The vaccine gap

IT TAKES ABOUT EIGHT MINUTES TO try and save a life.

Or at least that’s how long it takes a volunteer with a tablet, standing in the parking lot at the T.R. Hoover community development center in South Dallas on a bitterly cold February morning. During the pandemic, the small nonprofit situated in the neighborhood that developers in the 1920s dubbed “the Ideal community” has taken on an ever evolving list of roles. It’s a job-search center. It’s a drive-through food pantry. And, of late, T.R. Hoover is an in-person coronavirus vaccine registration site aimed at helping Ideal’s mainly Black residents, and anyone else who finds their way here, do what for several weeks the county’s online-only registration system has failed to do: put them in line for a shot in the arm.

In January, as first national and then local news began describing the impending arrival of coronavirus vaccines, people visiting T.R Hoover’s drive-through food pantry started asking questions. Most were directed at executive director Sherri Mixon, who was born and raised in Ideal. It’s where she is, without question, a voice of authority, regarded as a repository of important knowledge, drive and information. What did she know about the shots? What did she think of the shots? How could they get a vaccine? Then, when could they get a vaccine, and how in the world could they get on the list for a shot?

On this Tuesday morning, Mixon stands wrapped in a plaid shawl and knit cap watching volunteers help those arriving for the food distribution. Her brother hoists orange net bags filled with potatoes, onions, grapefruit, tuna and other canned goods, as women equipped with iPads tell