Lovell Harris, MD

How often do your sons come to you and say something like, "My girlfriend is pregnant and I already have a baby and I don't want to have this baby. Can you please pay for an abortion?" And part of you says, "I've paid for three already, and that's my limit. Why don't you use a condom? Why doesn't she take birth control pills? Why don't you all become more responsible for yourselves?"

When I was younger, I had a total of five, but I paid for each one. I didn't ask my mother, I didn't ask my friends, I didn't ask my family. I paid for the abortions because I took the responsibility. It was my baby, and it would have been my death if the women I had gotten pregnant had these babies. For starters, I didn't want to raise them. I wanted to go through school, which was more important to me, and looking after a baby would have disrupted my life. Therefore, I made the sacrifice and paid-and paid, and paid, and paid, and paid.

Why do our children think that we owe them for all of their mistakes? The only way our children will learn from their mistakes is by paying for them. We didn't get abortions without having to pay for them. I get angry now. I have now closed my pockets and my checkbook. I'm tired of being asked to pay for other people's mistakes. Our children are spoiled. Our children are selfish. When do they come to help you? Where are they when you need things done? Have you ever asked them to take a look at your house? Why are they not helping you, but instead are out in the street doing whatever they want to do? Then they feel it's the responsibility of their parents or their parents' friends to bail them out. I'm sorry, kids: Bail your own asses out, that's what you should do. Get off your ass, go to work; whenever you do something irresponsible, you become responsible and you pay. If not, you will have to face the consequences yourself, for I'm not paying for any more abortions.

There are those times when you want to read something, and you say to yourself, "Let me go into another room. I don't feel like having anyone looking at me; I just want to be alone."

There is a place in the house where you can be alone. It's called the bathroom and I'm not alone in using it as a reading room. It's just that I use it to read a certain kind of literature. I'm sitting there on the toilet, and I begin to read this book, and before you know it, it's piqued my interest. Some people may call it soft porn, others may call it hard porn. For me, it's just porn, and it's good reading.

Many of us are so educated, with so many degrees that we then become snobs: "I can't read anything unless it's Chaucer's Canterbury Tales. Well, there are some sexual innuendoes there too. So you're reading it, but on a different level. But sometimes you say to yourself, "Ah, I don't feel like going out for a date. I don't feel like being with anyone; I want a vicarious experience."

At those times, these little toilet novels meet your need. You just want to sit down and read without much thought. You want a story that's fast moving and yet to the point. You get what I mean? You can read these books starting in front, in back, in any place you want, and the story and characters are hot no matter where you begin.

After reading one of these books, I usually say, "Boy, this was good reading." Why? Because it kept my interest, I made it through what I was doing on the toilet and the book is finished. What a good experience.

This is about my Winfield, who was a genius. He was a genius as an artist, calligrapher and writer, but he was also a petty criminal. He was committing crimes just to survive, though, because he had a problem. That problem was heroin addiction.

Winfield grew up in a small town as one of eleven children, and growing up poor was very, very tough. Winfield was considered incorrigible and put in a school, Slaton Farm, at an early age. There he learned a lot of the tricks of the street trade. But he also had a gift for art, one that I have not seen in anyone else who has never had formal training. He was a lovable person, a very giving person, but in addition to his caring side, he had a side to him that did whatever it took to make it. So he served several years in jail for petty crimes, and both in and out of jail, he would use heroin. I never knew that he was even on drugs; as a doctor, I would have noticed any tracks on his arms or legs, and I never saw any. I eventually found out where he injected the heroin: In his privates so no one would ever know.

When I met him, Winfield was homeless, living on the top floor of an abandoned building. But because he was such a wonderful, nice person and had a lovely personality, I took to him. My family--my mother, my brother and my sister-- all adopted him. I had Winfield paint my office because no one could paint as good as he. Then one day, to my chagrin, I found out that someone had broken into my office but didn’t disturb anything in it—the burglar knew right where to go. He had stolen my change. I saw him, and I flew down the street in my white coat. I caught him and cursed him out in the middle of the street. He said laughingly, “Next time, shoot me, because I was so embarrassed seeing you in a white coat, chasing me down the street, telling me I know better than to steal from you because you always gave to me.” Whenever he needed an odd job, I was always there to help him. I would take him food and then bring him to my house so that he could bathe and clean himself up.

Winfield was handsome. He had eyes that could capture anyone. He also had the gift of gab because he was very bright. But he had been labeled incorrigible for no good reason. I feel that if he had gotten a chance, he could have made it in any college. Anyway, Winfield contracted a disease that eventually did kill him; it was called AIDS. He became infected with HIV from sharing needles. He died with courage. He came to my office shortly after I got back from my trip to Brazil, and he looked fabulous. Later that night, his girlfriend called me and said he was in the hospital. It turned out that his kidneys had failed some time before, and he never knew it. When I visited him in the hospital, he told me he wanted no medication, nor did he want dialysis; he preferred to die peacefully, letting his diseases run their course. He never came back out, but he left behind some of his paintings, which eventually I’ll have appraised. I’m still friends with his girlfriend and will always be. I will just say she’s called “6-9,” and I love her. She stood by him to the end, and she and I both loved him because we knew the good that was in him. Winfield, our city owes you a tribute, because your artwork supersedes any of the other bad things that they said you did. You had a kind heart.

He was beaten by the guards while in jail. Several other prisoners were also beaten, but he alone fought back in court. When he did, he won his case, and that I will never forget. He was a man of courage. A man may leave behind his children, but he also leaves behind people who will always love and miss him. Yes, Winfield, you are missed.

People who consider themselves important are always saying, “I’m busy,” or “I’m with a client,” or “I’m with a patient,” or “I’m on the other line and I’ll call you back.” When will they call you back? Maybe tomorrow, maybe in a week, or a month, or maybe never, so why should I leap when they call?

Those people who think that they’re on a level above yours feel that they can use your time whenever it’s convenient for them, but when you want some of their time, you’re always put on hold, because you are to them a “nobody,” or what they’re doing is more important.

Since I retired, I have noticed more and more how those people who used to be in your life now will put you on hold and never return the call. But now I am at peace with myself, and I really don’t want to hear from them either. I don’t want to hear them brag about what they’re doing, how hard they have to work, or how many clients they have to see, because I sat back one day and I counted until I couldn’t count any more: How many patients did I see in my life? I saw so many thousands that now I need time for me. Yes, there comes a time in your life when you want to say to yourself, “I am what’s important. What’s left of me is important. Yes, I am just as important as those who want to put me on hold or say they will call me back.” Now I don’t want them to call me back. I have deleted most of them from my computer and most of all, from my life, because now we travel in different circles.

It’s all right to develop a new circle of friends and acquaintances. Life has its changes; when we go through those changes, we call it metamorphosis. You go from one phase to the next, then to the next. Now that I’m in a new phase of life, I’m happy, because I’m now able to put the past behind me. I can put those who were a part of me but don’t want to continue to be a part of me behind. I moved forward, and I am happy with myself. I’m writing this to say to you, as you deal with others in your life, look around and say, “I will not let anybody think that they’re any better than me.” Regardless what their station in life may be, no one is better than you. Feel good about yourself, be yourself, be happy with what you have, and do the best you can.

I’m an African-American, and a proud one, but I never had a desire to go to the motherland. I always ask myself, Why? I’ve been to South America, I’ve been to Europe, and I want to go to Scandinavia. I want to go everywhere, but I do not want to go to the motherland.

I asked myself that question recently, and then I answered it: “Why should I go away and see poverty and despair when I can see it right here in America?” In America, I see my people living in despair and poverty. Then I said to myself, “Why should I pay thousands of dollars to see what’s before my own eyes? In America, people walk in the streets, people are homeless, people die of AIDS, and people die of heart attacks and diabetes at an early age. I see morbid obesity, I see rape, and I see murders every day. Why should I go to Africa and see what’s going on there?”

How can we forget what happened in Somalia? How can we forget Rwanda, where the Hutus mass murdered millions of Tutsis? Now we see the same thing in the Congo, and it’s just going through the continent: black people killing black people, and all for money, so we are no different than the conservatives of America. Those who have are willing to murder and rape to keep what they have. So why should I want to go to Africa?

When my friends come back from Africa, they say, “Oh, the motherland! I went to South Africa. I went to Cape Town; how beautiful it is.” But then they say, “Look at Soweto. Oh, my God, what abject poverty.” I say, “Don’t be shocked, we have Soweto here in the ghettoes of America, and no one cares.”

We see money being poured out by the billions to free the Iraqis, and we see none to help impoverished Americans and none going to Africa. When I say "none,” I mean very little—not enough to make a difference in their lives. I’m saddened when I listen to the stories or watch them on TV, but now I say, “God, thank you for the life you’ve given me.” And I too need to share, so I have found a cause to help. But my cause is not to help those in Africa. I have now written my insurance policy to go to Howard University, my alma mater, when I die, because I want to help some poor African-American to make it in this country, and I know my alma mater will prepare that person. This is why I don’t want to see the motherland. We have enough stories here, and what happens in Africa happens to us here. Sometimes you want to see something bright, you want to see hope. You want life, you don’t want to see or read of death. That’s why I want to go where I can see light, because we’ve lived in darkness and I live in darkness. I’m hoping that one day I’ll see the light.

Women, why are you standing by your man when your man is standing by another man or some woman other than you? Your husbands, your boyfriends, are on the streets. They’re not home with you and your children. What are you doing? You’re supporting them, you’re supporting the baby, and he’s supporting only his activities.

Yes, your man may be a drug dealer. When a drug dealer is outside dealing drugs, he’s also dealing other women. What is he bringing home to you? Sexually transmitted diseases. You have to go get checked because he had an extramarital affair or unprotected sexual relations with another person and might have brought a nasty surprise home to you. Here you have your little daughter, or your little son; you should be telling your man, “This is your son. This is your daughter. Look what you’re doing to your children. Your children are being bought up without the help of both a father and a mother.” Your children only have you as a mother, and you continue the cycle of giving these men babies.

The prisons are filling up. More and more black men are going to jail for weapons violations, drugs, and many other things, including lack of child support. It was so nice to see published in the paper the names of those who did not support their children and the amounts they owed. Yes, they need to arrest these men, but instead of putting them in jail, put them to work. If you have to put them in jail, put them in for the weekend every week, so maybe they won’t make another baby. Yes, it’s so easy to make a baby, but raising a baby is the hardest thing to do, especially today when children need to compete, especially our children. Black children need to compete against white children who are in much wealthier communities and have more services. Black man, you are doing a disservice by making a baby and leaving the rest up to Mom. I think you should be sterilized. Someone should make you impotent because you feel that your penis is the only thing that makes you a male. I feel that your penis is making you less of a man. Why? Because you’re making children but not raising children. You’re being incarcerated while the poor black woman is out here struggling.

How many black women have had to quit college because they had a baby? So you had a baby and you had just one or two years of college. I hate to see you working in a nursing home or taking care of someone else’s retarded children. And you have to put in hours and hours of work, getting next to nothing because you have to take care of a child. Then you have to beg your mother to please let you come back home because you can’t afford the rent and the baby. You ought to be ashamed. You have more education than your man, but giving him a baby doesn’t make him educated. What you need to do is force your sons to stay in school, force your sons to get a trade, force your sons to be men. Manhood doesn’t come to a boy because he has been to jail.

I am not a religious person, but I now see more Muslin women on the streets. They’re wrapping themselves up for their men, just barely showing their faces. They’re hiding their bodies and their pretty faces, but what are their men hiding? They’re not hiding anything, because they can have more than one woman. If they choose, they can have three or four of them. Women, don’t you want a man who is just yours and not a communal relationship? Get a hold of yourself and understand that your brain is bigger than theirs. Look in the jails and see how many men have come out Muslims. Most of our black ones have learned the religion from being in jail or from having been on drugs. Yes, religion is and can be a way out, but I don’t like how Muslims suppress women. I feel that women have rights.

The girls are now putting their pants below their butts too, but their backsides are so fat. Who in the hell wants to look at that? They may think it’s cute, all these big ripples and rolls. They just shake it, and if somebody wants it, all they have to do is say “I hit it.” Then they hit it and quit it. You don’t want that, girls. You want somebody who’s going to hit it and stay there with you to make a life with you.

Who wants to think of big fat thighs wrapped around them for the rest of their lives, trapping them in a hole that’s so deep that they’d need tow rope to get out? Come on, women, look at yourselves. You’re not holding your man because you’re not taking care of yourself. You’ve got to get in shape and look like something other than a mountain. You need to have more pride. Get rid of some of that hair and go natural. Be beautiful.

I may be not of your Hip-Hop generation, young America. I may not understand your principles, but I believe you can do well following some of mine. I believe in looking good, keeping in shape, being educated, and being a proud black man, because then I too can look in a white man’s face and say, “I’m as educated as you.” You can call me a nigger; you can say, “Look at that black man.” But this black man is an educated one, and I’d like to see more of our children be educated. I had a mother and a father, and they made sure that I got an education. In this life, you need to get a good education or learn a skilled trade. That is what will get us out of this economic depression. Black men, wake up. Black women, wake up.

While I was in Greece, I was riding in a taxi, and the cabbie and I had a conversation about America. The first thing he said was, “When are you going to get rid of that Boosh?” I said, “We’re all hoping that either he expires in office or 2008 hurries up – it cannot come fast enough.”

He says, “In Europe, the perception of that man is arrogance, His omnipotence and his impotence are all just making America a laughingstock.” He made a valid point when he said, “Look at your dollar.” The American dollar used to be the most powerful currency in the world. Now our dollar is worth 75 cents. I could not buy any gifts; I chose little taverns to eat in instead of five-star hotels, even though I lived in one. I felt that the prices were a bit too much for my modest income from Social Security Disability.

America, I hope you look in the mirror. I hope you say a change is needed. I hope you say, “It’s time to boot this conservative wing out of our country. Let’s get to be a softer, gentler nation, but a strong nation in terms of education.” We need to focus on education and economics again, and try to make our next generation not just one which people see as fulfilling the younger Bush’s dreams. The son tried to do what the father could not do--get rid of Saddam Hussein. Saddam Hussein is gone, but look at the insurgency. America, please don’t make us continue to be ashamed of our country. Please give us back that American pride that allowed us to be looked upon favorably and not just as America, the land of the Bush.

I never thought my mother would get old. My mother has always been there since our birth. She’s always been the rock, she’s always been the strength, yet I never ever thought of my mother getting old. Why haven’t I? I’m not saying that Mommy would not get old; when I look in the mirror, I see I am getting old, and she’s older than me. So why would I not think Mommy would get old?

On Father’s Day, I visited my mother as I do most days. I looked at her in the chair and I could see she was sad. I said, “Mom, what’s wrong?” She said, “I’m just tired. Now, with these medications I’m taking, I’m up all night and I’m just tired.” I could see the change in her. I could see her hair beginning to become whiter. I can see where the years had taken their toll on her face. She’s just not that vibrant mother who we’ve always had. Mommy, I hear you sometimes mention death. Sometimes that bothers me, but then I throw it back at myself. There are times I talk about death too.

We all wish our mothers could always be with us because mothers always represented peace and love. My mother always did. But when I looked at her, I saw her mother. I now see my mother sitting in a chair just like I saw her mother sitting in a chair, and I see them start to age in that chair. That was not my mother’s way of living, or her mother’s. They were both very, very active, always on the go. But when it’s time to die, it’s time. Mother, will I ever be ready for your death? No! I always promised myself that if you died first, which I hope happens only because I want to be there for you, I will follow you. I will follow you because I love you, Mom.

Euthanasia should be a way out. Dr. Jack Kevorkian was arrested because he assisted people in ending their own lives because they believe they have nothing left to live for. The people he assisted were people who have terminal illnesses such as ALS—amyotrophic lateral sclerosis, or Lou Gehrig’s disease; multiple sclerosis; and metastatic cancer.

We hear the conservative Republicans go on about the right to life. What about the right to death? Who has the right to decide for you how you want to end your life? I feel that if there is a pill out there that can put you to sleep, why not? Animals are much more concerned about one another. When an animal sees another that is dying or injured, it takes care of the dying animal by eating it or by helping the injured animal to die easily and quickly rather than suffer a slow and unrelenting death. Death is a certainty for all of us, but do we have to die such a painful, ugly, horrible death that devastates our families? I’m tired of hearing people dictating from on high, these conservatives who want to say what you should do. This is America; where’s our freedom of choice? If I want to die because I have a terminal illness, it’s my right. It’s my right to say to my doctor, “Please give me something to relieve me from this anxiety, from this terrible, painful death.” Why should I have to just sit there and suffer? Yet this is what happens: We suffer, and who has to take care of us? Our families. And our families suffer watching us. But once again, someone pontificates, someone who’s not living the hell of those who are dying of these dreaded diseases.

Today I ran into someone at the Philadelphia International Airport who I had never met before. He said to me that he was a professor at St. Joseph’s, and that he lost his brother at 41 to ALS. Next to him was his sister, who lost her husband, who she had been married to for just a few months, to colon cancer. Yes, these were deaths that were unavoidable, yet they fought. It would have been easier on all had their loved ones died an easier death, if they had been able to take that pill that would have alleviated their pain and suffering.

I believe in euthanasia. I believe in a man’s right to die. I believe in it just as I do a woman’s right to abort. It’s not a man’s decision to say that a lady should have to have a baby she doesn’t want, especially if he isn’t there to take care of her and the baby. Yes, America, we are losing our freedoms daily. But you know where it’s coming from: the man in the White House and his cohorts.* It’s time for a change—time for you to control your own life.
(*Note: Reference is to the Bush presidency.)

I never dreamed that my life would end with hearing noise, noise, noise and more noise. Tinnitus is one of the more depressing illnesses that one could have. A heart attack would be more merciful. I can't hear the phone, and when I do, I can't recognize the voice because the roaring in head distorts everything that is being said. What kind of life is this? I can't bear it much longer. What are my options? Not many! So many days I pray for death, but I am trying to hold onto life for my mother and those who love me.

There are so many people who cannot understand the mental anguish of tinnitus. Recently I saw on an ABC TV program two people with the same condition who wanted to die. One was a veteran of the Iraq War, so young but wanting to die because of this infernal noise. Another was an elderly lady who also wanted death. I felt for them because I too have that feeling. Medical science is now trying to work on putting implants in the brain to help with this condition. There is another device that plays music in your head to drown out what you are hearing with something else. The price for this device is more than $5,000, and it’s not covered by your insurance.

Why does our health care system not care about those of us who have tinnitus and the hell we live with no help? I have tried every device and pill imaginable, and the only one I can come up with is an overdose of a narcotic. I am writing this to sublimate my feelings. I would like to get out of the house, but I get tired of not hearing the World around me. All I hear is me. I pray to God to help me. Take me home so I can be relieved from this torment!