By Dave DeFusco
At an intimate book talk hosted by the Katz School鈥檚 M.S. in Physician Assistant Studies, Dr. Brian Williams, a trauma surgeon and Air Force veteran, invited students and faculty into the hardest chapters of his life as a doctor, public advocate and Black man navigating the twin crises of violence and racism in America.
A nationally recognized expert on gun violence prevention and healthcare disparities, Dr. Williams trained at Harvard Medical School and Emory University and later served as a professor of surgery at UT Southwestern and the University of Chicago. He also played a key role in shaping the Bipartisan Safer Communities Act of 2022, bringing frontline medical experience into national policy.
But during his talk at the Katz School, Williams, author of an award-winning memoir, The Bodies Keep Coming: Dispatches from a Black Trauma Surgeon on Racism, Violence, and How We Heal, turned toward something more personal: the quiet, often hidden toll of living at the crossroads of trauma and inequity.
He opened with stories he rarely shares publicly鈥攕tories not from the operating room, but from his own family. 鈥淎 couple of years ago,鈥 he said, 鈥淚 got a call from my sister. I knew it wasn鈥檛 going to be good.鈥
His cousin had been shot and killed on his front porch. Another cousin had been murdered earlier in front of her three children. 鈥淎s a trauma surgeon, I鈥檓 very good at talking about violence and death from the perspective of a doctor, from a researcher,鈥 he said. 鈥淏ut I鈥檝e been very poor about talking about what it means to me personally. And that鈥檚 why I want to talk about power鈥攖he power each of us has as storytellers.鈥
That power, he said, crystallized for him nine summers ago during the tense 2016 election season. On July 5, Alton Sterling was killed by police in Baton Rouge; on July 6, Philando Castile was fatally shot in Minnesota鈥攈is death livestreamed on Facebook. On July 7, peaceful protests filled cities across the country. In Dallas, one of those protests turned deadly when a sniper targeted police officers, shooting 14.
That night was supposed to be Dr. Williams鈥 night off. He agreed to switch shifts with a colleague, a small decision that changed the trajectory of his career. When injured officers began arriving at the hospital, he and his team had only moments to grasp the magnitude of what was unfolding. Squad cars screeched up to the emergency bay with blown-out tires; police poured into the trauma center, some carrying AR-15s to secure the building.
鈥淚f you鈥檝e never seen what an assault rifle does to the human body,鈥 he said, 鈥淚 hope you never have to.鈥
Three officers died. After informing their families鈥攁 task he said he tries desperately never to make worse鈥擠r. Williams walked into a hallway, the doors closed behind him, and collapsed to the floor. 鈥淚 do not cry,鈥 he said. 鈥淚 had not cried for decades. But there I was, and I can鈥檛 fully explain it. Nothing changed for the world around me. But I was changed.鈥
Four days later, the city planned a large press conference. He had no intention of attending until his wife called and insisted that he had to go. People, she said, need to know there was a Black surgeon trying to save those officers. So he went, simply intending to sit quietly. But as he listened to statements that collided with his values and experiences, he felt a responsibility to speak.
鈥淚f not you, then who?鈥 he said. 鈥淚f not now, then when?鈥
His 90-second statement went viral, launching him into national conversations about violence, race, policing and healing. 鈥淚 realized there was power in speaking up,鈥 he said. 鈥淧ower in talking about things that matter.鈥
During the Q&A moderated by Dr. Lorraine Cashin, assistant dean and program director of the M.S. in Physician Assistant Studies, he reflected on moments when patients鈥攕ometimes intoxicated, sometimes openly racist鈥攈urled slurs at him even as he worked to save their lives. One patient had a swastika tattoo across his abdomen. 鈥淚 closed his wound myself,鈥 he said, aligning the tattoo perfectly at the end. 鈥淲hat I fall back on is our shared humanity.鈥
The title of his book, The Bodies Keep Coming, emerged on a run late in the writing process. He spoke both literally and metaphorically to the endless flow of trauma he sees, a cycle that will never break, he said, without systemic change. That change, he argued, requires clinicians in leadership and policy roles.
After working as a policy advisor to Connecticut U.S. Senator Chris Murphy and former House Speaker Nancy Pelosi, he saw firsthand how desperately Congress needs the perspective of healthcare workers. 鈥淚 had a chance to really roll my sleeves and get involved in the policy process. For them, they loved it. They had an actual doctor in their office,鈥 he said. 鈥淪till during COVID, Congress passed six or seven huge relief packages and not a single one considered equity.鈥
His closing message to the future PAs in the room was simple but urgent: show up, speak up and understand your power. 鈥淚f you鈥檙e not there,鈥 he said, 鈥測ou cannot make a difference.鈥
