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.*
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.
“Curtis,” I asked, “why do you listen to that stuff? It sounds absolutely ridiculous.”
“I like it,” he said. He might have tried to explain a little about the music, but at the time
I wasn’t quite ready to hear him. However, he played that record so often during his two weeks at home that I found myself going around humming the melody. About that time I realized that I had actually begun to enjoy classical music!
Classical music wasn’t totally foreign to me. I had taken clarinet lessons since the seventh grade because that’s what my brother played. And after all, that meant my mother had to rent only one instrument in the beginning, and I could use Curtis’s old music. Later I went on to cornet until, in ninth grade, I switched to the baritone.
Curtis helped me to enjoy Schubert, and then I bought a record as a gift for my mother. Truthfully, I bought it for myself. The record contained the many overtures from Rossini’s operas, including the most well-known The William Tell Overture.
My next step was listening to the German and the Italian arias. I read books about operas and understood the stories. By then I was saying, “This is great music.” I no longer pushed myself to learn about classical music because I wanted to be on College Bowl. I had gotten hooked.
By the time I got to college I could listen to just about any piece of music—from classical to pop—and I’d know who wrote it. I have a good ear for recognizing styles in music, and I cultivated that.
During college, every evening I used to listen to a program called The Top One Hundred. It played only classical music. I listened every night, and it wasn’t long before I knew the top one hundred cold. Then I decided to branch out from just classical music, so I made it a point to listen and learn from a wider range of music.
I did everything I knew to get ready to try out for the College Bowl. Unfortunately, I never did get to appear on the program.
* Curtis graduated from high school at the height of the war in Viet Nam. In those days the Selective Service used a lottery system to determine who should go into the military service. Curtis’s low lottery number assured him that if he waited, the Army would draft him. After completing a year and a half of college, he decided to join the Navy. “I may as well get the branch of service that I want,” he said.
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