Narrative Inquiry in Bioethics

I was 18 years old, enthusiastic, and naïve. I had just decided that I was going to go the premed route and the thought of seeing patients and helping others made me giddy. I had always volunteered throughout high school and found that my calling came in health-related environments, being there for others when they were at their most vulnerable. Up until that time, everyone had welcomed my presence, appreciated my time, and encouraged me to continue on this path. In trying to plan what the next year would look like and making sure I did all the prerequisite work before applying to medical school, I knew I wanted to work with a physician—but I didn't want to just shadow. I wanted to feel like I was contributing and helping. Several of my peers had told me working as a scribe would give me a closer look at what being a doctor was like and would allow me to learn medical terminology. I saw it as a way of being able to help in a patient's care since I would make the doctor more efficient, and I eagerly applied to several positions until I finally got the call.

I still remember feeling my heart fluttering in my chest as she said she wanted to interview me, but she couldn't pronounce my name. I pronounced it for her, and she immediately asked where I was from. I didn't hesitate. I said Texas. I am always from Texas since I was born here. Nothing else registers when anyone asks. Her comment that followed was that my name seemed foreign, and she was surprised I spoke good English. She admitted that this is why she wanted to do a phone interview to ensure that I would be able to communicate with her patients. We spoke on the phone for some time for what I thought was a good conversation. We spoke about the expectations of the job and her need for a scribe. She told me she wanted to hire me, so she asked me to come for an office tour and sign some papers so I could get started.

I got off the phone, excited and happy—feeling one step closer to my dream of being a physician. I probably went through 8 or 9 different outfit renditions, not ever having a formal job before, not ever having worked as a scribe before, but wanting to make sure I gave a good first impression. When I arrived at the office to meet her, I could sense something was "off." She seemed a little awkward and told me to go through some side door in a hallway to get into the back offices. She immediately went into a conversation about rules and policies. It seemed like an odd way to begin the conversation but being my first job, I didn't think anything of it at the time. She discussed HIPAA, patient privacy, [End Page 237] and the need to cater to her patients, who she stated were mostly elderly. None of the rules seemed out of the ordinary—except for one. She said I couldn't wear my headscarf (hijab) to work.

Having been raised in the suburbs of Dallas, I thought I had been lucky to have been a part of a culturally diverse upbringing. I had spent some years in a private Islamic school and some years studying in a public high school, which I felt made me confident in being able to talk to all sorts of people. From time to time, I would come across some people who may not have been familiar with why I wore a headscarf but usually, after explaining its background, most people seemed to understand. Thinking this was the same, I proceeded to explain what my headscarf was and how I wear it out of a religious obligation and for modesty. Her justification for why it wasn't allowed just didn't make sense. "We don't allow any accessories here—no hats, no jewelry, no religious affiliations here. People aren't allowed to wear...