When Dr. Eric Whitaker got a call from the governor’s office, it didn’t occur to him he was being considered to head the state Department of Public Health. Whitaker, an attending physician at John H. Stroger Jr. Hospital in Chicago, the former Cook County Hospital, figured someone wanted his resume for yet another advisory panel. But then the governor’s office called back to set up an interview. “I said, ‘Interview for what?’” Whitaker recalls, laughing. “They said, ‘For the directorship.’”
Gov. Rod Blagojevich apparently liked what he saw in the innovative, personable and young — he turned 38 last month — internist known for his ability to reach those who are overlooked by the medical establishment. He asked Whitaker to head a state agency that is increasingly in the public eye. With severe acute respiratory syndrome, homeland security preparations and the West Nile virus season upon us, Whitaker joins the agency at one of its busiest times.
But those who know Whitaker say he’s up to those tasks — and more.
“The state’s Department of Public Health has an opportunity to broaden its vision and deal with issues that we may not have dealt with before,” says Dr. Ruth Rothstein, director of Stroger Hospital. “He’s young and ambitious and bright, and will do, I think, a terrific job.”
While Whitaker’s resume may lack political connections, it includes a lengthy list of academic and career achievements. Raised on Chicago’s South Side by a father who drove a Butternut Bread truck and a mother who worked as a nurse, Whitaker earned a bachelor’s degree from Grinnell College in Iowa, a medical degree from the University of Chicago and a master’s degree in public health from Harvard University. He also headed the 30,000-member American Medical Student Association. He completed his residency in primary care and internal medicine at San Francisco General Hospital, where he worked with AIDS patients at the height of the epidemic there.
Throughout his training, and after he returned to Chicago as an internist, Whitaker’s attention kept going back to vulnerable, underserved populations — people who rarely seek or receive medical care. Maybe it was because he was the only African-American student in his medical school class at the University of Chicago. Maybe it was because the Woodlawn neighborhood, where he was born and where his grandparents still live, had drifted into painful neglect.
But Whitaker also was troubled by statistics that show black men have higher rates of diabetes, heart disease, high blood pressure and certain types of cancer than whites, and that in Chicago the average life expectancy for a white man is about 73, yet for black men in Woodlawn it’s closer to 58.
Whitaker thought about how to get these African-American men into the health care system. He approached it as a marketing problem, asking them why they avoid doctors. What he heard made sense in the context of their lives: They believe doctors are unlike them and won’t respect them. They worry that seeing a doctor will make them seem weak — a risk they can’t take in a tough neighborhood. They are so preoccupied with unemployment and crime that preventive health is low on their priority lists.
So Whitaker decided to hook them with something less foreign: a barbershop. Cook County’s Woodlawn Adult Health Center provided some space and, in 1998, Project Brotherhood was born.
Whitaker’s instincts were right. Project Brotherhood offers free haircuts, chicken dinners and camaraderie, and sneaks in free check-ups and health programs. It is a hit. Today, more than 1,000 men from the blighted Woodlawn neighborhood and beyond use Project Brotherhood’s services each year.
In 2000, the program received the highest honor of the National Association of Public Hospitals and Health Systems. And just before he was offered the state directorship, Whitaker won a prestigious award and a $300,000 grant from the Robert Wood Johnson Foundation to study men who have come through Project Brotherhood’s “manhood development” course.
Whitaker says the model used to create Project Brotherhood — seeing what the people need rather than giving them a “top-down” program — could be used with other underserved Illinois populations, whether they are Latinos, women or rural folks. He envisions a more active state health department. Even with Illinois’ recent financial belt-tightening — next fiscal year’s public health budget proposal of $319.9 million is down from this year’s — he believes there are low-cost ways to reach people. “The big piece for me is the community aspect of it,” Whitaker says. “Rather than just be reactive to the emergent disease of the day, we’ll be more proactive than we have in the past.”
But diseases beyond his control also will vie for Whitaker’s time. He’s already planning an informational push about West Nile virus, which killed 63 and sickened more than 800 in Illinois last year, the highest numbers for any state. “We are hoping for the best,” he says, “but planning for the worst.”
He’s keeping a watchful eye but not panicking about SARS, which has been sweeping through parts of Asia but hasn’t made significant inroads in the United States. “I think [the fear] is totally out of proportion to the risk.”
Then there are myriad health issues related to homeland security, such as dealing with a possible biological weapons attack, learning how to better communicate with the public and implementing a voluntary smallpox vaccine program for medical providers.
“He’ll study a situation and make improvements to it, but is savvy enough to know that you can’t go into a situation where there are career workers and make all sorts of changes in a day,” says Dr. Bill McDade, an anesthesiologist, researcher and associate dean for multicultural affairs at the University of Chicago’s medical school, who describes Whittaker as exceptionally bright. “Eric is very capable. [Former Director] John Lumpkin was a great guy, but I think Eric has the potential to do things that John wouldn’t have thought of,” McDade says.
McDade knows Whitaker as well as anyone. The two met when McDade was a 19-year-old whiz kid already enrolled at the University of Chicago’s medical school and Whitaker was a high school junior attending a program for kids interested in medical careers. Whitaker still remembers seeing McDade bent over a microscope, researching sickle cell disease. He thought that was pretty cool.
A few years later, when Whitaker was in University of Chicago’s medical school and McDade was working on his doctorate, McDade again crossed paths with Whitaker, who was the only African-American student in his class. “Eric was having a hard time adjusting to medical school,” McDade remembers. White classmates would readily ask Whitaker to play basketball but forgot to call when it was time to form study groups. “He really felt the pain in that,” McDade says.
When one of McDade’s two roommates moved out, he asked Whitaker if he wanted to take his place. Whitaker, a studious guy whose voracious reading masked a fun-loving personality, moved into the tiny apartment at 57th and Drexel, happy to have some support. His whole outlook changed, McDade says.
He tried to convince Whitaker he needed to get involved with such mainstream medical organizations as the American Medical Association. Young black doctors are needed in those groups, McDade reminded him, to keep attention on the problems faced by impoverished, isolated communities.
Whitaker eventually heeded that advice. While at Harvard, he headed the national American Medical Student Association. He testified before Congress twice and served on governmental advisory committees. Later, when Project Brotherhood was getting off the ground, he coaxed Cook County and federal officials into investing in what once had been a volunteer effort.
Whitaker says he knows some of the 1,200 employees in the state Department of Public Health will wonder — he smiles as he says this — “Where did he come from?” But those who have worked with Whitaker expect that he’ll make up for his lack of management experience and political history with his natural people skills and ability to reach a common ground.
At the same time, it’s unlikely he will be content to shuffle papers at the Thompson Center. He took a pay cut with his new $127,600 salary because he thinks he can make a difference. “He’s definitely not going to be a desk guy,” says Dr. Bonnie Thomas, co-director of Project Brotherhood. “He’s going to be out there.”
In his private life, Whitaker tries to live healthfully. He still plays basketball regularly, doesn’t smoke and eats the healthy food urged upon him by his wife, Dr. Cheryl Rucker-Whitaker, an assistant professor of preventive medicine at Chicago’s Rush Medical College, whose research focuses on chronic diseases affecting African-American women. They have a 2-year-old son, Caleb.
When Gov. Blagojevich announced that Whitaker was his choice for the post, he referred to “the kind of commitment and compassion I wanted in my public health director.”
On a recent Thursday night that commitment was evident. After spending a full day with his agency staff, Whitaker once again made the trip to Woodlawn, a world away from bureaucrats and politicians.
It was Project Brotherhood night, and, without any fanfare, he entered the building and began seeing his patients. oStephanie Zimmermann is a reporter at the Chicago Sun-Times. Her most recent story for Illinois Issues, which focused on some of the state’s most impoverished communities, appeared in March.
Illinois Issues, June 2003
