Better you than me

I had a few bad days in 1st grade. I can’t imagine what my problem was. Likely tired – I’ve always had a fondness for sleep and find it terrifically difficult to slip into dreams when I know I have to be up at a specific time in the morning. Perhaps we were doing an art project – I’ve never been skilled at drawing. Or maybe my moodiness started before age 6.

Anyway, I sat in the first desk you could see from the rear of the 2 doors on the side wall of the classroom. I could see people pass through the hallway and caught glimpses into the Kindergarten classroom as well. For whatever reason, that day I found myself cheered by watching the 5 year olds perched on their carpet squares while I sat at my desk.

“At least I’m not them.” I thought. “I’m one step closer to … something. They have to get where I am, so I’m a little ahead!” So I smiled with my newfound superiority and enjoyed the rest of my day. Soon after, I started helping in the Kindergarten class – I can’t remember why. But I learned to make stars so I could grade papers for Mrs. Park.

If you think I grew out of this, you’re wrong. I was intimately involved with recruitment in grad school, organizing not only the official visit weekends, but also individual tours for students arriving independently. I was pretty brilliant at it – highly interested in the specific interests and needs of the students, eager to help and talk and offer information, sweet enough to step in and offer that bringing a parent was likely not the best of ideas.

All the work was hardly selfless though. I noted extreme rises in productivity around these spring weekends when prospective students would arrive. I would fuss over their schedules I had carefully prepared. Study details from past emails so I could answer questions and tell the most appropriate (yet entertaining and charming) stories. Confirm meetings and tour times with professors. This all made me feel quite important and carried over into my own work. The abstracts I’d prepare and print made me note my progress! I remembered my own tour when choosing graduate departments, and look at how far I’d come since then!

Having a highly-ranked department has its perks. The students were highly talented, and, with very few exceptions, delightful to have around. I made my way around the final cocktail hour, carefully using my wealth of knowledge to guide the little prospectives to the best grouping of faculty members, easing them into conversation, then flitting away to find another lost lamb. And without fail, each of the four years, I would return home, achy and exhausted after a day of scurrying around campus, ferrying students to and fro, answering frantic calls on my cell phone. I’d shower, then I’d work – the energy of the day transforming into intense progress so that I’d have something of note to show the next batch of incoming students.

First of all, they have ruined my open house. I sadly noted the emails this March, bit my tongue and resisted my impulse to ask why the current student volunteers hadn’t met yet. Wondered who was hosting the Thursday night dinner for those who arrived early enough. Hoped they went to the appropriate bar on Saturday because it’s not an open house unless you drink beer in a very specific way afterward! So I sighed regretfully – all the work and energy and time that had gone into making exquisite visit weekends had apparently been lost upon my departure. Because I’m obviously that important. (And arrogant, apparently. Wow.)

The sad thing is that I don’t get to be all important at my new institution. The lines between departments and groups are so muddled here that I still, nearly a year later, can’t figure out the politics. I miss the boost of productivity! Want to feel a little superior (in the nicest way, of course) when the new people parade through and looked awed at all I’ve accomplished. After all, what good is my skill at impressing people by making myself seem cooler than I am if nobody is going to listen! Disappointing.

One of the departments on campus offers catered lunches for their Friday afternoon seminar series. I’m out of grad school, so free food doesn’t guarantee my presence, but I’ll admit that it helps. I found myself wanting a soda and having only 60 of the necessary 65 cents, so I trudged through the rain to sit in the seminar a couple days ago. I perked up considerably when Speaker was introduced as a post-doctoral candidate. How exciting, I thought! I remember giving my seminar last Spring! It’s like looking into the Kindergarten classroom all over again! Because I’m farther along than he is!

Restraining myself from clapping with glee, I sipped my precious soda and eagerly anticipated the beginning. I noted the size of the room – much larger than the smaller area where I’d presented. I hate using microphones too. But in a room of nearly 100 people? Probably necessary, I thought sadly.

I tended to wear blues and grays to my interviews, I noted, frowning slightly over his pink tie. I would have gone with red. Green perhaps. Even black would have looked sharp. This pink was questionable. I noted his wedding ring and wondered if his wife had approved this tie.

He didn’t look nervous, and I raised my eyebrows in appreciation. I always found someone to chatter at before I had to begin my talk. The waiting is the hardest part – once you get started, you can engage in the material and forget that all these people are looking at you (and your pink tie). But those 10 minutes while the line of humanity files in? Lured more by the food and soda than your knowledge? Ick. He was holding up well though – certainly better than I would have.

Ah, but then he started playing with PowerPoint. Starting his presentation after quickly flipping through the first few notes slides. Then, unable to leave his leading slide on the 10 foot screen, he checked the controls and showed us the first 2 slides before returning to his title. Adjusted his pink tie, walked quickly to the seminar organizer to ask for a pointer. I looked at the clock and shot a glare at the organizer myself. We were 5 minutes late already – how about we get this going? We soon did, and Speaker took a deep breath. And I sent a sincere wish for the next 40 minutes to go as well as possible for him.

He started by saying he wasn’t going to use the microphone, which I found immediately endearing. His voice sounded good – strong, confident. Mine tends to tremble just a bit for the first couple slides. He relaxed into his material quite quickly, stumbling only briefly near the beginning, and I found myself sitting back a bit, impressed. Then he pointed at something on one of his graphs and the little laser shook. Badly. And my stomach clenched for him in sympathy. I looked over to see if he’d noticed, and saw his left hand clench around his right in an attempt to steady the tiny light. The next 2 points were rough - laser bouncing around dizzily, but he leveled out after that. Did a lovely job presenting some really exquisite work.

I sent him email afterward. Complimented his talk because he deserved it. Wished him luck on his job search, because while it’s easier in my field than many others, I still think it’s a miserable process. Then I told him about a project of mine where he might contribute if he decides to join us later in the summer. I remember emails like that – random people who were excited about my work, interested in sharing some of their own, remembering their interview process with a fond smile and accompanying glad that’s over shudder. I loved getting those notes from students and post-docs – saved all of them.

And I adored sending this one. Much as I’ve delighted in answering questions and proofreading posters from my younger friends in my graduate research group as we prepare for conferences. It’s good to remember that I’m farther along that I once was. Slow progress is, after all, still progress. And, well, at least I’m not them.