Gifted Hands: The Ben Carson Story (11 page)

“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.

L
ack 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.

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.

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.

Candy was pretty. I remember thinking
That's one good looking girl
. She had an exuberance about her that I liked. She was bubbly, sort of all over the place, talking to this one and that. She laughed easily, and during the few minutes that we talked she made me feel good.

At five feet seven, Candy was about half a foot shorter than I am. Her hair fluffed around her face in the popular Afro style. But most of all, I was drawn to her effervescent personality. Maybe because I tend to be quiet and introspective, and she was so outgoing and friendly, I admired her from the start.

At Yale, mutual friends often said, “Ben, you ought to get together with Candy.” I later found out that friends would say to her, “Candy, you and Ben Carson ought to get together. You just seem right together.”

Though I was beginning my third year of college when we met, I definitely wasn't ready for love. With my lack of finances, my single-minded goal to become a doctor, and the long years of study and internship that I faced, falling in love was the last thing on my mind. I'd come too far to get sidetracked by romance. Another factor entered into the picture, too. I'm rather shy and hadn't done much dating. I'd gone out with small groups, dated now and then, but had never gotten into any serious relationship. And I didn't plan on any either.

Once school began, I saw Candy occasionally since we were both in the premed program. “Hi,” I'd call out. “How are you doing in your classes?”

“Fantastic,” she'd usually say.

“You're adjusting all right then?” I asked the first time.

“I think I'm going to get straight A's.”

As we chatted I'd think,
This girl must be really smart
. And she was.

I was even more amazed when I learned that she played violin in the Yale Symphony and Bach Society—not a position for just anybody who could play an instrument. These folks were top-grade musicians. As the weeks and months passed by, I learned more and more intriguing things about Candy Rustin. The fact that she was musically talented and knew classical music gave us something to talk about as we'd pass from time to time on campus.

However, Candy was just another student, a nice person, and I didn't have any particularly warm feelings toward her. Or perhaps, with my head in my books and my sights set on medical school, I wouldn't let myself consider how I really felt about the bright and talented Candy Rustin.

About the time Candy and I started talking more often and for longer periods, the church in New Haven which I attended needed an organist.

I had mentioned our choir director, Aubrey Tompkins, to Candy several times, because he was an important part of my life. After I joined the church choir, Aubrey would come by and pick me up on Friday evenings for rehearsal. During my second year my roommate Larry Harris, who was also an Adventist, joined the choir. Often on Saturday nights Aubrey took Larry and me to his home, and we grew to know his family well. At other times he showed us the sights of New Haven. An opera buff, Aubrey invited me several times to go with him on Saturday nights to the Metropolitan Opera in New York.

“Say, Candy,” I told her one day, “I just thought of something. You're a musician. Our church needs an organist. What do you think? Would you be interested in the job? They pay the organist, but I don't know how much.”

She didn't even hesitate. “Sure,” she said, “I'd like to try it.”

Then I paused with a sudden thought. “Do you think you could play the music? Aubrey gives us some difficult stuff.”

“I can probably play anything with practice.”

So I told Aubrey Tompkins about Candy. “Fantastic!” he responded. “Have her come for an audition.”

Candy came to the next choir rehearsal and played the large electric organ. She played well, and I was happy just to see her up there, but the violin was her instrument. She could play anything written for the violin. And although Candy had played the organ for her high school baccalaureate service, she hadn't had much of an opportunity to keep in practice. She had no idea that Aubrey Tompkins liked to throw us into the heavy stuff, particularly Mozart, and she wasn't quite up to it on the organ.

Aubrey let her play a few minutes; then he said kindly, “Look, dear, why don't you sing in the choir?”