A few weeks after medical school started, I wore my white coat for the very first time.  I brimmed with excitement and anxiety. The crisp white coat was a little too large and the diaphragm of my new stethoscope, awkwardly slung around my neck, kept slamming against my shoulder as I briskly walked towards the hospital shuttle.

"Hey there, sexy!" 

I abruptly stopped in my tracks. I quickly glanced to my right to spot an older, scrawny white gentleman peering out of the window of a van. Our eyes briefly met as he jeered. I quickly looked away and climbed onto the shuttle as fast as I could.

I was shocked. While women unfortunately experience street harassment all too often, didn’t this white coat mean that I would be safe from such cat-calls? Wasn’t the white coat a clear sign of wisdom and respect? 

On day one of wearing the white coat, I collided head first with the reality that even this symbol of trust and healing couldn’t shield me from such demeaning experiences.

It was late November, early on during my medical school interviews. Although it was my third one of the cycle, I was extremely anxious because this was the first top-tier medical school to offer me an interview. My first interview of the day was lukewarm, but my second was one that I’ll never forget. 

It started off unremarkably with the usual introductions and questions, but things took a turn for the awkward toward the middle of our conversation. My interviewer, a Latino physician and fellow native New Yorker, began to grow more comfortable and decided to begin offering advice rather than asking questions. He asked, “What do you think is the biggest issue in healthcare today?" My response was health disparities in poor and minority groups. I thought this was an easy question because this was why I wanted to go into medicine in the first place. 

His reply, however, caught me off guard. He leaned back in his chair, speaking to himself as much as addressing me and said, “I find it interesting that whenever I ask minority applicants that question, they always answer 'health disparities.'" He then looked me in the eye and recommended, “I think it would be better if you say food insecurity in future interviews." 

Although stunned, I did my best to maintain a straight face, which was easy since he proceeded to lecture me on the topic. The rest of the interview was a blur of awkwardness that I was happy to have end when he led me out to the elevators.

As the doctor walked away, he turned and said, “You could lose a few pounds."

​I was stunned. Thankfully, the elevator arrived saving me from having to give any coherent response. I left that day praying they wouldn't accept me because it would be hard explaining to my parents why I didn't want to go there.