From On Becoming

Curious George

An excerpt from the book.

For many years, my alter ego has been Curious George. I’m not exactly sure when it started, but I do know how it started.

My wife gave me a Curious George lunch box to carry to work. I still smile every time I think of that lunch box being carried by a tall, white-coated man heading off to see his patients.

Over the years, my office staff added to the theme. In honor of that name, I received everything from notepads to a wooden racing car to a Curious George dressed as a doctor—and more besides. Most of these gifts appeared while I was still practicing medicine. They were given out of something I can’t fully name—perhaps a shared joke, perhaps affection, but certainly with a measure of recognition and warmth.

I appreciated those gifts for what they signaled. They told me I was approachable, that I wasn’t hiding behind my title or using it to create distance. That mattered to me. I was never comfortable using the title “doctor” for leverage, except when it served a patient’s interest. I knew that wasn’t always true for everyone in my profession.

There’s more to the story—especially how Curious George became a way of relating to my family and grandchildren—but I’ll leave that for another day.

Looking back, I realize how unexpected this alter ego really was. Curious George wasn’t simply curious; he created chaos and often found himself in trouble because of it.

That wasn’t me as a child. I don’t remember chaos being encouraged. Even when I managed it—like the time I started a small fire near a neighbor’s garage—it was memorable precisely because it was rare. What I remember more clearly is being labeled a “very good boy.” Curiosity that led to mischief wasn’t welcomed, even if curiosity itself was.

And yet, curiosity—even when it risks disorder—can also be a form of freedom. I suspect I missed some of that freedom growing up. Perhaps I carried that restraint into adulthood as well.

Embracing Curious George later in life has given me another way of being myself. It has loosened the grip of needing to be “very good” all the time. I can follow the rules and still allow room for play, imagination, and discovery.

These days, when I reach for that old lunch box image, I’m not trying to be someone else. I’m simply making room for what was kept inside.