Gifted Hands: The Ben Carson Story (6 page)

Classmates immediately recognized me as a smart kid. Although I wasn't quite at the top, only one or two others passed me in grades. I had grown used to academic success, enjoyed it, and decided to stay on top.

At that point, however, I felt a new pressure—one that I hadn't been subjected to before. Besides the capping, I faced the constant temptation to become one of the guys. I'd never had to be involved in this kind of thing before in order to be accepted. In the other schools, kids looked up to me because of my top grades. But at Hunter Junior High, academics came a little farther down the line.

Being accepted by the in-group meant wearing the right clothes, going to the places where the guys hung out, and playing basketball. Even more important, to be part of the in-group, kids had to learn to cap on others.

I couldn't ask my mother to buy me the kind of clothes that would put me on their social-acceptance level. While I may not have understood how hard my mother worked, I knew she was trying to keep us off of public assistance. By the time I went into ninth grade, Mother had made such strides that she received nothing except food stamps. She couldn't have provided for us and kept up the house without that subsidy.

Because she wanted to do the best she could for Curtis and me, she skimped on herself. Her clothes were clean and respectable, but they weren't stylish. Of course, being a kid, I never noticed, and she never complained.

For the first few weeks I didn't say anything when the guys capped on me. My lack of response only encouraged them to bear down, and they capped on me mercilessly. I felt horrible, left out, and hurt because I didn't fit in. Walking home alone, I'd wonder,
What's wrong with me? Why can't I belong? Why do I have to be different?
I comforted myself by saying, “They're just a bunch of buffoons. If this is how they get their enjoyment, they can go ahead, but I'm not going to play their silly game. I'm going to be successful, and one day I'll show all of them.”

Despite my defensive words, I still felt left out and rejected. And, like most people, I wanted to belong and didn't like being an outsider. Unfortunately, after a while their attitude rubbed off on me until eventually the disease infected me too. Then I said to myself, “All right, if you guys want to cap, I'll show you how to cap.”

The next day I waited for the capping to start. And it did. A ninth grader said, “Man, that shirt you're wearing has been through World War I, World War II, World War III, and World War IV.”

“Yeah,” I said, “and your mama wore it.”

Everybody laughed.

He stared at me, hardly believing what I'd said. Then he started to laugh too. He slapped me on the back. “Hey, man, that's OK.”

My esteem rose right then. Soon I capped on the top cappers throughout the whole school. It felt great to be recognized for my sharp tongue.

From then on when anyone capped on me, I'd turn it around and fling it into their faces—which was the idea of the game. Within weeks the in-crowd stopped tormenting me. They didn't dare direct any sarcasm my way because they knew I would come up with something better.

Once in a while, students ducked out of the way when they saw me coming. I didn't let them get away even then. “Hey, Miller! I'd hide my face too if I looked that ugly!”

A mean remark? Certainly, but I comforted myself by saying, “Everybody does it. Outcapping everyone else is the only way to survive.” Or sometimes I'd say, “He knows I didn't really mean it.”

It didn't take long for me to forget how it felt to be the object of capping. My taking over the game solved one great problem for me.

Unfortunately, it didn't solve what to do about clothes.

Aside from being ostracized for my clothes, the kids called me poor a lot. And to their thinking, if you were poor, you were no good. Oddly enough, none of the students were well-off and had no right to talk about anybody else. But as a young teenager, I didn't reason that out. I felt the stigma of being poor most acutely because I didn't have a father. Most of the kids I knew had two parents, and that convinced me that they were better off.

During ninth grade one task brought more embarrassment to me than anything else. As I've said, we received food stamps and couldn't have made it without them.

Occasionally my mother sent me to the store to buy bread or milk with the stamps. I hated to go, fearing one of my friends would see what I was doing. If anyone I knew came up to the checkout counter, I'd pretend that I had forgotten something and duck down one of the aisles until he left. Waiting until nobody else stood in line, I'd rush forward with the items I had to buy.

I could accept being poor, but I died a thousand deaths thinking that other kids would know it. If I had thought more logically about the food stamps, I would have realized that quite a few of my friends' families used them too. Yet every time I left the house with the stamps burning in my pocket, I worried that someone might see me or hear about my using food stamps and then talk about me. So far as I know, no one ever did.

The ninth grade stands out as a pivotal time in my life. As an A student I could stand up intellectually with the best. And I could hold my own with the best—or worst—of my classmates. It was a time of transition. I was leaving childhood and beginning to think seriously about the future and especially about my desire to be a doctor.

By the time I hit the tenth grade, however, the peer pressure had gotten to be too much for me. Clothes were my biggest problem. “I can't wear these pants,” I'd tell Mother. “Everyone will laugh at me.”

“Only stupid people laugh at what you wear, Bennie,” she'd say. Or, “It's not what you're wearing that makes the difference.”

“But, Mother,” I'd plead. “Everybody I know has better clothes than I do.”

“Maybe so,” she'd patiently tell me. “I know a lot of people who dress better than I do, but that doesn't make them better.”

Just about every day, I begged and pressured my mother, insisting that I had to have the right kind of clothes. I knew exactly what I meant by the right kind: Italian knit shirts with suede fronts, silk pants, thick-and-thin silk socks, alligator shoes, stingy brim hats, leather jackets, and suede coats. I talked about those clothes constantly, and it seemed like I couldn't think about anything else. I had to have those clothes. I had to be like the in-crowd.

Mother was disappointed in me and I knew it, but all I could think of was my poor wardrobe and my need for acceptance. Instead of coming directly home after school and doing my homework, I played basketball. Sometimes I stayed out until ten o'clock, and a few times until eleven. When I came home I knew what to expect, and I prepared myself to endure it.

“Bennie, can't you see what you're doing to yourself? It's more than just disappointing me. You're going to ruin your life staying out all hours and begging for nothing but fine clothes.”

“I'm not ruining my life,” I insisted, because I didn't want to listen. I couldn't have heard anything because my immature mind focused on being like everybody else.

“I've been proud of you, Bennie,” she would say. “You've worked hard. Don't lose all of that now.”

“I'll keep on doing all right,” I'd snap back. “I'll be OK. Haven't I been bringing home good grades?”

She couldn't argue with me on that issue, but I know she worried. “All right, son,” she finally told me.

Then, after weeks of my pleading for new clothes, Mother said the words I wanted to hear. “I'll try to get some of those fancy clothes for you. If that's what it takes to make you happy, you'll have them.”

“They'll make me happy,” I said. “They will.”

It's hard for me to believe how insensitive I was back then. Without thinking about her needs, I let Mother go without to buy me clothes that would help me dress like the in-crowd. But I never had enough. Now I realize that no matter how many Italian shirts, leather jackets, or alligator shoes she bought, they would never have been enough.

My grades dropped. I went from the top of the class to being a C student. Even worse, achieving only average grades didn't bother me because I was part of the in-group. I hung out with the popular guys. They invited me to their parties and jam sessions. And fun—I was having more fun than I'd ever had in my life because I was one of the guys.

I just wasn't very happy.

I had strayed from the important and basic values in my life. To explain that statement, I have to go back to my mother again and tell you about a visit from Mary Thomas.

W
hen my mother was in the hospital to deliver me, she had her first contact with Seventh-day Adventists. Mary Thomas was visiting in the hospital and started talking to her about Jesus Christ. Mother listened politely but had little interest in what she had to say.

Later, as I've already mentioned, Mother was so emotionally hurt that she checked herself into a mental hospital. At one point, she seriously considered committing suicide by saving up her daily medication and taking all the pills at once. Then one afternoon a woman visited my mother in the hospital. She had met the woman once before—Mary Thomas.

This quiet but zealous woman began talking to her about God. That in itself was nothing new. From the time she was a little girl in Tennessee, Mother had heard about God. Yet Mary Thomas approached religion differently. She didn't try to force anything on Mother or tell her how sinful she was. Instead, Mary Thomas simply expressed her own beliefs and paused occasionally to read verses from the Bible that explained the basis for her faith.

More important than her teaching, Mary genuinely cared about Mother. And right then Mother needed someone to care.

Even before the divorce, Mother was a desperate woman with two young kids and no idea how to take care of them if things didn't work out. She was ostracized by many who felt she was unconventional. Then along came Mary Thomas with what seemed like a single ray of hope. “There is another source of strength, Sonya,” the visitor said. “And this strength can be yours.”

Those were exactly the words she needed as a stabilizing force in her life. Mother finally understood that she wasn't all alone in the world.

Over a period of weeks, Mary went over the teachings of her church, and Mother slowly came to believe in a loving God who expresses that love through Jesus Christ.

Day after day Mary Thomas talked patiently with Mother, answering questions, and listening to anything she wanted to say.

Mother's third-grade education prevented her from reading most of the Bible passages, but her visitor didn't give up. She stayed at it, reading everything aloud. And through that woman's influence my mother began to study and read for herself.

Even though Mother could barely read, once she decided to learn, through hours of practice she taught herself to read well. Mother started to read the Bible, often sounding out the words, sometimes still not understanding; but she persisted. That was her determination at work. Eventually she was able to read relatively sophisticated material.

Aunt Jean and Uncle William, with whom we stayed after my parents' divorce, had become Adventists in Boston. With their encouragement, it wasn't long until Mother grew stronger in her beliefs. Never one to go into anything half-heartedly, she immediately became active and has remained a devout church member. And from the time of her own conversion, she started taking Curtis and me to church with her. The Adventist denomination is the only spiritual home I've ever known.

When I was 12 and more mature, I realized that although I'd been emotionally touched at age 8 and even had been baptized, I hadn't understood exactly what being a Christian meant.

By the time I was 12, we had moved and were attending the Sharon Seventh-day Adventist Church in Inkster. After days of thinking about the matter, I spoke with Pastor Smith. “Although I've been baptized,” I said, “I didn't really grasp the significance of what I was doing.”

“You do understand now?”

“Oh, yes, I'm 12 now,” I said, “and I believe in Jesus Christ. After all, Jesus was 12 when His parents first took Him to the temple in Jerusalem. So I'd like to be baptized again, because I understand and I'm ready now.”

Pastor Smith listened sympathetically, and having no problem with my request, he rebaptized me.

Yet in looking back, I'm not sure when I actually turned to God. Or perhaps it happened so gradually that I had no awareness of the progression. I do know that when I was 14, I finally understood how God can change us.

It was at age 14 that I confronted the most severe personal problem of my life, one that almost ruined me forever.

CHAPTER 6

A Terrible Temper

T
hat sure was a dumb thing to say,” Jerry taunted as we walked down the hall together after English class. Kids crowded us on all sides, and Jerry's voice rose above the din.

I shrugged. “Guess so.” My wrong answer in seventh-grade English had been embarrassing enough. I didn't want to be reminded.

“You guess?” Jerry's laugh was shrill. “Listen, Carson, that was one of the all-time stupid things of the year!”

I turned my eyes toward him. He was taller and heavier, not even one of my close friends. “You've said some pretty dumb things too,” I said softly.