Gifted Hands: The Ben Carson Story by Ben Carson Read Free Book Online Page A

of my friends would see what I was doing. If anyone I knew came up to the checkout counter, I'd pretend that I had forgotten something and duck down one of the aisles until he left. Waiting until nobody else stood in line, I'd rush forward with the items I had to buy.
    I could accept being poor, but I died a thousand deaths thinking that other kids would know it. If I had thought more logically about the food stamps, I would have realized that quite a few of my friends' families used them too. Yet every time I left the house with the stamps burning in my pocket, I worried that someone might see me or hear about my using food stamps and then talk about me. So far as I know, no one ever did.
    The ninth grade stands out as a pivotal time in my life. As an A student I could stand up intellectually with the best. And I could hold my own with the best—or worst—of my classmates. It was a time of transition. I was leaving childhood and beginning to think seriously about the future and especially about my desire to be a doctor.
    By the time I hit the tenth grade, however, the peer pressure had gotten to be too much for me. Clothes were my biggest problem. “I can't wear these pants,” I'd tell Mother. “Everyone will laugh at me.”
    “Only stupid people laugh at what you wear, Bennie,” she'd say. Or, “It's not what you're wearing that makes the difference.”
    “But, Mother,” I'd plead. “Everybody I know has better clothes than I do.”
    “Maybe so,” she'd patiently tell me. “I know a lot of people who dress better than I do, but that doesn't make them better.”
    Just about every day, I begged and pressured my mother, insisting that I had to have the right kind of clothes. I knew exactly what I meant by the right kind: Italian knit shirts with suede fronts, silk pants, thick-and-thin silk socks, alligator shoes, stingy brim hats, leather jackets, and suede coats. I talked about those clothes constantly, and it seemed like I couldn't think about anything else. I had to have those clothes. I had to be like the in-crowd.
    Mother was disappointed in me and I knew it, but all I could think of was my poor wardrobe and my need for acceptance. Instead of coming directly home after school and doing my homework, I played basketball. Sometimes I stayed out until ten o'clock, and a few times until eleven. When I came home I knew what to expect, and I prepared myself to endure it.
    “Bennie, can't you see what you're doing to yourself? It's more than just disappointing me. You're going to ruin your life staying out all hours and begging for nothing but fine clothes.”
    “I'm not ruining my life,” I insisted, because I didn't want to listen. I couldn't have heard anything because my immature mind focused on being like everybody else.
    “I've been proud of you, Bennie,” she would say. “You've worked hard. Don't lose all of that now.”
    “I'll keep on doing all right,” I'd snap back. “I'll be OK. Haven't I been bringing home good grades?”
    She couldn't argue with me on that issue, but I know she worried. “All right, son,” she finally told me.
    Then, after weeks of my pleading for new clothes, Mother said the words I wanted to hear. “I'll try to get some of those fancy clothes for you. If that's what it takes to make you happy, you'll have them.”
    “They'll make me happy,” I said. “They will.”
    It's hard for me to believe how insensitive I was back then. Without thinking about her needs, I let Mother go without to buy me clothes that would help me dress like the in-crowd. But I never had enough. Now I realize that no matter how many Italian shirts, leather jackets, or alligator shoes she bought, they would never have been enough.
    My grades dropped. I went from the top of the class to being a C student. Even worse, achieving only average grades didn't bother me because I was part of the in-group. I hung out with the popular guys. They invited me to their parties and jam sessions. And fun—I was