“No Dogs or Indians Allowed”: My First Lesson in Resilience

In 1971, the Civil Rights Act was supposed to have leveled the playing field. But as a young Black medical student driving alone through Arizona to the White River Apache Reservation, I came face-to-face with how far we still had to go. There it was, in bold letters outside a roadside restaurant: ‘No Dogs or Indians Allowed.’ That sign wasn’t just a relic of the past—it was a challenge to everything I thought I was ready for. What happened next became one of my first and most unforgettable lessons in resilience.

The Challenge                                                                                

I was driving my red Volkswagen Karmann Ghia from San Francisco to Arizona, full of anticipation for my three-month externship at the White River Apache Reservation. I departed at 6 a.m., and by the time I hit the outskirts of Flagstaff, hunger had caught up with me. I spotted a roadside restaurant and decided to grab a quick meal before tackling the final stretch of my journey.

That’s when I saw it: a sign in big, bold letters that read, “No Dogs or Indians Allowed.”

It stopped me cold. My first thought wasn’t even about me—it was about the Native American community I was coming to serve. How could a sign like this still exist in 1971? But then, the reality of my own situation hit me. If they felt this way about Native Americans, what would they think about a young Black woman walking through their doors?

I debated with myself: should I just get back in the car and keep driving? But I was starving, and I was too stubborn to let fear decide for me. If I wanted to practice medicine in remote and underserved areas, this wouldn’t be the last time I’d face hostility. So, I made a decision: I was going in.

Walking In

I opened the door and took a quick glance around. About four of the ten tables were occupied, and all eyes turned to me. The stares were sharp and uninviting. My heart pounded, but I forced myself to smile and walk to a central table. If the waitress didn’t come in a few minutes, I’d leave. But she did.

When she walked over, I spoke deliberately, loud enough for everyone to hear:
“Hi, I’m a new doctor posted to the U.S. Public Health Hospital at White River. How much farther is it to the reservation? 

I wanted to make it clear that I wasn’t local, that I had a purpose for being there. She hesitated, looking me up and down, but then responded:
“Depends on how fast you’re going. It’s a two-lane road, maybe two or three hours.”

I smiled and said, “Then I guess I better grab something to eat here. Can I get a hamburger and fries?”

She nodded, scribbled down my order, and asked, “Is that your red car outside with the California plates?”
“Yes, I drove straight from San Francisco this morning.”

As she walked away, the tension in the room began to ease. The customers returned to their conversations, and I stayed alert but managed to eat my meal. Every bite felt like a quiet victory. I had claimed my space, on my terms.

The Impact

Two hours later, I pulled into the parking lot of the White River Apache Reservation hospital. The receptionist notified my supervisor, Dr. Spivey, who met me right away. Over coffee in the cafeteria, he gave me a warm welcome but also a reality check:
“Dr. Davis, you’re the first woman doctor here, and the first Black woman doctor. Patients choose their doctor by putting their charts on the door of the doctor they trust. Don’t be discouraged if no one chooses you at first—it might take time.”

I nodded, preparing myself for a slow start. But what happened the next day surprised us all.

When the clinic opened, the patients made their choice loud and clear. They lined up and placed their charts on my door. Every single one of them. The two White male doctors sat with their arms folded, watching the scene unfold. After about 30 minutes, I walked over and told them, “You’ve got to talk to the patients—I can’t see all 15 of them myself!”

Not only had the patients welcomed me—they celebrated me. They saw something in me that connected us, something that broke down barriers. Perhaps it was the recognition of shared heritage, or maybe it was simply the trust they placed in someone who was there to listen and care.

Reflection

Resilience isn’t about avoiding adversity—it’s about how you respond to it. That day in Arizona, I learned that resilience is built in the small, quiet moments of courage. It’s standing firm in the face of bias, asserting your worth, and showing up with strength and dignity. It’s about proving—first to yourself, and then to the world—that you belong.

Call to Action

Where in your life do you feel pushed out, unseen, or underestimated? How can you use your voice and presence to reclaim your space and shift the narrative? Resilience isn’t just about survival—it’s about choosing to lead, even when the odds feel stacked against you.

Closing Note

Resilience isn’t built in easy times—it’s forged in moments when the road feels impossible. Whether it’s navigating overt bias or overcoming personal challenges, resilience is about standing tall, choosing courage, and making a way forward. The world doesn’t change on its own—it changes because of the strength of those who refuse to back down.

Little did I know, that sign at the restaurant was just the beginning. My time on the reservation would test my resilience in ways I never imagined—including a day when I had to climb a cliff to save three lives.

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