her not being a phantom. She finally asks me, “Do you know where Room
312 is?”
Standing up, I make my way to my vagabond friend, and discover that
her name is Mrs. Robinson. Her frilled black hat rests askew on her head,
with gray hair springing out from underneath its brim. Her dark eyes,
yellowed sclera, and fatigued visage cannot conceal her sociable
character, and catching her breath, Mrs. Robinson tells me her grandson
was in a car accident. Her family had told her that Vernon was being
housed in Room 312, and with that mention, Mrs. Robinson glances up at
the number over my doorway. Realizing that Mrs. Robinson is lost, and has
somehow found herself in this unoccupied structure, I point to the
illuminated modern hospital viewable from the windows of our room.
“That’s the University Hospital, and that’s where your grandson’s room
is.”
“But Vernon is colored, so I knew he would be here.”
Now I’m curious, wondering if there is actually some reason Mrs.
Robinson is here. “But why would he be here?”
“Because this is the Negro Ward, where I used to work as a nurse, and
this is where all the colored doctors and nurses cared for the negro
patients.”
I am speechless. Kansas was founded as a free state in the midst of the
Civil War, just across the border from its contentious neighbor, the slave
state of Missouri. To the surprise of many, Civil War battles were fought
within miles of the KU medical campus, but Kansans prevailed, never
allowing slavery. Sadly, segregation thrived, even in Kansas (the landmark
Supreme Court decision Brown v. Board of Education was situated in
Topeka, Kansas), but I never considered that the University of Kansas had
a separate hospital for some of its citizens.
I take Mrs. Robinson over to the main hospital, hearing stories about
life before and after segregation and the Civil Rights movement. I am
pleased to be the one to inform her that all patients, without respect for
race or religion, are housed together in the main hospital. After dropping
her off at the elevator bank (still clinging to her clanking cane), I head to
the cafeteria for more coffee. The hospital cafeteria is built on the western
side of the modern hospital, with a large wall of windows jutting out from
the main structure. Looking outside, across a small grassy garden, I am
staring at my study haven, the Eaton Building. I never noticed before, but
marcin
(Marcin)
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