The abandoned retractor clatters dangerously close to the other edge of the sterile field, saved only by the quick reflexes of the scrub nurse. The attending lets out a brief laugh, “I guess we’re using the Madagascar technique,” then it’s back to the operation at hand. Minutes pass as I continue to stand in my assigned place at the attending’s side, prepared to offer whatever meager contribution I can to this operation’s success. Then, again, an instrument nearly slips off the field only to be saved by, again, our nimble scrub nurse. The attending lets out another laugh, “It’s OK, we’re using the Madagascar technique.”
The resident’s curiosity is piqued, “What do you mean by the ‘Madagascar technique?’”
Without breaking stride, the attending explains matter-of-factly, “Madagascar, you know, Africa. Less civilized.”
She works busily in silence, hands moving steadily, surely over the exposed flesh on the table. She speaks up once more, “It’s an animated movie too, so it’s less offensive,” then back to business. And once again I am rudely reminded of my own unique vulnerability as the only Black person in the room, even as I quickly secure the mask of cold professionalism on my skull. We are still in an OR; the fact that I am wounded does not give me leave to bleed.
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