I'm doomed.

"Congratulations, you've received the distinction of "Honor" for Growth and Development."

Oh. Really? Really? Because I rarely went to class, read the book the day before the final exam, and um, made fun of the professor all the time when I was in class. This is the second time this has happened in a class taught by this professor, who is a psychiatrist. Granted the material is piss easy, and the exams had questions like "True or false: old people have sex" but 'honor' is a mark that is scaled so that less than 10% of the class would receive it.

The alternative theory is that it's my fate to become a psychiatrist, because these two classes were geared toward precisely that. It's ironic because as a psychiatrist, I will need to also see a therapist to work out my issues about being annoyed at having to listen to other people's problems.

Damnit, where's the Paxil when I need it?

Summertime at Trauma 1

First year of medical school is over. The final anatomy exam was a breeze compared to the 3 days of studying without sleep (5 hours of sleep total, actually) that preceded the exam. I really liked anatomy, and I think I will miss it dearly. I'll sleep when I'm dead.

Speaking of not sleeping, I will be shadowing an anatomy professor of mine who also happens to be an ER doc at MGH. I will follow him on his overnight shifts, and will possibly do some triage work with him as well. And unlike humbling experiences of anal premeds who volunteer for the ER and end up pushing carts/delivering flowers, I will have my white coat and the pretense of knowing what I'm doing to fend off these menial tasks. Oh, and Dr. S will protect me. I hope.

In the day time, I've signed up to do some clinical research over at NEEC. I'm honestly much more excited about the ER gig, if anything, for the chance to really see what it's like to live the life of an ER doc who's relatively young and married, with a newborn daughter that is beyond cute. I like ER docs, and I don't mean the ones on TV. In real life they tend to be sharp, inquisitive, athletic-looking, funny, and um...cute. I suppose I shouldn't pick a profession based on the advertising, but hey, a little bit of projection and self delusions now and then can't hurt. MGH is a trauma one center and Harvard affiliated, which means they get all kinds of interesting cases. The 'Havaaad' bit, meanwhile, makes them *the* preferential care center for any celeb or politician. I don't know why this last factoid matters, but in the words of an ER doc at BU talking about the ER at MGH: "They get all the hot socialites in car accidents!" Hmm, interesting.

Albino Whale (I mean Kaavya) Sighting

From 'Nick', edited to protect the innocent, and 'recrafted' for dramatics:

"'Ben, Sybil, and I were having dinner in Mather, a Harvard dining hall, and we spotted what appeared to be the behind of Kaavya's head as she was heading toward the tray carousel and heading out. In the most blatant way possible, Ben and Sybil shrieked: "Oh, um, we're going to check our mail!" The mail room, coincidentally, is in the direction KV was heading. They banged their chairs against the table in the mad scramble to get up, when suddenly, Sybil yelled loudly: "Wait, she's coming back!" In true awkward form, they sat back down, pretending to eat as if nothing had happened. I watched Sybil stuffed a huge bite of salad into her mouth, her stupified gaze directed at the back of this girl's head. A cherry tomato that didn't quite make it, fell out. Someone else nearby, meanwhile, muttered rather loudly, "What is she doing parading around like that?"'


"Parading"? Err sure, if parading now means the girl was just getting a bite to eat in a dining hall. Wowza. The cherry tomato bit, however, is hilarious. As I've said before, she's a campus celeb now, for better or worse. Johnathan Taylor Thomas, eat your heart out.

pic stolen from here

back-logging

My psyche returned to me this morning, after the Physiology final. Don't you worry, the old noggin was working during the exam. It was my temporal-spartial-memory-thingy that took an early vacation. Now that it's back, it's telling me that I never recounted the unique experience of participating in the memorial service for Anatomy. The event is a rite of passage for first year medical students, the conclusion of a whirlwind tour through the human body, in celebration of those who gave us their remains and confer in us a different way of seeing. I, for instance, will never look at beef the same way again.

Humor aside, the event was very nice. Lots of flowers, and professors reading poetry and choking up on the podium. What wasn't so nice was the ad nauseum stream of musical contributions from the student body, of which I was also guilty. In my defense, I channeled every fiber of blackness within me into finding the right voice and expression for "Wayfaring Stranger". I think everyone was pretty much surprised that the quiet asian kid who sat in the back could sound like a 200 pound member of the Tuskegee Singers. Thank god for DayQuil, although it did make me forget 2 lines of lyrics. I thought about scatting, but decided to spare further insult to the quiet diginity of the spiritual I was butchering, and decided, instead, to lift lyrics from various dramatic points in the song. Unfortunately, the lyrics were printed. Appart from a few raised eyebrows from stupid Dental students, I escaped unscathed. I didn't think Barbara would mind.

I don't have nice words for the school's a cappella group, however. I felt like crying, for all the wrong reasons. They need to retire, or at least spare the old folks in the old-folks home who can't physically get away everytime, and captive audiences like students at the memorial service. Seriously, what's with the pitch pipe? They didn't need it, since everyone in the group made up his own starting pitch anyway.

Adding insult to injury, the ceremony ended on a low note, or should I say, a very badly sung high note that became a low note because the Dental soloist stopped trying. It didn't help that his guitar was sharp, the piano was flat, and the trumpets were playing a different tune. It's bad to criticize such sincere efforts, since the act is morally equivalent to making fun of mentally retarded children. I know. But really people. Really. Have mercy on the rest of us, cadavers and all, please!

More Asia Watch: Chinese Cheating

NY times, Monday: "In a Scientist's Fall, China Feels Robbed of Glory"

A top Chinese computer scientist had recently been accused of fraud and intellectual theft by stealing plans for digital signal processing computer chips from a Western company, designs he had previously claimed were his own. The word 'glory' caught my eye, for similar language was used to describe the fall of the S.Korean scientist who worked on cloning, late last year. I can't blame the NYtimes for employing words like shame, glory, and pride. That's just Asia, folks.

Money quote: "In a society where honor is particularly important and where the fear of public shame runs especially deep, the story of Mr. Chen has a profound resonance. Now, after all the honors and accolades bestowed on this 37-year-old favorite son, who returned home to China from the United States with a Ph.D. from the University of Texas at Austin six years ago, people here are beginning to question whether China is pushing its leading thinkers too hard to innovate and catch up with the West. Could Mr. Chen's downfall, they ask, represent an example of how even smart and successful people in China are being forced to cut corners to meet the nation's hyper-ambitious goals?"

Sounds familiar? It should. KV rings a distant bell here, too. Of course, KV is American, but her South Asian roots smack of similar codes for honor, pride, and unrealistic expectations.

More money quotes: "'Professor Chen is really unlucky," said a male student named Wu, who asked not to be further identified for fear of recriminations. "He lied and was caught. I think there are other people faking their research, but they haven't been caught yet. He's probably not the worst."

"Another male student named Wang, who also would not give his first name and cited the same reason, said: "I'm not surprised by the scandal. Now a lot of professors are like businessmen. They are good at talking and promotion, and many of them have their own companies and make as much money as they can."

This is alarming to say the least, because these students are the future Chinese scientists in training. But the problem is not restricted to China. The decrepid state of Asian scientific research ethics has been discussed at length within scientific circles, which I need to find sources for to cite here. Still, from what I gleamed, the discussions usually lament the foundation of Asian work ethics that are top-heavy, defferential to authority, and especially, based on the concept of shame vs. honor. These concepts are detrimental to the sciences, fields that demand teamwork, openmindedness, and the ability to accept failure. From many accounts, Chen Jin is a very smart man, and is well educated. True, he has demonstrated much greed and contempt for the very nature of intellectual inquiry. However, shaming him into oblivion will not help China's problems, but will perpetuate the same pressure cycle that will lead to the very 'shame' these cultures claim to abhor.

Asia Watch: "White or Wrong?"

NY times, Sunday:

"An ad for a skin-whitening product in Hong Kong says: "White or wrong? The right choice. Beauty White makes your whole body white."

Ah yes. I remember seriously freaking out when I watched a 5 minute commercial in Tokyo advertising L'Oreal White Perfect cream before the screening for War of the Worlds. My friends and I were stunned. I thought only my backward community had this obsession. My mother and her family instilled this nasty little bit of wisdom in me, and their paranoid relationship with skin color is, at times, down right racist. At least now it's good to know that it's not just my family; it's most of Asia too.

Skin bleaching is a booming industry in most of East and South East Asia, and while the message is disturbing or strange to non-Asians, apparently people are very open about admitting their own use of such products. Skin bleaching even extend to bleaching nipples to achieve a pinker hue. Given the prevalance of these creams, it's no wonder that at some point somebody will get hurt using cheap brands. I guess not everyone can afford L'Oreal 'White Perfect'. The name says it all.

White skin is desirable, not unlike tanning in the West. However, my own observation (and this article) seems to confirm more dangerous dimensions to this obsession. While the West prides tanning, it doesn't actively denigrate those who don't tan or insinuate that those who don't tan are of a lower socioeconomic class or belong to an inferior race. Asians actively denigrate those who have darker skin colors. The association is harsh, and it starts with language. Case and point: phrases calling people 'black as a duck's liver' or 'black like savages' are commonly used as insults in Thai and Vietnamese. The Vietnamese one is most telling, isn't it?

I frankly do not buy the argument that white domination in the form of colonialism or cultural global influences plays a large role in creating this trend. Rather, Asians have always had an intrinsic notion of class and race that is tied to physical attributes, and skin color is the most obvious. What is truly sad is the inability of these cultures to shake these beliefs from within, co-opting the message of beauty from the West to bolster existing prejudices and intrinsic racism. Quite pathetic, really.

another one bites the dust

Just took the final for Physical Diagnosis, which included me pretending to know what I'm doing on a standardized patient (a trained actor who pretends to be a patient). He was really cool about it, and afterwards, gave me pointers on techniques that he said was "usually meant for 2nd or 3rd year students". I'm proud to say that playing pretend with Mike really helped. I only forgot to examine 1 thing, but really, who needs intact hearing anyway.

My hands however, were uncooperative. They were not shaking, just bone chillingly cold, the kind of thing that I have vowed not to inflict my future patients because I hate doctors with cold hands. I apologized at least 4 times. Nothing I did to warm them up worked. Not even sticking it in between my legs, although that looked awkward and I decided to stop. Fun times. Fun times.

Can't say I did equally well on the written portion though. Stupid cranial nerves. If you have peripheral nerve palsy or something like that, don't ask me, because apparently I have no idea what the hell is wrong with you. Oops.

What's in a name

Harvard Medical School. It really shouldn't hold any sway over me. It really shouldn't. I thought I gave that up, the pangs of jealousy mixed with respect. I thought I left it in highschool.

While perusing thefacebook after some friends here at the medschool friended me, I found myself searching for alum'05, and an old aqquaintance popped up. We were never friends. Ethan, not his real name, and I took two semester of organic chemistry together, and on occasions, in class, we chatted. We had the same Teaching Fellow, and eventually, we sought this man's help throughout the semesters. Organic chemistry was one of those courses that can make or break a pre-med, and we knew the stakes were high, both because Orgo is a hard subject, and failure at it had consequences for our supposed futures. But Ethan didn't ever seem to me to be the intellectually inquisitive type; he was more cavalier, the premed-by-day, final-club-party-by-night kinda guy. I guess he knew how to live.

I still remember the time he asked me for help to study for the Orgo final. I never got any good vibes from him as a student, and truth be told he was terrible at it, but not because he was dumb. It just seemed like he didn't study enough. I explained the problems to him. He thanked me. We never talked after that. All the years at Harvard, he rarely acknowledged me when we pass on the way to the same dining hall, even though we live in the same House. I felt used. I still do.

He's at Harvard Medical School now, an MD-MBA candidate. I'm not.

It really shouldn't matter; it's just a school. His success does not mean my failure. It shouldn't mean anything at all.

But in this game, clearly, he did something right.
He always knew how to live.

MI III needs better medical consultants.

I am ashamed to admit that I've watched MI III and enjoyed the 2 something hours of Tom Cruise in human skin, doing what only a Thetan level 7 being can do: defy gravity, death, and logic. I can't say the same for the writers though. Whoever decided that a crucial plot point has to hinge on a defibrillator requiring 30 seconds to charge needs to be shot. Haven't they ever watched ER?

Common Denominator

Mona Kuhn

I've received words from dear readers (okay, who am I kidding, 'reader') regarding the length of recent entries. As any attention-starved publisher will admit, sometimes it is just easier to give the crowd what it wants. Brief. Frivolous. Innuendo. Have fun.

Night walks

I love rain. It makes sidewalks glisten in the city lights. It layers onto the air at first a veneer of dampness, then slowly infuses it with a haze that dithers the light and makes everything glow.

I took my usual, post-examwalk earlier, after sunset, around Chinatown, up toward the Lowes and caught the afterglow light across the Common. Had to wear my wool winter jacket because it was rainy and nippy, the kind of cold that was just enough to weave one's breath into wispy strands with every heave of the chest. Times like these, I wish I had smoked. Something about it seems appropriate for this damp, monotone cityscape all around me. I walked pass the new Ritz Carlton hotel restaurant, with its dimly lit mahogany interior and glass tables perched on top of glowing bands of marble, backlit to highlight bejeweled simplicities, while svelte people posed behind half-tinted mirrors as they drank cosmos and popped nuts into their mouths. Casual glamour. Tonight, the sidewalk along the strip of the Ritz caught my eyes; something about the concrete they use and the kind of sand that, at night, reflected light to create the starry constelations beneath my feet. On this night, when everything was wet, it more than glittered. A fine diamond dusting lit my way.

People in Chinatown always stare at me. Maybe because I stare back with the same glazed, overcast eyes. I don't know. Cooks from little restaurants the size of matchboxes tend to spill out onto sidewalks around 7:00 pm to steal smokes. I see them, but then again, I don't. Their gawkish looks and manners often fade into the muddy browns and reds of Chinatown, as nondescript as any one of those blinking neon signs and greasy windowfronts that line these streets. They hang around dumpsters, never too far away from those unmarked doors cracked ajar and held in place by an old newspaper, or a shoe. I follow the lights.

That KV thing

Is there life after national (scratch that, international) humiliation?

I'm clearly late to the media table, but just in time to "internalize" the word schadenfreude, adding it to the vocab list I have always promised myself I'd learn before taking the SAT, exiting Harvard, or anytime thereafter. I will admit, I have had my share of emails to friends commenting on this bruhahah, in part gleefully, with a sprinkle of morbid fascination thinly veiled as an attraction to 'literary news'. Like many, my attraction to this story began with a mixture of admiration and envy of the girl before news of plagiarism broke, when the superstar landed at Harvard, and after the story broke with a mixture of shock, amusement, disgust, and finally, dissapointment. Now, I'm even beginning to feel sympathy (Salman Rushdie's admonition is the latest low; surely no one deserves that much wrist slapping). Pure, unadulterated, exasperated, sympathy. That is, until a nonHarvard friend rightfully pointed out the most obvious spin that will make everybody happy:

"How Kaavya Viswanathan Got Sorry, Got Redeemed, and Got a New Life"

Yes, in perhaps much more clever wordings and stylish fonts, KV will write a book documenting her fall from grace and her journey back into respectability, complete with bits of Prada studded Hallmark moments thrown in, because we all really, deep down, love that kind of prose. Speaking of love, everybody loves a sinner, but Americans worship sinners who repent publicly, and on occasions have made said sinner President (Dubya), or buy his book (Clinton, anyone?). For old times' sake, Alloy Entertainment will again 'package' her book, providing help for those tricky plot points and those bits of character development that are best left to the 'pros'. Even a nonfiction (one can only hope it's nonfiction, ala James Frey) needs a good born-again plot. Little, Brown will publish it, her agents will rave, and she will be on Oprah's couch recounting the trauma and lessons of a hard public life two years from now. Oprah, America's populous patron saint, will grant KV ultimate amnesty and millions in readership. Even better, I doubt there will be new charges of plagiarism. Afterall, redemption is the most plagiarized, hackneyed concept in the world; it's practically vetting-proof. Again, unless she's another James Frey...but that's a can of worms we won't go into.

At least this is what I would do. Lemons make lemonade. The world goes on. And this saga is not over if KV is as smart as she looks. There's spunk in her yet--I trust Harvard will bring that out of her, sooner or later. Can you smell a college speaking tour about the dangers of "internalization"? I sure can, along with her agents, I'm sure. In the meantime, I do hope to run into her at some point and maybe get an autograph. I may not be able to meet John Updike, but KV is within reach. And a celebrity on campus will always be a celebrity.

Oh and, in case someone else out there has already thought of this last contorted twist to the KV story, all I have to say is, "I'm sorry for internalizing your work. Really."

It's a guard!

Me: "No Seth, you need a thyroid guard before you go in."
Seth: "What's a thyroid guard?"
Me: "This." [handing him mine.] "Put it on, apparently it prevents radiation cancer."
Seth:"Yo man, can this get any tighter?" [adjusting straps]. "jeesh, it smells."
[Seth enters the operating room.]
[loud laughter ensues]
[nurse comes out.]
Nurse, to everyone: "okay, which one of ya made the med student wear a groin guard on his chin?"