Applying to medical school is a long, arduous, complicated, and expensive process. Throughout undergrad, I constantly analyzed every choice I made–what courses “look good” on those sheets of paper submitted to medical schools, what community service activities or leadership roles would the admissions committee “want to see” more than others. I did this too often.
And I regret it. I regret not taking that journalism class or that anthropology elective. Or that sociology lecture or that political science group discussion. Or joining that art club or swim group. Or taking the time to rally with other students around a political issue or campaign for a non-medical-related cause. The list could make a book. If it didn’t link directly or somehow creatively indirectly with medicine I probably didn’t do it–but I should have. I locked myself into a medical crate and quasi-permanently chained myself to a professional pole, without even once remotely realizing I had limited myself in, what now seems, an irrevocable way.
I did deviate a few times; there were a couple instances in which I did leap over this subconsciously constructed mental gate, but these deviations were mostly during my Freshman and Sophomore years when I had that wiggle room and not that load that comes with the looming deadline to dominate the MCAT. I took a human rights class. I loved it so I took a legal studies class next. But there wasn’t–or didn’t seem to be–enough time to be a legal humanitarian and a pre-med student so that was the end of my short-lived legal career. I took a philosophy course and loved it–but the concept that the inanimate objects around us might not actually exist conflicted too much with the “facts” I was learning in Physics. So, again, at some non-existent academic fork in the road, I chose science once more. I did stick with French for a year–until the course requirements to major in molecular biology, and their available time slots, barred me from continuing the only 5 unit class on campus, since all foreign language classes required an hour-long commitment at the same time every Monday through Friday. Whenever I tried to “explore” other realms of thought there was an inherent conflict during enrollment that forced me to choose: science or these other electives that might not take me anywhere professionally.
Same went for volunteering or leadership positions. No medical school wanted to admit a politician or columnist, did they? Not unless the columnist zeroed in on discussions based only on current healthcare issues, I thought. So I chose science time and time again, although sometimes I decided to swim upstream toward something that interested me instead of leisurely floating downstream in a scientifically inflated raft.
I diverged from the “perfect medical school application” stream in one significant way. I tangentially decided to found and instruct an English Department-sponsored course on the music and lyrics of Bob Dylan and their influence on American history, society, and culture. But I didn’t decide to do this in some conscious rebellion against my predetermined professional fate to become a doctor. I did it because it confused and infuriated me that there was a class on the Beatles and Pink Floyd but not Bob Dylan–how fucking ridiculous. How could there not be a class on Bob Dylan at fucking UC Berkeley of all places? Brown had a class and so did Columbia. But not Berkeley? Well then I was going to start one.
So I spent an entire summer re-reading every Bob Dylan book I owned, every interview with Dylan since 1961, every article about him I could find. And eventually compiled a class reader–it was thick–and course curriculum that spanned Dylan’s 50 year career that continued to dominate any contemporary band’s weak attempts at music, in my opinion. It took me all fucking summer and swallowed up all the time I wasn’t spending trying to wrap my head around biochemistry; I had wanted to get that difficult biochem class out of the way since I had heard it was much easier to get an A in this challenging pre-med pre-req when burnt-out professors just didn’t give two shits in the summer.
The final stamp of approval, before I submitted my curriculum draft to the meticulous eyes of the English Department, had to come from Greil Marcus. Per Wikipedia, “Greil Marcus (born June 19, 1945) is an American author, music journalist and cultural critic. He is notable for producing scholarly and literary essays that place rock music in a broader framework of culture and politics than is customary in pop music journalism.” He was a professor at Berkeley at the time and is still the leading Bob Dylan expert in the country. He’s written two books on Dylan and has even presented an award to Dylan in person. I HAD TO meet Marcus and I wanted his approval. So we met at Caffe Strada and he told me his story. Marcus was the first Records Editor at Rolling Stone Magazine. Jann Wenner–the founder of Rolling Stone Magazine–was Marcus’s best friend–still is–and roommate when they were both Berkeley students years back. He shared so many immersive stories, I never wanted to leave that table at Strada. He told me the trouble him and Jann used to get into at Berkeley. How after he gave Dylan an award, he asked if Dylan had read his biography on him, how Dylan had said he did but “he got a few things wrong and should write another one.” So Marcus did. And when he did he sent Dylan’s manager a note, asking for a quote from Bobby. He got a letter back from Dylan’s manager: “Bob doesn’t have anything to add. He said: ‘you know more about his life than he does.'” I couldn’t believe who I was sitting across from but in the end what mattered most was Marcus’s approval. And after two tense silent minutes of anxiously sipping coffee across from my one direct link to Dylan, while Greil read over my curriculum and flipped through my reader, He finally spoke. He smiled and chuckled. And nodded in agreement. “I think Dylan would approve.” That was good enough for me.
I loved creating that class out of thin air. I had decided I would abide by Dylan’s own rules and respect his spiteful remarks over the course of five decades and center the class around individual interpretation rather than on trying to “pigeon-hole”–in Dylan’s words–Dylan and his impact on music and society at large. Fortunately for me, Greil and the English Department agreed with my thoughts. And a Berkeley English professor who typically lectured on American literary culture decided to sponsor my initiative. I recruited my friend Natasha to help in the course’s actual execution and while we knew the class would be popular we didn’t anticipate how many other students wanted a class on Bob Dylan as well.
Initially, we had pitched the class to the English Department as a 2-unit upper division course with around 75 students enrolled. Instead, over 100 signed up and we thought “what the hell” and capped the class at 110 students. So 110 students showed up to an auditorium in the School of Journalism building once a week for 4 hours. It was awesome. After one particularly loud lecture, a professor at the School of Journalism actually burst in and threw a tantrum, threatening to report us to the school. We won that argument and received a signed email of apology a week later.
We hosted guest speakers I didn’t even initially imagine we’d be able to enlist–including THE Ben Fong-Torres. That’s right. Ben Fong-Fucking-Torres. Same Ben Fong-Torres you might’ve seen portrayed in the film Almost Famous. “Hello, this is Ben Fong-Torres calling from Rolling Stone Magazine. Is this William Miller?” THE former fucking editor of Rolling Stone Magazine, editor of Rolling Stone when it was in its glory days of the late 1960’s and early 1970’s. THAT SAME BEN FONG-TORRES. I still have him saved as a contact in my phone–just in case. I’ve always been concerned that I might make the poor decision to dial him early one morning after too many vodka sodas and an intoxicated run-in with other Dylan enthusiasts at a bar. But I haven’t–yet at least.
It was a fantastic experience and I’ve never regretted it. When I applied to medical school I, of course, included it in my application under “Leadership Experience,” but I mostly wrote it off as just another piece of cotton in my application–something to fluff up the pillow a bit. A little “off topic” but “hmm..interesting. I don’t think we have another Bob Dylan enthusiast in our applicant pool,” I hoped one admissions committee member would think to themselves when perusing the final submission of my every decision over the course of 4 years.
But it ended up not being just a minor application plumper. It actually was the one thing every single medical school asked me during that significant final step in getting into an MD program: The Interview.
At all five institutions that invited me to fly to their school–on my dime by the way–to put the final stamp on that envelope and mail it in to receive my MD, asked me about this class I had started–why had I started it? Did I enjoy teaching it? When did I first start listening to Dylan? Wasn’t I a bit young to be a Dylan fan? The interview would suddenly take an informal and cheerful turn and there was often several moments of shared laughter and mutual agreement between the interviewer and myself. All of them, not surprisingly (you’d have to be a fucking idiot not to and what are the odds that a high-up member of the staff at a top medical school in the US was entirely intellectually limited) were Dylan fans.
It ended up not being just a talking point but a way for me to take off that constricting conservative blazer and for the interviewer to shed the formality of his or her white coat and for us to, metaphorically, share a joint while enjoying some Dylan music as two human beings with a shared interest. Suddenly the situation would turn from some aging MD asking me routine questions to me sitting with someone who I just realized was a Dylan fan too and discussing which Dylan song was our favorite, as if over glasses of beer at a dive bar. It provided much needed comedic relief to the coldness that had moments before held the conversation in an uncomfortably stiff grip.
I wish, not just for that reason, that I had deviated from that typical pre-med student path more often. I wish that I had taken more varied courses, in a broader range of Berkeley academic departments. Because now, when I’ve finally closed that door on being a “fucking doctor” instead of some “fucking writer,” as my father would say, most of my experiences have only been medical-related. I should have spent more time exploring the different paths that were so opportunistically right in front of my eyes. This is one of the unavoidable faults of medicine; we admit students who lack the varied experiences that are often so important in being able to relate to others–specifically patients. I was blinded by the idea of becoming an MD and I let it consume most of the best four years of my life. College is the best four years of anyone’s life and you should appreciate every second of it without blinders on.
But I did start that Bob Dylan class. And with that deviation and experience came some of the most awesome memories of my life thus far. I actually think I’m prouder of starting that class than I am of getting into medical school.
Strange, isn’t it? How some minor decision can alter life in such a major way and leave an impressive imprint on your future?
In the end, when you’re on your deathbed, will you remember the names of every MD who ever treated you? Who added those days to your life? Probably not. Instead, you’ll most likely revive the names of every friend who made each of those days worth it. Because, we’ll “meet them all again on the long journey to the middle.”
“I always tell the girls never take it seriously. If you never take it seriously, you never get hurt. If you never get hurt, you always have fun. And if you ever get lonely, you can just go to the record store and visit your friends.”
Pulling the Plug on American Medicine 