After completing my first year at Yale, I received a wonderful summer job as a supervisor with a highway crew — the people who clean up the trash along the highways. The federal government had set up a jobs program, mostly for inner-city students. The crew walked along the Interstate near Detroit and the western suburbs, picking up and bagging trash in an effort to keep the highways beautiful.
Most of the supervisors had a horrible time with discipline problems, and the inner-city kids had hundreds of reasons for not putting any effort into their work. “It’s too hot to work today,” one would say. “I’m just too tired out from yesterday,” another said. “Why we gotta do all this? Tomorrow people will just litter it all up again. Who’ll know if we cleaned it up or not?” “Why should we kill ourselves at this? The job just doesn’t pay enough to do that.”
The other supervisors, I learned, figured that if each of the five to six young men in the crew filled two plastic bags a day, they were doing well.
These guys could do that much in one hour, and I knew it. I may be an overachiever, but it seemed a waste of my time to let my crew laze around picking up 12 bags of litter a day. From the first my crew consistently filled between 100 and 200 bags a day, and we covered enormous stretches of highway.
The amount of work my crew did flabbergasted my supervisiors in the Department of Public Works. “How come your guys can get so much work done?” they asked. “None of the other crews do that much.”
“Oh, I have my little secrets,” I’d say, and make a joke out of what I was doing. If I said too much, someone might interfere and make me change my rules.
I used a simple method, but I didn’t go by the standard procedures — and I share this story because I think it illustrates another principle in my life. It’s like the popular song of a few years ago that says “I did it my way.” Not because I oppose rules—it would be crazy to do surgery without obeying certain rules — but sometimes regulations hinder and need to be broken or ignored.
For example, the fourth day on the job I said to my guys, “It’s going to be real hot today —”
“You can say that again!” one of them said, and immediately they all eagerly agreed.
“So,” I said, “I’m going to make you a deal. First, beginning tomorrow, we start at six in the morning while it’s still cool —”
“Man, nobody in the whole world gets up that early—”
“Just listen to my whole plan,” I said to the interrupter. Our crews were supposed to work from 7:30 a.m. until 4:30 p.m. with an hour off for lunch. “If you guys — and it has to be all six of you—will be ready to start work so that we can get out on the road at six, and you work fast to fill up 150 bags, then after that you’re through for the day.” Before anyone could start questioning me I clarified what I meant
“You see, if you can collect all that trash in two hours, I’ll take you back, and you’re off the rest of the day. You still earn a full day’s pay. But you have to bring in 150 bags no matter how long it takes.”
We bashed the idea back and forth, but they saw what I wanted. It had only taken a couple of days to get them to pick up 100 bags a day, and it was hot, hard work in the afternoon. But they loved taunting the other crews and telling how much they had done, and they were ready for the new challenge. These kids were learning to take pride in their work, as lowly as many of them considered their jobs.
They agreed with my arrangement. The next morning all six of them were ready to go at 6:00 a.m. And how they worked—hard and fast. They learned to clean a whole stretch of highway in two to three hours—the same amount of work that they had previously stretched out for the whole day.
“OK, guys,” I’d say as soon as I counted the last bag. “We take the rest of the day off.”
They loved it and worked with a joyful playfulness. Their best moments came when we’d be hauling ourselves into the Department of Transportation by 9:00, just as the other crews were getting started.
“You guys going to work today?” one of my guys would yell.
“Man, not much trash out there today,” another one would say. “Superman and his hot shots have cleaned up most of it.”
“Hope you don’t get sunburned out there!” they yelled as a truck pulled out.
Obviously the supervisors knew what I was doing, because they saw us coming back in, and they certainly had reports of our going out early. They never said anything. If they had, all I would have had to do was produce evidence of our work.
We weren’t supposed to work that way, because the rules set the specific work hours. Yet not one supervisor ever commented on what I was doing with my crew. More than anything else, I believe they kept silent because we were getting the job done and doing it faster and better than any of the other crews.
Some people are born to work, and others are pushed into it by their moms. But doing what must be done as quickly and as well as possible has been my strategy for everything, including medicine. We don’t necessarily have to play by the strict rules if we can find a way that works better, as long as it’s reasonable and doesn’t hurt anybody. Someone told me that creativity is just learning to do something with a different perspective. So maybe that’s what it is—being creative.
The following summer, after my second year of college, I came back to Detroit to work again as a supervisor with my road crew. At the end of the previous year, Carl Seufert, the top man in the Department of Transportation, had left me with the words “Come on back next summer. We’ll have a place for you.”
However, the economy hit a slump in the summer of ’71, especially in the capital of the automobile industry. Supervisory positions, because they paid well, were incredibly hard to get. Most of the college students who got those jobs had significant personal or political connections. They had been hired months in advance while I was still in New Haven.
Since Carl Seufert had promised me a job, I didn’t consider confirming it during the Christmas vacation period. When I applied in late May, the personnel director said, “I’m sorry. Those jobs are all gone.” She explained the situation of few jobs and more applicants, but I already knew that.
I didn’t blame that woman, and I knew arguing with her wouldn’t get me anywhere. I should have put in my application earlier like the others.
But I confidently reasoned that I had worked every summer, and I would find another job easily enough.
I was wrong. Like hundreds of college students, I found that there were absolutely no jobs anywhere. I beat the streets for two weeks. Each morning I’d get on the bus, ride downtown, and apply at every business establishment I came across.
“Sorry, no jobs.” I must have heard that statement, or variations of it, a hundred times. Sometimes I heard genuine sympathy in the voice that said it. At other places, I felt as if I was number 8,000 to come in, and the person was tired of repeating the same thing and just wished we’d all go away.
In the middle of this depressing search for employment, Ward Randall, Jr., was a bright light in my life.
Ward, a White attorney in the Detroit area, had graduated from Yale two decades before me. We met at a local alumni meeting while I was still a student. He took a liking to me because we both shared a keen interest in classical music. During the summer of 1971 when I was searching for a job in downtown Detroit, we frequently met for lunch and then went to the noonday concerts. Many of them were organ concerts in one of the churches downtown.
Besides that, Ward frequently invited me to go with his family to various concerts and symphonies, and he introduced me to a lot of the cultural interests around Detroit that I wouldn’t have had the opportunity to attend because of my lack of finances. He was just a real nice man, a real encouragement to me, and I still appreciate him today.
After walking all over the city, I finally decided, I’m going to make up my own rules on this one. I’ve tried all the conventional ways of finding a job and found nothing. Nothing. Nothing.
Then I remembered my regional interview for en
trance into Yale and the person who had interviewed me—a nice man named Mr. Standart. He was also the vice president of Young and Rubicum Advertising, one of the large national advertising companies.
First I tried the personnel office of his company and received the familiar words “I’m sorry, we have no temporary jobs available.”
Casting aside my pride and giving myself another pep talk, I got on the elevator to the executive suites. Because Mr. Standart had interviewed me for Yale and given me a fine recommendation, I figured he must have had a good opinion of me. But I hadn’t figured out how I’d get past his secretary. I remembered that nobody, absolutely nobody, got into his office without an appointment. Then I figured, “What have I got to lose?”
When Mr. Standart’s secretary looked up at me, I said, “My name is Ben Carson. I’m a student from Yale, and I’d like to see Mr. Standart for just a minute —”
“I’ll see if he’s free.” She went into his office, and a minute later Mr. Standart himself came out. He smiled, and his eyes met mine as he held out his hand. “Nice of you to come by and see me,” he said. “How are things going for you at Yale?”
As soon as we finished the formalities, I said, “Mr. Standart I need a job. I’m having a terrible time trying to find work. I’ve been out every day for two weeks, and I can’t find a thing.”
“Is that right? Did you try personnel here?”
“No jobs here either,” I said.
“We’ll just have to see what we can do.” Mr. Standart picked up the phone and punched a couple of numbers, while I looked around his mammoth office. It was exactly like the fabulous sets of executive suites I’d seen on television.
I didn’t hear the name of the person he talked to, but I heard the rest of his words. “I’m sending a young man down to your office. His name is Ben Carson. Find a job for him.”
Just that. Not given as a harsh command but as a simple directive from the kind of man who had the authority to issue that kind of order.
After thanking Mr. Standart I went back to the personnel office. This time the director of personnel himself talked to me. “We don’t need anybody, but we can put you in the mail room.”
“Anything. I just need a job for the rest of the summer.”
The job turned out to be a lot of fun because I got to drive all around the city, delivering and picking up letters and packages.
I had only one problem. The job just didn’t pay enough for me to save anything for school. After three weeks, I took my next step of action. I decided that I had to quit my job and find one that paid better. “After all,” I said to reinforce my decision, “it worked with Mr. Standart.” I went to the Department of Transportation and talked to Carl Seufert.
We were already nearing the end of June, every job was filled, and it seemed pretty audacious for me to try, but I did it anyway.
I went directly to Mr. Seufert’s office, and he had time to talk to me. After he heard my summer’s tale, he said, “Ben, for a guy like you there’s always a job.” He was the overall supervisor of the highway construction crews, both cleanup and highway maintenance. “Since the supervisory jobs are all gone,” he said, “we’ll make a job.” He paused and thought for a few seconds and said, “We’ll just set up another crew and give you a job.”
That’s exactly what Mr. Seufert did. By using creativity and a little daring, I got my old job back. I used the same tactics with my new six-member crew, and it worked as effectively as it had the previous summer.
Frequently I’d see Carl Seufert when I checked out, or he’d visit us on the worksite. He’d always take time to chat with me. “Ben,” he said to me more than once, “you’re a good man. We’re fortunate to have you.”
On one occasion he put his arm on my shoulder and said, “You’re your own man. You can accomplish anything that you want in the world.” As I listened, this man began to sound like my mother, and I loved hearing his words. “Ben, you’re a talented person, and you can do anything. I believe you’re going to do great things. I’m just glad to know you.”
I’ve always remembered his words.
The following summer, 1972, I worked on the line for Chrysler Motor Company, assembling fender parts. Each day I went to work and concentrated on doing my best. Some may find this hard to believe, but with only three months on the job, I received recognition and promotion. Toward the end of the summer they moved me up to inspect the louvers that go on the back windows of the sporty models. I got to drive some of the cars off the finish line to the place where we parked them for transportation to showrooms. I liked the things I did at Chrysler. And every day there confirmed what I had already believed.
That summer I also learned a valuable lesson—one that I’d never forget. My mother had given me the words of wisdom, but, like many kids, I paid little attention. Now I knew from my own experience how right she was: The kind of job doesn’t matter. The length of time on the job doesn’t matter, for it’s true even with a summer job. If you work hard and do your best, you’ll be recognized and move onward.
Although said a little differently, my mother had given me the same advice. “Bennie, it doesn’t really matter what color you are. If you’re good, you’ll be recognized. Because people, even if they’re prejudiced, are going to want the best. You just have to make being the best your goal in life.”
I knew she had been right.
Lack of money constantly troubled me during my college years. But two experiences during my studies at Yale reminded me that God cared and would always provide for my needs.
First, during my sophomore year I had very little money. And then all of a sudden, I had absolutely no money—not even enough to ride the bus back and forth to church. No matter how I viewed the situation, I had no prospects of anything coming in for at least a couple of weeks.
That day I walked across the campus alone, bewailing my situation, tired of never having enough money to buy the everyday things I needed; the simple things like toothpaste or stamps. “Lord,” I prayed, “please help me. At least give me bus fare to go to church.”
Although I’d been walking aimlessly, I looked up and realized I was just outside Battell Chapel on the old campus. As I approached the bike racks, I looked down. A ten-dollar bill lay crumpled on the ground three feet in front of me.
“Thank You, God,” I said as I picked it up, hardly able to believe that I had the money in my hand.
The following year I hit that same low point again—not one cent on me, and no expectations for getting any. Naturally I walked across campus all the way to the chapel, searching for a ten-dollar bill. I found none.
Lack of funds wasn’t my only worry that day, however. The day before I’d been informed that the final examination papers in a psychology class, Perceptions 301, “were inadvertently burned.” I’d taken the exam two days earlier but, with the other students, would have to repeat the test.
And so I, with about 150 other students, went to the designated auditorium for the repeat exam.
As soon as we received the tests, the professor walked out of the classroom. Before I had a chance to read the first question, I heard a loud groan behind me.
“Are they kidding?” someone whispered loudly.
As I stared at the questions, I couldn’t believe them either. They were incredibly difficult, if not impossible. Each of them contained a thread of what we should have known from the course, but they were so intricate that I figured a brilliant psychiatrist might have trouble with some of them.
“Forget it,” I heard one girl say to another. “Let’s go back and study this. We can say we didn’t read the notice. Then when they repeat it, we’ll be ready.” Her friend agreed, and they quietly slipped out of the auditorium.
Immediately three others packed away their papers. Others filtered out. Within ten minutes after the exam started, we were down to roughly one hundred. Soon half the class was gone, and the exodus continued. Not one person turned in the examination before leaving.
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I kept working away, thinking all the time, How can they expect us to know this stuff? Pausing then to look around, I counted seven students besides me still going over the test.
Within half an hour from the time the examination began, I was the only student left in the room. Like the others, I was tempted to walk out, but I had read the notice, and I couldn’t lie and say I hadn’t. All the time I wrote my answers, I prayed for God to help me figure out what to put down. I paid no more attention to departing footsteps.
Suddenly the door of the classroom opened noisily, disrupting my flow of thought. As I turned, my gaze met that of the professor. At the same time I realized no one else was still struggling over the questions. The professor came toward me. With her was a photographer for the Yale Daily News who paused and snapped my picture.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“A hoax,” the teacher said. “We wanted to see who was the most honest student in the class.” She smiled again. “And that’s you.”
The professor then did something even better. She handed me a ten-dollar bill.
* In the summer of 1988 Mrs. Whittley sent me a note that started out, “I wonder if you remember me.” I was touched and tickled. Of course I remembered her, as I would have remembered anyone who had been that helpful to me. She said she had seen me on television and read articles about me. She is now retired, living in the South, and she wanted to send me her congratulations.
I was delighted that she remembered me.
CHAPTER 10
A Serious Step
I’ve always been called Candy,” she said, “but my name is Lacena Rustin.”
Momentarily I stared, mesmerized by her smile. “Nice to meet you,” I replied.
She was one of many freshmen I met that day at the Grosse Pointe Country Club. Many of Michigan’s wealthiest citizens live in Grosse Pointe, and tourists often come to admire the homes of the Fords and Chryslers. Yale was hosting a freshmen reception for new students, and I, along with a number of upperclassmen, attended to welcome students from Michigan. It had meant a lot to me to have some connections when I first went away to college, and I enjoyed meeting and helping the new students whenever I could.
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