The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks

Alfred Lacks is one of the sons of Henrietta and David "Day" Lacks, serving as a secondary yet relatable figure in Rebecca Skloot's narrative. He mainly appears in the family scenes Skloot reconstructs through interviews, providing a firsthand perspective on what it was like to grow up in the Lacks household after Henrietta's death in 1951. After she passed away, Alfred and his siblings were primarily raised by their father Day and their cousin Galen, a time they later described as fraught with poverty, neglect, and, at times, abuse. Alfred's memories add depth to the picture of a family shattered by grief and financial struggles, living in the shadow of a mother they hardly knew and a scientific legacy that brought them neither understanding nor benefit.

In contrast to his brothers Lawrence, Sonny, and Joe (Zakariyya)—who receive more in-depth narrative focus—Alfred serves more as a supporting voice than a central character. His insights reinforce the overarching theme that the Lacks children paid a heavy human toll for the world's gains from HeLa cells. Alfred's presence highlights the lasting impact of Henrietta's illness and death: children who grew up without a mother, lacking proper care, and without any share in the significant commercial profits generated by their mother's cells. His story, like those of his siblings, prompts readers to confront the ethical issues surrounding medical research carried out without informed consent or fair compensation, anchoring abstract bioethical discussions in the real experiences of a family.

Christoph Lengauer is a cancer geneticist at Johns Hopkins who plays an important, humanizing role in Rebecca Skloot's story, connecting the scientific community that took advantage of HeLa cells with the Lacks family, who never fully grasped what happened to Henrietta's cells. He stands out in the scene where he invites Deborah and Zakariyya to his lab at Hopkins, showing them HeLa cells glowing under a fluorescence microscope—an emotional moment that moves Deborah to tears, as she feels like she is seeing her mother alive for the first time. Lengauer speaks to the family with real warmth and respect, breaking down the science into terms they can understand, in stark contrast to the cold, dismissive language they often faced from the medical community.

Lengauer is defined by his empathy and moral seriousness. He openly addresses the ethical missteps surrounding Henrietta's cells—the absence of consent, the family's exclusion from profits and information—and expresses his admiration for Henrietta's unintentional impact on medicine. He tells Deborah that her mother is "the most important person in the history of cancer research," a statement that resonates deeply with the family. Although he appears in a limited number of scenes, his role is thematically significant: he embodies the potential for a more ethical and compassionate relationship between science and the individuals it studies. His willingness to treat the Lacks family as real people, rather than as a legal or public-relations issue, stands in stark contrast to decades of institutional indifference.

David "Day" Lacks is Henrietta's husband and the head of the Lacks family. A tobacco farmer from Clover, Virginia, he moves the family to Baltimore to find work at Bethlehem Steel. Day is a man of few words, shaped by the rural Southern environment of his youth—a place where Black families often viewed doctors and institutions with suspicion. When Henrietta becomes seriously ill with cervical cancer, Day takes her to Johns Hopkins, the only local hospital that treated Black patients. However, he mostly remains passive in his dealings with the medical staff, never fully grasping what is happening to her or her cells. He signs consent forms without understanding their significance, a detail that Skloot uses to highlight the failures of informed consent. After Henrietta's death in 1951, Day raises their five children alone, leaning on relatives and battling poverty. He comes across as emotionally reserved; he rarely talks about Henrietta and spends decades saying little about HeLa cells, partly due to ignorance and partly because of his grief. In his later years, he opens up his home to Rebecca Skloot and shares memories, albeit reluctantly, providing important early insights. Day's journey reflects the larger experience of the Lacks family: exploitation without understanding, loss without closure, and a quiet dignity in the face of institutional neglect.

Deborah Lacks is a deeply emotional figure in Rebecca Skloot's narrative, acting as both a primary source and a co-investigator into her mother Henrietta Lacks's legacy. Born just before Henrietta passed away from cervical cancer in 1951, Deborah grew up without a mother in a home marked by poverty, instability, and the trauma from her father Day's unpredictable behavior. She never truly got to know Henrietta, and this absence drives her story: a lifelong quest to understand who her mother was and what became of her cells.

Deborah is fiercely protective of Henrietta's memory and harbors a strong distrust of the scientific and media establishments, which she feels exploited her family without their consent or any compensation. Her skepticism is both heartfelt and valid—she has seen journalists and researchers profit from HeLa cells while her family struggled to pay for health insurance. At the same time, she is intellectually curious and emotionally open, developing a genuine partnership with Skloot, despite her initial hesitations.

Her most profound personal grief is tied to her sister Elsie, a deaf child who was possibly intellectually disabled and died at Crownsville State Hospital under tragic circumstances. Learning about Elsie's fate—including a disturbing photograph—almost shatters Deborah, and her emotional breakdown during the research trip to Clover is one of the book's most poignant moments. By the end of the novel, Deborah finds a fragile sense of peace, discovering spiritual significance in the notion that her mother's cells continue to live on and help others. She passes away in 2009, shortly after the book's completion.

Elsie Lacks is Henrietta's second child, born with what was likely epilepsy and an intellectual disability — noted in records as "idiocy." She was institutionalized at Crownsville State Hospital (then known as the Hospital for the Negro Insane) in Maryland around 1950, when she was about ten years old. She died there in 1955, just four years after Henrietta passed away, at the age of fifteen. In the narrative, Elsie plays a role less as an active participant and more as a haunting absence — a second tragedy that adds to the family's grief over Henrietta.

Her story is pieced together mainly through Deborah's intense desire to uncover what happened to her sister. When Rebecca Skloot joins Deborah at Crownsville to look through old records, they find a deeply unsettling photograph of Elsie — her eyes rolled back and neck restrained — which highlights the harsh conditions that Black patients faced in the institution. Hospital records also indicate that Elsie may have been subjected to painful pneumoencephalography experiments, a procedure where spinal fluid was drained and air injected into the skull to visualize the brain.

Elsie's defining traits emerge through the memories of others: Henrietta loved her, trying to keep her at home for as long as possible; ultimately, Day signed the commitment papers. Elsie's story reflects the book's larger theme of the exploitation of vulnerable Black bodies by medical institutions, paralleling her mother's experiences on a smaller, even more overlooked scale. For Deborah, discovering Elsie's fate becomes a source of pain and a way to express delayed sisterly love and recognition.

George Otto Gey is the Johns Hopkins cancer researcher whose decision to culture Henrietta Lacks's tumor biopsy in 1951 inadvertently initiated one of the most significant events in modern medical history. As the director of tissue-culture research at Hopkins, Gey had spent years trying—and failing—to keep human cells alive outside the body. When a sample of Henrietta's aggressive cervical cancer reached his lab, his technician Mary Kubicek placed it in culture medium, and the cells not only survived but multiplied at an astonishing rate. Gey named the cell line "HeLa" and, without informing Henrietta or her family, began distributing the cells to researchers around the globe, contributing to the polio vaccine, cancer research, and numerous other advancements.

Gey is depicted as a driven, idealistic scientist who genuinely believed he was helping humanity; he did not seek personal profit from HeLa and shared the cells without charge. However, Skloot also portrays him as a reflection of the era's paternalistic medical culture, where poor Black patients like Henrietta were treated as research subjects without their consent. His story concludes with a poignant irony: Gey himself succumbed to pancreatic cancer in 1970, and HeLa cells were used in research that ultimately could not save him. Skloot presents him as a complex character—neither a villain nor a hero—whose ambition and blind spots led to decades of scientific progress, accompanied by significant ethical harm to the Lacks family.

Henrietta Lacks is the heart of Rebecca Skloot's narrative nonfiction work. She was a Black woman from Clover, Virginia, whose cancer cells were taken without her knowledge or consent at Johns Hopkins Hospital in 1951, leading to the creation of the immortal HeLa cell line—one of the most important biological tools in modern medicine. Skloot introduces Henrietta through vivid portrayals of her life: a warm and generous person who loved to dance, cook, and paint her toenails red. She moved north to Baltimore with her husband, Day, and their children, working tirelessly to keep her family together. When she sought treatment for cervical cancer at Johns Hopkins—one of the few hospitals that treated Black patients—surgeon Howard Jones found an unusually aggressive malignancy. Tissue samples were sent to George Gey's lab without her consent, and her cells, unlike any before, survived and multiplied indefinitely. Henrietta passed away on October 4, 1951, at just thirty-one years old, never knowing her cells would outlast her by decades. Her story is steeped in irony: in death, she achieved a form of biological immortality, while her family remained impoverished and largely unaware of her legacy for many years. Skloot portrays Henrietta not as a mere symbol but as a fully realized person—devout, loving, and deeply missed—challenging the dehumanization she faced from a medical system that exploited her body. Henrietta's story grounds the book's central themes surrounding race, medical ethics, informed consent, and the commodification of human tissue.

Dr. Howard Jones is a supporting but historically important figure in The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks by Rebecca Skloot. As a gynecological oncologist at Johns Hopkins Hospital, Jones was one of the doctors who examined Henrietta Lacks when she first came in with abnormal vaginal bleeding in January 1951. He reviewed her biopsy himself and noted the unusual and aggressive characteristics of her cervical tumor—a type of epidermoid carcinoma—documenting his clinical observations in the medical chart that Skloot later discovers and quotes. This chart becomes a vital primary source, anchoring the book's medical narrative in contemporary documentation.

Jones embodies the institutional medical establishment of mid-twentieth-century America: highly skilled and scientifically rigorous, yet functioning within a system that treated Black patients in segregated wards at Johns Hopkins and obtained tissue samples without informed consent. He is not depicted as malicious, but his involvement highlights the structural indifference to patient autonomy that allowed HeLa cells to be taken and commercialized without Henrietta's or her family's knowledge.

Later in the book, Skloot interviews an older Jones, who reflects on Henrietta's case with a blend of clinical precision and genuine awe at the cells' longevity and global influence. His retrospective view adds a layer of medical authority to Skloot's narrative, confirming details about the original diagnosis and treatment. Thus, Jones acts as both a historical witness and a symbol of the ethical blind spots ingrained in the medical culture of that time.

Joe Lacks, who later changed his name to Zakariyya Bari Abdul Rahman after converting to Islam, is the youngest son of Henrietta, born just months before her death from cervical cancer in 1951. Since Henrietta passed away when he was an infant, Joe grew up without a mother, raised in the turbulent and often abusive environment created by his father, Day, and cousin, Galen. Skloot reveals that Galen sexually abused Joe as a child, a trauma that fueled his intense rage into adulthood. After killing a man in a fight, Joe spent years in prison for manslaughter, emerging as the most volatile and openly angry of Henrietta's surviving children—seething at the medical establishment for profiting from his mother's cells while his family lived in poverty without health insurance.

His story is one of the book's most emotionally stirring. When Rebecca Skloot first meets him, he is hostile and threatening, even slamming a knife on the table during their conversation. Yet, his anger is framed as legitimate grief: he never got to know his mother, lost the chance for a stable childhood, and witnessed HeLa cells generate billions for corporations while the Lacks family struggled. A key moment occurs when Johns Hopkins researcher Christoph Lengauer invites the family to look at HeLa cells under a microscope. Joe is visibly touched—almost in tears—seeing his mother's cells alive decades after her passing. This surprising moment of wonder humanizes him and signals a fragile but genuine softening, illustrating Skloot's broader theme that every cell line carries an irreplaceable human story.

Lawrence Lacks is the eldest son of Henrietta and David "Day" Lacks, and he holds a quiet yet significant authority within the Lacks family throughout Rebecca Skloot's narrative. Born before the family moved from Clover, Virginia, to Baltimore, Lawrence stepped into the role of family patriarch after Henrietta's death in 1951 and Day's gradual retreat from active parenting. He is one of the first of Henrietta's children to discover, decades later, that their mother's cells—the HeLa line—were taken without consent and commercialized extensively, a revelation that stirs deep and lasting anger over the family's exclusion from any financial gain.

Lawrence is marked by a protective nature and a simmering sense of injustice. He speaks candidly to Skloot about the family's poverty and their struggle to afford the very medical advancements that HeLa cells helped bring about, highlighting one of the book's central moral conflicts. He is wary of outsiders, including Skloot herself, and his cautious demeanor reflects a lifetime of witnessing institutions exploit his family without acknowledgment or compensation.

In contrast to his brother Joe (Zakariyya), whose anger manifests violently, Lawrence channels his grievances into a persistent call for recognition and restitution. He doesn't undergo a dramatic transformation; instead, he serves as a steady, grounded voice of familial grievance—anchoring the Lacks children's shared experiences of loss, dispossession, and the ongoing impact of medical racism.

Rebecca Skloot serves as both the narrator and a central character in The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks, taking on the roles of investigative journalist, science communicator, and moral witness. Her journey begins in a high school biology class, where a casual mention of "HeLa cells" ignites a decade-long fascination with the woman behind those cells. Feeling that Henrietta's humanity had been overlooked by science, Skloot relentlessly pursues the story—making countless cold calls to the Lacks family until Deborah finally agrees to speak with her.

Skloot's defining characteristic is her commitment to both scientific accuracy and the emotional reality of the Lacks family's experience. She skillfully translates complex cellular biology into understandable language while ensuring that the human cost remains front and center. Her bond with Deborah becomes the emotional core of the book; together, they visit Johns Hopkins and Crownsville Hospital, where Deborah faces the grim fate of her sister Elsie. Skloot observes Deborah's moments of vulnerability, her inner strength, and, ultimately, her quest for peace.

Skloot also candidly confronts her own position as a white journalist gaining from a Black family's narrative, recognizing the ethical complexities without fully resolving them. She creates the Henrietta Lacks Foundation to allocate book proceeds to the family. Her journey shifts from an inquisitive outsider to a trusted friend, though she remains careful not to claim complete belonging in the family’s world. Above all, she acts as a bridge—connecting science with storytelling and linking the Lacks family to the broader public.

Roland Pattillo is a cancer researcher and professor at Morehouse School of Medicine, acting as an important link between the scientific community and the Lacks family in Rebecca Skloot's narrative. As an African American oncologist who has worked with HeLa cells throughout his career, Pattillo holds a unique moral stance: he benefits from the scientific advancements enabled by the cells while passionately advocating for a family that was neither compensated nor fully informed about Henrietta's contributions. He organizes the annual HeLa Cancer Control Symposium at Morehouse, dedicating it to Henrietta's memory, and becomes one of the first scientists to publicly acknowledge her by name, addressing the racial and ethical issues surrounding her case. Pattillo emerges as one of Skloot's key allies, helping her earn the Lacks family's trust—especially Deborah—by vouching for her intentions and framing the project as a way to finally recognize Henrietta's legacy. He is warm, outspoken, and driven by a strong sense of justice, consistently stressing that Henrietta was a Black woman whose body was taken without consent from a segregated hospital, highlighting that this history is inseparable from the science. His character in the book remains consistent—he starts as a committed advocate and continues in that role—but his influence is critical in enhancing Skloot's access and legitimizing the broader ethical discussion that the book aims to address.

Sonny Lacks, born David Lacks Jr., is the third of Henrietta and Day's five children and plays a vital role in Rebecca Skloot's narrative, offering an emotionally honest perspective among the Lacks siblings. Unlike the more unpredictable Joe (Zakariyya) or the fiercely ambitious Deborah, Sonny strikes a balance—he's present, frustrated, and quietly affected by the family's long struggle with poverty and the lack of understanding surrounding HeLa cells. His journey shifts from suspicion and resentment to a cautious, hard-earned openness. At the start of Skloot's research, Sonny is skeptical of yet another outsider looking to profit from his mother's legacy, a skepticism shaped by the family's history of exploitation without compensation or even basic explanations. He openly addresses the economic injustice at the core of their story: in one poignant moment, he recounts his difficulty in affording health insurance while corporations rake in billions from cells taken from his mother without consent. This conflict—his mother's cells supporting global medicine while her children struggle to access basic healthcare—highlights the book's central ethical issue. Sonny also shares heartfelt memories of Henrietta, helping to restore her humanity beyond her scientific contributions. As time passes, he becomes more open with Skloot, taking part in the family's visit to Johns Hopkins and interacting with scientists who explain the significance of HeLa. His defining qualities include straightforward honesty, a protective nature toward family, and a simmering but controlled anger that never escalates to the rage exhibited by Zakariyya. He embodies the everyday human cost of remarkable scientific advancements.

In The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks, Rebecca Skloot intricately blends education and knowledge throughout the narrative, highlighting how drastically unequal access to information impacts lives over generations. The most powerful thread is Deborah Lacks's long-standing desire to comprehend what happened to her mother’s cells. Having never completed high school, Deborah finds medical and scientific language nearly incomprehensible — when Skloot first explains HeLa cells, Deborah struggles to grasp the idea that her mother is both dead and alive in labs around the world. This confusion isn’t a personal shortcoming; it mirrors a systemic exclusion of Black, working-class patients from the knowledge generated from their own bodies.

George Gey and the researchers at Johns Hopkins never informed Henrietta or her family that her cells were being cultured, commodified, and distributed worldwide. The family discovers the truth bit by bit, through journalists and lawyers rather than through doctors, emphasizing how institutional barriers to scientific knowledge inflict harm long after the initial event.

Skloot herself serves as a vehicle for education in the story: she finds journal articles, translates complex terms for Deborah in real time, and ultimately takes her to the Smithsonian to observe HeLa cells under a microscope. That moment redefines knowledge as an act of restoration rather than just a transfer of information — Deborah weeps, feeling as if she is finally connecting with her mother.

In contrast, Zakariyya's anger illustrates the consequences of knowledge arriving too late and lacking accountability. His frustration is deeply intertwined with the ignorance forced upon him, making the theme not just about learning, but about who controls what information is shared and at whose cost.

In The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks, Rebecca Skloot intricately weaves family into the narrative—not just as a sentimental backdrop, but as the driving force behind both the tragedy and the investigation. The Lacks family's connection to HeLa cells embodies a painful paradox: while Henrietta's tissue supports millions of lives around the globe, her own children grew up in poverty, largely unaware that their mother's cells were being sold. This contradiction hits home when Deborah, Henrietta's daughter, discovers that researchers took genetic material from the family without consent, effectively extending the violation from mother to children.

Deborah stands at the emotional heart of the book's exploration of family. Her lifelong quest to understand who her mother was—having barely known Henrietta, who passed away when Deborah was just an infant—is reflected in her collection of newspaper clippings, a worn Bible, and an insatiable desire for any photograph or story. Her grief deepens when considering her sister Elsie, who was institutionalized and largely forgotten. Together with Skloot, Deborah uncovers Elsie's story during a poignant visit to an archive. That moment shifts the focus from individual suffering to a systemic issue.

Skloot's own involvement adds another layer to the theme: she gradually becomes a surrogate family member to Deborah, creating a bond rooted in shared vulnerability. Meanwhile, Day Lacks's quiet, steadfast loyalty to Henrietta's memory—evident in his years of keeping her clothes—shows that family ties endure even when institutions disregard them. The story of the Lacks family emphasizes that cells cannot be separated from kinship, history, and love.

In The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks, Rebecca Skloot explores identity as a complex and often contested concept—one that science, family, and history claim in ways that seldom reflect the true essence of the person at the center.

The most direct fracture occurs when Henrietta's cells are given the label "HeLa." This two-letter abbreviation was chosen partly to hide her identity, yet it ironically became one of the most recognized names in modern medicine—while Henrietta Lacks herself remained largely unknown for decades. This abbreviation highlights the book's central tension: a woman diminished to initials, her identity reduced to a mere research tool.

Deborah's story expands this tension across generations. Her desperate need to understand who her mother was—not just what her cells did—fuels much of the emotional drive in the narrative. When Deborah finally sees footage of HeLa cells dividing under a microscope, she breaks down in tears and talks to them as if she is speaking directly to her mother, blurring the line between biological material and human identity in a poignant moment.

The Lacks family's poverty juxtaposed with the global commercialization of HeLa cells creates a paradox of identity steeped in issues of race and ownership: Henrietta's body generated immense wealth and scientific advancements, yet her descendants struggle to afford the healthcare that her cells helped to improve. This contradiction compels the reader to consider whose identity the cells truly represent—the woman, the family, or the institution that profited from them.

Skloot's role as narrator adds another layer of complexity to the theme of identity, as she grapples with whether her telling of Henrietta’s story serves to restore her legacy or further appropriates it.

In The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks, Rebecca Skloot intricately explores the theme of justice—or the lack thereof—through various facets of the story: medical, racial, economic, and personal.

The injustice starts at the cellular level. In 1951, when doctors at Johns Hopkins take Henrietta's tissue, they do so without her knowledge or consent. While this practice was legal, it was ethically troubling. The HeLa cells that result from this act generate tremendous commercial value—playing significant roles in the polio vaccine, cancer research, and a multi-billion-dollar biotechnology industry—while Henrietta's family struggles to afford basic health insurance. This stark economic divide serves as one of the book's most powerful criticisms: the same cells that contributed to the health of millions left the Lacks family both medically and financially exposed.

Beneath this economic disparity lies racial injustice. Skloot contextualizes Henrietta's treatment within a long history of Black patients being used as medical subjects without consent, referencing figures like J. Marion Sims and the Tuskegee syphilis study. The charity ward at Hopkins, which treated poor Black patients, effectively operated as a source of research material—a structural setup that rendered exploitation almost invisible.

Deborah Lacks serves as the book's moral guide in the pursuit of justice. Her painful journey to uncover what happened to her mother—and her sister Elsie, who was institutionalized and likely mistreated—reflects the family's desire to be recognized as individuals rather than mere subjects. When scientists finally explain HeLa cells to Deborah using her own DNA, it signifies a moment of acknowledgment, though Skloot is careful not to confuse recognition with true restitution. The book concludes without a legal resolution, emphasizing that the quest for justice remains incomplete.

In The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks, Rebecca Skloot explores mortality not just as an end but as a paradox that permeates the entire story: Henrietta succumbs to aggressive cervical cancer in 1951, yet her cells—known as HeLa—continue to multiply in laboratories around the world for decades afterward. This contradiction is evident in the title, where "immortal" and "Lacks" coexist uncomfortably, juxtaposing the biological reality of endless cell replication with the human truth of a woman buried in an unmarked grave in Clover, Virginia.

Skloot frequently revisits the physical details of Henrietta's death—the darkening of her skin, the unbearable pain that even heavy doses of morphine couldn't alleviate, and the autopsy conducted without her family's complete understanding—to emphasize that, despite HeLa's immortality, Henrietta's body did not escape suffering. Her cells, which outlived her, were taken without her consent, making her death doubly tragic: she lost her life, and her biological legacy was seized by institutions that never recognized her humanity.

Deborah, Henrietta's daughter, adds depth to this theme. Growing up haunted by a mother she never met, she collects photographs and medical records, hoping that these tangible connections might fill the void that death created. When she finally looks at HeLa cells through a microscope and softly acknowledges that they are still alive, the moment feels more sorrowful than celebratory—the cells' survival emphasizes her mother's absence rather than alleviating it.

Conversely, the scientists who worked with HeLa describe the cells in terms of vitality and productivity, a language that completely disregards the mortal woman behind them. Skloot's decision to weave together the narrative of laboratory advancements with the grief of Henrietta's family continually forces these two perspectives to clash, so that each scientific achievement serves as a reminder of the price paid by one Black woman from Baltimore.

In The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks, Rebecca Skloot portrays power not as an abstract concept but as a series of tangible, institutional interactions where Black bodies are treated as resources taken without consent or payment. This dynamic is evident right from the start in the treatment rooms of Johns Hopkins in the early 1950s, where George Gey's team collects Henrietta's cervical cells without her knowledge. This routine act was not seen as ethically questionable by the medical community at the time, largely because patients like Henrietta were at the bottom of the hospital's racial hierarchy.

The HeLa cell line emerges as the book's key symbol of displaced power: Henrietta's cells spread to laboratories across the globe, generating billions in profits and playing a vital role in the development of the polio vaccine and numerous other medical advancements, while her family in Baltimore struggles to afford basic health insurance. This disparity is not a minor detail — Skloot revisits it throughout the narrative, especially when Deborah and Zakariyya discover that their mother’s cells are being sold in catalogues. The commodification of HeLa illustrates how scientific and corporate institutions can benefit financially from an individual while simultaneously erasing her identity.

Power also manifests through the control of information. For decades, the Lacks family is unable to obtain even basic information about Henrietta’s cells or her medical records, whereas researchers have no trouble publishing studies based on her tissue. When scientists finally reach out to the family — including during the complicated genome-sequencing process — the family's consent is once again treated as less important than institutional agendas.

Skloot herself is part of this dynamic: her extended access to Deborah highlights another imbalance, and the narrative openly addresses the unsettling position of a white journalist profiting from a Black family's story, making it clear that documentation does not equate to justice.

In The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks, Rebecca Skloot explores how race influenced almost every aspect of Henrietta's medical journey and the treatment of her family afterward. When Henrietta arrives at Johns Hopkins in 1951, she is sent to the "colored" ward — a segregated area that immediately indicates how differently her body will be treated compared to white patients. The tissue sample taken from her cervical tumor is collected without her knowledge or consent, a practice Skloot frames within a long history in America of Black bodies being used for medical research without permission, dating back to J. Marion Sims's surgical experiments on enslaved women.

Decades later, the Lacks family's interactions with the medical and scientific communities mirror this pattern. When researchers reach out to Deborah and her siblings to gather their DNA, the family struggles to grasp what is being requested, in part due to their limited educational opportunities — a consequence of systemic racial inequality in rural Virginia — which leaves them susceptible to exploitation they can't quite articulate. Deborah's concern that scientists might be "using" the family as they did with Henrietta isn't unfounded; it reflects a deep-rooted, evidence-based caution passed down through generations.

Skloot also highlights the harsh irony that HeLa cells became the cornerstone of a multibillion-dollar biotechnology industry, while Henrietta's descendants struggle to afford basic health insurance. This economic marginalization is closely tied to race: the wealth generated from a Black woman's cells flowed predominantly to white institutions and investors. The recurring image of Henrietta's cells multiplying endlessly in labs worldwide — alive in a way her family cannot benefit from financially — illustrates how racism is structural, not just a matter of individual attitudes, throughout the narrative.

In The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks, Rebecca Skloot intricately intertwines social class and inequality throughout the narrative, illustrating how poverty and race dictated who could be exploited and who could profit.

Henrietta's initial visits to Johns Hopkins highlight the stark geography of inequality: while Hopkins was one of the few hospitals that treated Black patients, it did so in segregated wards where the poor received care that often doubled as research opportunities — frequently without their awareness. The moment a surgeon takes a tissue sample from Henrietta without her consent is closely linked to her socioeconomic status; a wealthier, white patient would have navigated a very different system of medical gatekeeping.

The disparity intensifies over generations. While HeLa cells create a multimillion-dollar biomedical industry — funding laboratories, careers, and pharmaceutical advancements — Henrietta's descendants struggle to afford basic health insurance. Deborah's desperate search for medical records is overshadowed by her inability to pay for the very treatments that HeLa research made possible. Skloot captures this irony by shifting between corporate cell-culture facilities and the cramped, financially unstable homes of the Lacks family.

Lawrence Lacks's painful comment that the family never benefited financially from the cells that enriched others encapsulates the book's main argument about class: scientific and economic systems that claim to be neutral or universal are built on the uncompensated labor — both biological and otherwise — of those least able to refuse. Skloot also highlights how the Lackses' limited education prevented them from effectively navigating consent forms, legal processes, or media attention, demonstrating how class disadvantage compounds in every area where the family might have sought justice.