Vaccination race enlists grassroots aides to fight mistrust
CHICAGO >> His last job was selling cars, but in his new gig, working to turn the tide against a pandemic, Herman Simmons knows not to be too pushy or overbearing.
He’s one of more than 50 outreach workers a Chicago hospital has enlisted to promote vaccination against COVID-19 in hardhit Black and brown neighborhoods.
Their job is approaching strangers at laundromats, grocery stores and churches, handing out educational material and making vaccination appointments for those who are willing.
“I see myself as my brother’s keeper. I don’t try to force them. I’m persistent,” he said.
Top U. S. health officials say they’re in a race to vaccinate as many people as quickly as possible as COVID-19 variants spread, mask and distancing rules are relaxed, and Americans crave a return to normalcy.
As part of these efforts, the Biden administration announced Thursday it will invest nearly $10 billion to expand vaccine access in communities of color, rural areas, low-income populations and other underserved communities. Some of the money will go to community health centers. Funding comes mostly from the American Rescue Plan.
While the U. S. is vaccinating roughly 2.5 million people daily and nearly 1 in 3 adults have received at least one shot, roughly that many say they are skeptical or won’t get vaccinated.
“There will be a hard core that never want to be vaccinated and we can’t do anything about that,” said Dr. Eric Toner, a senior scholar at Johns Hopkins Center for Health Security.
He said that number is unlikely to prevent effective control of the virus. To make sure it doesn’t, authorities are working to change minds and boost access in minority communities where skepticism is among the hurdles to vaccination.
They’re showcasing Black leaders getting shots, preaching vaccination benefits at Sunday services, holding Zoom meetings where experts dismantle the myths. Michigan is enlisting barber shops and salons. Mobile clinics have been set up to vaccinate Kentucky racetrack workers and California migrant workers.
In the socially distanced age of COVID-19, the in thework of regular folk-turned-recruiters stands out.
Simmons is Black, amiable and talkative — a natural for this kind of work.
“I tell ‘ em I was a little afraid at first” about getting the shots, said Simmons, who quit the car dealership when co-workers got sick with the virus. He tells them he has friends and family members who’ve died, and how easy it is to sign up.
Sometimes it’s a tough sell.
“I would like to say that I get more sign-ins than not,” Simmons said, “but I don’t think that’s the case.”
“They don’t trust it. Some think the vaccines were made too quickly to be safe,” he said. “They feel like lab rats.”
That’s a common narrative. But it’s not the whole story.
For many Black people, mistrust of medical institutions is deep-seated. Their reasons are varied, vehement and often valid. And they don’t even start with Tuskegee, the U.S. government study that began in 1932 and withheld treatment for Black men with syphilis.
Mistrust stems from surgeries on enslaved women to the absence of Black people in studies that guide modern- day medical decisions. It includes mistaken assumptions claiming race-based biological differences, and disrespect in the doctor’s office.
Some are afraid of needles. Some believe internet myths. And some say they intend to get vaccinated but want to wait and see how others fare first. For some, the problem is no transportation to vaccination sites, no internet to get information on where and when to get vaccinated, or no regular physician. However, the shots are free and you don’t need a doctor to get them.