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 remember being “scared to death” when contemplating that this was one of the main responsibilities of being a nurse on a Blood Mobile. 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 for a new hire 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 I only saw the reality of our tight knit friendship. 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 aleck, 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.
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