On my first day of work, Mr. McFarland gave me literature on industrial engineering studies in the healthcare field. The University of Michigan and Georgia Tech were pioneers in the field, and Mr. McFarland purchased their methodologies so I could review them.
After one week of hospital orientation, I began my first project—determining how many technicians were needed in each lab of the Pathology Department. Mr. McFarland made sure the supervisor, department manager, and pathologists knew what I was working on. “Provide Kris with full cooperation,” he told them. “Give him whatever he needs and explain to him everything he asks so he can finish his project.”
Throughout the week, the supervisor explained the Hematology Department to me while I took notes. Later, I elaborated on them at my desk, and if I came to parts I didn’t understand, I spoke to the supervisor again. At times, I worked directly with the administrator, and since he was the top person, my recommendations carried weight. I was a part of the administrative team, and on a weekly basis, I met with the administrator, two assistant administrators, and the Pathology Department head to discuss major issues the hospital faced and possible solutions.
One challenge I faced as a management engineer was finding a non-threatening way to work with hospital personnel. They feared my recommendations would eliminate their jobs. “That will not be the case,” I assured them. “I am here to help the hospital run more efficiently, not to jeopardize your livelihoods.”
On top of the employees’ suspicions, I felt pressure to succeed. Industrial engineers were expected to save the hospital three to four times more money than the salary paid to them each year.
Because I was not an American, everyone was extra nice to me and asked me about India and my family. They showed concern that I was so far from my family and asked how I was doing. I tried to be friendly as well, and did not act like I was any different from them. I asked about their educational backgrounds, their children, and where they were from. Soon I developed a good rapport with everyone in the Pathology Department.
For the most part, Mr. McFarland was an agreeable boss who treated me the way he did anyone else, but every once in a while, he would insult me in some way. Each morning, Mr. McFarland came to his office at 8:30, looked at the papers on his desk, reviewed his phone calls, and got a cup of coffee. Sometimes he gave Selma, his secretary, the money and asked her to get it for him. One day, Selma was not there, and since I also wanted to drink coffee, I offered to get it for him. He said okay, and I started to leave, thinking I would buy it for him. In the Indian culture, it was a common courtesy to pay for a cup of tea for your friend or your boss. Just then, Mr. McFarland took a dime out of his pocket and threw it on the floor. “Pick it up,” he said in a demeaning tone. “Take this dime for the coffee.” I looked at him for a moment, thinking about telling him off. But he was my boss, so I didn’t say anything, just picked up the dime and left. I needed that job and wanted to turn it into a career.
Another instance that made me feel uncomfortable occurred in April 1968, while Selma and I were working at our desks. Mr. McFarland was sitting at his desk doing paperwork when he looked up and said, “Oh, a coon was shot yesterday.” I didn’t know until then, but Dr. Martin Luther King had been assassinated.
Selma said, “Mr. McFarland, you shouldn’t be saying this.”
But Mr. McFarland only said, “Oh, he was nothing but a coon.”
I agreed with Selma. I didn’t like him saying things like that, but it was not my place to correct him. He was my boss, and I was also a minority, so I kept quiet.
During the 1968 spring quarter, my professor-student relationship with Professor Buchan turned into a friendship. Whenever I invited him to my apartment, he would show up with a six pack of beer, and I would make curried food. He found me funny and felt comfortable with my straightforward manner. He was divorced and had a son, but he never talked much about his family. He often came to my parties with his girlfriend, and whenever the phone rang, he’d answer it and say, “Harry’s Bar and Grill.”
The person on the other line would be confused, and say, “I’m sorry. I have the wrong number.”
Then when they called back a moment later, Professor Buchan would say, “Yes, who do you want to speak to?” Sometimes Professor Buchan also brought John Snyder, my professor of Special Industrial Engineering Problems, and he would always tell people, “Kris’s place is the hottest spot in town.”
As summer began, I started to work on my thesis, a requirement for graduation from the industrial engineering master’s program. At Professor Buchan’s suggestion, I decided to write my thesis about the hospital project in the pathology lab.
Early in the summer, I was the best man at Paul and Arlene’s wedding. After the wedding, Arlene moved from New Jersey to an apartment in Knoxville with Paul. Every now and then, Paul and Arlene invited me to their place for dinner. The first time, Arlene cooked fish filets with rice and vegetables. As I chewed a piece of fish, I realized it was still cold and a little rubbery on the inside. Not wanting to embarrass Arlene, I moved onto the rice.
“Is the food okay?” Paul asked me after a few minutes. “Do you like it?” He had told me once that Arlene was not the best cook.
“It’s pretty good,” I said hesitantly. “But the fish is still a little cold on
