Almost Black: The True Story of How I Got Into Medical School By Pretending to Be Black

By Vijay Jojo Chokal-Ingam and Matthew Scott Hansen

I got into medical school by saying I was black. I lied. Honestly, I am about as black as my sister Mindy Kaling (The Office / The Mindy Project).

Once upon a time, I was an ethically challenged, hard-partying Indian American frat boy enjoying my third year of college. That is until I realized I didn't have the grades or test scores to get into medical school. Legitimately.

Still, I was determined to be a doctor and discovered that affirmative action provided a loophole that might help. The only problem? I wasn't a minority. So I became one. I shaved my head, trimmed my long Indian eyelashes, and applied as an African American. Not even my own frat brothers recognized me. I joined the Organization of Black Students and used my middle name, Jojo.

Vijay, the Indian American frat boy, became Jojo, the African American affirmative action applicant.

Not everything went as planned. During a med school interview, an African American doctor angrily confronted me for not being black. Cops harassed me. Store clerks accused me of shoplifting. Women were either scared of me or found my bald black dude look sexually mesmerizing. What started as a scam to get into med school turned into a twisted social experiment, teaching me lessons I would never have learned in the classroom.

I became a serious contender at some of America's greatest schools, including Harvard University, Washington University, University of Pennsylvania, Case Western Reserve University, George Washington University, University of Pittsburgh, Yale University, University of Rochester, University of Nebraska Omaha, and Columbia University. I interviewed at 11 schools while posing as a black man. After all that, I finally got accepted into medical school.

Almost Black combines the comic tone of 1986's Soul Man, starring C. Thomas Howell, Rae Dawn Chong, and James Earl Jones, with the deeply poignant observations of Black Like Me, John Howard Griffin's classic.

Resembling a mashup of the two works (but far more humorous), the hedonistic frat boy discovered something far more than what he'd bargained for while posing as a black man: the seriousness, complexities, and infuriating injustice of America's racial problems. In Black Like Me, Griffin was a white man posing as a black man in the American South, prior to the Civil Rights Act of 1964. I wasn't on some intense social mission like he was, but just as Griffin did, I came away changed.

Before I finished this book, I stirred a hornet's nest by telling the story. It has been featured in more than 100 media outlets, including CNN, ABC, NBC, FOX, TIME, The Guardian, National Review, Washington Post, Salon, Gawker, VOX, VICE, Complex, Buzz Feed, Huffington Post, Daily Mail, and Perez Hilton. Many loved it, but not everyone approved of what I did. My college classmate, Tucker Max (I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell), disapproved. My sister Mindy Kaling furiously declared, "This book will bring shame on our family!"

I disagree but I'll let you be the judge.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Sep 13, 2016
• ISBN: 9781483576053

Book preview

Acknowledgements

"If you’re not failing now and again,

it’s a sign you’re not doing anything very innovative."

Woody Allen

The eleven-year old Indian-American boy cooled his heels outside the office of the headmaster of Boston’s chichi Roxbury Latin School. Proudly wearing a new suit, his first, he waited for his mother, who was speaking to the headmaster. The place reeked of money, but that comforted the boy who was from a well-to-do family and was used to nice things. His young eyes restlessly wandered the room. He fidgeted in his chair, but with the disapproving glare of the headmaster’s secretary occasionally directed his way, he couldn’t squirm too much.

He focused on the nearby étagère and the knickknacks on the skinny shelves. He guessed them to be from various dynasties like Thebes and Ming. He was a sharp kid.

Which was why he was waiting.

He desperately wanted to attend Roxbury Latin School. Founded in 1645, Roxbury Latin, the oldest school in North America, took exclusive to a new level. This was the ne plus ultra of Boston’s all boys prep offerings. To accurately put in a nutshell the otherworldly Roxbury Latin’s student’s average SATs of 2230 out of 2400, two words are required:

In. Human.

Entry to Roxbury Latin handed you an all-access backstage pass to life. It gave you a leg up on Ivy League success factories like Harvard and Yale, and greased the skids for a career in whatever field you pleased, from laser zapping human brains to siphoning the cash out of working class sucker’s pension funds through mischievous arbitrage. Whatever your fancy, Roxbury was the orchestra seat for that long running Broadway hit, The World Is My Fucking Oyster. The little boy did not know that specifically, but was aware it would be enormously positive for his future.

The boy looked out the window and saw some children about his age playing soccer. He wanted to be part of that group. He was near enough that he could see their faces and just knew that if they met him they’d all be friends. He wanted to play soccer with them. He just wanted to go to Roxbury Latin and show them what he could do.

The headmaster’s office was swaddled floor to tray ceiling in Circassian walnut, such that it resembled a luxuriously polished coffin or a humidor. Swati Chokalingam, M.D., mid-forties, and an Indian woman wearing a conservative blue dress, sat across from Headmaster F. Washington Tony Jarvis, a trim man in his fifties, in a slightly smarter charcoal three-piece. But there was one major difference, aside from retail price, in their ensembles: Headmaster Jarvis’s included a tidy little clerical collar. Headmaster Jarvis was also Father Jarvis, an Episcopal priest.

The massive, immovable oak desk between them a metaphor for the discussion at hand.

Dr. Chokalingam, an obstetrician and gynecologist of some reputation, was not practiced at kissing ass but would do anything for her son, up to and including obsequiousness if it would help. But Dr. Chokalingam walked in the door suspecting the playing field wasn’t quite even and was looking for answers.

But Headmaster Jarvis, my son got a perfect score on the entrance exam, implored Dr. Chokalingam in her mild Indian accent. Please tell me, on what grounds can you reject him from your school?

Jarvis was unmoved, as if tolerating one of his janitors whining about chewing gum under the desks.

Test scores are not the only thing we consider for admission. It is not our policy to discuss admissions decisions or the myriad of factors under which we come to determine them.

How could perfect scores not entitle him to admission? How could everyone else have a superior position to his?

Jarvis sat back in his Italian leather chair and steepled his fingers.

It’s not all about scores, missus, er, Doctor Chokalingam. There are other parameters.

"What parameters…sir?"

I’m not at liberty to discuss them. Suffice it to say they take into account all factors.

Dr. Chokalingam was smelling a rat and the rat smelled like Cristal champagne and Osetra caviar on little crackers, the snooty stuff rich white folks snacked on. She felt that she was getting her chain yanked. She thought of her son waiting outside the door.

She couldn’t let little Vijay down.

Out of sheer frustration, my mother would take another tack. A riskier one.

Although it was my parents who first casually suggested Roxbury Latin, it quickly became my obsession. I wasn’t just another good little Indian boy. I had ambition. Usually with Indians, it’s the parent’s ambitions the children strive to achieve, but in my family it was different. Our parents had set aside that traditional cultural axiom and blessed me and my sister, Mindy, with something practically unheard of among Indians: free will.

To support my dream they offered their experiences in helping me scale the wall. Understanding the value of public relations, my mother explained how volunteering at her hospital might improve the weight of my application.

Hey! Look at me give! I give ‘til it bleeds! See!

I did so, eschewing sports and playing with my friends for slogging in a hospital to please people I’d never met. I worked hard and soon got a letter of reference from the hospital’s volunteer coordinator. My parents also suggested I enroll in famous test prepper Kaplan Inc.’s classes to get me up to speed for the Secondary School Admission Test (SSAT), the tough entrance exam. While they expected me to study hard, they could not have predicted their success manic son would spend the next three months locked in the Kaplan Center in Newton, Mass. studying his ass off.

I rocked it. When I got the results, my parents took me and Mindy out to my favorite restaurant to celebrate.

A few weeks later I interviewed at Roxbury, meeting with two admissions officers. The first was a junior admissions officer who really seemed to like me and was duly impressed with my academic record.

I see you got a perfect score on the math section of your SSAT and did really well on the verbal. Very impressive.

I humbly acknowledged the compliment with an ever so slight nod. Indian kids are taught humility from the get-go.

Inside I was beaming. I was in. All my hard work had paid off.

Unfortunately, the second, more senior admissions officer was not so warm. He seemed strangely skeptical about my candidacy, conjuring storm clouds over my parade. After a short, uncomfortable interview, I was left jarred by his barely concealed hostility. Then I overheard him make a comment to my mother.

"We see a lot of your people around here."

His sour emphasis on the words your people told me I was seen as a second class person, someone somehow less than others. This was new and ugly to me. It confused me even further because my grades were exemplary, my test scores were in the top percentile, and…I was a good kid.

A few weeks later I got the rejection letter from Roxbury Latin School. That’s when my mother contacted a lawyer, got advice, and decided to confront the headmaster directly, first with diplomacy…then with the Fire of Shiva.

After Headmaster Jarvis stonewalled her reasoned approach, my mother knew her only remaining option was to pull a weapon and aim it right at Roxbury Latin’s reputation.

Did you know your Director of Admissions made a terribly inappropriate comment to me, in front of my son, about the number of Indian applicants? It seemed to characterize us almost as a horde of pests, attempting to storm your doors through our relentless work ethic and top grades.

Jarvis shrugged off my mother’s sarcasm and focused on the other issue: what he saw as my mother mistaking a casual undertone of racism for something of substance.

Dr. Chokerlingman, he said, deciding to mangle our name now that the threats had surfaced. I admit that the Director’s comments might have been construed as a little out of line…

A little out of line? That’s outrageous, Headmaster Jarvis. His remark was an unveiled slight on my entire culture, on all Indians, more than a billion of us, I might add.

Jarvis sniffed. We don’t discriminate if that’s what you’re implying. Especially against, as you characterize it, one billion of you. Regardless, the admission’s decision stands. It’s the system we must work within. Regrettably, my hands are tied. Your son will not be attending Roxbury Latin and that is that.

Jarvis started to rise, indicating the exercise in futility was at an end, but my proud and now angry mother, Dr. Swati Chokalingam sunk her teeth in and held firm. I may be an immigrant, but I know my rights. It’s illegal to discriminate against Indians, or anyone for that matter.

Headmaster Jarvis’s smile was toothy and condescending. That’s not entirely true. The law gives us the right to set our own admission’s policies and consider race as a factor. We can reject applicants if we feel that their ethnic background does not help us to, shall we say, create a more diverse class.

That got my mom’s ire up even more. "More diverse? Shall we say I think you meant less diverse. Let us at least be honest here."

Honesty has nothing to do with it Dr. Chokerlingman. It’s called affirmative action and it’s the law of the land. In this country. And by the way, our diversity profile is growing every year. We admit a large number of students of color.

"Perhaps to the exclusion of my son, Headmaster Jarvis, who, I might add, is of color."

Jarvis paused, weighing his words. Perhaps. But many of our admissions decisions are made under the color, if you will, of affirmative action. Furthermore, as I’ve mentioned, it’s entirely legal.

Fine, characterize it however you want. It’s still discrimination, as plain as the hair on my head. If this is your position, I will see you in court.

Jarvis shook his head out of pity. I don’t blame you for trying to fight for your son, but suing us is not going to help. The law is on our side. Justice, perhaps, is not, but the law and justice don’t always intersect. But that’s the way the world works.

He paused, then disdainfully added, At least here in the United States of America.

I will sue you. I am not bluffing.

The man of the cloth leveled his gaze at my mom and pulled out the aces he’d been hiding up his sleeve. I’m sure you’re not bluffing. However, I know your son has also applied to BB&N (Buckingham, Brown & Nichols, another top Boston prep school). As you might imagine, educational institutions aren’t so sanguine about applicants second guessing admissions decisions, even those of other institutions. Suing us will merely jeopardize Vijay’s chances of admission to other prep schools, not to mention any colleges of substance down the road.

Now Jarvis rose and extended his hand, his glib I-smoked-this-Indian-chump grin as wide as the Charles River Basin.

And on top of that, you’ll lose. Good day, doctor.

My mom felt betrayed. It’s true, this was America, but her bastion of freedom and democracy, not Headmaster Jarvis’s cynical United States of America, the rigged game of intolerance and injustice. How could they treat her little boy like this? What would this teach her son? Ganesh, the Hindu elephant-headed god of education and wisdom would not have blessed such a place. Where, for Ganesh’s sake, was the fairness? Her father had marched with Gandhi. She was hurt, outraged, and steaming.

She took my hand and headed to the door.

I’m sorry, son, but I don’t think you will be going to Roxbury.

But I worked so hard.

I cast a last look at the boys playing soccer. My friends who would never be.

I really wanted to go here, my voice small, defeated.

My mother looked back at Jarvis standing in the doorway to his office, his arms triumphantly akimbo, and managed a withering glance. Had she not been the sweet, irrevocably composed, conservative Indian woman that she was, she might have slapped him.

Instead, we quietly shuffled down the hall. She contained her emotions and searched for words to make an embarrassment a teachable moment.

I know this is a disappointment, Vijay, but sometimes politics and the club you belong to is more important than hard work and talent. India has its caste system and I always thought America was different. Perhaps I was wrong.

This was my first encounter with The Rule of Tough Shit. I was beginning to learn that life wasn’t always fair and sometimes hard work and brains took a backseat to politics, bureaucracy, and discrimination. The Old Boy Network was inviolate.

This would be a lesson that would take years to finally gel for me. I would have to go through the fire to have it burned home. I couldn’t know it then, but ten years later I would master their game by becoming someone else.

And, in return, I would find out who I really was.

Warfare is the art of deception

Sun Tzu

Jump ahead ten years from The Smackdown At Roxbury Latin. A young African- American man enters the reception area of an office and announces himself to the secretary. Jojo, an aspiring medical student, was there for an interview with the Chief of Admissions of Minority Students at the prestigious Case Western Reserve University (CWRU) School of Medicine in Cleveland, Ohio. He was a little nervous, as any young man would be when so much was at stake. He was also nervous for reasons not so obvious.

Jojo, the young African American, was actually Vijay Jojo Chokalingam.

Me.

I am, in all honesty, about as African American as Gandhi. My appearance that day in that office was part of my ongoing effort to offset the deleterious effects of my scholastic misdeeds by pretending to be Jojo, the African American, to game the system and get into med school through affirmative action.

In other words, I’d spent the first two years of my college career majoring in Budweiser and, in a panic to set me back on course, I’d discovered my salvation, a loophole called affirmative action. This was my devious/crazy scheme to save my sorry/lazy ass and make my folks happy while minting yet another Indian American doctor.

Yeah, I was desperate as hell.

The secretary, a pretty, heavy-set middle-aged African American woman, knew none of this. All she could see was my shiny bald power dome and perfectly fitting suit, both conspiring to emanate a confidant black GQ vibe.

Perhaps Chocolate Cougar wanted a taste of Jojo’s ebony essence. But I wasn’t as confident as I tried to appear. Not one time did I go to an interview and not worry I’d be found out, even though I’d begun to think of myself as sort of black.

Despite my nerves, I managed to fake a pleasant, flirtatious tone. Keeping my eyes on the prize I set about mining the ebullient Chocolate Cougar for information about the lion’s den I’d just entered, CWRU’s School of Medicine and the Office of Minority Affairs. She boasted that, "Case Western Reserve University’s School of Medicine was ranked sixteenth in the country according to US News and World Report."

I smiled, already knowing that US News was the source of school rankings that every student, administrator, and recruiter consulted like an imam does his Quran.

A moment of guilt mean-spiritedly reminded me of my anemic 3.1 GPA. For a split second I wondered why they were even interviewing me. I was pretty sure there were dark complexioned store mannequins more academically qualified. Then Chocolate Cougar uttered some magically reassuring words, …and of course, since you’re one of our affirmative action candidates you’re being treated differently than other applicants, and I remembered that all was well with the Cosmos.

Now that I was again paying attention to the words of Chocolate Cougar, I learned that the Case Western Reserve University School of Medicine epitomized affirmative action.

Gimme some sugah, baby.

CWRU’s affirmative action programs had achieved national prominence when The Journal of Blacks In Higher Education credited Case Western with having one of the highest enrollments of African American students among the top medical schools. This school had an aggressive program to recruit underrepresented minority students.

Like, uh, me.

They even went as far as setting aside a special day—Fridays—for minority applicants. I guess Case Western figured that separating their applicants into pools based on race was just hunky-dory because they called it affirmative action and not the less popular racial segregation. I thought it was pretty blatant, but so far it was sure working for me. Those chosen students would be specially interviewed by Rubens Pamies, M.D., the Director of the Office of Minority Affairs. He was the final word on who did or didn’t get in.

I had to land that fish.

Eventually, Chocolate Cougar got the high sign over the intercom that it was time for Jojo Chokalingam, the African American affirmative action medical school candidate, to head to the main stage. As I stepped to the door, the formidable Dr. Rubens Pamies opened it. He was stout, early forties, obviously African American, and dressed in a jaunty, white lab coat. I wondered if he’d actually just been in the bio chem lab doing something brilliant like gene splicing, or if it was simply an affectation. He had a tight little beard, like one of those Ahab jobs, only with the moustache. He looked like he meant business.

I voted: brilliant, not affectation.

I went to shake his hand but he retreated to his desk so fast I missed the opportunity. I’d press flesh once we settled. My plan of attack was simple. I had drilled myself over and over just like any deep cover operative. I would appear friendly, open and conversational, while treating racial issues with a Titanic-to-icebergs avoidance. As I had done in so many other interviews, I would emphasize how my background in economics at U of Chicago would help me become a more effective physician in the age of managed care. It was perfectly oiled and rehearsed horseshit, presenting me as the exuberant, well-rounded African American applicant.

Unfortunately, Dr. Pamies had his own agenda.

The good doctor quickly made it clear he was a standup comic’s worst nightmare—a hostile room. He was not only not smiling, he looked a tad angry. My nerves jumped in voltage, like the dizzying feeling at the top of a sixty-story building with no guard rail. Now that we had stopped moving I thrust out my hand again but got no skin, only a cold stare back. Okay, so that first miss on the handshake was no accident. After a way-too-long beat, I dropped my hand and sat, a little shaken.

What’s the deal, my man? No love for a homey?

Dr. Pamies bored a hole through me. I needed something to break the ice.

Dr. Pamies, I must say I’m really excited to have the opportunity to interview here at Case Western, a school I have the highest regard for.

Well, fuck. I couldn’t even fake my way through one stupid line without sounding insincere.

Didn’t matter. Pamies swam around my chum and chomped down on my ankle.

I’m originally from Haiti. Where are you from?

Fuckin’ Haiti? Seriously? Now my paranoia went into overdrive. The warmed-over-turd greeting was ominous enough, but now this? Did he ask me that question because he cared, or was it…to get some kind of edge? Don’t Haitians know about juju and voodoo and shit like that? I felt naked knowing so little about either. Fuck med school, I feared for my soul. I reminded myself that fear causes mistakes. Fatal mistakes. I had to get my act together. Now.

I’m from Boston, I stuttered.

There wasn’t a flicker of interest in his eyes.

Yeah, fuckin’ juju, baby.

My ass puckered. I tried to be casual as I scanned for voodoo dolls or pins or anything. Nothing.

Then I realized he probably kept all that shit in his desk.

No, he continued, I mean originally. Where is your family from?

I resolved beforehand that any time I could mention Africa…

We, uh, lived in, uh, Africa.

We just sat there, my eyes frozen in the headlights of his stare. Jesus save me…and I’m Hindu.

Let’s take your parents. Where were they born?

I wondered for one yoctosecond if "in a hospital" would fly and moved on. India was not an option. I smiled stupidly as my brain spun like a slot machine that never pays out. Checkmate. Goddamn it! Two moves into the game and I had lost. Tip your king over and resign.

Okay, I still had two lines of defense. Misdirection and misunderstanding.

My parents were immigrants and are very proud to call America home. They saw nothing but opportunity here, just as so many have…uh, since the founding of the republic.

Misunderstanding. Check. Cue America The Beautiful. Check.

Pamies licked his lips then used his tongue to dislodge something in his teeth. Perhaps it was a speck of the feces I was hurling in his face. He took a deep breath and looked down at my application. A slight chill passed through me when I saw Jojo’s bald picture and for half a second—I’m not kidding—wondered whose file it was.

Oh…yeah…geez.

"You are Jojo Chokalingam, aren’t you?"

Damn. I never expected in a million years to feel trapped by my own name.

Yes, sir. That’s me.

"I’ve read your application. It says you’re black."

Holy fuckballs. The subject was officially on the table. Worse, his statement was more of a menacing question dripping with derision. I instantly felt vulnerable, like Al Jolson opening for Public Enemy.

I racked my brain for a rejoinder. Okay, misdirection.

Yes, I’ve been a member of the Organization of Black Students at the University of Chicago for the past year. It’s a terrific organization and I’m very proud of our community service efforts, especially our outreach to local residents on the South Side of Chicago and…

As he interrupted me, he sneered as if whiffing something acrid. Excuse me, but being a member of the Organization of Black Students doesn’t mean you are black. Hardly. Again, where are you from? You didn’t answer my question earlier. I asked where your parents were from.

My parents emigrated to this country from Nigeria. I lived in Calabar when I was very young. I loved Africa.

Nigeria! Africa! Misunderstanding! Check, check and check.

Once again, that does not mean you are black. Why are you giving me such evasive answers?

Shit. Okay, obfuscate. Buy time. Throw it back at him.

I’m not sure what you’re insinuating, doctor.

You have not given me one straight answer yet. You’ve managed to bob and weave around everything I’ve asked. What are you hiding?

Hiding? Other than not being black? Not a fucking thing, Dr. Noseypants.

Nothing. I’m sorry Dr. Pamies, but I’m not being evasive. I’m just here to express my extreme interest in matriculating to Case Western. I’ve heard nothing but great praise for your program. I look forward to being a part of it. By the way, I’m curious about how many minority students are in the program?

After that mouthful of dung, I considered ladling it on with a Dr. King quote but felt that might have motivated him to come over the desk and I wasn’t sure I could take him.

Ignoring my two dimensional sophistry, he attacked with a phalanx of questions like a courtroom prosecutor hellbent on forcing a weeping confession that Jojo is Faux-jo. I stayed chill under his assault.

Where are you from?

Where are your parents from?

What is their nationality?

What is your ethnic background?

What is the airspeed velocity of an unladen swallow? Blah, blah, blah.

Finally, Rubens Pamies, M.D., a member in good standing of the Afro-centric gene pool, had enough bullshit cat and mouse and just up and said it.

I don’t think you’re black. I think you’re lying about your race to use affirmative action to get into medical school. What do you say to that?

To this point his approach had been a sort of a passive/aggressive dance, but with this, he laid his cards on the table and demanded I show my hand. In light of being confronted with the truth I did a weird thing: I relaxed.

Bingo, Dr. P, you just hit the nail on the head. Give the man a prize! I’m not black. So blow me.

In all my interviews at all the schools during this ongoing and uniquely absurd process, I knew this moment was bound to come so I’d practiced. My defense was swift and forceful: fake outrage.

"That’s outrageous, Doctor Pamies. I’m shocked. I would never do such a thing!"

I protested…doth too much, methinks.

Sure, it sounded hollow, but it served O.J. well. He got away with murder. I just needed to get through the next five minutes until I could get outta there ‘cause this bitch was one-eighty-seven, straight up, dawg.

Dr. Meblackyounot narrowed his eyes. I don’t believe you. You’re not credible. You really think you can pull this off? Perpetrate such fraud? Admit it, you are not black.

I wasn’t going to admit shit. Who did this guy think he was? Black? I channeled my inner badass and pushed back. Fuck you, Jack, yo ain’t throwin’ no shade on me.

I sat up straight and fixed my eyes on his. Then, in my best discreetly threatening tone I warned him, Dr. Pamies, your attitude toward me is concerning and disquieting. I resent your implications that I’m not who I say I am. I don’t want to talk about my ethnic background. I want to talk about my qualifications to be a physician. I’m concerned your questions are taking an off-track and very inappropriate direction. Please stop.

Whew.

It was an unpleasant little mantra our UC pre-med student advisor, Dr. David Owen, had drilled into us if we were getting the third degree during our medical school interviews. It was intended to have a vaguely legalistic tone, as if I was establishing a foundation for future legal action. While it was never intended to deflect someone who was absolutely correct, like the good doctor, I co-opted it for my purposes.

This seemed to pucker Pamies’ sphincter and he shut the hell up about my background and heritage and sparrow airspeed velocities. My eyes fixed on the large institutional clock on the wall behind him as Einsteinian time dilation slowed each second to an eternity. Our conversation spiraled in awkward circles for one minute and twenty-three seconds more, him tepidly lunging, me parrying. Then he stood to indicate the interview was over, his face even stonier than those bigass heads on Easter Island. And, as in the beginning of the interrogation…um, interview…there was no handshake.

I mentally screamed to the crowd, Peace out, muthafuckahs! Keepin’ it real, threw down the microphone, and walked out hands high, fingers flashing the double Vs. I figured this was my last concert at Case Western, no doubt, cuz. The chances of me getting any kind of offer from Case Western and their Black Power gatekeeper, Dr. Affirmative Action, were slightly less than the sun fizzling out the next day.

And, to my utter astonishment, I would have been wrong about that.

The offer, not the sun.

"I say to you quite frankly that the time for

racial