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Found myself on yet another red eye to the East Coast this
week. No rabid Red Sox fans or apple pickin’ this time, just a jaunt to our
Nation’s capitol to speak at a symposium about Men’s health disparities in the
area of depression. I’m there to speak for the menfolk, my Asian and
Pacific Islander brothers who have no voice in these hallowed halls of policy
making.
When ACMHS got the invitation to speak at the symposium, I assailed our interim
executive director JF, "We HAVE to go, who else is gonna represent the
Asians!?"
JF is a whiz at budgets and activism, but not a man who loves the mike, nor a
mental health clinician.
"I’m totally unqualified to speak about this." JF stated. "But
why don’t you go? Free trip to D.C.!"
I said I was maybe interested. Maybe. They forwarded more info. That was when I saw who the keynote speaker
was: Dr. David Satcher. (!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!)
Yes! Sign me up! I’m in!
I want to be in the same room as Dr. Satcher!
I blabbed about being at a symposium with Satcher the way other ladies gush
about George Clooney or that scrawny Timberlake boy.
The most typical response I heard: "Dr. Who??"
Well. Dr. Satcher was our 16th Surgeon
general of the United States,
our first African American male surgeon general. His 1999 Report on
Mental health, and the addendums about ethnic minority mental health, were
groundbreaking. Reading those reports were so validating, utterly
inspiring. Here was a person, Mr.
supreme medical honcho of the world’s mightiest (yet often mighty pig-headed)
country, stating the level of need and demanding that the country address the suffering
of thousands, millions of its citizens from treatable mental conditions.
Author John Head wrote that Satcher’s mental health report was as
groundbreaking as an emancipation proclamation for the legions of us who live
with mental illness or love someone who does.
He kind of looks and sounds like a jedi master, stately
demeanor, gray beard and all.
Here’s what the Health and Human services website notes: "Dr. Satcher
would most like to be known as the Surgeon General who listens to the American
people and who responds with effective programs. His mission is to make public
health work for all groups in this nation. He not only is a champion of
promoting healthy lifestyles, he is also an avid jogger and enjoys tennis,
gardening and reading. Dr. Satcher and his wife, Nola, have four grown
children."
Packing for this trip was a wardrobe challenge. Once again, P sat there taking
digital pics of me as I tried on my entire business wardrobe. We liked the red power-suit,"but I can’t wear the red suit in this setting, I am a peon
amongst giants at this event. You should only wear red when you run the
show." I complained to B that I was wasting way too much brainspace on packing. If I were a guy I could pack a blue suit, red
tie and be done with it. Instead here I
was pondering glasses? Contacts? Hair up? Down? Skirt? Pants? Too serious? Not
serious enough? Sheesh.
There was the pink Ann Klein suit that our friends named as
"too grandma-like." B
suggested I go with more formal than not since after all, East coast folks are
more uptight than Cali. Finally I opted for the banquet, a basic
black suit. Shining olive silk blouse and massive stone necklace to keep it
from looking like funereal garb. For symposium,
the burnt orange Fall suit which I wore when presenting in Buenas Aires. Had to
make a last minute dash to Macy’s in search of a plain blouse. For heaven’s sake it was a freakin’
expedition to find a simple blouse not done up with damned ruffles, sleeve
poufs, shiny crap, excess cleavage etc. And yeah, I kept the glasses on.
After arriving at Reagan airport and muttering to myself
about his godawful economy-ruining legacy, I sailed smoothly into downtown D.C.
, deciphered the Metro map, and hopped on my way to Gallaudet University.
The first thing I saw upon exiting the station was an enormous building: Bureau
of Tobacco, Alcohol, Firearms, and Explosives. Ooookay. Wanted to take a pic but I figured the armed guards standing in front of the barricades may not appreciate that. Visiting Cheryl was
fantastic. The campus was gorgeous, the
head of the Counseling Psychology department gave me a personal, historical
walking tour, and Cheryl bought me lunch at the college lounge where everyone
was signing to one another (ASL) except for suddenly mute ‘ol me. If Gallaudet sounds familiar to ya’ll , it’s because you may have read
about them protesting like crazy over there and how they threw our their last
president after oh, 2 days.
I get back to the hotel, there is a cute little blue gift
bag on my chair that reads : Men get Depression. I find something very humorous about that
serious message on this shiny bag. I’m
pleased that they’ve given me a copy of John Heads’ book “Standing in the
Shadows” along with some “men get depression” post it notes, DVD, and a bunch
of snacks and water.
Banquet was set for Butterfield 9. Internet reviews of this place are beyond
gushing. “One of the hottest 100 restaurants in the world” says Conde Nast
Traveler. “Best game in town” says DC magazine. I walked briskly over from my hotel hoping I don’t get mugged and join
the infamous DC crime stats. Thank
goodness this downtown follows a reasonable grid so I don’t get lost. I find the place, check my coat, and am led
to the private party upstairs.
It takes me a while to slip into my groove. I look around and people are clumped into intently chatting, wineglass
dangling trios. I become aware that most
of these people have adult children probably about my age. I’m reminded how making small talk is like
water torture, wondering why I turned down that glass of wine upon entering…until
finally, that socially appropriate part of my head finally cocks into gear. By nights’ end I am gabbing madly with a judge from Florida who advises their Supreme court, and the
psychologist in charge of mental health for Georgia corrections.
Georgia used to be stationed at the
Presidio in SF back in his army days, so we reminisce about SF. We all have the best pumpkin soup ever
created, with apple compote and the lightest touch of pancetta. Every person at my table orders a steak,
which I admit, looks beautiful. But I’ve
never been a steak-person. I have an exquisite,
melty risotto that likely slapped 10 lbs straight onto my thigh. I notice my colleagues turning red with wine
and I indulge too before the chocolate cake arrives. Damned fine meal. But I wouldn’t call it one of the top 100 in
the world…
Showtime. Symposium
day is here.
We spend from 9 am to 3 pm in the Barbara Jordan room of the Kaiser
Center in the midst of 4 giant cameras which
will webcast, then archive the whole event. There are
so many big shots in here I am scrambling to match all the faces and names with
the lengthy biographies in the info packet.
Chatting with an African American local, I comment, "so how is it living
where all the action is?"
He notes, "well, actually you might say it’s where a
lot of INaction is."
True enough. Let me say that this was one rare conference where I really liked
EVERYONE I met! What a fabulous group of giant brains and appropriate
feistiness.
Like when Larke Huang
pointed out that policymakers did not address school safety and did not pass
the billion dollars bill to help all the colored children lost to gun violence
very year….until Columbine occurred at a white school.
We rush like heck to cram in all we wish to say in under 10
minutes. No small feat from me who’s used to giving 2 hour trainings. I’m not
as articulate as I hoped, stumbling a few times for the right words under the
glare of stage lights and staring into a big camera with a headphone wearing
man standing nearby flashing big cards which state things like “1 minute!”
But I manage… manage to explain some special needs for Asian
clients given our complex histories and heterogeneity. Manage to mention not only our clinic but
also our youth leadership programs, school based programs, developmental
disorders unit, groups for men, and intern/training program.
Relieved of my duty to perform, I can enjoy the rest of the
day in relative peace. With all the
cameras and gravity in the room, I refrain from acting like a starstruck
stalker and running across the room to talk to Dr. Satcher or start taking
pictures of him. I’d like to, but surely
that would be a faux pas which would reflect poorly on ACMHS.
Senator Patrick Kennedy (D-RI) shows up to raise some hell
after lunch and speaks movingly about his own mental health treatment, as well
as his dogged battles to secure more treatment rights and lessen stigma. Most of those in the room likened the
movement for mental health parity as another civil rights issue whose time has
come.
Surely the highlight of my day came when Dr. Satcher said my
name. In passing, yes, but he said something to the effect of “…and I was glad
to see Dr. Hsu here to talk about the needs of the Asian community.” It took a minute to register. Hey. That’s me…He
said my name! OMG!
We parted ways and I
decompressed at the National Museum of Women’s Art. Treated myself to a fancy locally sourced,
sustainably farmed dinner at Agraria “from our fields to your table”. Heirloom tomato salad to die for, a glass of Argentine
Malbec, Juniper crusted Venison with puree rutabaga, roast brussels sprouts
grilled pear, pumpkin walnut cheesecake and cappuccino. Dined alone in peace,
jotting notes to myself about the symposium, and about my recently deceased
grandmother. Read from John Head’s
book (Had finished it before I landed in Cali the next day). Was served by a strikingly
handsome kid-waiter who told me he used to live in Turlock,CA and is here in D.C for school and football. Taxi’ed home with a distinct red wine buzz and a chatty drive who listed a dozen more restaurants for me to try next time I’m in town. Ahhhh. Makes up for all the crap airport food and iffy
conference-room food of business travel.
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