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Fewer Black Men Apply to Medical School Than in 1978

Published

9 years ago

November 4, 2015

Oviea Akpotaire and Jeffrey Okonye put in long days working with patients at the veterans’ hospital in south Dallas as fourth-year medical students at the University of Texas Southwestern.

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In a class of 237 people, they are two of only five Black men.

“I knew the ones above us, below us,” Okonye says. “We all kind of know each other. It’s comforting to see another person that looks like you.”

While more Black men than before have graduated from college over the past few decades, the number applying to med school has dropped: From 1,410 in 1978 to 1,337 in 2014.

Enrollment statistics are similar: 542 Black male students enrolled in 1978, compared to 515 in med school in 2014.

That’s according to a report from the Association of American Medical Colleges. Every other minority group — including Asians and Hispanics — saw growth in the number of applicants. And Black women also saw an uptick in applications.

Enrollment statistics for 2015 are just out and they show a modest gain of 8 percent more Black men in medical school over the year before.

“This is a positive sign,” says Marc Nivet, AAMC’s chief diversity officer, “but it does not change the fact that for 35 years the number has been trending poorly.”

“I was really surprised,” says Akpotaire, who is studying internal medicine. “I sent [the study] to my mom and dad immediately.”

The total number of applicants to U.S. medical schools was close to 50,000 in 2014, with about 20,000 enrolling, according to the AAMC.

Increasing ethnic and gender diversity among doctors is important for patient health. Studies show people are more likely to follow doctors’ directions on things like medication or exercise if they can relate to them.

Dr. Dale Okorodudu, a third-year pulmonary and critical care fellow at UT Southwestern, says making cultural connections can make a big difference.

“If you can relate to [patients], it’s a lot easier for them to feel at home and comfortable with you,” he says.

Okorodudu wrote a blog post about an experience at Parkland Hospital that stuck with him. He was walking down the hallway on the 10th floor when a black man stopped him:

“It’s good to see you brother!” I had never met this man, but I knew exactly what he was talking about. With a large smile on his face and a look of pride, he extended his arm to give me a handshake. “There aren’t too many of us doing what you do. I’m glad we got some representation in here.”

For years, Okorodudu has been trying to figure out why so few black men go into medicine. His conclusion: The lack of role models.

“If you’re a black male, let’s say you’re growing up in an inner-city neighborhood,” he says. “There’s so many things directly in front of you that you have the option to go into.”

From music and sports to small business and church, Okorodudu says those professions are visible and present in the lives of young African American boys. “But when you talk about the medical workforce, none of us are directly there in front of them,” he said.

Okorodudu decided to become a doctor when he was 18. A year from now, when he’s done with his fellowship, he’ll be 32.

Med student Jeffrey Okonye points out that for students like him who embraced math and science, there are much faster ways to “make it.”

“A lot of friends of mine, Black males, are engineers,” Okonye says. “They go to school for four years. They have a job, great pay, even had internships in undergrad, I was highly jealous of. Whereas my route, four years undergrad, then another four years of school, and then another X amount of training after that.”

So why did he take the longer route?

“It’s hard to describe the feeling you get when you make someone actually feel better,” Okonye says. “When you can see them go from one state to another and recognize that you were a part of literally changing this person’s life.”

A desire to care for others isn’t the only thing that Okonye, Akpotaire and Okorodudu have in common. All three have had role models of doctors or nurses in their families. And all three are the children of immigrants — from Nigeria.

News article reproduced courtesy of NPR, KERA News and Kaiser Health News at KHN.org.

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LIVE! — TOWN HALL ON RACISM AND ITS IMPACT — THURS. 11.14.24 5PM PST

Join us for a LIVE Virtual Town Hall on the Impact of Racism hosted by Post News Group Journalist Carla Thomas and featuring Oakland, CA NAACP President Cynthia Adams & other Special Guests.
Thursday, November 14, 2024, 5 p.m. – 6:30 p.m. PST

Published

1 day ago

November 12, 2024

Oakland Post

Discussion Topics:
• Since the pandemic, what battles have the NAACP fought nationally, and how have they impacted us locally?
• What trends are you seeing concerning Racism? Is it more covert or overt?
• What are the top 5 issues resulting from racism in our communities?
• How do racial and other types of discrimination impact local communities?
• What are the most effective ways our community can combat racism and hate?

Your questions and comments will be shared LIVE with the moderators and viewers during the broadcast.

STREAMED LIVE!
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Oakland Post: Week of November 6 – 12, 2024

The printed Weekly Edition of the Oakland Post: Week of November 6 – 12, 2024

Published

4 days ago

November 9, 2024

Oakland Post

To enlarge your view of this issue, use the slider, magnifying glass icon or full page icon in the lower right corner of the browser window.

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OP-ED: The Illusion of Allyship. White Women, Your Yard Signs Mean Nothing to Me

NNPA NEWSWIRE – “The blue bracelets are something White women are wearing so others can see that they didn’t vote for Trump,” says Liberal Lisa from Oklahoma on X. Chile, bye. These bracelets are hollow symbols, empty gestures that mean nothing to me. An accessory to claim distance from Trump’s legacy is superficial comfort, while the choice to not stand with us in the voting booth is far more profound.

Published

5 days ago

November 9, 2024

Oakland Post

Political yard signs can symbolize intentions and allegiance. But this year, they’ve also symbolized betrayal. During this general election, Black women were led to believe that more White women would stand with us. Exit polls, however, told a different story. Despite overwhelming displays of support, more White women still chose to vote for the convicted felon, reality TV star, and rapist. White women answered the call but left us hanging at the polls.

A Familiar Disappointment

I live in DeKalb County, Georgia, and the abundance of Harris-Walz yard signs could’ve fooled me. But I’ve seen this before, back when Stacey Abrams ran for governor. White women showed up, put up signs, attended rallies, knocked on doors, and phone-banked. Yet, when it came time to vote, they let us down—not once but twice. I’ve been here for over 15 years, and if there’s one thing I know, it’s that political signs are symbols without weight.

In every election, I’ve talked with White women. Most aren’t the primary earners in their families and vote along party lines, aligning with the preferences of their fathers and husbands. These conversations reveal a reluctance to break from tradition, even when their votes affect women and certainly when their votes impact the lives of people who look like me.

The Illusion of Solidarity—Symbols Are Not Enough

On social media, I’m seeing White women posting pictures of blue bracelets to “prove” they didn’t vote for Trump. “The blue bracelets are something White women are wearing so others can see that they didn’t vote for Trump,” says Liberal Lisa from Oklahoma on X. Chile, bye. These bracelets are hollow symbols, empty gestures that mean nothing to me. An accessory to claim distance from Trump’s legacy is superficial comfort, while the choice to not stand with us in the voting booth is far more profound.

I’ve seen Black Lives Matter signs and black squares posted on Instagram to “prove” support for Black people, but we now know that was a lie, too. Will those same people who claimed Black lives mattered now take down their Harris-Walz signs and show their true selves?

Navigating these truths is a daily struggle for me—professionally and socially. White women often misuse their privilege, supporting us only when it’s convenient. Seeing overqualified Black women sabotaged or abandoned by White women at critical moments is a constant emotional challenge. It’s exhausting to live with this reality, especially when solidarity seems like something they pick up and discard at will.

One clever campaign ad from Harris-Walz that spoke directly to White women. “Your Vote, Your Choice” emphasized that their vote was private—independent of their household situation. Another was from Olivia Howell Dreizen, the “Vote Without Fear” campaign, which empowered women to consider the greater impact of their choices. But it seems many still couldn’t choose the roadmap to freedom—even when it was handed to them.

A Call for Action Beyond Words

White women, I want to believe you care, but actions speak louder than yard signs, bracelets, or Instagram posts. Show up in our communities, advocate in your workplaces, and stand up to dismantle the structures that uphold white supremacy. Only through real action will we know where you stand.

If you choose not to act, we see you—and we know exactly where you stand. Good luck these next four years.

Disclaimer: The views and opinions expressed in this article do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of BlackPressUSA.com or the National Newspaper Publishers Association.