Over the years I have missed having a relationship with
Connie Thomas, RN.
We lost touch with each other shortly after my wedding in
1971. I received a few letters from her
when she joined the US Army and then she went missing from my life.
She never knew my first reaction upon meeting her at the
American Red Cross on Amsterdam Avenue in NYC and for that I am grateful. This is not an admission that I am in any way
proud of. But I feel that it might be a
confession that needs to be shared.
At the urging of Susan Smith and Mary Jane Sassone, two
classmates from the 1965 graduating class of St. Vincent’s Hospital and Medical
Center, I applied for a position on the American Red Cross Blood Mobile. Back in early 1967, this was a really fun
job, (although far from intellectually stimulating) for three 22 year old women. We
got to travel to West Point, police precincts, fire houses, business
establishments, jails, etc. Believe me,
there were a lot of single men, flat out on tables, ready to give their blood
to playful, young nurses. It was better
than Match.com and E-harmony, for coming up with dates. But, alas, I am regressing and possibly
trying to avoid the main point of my story.
Back at that time in nursing, vena punctures were not part
of a nurse’s training – at least not at St. Vincent’s Hospital and we were
noted for being top notch and cutting edge. I remembering being “scared to death” when
contemplating that this was one of the main responsibilities of being a nurse
on a Blood Bank. Being the blatantly
honest individual that I usually am (some may refer to this quality as having a
big, Brooklyn mouth), I told the person interviewing me that I had absolutely
no experience taking blood and I was frightened to death by the prospects of
doing vena punctures. I remember being somewhat astonished by my
Interviewer, when surprisingly this disclosure seemed to work in my favor.
I recall her telling me that they actually preferred to hire
people who had absolutely no experience in vena punctures so they could train
them properly in their techniques. I believe their approach was correct. As a
matter of fact I took my husband, Bob’s,
required pre-marital blood sample and he was delighted with my technique. To
this very day, I pride myself on doing a brilliant, top-rate vena puncture. I
must also give credit where credit is due - right before sticking the needle into
someone’s arm, I have always asked the Holy Spirit to guide my hand and keep me
from hurting the person in front of me.
Once again, I am digressing. So here is the point of my story: After all the preliminary paperwork is filled
out and all the verbal instructions are given, the day comes when the nursing supervisor
walks me over to this black woman and introduces her as the person who is going
to train me in vena puncture technique.
She is going to be the person working with me until she considers me skilled
enough to go off on my own. She smiles
sweetly at me and offers her hand. Of course,
I take her hand and smile back. After all, I am not prejudiced.
But- and here is the
horrifying realization that is difficult for me to admit - all the while this tape
is playing in my mind: “How can this
black nurse teach me anything! Why couldn’t they have assigned me someone who
is more competent; someone different (meaning white) I’m thinking, “She can’t possibly know more than me. At the first mistake she makes, I’ll ask for
someone else.”
I don’t think I was ever more wrong about anything in my
life as much as I was wrong about dear, Connie Thomas.
She was a marvelous woman, absolutely brilliant, absolutely
beautiful inside and out. We became the
very best of friends. One time when we
shared a room together at the Thayer Hotel in West Point, the American Red Cross Truck Crew teasingly
said, “You girls can’t share a room together – you’re white and she is
black. This isn’t done.” It was
1967. But by this time, having had the privilege
and the honor to get to know Connie, I didn’t see that she was black and I was
white, rather we were just good friends I
invited her to a party one weekend and I remember her asking me if there would
be any black fellows there. I hadn’t
even thought about it since our “color” no longer had any meaning for me. She went to that party and one of the smart alack
white guys at the party showed an interest and escorted her home only to come
on to her rather aggressively. Connie
had the impression he thought she would be an easy mark because she was black
and I’m sorry to say, from the description of the events that occurred that
night, I think she was right.
Prejudice was alive and well in 1967. I’m embarrassed to say, it was alive in
me. But I thank God that I met Connie and
I lament that I have lost her. She was a
very wonderful friend to me. If anyone knows
her whereabouts or how I could find her again, please share this information
with me. She lived in Queens, NY (I
believe in Jamaica) with her family in the late 60’s. I remember being at her home during a party. I
was accepted like one of the family.
Connie Thomas is not an easy name to find through the internet or on Facebook.
Below is the crystal pitcher that Connie sent us for our wedding even though she was in the service and unable to attend. It has always been one of my prized possessions, specifically because it was a gift form Connie. It is all I have left of her besides my fondest memories.
Below is the crystal pitcher that Connie sent us for our wedding even though she was in the service and unable to attend. It has always been one of my prized possessions, specifically because it was a gift form Connie. It is all I have left of her besides my fondest memories.
