguers. My father is an anesthesiologist at the Cleveland Clinic medical center. I have a law degree and many friends and colleagues who are practicing physicians. Wealthy folks are offering $25,000 for vaccine access and my employment situation offered vaccination right away. 

So why was I hesitant? I am African American.

Distrust runs deep

This country’s history, including the history of public health, is tainted with racist policies and practices. Black folks are skeptical and suspicious for many reasons. Our health care system has consistently fallen short of serving us in the same manner as our non-Black counterparts.

Ask tennis pro Serena Williams about her risky emergency C-section when she delivered her daughter. Wealth does not protect you when Black women are 243% more likely than white women to die of pregnancy- or childbirth-related causes. Ask any Tuskegee Study victim and their families about one of the worst actions this country’s health care system has taken against African Americans. President Bill Clinton apologized for the experiment in 1997, calling it “so clearly racist.” Ask any person belonging to a racial minority who feels they are treated differently by health care professionals due to their skin color.

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Racism is the risk factor, not race.

COVID-19 is no different. It continues to disproportionately affect and kill Blacks when compared to whites. Like compound interest, underlying societal and health care disadvantages are stacked against Black and brown communities; COVID-19 exposed everything. Despite this history, we are asked to trust a vaccine expedited from creation to mass production. But many African Americans would likely not be at such a high risk of contracting COVID-19 from the start if our health care system dedicated sufficient resources to addressing health issues they face.

A supportive community convinced me

Given this history, I called my father when I was notified at work about vaccine access. I called my uncle who is a cardiologist (He said he was jealous that I had access this early. He wouldn't be vaccinated until Dec. 24). I texted two friends from college who are practicing physicians. I called another friend from college whose father is also a physician. The advice was consistent: Get the vaccine.

I spent five hours worth of conversations spread across these five people. But if I did not have any family or friends in the medical field, whom would I call to reassure me? Who can less-privileged African Americans call for informed advice? The most ironic part: I had access to a vaccine before any of those I called, all of whom are working closer to COVID-19. 

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If there were a way for me to donate my access, I would have given it to my father or uncle in a heartbeat. My father told me stories about Code Blues at hospitals, which usually warrant everyone dropping whatever they are doing to respond. Now, doctors and nurses must first suit up, if they aren't already, to protect themselves from COVID-19 before responding. 

I have the privilege of people in my life to discuss things with and help me weigh costs and benefits. If you are a Black or brown American, your government and institutions continually fail to provide a baseline of understanding and support. This is precisely why many Blacks folks do not want the vaccine right away. A recent poll conducted by The Undefeated and the Kaiser Family Foundation found that half of Black adults do not plan to take a coronavirus vaccine, even if scientists declare it safe and it is available at no cost.  

On Dec. 20, 2020, a Black physician named Dr. Susan Moore died from COVID-19 in Indiana. Prior to her death, Moore said she had to beg for proper care, other doctors downplayed her pain and was prematurely discharged. Her case shows why the lack of faith in institutions and policy has never been restored. 

Vaccination can only be the beginning

As I travel often, I have been vaccinated often. I understand vaccines, their efficacy, and potential side effects. I’ve taken malaria medication numerous times (yes, the dreams are that crazy). Yet, I was still hesitant. Many friends in my demographic (African American, educated with more than a bachelor’s, living in a major U.S. city) shared their plans to stay away from any vaccine for at least a year.

I am still going to socially distance and wear a mask. My lifestyle is not going to change.

So why did I choose COVID-19 vaccination?  

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My father put it best: The risks of not getting vaccinated are now greater than the risks of getting vaccinated. Waiting for any treatment or vaccine to stand the test of time does not apply here. You want as much protection as you can from the debilitating conditions of COVID-19. Without vaccination, you are betting on everyone around you not infecting you, consistently taking proper precautions and caring about you as much as themselves.

These are awful bets to place, especially for African Americans in 2020. The risks are too high. Everyone deserves the American promise of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. To fulfill that, we must end disparities in healthcare by ensuring everyone has not only vaccine access, but access to equitable health care.

Adom M. Cooper is a security fellow at the Truman National Security Project and an operations planning specialist at the U.S. Department of State. Follow him on Twitter: @HouseCoop. The views expressed here are his own.