Gifted Hands: The Ben Carson Story (8 page)

After I joined ROTC, another significant person came into my life—a student named Sharper. He had reached the highest rank given to a student—that of a full colonel. Sharper seemed so mature, so self-assured, and yet likeable.
He's incredible
, I thought as I watched him drill the entire ROTC unit. Then came the next thought.
If Sharper could make colonel, why can't I?
At that moment I decided I wanted to be a student colonel.

Because I joined ROTC late (in the second half of tenth grade instead of the beginning of the year like the others), it meant I'd be in ROTC only five semesters instead of six. From the beginning I realized that my chances of ever making it to the top weren't very good, but instead of discouraging me, the thought challenged me. I determined that I would go as far as I possibly could in ROTC before I graduated.

My mother continued to talk to me about my attitude and began to make an impression. She didn't lecture because she was discovering more subtle ways to encourage me. She memorized poems and famous sayings and kept quoting them to me.

Thinking about it now, Mother was incredible, memorizing long poems like Robert Frost's “The Road Not Taken.” She often quoted to me a poem called “You Have Yourself to Blame”—a poem I've never been able to find in print. But it's about people offering excuses for failing to do their best. The bottom line was that we have only ourselves to blame. We create our own destiny by the way we do things. We have to take advantage of opportunities and be responsible for our choices.

Mother stayed on me until I fully grasped that I am the one ultimately responsible for my life. I had to take charge if I wanted to amount to anything. Soon my grades zoomed upward again. During both the eleventh and twelfth grades I ranked among the A students again. I had gotten back on the right track.

Another influential person in my life was an English teacher named Mrs. Miller. She took a personal interest in me in ninth-grade English and taught me a lot of extra things after class. She was proud of me because I was such a good student, and she taught me to appreciate good literature and poetry. We'd go over everything I'd done in class that wasn't perfect, and she stayed with me until I corrected every mistake.

In the tenth grade when my grades dropped, she was disappointed. Even though I no longer had her for a teacher, she kept up with me and knew that my indifference to schoolwork caused my grades to fall, because I was just hanging out instead of trying. I felt bad about that, because she was so disappointed. At that point I felt more guilty about disappointing her than I did my mother.

Finally I began to realize that I had myself—and only myself—to blame. The in-group had no power over me unless I chose to give it to them. I started pulling away from them. The clothes issue largely resolved itself because in ROTC we had to wear a uniform three days a week. That meant I had to wear regular clothes only two days a week, and I had enough of the “right” clothes that kids didn't talk about me.

With my clothes problem solved and my changed attitude, once again I started doing very well in school.

Several teachers played important roles in my life during my high school years. They gave me personal attention, encouraged me, and all of them tried to inspire me to keep trying.

I particularly admired and appreciated two men teachers. First, Frank McCotter, the biology teacher. He was White, about five feet nine, medium build, and wore glasses. If I'd first seen him on the street without knowing anything about him, I would have said, “That's a biology teacher.”

Mr. McCotter had so much confidence in my abilities that he pushed me to take more responsibility, and he provided me with extra tutoring in the biological sciences. McCotter assigned me the responsibility to design experiments for the other students, to set them up, and to keep the lab running smoothly.

The second teacher, Lemuel Doakes, directed the band. He was Black, well-built, and serious most of the time, although he had a fine sense of humor. Mr. Doakes always demanded perfection. He wouldn't settle for our getting the music right—we had to play it perfectly.

More than being a teacher with interests limited primarily to music, Mr. Doakes encouraged my academic pursuits. He saw that I had musical talent, but he told me, “Carson, you have to put academics first. Always put first things first.” I thought that was an admirable attitude for a music teacher.

As much as for his music, I also admired Mr. Doakes for being courageous. He was one of the few teachers who would stand up to the bullies in the school and not let them scare him. He wouldn't tolerate any foolishness. A few students challenged him, but they ended up backing down.

I
earned a lot of medals in ROTC for being a member of the rifle team and drill team. I won academic awards and just about every competition offered. Along with this, I received rapid promotion.

One of the big challenges came when I was a master sergeant. Sgt. Bandy, an instructor in the United States Army and head of the ROTC unit at our high school, put me in charge of the fifth-hour ROTC unit because the students were so rambunctious that none of the other student-sergeants could handle them.

“Carson, I'm going to put you in charge of this class,” he said. “If you can make anything out of them, I'll promote you to second lieutenant” That was exactly the challenge I needed.

I did two things. First, I tried to get to know the guys in the class and discover what really interested them. Then I structured the classes and the exercises accordingly. I offered extra practice on fancy drill routine at the end of each successful teaching session, and the guys loved doing that.

Second, reverting to my earlier skill at capping on people paid off. They soon shaped up because, when they didn't do things appropriately, they learned I could make them look bad by capping on them. This method didn't employ the best psychology, but it worked, and they fell into line.

It was just before summer, and I'd been working hard with the class for several weeks when Sgt. Bandy called me into his office. “Carson,” he said, “the fifth-hour class is the best unit in the school. You have done a fine job.”

And, true to his word, Bandy promoted me to second lieutenant at the end of the year—unheard of in our school.
*

The promotion allowed me to try for field grade, because only after making second lieutenant could anyone sit for field-grade examinations. The normal route went from second lieutenant to first lieutenant to captain and then to major. After that, few students went on to become lieutenant colonel, and only three in the whole city of Detroit made full colonel.

Sgt. Bandy set it up for me to go up for the field-grade examination. I did so well that he scheduled me to appear before a board of majors and captains in the real Army.

About that time Sgt. Hunt became the first Black sergeant in charge of our ROTC unit, replacing Sgt. Bandy. Sgt. Hunt recognized my leadership ability and, because I was doing so well academically, he took a special interest in me. He'd often take me aside and say things like, “Carson, I've got big plans for you.”

Sgt. Hunt used to give me a lot of extra hints and suggestions, sharing his own insights into things that the examiners would want me to know. “Carson,” he'd bark, “you gotta learn this and gotta learn it perfect.”

I memorized all of the required material. The regular Army officers who conducted the examination asked every possible question from our training manuals—questions about terrain, battle strategies, various weapons, and weapon systems. And I was ready!

When I went up for the field-grade examination, along with representatives from each of the 22 schools in the city, I made the highest score. In fact, my total was (at least then) the highest any student had ever achieved.

To my delighted surprise, I received another promotion—all the way from second lieutenant to lieutenant colonel, again a feat totally unheard of. Naturally, I was elated. Even more of a wonder, this took place during the first part of twelfth grade. I could hardly believe it myself. From the second half of tenth grade (10A) I had gone from private to lieutenant colonel by the time I reached 12B. I still had a full semester of school left, and another field-grade examination was coming up. That meant I actually had an opportunity to become colonel. If I made it, I would be one of three ROTC colonels in Detroit.

I sat for the exam again and did the best of all the competitors. I was made city executive officer over all the schools.

I had realized my dream. I had gotten all the way to colonel even though I had joined ROTC late. Several times I thought,
Well, Curtis, you got me started, and you made captain. I've passed you, but I wouldn't have gotten into the ROTC if you hadn't done it first
.

At the end of my twelfth grade I marched at the head of the Memorial Day parade. I felt so proud, my chest bursting with ribbons and braids of every kind. To make it more wonderful, we had important visitors that day. Two soldiers who had won the Congressional Medal of Honor in Viet Nam were present. More exciting to me, General William Westmoreland (very prominent in the Viet Nam war) attended with an impressive entourage. Afterward, Sgt. Hunt introduced me to General Westmoreland, and I had dinner with him and the Congressional Medal winners. Later I was offered a full scholarship to West Point.

I didn't refuse the scholarship outright, but I let them know that a military career wasn't where I saw myself going. As overjoyed as I felt to be offered such a scholarship, I wasn't really tempted. The scholarship would have obligated me to spend four years in military service after I finished college, precluding my chances to go on to medical school. I knew my direction—I wanted to be a doctor, and nothing would divert me or stand in the way.

Of course the offer of a full scholarship flattered me. I was developing confidence in my abilities—just like my mother had been telling me for at least the past ten years. Unfortunately I carried it a little too far. I started to believe that I was one of the most spectacular and smartest people in the world. After all, I had made this unprecedented showing in ROTC, and I stood at the top of my school academically. The big colleges wrote to me and sent out their representatives to recruit me.

Meeting representatives from places like Harvard and Yale made me feel special and important because they wanted to recruit me. Few of us get enough experience at feeling special and important, and I was no exception. I didn't know how to handle all the attention. The school reps flocked around me because of my high academic achievements, and because I had done exceptionally well on the Scholastic Aptitude Test (SAT), ranking somewhere in the low ninetieth percentile—again, unheard of from a student in the inner city of Detroit.

I laugh sometimes when I think of my secret for scoring so high on the SAT. Back when my mother would allow us to watch only two or three television shows and insisted that we read two books a week, I did just that. One program—
my favorite—was the General Electric
College Bowl
. On that program—a quiz show—students from colleges around the country sat as contestants and competed with each other. The master of ceremonies asked factual questions and challenged the knowledge of those students.

All week I looked forward to Sunday nights. In my mind, I had already focused on another secret goal—to be a contestant on the program. To get the chance to appear, I knew I'd have to be knowledgeable in many subjects, so I broadened my range of reading interests. Having inherited a job in the science laboratory after Curtis graduated helped me tremendously because the science teachers saw my desire to know more. They gave me extra tutoring and suggested books or articles for me to read. Although I was doing well in most of the academic subjects, I realized I didn't know a lot about the arts.

I started going downtown after school to the Detroit Institute of Arts. I walked through the exhibit rooms until I knew all the paintings in the main galleries. I checked out library books about various artists and was really taking in all of that material. Before long I could recognize the masters' paintings, name the works themselves, cite the artists' names and their styles. I learned all kinds of information, such as when the artists lived and where they received their training. I soon could recognize the paintings or artists like a flash when questions came up about them on
College Bowl
.

Next, I had to learn about classical music if I wanted to compete. When I started that phase, I used to receive weird looks from people. For instance, I'd be out on the lawn digging up weeds or trimming the grass and have my portable radio playing classical music. That was considered strange behavior for a Black kid in Motown. Everybody else was listening to jam and bebop.

In truth, I didn't much like the classical music. But here again, Curtis played a decisive role in my life. By then he was in the Navy, and once when he came home on leave he brought a couple of records. One of them was Schubert's
Eighth Symphony (Unfinished)
. He played that record endlessly.