Dr. Bill Jenkins is a diminutive man, 5 feet 5 inches in dress shoes, with a voice almost too soft to be an educator's—he's associate director of the Research Center on Health Disparities at Morehouse College in Atlanta. But he speaks with a pastor's conviction about the benefits of the 1932 Tuskegee Syphilis Study, in which the federal government injected 399 poor black men with a latent form of the disease. Yes, it was unethical; yes, its participants were vulnerable (mostly illiterate sharecroppers from Alabama's poorest county); and yes, people died—but from a research standpoint, he says, the experiment changed American science for the better.
"The Tuskegee experiment was one of the most productive and influential experiments in American history," Jenkins tells a small crowd inside UNLV's Barrick Museum auditorium last Thursday. "It did so much good for blacks and so much good for this country."
It can be hard to see the good in 128 syphilis-related deaths, 40 wives infected and 19 children born with a congenital form of the disease. Even Jenkins concedes the experiment had a fatal flaw: The men should've been fully informed about syphilis and its dangers.
"It was extraordinary work; it just turned about to be unethical ... the government had no right to use them like this," says Jenkins, who worked with Tuskegee survivors as an epidemiologist for the federal Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, managed health benefits for survivors and helped spur President Clinton's national apology in 1997.
This new blueprint for targeted health study in a specific group of people revolutionized research, Jenkins insists, and has practical applications for modern medicine. He noted a study showing that stress caused college-educated black women to have higher infant mortality rates that college-educated white women.
"Imagine if someone in Nevada spent years of doing this type of research on Native Americans; they could make a monumental impact on their health," Jenkins says.
Michelle Chino, director of UNLV's 18-month-old Center for Health Disparities Research (which was established via a federal grant and coordinated Jenkins' visit), says her staff is already researching diabetes among Hispanics in Clark County and in nearby Native American tribes, as well as exploring HIV in the black community.
Plans are for future collaborations with the state Office of Minority Health, opened in January and led by Dr. Larry Gamell. "We're focusing on access to health care, the quality of care and disseminating information about health care," Gamell says, "while UNLV is building its capacity to do health disparities research. We'll create a track for the state to run on. This will be a living document that will help us create a statewide plan to address these issues."
Jenkins stops his speech to highlight several pictures of Tuskegee survivors. His already supple voice cracks as he recalls the hours Clinton spent with the survivors. They talked about fishing, farming, living off the land. On the flight back to Atlanta, he says, the pilot got on the PA system and praised the men for the sacrifice. Jenkins is crying. He lifts his hand to his eyes, wipes and says the 399 men who willfully allowed themselves to be poisoned were heroes, not victims.
"I'm a cool dude," he says, trying in vain to stanch the tears. "I'm not supposed to cry."