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Gainesville, Florida
lkuritzky@...
JAMA. 2007;298:1137.
As far back as I can remember, the acquisition of knowledge has been a prized commodity in my family. My father never finished high school: in 1932, the loss of his own
father required that my dad—then 14 years old, the oldest of 5 children, and not yet having completed the seventh grade—take on the role of breadwinner. My mom was the "educated one" in the family, since she had completed the 7th grade, shortly after which difficult economic situations in her own family required her assistance in the family boarding house, relegating school to the category of "less necessary."
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After several years of successfully selling vegetables off a truck on local street corners, Dad parlayed his industriously generated profits into a small delicatessen, which became the source of our family sustenance throughout the launching of all four sons into the world. Although each of us worked in the deli as soon as we were old enough to provide any meaningful service (usually beginning about age 7 or
8), Dad's consistent message was "Education, boys: that's what will make your path the most secure. Knowledge is the key . . . knowledge. Don't end up slicing salami for the rest of your life like your dad!" Neither of my parents ever took a course in calculus, or music lessons, or dancing lessons, or any of the many other extracurricular activities for which they had had to struggle to provide for me and my three brothers during our growing-up years.
If Dad ever read a novel, I don't recall it. Mostly, he was so tired at the end of the day (the deli's hours were 8 AM to 11 PM Monday through Saturday; Sunday, 9 AM to 10 PM) that he would fall asleep in a chair in the living room with the newspaper folded on his lap. Mom was
an avid reader, and she shared her suggestions about good books for me to read. She was an enthusiastic supporter of my growing appreciation of literature, reviewing my grade-school book reports with glowing approbation. Although it was delivered in distinctly different flavors, reverence for knowledge is what both of my parents shared, and they poured it generously into their children.
I have been an academic physician for a long, long time—more than 30 years. Even though I still delight in learning, and in observing the progress of medicine and science, and even though the persistent counsel of my long-departed parents to seek knowledge stays with me to this day, sometimes I, too, need a reminder, which I found can arrive in an unexpected way.
I often give educational presentations to colleagues. On one
particular occasion recently, I was scheduled to present a dinner lecture at a very large continuing medical education meeting in California. I had considered attending a morning lecture entitled "Hypogonadism in the Midlife Male," but when I saw the start time was 6:30 AM, I reconsidered. Nonetheless, because I was in California, but live in Florida, I woke up at 5 AM anyway, so I decided, ‘What the heck. I’ll go!"
When I entered the auditorium about 6:15 AM, I took a seat next to a very, well, "noticeable" gentleman. I would guess him to be about 45 years old; he was bald, with numerous prominent tattoos, and dressed in some sort of camouflage-fatigue outfit . . . not the typical "look" for a physician. We didn't speak, both of us paying some
attention to the handout notes about the soon-to-begin presentation. Promptly at the conclusion of the lecture, I hurried out to the next lecture.
My own presentation at this CME course was scheduled for 6:30 PM. When I entered the lecture hall, on my way to the podium, who did I see but the same guy who had been sitting next to me earlier that morning. Intending to enjoy some collegial teasing, I blurted out, "What are you doing here? Didn't I see you here at the crack of dawn? You must have gotten up at 4 in the morning just to get here. You must know just about everything by now!"
The man turned toward me and smiled graciously. In a very heavy accent he said, "Learning is a privilege. In my country, one cannot always learn all the things one would wish to know. Learning is a
privilege."
I don't remember what I said in response; maybe I just nodded. But as his words sank in, I was feeling a strong sense of nostalgic reminiscence about similar words from my parents. Sometimes, living in a land of such plenty, we don't remember to appreciate it. You know the sort of feeling that you experience when you’ve just gotten over a head cold and can finally breathe normally again, and you feel an intense appreciation of how nice it is to just be able to breathe normally? This colleague reminded me how easy it is to take for granted all of the opportunities we have for learning and for sharing knowledge. His words struck home in such a way that I had to take a mental step back and acknowledge my own need to reawaken my appreciation for the privilege of learning.
Perhaps it is reverence for
knowledge that has fostered so many of my happy years of teaching medicine. And in medicine, one has the luxurious pleasure of being surrounded by many others who share that reverence. But sometimes, despite our reverence for knowledge, we forget; in a land of intellectual plenty, it's good to be reminded from time to time: Learning is a privilege.
A Piece of My Mind Section Editor: Roxanne K. Young, Associate Editor.
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