In this post-Afirmative Action world, sans quotas lives a fairy tale of stellar recommendations and grades making their mark⌠but what happens when a damnation replaces said recommendation? How do you survive?
I used to like to think myself accomplished for my age. I was 27 and had recently finished a prestigious post-baccalaureate program at a prominent university in New York. The world was my oyster and I had put all of my eggs in one basket to pursue a career in medicine. Since the age of 3 it was all I could talk about. I practically repeated the same thing to anyone and everyone that I met. My aspirations to become a physician and what that would ultimately meanâŚ. what my life would be. All that I could fathom was in one tiny inkling of possibility and I relished the prospect daily.
The transition from being an English major to the innate submersion of science was overwhelming to say the least. The words that ebbed and flowed through my mind were constantly all at once washed away by a cacophony of mis-matched equations that led to nowhere, elements that suffered to erase themselves from my tongue as soon as they were spoken, and an uncanny ability to predict the slowing of time based on how complicated a physics equation may be. I still remember with absolute wonder and horror how I believe that I must have had a vascular event status post an organic chemistry examination where I needed 5 to 10 minutes to really remember what city I was in, what direction that I was supposed to be walking to get to my train, and even where I lived.
It was in all of that time that I met an unlikely ally- at least, I thought so at first. She was one of the most admired and feared professors in one of the most popular science departments in the country. While she tended to dress like a vagrant mystic, she had mesmerizing large eyes that could laser focus on you in an auditorium of hundreds and put anyone on edge with the cold silence of her question. As I was recounting a story of this womanâs effect on her class one day, my mother informed me that she believed that she knew of my professor in an unexpected way. âOh⌠that sounds like Sarahâs neighborâŚIâm almost certain of it.â She stated. We continued our conversation throughout the day and my mother urged me to inform this professor of our social connection.
So, I did. Given that I was determined to bend my mind to science, I religiously attended Professor Wâs office hours. It was in one of those classes where we were debating the amazing superiority of the human cell receptors, that I decided to mention it. I explained that my mother and âSarahâ had gone to college together and that they had remained friends and kept in touch. âOhâ she exclaimed. I watched as her round eyes seemed to soften and her smile widened. It was in my naivety that I believed that with my hard work, my dedication, that I had shown her that I was entirely capable and that I might be able to reach my goal someday with her help.
Over the course of the semester, I was able to hone my newfound scientific intellect into a B for my final class grade. Though I had accepted my perfectionist tendencies, I wasnât particularly sad with this because I knew all of the hours of work that I had put into this class. I welcomed continuing on to fight another day; it instilled a new strain of confidence in me that I thought I didnât have before. I was ready to go out and sell myself to medical schools. I subsequently finished my post-baccalaureate program and circled back around to professor W. Since I knew that I hadnât done half bad in her class and I thought that she had gotten to know me during my time in the program as I seemed to spend more time in her office than any other, I thought that she would be the perfect recommendation reference.
I remember walking into the dark paneled mahogany office and sitting down to catch up. She was pleasant with slightly flat affect, eyes large as saucers that threatened to bulge out of her head with the sheer motion of a head tilt⌠I took it all in. I thought that I had timed it right. I handed her a standard form for the university and asked if she would write my letter of recommendation for medical school.
 She slightly slowed what she was doing and repeated back to me what I had asked her. I looked at her and hesitated. âYes, I would be honored.â I replied. She looked slowly down at her desk as if contemplating something and said âWell, if you would like me to write you a recommendation, so be it. I will write it.â I was ecstatic and couldnât help almost skipping home that day. It was a beautiful thing to realize that a dream that I was working so hard for, may actually come to fruitionâŚ
In the next few months, I was a buzz studying for the MCAT, working, and compiling my medical school file. In what seemed like no time, I had everything complete. I remember walking to the office with the list of schools that I wanted to apply to and made sure that my post baccalaureate office sent out the letters to the schools of my choice. It had truly been a labor of love for me. Once my applications had been sent out to the schools, I spent my time mulling about and counting down the days for a letter for an interview. What went from days to weeks quickly became months. I was subsequently completely confused and dejected.
I used to go over the wording of my essay, questioning whether I may have made an offensive comment.  Maybe my grades simply werenât good enough, or my scores? I wasnât certain what could possibly have been the problem. To make it worse, the barrage of denial letters seemed to come at the very end of the period. I dared not even ask why I wasnât up for reconsideration and even decided to apply at the last minute to get my Master of Public Health at my undergraduate university. And this is when time seemed to stop for me.
Somehow, I received vague feedback that there was an âdiscrepancyâ with my application. Something that the reviewers couldnât comment about but that put my entire application in question and that they had no choice but to reject me. I felt like I had been forced to the end of the conveyer belt and was now falling into the âFAILâ heap.  I shuddered to think where I would end up. This was the beginning of many nights of sleeplessness, high blood pressure, and me slowly coming to the realization that medicine may not be for me, that I was simply not qualified.
There were other family friends who had seen my application and recommended me reaching out to other Admissions officers in other branches of the university. However, when I spoke with those officers, they would feign surprise that I was calling them and referred me back to my own post-baccalaureate department without question, almost clucking that I was confused and overzealous. I was trapped.
I decided to take a weekend excursion with my parents down South to visit a family friend. We had a great time, but our friend noticed my consistent anxious and dejected expression. When she asked me about it, I explained the situation. I let her know that medical professional administrators had indicated that there were inconsistencies with my application. I wondered aloud if I needed experience in the medical field more or to take more classes to increase my GPA even more. As I considered my options aloud, she remained stoic and then told me a story about her daughterâs friend.Â
She stated that her daughterâs friend was an accomplished Ivy League graduate, like me, who had applied to graduate school and continued to be rejected for some time before she realized that a letter of recommendation had been her undoing. I sat perplexed and captivated as she told me that not all letters of recommendation were affirmative to the applicant for which they were intended. She explained that there were some professors who put a knife in the backs of certain students to sink their careers.Â
What is even more disconcerting is that there is really little to no way for anyone to know that this practice is happening to them. As a student bleeds out their time, work, hopes, and fears other personnel are essentially bound to secrecy. This is because a letter of recommendation only has merit when it is confidential. And in having someone write a poison letter, a student all but gambles and seals their fate with a career ending secrecy pact.Â
It took some time for me to compose myself. I soon suspected that I may have a poison letter and was able to hire a wonderfully savvy education consultant who was able to help me re-navigate the admissions process. He worked with me to polish my ideas, speak louder and more confidently. He also recommended that I visit the schools to which I applied and (of course) to hone my application with a different compilation of my letters.
I contacted my post baccalaureate admission office and didnât hear anything back for weeks. I called again with no response. Finally, one day I called the office and was met with one of the staffers answering the phone. When I said hello and who I was, I was told to call that staffer on their cell phone number. This was in the early 2000âs so, people hardly ever said this. I complied and waited about 15 minutes for them to leave the office. Once we were able to touch base, I was told in no uncertain terms to ever call the post-baccalaureate office again and to only contact the staffer. I was flabbergasted. All I could do was hear my heart pound in my throat. They explained that they would be sure to get my consultant the application that had been sent out previously. And both my consultant and I waitedâŚ
 A week or so after my conversation my consultant received the application and called me into his office and read me something that changed my life. He sat me down at a long table and had two piles- one taller than the other. As I watched, he began to read me the letters of the numerous faculty members who supported me from the taller pile. They all had wonderfully glowing things to say about my abilities and spoke of how I would very likely soar to great heights and accomplish my dreams. I was extremely humbled.Â
Then my consultant went to the short pile. Which consisted of one letter. He held it up and asked if I was ready to hear it. I took a deep breath and nodded yes. I listened as he, in the words of Professor W., started off with âThough Aisha believes herself to be intelligent, she is in fact one of the worst students that I have ever had.â The letter was a barrage of insults calling me dim-witted, lazy, mentally deficient among numerous other characteristics. She likened me to have the mentality of a second grader and stated that I would have no business in the universityâs post-baccalaureate programs and certainly could never survive the rigors of medical school.
My consultant stopped at the end and the silence weighed on my chest. I took deep breaths to keep it at bay. He stated that he wanted me to hear how ridiculous this letter was. How ugly it was. He turned to me and questioned me on my own insecurities stating that my resume, my education, everything that I had done was leading up to medical school and that he was certain that this letter was the thing that was killing my medical opportunities. He implored me to be adamant that I was beyond qualified and to believe it in everything that I did from there on.
I walked out of the office that day feeling the weight and the exhilaration of racial terror. On one hand, it was devastating that I had allowed someone to write these lies about me to share with the world. On the other hand, the words were so hateful, derogatory, and racist that it went without saying.  Say what you might, but I am still convinced that this professor firmly believed in eugenics and could have easily written a compelling case based on her âconcern for my abilitiesâ noted in my letter.Â
I had gone to some of the best schools in the country, constantly challenged and tried (with a strong GPA) and this woman was saying that I was barely qualified to tie my shoes. It took me time to reflect, recollect, and regenerate into Aisha 2.0, a young woman who was not afraid to share the many facets of herself. To be gracious in my knowledge, my instinct and the trajectory of my dreams.
In the weeks after me reading my âpoison letterâ, I was finally able to receive interviews in the second round of my medical school application process. With a swipe of my consultantâs hand, the letter was removed and my dreams were finally coming into formation.
I got accepted into medical school after my second application submission, went on to graduate with honors, completed residency, fellowship, and now continue to practice. But I continually shudder to think about how lucky I was. If I had not had a consultant and a hero in the admissionâs office, I likely would never have been a doctor, even though my grades, my resume, my experience, and my background were all worthy of my going to medical school.
I am a unicorn, when I should really be a zebra. I comprise 6% of physicians, when there should really be more as more are needed and most importantly, more are capable. Out of the many legions of students of color who started the medical school process with me, only a few remained. One by one, they were lost to dissuasion, humiliation, and terror just like me. How many other physicians and medical professionals of color have been lost to this exclusionary process? Some may think that this is simply what medicine is, a weed out process. But, students should be selected on the basis of merit and not outright sabotage. The lack of acceptance of people of color in medicine serves as a perpetuation of the poison that continues and feeds our medical system today. If you were dying on a stretcher, youâd want the best physician for the job to save you, but continuation of this âtraditionâ most likely ensures youâll have a mediocre physician instead as it works both ways. Who is qualified? What does qualified mean?
Where does this leave others in this new political landscape? Is this where professors like W all but determine who gets to go to a âgood schoolâ? Is this where cronyism is rewarded? And what does that do for the world? Homogeneity dims the light of creativity and innovation. If we all have the same thoughts and perspectives, how can one be challenged to be greater than they even knew that they could be?
It is in our diversity that we thrive. It is in our varying perspectives that growth can be cultivated, once and for all.  The lesson of my recommendation is that we need a better way to do better now that the precedent is no more. The more this country remains divided, the less time that people interact with one another and only increases the possibilities to develop more fears and misconceptions, opening the door for hatred to ensue. Each possibility of an individual damnation letter is a knife in a student's back, that not only threatens the hopes and dreams of a young soul, but also the progress of a country.
Source: My Recommendation
