Becoming Dr. Q. Alfredo Quinones-Hinojosa

      According to family accounts, from the moment of my birth on January 2, 1968, I kept everyone on their toes. First off, an unusual bump on my head raised concerns, interestingly enough, that I might have been born with a brain tumor. Today I understand that I had a cephalohematoma—nothing serious. But at the time, family members wondered how I managed to survive the fist-sized protrusion rising from my skull—composed of burst blood vessels—which looked like a second tiny head trying to push its way through the skin.

      Relieved when they learned that the bump would disappear on its own, family members turned their attention to my hyperactive nature, worrying that I would hurt myself. Even before I could walk well, my parents were shocked at how fast I could toddle off. I also learned to speak expressively by my first birthday and soon thereafter taught myself to tie my shoelaces. Now the real trouble began. My vanishing acts usually required the entire extended family to go out and search for me—like the time when I was about three years old and everyone was afraid that I’d fallen into the reservoir. They eventually found me selling the tiny shrimp I’d discovered in the irrigation holes out in the fields. My many uncles thought these antics were hilarious, but my numerous aunts disagreed. They soon labeled me a hellion in need of better discipline. My parents did their best, but little worked. Nana Maria predicted that if they didn’t set some kind of boundaries for me, I would be a danger to myself. The job then fell to Tata Juan, who took me under his wing and became my first true mentor.

      Tall and lanky, with chiseled features and an eagle’s beak for a nose, Tata was a towering figure for all of us. A self-made man who had never been to school, he nonetheless learned to read and write music while teaching himself to play multiple instruments. Tata also managed to make a few wise investments during his years toiling in agriculture (as we used to describe working in the fields), and throughout his life, he carried himself with such a regal bearing that he could have been mistaken for an aristocrat. A gentleman as well, he was never without his hat—a sign of dignity, I believed—and he never forgot to remove it in the presence of ladies.

      “How are you today, my ladies?” he would say with great courtesy, sweeping off his hat and bowing whenever he passed a group of women of any age. I mimicked this mannerism as a child, even though I didn’t have a hat. I enjoyed the reaction whenever I bowed and said in my most proper five-year-old pronunciation, “How are you today, my ladies?” The move worked so well, I’ve done it ever since!

      My fondest memories of my grandfather come from our trips to a cabin in the Rumorosa Mountains. Everything about the region—from the giant, rocky mountain peaks to the mysterious series of caves with prehistoric wall paintings left by ancient human hands—filled me with wonder. Along the hiking trails that led up the mountains, Tata defied his age and ran like a gazelle. On purpose, he would sometimes sprint off into the woods and I would have to think fast and follow him into the brush. There were times when he would disappear, and just before I started to panic, Tata would reappear and we would continue up the steep mountain together, far from the main path.

      On one occasion, he put the lesson of our hikes into words. Placing his hand on my shoulder as we climbed, he said, “Alfredo, whenever you have the choice, don’t just follow where the path leads. Go instead where there is no path and then leave a trail.” I don’t know whether Tata had ever heard the similar quote by Ralph Waldo Emerson. But I wouldn’t be surprised if he had.

      Not until we reached the rocky peak would Tata Juan finally sit down to rest. Then he would watch in delight as I continued to run wildly, calling him at the top of my lungs, “Tataaaahhhh! Tataaaahhhh!” and loving the sound as it echoed down the mountainside.

      Though my parents never said anything, they must have been relieved when the two of us returned from the outings in one piece. I know they were also pleased that we were so close. But not everybody shared their feelings. One of my father’s sisters famously complained that out of his fifty-two grandchildren, some of whom were senior to me, Tata seemed to spend more time with me than with anyone else. Papá probably suggested that it was helpful to have someone in the family who could control me!

      My mother often enlisted Tata to act as an intermediary when she had to explain to me why I had to accept the consequences of disobeying the rules. I would argue against the punishment, whether it was to sit in the corner or to give up television, telling Mamá she was too strict. Whatever my transgressions were—whether I skipped my chores or got into a fight—Tata would ask me to tell him the whole story and then pass judgment. That’s what happened one day when my mother was upset with me for playing on the railroad tracks behind our house. (Coincidentally, these tracks were part of the line that carried freight trains and railway tankers from Northern California. The train cars that passed through my backyard were the same tankers that I would one day clean and refurbish—and put my life in jeopardy in the process.)

      As a child, I used to volunteer to help the switching guards and the engineers since they couldn’t move as fast as me. My job was to wait by the side of the tracks until the last minute to identify whether the locomotive needed to have the track switched and, if so, leap over the track while flagging the guards and the engineers to pull the appropriate levers at the right moment. In my opinion, this was educational and excellent training in my quest to become either an astronaut or a superhero like Kaliman. My mother begged to differ.

      On the day in question, Tata asked me to explain a particular incident and tell him why my job helping the switching guards required me to climb up on a tanker car that had only stopped temporarily—forcing me to jump when it suddenly got going again. After hearing me defend myself along with a few other details, he spoke slowly and sternly, “Your mother is absolutely correct, Alfredo. You could have been killed. You set a bad example for the other children. I think you should consider this as you go and sit in the corner.” He had just repeated what my mother had already said—almost word for word! But when the words came from him, I agreed completely. The punishment was no longer unreasonable. In fact, I thought it was an honor to face my consequences at his request.

      One reason I respected Tata was his ability to overcome the obstacles he had faced throughout his life. When he was growing up in Sonora, where he was born in 1907, his father was murdered by a band of pistoleros—lawless, thieving gangs who terrorized the countryside during the Mexican Revolution. His mother spiraled down into mental illness afterward—making life even tougher for my grandfather, who more or less raised himself.

      Nana Maria had overcome much adversity too. Though I wasn’t as close to her as I was to Tata, I was in awe of her role as a healer and pillar of the community. Through her work as a curandera, she taught me the most important lesson I would learn about the treatment and care of patients: in all matters, the life and the well-being of the patient must come first. Nana had a gift for connecting with her patients in an immediate, tactile way—looking into their eyes, studying their smallest symptoms, putting her hands on their shoulders to be encouraging and to share her powerful healing energy. No one ever died in her care because she was so thorough that if she had any concern about whether someone required more than she could offer, she