After telling my grandma for the fourth time in fifteen minutes that I have no intention of becoming a minister, she hurled the question I originally ignored: "So what are you going to do with yourself?" She doesn’t believe me anymore when I say that I want to be a rock n’ roll star. Actually, she laughs and tells me to cut my hair. Eventually, I suck it up and tell her that I hope to become a doctor. I often wonder why I am apprehensive to share my aspirations with my grandmother. She perceives the occupational world as a hierarchical construct where doctors and lawyers reside at the pinnacle (rock stars aren’t real people, so they aren’t in Mildred’s order). Not only are doctors superior, but they also deserve the unchallenged reverence of everyone below them. I avoid these conversations with grandma because I do not believe that the object of my education is success and self-aggrandizement; instead, I believe that I pursue education so that I might later use my skills and knowledge to serve my immediate and global communities.

Last summer I worked for the Shelter Medical Clinic in Charlotte. Every Wednesday and Thursday afternoon nurses, doctors, and dentists volunteered their skills and offered their time to provide many indigent patients with extractions, basic care, referrals, samples, and more samples. I found sufficient time to converse with the clients about their families and lives, but we usually talked about life and the New York Yankees. One Wednesday, a middle-aged man wearing grease-stained Carhart coveralls and a John Deere hat shuffled into the waiting room, doubling over in pain. He struggled to scribble his name, slowly took his seat, lowered his hat over his face, and waited for me to call him. His name was Ralph Hinson. He assured me that he wouldn’t normally be in a shelter, but a recent layoff forced him to hitchhike from Greensboro to obtain medical attention.
A few weeks before, he had developed a hernia because of overexertion at work. He noted that his employer’s insurance paid for an initial surgery, but he was forced to return to work early in order to pay for rent. After working for another week, the suture ruptured, but his employer refused to finance a second surgery. After hours of pain and confusion, he set foot in the clinic. He was hungry, weak, and homeless. He cursed the insurance companies, his boss, and his life. He doubted that he would receive treatment, and he distrusted the doctors. While talking with Ralph, I saw that medical care not only provides people with a treatment for an illness or a suture for a wound; medicine purveys emotional, mental, and spiritual wellness. Without care, Ralph could barely speak and walk, he could not sleep, and he surely didn’t want to smile. I had formerly acknowledged that health was important, but I did not truly understand that an illness or injury could become so debilitating. Certainly, I had seen sickness and sidelining injuries; however, these pangs received immediate pampering, warm soup, public attention, and phone calls from the devoted women who sit in the front pew in the First United Methodist Church. A slurry of emotions rushed through my mind. Because I am such an astute Davidson College student, I became determined to combat this apparent inequality. I rushed to the telephone, overwhelmed by my collegiate idealism, to call the Carolina Medical Center. After fifteen minutes of bargaining with the receptionist, I finally scheduled an afternoon appointment with the internal surgeon two weeks from then. Ralph exuded an exasperated sign, tightened his cap and exited the shelter. I asked him if wanted his appointment card. He refused. "I guess it ain’t that bad," he snarled as he labored through the waiting room and onto the street. My brief encounter with Ralph made me feel frustrated, angry, and helpless. I asked myself, How can I best serve Ralph? I could become a social worker. I could lobby for a health care system that prioritizes the needs of the impoverished and under-served. Perhaps I will discover the importance of such political action later in my life. But my brief encounter with him assured me that he needed a caring and compassionate doctor willing to treat him as an individual instead of as a homeless man. He required a physician dedicated to serving his physical, mental, and emotional needs, not a physician ruminating the financial drawbacks of helping the uninsured and trying to find a way to refer the patient to another doctor in order to minimize all possible contact with him. In conclusion, (I haven’t ended an essay like this since high school - give me a break) I want to become a doctor so that I can provide care for the medical needs of Ralph Hinson.