My Grandmother & My Journey to Med School
A few weeks ago, I watched the new documentary, “In Our Mother’s Gardens” on Netflix. If you know me, you know I love films and documentaries. It was everything. The whole documentary was a beautiful portrait of Black women and their beautiful, and sometimes complex, relationships with their mothers and grandmothers.
I was so inspired by the documentary and the beautiful artistry throughout the doc that while watching it at 4 a.m. that day, I made my own creative tribute to my maternal grandmother, Lynette Gregory, known by many as Ms. Lyn. I’ve always had a really deep connection and love for both of my grandmothers. I am so fortunate to know, love, and have my paternal grandmother with me throughout life. She’s had such a profound impact on my life. Today, I want to share a few images of my maternal grandmother and a little bit of her story and the testimony of how it’s impacted mine.
My grandmother was born in Cavaliers, St. Andrew, Jamaica, a rural countryside village, in April of 1940. At the time, Jamaica was still colonized by the British, making every Jamaican a British subject & citizen. However, many, especially those in the countryside, lacked access to basic resources. There weren’t many opportunities. She experienced and overcame a lot growing up, losing her father at only a year old. She had four children, my mother being the youngest. In 1967, she was sponsored by a Jewish family in Detroit looking to employ household help. In 1967, she migrated to Detroit, alone, with the goal of saving enough money to bring her children to the U.S. She worked four to five jobs at a time to make ends meet, to save, and to send money back home for her children who were being raised in country by my great-grandparents.
She was a single Black woman and new immigrant. She arrived in Detroit just on the heels of the race uprisings here in the city. Growing up, she didn’t have access to education which is why it was so important and a source of pride for her to see all of her children graduate from high school and beyond.
So how does this all tie into my med school journey? One of the many jobs my grandmother worked upon arriving in Detroit was as a cook in the basement of a bustling corporate building. The job didn’t pay much nor did it require an education but it contributed to her savings. That building was aptly called, “The Traveller’s Tower”. Growing up, I remember my mom pointing to it every time we passed by reminding me of her mother and the sacrifices she made. Little did I know that years later, I would walk into that very building (twice) to sit for my MCAT, the entrance exam to get into medical school. Even though I refused to believe it then, being able to even sit for an exam to fulfill my childhood dream was a privilege. On one of my short breaks during the exam, I remember looking out the window and seeing a group of Black men and women on their lunch break, all dressed in culinary uniforms. As stressed as I was, seeing that brought me a sense of reckoning because they reminded me of my grandmother. That moment reminded me of how powerful it was for me to even be there.
My grandmother walked out of that building each day, tired, as a cook, making her way to her next job, with a dream of bringing her children to America so that they, and generations after them, could have a better life and greater access to opportunities than she did. I walked out, after each exam, with the dream of becoming a physician. That access to education, that ability to chase my dreams, wouldn’t be possible without her or her sacrifices. One building and a shared a legacy of dreams that all started with my grandmother. I am tallawah (Jamaican Patois word for strong, fearless, not to be underestimated) because of the women who came before me.
My grandmother was only 47 when she passed. 47. She passed 10 years before I had the chance to meet her but truthfully, her presence is always felt. I have a feeling that if someone were to ask her then if she felt that she made a difference, she would likely undermine how much she truly accomplished within such a short lifetime. She completely changed the trajectory of my family’s story on her own. A single Black woman who crossed seas and thousands of miles to make a new home out of a country that didn’t seem to want people like her life in America, alone. She single-handedly shifted the narrative. Shifted my narrative.
My sincerest hope is that I’m making her proud.
My name is Lyndsay Archer; daughter of Maureen, daughter of Lynette, daughter of Agatha, daughter of Christiana.