Black Man in a White Coat Read Free

profile. Could I hack it at Duke? Determined to use this fear as a buoy rather than a deadweight that could sink me, I probably spent as many hours studying in that first month at Duke as I had my entire senior year of college.
    The effort paid off. Our midterm scores had just come back, and, to my immense relief, I had done well, firmly within the top half of the class on each exam. As I stood to stretch during the break before the professor resumed his lecture, I was finally starting to feel comfortable, or at least what qualified as such for a first-year medical student.
    The mid-class break offered time to use the bathroom, grab coffee, or simply remain in place and gossip. I preferred to move about, as the lecture hall, with its folding seats, dim lighting, and sticky floor, had the uncomfortable ambience of an old movie theater. On my way out, I chatted with a few people and overheard one group discuss plans to camp out for Duke men’s basketball tickets.
    When I reentered the lecture hall a few minutes later, Dr. Gale, our professor, headed in my direction. Ordinarily, he didn’t socialize with students, so I expected him to walk past without acknowledgment. Instead, he stopped directly in front of me.
    â€œAre you here to fix the lights?” he asked.
    The sounds of the classroom seemed to vanish. So did my peripheral vision. Calm down, I told myself, maybe he was talking to someone else and only seemed to be looking at me. I glanced behind me. Nobody there. A few classmates were within hearing distance, but they seemed too engaged in conversation to notice us. Maybe with all the background noise, I had misheard him.
    â€œDid … did you ask me about fixing the lights?” I said.
    â€œYes,” he replied, irritation creeping into his voice. “You can see how dim it is over on that side of the room,” he said, gesturing with his index finger. “I called about this last week.”
    Reflexively, I stroked my chin and looked down at my clothing to check if I seemed out of place. Clean-shaven, and dressed in a polo shirt and khaki slacks, I thought that I’d done a decent job of looking the part of the preppy first-year medical student. Obviously I had failed.
    â€œNo,” I said, stumbling to come up with a reply. “I don’t have anything to do with that.”
    He frowned. “Then what are you doing here in my class?”
    My mouth went dry. Why had he intentionally singled me out in this way? Race was the first thought that entered my mind. I tried to summon an attitude of 1960s-era Black Power defiance, but what came out sounded like 1990s diffidence. “I’m a student … in your class.”
    â€œOh…” he said.
    Dr. Gale looked away, then walked off without another word. I staggered to my seat, sitting through the second part of his lecture like a robot, tuning out his voice. What had started out as a promising day was spoiled.
    During lunch a few hours later, I replayed the encounter to three black classmates as we sat out of range of others in the cafeteria. I’m not sure what I was looking for, other than the chance to vent to people who might understand what I was feeling. Their response surprised me: Two of them burst out laughing.
    â€œThat’s messed up,” Rob said, almost choking on his hamburger.
    â€œAt least he thought you were a skilled worker,” Stan said, as the two laughed harder. “He could have asked you to pick up his trash or shine his shoes in front of the entire class.”
    â€œThat’s not funny,” Marsha said, glaring at them.
    â€œWhat else are you going to do but laugh about it?” Stan shot back.
    â€œHe’s right,” Rob chimed in. “You know you want to laugh too.”
    Marsha started to say something about reporting the incident or confronting the professor, but her militancy evaporated as Stan and Rob started quoting the comedian Chris Rock. I don’t