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2. To Be a Doctor
- The University of Alabama Press
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2 To Be a Doctor Two weeks into my first term, I faced the worst crisis I experienced during the whole time I was at Meharry. Not since my early days as a stuttering firstgrader at Councill had I felt the way I did now,sure that I’d bitten off more than I could chew. My feelings came not just from the fact that my classmates were all older—some were veterans or had already started their careers—but from their achievements.Two were pharmacists. One guy had been a jet pilot in Korea . Another had been a major in the army. A black major in the 1950s—now, you know he’s got to be on the ball.Two had PhDs, and half already had master ’s degrees, and everyone but me had a bachelor of science degree. Despite all the good teachers I’d had at Alabama A&M, my lack of selfcon fidence made me start wondering about the value of my premed courses, a feeling that only got stronger during our first class meeting, the get-acquainted meeting, when the fellows started talking about where they’d gone to school. This guy here was from Ohio University, and that guy was from the University of Illinois, and this one was from City College of New York. They were from Fisk and Morehouse and Howard, and they said,“Where are you from?” I said, “I’m from Alabama A&M,” and they said, “Where in the world is that?” Even worse was the situation at Aunt Susie’s, where I was sharing the bedroom with my cousin Kilbuck. All night long he snored like a freight train— loud, rasping sounds that seemed to shake the foundations.The house was small; there was no nook or cranny I could escape to, no place to catch up on my reading and grab a few hours of sleep. I was a nervous wreck and was about to flunk out before getting started. So I called home and told them what was happening, and before long Tom had driven all the way up from Alabama and was at the front door. Near tears, I told him how Kilbuck and his friends talked and played cards, how Kilbuck snored all night long, how I had a big box of bones sitting beside my bed whose 38 / Chapter 2 names I still hadn’t memorized, and he should just take me home, just let me be a schoolteacher. Well, Tom drove over to the house where John Cashin Jr.1 was living and talked to the lady there, and she said try the Omega House, over on Meharry Boulevard. At the Omega House, the fellow in charge said to Tom, yes, we’ve been saving a room for a guy who still hasn’t shown up, and I could have it if I wanted it. So I took the room and finally got some peace and quiet. Soon, I’d settled in with nine other guys there and started trying to catch up, because the first quiz, in gross anatomy, was just days away. The course was taught by the only full-time white professor on the faculty, a man named Miller—“Race Horse Miller,” they called him because he talked in triple time.Taking notes was impossible, so I’d go back to my room and read over the textbook. I’d read for six or seven hours at a stretch, sometimes ten or twelve. After the exam, some of the guys were talking about how well they’d done, and I was sure I’d failed.The next day, Miller comes back and lays the papers on his desk, and he goes to the board and writes “Hughes, 96”—this was a fellow who’d taken the course before and was repeating the first year. Next, he writes “Jefferson, 83,” “Jones, 82,” and then—was I seeing things?—“Hereford, 81.” It was as if I’d scored 1,000.This restored my confidence a little, especially after some of the other fellows started asking to study with me. After that, the exams never let up—written and oral tests once a week, pop quizzes,lab exams.That first quarter was a blur of lectures and labs in biochemistry and anatomy, embryology, and histology. And the assignments seemed insane, especially for someone used to reading one or two chapters a week at A&M who was now being told to read three or four in one night. That...