Is There A White Doctor On The Plane?

Maybe the flight crew should have asked, “Is there a white doctor on the plane?” Because when my partner—who happens to be a black doctor—stood up to help, they didn’t seem very interested in his assistance.

Photo by Sander Sammy on Unsplash

We were on an overnight international flight, the kind where everyone’s just trying to get a little sleep. Our baby was finally dozing in my arms, the lights were dim, and we were somewhere high above the Atlantic when the calm broke with a sudden announcement: “Is there a doctor on the plane?”

You could feel the tension ripple through the cabin. A white woman was sick—I could see her from where we were seated. The flight attendants were rushing to her side.

My partner stirred, already reaching for his glasses. Before he could stand, another passenger—a white man—stood up and walked over. I heard him say he was a psychiatrist. My partner introduced himself as a doctor in internal medicine. But when he stepped forward to approach the woman—just as the white psychiatrist had done—the white flight attendants moved quickly to block his path.

Instead, they began questioning my partner—where he practiced, whether he had proof he was really a doctor. Proof? On a plane, mid-flight, over the ocean? Of course he didn’t have that. When he couldn’t show documentation, they asked him to sit back down.

Why? From where I sat, watching the woman and how she was struggling, it was clear her distress wasn’t psychiatric. Something was happening physically—something that needed medical attention, not mental health care.

My partner saw it too. He paused for a moment, torn. He was caught in a space between knowing he could help and sensing he wouldn’t be allowed to.

The woman clearly needed assistance, and he was one of the most qualified people on that plane to give it. Yet he could tell there was no point in arguing. The white flight crew had already decided who they trusted.

So he sat back down beside me, quiet and heavy. The other passengers had seen it all—the questioning, the disbelief, the way the white man was treated so differently. I could feel their eyes on us, a shift in the air that made my chest tighten.

That moment wasn’t just about what happened on that plane. It was part of a much larger pattern I’d witnessed again and again—how racism shows up in my partner’s life. No matter how accomplished, kind, or capable he is, his blackness too often becomes the only thing people see. That realization hurts, deeply.

Because it’s not just about him. It’s about the world our brown-skinned son is growing up in, and the fears that rise in me when I think about the ways he’ll be seen, or not seen, because of it.

I was angry that night. I wanted to stand up, to name what was happening. But my partner, as he often does, thought first of others. He asked me to let it go—for the sake of the woman who needed help. Even in the face of racism, he stayed centered in his compassion. He refused to let someone else’s prejudice pull him away from his humanity.

And in that moment, I realized that the flight crew’s racism didn’t just harm him. It also harmed the sick woman. Their bias got in the way of care. They couldn’t see what I know about my partner—his steady presence, his calm voice, the way he brings peace to chaos.

If you’re tempted to think, “maybe it wasn’t about race,” I can understand that. I used to think that way too.

I’d hear a story like this and immediately look for another explanation. That’s one of the ways whiteness works. It teaches us to doubt racism when we see it.

I grew up in a world where we—white folks—didn’t talk about race. Where calling something racist felt worse than the racism itself. Where white comfort mattered more than truth. So I get it.

But here’s what I’ve learned—we white folks, we’re not the best judges of what’s racist. We’ve spent our whole lives in a system that protects us from having to see it. Because of that, we often end up trusting our own interpretations over the lived experiences of people of color. That’s part of whiteness too.

It’s hard work to see how whiteness shapes our reactions—especially when shame creeps in. I know that feeling well. But ignoring shame doesn’t make it disappear. Facing it, naming it, can open the door to something better.

If you notice yourself trying to explain away what happened on the plane, I invite you to pause and ask why. Because I was there. I saw it. And my partner, the man who lived it, felt it. There’s no doubt in our minds that his blackness—not his qualifications or anything else—determined how he was treated.

I share stories like this not to make anyone feel guilty, but to open a door—to invite reflection and connection. Racism isn’t only about overt hatred or cruelty— it’s also about the quiet habits, patterns, ideas, and assumptions that shape how we see each other. It’s about the systems that teach us, without saying a word, whose safety and expertise we trust—and whose we doubt.

I’ve seen how whiteness can cloud our judgement. It narrows our ability to respond with wisdom and care. That day, it didn’t just harm my partner—it harmed everyone on that plane. I’m still learning, day by day, to notice how whiteness shows up in me too.

It’s uncomfortable sometimes. And it’s deeply human. Because healing starts with seeing what’s really there.

Naming whiteness and the harm it causes isn’t about pointing fingers or feeling ashamed—it’s about telling the truth. It’s about love, the kind that asks us to see clearly, even when it’s uncomfortable. Because real love—love that heals—doesn’t look away.

Maybe if more of us practiced that kind of seeing, that kind of courage, things could be different. Maybe the next time someone calls out for help, no one will have to pause and wonder if what they really mean is, “Is there a white doctor on the plane?”