Q&A with Rachel Hennick, PhD

A celebrated writer originally from the Baltimore area and now living in South Australia, Rachel Hennick has been garnering rave early reviews for her new book Ghetto Medic: A Father in the ’Hood, published earlier this year by BrickHouse Books. Ghetto Medic: A Father in the ’Hood is the remarkable true story of the life of her father, Bill Hennick, a firefighter and paramedic in Baltimore, a city which today boasts the busiest fire stations in the United States.

In an exclusive interview with EMS World, Hennick shares her motivation for chronicling her father’s story. Read more at www.rachelhennick.com.

How long have you been writing, and how did you come to publish Ghetto Medic: A Father in the ’Hood?

As a child, I began writing silly limericks with my dad and these managed to make my otherwise staid schoolteachers laugh. My father taught me that the written word has the power to inspire change. Whenever a politician or a new measure against the firefighters ticked him off, he’d say, “I feel a letter coming on,” march over to his old Underwood typewriter and bang out few lines to the editor of The Baltimore Sun.

In the early 1970s, he wrote a handful of anecdotes about the “underdogs” struggling to survive in the ghetto. When I was a kid, I was concerned about these people, particularly children my age, in my hometown, who were coping with hunger, witnessing horrific crimes and living in squalor.

I always wanted to bring my father’s vivid stories to life in a book. I eventually pursued a formal education in television, theatre and English, but writing Ghetto Medic was a lifelong dream planted in my heart at a very young age.

Your father was involved in some pretty tense situations over the years, as described in the book. Did he talk about the stories and incidents in the book when you were growing up or did you learn about a lot of them through your research? What did you learn in writing the book that surprised you?

There’s only one thing that my father loved more than his job as a paramedic and firefighter, and that’s talking about his job. He talked incessantly and I’ve captured this aspect of his personality in Ghetto Medic, which makes the story entertaining. When my brother and I were kids we heard him, but I didn’t actually really listen to what he was saying until I was much older. The actual research process helped to crystallize the stories my dad shared.

My father was a burn victim as a child and his decision to pursue a career in the fire department intrigued me. I couldn’t understand why he would choose firefighting as an occupation after suffering such a horrific trauma. I discovered that, to him, fire was “the enemy” and he wanted to “get even.” To this day, he’s a strong advocate for keeping firehouses in urban districts open. He knows from first-hand experience that prompt emergency care is critical.

What was it like growing up with a medic as a father, especially during the foundational years of EMS? What effect did that have on your family?

There were the obvious pressures—my father struggled to make ends meet on a meager salary, often had to work on holidays and was always sleep deprived. When he had time off my mother desperately tried to keep my brother and me quiet so that Dad could catch up on much-needed rest.

And then, there were other major problems that were not so apparent to me as a kid. I mean, he usually beamed with joy when he relayed stories from work, so when he spoke about the bad stuff I shrugged it off—we all did. My brother, mother and I became immune to the very real dangers of his work; I don’t think we comprehended the enormity of the stress he confronted daily.

We were accustomed to hearing that he’d been held up at knifepoint, urinated on and shot at. It was not at all uncommon for him to arrive at the scene of a crime before the police. For us, the abuse and danger he endured was normal—just another day at the office. Oddly, we never feared for his life and I think it’s because my parents’ steadfast faith in God gave my brother and me stability.

Looking back, I now realize that my parents were dealing with severe anxiety and unbelievable stress. My mother would never say they argued. She would say they “disagreed.” However, the EMS career obviously puts a gargantuan strain on a marriage; a lot of relationships in that field crumble. Spouses have to deal with the absences, the perpetually sleep deprived loved one, the material sacrifices. My father often expressed guilt; he felt his family deserved more, but he loved being a rescue worker. His joy was our happiness.

My father has an incredible sense of humor. He often made jokes about the substandard equipment provided by the city, but I knew it really bothered him that he and his colleagues often lacked support from the city’s leaders and some members of the department. He was forever short of supplies and was always repairing ambulances that had broken down. He’d complain about it relentlessly until my mother would tell him to “hush up.” He was stressed and she’d snap him out of it by telling him to help the kids with their homework or take out the garbage. It was hard on her because she struggled constantly to help him make the transition from work to home. When she’d interrupt his monologues he would start cracking jokes and we would all burst into laughter. As a result, our entire family has a rather morbid sense of humor.

Has anyone else in your family pursued a career in fire service or EMS?

No. Unless, of course, you count my father’s ancestor, John Hennick, who was among Baltimore’s first fire chiefs. This man sustained injury after injury and would return to work. A big piece of glass went through his shoulder on the fire ground, ultimately leading to his death. My father always smirked and said, “My ancestor and I have a shared mentality. We even look similar. You had to be crazy; dozens of crazy people worked in that job.” Dad admired John Hennick’s leadership because he got in there with his men and unhesitatingly put himself in jeopardy, if necessary.

Why will EMS providers and firefighters be interested in this book?

With the family dynamics, the countless runs on the street, the politics, the bureaucracy, coping with trauma 24-7, Ghetto Medic hits ’em where they live.

EMS providers will enjoy seeing how it was in the early days with supply shortages, shoddy equipment and broken down vehicles—and four 14 hour nights in a row. Back then firefighters could elect to take emergency medical training, but today it’s compulsory so that they can assist the paramedics.

EMS providers are forced to improvise and they will get a kick out of the unconventional approaches applied in Ghetto Medic—not found in any textbooks. As my dad says, “There are no hard and fast rules in that job.”

Is it possible that thousands of paramedics out there are working and don’t realize that they are actually burnt out? Ghetto Medic tells a story, but it provokes EMS workers and firefighters to examine themselves.

Firefighters will absolutely love the scene about a rescue operation performed by members of the Steadman Superhouse, the busiest fire station in the U.S.

Ghetto Medic covers the history of racial segregation in America and how this led to the development of impoverished communities. In hard economic times the job gets even tougher for paramedics and firefighters. Firehouses across the nation are essential in these communities but, unfortunately, many of them are being shut down.

What kind of reactions has the book received so far from the EMS world?

We attended the Firehouse Expo and many paramedics visited us at the Firefighters Bookstore booth. My father and I were touched by the stories other emergency rescue workers shared. They were highly receptive to the book, but we were surprised by the number of spouses and children who wanted to read it so they could better understand their loved ones.

One man, who read Ghetto Medic in one sitting, came up to us the following day, shook our hands and said, “Home run!”

What advice would you give to people in EMS, or their relatives, who feel they have something to say or experiences worth sharing?

Put pen to paper and express your ideas. Write letters to the politicians and the newspapers. The voices of paramedics and firefighters need to be heard now more than ever.

Excerpt from Ghetto Medic: A Father in the ’Hood

Bridge Over Troubled Water

Chapter 12, of Ghetto Medic: A Father in the ’Hood, available from BrickHouse Books

“He slowly removed his coat, folded it neatly and placed it on the concrete landing. He took off his glasses and placed them carefully on top of the coat. As he rolled up his shirtsleeves, he fixed “the hoods” with a cold stare and calmly asked, ‘All at once or one at a time?’”

Illegal lotteries flourished all over the city. Larry would stick his head out of the window of the ambo and call, ‘What’s the number?’ The people knew the winning number.”

Larry pictured himself as a ladies’ man. He had that smooth way about him, an impressive self-assurance. He would flash his smile and croon, “How you doing, baby,” or “You’re looking good today.” Once in a while he would pull over at one of his lady friends’ houses in the district and leave my father waiting in the medic unit. Larry would say, “Keep the motor running.” My father would listen for incoming calls and get impatient, then go bang on the door. “Larry, break it up, time to go.”

“Be there in a flash.” Larry would call out from the other side of the door. He never got rattled. And he didn’t miss a beat. Nearly an hour would pass; then he would come out with a big grin and a sandwich. “Let’s get back in service. I’m ready.”

My father and Larry shared an affinity. There were no courses on how to work in that district. Larry didn’t follow protocol, and Dad didn’t like protocol much either. In fact, there was no way they could adhere to any kind of protocol in the area they served.

To my family, Dad’s stories about Larry Burch were like biblical parables. If the fledgling ghetto medic had received his initiation from a less caring and skilled partner, he would have been killed within the first year of his new job, he is sure. And if God had conducted a search for the best guardian for the job, Gabriel, Michael, even Lucifer before he fell from grace, would no doubt have refused the assignment. My dad was completely convincing on the subject of Larry.

It was the archangel Larry who protected my father with his insight about life in places such as the notorious George B. Murphy Homes and Lexington Terrace. Although they were both bad, “the Murphys” regularly hit the papers and were probably the worst of the “projects.” According to Dad, the Murphys were bastions of fear, ignorance and depravity. Low- income housing projects, the Murphy Homes, built in 1963, consisted of four fourteen-story government-funded high-rise brick buildings located on the corner of George Street and Argyle Avenue, the south end of my dad and Larry’s district. Shootings, stabbings, domestic violence and contagious sicknesses ran rampant in those blocks. Dad was ill at ease if police were not yet on the scene when he arrived, but knowing time was critical he would often go in anyway.

Dad first went in to one of these buildings after a shooting on the fourteenth floor. He walked into the small, trash-strewn lobby, pushed the button for the elevator, and leaned against the wall contemplating whether he should wait for it or take the dark and foreboding stairway. After several long moments, the door slowly slid open and Dad was greeted by the lifeless hulk of a man slumped on the floor of the elevator car with a bullet through his heart. Someone had casually snuffed out the victim’s life during a party on the fourteenth floor and lowered his body to Larry and Dad as if to save them a trip.

The younger occupants sometimes threw rocks and bottles at Dad and Larry from their balconies, striking their hard-hats. Urine would rain from above. Once they were called to the Murphys to retrieve a dead man from the top of an elevator car. No one knew the body was there until a woman got into the car and saw blood dripping through a ventilation grate. Someone on one of the upper floors had stabbed him several times, forced open an elevator door, and dumped his body down the shaft.

On another occasion, they received a call reporting an unconscious person on the fourteenth-floor stairway. Entering the building, they stepped over the garbage to reach the elevator only to find it was inoperable. At the time, Dad was secretly relieved. His apprehension was not from fear of the unknown but from the knowledge that he could not hold his breath for fourteen floors on the slow-moving, creaking elevator. He called the elevators at the Murphys “the world’s largest moving vertical urinals.” A stench of urine, feces and vomit always permeated the cars. This combination would bring tears to Dad’s eyes and “clear my impenetrable sinuses cavities.” There was also a real fear of the elevator floor caving in, since most of it had been eaten away by human acid. Often, a Murphy elevator did not work at all.

Dad gladly followed Larry to the stairwell at the end of the building. They climbed the poorly lit stairs, huffing and puffing, until they found an apparently unconscious black man about eighteen years old on the eleventh floor. Concerned, Dad leaned down to administer aid. The youth suddenly swung at him. Dad dodged the punch, which narrowly missed his jaw, but the momentum of the swing caused the thug to lose his balance and tumble down several concrete steps. Instantly, four tall black youths appeared, sealing off Dad and Larry’s only escape route. From the size and stature of “the dudes” Dad sensed the two of them were in big trouble. As “the goons” grouped together, Larry performed his magic.

He slowly removed his coat, folded it neatly and placed it on the concrete landing. He took off his glasses and placed them carefully on top of the coat. As he rolled up his shirtsleeves, he fixed “the hoods” with a cold stare and calmly asked, “All at once or one at a time?”

Dad had no recourse but to go along with Larry’s plan of action. He began to sweat. The old Martha and the Vandellas classic “Nowhere to Run” began to pound inside his head. His life flashed before him as he prayed for a miracle.

Larry and the five men continued the staring contest for a few seconds until, to my father’s complete astonishment, the hefty young fivesome backed off. “I’m sure glad you were here,” Dad said. But the words sounded weak. Larry had, in fact, saved his life. Dad realized that he still had much to learn in order to survive as a paramedic in unwelcoming surroundings.

Read more at www.rachelhennick.com.