LeBron James is right – the classroom is where the future is, including for athletes. I know. I lived it: Jason L. Campbell (Opinion)

*Published online at Cleveland.com on Dec. 28th, 2017*

PORTLAND — “Nothing is given. Everything is earned” is the motto of NBA icon Lebron James. It’s also a pillar for his newly created I Promise School.

By intertwining a family-first ideology with a rigorous science, technology, engineering and mathematics (STEM) curriculum for students in the 1st through 8th grades, the beauty and irony are evident. Someone who has made his entire life putting an orange ball into a hoop understands that a lifetime of success originates inside a classroom — not outside, on a basketball court.

“Nothing is given. Everything is earned in the classroom … first,” might serve as a more accurate descriptor of LeBron’s theory.

As we survey the majority of African-American communities, there lies a common denominator in how society views athletics — as the main mechanism by which blacks rise to success.

In primary schools, a factory-like process is pushed on many young black boys: Perform well on the basketball court in grade school; join an out-of-school team; earn a scholarship or invitation to attend a top athletic preparatory school; become a star recruit at a Division I athletic program; and keep your mind and eyes on the coveted title of “professional athlete.”

As these young boys become young men, there is an industry of coaches and recruiters who look for talent at an early age without valuing the young person themselves.

However, it does not need to be that way. As a young physician and former collegiate student-athlete, I had coaches who instilled values in me and goals on me to succeed in both the athletic and educational realms. If not for them, I would not be where I am today.

These coaches are a rare breed but need to be the common numerator.

The hard truth is that becoming a basketball player in the National Basketball Association is exceedingly difficult, almost like playing lottery odds. In the 2016-2017 school year, according to NCAA.org, there were 550,305 high school participants in men’s basketball, and 18,712 became NCAA participants. Thus, the probability of competing in NCAA collegiate basketball was 3.4 percent for male high school basketball athletes desiring to compete at the next level.

Only 1.2 percent of these NCAA student-athletes make it to the major professional level.

Neither of these aforementioned statistics account for longevity or success as a professional athlete. Suddenly a small fish in a big pond, some players end up in the league even if only for a single game or less. Despite these numbers, families and coaches are emboldened to push their young student-athletes to fight for careers in professional athletics.

However, what happens if we channel the same passion into pushing these young men to concurrently focus on exploiting the educational mission for long-term success?

National studies from 2012 demonstrate that black physicians comprise only 4 percent of active physicians, 6 percent of trainees in graduate medical education and 7 percent of medical school graduates.

If the same fury, encouragement, and will were instilled into young black men in the classrooms, what might be the possibility? Moreover, how much stronger would our entire country be with such a paradigm shift in priorities?

The right direction and guidance — similar excellence and discipline — used to excel at sports can be transitioned into the libraries, research laboratories and clinical rooms where black men are currently sparse. We often see black athletes but, in certain areas of this country, we rarely see black physicians. Pushing oneself to an exemplary level in athletics is nothing short of amazing, but enhancing your knowledge of a certain subject matter is one of the most self-fulfilling achievements in this world.

Lebron James has initiated a conduit for lifelong success for the black community in his hometown of Akron.

He evidences two of the most clichéd sentences in society, and as we know, most clichés ring true:

Home is where the heart is. Classroom is where the success is.

As my 30th birthday approaches, as a young trainee in an anesthesiology residency program, my career is in its infancy. In contrast, for my contemporaries in the world of athletics, most of their careers are in the terminal stages. Excluding environmental occurrences and certain medical conditions that may occur, we all will live at least another 50 years.

In truth, there are many successful athletes, like Lebron James, who have pushed beyond the limited box of athletics, recognizing that the seeds to the future success of the black male are in the classroom and not at the basketball courts or the football fields.

Today we plant the seeds.

And watch them grow.

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Dr. Jason L. Campbell, a native of Washington, D.C., is a recent graduate of The Ohio State University College of Medicine and a former Division III All-American track and field athlete at Emory University. He is currently a physician resident in the Department of Anesthesiology at Oregon Health & Science University in Portland, Oregon.

 

 

Why not you? Young minds can dream big beyond sports

*Special to The Seattle Times published March 15, 2019*

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Most boys of color are given sports playbooks. My books were different.

I relentlessly trained and practiced with my science textbooks, not on the fields or courts, but in libraries and laboratories. The hours of memorization drills did not always lead to mastery. I experienced countless failures big and small that shook my resolve and amplified my doubts.

If I could encapsulate the mantra that allowed me to overcome all those years of doubts and adversity into one phrase it would be, “Why not you?” the pillared phrase of the foundation created by Russell Wilson, quarterback of the Seahawks.

Now the years of hard, lonely work are paying off. Recently, an older man silently stared at me with a glimmer in his eye. After a few long moments, he said, “It is so good to see you.”

I knew what he meant.

This 60-year-old African-American man in Portland, a city with few African Americans, had never seen someone who looked like him in a long white coat with an MD badge hanging from the lapel.

Since I was a child, everyone in my life told me I mattered on and off the athletic field. They told me I could be whomever I wanted to be, whether a professional track and field runner, firefighter, sports analyst, lawyer or even a physician!

I wish other boys of color had that support and guidance. I offer them this playbook outline to becoming more than an athlete:

  • Excellence comes in all shades.

As a young boy, I would chase after my mother’s powerful stride in the hospital. She was director of the Howard University Cancer Center, one of several researchers, physicians, nurses and staff who were all different shades of black. Each were esteemed leaders and honored caregivers. They walked with their heads held high, eyes clear and purposeful, and voices that commanded respect. Each came from different social and economic circumstances. Some had fortunate, even privileged backgrounds, while others had financially insecure beginnings. Whatever their start, they each had to go through the same rigorous training, mastering their own adversity along the way.

  • Dream big.

I had minimal awareness of the elevated pressures of being cool and athletic over studying and being associated with the nickname “geek.” One evening I sat with track and field teammates, a tough workout in our rearview mirror. They began speaking about college with the consensus the only way they could attend was with their athleticism. In that moment, I wanted to challenge their beliefs — pushing them to see they could dream big and strive for more — but their thoughts were deep-rooted. I wanted them to believe a successful trail lay ahead of them off the athletic field. In that moment, I learned doubt kills more dreams than failure ever will.

  • Find a mentor who believes in your vision.

Mentorship in communities of color has been sparse because numbers in positions to mentor are far fewer. However, foundations such as Russell Wilson’s give hope to despair. With the right direction and guidance, the same excellence and discipline used to excel at sports can be transitioned into the libraries, research laboratories and writing workshops.

As a third-year medical student finishing a long day, I began questioning my pursuit. My resolve was dwindling. I contacted a mentor. Dr. Ebony Hoskins — a guide of 10 plus years — reminded me: “It’s worth it. You’re going to change someone’s life, to save someone’s life, to heal someone. A road that leads to these opportunities should never be easy.”

Now as a young physician, I still have many dreams of my own, but the most important is that a young boy of color uses this playbook to become more than an athlete.

When doubt creeps in, remember excellence comes in all shades, dream big and find a mentor who believes in your vision. And ultimately, ask yourself, “Why not you?”

From Wait-Listed To President

“You never know what’s around the corner. It could be everything. Or it could be nothing. You keep putting one foot in front of the other, and then one day you look back and you’ve climbed a mountain.” – Tim Hiddleston

I remember thinking that now was a good time to check. I had just dismissed my students for recess and was sitting in one of the fifth-grade classrooms at my lower/middle school alma mater. Instead of slightly paying attention to the words streaming from my-then teacher’s mouth as she busily wrote on the chalkboard, I was laser-focused as I began signing into the Ohio State College of Medicine applicant portal. This portal is where I was going to learn one of three possibilities: accepted, deferred or rejected. An eery flashback began at the moment: an eighteen-year old version of myself signing into the Emory applicant portal in the library to determine whether or not I was going to spend four formative years in Atlanta, GA. On that day, I was accepted. On this day, however, there was a different result—deferred. If I was a sail boat some of the steam had certainly come out of my sails. I slowly crept out of the classroom and headed towards the gymnasium where my students were. I was in a bit of shock but still enthusiastic that I had not been rejected as I knew a rejection left no hope, but a deferral left at least a glimmer. In the following days, I went on other medical school interviews. And, ultimately received my first acceptance on March 14th, 2014 from Indiana University School of Medicine.

Regardless, my heart was set on The Ohio State University College of Medicine for multiple reasons. I wanted to be a Buckeye Student Doctor; to train in the almost newly-finished James Cancer Hospital; to relocate to the Midwest (a geographical location I had yet to live in) and I cherished the opportunity to become a physician at one of the top medical schools in the country. As May approached I was hopeful for a call from Ms. Georgia Paletta or Dr. Capers. One evening, while at GDS High School, I was tutoring my dance instructor’s daughter. We were reviewing chemistry when my phone started to vibrate. The screen was facing down as not to disturb me, but I took a quick glance and saw with a Columbus, OH area code. I quickly excused myself and answered the phone to the wonderful tone of Ms. Paletta saying, “Hello Jason! Are you still interested in Ohio State Medical School?” to which I ecstatically said, “Yes!” As they say the rest is history, but I think the rest is what makes it so sweet. I arrived to freshman orientation, nervous and anxious, wishing that my future at Ohio State included one of many friends, mentors and colleagues I would be able to go to for support. Moreover, I knew that God gave me this contagious personality I would be able to use to help others and to create an inclusive environment if I was ever given the opportunity to lead. I joined the student council at OSU COM as a first-year medical student. I continued to work hard and diligently creating Q-Zip Nation with my good friend, Tim, and demonstrating a commitment to others and the College of Medicine through other various activities. When I got elected President I could only think back to the aforementioned quote at the top of this page; you may not know what’s around the corner but one foot after another and you look back and it’s a mountain!

It was a blessing outlined by honor and humility to have been a leader amongst leaders.

And I hope this will serve as a testament to WHERE you finish truly matters more than WHERE you start.

Why Voting Matters? Through the Lens of a 95-year-old Black Woman

Florence E. Adams was born August 10th, 1923 in Trenton, New Jersey. 93 years later, I pushed her, my grandmother, through the newly opened National Museum of African American History and Culture in Washington DC. Different people stopped to look at her with a look of awe in their eyes. As she was witnessing her history, we were all witnesses to her.

In 1946, after World War II, she left New Jersey for the Nation’s capital, where she worked as a secretary in the Adjutant General’s Office at the Pentagon. Leaving that position a few years later, she went on to attend American University, earning a degree in education, and then later a Master’s Degree from Federal City College, presently named the University of the District of Columbia.

As I pushed her up the final ramp of the museum, there loomed in front of us a large but intimate photo of President Obama and his family, at Grant Park in Chicago, celebrating his presidential victory in 2008. My grandmother pulled a Kleenex out from her pocketbook to wipe away the small tear that streamed down her soft, brown cheek.

“For a black person, especially a black woman, we were so proud that at last something so magnificent had happened, something we thought we’d never see,” my grandmother uttered softly. She was 42-years-old when young president JFK was tragically assassinated, after which President Lyndon B. Johnson became president. In November of 1963, he passed the 15thamendment aimed at eroding the legal barriers at the state and local levels aimed at preventing African Americans from exercising their right to vote.

“There were always extra rules for blacks compared to their white counterparts. Whites kept blacks from voting, especially down south.”

“Do you remember the first time you voted?” I inquired of her.

“I don’t, but I remember it was at J.C. Nalle Elementary in Southeast Washington D.C., where your mother and aunt attended grade school. Back then there was one place, two if you were lucky, where you could vote. Everyone would be standing at one pole, lines wrapped around the block. It was not as simple as it is today. There is no excuse today for not voting; you can mail it in. All you have to do is fill out the form and put it back in the mail.”

As she continued, she expanded on the history of blacks and voting. “My mother always voted once she was allowed. She voted Republican as many blacks, at that time, did because of [Lincoln]; he freed the slaves, thus, blacks voted republican.”

Without knowing history and its context, one cannot properly act in the present. If anyone asked me where I was when I first voted, although the polling station escapes me now, I could tell you that it was in Atlanta, Georgia, when I was a freshman student at Emory University. I believe that knowing the exact location of one’s first vote is a vociferous and commanding testament to the historic achievement of the black vote. Over the course of my grandmother’s life, she is one of few who have been in both the “have nots” and the “haves” reminding us, as African-Americans that, too often, we forget that although we now can, we once could not. To vote is simultaneously a gift, a right, and a duty. This amnesia that can cause people to do otherwise is both dangerous and debilitating.

As she looked me in the eye before we left the museum, she said, “You can’t be too tired to vote. Not now, not ever. You have to vote for the people who will do right by you.”

And so, we must.Young Grandma!

A Beloved Team & A Beloved Mentor

The last time the Cleveland Browns won, I texted Dr. Kevin Olson.

During the 2016 season, I arrived very early one morning, to a small clinic on the West Side of Columbus. As I knocked on the side door, I was greeted by a middle-aged red-headed woman named Tina. This was Dr. Olson’s right-hand woman–sweet as pie but tough as nails–knowing exactly how to give Dr. Olson a dose of his own medicine. She tried to prepare me for what would happen next, but none existed. The back door to the clinic flew open, entering a man yelling what I heard as offensive football play-calls, and the more I got to knew him, it became the most accurate assumption. After he sat his black briefcase down in his office, I went to greet him. “Good morning, sir. My name is Jason Campbell.”

“Jason Campbell, the quarterback?” he posited.

“Something like that, sir” I smiled.

I felt automatically accepted. Jason Campbell, my namesake, had played for the NFL Cleveland Browns at one point in his multi-team career. From that day forth, I was the former QB from his beloved football Browns—young Jason Campbell—as he referred to me. Each day Dr. Olson would share a piece of Browns’ history, which included rattling off the entire list of players who once carried the reigns for the Browns.

Sipe. Kosar. Ryan. Graham. Couch. Nelsen. Phipps. Plum. Anderson. Testaverde. McDonald. McCoy. Weeden. Frye. Hoyer. Kizer. O’Connell. Holcomb. Quinn. Ninowski. Dilfer. McCown. Garcia. All men who have hurled the pigskin for the Browns for at least 10 games and Dr. Olson knew each one, their college institution, and their NFL winning percentage (occasionally off by .1).

Every day in clinic was filled with yelling, laughter, frustration and insight. Once, after we had addressed a patient’s rotator cuff tear with multiple physical exam maneuvers, the patient went on to list four or five more problems he wanted Dr. Olson to assess. “You just tore up, from the floor up, aren’t ya?” Dr. Olson said, aloud. With no delay, the patient responded, “Yes sir. I am!” Dr. Olson’s patients had come to love his lighthearted demeanor interwoven with the knowledge of a medical savant.

For me, these little moments have become threads of memories, which are woven into a picture that show the legacy of a great man. A man who embodied the true character of a doctor. Family physician trained, Dr. Olson received a master faculty appointment by Ohio University for his exceptional contributions to clinical training in this sphere. But there was more to Dr. Olson than any award could describe. He made his patients feel whole even when they were the most ill, just like only a die-hard, ever hopeful Browns’ fan could. I walked into countless patient rooms where the entire family had been treated by Dr. Olson—grandmother, daughter, and granddaughter. This all-encompassing trust was shared by more than a few in the community.

If I wasn’t sure of it before the memorial service, I was absolutely certain of it after. Lines and lines of people flooded the funeral home: from the bustling main hall, the filled lobby, and through the parking lot. Multiple photographs of Dr. Olson and his wonderful family, friends, and colleagues were on display. The most lasting one…the one of him in his Cleveland Browns sweatshirt.

A beloved physician proudly representing his beloved team.

A few weeks ago, as I watched Baker Mayfield perform in his splendid brash manner, as he had done for the Sooners of Oklahoma, I knew a cheerful Dr. Olson was reliving the 1986 days of Bernie Kosar, with an incomparable grin on his face. Finally, his team looked like the team he grew up loving.

For me, Thursday September 20th, 2018 was more than a football victory & more than a team overcoming the weight of the world; it was manifested joy by a beloved and unforgettable man.

After his passing, it is near impossible to fathom a Browns’ win without imagining Dr. Olson’s excitement. I always had difficulty understanding his love for the Cleveland Browns with what I saw to be their errors, burdens and faults. But, now I realize those were the exact human qualities that made him love his team and his patients. As a physician, his passion for his patients—through their sickness, addictions, and infections—gave him purpose so, they too, would heal again.

 

I’m a Black Student-Athlete Turned Physician: What Colin Kaepernick and Nike Really Mean

Please see below for my Op Ed published on 9/14/18 in THE OREGONIAN.

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I sat in a football stadium for the Ohio State Buckeyes vs the Nebraska Cornhuskers game on Nov. 5, 2016, three days before the presidential election. About 108,000 screaming fans surrounded me, but I only remember three.

To my right were two white gentlemen wearing “Make America Great Again” baseball caps. This was the first sporting event I attended since Colin Kaepernick, former San Francisco 49ers player began kneeling during the anthem in protest against police brutality against African-Americans.

I stood up. I removed my hat. These actions were done not because I didn’t vehemently stand against police brutality, but because I felt standing for the anthem was the ‘right thing to do’ for me.

Yet all the while, I could imagine all eyes on me.

As I stood, there came laughter from behind, a few seats to my left. An older white gentleman, likely in his 50s, yelled over at one of his buddies, “Hey, hey, look at me. I’m going to kneel,” mocking me and all of what Kaepernick represented. I suddenly felt alone and exposed, maybe even a little afraid. Being there, supporting a team and university that had given me so much, no longer felt like home. The sporting event took a new form as my attention turned from the football game to the underlying game.

The same man who mocked Colin Kaepernick’s kneeling cheered for each move the young black male athletes made. The same men, celebrating their support of then-presidential candidate Donald Trump, clapped enthusiastically as the young black male athletes scored point after point for their beloved team.

Supporting and voting for President-elect Donald Trump is not supposed to be incompatible with supporting black athletes, but with recent events, one naturally must question the growing disconnection. The truth is, many of us black males cannot feel calm as we have to constantly look outside of ourselves in order to visualize how our present and future actions might be perceived by others. It’s part of growing up as a black male in America.

Growing up as a black male athlete in America adds more complexity — and becoming a black male physician even more.

As a black male I am unnerved by the stories I read about current or former athletes sustaining injuries leading to a fall from grace. That leads to a harsh realization that they are no longer “needed,” with little to account for all of their hours of dedication. Basketball courts, tracks, football fields and athletic arenas are bursting with black men excelling every day, rain or shine.

The time has come for us to redefine our own values and to focus our potential in different ways. With the right direction and guidance, that same excellence and discipline can easily transition into the libraries, research laboratories and clinical rooms where we are currently sparse.

The beauty lies not in the fact that we have to choose one over the other, but in what I believe and personally know to be true: Black men can excel in both realms. It is time that we stop letting others limit us as we move forward.

That’s what Nike and Colin Kaepernick mean.

 

 

 

 

sanc·tu·ar·y

“Every morning in Africa, a gazelle wakes up, it knows it must outrun the fastest lion or it will be killed. Every morning in Africa, a lion wakes up. It knows it must run faster than the slowest gazelle, or it will starve. It doesn’t matter whether you’re the lion or a gazelle-when the sun comes up, you’d better be running.” 

That quote hangs on my wall in my childhood bedroom.

I first started running with my mother as “punishment.” I don’t know if I thought, at the time, it was a form of punishment but looking back I think that is the most accurate classification. I truly only have one distinct memory of running with her although I know it happened multiple times (I guess like other heinous acts, I have blocked those other times out). I was attending one of the American Association for Cancer Research (AACR) conferences with my mother in which, like most research scientists and physicians, she used these annual 4-day conferences as a family vacation. We were in Orlando, FL and my mother and I left the hotel setting out to glide under the hot blue sky. If you’ve ever been to Florida, you know how long and incessant those black roads are lining the roadways in this never-ending fashion with the sun of the sunshine state glaring down. A few minutes into the run I was tired, frustrated and annoyed by the pace she had set troubling my short-legs and untrained lungs. I remember a school bus driving by and I thought, “They’re going to think I’m slow behind her.” As a result of my despair, she quickly became irritated with me as I was disturbing her peace. She always used to articulate how running was her escape from the perils of life—it was her sanctuary. I didn’t understand that then.

Not until one night when I walked out the doors of the Emory Athletic facility—The WoodPEC—onto the track. A cool spring Atlanta evening greeted me after a long day of medical training. Before I even stepped onto the track to begin warming up for my workout, I went into the bleachers and just sat there. My eyes circled around the red track, from curve to straight to curve to straight away. I can’t remember what I thought about but I know I was calmed. From that moment on I always viewed the track as a safe haven, a place where, even if everything was wrong in my world, the track was always right.

A few minutes from my present home, there’s a track here in Portland at the Under Armor Satellite Headquarters. I always drive by it on my way home from the hospital. It is not the most direct route, but it soothes me after a long intern day. The track represents so many memories—joy, sadness, humor, accomplishment, and defeat. Whether it was my mother pinning my racing bib on my 14 year old self at my first official race as my on-looking teammates teased me from afar, or watching the University of Michigan relay team run 16:04 with a 3:52 anchor leg for the 4xMile or running third leg on the 4x400m relay team that led us to a comeback conference win for our Emory’s Men team or being named captain of the Emory University team or being a part of the coaching staff for the first Ohio State Men’s Track and Field Big Ten Championship since 1993. The memories flow as I do when I am on the track.

One of the greatest races of my career came at a Junior AAU meet in Florida. The night before, I had run a 1500m time, slower than some of our 11-12-year-old girls, that resulted in me finishing second to last. I didn’t know how to “hurt yet,” or maybe I didn’t want to experience the pain and agony that is necessary to race the middle-distance events well. The next morning, I woke up ready to respond. As I began my warm-up today felt a little different. I spoke with Mikias Gelagle, one of my teammates at the time, who went on to be one of the best high school runners out of the state of Maryland in the 2004-2006 era. He gave me a game plan of which mostly I do not remember but I remember him distinctly telling me if I started out way in the back that’s where I was going to end up. He urged me to “go out near the front and to believe in the training I had under my belt.” This was a 3000-meter race I was lining up for, and most of my teammates were still back in their hotel rooms. As the gun sounded, I shot to the 5thor 6thposition and found my cadence. Lap after lap I was in it and as the race began to thin out I found myself running alongside a runner from another DC track club—The Pioneers. In his all-purple uniform, his crowd, situated opposite my contingency, would cheer him on as we ran past, giving him the motivation to pull a step ahead of me. As we rounded the track, I would do the same as my DC Redwings’ coaches implored me to “do what I knew I could.” Three laps later, this dance routine continued, but the only difference was that most of my teammates had now arrived from the hotel. Probably to their astonishment I was in the race, and to my delight they began cheering for me as we closed in with two laps left. Our cadences had become one at this point, synchronous like the Olympic swimmers, but I knew only one of us could cross the finish line first. As we approached 200 meters to go I started quickening my stride and using my arms to drive my tired legs forward. Down the straightaway we came, and I barely crossed the white line before him. I think I finished fifth in the race. The glory was all internal, but externally, the congratulations from my teammates and coaches, was the prize I needed. I finally felt like I belonged—one of the sacred feelings in life. It’s the emotions, the coaches’ turned fathers and the teammates turned brothers and sisters that make me proud to call myself a runner.

“Once a runner, always a runner.” For me, that motto transcends time. Whether you’re an Olympian or a has-been/never-was, if you’ve spent time lying on the ground in exhaustion, eyes closed, swallowing your saliva because there was no water in sight, then you’re a runner.

“Every Scar On My Face Is Worth It”

In London, an unexpected head injury led me into the hands of a plastic surgeon.  When I was rushed to the hospital via ambulance to receive the services of the National Healthcare System—the very institution that I had come to England to study—I felt nervous and frightened.  Countless questions swirled through my head as I attempted to assess the trauma I endured.  All of my questions were ultimately answered by the confident and charismatic plastic surgeon who ultimately mended my lacerated head.  The way in which he explained each step before executing it gave me much needed comfort that night.  His passion for his job and his expertise were evident, but even more so was his ability to treat me as an individual. I have no recollection of this doctor’s name nor could I spot him in a crowd; however, my perception of this man epitomizes a good doctor—someone who is passionate, a healer, and gives positive reactions to unfortunate actions.  I will not only be forever grateful to this physician, but I will forever remember what he did for me in hopes that I can do the same for someone else.

“Code99.” I heard on the overhead speakers in the hospital. Politely and quickly, I excused myself from the patient I was interviewing. Rushing to the front of the Emergency Department, I met my attending physician who had just grabbed the orange airway bag. Together we began rushing to the elevator as a set of nurses followed briskly behind with the stretcher and backboard. He clicked the basement button, and moments later the elevator doors opened. As I stepped out I saw a man on his knees, a puddle of blood adjacent to his limp body.

“Jason, Jason, are you ok?” I flashbacked to that night in London where I had received my very own head injury, when it was my shock, my limp body on the floor with blood adjacent to me.

“Does anyone have a pair of gloves,” I yelled down the hall as more people began gathering around to see what all the commotion was about. “Yes, Doctor… here,” a gentleman handed me a box of latex gloves. I put the gloves on and removed my stethoscope as I asked one of the nurses to hold it for me. Coming up behind the gentleman, I introduced myself and told him I was there to help him. I pulled him up and onto me as I laid us both onto the stretcher. Once he was safely on, I slid myself out moving to the head of the stretcher where I supported his neck as we rushed up to the ED triage area. After we stabilized him, we sent him to the CT scanner to ensure there was no internal bleeding in his head. As he came back from the CT scanner, he was now more lucid but still unsure of what had occurred. I explained to him that we observed the video footage in the hospital and it was highly possible he had suffered a seizure. I moved the loose gauze that was covering his head wound and ½ of his left eye. A 5 cm wound 2 inches above his left eyebrow looked back at me.

“Hey, I’m one of the plastic surgeons here. I hear you had a little accident. Don’t worry, I’m going to fix you right up.” One of my classmates held my hand while my mother was on the speaker phone with another one. The plastic surgeon began numbing the skin to circumvent the wound he was about to suture on my left eyebrow.

“Hello sir, I am Jason again—one of the new resident physicians here. You’ve got a decent size gash above your left eye, but don’t worry. I am going to fix you right up,” I told him as the nurse began cleaning the wound. I extracted the bupivacaine with one needle, then switched the needle on the syringe to one I could use to inject the numbing medication emulating the plastic surgeon from nine years ago. Then I grabbed the nylon suture, the needle driver and began. One suture at a time, I worked diligently and judiciously as my attending peered over my shoulder with a look of approval on his face. Five sutures later I was proud of my work. Well, I was truly proud of the many attendings, residents, and senior medical students who took time out of their hectic schedules to teach me, show me, and create for me the ability to succeed that day.

When I was done, the patient stretched out a smile on his face—he told me I had done a good job today and thanked me. His wife thanked me. And I thanked him for his service to our country and for allowing me to take care of him.

I peered back over my personal statement from medical school when I got home. I read, “I will not only be forever grateful to this physician, but I will forever remember what he did for me in hopes that I can do the same for someone else.” Today was that day. I did what he did for me.. for someone else.

Interviews Make You Anxious? Don’t Worry, It Takes Two To Tango!

You’ve saved dolphins on the moon, speak 7 languages and have been destined to be a physician since you were in-utero. You’ve applied and now is the time for the interview. I’m no stellar standardized test taker and I certainly haven’t saved dolphins on the moon like some of my colleagues but I can interview well. That’s my cup of tea, if you will. Interviewing can be frightening. Like any great competitor who’s been successful many times before, butterflies still creep into my stomach moments before I step into an interview. I think that’s the 1st lesson to be a successful interviewer— treat every interview like it’s the most important one of your career. Act as if without this interview you’d never be successful even if this is your 19th interview and you have 7 more.

  1. Treat every interview like it’s your first
  2. Be humble in your discourse
  3. Find a connection & run with it!
  4. Talk Less, Smile More
  5. Have Fun!

Anyone who’s met with me about interviewing knows I have made the analogy that interviewing is like doing the tango. It’s a dance with you and your interviewer. Your interviewer is leading so you have to gracefully allow them to lead. Answer their questions in a short and succinct manner because long answers will hinder the flow and inevitably lead to you tripping over their feet. If you’ve never danced with a partner, know that no one likes to have their foot stepped on and repeated occurrences will certainly result in an annoyed dancer/interviewer. And like a wonderful tango, if the interview goes well, it leaves both persons thinking about it long after the interview has finished.

As you’re speaking about your achievements, it’s important to acknowledge all that you’ve accomplished but recognize the person in front of you has accomplished much more! Your feats are impressive but let the interviewer be more impressed by someone who is still hungry to accomplish more despite already having done more than most.

When I was interviewing at Ohio State University College of Medicine, the fourth-year med student interviewing me asked me about my time in City Year and AmeriCorps. As I was beginning to answer, she chimed in that her husband worked for AmeriCorps, so a fire sparked in my head. I answered her question but also added in another few lines illuminating my thoughts about this opportunity.  I watched her tirelessly jot down my comments. Stay honest. But if someone throws you an alley-oop, ‘Be Like Mike,’ and slam it!

I’m going to borrow a line from Hamilton—The Musical. If you haven’t seen it you’re missing out! It’s much more than a play; it’s an eye-opening three-hour artistic masterpiece. In Hamilton, one of the main characters frequently says, “Talk Less. Smile More.” Musical characterization aside, in any interview, if you’re talking more and smiling less, you’re losing. Winning in an interview is as much about your appearance and body language as it is your responses. Understanding who’s leading the conversation is a sure sign that you understand how to act and interact in different social realms.

And have fun. My high school Cross Country/Track coach, Anthony Belber, always said this each time before I raced and I never quite understood how I could have fun when there was so much pressure on the line… until I got older. An interview is an opportunity to show someone that your accomplishments have a human being behind them. It is a chance for you to prove that you are who they think you are. Nothing more, nothing less.

What I Learned From A Two-Time Olympian

What I learned from a two-time Olympian…

“Mom, the Olympic trials are on!” I yelled upstairs. When you combine my mother, sister, and I, almost 30 years of running track fandom avidly stared at the screen. “Bang,” the gun sounded on the tv, and there appeared Khadevis “KD” Robinson, 4-time U.S. Olympic Champion, out to set the early pace. Prior to the start of the race, the commentator announced his 8-month-old son, Zion, was in the crowd watching. That pressure didn’t seem to faze him, as he took the pace out hard with his unique upright stride and robotically pristine form. 50.33, the clock read, as the crescendo of the bell rang signaling the commencement of the second and final lap. KD made a strong move to increase his lead as his fellow Nike teammate, Lopez Lomong, began coming up on his shoulder. 200 meters to go before the finish, KD’s powerful stride crushed the track underneath him. Strong finisher—Nick Symmonds—in the back of the pack had now found some room to maneuver. 100 meters to go—a straight away to decide who would be representing the United States in Beijing, the pack began closing the gap on KD. First, Nick Symmonds flew by, and then six-foot-five, Andrew Wheating, a University of Oregon product, galloped pass Khadevis. As the line approached, it was between KD and Christian Smith, another Oregon Duck, for the final USA Olympic team spot. At the line, Christian Smith hurled himself over as he crashed to the ground.

Symmonds.

Wheating.

Smith.

Those were the ones going onto Beijing. It was an Oregon sweep—1.2.3.

Years later, I read out the name “Coach Khadevis Robinson” on the door. A smile began to form from my lips. My standing in front of that door was thanks to one person. Coach Karen Dennis, one of only 5 female Directors of a Power-5 Track & Field conference program, became a mentor and mother figure from the moment we were first introduced four years ago. She knew more than anyone my love for track, coaching, and mentoring, and so, she gave me the opportunity of a lifetime. She spoke with Coach Robinson and he agreed to bring me on as a volunteer assistant coach in my last semester of medical school. I had dreamed about this over and over—the opportunity to coach at The Ohio State, to run alongside the young Buckeye athletes, to tell them I believed in them right before their darkest moment and hardest set. However, the dream never dared to include working with one of my track and field idols. I remember our first encounter like it was yesterday. Two enthusiastic men embracing as we began sharing our experiences about the sport we treasure. I asked him multiple questions about his training philosophy which he returned with answers followed by questions revolving around what type of doctor I wanted to be. After that meeting, I knew he respected me as a man, a former student-athlete, and a medical student but I wasn’t sure he fully trusted me as his new assistant coach. Early on, during a workout, when one of our athletes seemed to slow her pace down prior to the expected finishing point he thought I had told her to stop. I mentioned to him that I had not, and we moved on. As I reflect, I realize he was taking quite a risk bringing me on-board because if we had not had a harmonious relationship the student-athletes, the team & the coaching staff would have suffered from a potentially negative environment.

Whatever my past achievements were before, he taught me that success is non-transferrable. I don’t mean you can’t be successful in multiple fields because you can. But just because you are successful in one field, it doesn’t automatically transfer over to another. You have to earn respect in any fresh sphere with which you enter, with each promise fulfilled, one step at a time. Despite having garnered All-American Collegiate accolades, being named captain of my university team and being an assistant coach at my high school alma mater, I had to prove I could be successful at this level—to him, to the athletes and just as importantly, to myself. My greatest asset to the team and my student-athletes was my energy and enthusiasm as evidenced by my 6:00 AM boisterous yells booming across the infield covering all four sides of the track. If the student-athletes weren’t awake when they arrived to practice they certainly were by 6:10AM. But, in conjunction with my blaring voice I had a softer, gentler voice I used to encourage athletes dealing with adversity, reassuring them that their goals were just on the other side of their adversity. As the season continued, Coach Khadevis & I continued to grow closer. It wasn’t only the time on the track that transformed our relationship. It was the casual conversations during meals, the track & field team trips together and the jokes we created that made all the difference. Whether it was from our back & forth taunts about whose fraternity was better, to Coach KD’s incomparable dance moves to Coach Karen having to yell at us both to not run alongside our athletes during competitions due to our mutual excitement, a unique bond formed.

Two Big Ten Championships, many laughs, and two seasons later I sat in his office a few weeks prior to leaving for Oregon to start my medical residency. Talking casually, Khadevis brought up that Olympic race from 2008 which was the very race I watched 10 years ago with my mother. “I had to come back,” he said. “There was no way I could let my son see me fail. No way was my last race going to be anything less than me making another Olympic team. So, I let my setback set the stage for my comeback…

And I made the Olympic team in 2012.”

KD & I