Being Called Stupid in Theatre
Thirty-two years old. Exams passed. Years of training behind me. Yet in theatre a consultant called me “stupid.” In surgery, hierarchy is real — and sometimes the hardest lesson is knowing when to hold your ground.
“You’re Stupid.”
It was my second year in an honorary registrar post.
That title alone tells you something. Honorary. I was doing the work of a registrar, carrying the responsibility, turning up early, staying late—but technically I wasn’t on a numbered training pathway. I was close, but not inside. Capable, but not yet confirmed.
That liminal space carries tension.
You are senior enough to know what you are doing, junior enough to be reminded that you do not yet belong.
I was scrubbing for a case. The ritual was familiar: hands under the water, brush methodical, movements rehearsed from repetition. The theatre lights were already on. The anaesthetist was murmuring softly behind us. Metal trays clinked gently as instruments were counted.
The Consultant stood beside me at the scrub sink.
Without warning, without provocation, he said:
“You’re stupid.”
It wasn’t shouted.
It wasn’t delivered with theatrical fury.
It was flat. Almost casual.
For a second, I thought I had misheard him. But I hadn’t.
I laughed.
It wasn’t genuine amusement. It was reflex. A way to buy time.
“I’m not stupid,” I replied, still scrubbing, tone light.
He turned slightly.
“What makes you so sure?”
There are moments in life when your response determines the direction of your dignity. I could have apologised. I could have deflected. I could have gone quiet.
Instead, I said—defiantly:
“My mother told me I’m not stupid.”
I smiled as I said it. Almost playful.
Inside, I was furious.
The irony was not lost on me.
I was 32 years old.
I had passed every exam placed in front of me since the age of five. I had navigated medical school. Survived competitive interviews. Passed surgical exams that break very capable people. I was a qualified doctor, operating regularly, teaching juniors.
And yet here I was, standing at a scrub sink, being told I was stupid.
Medicine, and particularly surgery, has always carried a power dynamic that is difficult to explain to outsiders. The hierarchy is steep. Authority is concentrated. Validation flows downward. Reputation flows upward.
In that moment, although I was almost a foot taller than him, we both knew the truth: physical stature meant nothing. Institutional power was the currency that mattered.
He could influence my future.
He could shape my references.
He could colour perceptions.
I could not do anything—at least not without consequence.
There is a line in Sun Tzu’s The Art of War that has always stayed with me:
If you are going to engage in battle, you must be ruthless and show no mercy.
That day, I chose not to engage.
Because if I had engaged, I would have had to commit fully.
You cannot half-challenge power. You either confront it decisively, or you conserve your energy and wait.
I conserved.
We finished scrubbing. We operated. The case went ahead as if nothing had happened.
But something had.
The words lingered long after the incision was closed.
Being called stupid is not just an insult; it is an attempt to destabilise identity. Especially when delivered from someone who holds authority over your progression. It plants a seed of doubt. It invites you to internalise someone else’s judgement.
What struck me later was this: he did not believe I was stupid.
He was testing dominance.
In hierarchical environments, some people assert control not through teaching, but through diminishment. If they can shrink you emotionally, they feel taller professionally.
It is rarely about intelligence.
It is about territory.
In that scrub room, two things were true simultaneously:
- I was furious.
- I was strategic.
I knew that any visible anger would be weaponised. I knew that confrontation without leverage would be self-sabotage. I also knew something else—something he did not.
My identity did not begin in that theatre.
It began in a family of doctors and academics. In classrooms where I had exceeded expectation. In environments where I had already proven resilience. My self-concept was not dependent on his approval.
And that is what protected me.
I walked into theatre that day not to win an argument, but to perform surgery.
Performance became my quiet rebuttal.
Not showy. Not aggressive. Just precise. Consistent. Undeniable.
The hierarchy remained. The comments did not disappear overnight. But I learnt something powerful in that moment:
You do not always fight the battle in front of you.
Sometimes you fight by outlasting.
There is also something particular about being called stupid as a Black trainee in predominantly white surgical spaces. The word carries historical weight. It brushes against stereotypes that have been used for centuries to justify exclusion.
He may not have intended that resonance.
But I felt it.
And I refused to internalise it.
Over time, I realised that competence is the most effective long-term strategy in environments that question you. Not perfection—competence. Repeatable, visible, calm.
Years later, when I reflect on that moment, I do not feel anger.
I feel clarity.
The clarity that comes from understanding the difference between insecurity and authority. The clarity that comes from knowing that sometimes, when someone calls you stupid, it reveals more about their fear than your ability.
I did not engage in battle that day.
I chose my terrain instead.
And in surgery, as in strategy, terrain matters more than ego.
Average Black Surgeon: Confessions from a Life Misunderstood
Forgotten
Months after CCT, I found myself unemployed, filling out forms and applying for locums while the system moved on without me. When the operating stops, a surgeon must ask a difficult question: who am I now?
