Gifted Hands: The Ben Carson Story (7 page)

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. Just last week you—”

Our words flew back and forth, my voice remaining calm while his grew louder and louder. Finally I turned to my locker. I'd just ignore him, and maybe he'd shut up and go away.

My fingers twirled the combination lock. Then, just as I lifted the lock, Jerry shoved me. I stumbled, and my temper flared. I forgot the 20 pounds of muscle he had on me. I didn't see the kids and teachers milling in the hall. I swung at him, lock in hand. The blow slammed into his forehead, and he groaned, staggering backward, blood seeping from a three-inch gash.

Dazed, Jerry slowly lifted his hand to his forehead. He felt the sticky blood and carefully lowered his hand in front of his eyes. He screamed.

Of course the principal called me in. I'd calmed down by then and apologized profusely. “It was almost an accident,” I told him. “I never would have hit him if I'd remembered the lock in my hand.” I meant it too. I was ashamed. Christians didn't lose their temper like that. I apologized to Jerry and the incident was closed.

And my temper? I forgot about it. I wasn't the kind of guy who'd split open a kid's head on purpose.

Some weeks later Mother brought home a new pair of pants for me. I took one look at them and shook my head. “No way, Mother. I'm not going to wear them. They're the wrong kind.”

“What do you mean ‘wrong kind’?” she countered. She was tired. Her voice firm. “You need new pants. Now just wear these!”

I flung them back at her. “No,” I yelled. “I'm not going to wear these ugly things.”

She folded the pants across the back of the plastic kitchen chair. “I can't take them back.” Her voice was patient. “They were on special.”

“I don't care.” I spun to face her. “I hate them, and I wouldn't be caught dead in them.”

“I paid good money for these pants.”

“They're not what I want.”

She took a step forward. “Listen, Bennie. We don't always get what we want out of life.”

Heat poured through my body, inflaming my face, energizing my muscles, “I will!” I yelled. “Just wait and see. I will. I'll—”

My right arm drew back, my hand swung forward. Curtis jumped me from behind, wrestling me away from Mother, pinning my arms to my side.

The fact that I almost hit my mother should have made me realize how deadly my temper had become. Maybe I knew it but wouldn't admit the truth to myself. I had what I only can label a pathological temper—a disease—and this sickness controlled me, making me totally irrational.

In general I was a good kid. It usually took a lot to make me mad. But once I reached the boiling point, I lost all rational control. Totally without thinking, when my anger was aroused, I grabbed the nearest brick, rock, or stick to bash someone. It was as if I had no conscious will in the matter.

Friends who didn't know me as a kid think I'm exaggerating when I say I had a bad temper. But it's no exaggeration and to make it clear, here are just two more of my crazed experiences.

I can't remember how this one started, but a neighborhood kid hit me with a rock. It didn't hurt, but again, out of that insane kind of anger, I raced to the side of the road, picked up a big rock, and hurled it at his face. I seldom missed when I threw anything. The rock broke his glasses and smashed his nose.

I was in the ninth grade when the unthinkable happened. I lost control and tried to knife a friend. Bob and I were listening to a transistor radio when he flipped the dial to another station. “You call that music?” he demanded.

“It's better than what you like!” I yelled back, grabbing for the dial.

“Come on, Carson. You always—”

In that instant blind anger—pathological anger—took possession of me. Grabbing the camping knife I carried in my back pocket, I snapped it open and lunged for the boy who had been my friend. With all the power of my young muscles, I thrust the knife toward his belly. The knife hit his big, heavy ROTC buckle with such force that the blade snapped and dropped to the ground.

I stared at the broken blade and went weak.
I had almost killed him. I had almost killed my friend
. If the buckle hadn't protected him, Bob would have been lying at my feet, dying or severely wounded. He didn't say anything, just looked at me, unbelieving. “I—I'm sorry,” I muttered, dropping the handle. I couldn't look him in the eye. Without a word, I turned and ran home.

Thankfully the house was empty, for I couldn't bear to see anyone. I raced to the bathroom where I could be alone, and locked the door. Then I sank down on the edge of the tub, my long legs stretching across the linoleum, bumping against the sink.

I tried to kill Bob. I tried to kill my friend
. No matter how tightly I squeezed my eyes shut, I couldn't escape the image—my hand, my knife, the belt buckle, the broken knife. And Bob's face.

“This is crazy,” I finally mumbled. “I must be crazy. Sane people don't try to kill their friends.” The rim of the tub felt cool under my hands. I put my hands on my hot face. “I'm doing so well at school, and then I do this.”

I'd dreamed of being a doctor since I was 8 years old. But how could I fulfill the dream with such a terrible temper? When angry, I went out of control and had no idea how to stop. I'd never make anything of myself if I didn't control my temper. If only I could do something about the rage that burned inside me.

Two hours passed. The green and brown squiggly snakelike design on the linoleum swam before my eyes. I felt sick to my stomach, disgusted with myself, and ashamed. “Unless I get rid of this temper,” I said aloud, “I'm not going to make it. If Bob hadn't worn that big buckle he'd probably be dead, and I'd be on my way to jail or reform school.”

Misery washed over me. My sweaty shirt stuck to my back. Sweat trickled down my armpits and my sides. I hated myself, but I couldn't help myself, and so I hated myself even more.

From somewhere deep inside my mind came a strong impression. Pray. My mother had taught me to pray. My teachers at the religious school in Boston often told us that God would help us if we only asked Him. For weeks, for months, I had been trying to control my temper, figuring I could handle it myself. Now, in that small hot bathroom I knew the truth. I could not handle my temper alone.

I felt as though I could never face anyone again. How could I look my mother in the eye? Would she know? How could I ever see Bob again? How could he help but hate me? How could he ever trust me again?

“Lord,” I whispered, “You have to take this temper from me. If You don't, I'll never be free from it. I'll end up doing things a lot worse than trying to stab one of my best friends.”

Already heavy into psychology (I had been reading
Psychology Today
for a year), I knew that temper was a personality trait. Standard thinking in the field pointed out the difficulty, if not the impossibility, of modifying personality traits. Even today some experts believe that the best we can do is accept our limitations and adjust to them.

Tears streamed between my fingers. “Lord, despite what all the experts tell me, You can change me. You can free me forever from this destructive personality trait.”

I wiped my nose on a piece of toilet paper and let it drop to the floor. “You've promised that if we come to You and ask something in faith, that You'll do it. I believe that You can change this in me.” I stood up, looking at the narrow window, still pleading for God's help. I couldn't go on hating myself forever for all the terrible things I'd done.

I sank down on the toilet, sharp mental pictures of other temper fits filling my mind. I saw my anger, clenched my fists against my rage. I wouldn't be any good for anything if I couldn't change.
My poor mother
, I thought.
She believes in me. Not even she knows how bad I am
.

Misery engulfed me in darkness. “If you don't do this for me, God, I've got no place else to go.”

At one point I'd slipped out of the bathroom long enough to grab a Bible. Now I opened it and began to read in Proverbs. Immediately I saw a string of verses about angry people and how they get themselves into trouble. Proverbs 16:32 impressed me the most: “He who is slow to anger is better than the mighty, and he who rules his spirit than he who takes a city” (RSV).

My lips moved wordlessly as I continued to read. I felt as though the verses had been written just to me, for me. The words of Proverbs condemned me, but they also gave me hope. After a while peace begin to fill my mind. My hands stopped shaking. The tears stopped. During those hours alone in the bathroom, something happened to me. God heard my deep cries of anguish. A feeling of lightness flowed over me, and I knew a change of heart had taken place. I felt different. I was different.

At last I stood up, placed the Bible on the edge of the tub, and went to the sink. I washed my face and hands, straightened my clothes. I walked out of the bathroom a changed young man. “My temper will never control me again,” I told myself. “Never again. I'm free.”

And since that day, since those long hours wrestling with myself and crying to God for help, I have never had a problem with my temper.

That same afternoon I decided I would read the Bible every day. I've kept that practice as a daily habit and especially enjoy the book of Proverbs. Even now, whenever possible, I pick up my Bible and read the first thing every morning.

The miracle that took place was incredible when I stop to think about it. Some of my psychologically oriented friends insist that I still have the potential for anger. Maybe they're right, but I've lived more than twenty years since that experience, and I've never had another flare-up or even had a serious problem of needing to control my temper.

I can tolerate amazing amounts of stress and ridicule. By God's grace, it still doesn't require any effort to shake off unpleasant, irritating things. God has helped me to conquer my terrible temper, once and forever.

During those hours in the bathroom I also came to realize that if people could make me angry they could control me. Why should I give someone else such power over my life?

Over the years I've chuckled at people who deliberately did things they thought would make me angry. I'm no better than anyone else, but I laugh inside at how foolish people can be, trying to make me angry. They don't have any control over me.

And this is the reason. From that terrible day when I was 14 years old, my faith in God has been intensely personal and an important part of who I am. About that time I started to hum or sing a hymn that has continued to be my favorite, “Jesus Is All the World to Me.” Whenever anything irritates me, that hymn dissolves my negativity. I've explained it this way to young people, “I have sunshine in my heart regardless of conditions around me.”

I'm not afraid of anything as long as I think of Jesus Christ and my relationship to Him and remember that the One who created the universe can do anything. I also have evidence—my own experience—that God can do anything, because He changed me.

From age 14, I began to focus on the future. My mother's lessons—and those of several of my teachers—were at last paying off.

CHAPTER 7

ROTC Triumph

I
was 10 years old when I first became interested in Johns Hopkins University Hospital. Back in those days it seemed that every television or newspaper medical story involved somebody at Johns Hopkins. So I said, “That's where I want to go when I become a doctor. Those guys are finding cures and new ways to help sick people.”

Although I had no question about wanting to be a doctor, the particular field of medicine wasn't always so clear. For instance, when I was 13 my focus changed from being a general practitioner to becoming a psychiatrist. Watching TV programs featuring psychiatrists convinced me, for they came across as dynamic intellectuals who knew everything about solving anybody's problems. At that same age I was very aware of money and figured that with so many crazy people living in the United States, psychiatrists must make a good living.

If I had any doubts about my chosen career they dissolved after my thirteenth birthday when Curtis gave me a subscription to
Psychology Today
. It was the perfect gift. Not only a great brother but a good friend, Curtis must have really sacrificed to spend his hard-earned money for me. He was only 15, and his after-school job in the science lab didn't pay a lot.

Curtis was generous but also sensitive to me. Because he knew I was getting interested in psychology and psychiatry, he chose that way to help me. Though I found Psychology Today tough reading for a kid my age, I grasped enough from the different articles that I could hardly wait for each issue to arrive. I also read books in that field. For awhile I fancied myself as some sort of local shrink. Other kids came to me with their problems. I was a good listener, and I learned certain techniques for helping others. I'd ask questions like, “Do you want to talk about it?” or “What's troubling you today?”

The kids opened up. Maybe they just wanted a chance to talk about their problems. Some of them were willing to listen. I felt honored to have their confidence and to know that they were willing to tell me their troubles.

“Well, Benjamin,” I said to myself one day, “you've found your chosen field, and you're already moving into it.”

Not until my days in medical school would that focus shift once more.

In the second half of tenth grade I joined the ROTC. I'll confess that I did that largely because of Curtis. I really admired my brother, although I would never have told him so. Whether he knew it or not, he provided a role model for me. He was one of the people I wanted to emulate. It made me proud to see him in his uniform, his chest plastered with more medals and ribbons than anybody I knew.

My joining the ROTC started another change in my life, helping me to get back on the right track. My brother, then a senior, had reached the rank of captain and was the company commander when I became a private.

Curtis never got caught up in the peer thing and the demand for clothes like I did. He stayed on the honor role and remained a good student right through high school. He graduated near the top of his class and went on to the University of Michigan, eventually majoring in engineering.
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