Why do you have so many kids? Do you even know that birth control methods exist? Why should I explain things to you if you won’t understand anyway?

These are words I’ve heard from doctors my entire life as a gitano, a gypsy in Spain. Though the world’s mantra has become “Be Yourself” as it is plastered in every classroom and motivational speech, we betray those for being different if they make us even slightly uncomfortable for our tastes. I don’t understand why I should have any incentive to be myself. Being myself increases my mortality rate; it makes my life expectancy 7 years less than the national average. Being myself means I’m basically begging for discriminating doctors. To be gitano, is to be lethal.

​My name is Alba Ceferiño, I live here in Andalusia, along with half of the Roma population. The streets of Andalusia are lined with white houses and patio andaluz, the interior patios characteristic of the region. It is where our gatherings are held with music and flamenco dancing. It is interesting that Spain is known for flamenco, the powerful stomps and quick steps, when it was invented by the Romani. We contribute so much to Spanish culture, yet we’re ostracized and not considered Spanish.

​On my way to work, I see my friend Carlotta who is not dressed for work today. She is walking towards me, “I’m going to see the doctor” she says.

​“Does something hurt? Is anything wrong with you?” I ask.

​Carlotta erupts into giggles, “No, this is a check-up Alba. An appointment just to make sure things are fine” she replies.

​I keep my gaze locked forward as we continue walking down the dirt streets, “What’s the use of that? Why waste money on going to the doctor if nothing is wrong with you?” Carlotta just smiles and we walk in silence. Though I’m Romani and she’s not, we get along well. Our feet become like flamenco dancers when we walk together, synchronized and powerful.

​I try to understand why she’s skipping work for a useless appointment, but I don’t. My mother has always told me that the Romani don’t go to the doctor unless they must go, such as when experiencing unbearable pain. Part of it is that we think that illness is associated with death and health is the absence of illness, but it is also due to the treatment we receive from doctors. It is humiliating to be degraded each time I go to the hospital, to not have anything explained to me. At least Carlotta tries to explain her point of view. Most doctors don’t.

​I remember a time when my Uncle Helios got very sick, almost twenty of us were present with him next to his hospital bed. Apparently, this is not normal for the staff, and they told us to leave. My uncle’s smile dampened and his eyes twinkled with glassiness, “It’s okay mija, take your brothers and sisters with you, tell your aunts that they should leave.” I did as I was told, but with indignance.

​Uncle Helios passed away the next day.

​When I get to the flower shop, I put on an apron and start the tap. I stare at the water as it ripples and bubbles into the bucket. I wanted to tell Carlotta why many Romani don’t go to the doctor. Many of the barrios, or neighborhoods, are far away from the city centers that have good primary care clinics. Many Romani cannot afford the steep costs to get a taxi to the clinics. When they do arrive at the clinic after such a long journey, they are grilled about whether they have jobs and scolded for not knowing diagnoses from previous visits. The truth is that the doctors barely make eye contact with the Romani patients, and they hand them prescriptions without ever stating the diagnosis.

​I heave the bucket and start soaking the clay pots holding boughs of red carnations and jasmine flowers. A woman stares through the window, admiring the bright glints of red and white reflecting off the petals. I recognize her, she’s the physician who recently started a mobile clinic in Andalusia. Her makeup has already sunk into the wrinkles of her face, and her cheeks have a hot sheen of sweat.

​The bell rings as she walks in and we start to talk. I ask her if she sees any Roma people as patients. “I used to see a lot more when I worked in the hospital, but as soon as the healthcare law passed in 2012 I saw a lot less. It made healthcare restricted to the employed, then the economic crisis hit and the government reduced funding in the public health system.”

​Now I realized why the quality of care was getting worse and worse, and why mobile clinics could help compensate for the 2012 law. She ended up buying the red carnations, Spain’s national flower. She didn’t hate Spain, even though the government had caused so much discord in healthcare.

​I realized that it might be possible to weave ourselves into the fabric of Spain’s national identity without being seen as an abomination. If only we could change healthcare not because we hate Spain, but because we love our country so much that we want to improve it for every person, including the Romani people.