One of the reasons I want to be an anesthesiologist is because there aren't any medical doctors in my family. The closest we get is my 'uncle' who is an orthopedic surgeon and my father's 2nd cousin the chiropractor. I know they exist, but I've never seen a black doctor at the hospital either. While that tracks with demographics (the Association of American Medical Colleges lists only 5% of U.S. doctors identify as black) it doesn't feel right. It's the 21st century, 150 years post-slavery, yet there are still so few black doctors. Increasing that representation helps to fuel my daily ambition. My grandfather said, "blackness is not a limitation". My father's version is, "your blackness is bigger than small-minded people's expectations." Bolstered by this, I've embraced being one of few in certain spaces. I was the only black boy in the entire first grade (one of two from second to fifth). I was the only one on my 4th-grade lacrosse team or opponents' teams and the only one at sleep-away camp. I'm prepared, if necessary, to be the only one in my medical school class. Isolation hasn't always been comfortable. Obvious implicit bias, too many questions, and backhanded compliments have been the rule, but I could never allow ignorance and microaggressions to keep me from doing things I'm drawn to (e.g. indoor soccer to lacrosse and later ski camp). My experiences probably would have been less complicated had there been other POC kids, which is why I'm planning to be a knowing nod for health careers club field trips, new med students, and later interns in my hospital. I sincerely want to practice medicine. I'm compelled to not only achieve that goal but also be an example and external motivator for others like me because it's imperative.

"This is private property!” I stood immobilized with scuffed, sweaty hands gripped tightly on my handlebars. Both knees, bloody from sidewalk rash, began to buckle as the scary-eyed lady's lecture went on forever. One refrain repeated, “What are you doing here?” Those words stung. They grated me deeper than the sidewalk ever could. Ashamed, I ran the bike home, sprinted upstairs to my room, and bawled. That haunting feeling kept me from riding my bike for several weeks in that summer between 2nd and 3rd grade. “What are you doing here?” Eventually, I decided not to let that humiliating experience prevent me from the still-new activity that I loved. I determined that the neighborhood was just as much mine as hers, so I got back on my bike. Not long afterward, the dog my family was looking after darted out the front door. When my dad and I eventually found her in a neighbor's backyard (less than ten houses away) we were asked again, "What are you doing here?" The familiar words aggravated my old injury. So, what am I doing here? I’m not always certain. Though, just as I continued to walk, search for my dogs, and ride my bike around my neighborhood, I keep pushing. I take the prejudice, microaggressions, and obvious discomfort of my neighbors and repurpose them into determination. Some days I can pedal on and let those slights breeze by, other days I’m called directly back to my excoriating 8-year-old experience. Either way, I try to learn from and reference them in the next moment, because there's always another moment. I've learned to see more than those people’s skewed perceptions when I look in the mirror. I see a future doctor who will impartially provide care to everyone, even mean neighbor ladies.

While not the most significant, one of the reasons I want to be an anesthesiologist is because there aren't any medical doctors in my family. I have an 'uncle' who is an orthapedic surgeon and I've heard that my father has second cousin who is a general practitioner but I've never met her. I've also never seen a black doctor in our local hospital. While that tracks with demographics (the Association of American Medical colleges list only 5% of U.S. doctors identify as black) it doesn't feel right. In the 21st century, some sixty years post-Civil Rights Act, there are still so few black doctors, which fuels my ambition to increase that representation even more. I'm pursuing a career in medicine not because I consider myself some trailblazer though. I really want to practice medicine. Like my grandfather always said, " my blackness is not a limitation". My father's version is, "your blackness is bigger than small-minded people's expectations." Bolstered by this foundation, I've spent the majority of my life readily embracing being one of few. I was the only black boy in the entire first grade and one of two until fifth. I was the only one on my 4th-grade lacrosse team or any of the teams we played against. The only one at sleep away camp. While I hope it's not the case, I'm prepared to be the only one in my medical school class. Being one of few hasn't always been comfortable, but I haven't been crushed by the experiences either. Obvious implicit bias, too many questions, and backhanded compliments has been the rule, but I could never allow ignorance and microaggressions to keep me from doing things I'm drawn to. My recess friends told me indoor soccer was fun so I joined the team; the same thing with lacrosse and later ski camp. I imagine my experiences would have been smoother/less complicated had there been other POC kids, teachers, and coaches around, which is precisely why I'm planning to be that knowing nod for health careers club field trips, or new med students, or interns in my hospital. Studies show that representation reduces implicit bias, bolsters cultural competency, and helps POC feel less isolated and disenfranchised. It stands to reason that when the field has as few 5%, then representation is even more paramount.