“So what’s up with Maria?” Dawn asked yesterday. I shrugged and turned away from my computer. Dawn’s meeting was yesterday afternoon, not Tuesday. She wrote the day down wrong. Mistakes are common in times of stress, but she continued to prepare and was all worked up and ready to fight when she left yesterday.
“We’re supposed to be working on this project.” I said of Maria. “It’s just that my attendance is – to anyone other than me – unpredictable. Her appearances in the office seem to be the same. So we don’t see each other all that often, which makes collaborating difficult. So…I don’t know.”
“What’s the project?” Ken asked, glancing up from his notes. He doesn’t go in for the personal details, bless him, but he does like the work.
For the next 20 minutes, I did what I should have been doing with Maria. We talked about this little side project. Why it’s important, what the goal is, how to implement the code line by line in Matlab, what loop structures to use. He wrote examples on the board and I corrected him when he started down a path I’d tried already. Once he’d finished writing it out, Dawn had long since turned back to her piles of printed emails.
I sat back at my desk, sighed and started to write out notes. I was thinking about the stupid project, so I might as well make progress on the code while I waited to collect my own data. This particular project has been on my desk for over a month. It’s a favor for another scientist, so the turnaround should have been a bit quicker. It was, in our defense, trickier than it first seemed. But the premise is quite simple and the code – if properly considered – is relatively straightforward. Given that Boss has asked me about it recently, I moved it up my list of priorities and decided to do something this week.
Ken walked over and stood behind my chair, watching me type in my Matlab window. He took his turn at correcting me, doing math in his head and offering advice on how he debugged code.
“That should be 20 to 4890 in steps of 10.” He noted as we parsed out data into a matrix. I typed something in and he offered his advice on how it could work faster.
“So if you…” he continued instructing. I’ve worked with enough scientists to recognize one that gets fixated on a problem. He was writing code in his head, I knew, and I was just slowing him down.
“I’m tired.” I finally said, my brain screaming for a nap while his was busy doing calculations. I’m recruiting for all projects, have a list of my own that’s long and growing and am concerned about being able to get all this stuff done. I woke twice last night and came to the laptop to start more code so that it’d be finished when I woke up again. I’m a bit overwhelmed right now.
“Do you want to take a break?” He asked eagerly. Ken’s laptop had been left at his apartment, so he coveted my pretty iMac, with its ability to talk to Matlab. “I could work on this for a while if you want to do something else.”
I smiled and picked up the paper I’m to review. I have no idea what’s going on, frankly, and knew my craving for a nap would hardly be conducive to constructive comments. But I gracefully shuffled down the hall and found a comfortable chair in the break room. I tucked a leg underneath my body and settled in to read, making notes and underlining text to keep myself focused.
It is, I decided as I settled the papers on my legs and leaned my head back against the wall, difficult for me to determine my motives sometimes. I was charmed that Ken was so interested in the data. Given that I’d rather not deal with it and Maria is clearly not around to handle it, it was a refreshing change to see progress. He continued to work on it – though I told him several times he shouldn’t feel obligated – and sent me a file tonight that would make the exact results I wanted a couple hours ago.
The right thing, I think, would have been to wait for Maria. In some sense, I was asked to guide the initial stages of her research and I’m willing to do that. If I were around constantly, which isn’t an irrational expectation, then we could work when she happened to be in the office. Then she would learn and we would make slow progress toward her independent career.
Given that I’m excellent at justifications – one must obtain such a skill if inherently lazy and prone to guilt – I can make arguments for doing it the way I did.
Ken is always around. He puts in many hours at the office, and is therefore available for those random discussions. Collaborations are often born of convenience – if I have a problem and someone is there to help me, I’ll likely ask for assistance. So Ken is rewriting a section of my chapter since I’d said I was struggling with one section. He offered to take a look. He gets to be an author and I get to ignore a section that was hard for me. Lovely.
I can deal with Matlab, but my skill is limited in some situations. I was looking up several commands and trying to decide how the structure should go when Ken stepped in and started figuring it out. It was a relief, frankly, to release control over the project when I had work of my own to do. When working with Maria, it’s a step-by-step process. Ken’s way is just so much easier for me. Given that I’m recruiting for all projects, I have a full list of my own crap. Getting rid of it seems appealing.
Despite my reasons it was OK to give Ken Maria’s project, I immediately felt guilty when I found her at her desk this morning.
“Hey.” I greeted her and she looked up and smiled. I sat at my desk, busy trying to get things started and copied and sent to the appropriate people. She asked a question about the data and I answered her quickly. She remained stuck, so I offered a bit more advice. When I’d finished with the most pressing tasks, I rolled my chair over and tried to help.
I got the distinct impression that she was annoyed with me. She’d seen Ken and he mentioned he was working on the code. Given that she’s asked me what’s going on a couple of times, I felt badly that I’d moved on without her. But our paths hadn’t crossed recently! And I took the easier road rather than the right one, perhaps.
I patted her shoulder after watching her make the same mistakes over and over, and said I’d think for a minute and see what I could figure out. I answered a couple emails then rolled back over to her desk to watch her battle a software program. My phone rang, so I dealt with a collaborator and his questions for several minutes.
Maria was putting her laptop away when I turned around again.
“I have an appointment.” She offered and I smiled and nodded. Like Boss, I’m not fond of conflict. I’m fine with people not putting in hours at the office – it’s not like I’m setting records for face time myself. Not wanting to make her feel guilty, I had turned back to my work when I realized we’d never make progress at that rate. So I asked to see her laptop while she was gone, hoping I could change some settings or figure out why her software was having problems. She handed it over and within 5 minutes I had an answer. Pleased with myself and eager to provide help, I put her laptop away and continued to work on my own stuff.
She still hadn’t returned when I left for the afternoon. I considered waiting for her, but knew I’d be annoyed if she returned late. Given that she’s been in the office less than 4 hours this week, I wasn’t confident that she’d return at all.
The point is that it’s hard to help her right now. There are all sorts of reasons that she’s not making progress and I’m not being a good post-doc, but it really comes down to a level of difficulty that I’m not willing to deal with. I’ll find an easier way. And I think good mentoring requires more than that.
“Do you think she’ll be OK?” I asked Jill of Dawn last night. She shrugged and frowned.
“Boss, as wonderful as he is, doesn’t do conflict. So as he tries to smooth things over, I’m not sure she’ll get what she wants.”
I nodded in agreement. Having worked with Boss, I know he likes everything to be calm and polite. This was lovely when I was avoiding work and knew he would postpone any confrontations. It is less than ideal when you want someone to stand up and fight for you.
Jill stopped by this morning as I was frowning over Maria’s laptop. I looked up and made a worried face at her.
“She’s not coming.” I said of Dawn.
“I know. I got an email too. You should check on her.” I promised I would, then Jill returned to her office.
Dawn didn’t respond to my last email. She said only that she was to take a day off and reflect on what she wanted to do. Given that she was relatively firm on wanting out of EB’s lab, I can only assume the easiest option that occurred to Boss was to ask her to more carefully consider her decision.
There must be some balance between convenience and justice. I wonder if being exhausted and overwhelmed by work is the best way to find it though.
Thursday, May 03, 2007
Tuesday, May 01, 2007
Troublesome Shoes
Mom sends me email when Dad does something funny. He often fails to see the humor in his behavioral missteps, and is sometimes offended when people laugh at him. So when Mom can’t find a private moment to call, I’ll get a note from her. As I shake with giggles in my house, I picture her laughing at her computer at home. I love those moments.
She recently sent a message that contained 2 anecdotes, both of which I adored. The second one revolved around a new pair of flip flops. The cold Illinois winters fail to lend themselves to open shoes, and his favorite pair were somehow lost between this summer and last. She picked up a new pair and he was wearing them one evening.
Mom was heading down the hall toward the bedrooms from the kitchen and stopped to find Dad standing in the middle of the living room, staring at his feet.
“Are you OK?” She asked, standing in the doorway. She said she barely restrained laughter when she realized there was tread on the bottom of his new shoes. When he tried to walk, the rubber grooves would open, then close around the carpet, rendering poor Dad motionless as his shoes clung to his current spot.
“I’m stuck.” He told her, continuing to frown at his new footwear. “And now my toes hurt.”
She said she started to laugh, then stopped when he glared at her. After gathering her composure, she offered the idea that he could take the shoes off and walk about freely. He very seriously considered her suggestion, nodded, then removed his feet from the tricky sandals. He pronounced his dislike for them and walked from the room, leaving them determinedly clinging to the carpet in the middle of the floor.
I’m not sure the humor translates if you haven’t met my dad. But I think it’s hysterical and I actually have a point to make with the story.
I glanced over my shoulder yesterday when Dawn’s cell phone rang for the fifth time. She was seated at her desk and intercepted my questioning look.
“I know who it is.” She said. “I’m not answering it.”
“OK.” I said, curious but accepting. I avoid phone calls a lot – I don’t like the phone.
“It’s EB.” She offered after I’d turned back to my desk. I checked on the data I had running and swiveled my chair back to face her. When she didn’t elaborate, I cocked my head.
“Problems?” I asked, dreading the answer. In fields such as mine, it is vital to be extremely collaborative. As post-docs, we generally have a number of mentors. There are two men besides Boss that monitor my progress. One is Dr. Icing (so named for this post). The other has remained unnamed because we rarely speak. I do work with many of the faculty in his department though and he keeps tabs on my work.
Dawn is working on the project Winnie started. If you recall, Winnie was very unhappy before she died. While part of it was likely the typical postdoctoral angst – I’m not good/smart/motivated/talented/etc. enough – she also was overwhelmed with responsibilities. She worked between two labs – ours and EB’s – and basically ran EB’s. She was in charge of all paperwork – applications, revisions, publications that didn’t contain her name as an author, trained new students, taught some classes and was expected to complete an extensive research project that collaborated between the two labs. If it's not clear, I deeply resent that EB took advantage of her. So you might bear in mind that I'm hardly a reliable source - I have no use whatsoever for the woman.
I therefore mentioned to Dawn upon her arrival in January that it might be wise to watch her commitments early on. Winnie mattered to me and I didn’t voice my concerns strongly enough last summer. When she said she was working nearly constantly, I didn’t express strongly enough that it might not be healthy. Instead, I wallowed in guilt that I wasn’t working nearly constantly. At the time, the batteries had been removed from my pager – I didn’t want to answer to anyone as I hid in my house for days on end. I hated returning phone calls and if I found that avoiding them for a few days generally made people give up. I wasn’t doing much work at all, putting forth the minimum effort required to avoid my kindly boss going through an awkward conversation about disciplinary action.
I find it lovely that things turned around for me. That the world of academic research can nearly crush a person, yet also contains environments where one can rest and heal and take time before trying again. I now answer pages promptly. I can’t remember the last time my stomach clenched with panic upon hearing my cell phone ring. I go to work, I’m making progress, I’m proud of what I’m doing lately. It’s nice. It's not constant sunshine and it still sucks (a lot) sometimes. But it is better than it was.
Anyway, back to Dawn. She apparently uses my avoidance strategy herself. EB had been out of town, I was told, and during her absence, Dawn was expected to handle a number of lab responsibilities.
“It would be fine,” she ranted, “if it worked both ways. But they’ve come out and told me that they wouldn’t help me with my project! So why should I be expected to help with everyone else’s stuff?! It’s a one or two way street. You can’t refuse to help and expect me to assist you in return. It’s not fair!”
I nodded – in both agreement and sympathy – but expected that she would eventually buckle and do the work. It’s what I’d have done. Hell, I still deal with great inconvenience to work on Project A when there is absolutely no benefit to me. It’s a job that should be earning an undergrad some extra cash, but because Boss asked me to work with VIMD and I’m good at organization and communication, I continue to do this lame project in addition to coping with an increasingly full research calendar. I might gently complain sometimes, but I’ll always back down and do as I’m told. I wouldn’t want to cause problems, after all. Especially when Boss has been so wonderful to me. He doesn’t enjoy conflict, so I make sure things run smoothly.
Dawn gave more details, then went to check her messages.
“She’s been avoiding calls for days?” Ken clarified, glancing up from the notes he studied after Dawn left.
I nodded. And worried. I don’t like the idea of someone going through mental anguish because work is too stressful or difficult. But Dawn is rather strong – I decided she’d be fine and went about my day.
I was sitting in the office alone this afternoon. She walked in, put down her bag and sighed. I turned around to ask how she was, assuming she’d been in EB’s lab that morning and that everything was fine.
“We’re meeting at 3.” She told me. “Boss, EB and me.”
“Good.” I said cautiously. “It’ll be good to get everything cleared up.”
“No.” She said. “EB told me – after calling 4 times yesterday – that she wouldn’t meet with both of us. I could meet with her alone or not at all.”
“Really?” I said, a bit surprised but not shocked. You don’t screw with some PIs. They get offended and superior and there must be bowing and scraping to make things right.
“I told her I wasn’t comfortable meeting without Boss. When Jill told him about it (Our secretary has been keeping track of these goings on with Dawn), he called EB and asked if we could all get together to sort this out. She told him I’d been uncooperative, insubordinate and unhelpful. That I should have met with her long before now and that maybe I should find another lab in which to collaborate.”
“Wow.” I said before I could stop myself. I was impressed and fascinated – even at my worst behavior, I’d never been reprimanded so.
“So,” she continued, “I told Boss that I’d been responsible for all my own training. That they hadn’t been helpful at all to me and I didn’t feel that I should sacrifice my own well-being to help with other projects that shouldn’t involve me. If she wants someone to run her lab, she should hire someone. It wasn’t fair to Winnie – from what I’ve heard from you and others – and I won’t be part of it. So I’m making copies of emails that contradict what she’s saying. I’ve made notes on what’s been done so far.”
I frowned at her, bewildered. We are post-docs. They are distinguished professors. If we’re treated badly or worked too hard or paid too little, what of it? If our new flip flops cling to the carpet as we try to walk across the living room, we are stuck and our toes hurt. That’s just how it is.
My advice on how to be polite and apologetic and sweet didn’t seem to fit with her plan so I didn't offer it. It seemed like she was going to fight instead of backing down. But it failed to make sense to me. Fighting is scary – she’ll make people mad and she’ll likely end up losing and she’ll have to start a project over – losing months of work, she’ll need to find another lab in which to collaborate, Boss might be disappointed. I don’t want to fight again – the defense experience took it out of me. I tried and lost and eventually things turned out OK. I felt sick just thinking about her trying to battle EB.
“What are you going to do?” I asked quietly.
“I want to leave her lab.” She replied, going to her desk and organizing the copies she’d made of emails and schedules and notes. She wasn’t going to defend her work. She was going to attempt to leave a bad situation. The shoes weren’t good – stupid things keep getting stuck on the carpet – so she was taking them off.
Like poor, sweet Dad, it wouldn’t have occurred to me. But I had to acknowledge that it made sense. If the shoes don’t work, don’t stand there and stare at them, hoping they somehow change and stop holding on to the carpet and hurting your toes. Take the suckers off and find some better flip flops! So I bit back my questions and watched her flip through her papers silently. What if Boss doesn’t back you up? I kept thinking about it. I love Boss – I don’t want to test his loyalty or priorities. I want to believe he cares about us and works in our best interests. Putting it to the test didn’t work with Advisor. I desperately don’t want to know if Boss would let us down. I don’t think he would, but I don’t have confidence in it either.
“I think you’re brave.” I told her and she shrugged and smiled as she gathered her things, her hands shaking. "And I'm so sorry you have to go through this."
"Me too." She sighed. "I didn't want to wait until so late in the day to have the meeting - just get it over with. But I slept until noon today." I smiled with the knowledge that I do that too. When stress gets overwhelming I sleep a tremendous amount, wondering why I'm not doing more to prepare for a talk or meeting or test instead of napping so freaking much. Perhaps we're all more similar than we think, I decided. We fight when we see no other option and the battle seems important. And if people are pleased for us and proud of us for doing so, that's lovely.
“You could pray for me.” She said as she walked out the door to meet Boss so they could go to EB’s office.
“Consider it done.” I replied and I have prayed for her. Somehow though, I think that someone like Dawn has wonderful things in store for her. In her quest for just and fair treatment, her belief in her capabilities and strengths, and her refusal to buckle under because it would be easier, she appears quite formidable to me.
She recently sent a message that contained 2 anecdotes, both of which I adored. The second one revolved around a new pair of flip flops. The cold Illinois winters fail to lend themselves to open shoes, and his favorite pair were somehow lost between this summer and last. She picked up a new pair and he was wearing them one evening.
Mom was heading down the hall toward the bedrooms from the kitchen and stopped to find Dad standing in the middle of the living room, staring at his feet.
“Are you OK?” She asked, standing in the doorway. She said she barely restrained laughter when she realized there was tread on the bottom of his new shoes. When he tried to walk, the rubber grooves would open, then close around the carpet, rendering poor Dad motionless as his shoes clung to his current spot.
“I’m stuck.” He told her, continuing to frown at his new footwear. “And now my toes hurt.”
She said she started to laugh, then stopped when he glared at her. After gathering her composure, she offered the idea that he could take the shoes off and walk about freely. He very seriously considered her suggestion, nodded, then removed his feet from the tricky sandals. He pronounced his dislike for them and walked from the room, leaving them determinedly clinging to the carpet in the middle of the floor.
I’m not sure the humor translates if you haven’t met my dad. But I think it’s hysterical and I actually have a point to make with the story.
I glanced over my shoulder yesterday when Dawn’s cell phone rang for the fifth time. She was seated at her desk and intercepted my questioning look.
“I know who it is.” She said. “I’m not answering it.”
“OK.” I said, curious but accepting. I avoid phone calls a lot – I don’t like the phone.
“It’s EB.” She offered after I’d turned back to my desk. I checked on the data I had running and swiveled my chair back to face her. When she didn’t elaborate, I cocked my head.
“Problems?” I asked, dreading the answer. In fields such as mine, it is vital to be extremely collaborative. As post-docs, we generally have a number of mentors. There are two men besides Boss that monitor my progress. One is Dr. Icing (so named for this post). The other has remained unnamed because we rarely speak. I do work with many of the faculty in his department though and he keeps tabs on my work.
Dawn is working on the project Winnie started. If you recall, Winnie was very unhappy before she died. While part of it was likely the typical postdoctoral angst – I’m not good/smart/motivated/talented/etc. enough – she also was overwhelmed with responsibilities. She worked between two labs – ours and EB’s – and basically ran EB’s. She was in charge of all paperwork – applications, revisions, publications that didn’t contain her name as an author, trained new students, taught some classes and was expected to complete an extensive research project that collaborated between the two labs. If it's not clear, I deeply resent that EB took advantage of her. So you might bear in mind that I'm hardly a reliable source - I have no use whatsoever for the woman.
I therefore mentioned to Dawn upon her arrival in January that it might be wise to watch her commitments early on. Winnie mattered to me and I didn’t voice my concerns strongly enough last summer. When she said she was working nearly constantly, I didn’t express strongly enough that it might not be healthy. Instead, I wallowed in guilt that I wasn’t working nearly constantly. At the time, the batteries had been removed from my pager – I didn’t want to answer to anyone as I hid in my house for days on end. I hated returning phone calls and if I found that avoiding them for a few days generally made people give up. I wasn’t doing much work at all, putting forth the minimum effort required to avoid my kindly boss going through an awkward conversation about disciplinary action.
I find it lovely that things turned around for me. That the world of academic research can nearly crush a person, yet also contains environments where one can rest and heal and take time before trying again. I now answer pages promptly. I can’t remember the last time my stomach clenched with panic upon hearing my cell phone ring. I go to work, I’m making progress, I’m proud of what I’m doing lately. It’s nice. It's not constant sunshine and it still sucks (a lot) sometimes. But it is better than it was.
Anyway, back to Dawn. She apparently uses my avoidance strategy herself. EB had been out of town, I was told, and during her absence, Dawn was expected to handle a number of lab responsibilities.
“It would be fine,” she ranted, “if it worked both ways. But they’ve come out and told me that they wouldn’t help me with my project! So why should I be expected to help with everyone else’s stuff?! It’s a one or two way street. You can’t refuse to help and expect me to assist you in return. It’s not fair!”
I nodded – in both agreement and sympathy – but expected that she would eventually buckle and do the work. It’s what I’d have done. Hell, I still deal with great inconvenience to work on Project A when there is absolutely no benefit to me. It’s a job that should be earning an undergrad some extra cash, but because Boss asked me to work with VIMD and I’m good at organization and communication, I continue to do this lame project in addition to coping with an increasingly full research calendar. I might gently complain sometimes, but I’ll always back down and do as I’m told. I wouldn’t want to cause problems, after all. Especially when Boss has been so wonderful to me. He doesn’t enjoy conflict, so I make sure things run smoothly.
Dawn gave more details, then went to check her messages.
“She’s been avoiding calls for days?” Ken clarified, glancing up from the notes he studied after Dawn left.
I nodded. And worried. I don’t like the idea of someone going through mental anguish because work is too stressful or difficult. But Dawn is rather strong – I decided she’d be fine and went about my day.
I was sitting in the office alone this afternoon. She walked in, put down her bag and sighed. I turned around to ask how she was, assuming she’d been in EB’s lab that morning and that everything was fine.
“We’re meeting at 3.” She told me. “Boss, EB and me.”
“Good.” I said cautiously. “It’ll be good to get everything cleared up.”
“No.” She said. “EB told me – after calling 4 times yesterday – that she wouldn’t meet with both of us. I could meet with her alone or not at all.”
“Really?” I said, a bit surprised but not shocked. You don’t screw with some PIs. They get offended and superior and there must be bowing and scraping to make things right.
“I told her I wasn’t comfortable meeting without Boss. When Jill told him about it (Our secretary has been keeping track of these goings on with Dawn), he called EB and asked if we could all get together to sort this out. She told him I’d been uncooperative, insubordinate and unhelpful. That I should have met with her long before now and that maybe I should find another lab in which to collaborate.”
“Wow.” I said before I could stop myself. I was impressed and fascinated – even at my worst behavior, I’d never been reprimanded so.
“So,” she continued, “I told Boss that I’d been responsible for all my own training. That they hadn’t been helpful at all to me and I didn’t feel that I should sacrifice my own well-being to help with other projects that shouldn’t involve me. If she wants someone to run her lab, she should hire someone. It wasn’t fair to Winnie – from what I’ve heard from you and others – and I won’t be part of it. So I’m making copies of emails that contradict what she’s saying. I’ve made notes on what’s been done so far.”
I frowned at her, bewildered. We are post-docs. They are distinguished professors. If we’re treated badly or worked too hard or paid too little, what of it? If our new flip flops cling to the carpet as we try to walk across the living room, we are stuck and our toes hurt. That’s just how it is.
My advice on how to be polite and apologetic and sweet didn’t seem to fit with her plan so I didn't offer it. It seemed like she was going to fight instead of backing down. But it failed to make sense to me. Fighting is scary – she’ll make people mad and she’ll likely end up losing and she’ll have to start a project over – losing months of work, she’ll need to find another lab in which to collaborate, Boss might be disappointed. I don’t want to fight again – the defense experience took it out of me. I tried and lost and eventually things turned out OK. I felt sick just thinking about her trying to battle EB.
“What are you going to do?” I asked quietly.
“I want to leave her lab.” She replied, going to her desk and organizing the copies she’d made of emails and schedules and notes. She wasn’t going to defend her work. She was going to attempt to leave a bad situation. The shoes weren’t good – stupid things keep getting stuck on the carpet – so she was taking them off.
Like poor, sweet Dad, it wouldn’t have occurred to me. But I had to acknowledge that it made sense. If the shoes don’t work, don’t stand there and stare at them, hoping they somehow change and stop holding on to the carpet and hurting your toes. Take the suckers off and find some better flip flops! So I bit back my questions and watched her flip through her papers silently. What if Boss doesn’t back you up? I kept thinking about it. I love Boss – I don’t want to test his loyalty or priorities. I want to believe he cares about us and works in our best interests. Putting it to the test didn’t work with Advisor. I desperately don’t want to know if Boss would let us down. I don’t think he would, but I don’t have confidence in it either.
“I think you’re brave.” I told her and she shrugged and smiled as she gathered her things, her hands shaking. "And I'm so sorry you have to go through this."
"Me too." She sighed. "I didn't want to wait until so late in the day to have the meeting - just get it over with. But I slept until noon today." I smiled with the knowledge that I do that too. When stress gets overwhelming I sleep a tremendous amount, wondering why I'm not doing more to prepare for a talk or meeting or test instead of napping so freaking much. Perhaps we're all more similar than we think, I decided. We fight when we see no other option and the battle seems important. And if people are pleased for us and proud of us for doing so, that's lovely.
“You could pray for me.” She said as she walked out the door to meet Boss so they could go to EB’s office.
“Consider it done.” I replied and I have prayed for her. Somehow though, I think that someone like Dawn has wonderful things in store for her. In her quest for just and fair treatment, her belief in her capabilities and strengths, and her refusal to buckle under because it would be easier, she appears quite formidable to me.
Monday, April 30, 2007
Days and Dishes
I find myself wanting to say something important. As new people visit and comment, as I reflect on learning from so many of you, I feel like my contribution should be meaningful. Whether you read blogs to be comforted or entertained, educated or distracted, I'd like stopping by here to be worth your time. I appreciate the comments and I keep track of site stats because there are many blogs that I read yet don't say much.
Yet...it's not that profound. My life is characterized by a great deal of boredom. I push buttons and wait for software to run. I fill out paperwork and wait for someone to ask for revisions. I write papers and wait for rejections, already planning which journal gets it next before the first journal has decided anything. Sometimes something interesting happens. In the case of my defense, it was a really bad something. If we speak of my finding a job which has allowed me time to screw around, accomplish very little and start to work on my mental health, I start looking incredibly lucky.
Friend and I attended Easter dinner at Cousin's house. She invited several friends and we were speaking to one woman as we cleaned up the kitchen.
"What do you do?" She asked, loud and friendly.
"We both work at [current institution]." I said. "We do research." We each offered details when she continued to ask questions.
"My doctorate is in [my field]." I replied at one point, having been asked about my background. I tossed it over my shoulder while I rinsed plates before placing them in the dishwasher. I bought those dishes for Cousin one year. She wanted a plain set of bowls and plates and Mom decided Ikea had nice ones for excellent prices.
Rachel opted out of the trip at the last minute, leaving me to fend for myself at the bright blue superstore. I wasn't able to get a cart on a Saturday morning, so I wandered the store with a bag over my shoulder, carefully filling it with random items that weren't overly heavy. When I was nearly finished, I found the dishes - plain white with a gentle upsweep of the edges on the plates and clean curves on the bowls - and made sure there was cardboard between each piece before carrying them downstairs. I wanted a basket for myself, so I picked one up amidst the selection of houseplants and stood in line.
I ached. As I was waiting impatiently for all the people to get out of my way so that I could offer money for my items, my shoulders and back hurt from carting so much crap around. I scolded myself for being in suboptimal physical condition, feeling inferior to all the fit yuppies that pranced around proudly with their furniture in bulky boxes. I could barely carry a set of 13 bowls and plates (1 extra in case I broke a piece), picture frames , miscellaneous items and a basket. I finally made it out, wrapping the plates in bags, then placing 6 in one bag and 7 in another. I placed the transparent plastic handles over each wrist, picked up my basket filled with bowls and made the long walk to my car.
I couldn't restrain a whimper as I continued to walk. I desperately wanted to beg someone for help, but they were all heading toward the store as I walked in the opposite direction. Had anyone offered, I would have accepted gratefully. But it was just walking and carrying stuff. I could do it. It hurt, but it was the trip was finite. I loved Cousin and wanted her to have the pretty plates and bowls. Mom wanted to save some money and I loved her too. So I would get the dishes to my car. I just had to.
I finally made it, resorting to counting each step as I moved closer to my car. I had parked next to a planter that contained a tree in a mulched area. I sat the basket down and stayed bent over it, letting the bags that dangled from my wrists finally rest on the ground. I steadied the basket, rocking it a bit so it settled in the mulch, then moved the plastic from the welts it made near my hands. The bags were really heavy and having walked forever, my body was marked for its efforts.
"Oh." I said pitifully when I saw the angry splotches and rubbed them gently. "Ow, ow, ow." I stood up to stretch my back and watched a single bowl tumble from the basket that had shifted slightly. It hit the ground gently and cracked into three large pieces. Distracted from my injury by the insult that had just occurred, I stared at the stupid bowl that I had carried across the freaking parking lot all by myself so Cousin could have a few extra dishes she'd never use and Mom could save a few dollars she didn't really need. And I swore.
I tend to become fixated on a goal. I somehow decide something is important and am willing to suffer in order to achieve some random end. The overall journey isn't that interesting. I just take step after step because I don't know what else to do. I read and go to work and write the blog. I fought like hell to salvage my defense, then accepted defeat and moved on because I didn't see another choice. It's just what you do, I think. You're standing at Ikea with a bunch of dishes and you need to get to your car. Whether the stupid plates are heavy or not. Whether the car is far or you got a kick-ass parking spot. You just walk toward the car and hope for the best.
Today I went in early for a meeting that got moved to 1:30 instead of 9AM. So I did some data analysis, revised my chapter, organized email. I talked to my mom and was told she needs to have both knees replaced at the end of June. She's scared so we talked for a little while until she got to work. I went to a noon seminar that was surprisingly good. I learned a lot from a well-delivered, clever talk. I also had free lunch. I went to my meeting and waited an hour for it to begin. I hadn't taken anything to do, so I made a list of things I could be doing were I not sitting in a conference room across campus, waiting for someone to come talk to me. After we finally met, I arranged several details for my studies, then decided to come home.
"I'm glad I didn't know I should call you doctor before." Cousin's friend said at Easter.
"Why?" I asked, smiling when I noticed how those plates that I suffered to obtain were marked from good use. Forks and knives had scratched the bright white finish. But the shape was still simple and lovely.
"I would have been embarrassed to talk at all!" She exclaimed in a drawl. "You're both so smart."
"Educated." I corrected her easily. "I just went to school for a really long time. Jumped through the right hoops at the right times and eventually they let me graduate."
I did get hurt. And it's hard to deny I'm a bit paranoid and disillusioned. The defense experience left me feeling alone and inferior and with sore muscles and raised welts. The dishes were so heavy and I accidentally broke a bowl or two. But I only know how to keep going forward. If I'm being honest, I'm doing this because I can't think of a feasible option. I don't know that I'm particularly happy. I never dreamed this was to be my future and only chance for joy. I'm not impressed with myself for getting here - I had a great deal of help and just did what I had to do.
For some reason, I think I'm supposed to do experiments, write grants, publish papers. Is it sad that my reasoning for carrying the dishes to my car seems more compelling that what I've chosen to do with my life? If anything interesting happens, I'll certainly let you know. But days like today just feel like I'm counting steps. It's not painful or particularly difficult. It's just work that needs to be done.
Yet...it's not that profound. My life is characterized by a great deal of boredom. I push buttons and wait for software to run. I fill out paperwork and wait for someone to ask for revisions. I write papers and wait for rejections, already planning which journal gets it next before the first journal has decided anything. Sometimes something interesting happens. In the case of my defense, it was a really bad something. If we speak of my finding a job which has allowed me time to screw around, accomplish very little and start to work on my mental health, I start looking incredibly lucky.
Friend and I attended Easter dinner at Cousin's house. She invited several friends and we were speaking to one woman as we cleaned up the kitchen.
"What do you do?" She asked, loud and friendly.
"We both work at [current institution]." I said. "We do research." We each offered details when she continued to ask questions.
"My doctorate is in [my field]." I replied at one point, having been asked about my background. I tossed it over my shoulder while I rinsed plates before placing them in the dishwasher. I bought those dishes for Cousin one year. She wanted a plain set of bowls and plates and Mom decided Ikea had nice ones for excellent prices.
Rachel opted out of the trip at the last minute, leaving me to fend for myself at the bright blue superstore. I wasn't able to get a cart on a Saturday morning, so I wandered the store with a bag over my shoulder, carefully filling it with random items that weren't overly heavy. When I was nearly finished, I found the dishes - plain white with a gentle upsweep of the edges on the plates and clean curves on the bowls - and made sure there was cardboard between each piece before carrying them downstairs. I wanted a basket for myself, so I picked one up amidst the selection of houseplants and stood in line.
I ached. As I was waiting impatiently for all the people to get out of my way so that I could offer money for my items, my shoulders and back hurt from carting so much crap around. I scolded myself for being in suboptimal physical condition, feeling inferior to all the fit yuppies that pranced around proudly with their furniture in bulky boxes. I could barely carry a set of 13 bowls and plates (1 extra in case I broke a piece), picture frames , miscellaneous items and a basket. I finally made it out, wrapping the plates in bags, then placing 6 in one bag and 7 in another. I placed the transparent plastic handles over each wrist, picked up my basket filled with bowls and made the long walk to my car.
I couldn't restrain a whimper as I continued to walk. I desperately wanted to beg someone for help, but they were all heading toward the store as I walked in the opposite direction. Had anyone offered, I would have accepted gratefully. But it was just walking and carrying stuff. I could do it. It hurt, but it was the trip was finite. I loved Cousin and wanted her to have the pretty plates and bowls. Mom wanted to save some money and I loved her too. So I would get the dishes to my car. I just had to.
I finally made it, resorting to counting each step as I moved closer to my car. I had parked next to a planter that contained a tree in a mulched area. I sat the basket down and stayed bent over it, letting the bags that dangled from my wrists finally rest on the ground. I steadied the basket, rocking it a bit so it settled in the mulch, then moved the plastic from the welts it made near my hands. The bags were really heavy and having walked forever, my body was marked for its efforts.
"Oh." I said pitifully when I saw the angry splotches and rubbed them gently. "Ow, ow, ow." I stood up to stretch my back and watched a single bowl tumble from the basket that had shifted slightly. It hit the ground gently and cracked into three large pieces. Distracted from my injury by the insult that had just occurred, I stared at the stupid bowl that I had carried across the freaking parking lot all by myself so Cousin could have a few extra dishes she'd never use and Mom could save a few dollars she didn't really need. And I swore.
I tend to become fixated on a goal. I somehow decide something is important and am willing to suffer in order to achieve some random end. The overall journey isn't that interesting. I just take step after step because I don't know what else to do. I read and go to work and write the blog. I fought like hell to salvage my defense, then accepted defeat and moved on because I didn't see another choice. It's just what you do, I think. You're standing at Ikea with a bunch of dishes and you need to get to your car. Whether the stupid plates are heavy or not. Whether the car is far or you got a kick-ass parking spot. You just walk toward the car and hope for the best.
Today I went in early for a meeting that got moved to 1:30 instead of 9AM. So I did some data analysis, revised my chapter, organized email. I talked to my mom and was told she needs to have both knees replaced at the end of June. She's scared so we talked for a little while until she got to work. I went to a noon seminar that was surprisingly good. I learned a lot from a well-delivered, clever talk. I also had free lunch. I went to my meeting and waited an hour for it to begin. I hadn't taken anything to do, so I made a list of things I could be doing were I not sitting in a conference room across campus, waiting for someone to come talk to me. After we finally met, I arranged several details for my studies, then decided to come home.
"I'm glad I didn't know I should call you doctor before." Cousin's friend said at Easter.
"Why?" I asked, smiling when I noticed how those plates that I suffered to obtain were marked from good use. Forks and knives had scratched the bright white finish. But the shape was still simple and lovely.
"I would have been embarrassed to talk at all!" She exclaimed in a drawl. "You're both so smart."
"Educated." I corrected her easily. "I just went to school for a really long time. Jumped through the right hoops at the right times and eventually they let me graduate."
I did get hurt. And it's hard to deny I'm a bit paranoid and disillusioned. The defense experience left me feeling alone and inferior and with sore muscles and raised welts. The dishes were so heavy and I accidentally broke a bowl or two. But I only know how to keep going forward. If I'm being honest, I'm doing this because I can't think of a feasible option. I don't know that I'm particularly happy. I never dreamed this was to be my future and only chance for joy. I'm not impressed with myself for getting here - I had a great deal of help and just did what I had to do.
For some reason, I think I'm supposed to do experiments, write grants, publish papers. Is it sad that my reasoning for carrying the dishes to my car seems more compelling that what I've chosen to do with my life? If anything interesting happens, I'll certainly let you know. But days like today just feel like I'm counting steps. It's not painful or particularly difficult. It's just work that needs to be done.
Sunday, April 29, 2007
Inaction
I met Chienne as she crawled out of a too small cage in the back of a van. I found her on petfinder and when I found that she had but days to live, I asked that she come live with me. Mom and I drove to a rest stop to pick her up, along with 10-15 other families who were getting new family members from a more southern state.The email sent prior to meeting day asked that we keep away from the van. The dogs would be tired after their trip and it intimidated them to too many people crowded around the van upon their arrival. So Mom and I stood back and waited. But once nearly everyone had their dog, we asked after Chienne.
"Go ahead and wait over there." A harried volunteer suggested as she was filling out forms and collecting fees. So Mom and I approached the open door slowly, asking about the dog I'd chosen. A man motioned to one of two cages that remained filled and I was heartbroken looking at the puppy who would become my very best friend. She waited, brown eyes wide with fear, cowering when the man opened the door to her tiny cage. He drug her out by the chain collar she wore, against my protests that he give her time, and we removed the old collar to put on the new one I brought as she stumbled, trying to regain her balance having been forced to lie down for hours in a tiny cage.She was terrified, huddling low to the ground and eventually deciding that my mom was worthy of some trust. She would shy away when I approached her, leaving me close to tears with concern. Her eyes looked glassy and she had a nearly-silent cough. She was draining, ick dripping from her nose. She looked painfully thin and smelled almost too awful to bear.
"It said $100 online." I corrected the man when he demanded a check for $150."The paperwork says $150." He said then turned away to deal with another family. I looked to Mom, holding Chienne's leash while she watched the dog with concern.
"Give him what he wants." She advised. "They can't have this dog back - we're taking her home no matter what."
So I gave him a new check, looked around at all the dogs who seemed quite unwell, and loaded Chienne in the car. Mom drove and the dog sat on my lap, allowing me to smooth the dirty fur on her back and head and eating treats as quickly as I could produce them out of a paper bag for her.
We entered my apartment - I'd moved in earlier that day - though the sliding glass door and she immediately jumped on my dad as he rested on the couch. She's always been fond of her grandpa. We put her in the bathtub as she shook and looked terrified, barely scratching the surface of the grime with the first application of shampoo. We let the water run off her, dark and disgusting, then repeated the process until she was reasonably clean. I tried to clean her ears, but they were sore. I left them until we saw the vet the next day and she was treated for worms and mites and infections. Kennel cough and some other disease rounded out the visit and I was sent home with pills and ointments and instructions for care.
The volunteer group who ran that particular organization was supposed to check on me, or so said the paperwork I signed. When nobody did, I wrote to the local contact and mentioned that Chienne had been in worse shape than I'd been led to believe. We were handling it, but I hoped that the dogs I'd seen were the worst of the bunch and that their group was doing better by the other dogs who remained in their care. It was a bit snippy, I suppose, but they hadn't taken good care of my girl! Her ears were the worst my vet had ever seen and I'd just listened to the sweet dog whimper as Q-tip after Q-tip scooped disgusting-ness out of her ears. She hadn't had a voice for 4 days, having - I assume - lost it while crying on the trip north. She continued to cough and drain, leaving me to wake with her in the night.
I wanted to take care of her - she was my dog and I never would have given her up. But I also was a bit sick that I'd helped support an organization that now seemed rather awful. I mentioned the extra $50 and said a bit more preparation would've been of help.
I received an email from the leader of the organization the next day. It was all in capital letters, full of nasty language and insults and enraged that I would dare question her practices or make one of her volunteers feel badly. Her husband had brought the dogs up to meet their families, she ranted, and she would never tell him such an awful thing had been said about one of the dogs he took time out of his life to help place.
"Leave it alone." Mom said, even after I'd done additional research and found multiple complaints about that woman. She'd been barred from working with animals in several states and had been arrested for keeping 40 dogs in her home in terrible conditions about 2 years prior to my coming in contact with her. "She could be dangerous and you live alone. What if they come to try to take Chienne away? Just let it go." She insisted.And I did. To this day, I'm furious and sad when I think of them. But I never wrote to petfinder to file a complaint. Never noted that I had a problem at all, save that first email to which evil leader responded so hatefully. I was afraid of the consequences, so I nursed Chienne back to health (save the allergies, poor girl) and we went from there.
In my graduate career, I was pretty involved in service opportunities. Near the end of my studies, I served as the representative for graduate students in the School of Medicine. A group of higher-level faculty and administration was seeking to improve the learning environment and my Dean asked if I'd be willing to participate. Flattered, I went to meetings and offered input.
I therefore knew everyone with whom I could have spoken about my problems with Advisor and Pete. I was aware that they were forming a spreadsheet about problem faculty and staff. I knew my problems would be treated confidentially and that someone might have a reasonable idea on how to handle my struggle. I liked the people involved and knew that some of them thought highly of me.
That was part of the problem. I was miserably ashamed that things went so badly around the time of my initial defense date. I didn't want anyone to know that didn't absolutely have to have the information. And the department was abuzz with gossip regardless - I didn't want it to spread beyond those already speaking of it.
In addition, I still don't know what the right answer was. I was incapable of staying though - I could not have gone in that office every day and worked, having turned down job offers and delayed the defense indefinitely. In the event that it was the only option presented by an outside mediator, I'm not sure I wouldn't have quit. Then again, I likely would have become so angry and depressed that I would have filed more complaints and sought some resolution I felt was fair. But given the ability, I ran away.
After things had officially fallen apart, I was packing boxes in my apartment - sometime in late July, 2005 - and George called. He asked how I was and we talked for a moment, then one of the other students in my group took the phone.
"Guess what." He said.
"I'm sure I can't." I offered.
"Advisor just wrote an email to George suggesting he put Pete on his committee." And I sat in silence. I can only conclude that Advisor wasn't upset over Pete's behavior toward me since he encouraged him to have power over another student.
I was hurt. Even more, I was surprised.
George was angry. He replied that he saw the defense as important - a culmination of work and study and wanted to be proud of his degree. After my situation, he wrote to Advisor, he would never allow someone so dishonorable and cruel to taint his own graduation. He would be ashamed to have Pete on his committee and refused to do so under any circumstances. Then he said Advisor should speak with him directly should that be a problem. Such a passionate tirade against Pete touched me. And I still blink back tears upon first seeing George at conferences. He's terribly sweet.
So I think my struggle taught those around me a lesson. (Don't trust Pete.) But given the story secondhand? I'm not sure anyone would believe that I wasn't a screwup who deserved what she got. It's unpleasant to believe those with whom you work are capable of behavior like I experienced.
Right after I defended, Advisor stopped by as I worked on revisions. "Everyone was glad you waited to defend. We felt you were really comfortable and confident in the material and your work since leaving has obviously been good for you."
I looked up and shook my head. "That was the exact presentation I would have given in July." I said. "I haven't changed a single slide since then, nor do I know anything more than I did had I defended then. Nothing." Advisor turned and walked away. I was right - hiding in your house and watching daytime TV doesn't really prepare you for much of anything.
I am left knowing one thing - when faced with a choice, the person who should have been my strongest advocate offered support that wobbled then disappeared. It is awful to look at Boss and wonder if he'll someday screw me over. Even knowing how extremely unlikely that is, I wonder. Same goes with collaborators - I don't really trust anyone. It's not safe.
I'm left wondering about my true ability though. One of those grad school papers went to a journal and sat for over a year. I can't really remember how long, exactly - could have been 18 months. After 6 months, I would send an email requesting an update on the 2nd of each month. I received prompt replies, promising they'd decide soon. Eventually, the editor wrote that only one of the seven people returned a review. It was, however, positive, and the editor's reading of the paper revealed no major deficiencies. They would therefore like to apologize for the delay and would be happy to publish the paper after some revisions were made.
That's hardly exciting news. It's not bad enough to reject, having made me wait so long. And I was not horrible enough to fail, having delayed my defense for months and putting me through such a misery. In both cases, it's good news. My paper got published. I have a PhD. But there's always the vague feeling that it was more luck than skill - people ended up feeling badly and just let things slip by.
Whatever his/her mistakes or problems, I would not wish an end even sort of similar to this on anyone. And dogs like my Chienne should never suffer so in shelters. I just did nothing to prevent it happening in the future. Which is yet another reason that thinking of the defense experience makes me feel badly.
Friday, April 27, 2007
Notes
I very much appreciate the comments on my last post. I'm thinking of the follow-up and have some of it written, but it's still difficult to consider carefully so I'm taking my time with it.
I'm busy trying to figure out exactly how A becomes AI. Pretty though, yes?
I'm also in the middle of a bunch of analysis for Carrie's project. Nick's fan is running as loudly as it can to try to contain the heat generated by such hard work. Apart from glancing at results screens very occasionally, I'm working not very hard at all.
I received a paper to review in the wee hours of the morning. It's only my second one, so I was rather pleased. Advisor did all his own reviewing so I've never learned to do this well. Perhaps I'll work on the paper this weekend then ask Boss for a tutorial as to how he rates papers. It'd be good to know the proper way to go about such a thing instead of just winging it. Especially since this is based in my favored disease, but far outside my research area.
I bought 3 more 2GB USB drives since, as studies start, I have far too much data that needs to become portable at some point. They were $20/each and I needed to spend $50 for free shipping. So I opened them all - identical little swing drives - and have decided to name them Eenie, Meanie and Minie. I find this adorable. There is then my first 2GB travel drive that has remained nameless. He shall, of course, now be known as Moe.
Grandpa taught me that rhyme when I was little and I believe that if you catch a tiger who then hollers, you must let him go. Never, never, never make him pay. I feel my way is kinder - who wants to make cash while a poor cat suffers? (I also mentioned that I love how much church uses 'debtors' instead of 'trespasses.' I'm big on tradition in word choices.)
It was a good day today. I was home - in case I didn't mention - on Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday. I almost didn't go in today, but needed to print a bunch of stuff and start more analysis at work and put in a bit of time. I'm glad I went. It's good for me to see people and get a change of scenery, even when I am legitimately working at home. When I drag my feet on getting to work next week, I hope I remember that.
I should get back to Photoshop for figures while my analysis continues. I just wanted to say hello and thank you. In case I haven't mentioned it lately, I'm grateful you read. I started this blog after I'd scheduled my defense, but before I'd actually given it. I've communicated far more through this medium than any other and it's a tremendous comfort knowing that you're out there.
I'm busy trying to figure out exactly how A becomes AI. Pretty though, yes? I'm also in the middle of a bunch of analysis for Carrie's project. Nick's fan is running as loudly as it can to try to contain the heat generated by such hard work. Apart from glancing at results screens very occasionally, I'm working not very hard at all.
I received a paper to review in the wee hours of the morning. It's only my second one, so I was rather pleased. Advisor did all his own reviewing so I've never learned to do this well. Perhaps I'll work on the paper this weekend then ask Boss for a tutorial as to how he rates papers. It'd be good to know the proper way to go about such a thing instead of just winging it. Especially since this is based in my favored disease, but far outside my research area.
I bought 3 more 2GB USB drives since, as studies start, I have far too much data that needs to become portable at some point. They were $20/each and I needed to spend $50 for free shipping. So I opened them all - identical little swing drives - and have decided to name them Eenie, Meanie and Minie. I find this adorable. There is then my first 2GB travel drive that has remained nameless. He shall, of course, now be known as Moe.
Grandpa taught me that rhyme when I was little and I believe that if you catch a tiger who then hollers, you must let him go. Never, never, never make him pay. I feel my way is kinder - who wants to make cash while a poor cat suffers? (I also mentioned that I love how much church uses 'debtors' instead of 'trespasses.' I'm big on tradition in word choices.)
It was a good day today. I was home - in case I didn't mention - on Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday. I almost didn't go in today, but needed to print a bunch of stuff and start more analysis at work and put in a bit of time. I'm glad I went. It's good for me to see people and get a change of scenery, even when I am legitimately working at home. When I drag my feet on getting to work next week, I hope I remember that.
I should get back to Photoshop for figures while my analysis continues. I just wanted to say hello and thank you. In case I haven't mentioned it lately, I'm grateful you read. I started this blog after I'd scheduled my defense, but before I'd actually given it. I've communicated far more through this medium than any other and it's a tremendous comfort knowing that you're out there.
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
Indefensible
I have, over time, referenced the problems surrounding the end of my graduate career both within posts on my blog and in comments elsewhere. I don’t know that I’ve ever detailed the whole story since – like a few others who also struggled near the end of their graduate careers – the stories seem unique enough to be identifiable.
At this point, I guess I’m ready to write out the details. I just read an email that made me cry a bit. I’ll respond directly, but in the event that anyone else finds my situation useful, I can post it here. The thing is that it’s been a little while. I graduated in December, 2005, having defended that November. I’ve published all of my graduate work. I’ve been successful thus far in the postdoctoral world. I’m not setting the world afire, mind you, but I am not stupid or incompetent or, I think, in any way deserving of the mess I found at the end of graduate school. I’m also one of the stories that eventually goes well and if someone can take a spark of hope from it, then I’m more than happy to suffer publicly.
Let’s see. The beginning… I was sitting with my research group around a table in the conference room. We had weekly group meetings and amidst the bad cookies and progress reports, George reported that he had started writing his dissertation. George started research a year after I had, so I immediately – competitive, little soul that I am – was stunned that he was planning to leave when I planned to stay another year. It was then I started to consider what I wanted to accomplish before graduating. Never being one to just put in time, I met with Advisor and asked about my future directions.
“Start writing.” He said.
“The papers?” I asked. “They’re mostly written. One is currently being reviewed, another is almost revised and the third has one more analysis to finish, then I’ll write it up.”
“Then I guess you should talk to your committee and get going on the dissertation.”
Thrilled, I reported to my parents that I would likely graduate in August since I didn’t want to rush for a May graduation that was a mere four months away. I finished the final analysis, wrote up my last paper and sent everything out for review. I began writing the dissertation, turning in chapter by chapter to Advisor. He commented sparingly, as was his habit, and had me change very little. I spoke to all but one committee member, asking if they wanted to see the chapters as I created them, and all but one agreed to a defense date and said to send the document when the draft was completed.
The final member of my committee ducked my emails, but this wasn’t unusual. He was busy with clinical as well as research responsibilities. I continued to update him on the progress of the papers – he was a co-author on two of them and was, I thought, very familiar with my work and goals. In fact, I liked this man very much. He was young, but extremely bright and personable. He’d offered to pay my way to a conference one year when I ran out of travel money. He revised documents carefully for my prospectus and each of the papers he’d seen. When we spoke, he was encouraging and helpful. I failed to get many interviews when I sent out the CV Advisor had approved. Pete asked to see my application packet and gave me extensive revisions on my CV – format and order and headings and what was included. The next batch of applications yielded nearly 10 interviews. He also wrote me a brilliant letter of recommendation for the jobs I was seeking – some postdoctoral, some in industry.
“July 8.” I reported to my peers at our annual conference that year. I finished my thesis document sitting on the beach, inching my towel-covered chair under the umbrella to reduce the glare on the laptop.
“Is Pete on your committee?” One of the former members of my research group asked while we stood at a bar, sipping mojitos.
“Of course.” I said. “I work with him a lot.”
“He’ll fuck you over.” He said, and I shook my head at him. The very thought was ridiculous.
“Seriously.” He insisted. “I did work, wrote code, analyzed data, and the bastard published it without even putting my name on the paper! If you turn your back, he’ll stab you in it. I promise.”
“I don’t have data worth stealing.” I said lightly. “Plus, I like him. We work well together. It’ll be fine.”
The dissertation went out with Advisor’s blessing and a typical “Looks great!” scrawled across the top of the first page. I checked in with my committee by email as I traveled relatively extensively, interviewing rather successfully. I felt amazing, frankly. I was completing my doctorate in four years, a year sooner than I’d planned, and though I hadn’t found the perfect job, I decided I could choose one of the opportunities and learn a lot. I was convinced I had done all I could in my graduate environment and was eager to begin somewhere else. In my head, it was all but officially over. The actual defense was a mere formality in my department. Everything was lovely.
I returned to campus for a couple of days between interviews, having been traveling from my parents’ city since Chienne was living at their house in my frequent absences. I, sitting at the desk that was in one section of the living room in my tidy, one-bedroom apartment, opened Outlook Express and checked my email. It was two weeks until my scheduled defense date and I just wanted to make sure all the paperwork was in order and details arranged. After confirming the receipt of all paperwork with the graduate coordinator, noting the room reservation for my defense, and making sure the apartment complex had received notification that I would be moving when my lease was up at the end of July, I noticed there was an email from Pete.
It was addressed to 2 members of my committee, Advisor, and someone not on my committee. I was cced. It basically said that he’d looked at the dissertation and it was clear that I wasn’t ready to graduate. There were problems too numerous to mention in a short email, he wrote, and after speaking with Advisor they were in agreement that I would not defend in 2 weeks. Instead, that meeting could be used to define the work I’d do in the next year at my graduate institution. We could then evaluate whether sufficient progress had been made and see if I was ready to graduate.
It’s one of those rare moments of complete disbelief for me. One where – quite dramatically, I’m sure – my world cracks open and I think, “This isn’t really happening. The world does not work like this, so there is some mistake. I will fix it and everything will be fine.” But I was sick and confused.
I called Advisor at home and asked what the hell was going on. “Did you tell him I wouldn’t defend? What’s happening?”
“I told you to talk to him.” Advisor said. “I thought everyone was on the same page – that we agreed you were ready.”
“I thought you all were! I tried to talk to him – I can forward you all the emails I sent! He ignored me, but he knew I was interviewing! He wrote a letter, edited my CV! He can’t just say ‘no graduation for you’ when I’m almost done interviewing! I don’t have a place to live after the end of July! We’re turning off my fellowship early because I was graduating!”
“Calm down.” Advisor said. “We’ll figure it out.”
I met with 1 committee member the next day before leaving to travel home – he was confused and said he’d have to look closer at the document. “Normally we do what your advisor says is appropriate. Now that he’s saying two different things, I need more time to think.” He said. I was to get a plane to travel to my current location to interview and talked to the senior member of my committee on the phone.
“My life is falling apart.” I said tearfully as I sped down the highway toward home. He made a soothing sound.
“Pete is overreacting.” He said. “I’ll talk to Advisor and take care of this. Go interview, forget about this. It’ll be fine.”
I made it home, then sat down with my parents in the living room and told them. And I fell apart.
“But he knows you.” Mom protested of Pete. “You like him better than Advisor!” I couldn’t offer clarification though – I didn’t understand either. I’d been offered no details, even when I shouted at him over the phone.
“You can NOT do this! It’s too late! I’m ready to leave! Why did you wait so long?” I railed at him, knowing it was unprofessional, but uncaring.
“I didn’t have time.” He defended himself coldly. “And I’m doing it for your own good.”
I canceled the interview here, only arranging to make it up when Boss insisted they wanted to meet me. I was ill though, spent the day I should have had meetings, given a talk and toured campus throwing up in my parents’ bathroom until Mom came home from work early, sitting on the rim of the tub and stroking my hair while I cried.
I went back to campus. (This is surprisingly hard to write, by the way. I don’t think about it often and thought I was over it. Goodness, though, I’m struggling here.) Anyway.
I had the first closed-door meetings of my career. Watched 2 members of my committee look painfully uncomfortable and apologetic as they said they could go either way. If Advisor pushed for graduation, they would sign off. But in the absence of said push, the document wasn’t strong enough on its own. Plus, I didn’t have a single accepted publication on which I was the first author. If I could get one or two of the ones under review accepted, that would soothe the committee, they said.
The hatred I felt for Pete was so extreme that I could barely speak to him. I did, though. He didn’t look sorry at all when we met in his office. The publications were important – I should have at least three before leaving. He had some ideas recently that I should do before I left.
“I’d like to hear the ideas.” I said.
“At the meeting we all attend, we’ll discuss it.”
“I’d like to hear them now, Pete.” I said firmly. “If I can salvage this and still defend in a week, I want to do it.”
So he listed ideas, all of which I’d already tried and had failed, and then mentioned vague concepts that would likely take years to learn and implement. Then he handed me the document and said it needed to be completely restructured. He noted his demands for the dissertation and I walked back to Advisor’s office.
“What do you think?” I asked finally. “I need to know why you’re not backing me up when you said I should write the dissertation in the first place. Tell me why you’re doing this.”
He avoided my eyes and said I needed to rewrite the thesis and hope it satisfied Pete. Since I wasn’t sleeping anyway, I rewrote the nearly 200 page document in 2 days.
I sent it out. One member asked why I’d done so much unnecessary work – it was fine before. Pete said I needed 3 publications accepted before graduating. Someone else said one was enough. Another said this process was cruel – they all needed to meet and decide what they wanted. Jerking me around wasn’t fair. Keep in mind that Advisor didn’t say that – someone else did. Senior member was out of town and I demanded they wait for him to have said meeting. I was informed the morning of that I was not allowed to attend.
I waited at my desk. Everyone knew what was going on – people stopped by my cubicle to check on me, offer sympathetic glances, sent emails to make sure I was OK. After about an hour, Advisor came to fetch me. From the look on his face, I realized that Senior member had let me down. I wouldn’t be defending on July 8.
He closed the door and we sat down. He sighed and looked away.
“The document is fine as is. We’ll discuss minor revisions when you defend. Pete said he’d attend a defense on the 8th but would treat it as an actual defense. One you could fail. Everyone else said that was inappropriate – we don’t do that to anyone, and would not do it to you. But we think it’s in your best interest to have at least one publication before graduating. You won’t be able to get jobs-“
“I have offers already.” I said. “People asked for the papers, read them and decided they were fine. I have jobs!”
“Well, later it could be a problem. And there’s no guarantee that they’ll get accepted. Publishing isn’t fair.”
“Publishing isn’t fair?” I asked, incredulous. “What is this?!” (I was nearly hysterical and not behaving well, obviously.)
“We want one paper accepted – even if they ask for revisions – when one is accepted, you can set a defense date.”
“I want to leave now.” I said flatly.
“I asked them about that and they’re worried that you won’t ever defend. But I asked that you be allowed to start work at one of the posdocs – whichever you choose – while you wait. Of course, you’re welcome to stay here if you’d like.” We'd discussed this many times and I said that I couldn't stay, regardless of the outcome of that meeting.
“I won’t work for you after this.” I stared at him, and he looked away.
“Then you can leave. But I do hope you’ll come back to defend.”
“I’ll get each of those papers published – I promise you that.”
“You can’t promise that – it’s not really in your control. I’ve written good work that never got published.”
“That’s your failure, not mine.” I said, determined to do as much damage as possible. “I will get published and I will be back to defend. But I would never work for you again after this.”
Then I got to call my prospective employers.
“Good God.” One of them said. “I can’t believe it. I’ve read the papers, looked at your CV. You’re fine. Wow. Well, it doesn’t bother me – we’d love to have you here. I just can’t believe anyone would do that.”
“What the hell is wrong with those people?” Another said. “Do you mind if I call Advisor? This is ridiculous!” He called me back, disgusted. “I told him it was insane to expect you to base your future on some two reviewers who only were evaluating a single piece of your work, abdicating responsibility of your career when the people who know you best should be deciding such things. Absolutely ridiculous. Let me check on the funding situation here and make sure it won’t cause problems that you won’t have a PhD. But it’s fine with me.”
“It happens.” Boss said kindly. “We’ll do whatever we can to support you in finishing as soon as possible. If you need to travel back and forth or do work here, that’s all fine.”
I stupidly had hope that one of the papers would get accepted in those next couple weeks and I would defend in late July. They were all three rejected as I finished up interviews, packed up my things, accepted Boss’s offer and moved to my current location. (My parents – worried – came for the weekend around July 8. We went shopping and they bought me presents I called “sorry you’re a failure” gifts.) As I bought a house, arranged the move, started work, I was miserable with the knowledge of my defeat. Pete had known me and my work nearly as well as Advisor. Yet both clearly found me inferior at the end. So how was I supposed to know who to trust? Was failure inevitable? Cruelty waiting around every corner? What if I couldn't publish those papers after all?
I sent one paper – the one least likely to get published, I thought – to the worst journal I could find. I think it was a 0.2 impact factor. I was vacationing with my family in a rented house in Destin, Florida, in late September when I got an email saying they would like to see revisions of that paper. In an upstairs bedroom decorated in yellows and blues, I frantically used the borrowed wireless connection and forwarded the email to Advisor.
“May I defend now?” I asked at the end. We had spoken again before I left, but neither of us apologized. He let me down, withdrawing support for a reason he never explained. I was completely out of line with my comments, but felt at the time they were deserved. But we didn’t speak often and when we did, we were polite. He replied to the email and noted he would make sure everything went smoothly and that I should schedule a date.
My parents – between July and October – had bothered me nearly incessantly. Each time we talked, I was asked what I’d do if I couldn’t get published. Why I didn’t file complaints. Why I didn’t go to the Dean. Why I didn’t get something in writing as to what the rules were. Why they could make up rules not in the handbook. I didn’t want to talk about it or think about it. I just wanted to wait until I could make it OK. It had to be OK. I would finish and be grateful I hadn’t burned bridges. It would somehow be made reasonably OK.
I went to campus in October for my seminar and was greeted kindly. Advisor took everyone to dinner afterward in celebration of my talk. Most students had a defense dinner – and I would have had I defended in July – but we instead dined and talked of how my talk went well and that I would come back in November to defend.
I arranged the meeting for 8:00AM on a Friday morning in November. I actually don't remember the date. I arrived in town on Thursday afternoon and checked in to a hotel near campus. I went shopping, buying a couple of university t-shirts for Christmas gifts, a book from Borders and a little red purse from Dillards. I picked up a sandwich from my favorite shop, a piece of chocolate cake from the grocery store I used to frequent and some soda from the gas station next to my former apartment. I then holed up in my hotel room, practicing the talk I’d perfected at interviews and had since forgotten in my eagerness to avoid thinking about the defense that might never be.
I spent Thursday night in and out of the shower. I was absolutely sick, shaking with fear and wide awake despite 3 Tylenol PM. While I tried to convince myself it would be fine, there was now a part of my brain that knew there was a possibility that the world could crack open and swallow me whole. There was reason to fear these people – they’d shocked and humiliated me before. I didn’t think they’d do it again, but I didn’t know for sure. In an interesting twist, I finally fell asleep after reading an erotic story. I’d read somewhere that people afraid of flying should read pornography on planes since it’s distracting enough to ease the fear. The story I read was about a woman who met the love of her life online, finally meeting him (hence the erotic parts), then marrying him. When I met Peter, I was convinced that the world was paying me back for the dissertation hell by offering my own version of the love story that might have saved my sanity. Sad, isn’t it?
Anyway. I dressed the next morning and arrived at the huge lecture hall I’d been forced to reserve. I hadn’t brought treats or coffee. It was me and my laptop, standing in the hallway outside the room, trying not to shiver.
Advisor arrived first, smiling and asking how I was. “Terrified.” I answered and he laughed weakly. Senior member then arrived, asked the same question and received the same answer. We went in the room and I set up the laptop, waiting for the other three members to arrive. One did, apologized for being late, then settled in. I hadn’t invited anyone to attend. For the July defense, I assumed the entire group would be there. My parents would have come so we could’ve celebrated afterward. Dave - another friend - had planned to make the trip back to campus. It would have been a big deal.
The actual event was treated like a secret. I wanted nobody to know in case something went wrong. So it was me and 5 faculty members. Well, four in the beginning, actually. Pete didn’t come. After waiting for 15 minutes, someone called him and said we were waiting. I started without him, he arrived a few minutes later, then asked a single question. Senior member asked another question. They were both easy and gentle, then I was asked to step outside. Advisor followed me out not more than 2 minutes later to congratulate me. I went back in to shake hands as the four other men filed out, unhooked my laptop and packed up my things.
I returned to our office space and began completing revisions so I could print a final copy for approval while I was still in town. I found a quiet lobby of the hospital to call Mom, then Dad, (both were at work) to tell them it was over. It went fine. Nothing was wrong. I’d be home that evening.
My dad went back to campus with me over Thanksgiving to print the 5 copies on the right kind of paper so we could turn them into the graduate offices. Poor Dad was worried about me and had the day off. So he drove me to and from campus to wrap up the details. We turned a copy into the various offices, I got my packet of alumnus materials, paid the final binding fees then drove home. We stopped for a cheeseburger on the way.
“I wanted to buy you something special for lunch.” He said, frowning. “To celebrate.”
“Sometimes things don’t go the way you want them to.” I said. “I just wanted it to be over, Daddy. And the cheeseburger is actually pretty good.”
At this point, I guess I’m ready to write out the details. I just read an email that made me cry a bit. I’ll respond directly, but in the event that anyone else finds my situation useful, I can post it here. The thing is that it’s been a little while. I graduated in December, 2005, having defended that November. I’ve published all of my graduate work. I’ve been successful thus far in the postdoctoral world. I’m not setting the world afire, mind you, but I am not stupid or incompetent or, I think, in any way deserving of the mess I found at the end of graduate school. I’m also one of the stories that eventually goes well and if someone can take a spark of hope from it, then I’m more than happy to suffer publicly.
Let’s see. The beginning… I was sitting with my research group around a table in the conference room. We had weekly group meetings and amidst the bad cookies and progress reports, George reported that he had started writing his dissertation. George started research a year after I had, so I immediately – competitive, little soul that I am – was stunned that he was planning to leave when I planned to stay another year. It was then I started to consider what I wanted to accomplish before graduating. Never being one to just put in time, I met with Advisor and asked about my future directions.
“Start writing.” He said.
“The papers?” I asked. “They’re mostly written. One is currently being reviewed, another is almost revised and the third has one more analysis to finish, then I’ll write it up.”
“Then I guess you should talk to your committee and get going on the dissertation.”
Thrilled, I reported to my parents that I would likely graduate in August since I didn’t want to rush for a May graduation that was a mere four months away. I finished the final analysis, wrote up my last paper and sent everything out for review. I began writing the dissertation, turning in chapter by chapter to Advisor. He commented sparingly, as was his habit, and had me change very little. I spoke to all but one committee member, asking if they wanted to see the chapters as I created them, and all but one agreed to a defense date and said to send the document when the draft was completed.
The final member of my committee ducked my emails, but this wasn’t unusual. He was busy with clinical as well as research responsibilities. I continued to update him on the progress of the papers – he was a co-author on two of them and was, I thought, very familiar with my work and goals. In fact, I liked this man very much. He was young, but extremely bright and personable. He’d offered to pay my way to a conference one year when I ran out of travel money. He revised documents carefully for my prospectus and each of the papers he’d seen. When we spoke, he was encouraging and helpful. I failed to get many interviews when I sent out the CV Advisor had approved. Pete asked to see my application packet and gave me extensive revisions on my CV – format and order and headings and what was included. The next batch of applications yielded nearly 10 interviews. He also wrote me a brilliant letter of recommendation for the jobs I was seeking – some postdoctoral, some in industry.
“July 8.” I reported to my peers at our annual conference that year. I finished my thesis document sitting on the beach, inching my towel-covered chair under the umbrella to reduce the glare on the laptop.
“Is Pete on your committee?” One of the former members of my research group asked while we stood at a bar, sipping mojitos.
“Of course.” I said. “I work with him a lot.”
“He’ll fuck you over.” He said, and I shook my head at him. The very thought was ridiculous.
“Seriously.” He insisted. “I did work, wrote code, analyzed data, and the bastard published it without even putting my name on the paper! If you turn your back, he’ll stab you in it. I promise.”
“I don’t have data worth stealing.” I said lightly. “Plus, I like him. We work well together. It’ll be fine.”
The dissertation went out with Advisor’s blessing and a typical “Looks great!” scrawled across the top of the first page. I checked in with my committee by email as I traveled relatively extensively, interviewing rather successfully. I felt amazing, frankly. I was completing my doctorate in four years, a year sooner than I’d planned, and though I hadn’t found the perfect job, I decided I could choose one of the opportunities and learn a lot. I was convinced I had done all I could in my graduate environment and was eager to begin somewhere else. In my head, it was all but officially over. The actual defense was a mere formality in my department. Everything was lovely.
I returned to campus for a couple of days between interviews, having been traveling from my parents’ city since Chienne was living at their house in my frequent absences. I, sitting at the desk that was in one section of the living room in my tidy, one-bedroom apartment, opened Outlook Express and checked my email. It was two weeks until my scheduled defense date and I just wanted to make sure all the paperwork was in order and details arranged. After confirming the receipt of all paperwork with the graduate coordinator, noting the room reservation for my defense, and making sure the apartment complex had received notification that I would be moving when my lease was up at the end of July, I noticed there was an email from Pete.
It was addressed to 2 members of my committee, Advisor, and someone not on my committee. I was cced. It basically said that he’d looked at the dissertation and it was clear that I wasn’t ready to graduate. There were problems too numerous to mention in a short email, he wrote, and after speaking with Advisor they were in agreement that I would not defend in 2 weeks. Instead, that meeting could be used to define the work I’d do in the next year at my graduate institution. We could then evaluate whether sufficient progress had been made and see if I was ready to graduate.
It’s one of those rare moments of complete disbelief for me. One where – quite dramatically, I’m sure – my world cracks open and I think, “This isn’t really happening. The world does not work like this, so there is some mistake. I will fix it and everything will be fine.” But I was sick and confused.
I called Advisor at home and asked what the hell was going on. “Did you tell him I wouldn’t defend? What’s happening?”
“I told you to talk to him.” Advisor said. “I thought everyone was on the same page – that we agreed you were ready.”
“I thought you all were! I tried to talk to him – I can forward you all the emails I sent! He ignored me, but he knew I was interviewing! He wrote a letter, edited my CV! He can’t just say ‘no graduation for you’ when I’m almost done interviewing! I don’t have a place to live after the end of July! We’re turning off my fellowship early because I was graduating!”
“Calm down.” Advisor said. “We’ll figure it out.”
I met with 1 committee member the next day before leaving to travel home – he was confused and said he’d have to look closer at the document. “Normally we do what your advisor says is appropriate. Now that he’s saying two different things, I need more time to think.” He said. I was to get a plane to travel to my current location to interview and talked to the senior member of my committee on the phone.
“My life is falling apart.” I said tearfully as I sped down the highway toward home. He made a soothing sound.
“Pete is overreacting.” He said. “I’ll talk to Advisor and take care of this. Go interview, forget about this. It’ll be fine.”
I made it home, then sat down with my parents in the living room and told them. And I fell apart.
“But he knows you.” Mom protested of Pete. “You like him better than Advisor!” I couldn’t offer clarification though – I didn’t understand either. I’d been offered no details, even when I shouted at him over the phone.
“You can NOT do this! It’s too late! I’m ready to leave! Why did you wait so long?” I railed at him, knowing it was unprofessional, but uncaring.
“I didn’t have time.” He defended himself coldly. “And I’m doing it for your own good.”
I canceled the interview here, only arranging to make it up when Boss insisted they wanted to meet me. I was ill though, spent the day I should have had meetings, given a talk and toured campus throwing up in my parents’ bathroom until Mom came home from work early, sitting on the rim of the tub and stroking my hair while I cried.
I went back to campus. (This is surprisingly hard to write, by the way. I don’t think about it often and thought I was over it. Goodness, though, I’m struggling here.) Anyway.
I had the first closed-door meetings of my career. Watched 2 members of my committee look painfully uncomfortable and apologetic as they said they could go either way. If Advisor pushed for graduation, they would sign off. But in the absence of said push, the document wasn’t strong enough on its own. Plus, I didn’t have a single accepted publication on which I was the first author. If I could get one or two of the ones under review accepted, that would soothe the committee, they said.
The hatred I felt for Pete was so extreme that I could barely speak to him. I did, though. He didn’t look sorry at all when we met in his office. The publications were important – I should have at least three before leaving. He had some ideas recently that I should do before I left.
“I’d like to hear the ideas.” I said.
“At the meeting we all attend, we’ll discuss it.”
“I’d like to hear them now, Pete.” I said firmly. “If I can salvage this and still defend in a week, I want to do it.”
So he listed ideas, all of which I’d already tried and had failed, and then mentioned vague concepts that would likely take years to learn and implement. Then he handed me the document and said it needed to be completely restructured. He noted his demands for the dissertation and I walked back to Advisor’s office.
“What do you think?” I asked finally. “I need to know why you’re not backing me up when you said I should write the dissertation in the first place. Tell me why you’re doing this.”
He avoided my eyes and said I needed to rewrite the thesis and hope it satisfied Pete. Since I wasn’t sleeping anyway, I rewrote the nearly 200 page document in 2 days.
I sent it out. One member asked why I’d done so much unnecessary work – it was fine before. Pete said I needed 3 publications accepted before graduating. Someone else said one was enough. Another said this process was cruel – they all needed to meet and decide what they wanted. Jerking me around wasn’t fair. Keep in mind that Advisor didn’t say that – someone else did. Senior member was out of town and I demanded they wait for him to have said meeting. I was informed the morning of that I was not allowed to attend.
I waited at my desk. Everyone knew what was going on – people stopped by my cubicle to check on me, offer sympathetic glances, sent emails to make sure I was OK. After about an hour, Advisor came to fetch me. From the look on his face, I realized that Senior member had let me down. I wouldn’t be defending on July 8.
He closed the door and we sat down. He sighed and looked away.
“The document is fine as is. We’ll discuss minor revisions when you defend. Pete said he’d attend a defense on the 8th but would treat it as an actual defense. One you could fail. Everyone else said that was inappropriate – we don’t do that to anyone, and would not do it to you. But we think it’s in your best interest to have at least one publication before graduating. You won’t be able to get jobs-“
“I have offers already.” I said. “People asked for the papers, read them and decided they were fine. I have jobs!”
“Well, later it could be a problem. And there’s no guarantee that they’ll get accepted. Publishing isn’t fair.”
“Publishing isn’t fair?” I asked, incredulous. “What is this?!” (I was nearly hysterical and not behaving well, obviously.)
“We want one paper accepted – even if they ask for revisions – when one is accepted, you can set a defense date.”
“I want to leave now.” I said flatly.
“I asked them about that and they’re worried that you won’t ever defend. But I asked that you be allowed to start work at one of the posdocs – whichever you choose – while you wait. Of course, you’re welcome to stay here if you’d like.” We'd discussed this many times and I said that I couldn't stay, regardless of the outcome of that meeting.
“I won’t work for you after this.” I stared at him, and he looked away.
“Then you can leave. But I do hope you’ll come back to defend.”
“I’ll get each of those papers published – I promise you that.”
“You can’t promise that – it’s not really in your control. I’ve written good work that never got published.”
“That’s your failure, not mine.” I said, determined to do as much damage as possible. “I will get published and I will be back to defend. But I would never work for you again after this.”
Then I got to call my prospective employers.
“Good God.” One of them said. “I can’t believe it. I’ve read the papers, looked at your CV. You’re fine. Wow. Well, it doesn’t bother me – we’d love to have you here. I just can’t believe anyone would do that.”
“What the hell is wrong with those people?” Another said. “Do you mind if I call Advisor? This is ridiculous!” He called me back, disgusted. “I told him it was insane to expect you to base your future on some two reviewers who only were evaluating a single piece of your work, abdicating responsibility of your career when the people who know you best should be deciding such things. Absolutely ridiculous. Let me check on the funding situation here and make sure it won’t cause problems that you won’t have a PhD. But it’s fine with me.”
“It happens.” Boss said kindly. “We’ll do whatever we can to support you in finishing as soon as possible. If you need to travel back and forth or do work here, that’s all fine.”
I stupidly had hope that one of the papers would get accepted in those next couple weeks and I would defend in late July. They were all three rejected as I finished up interviews, packed up my things, accepted Boss’s offer and moved to my current location. (My parents – worried – came for the weekend around July 8. We went shopping and they bought me presents I called “sorry you’re a failure” gifts.) As I bought a house, arranged the move, started work, I was miserable with the knowledge of my defeat. Pete had known me and my work nearly as well as Advisor. Yet both clearly found me inferior at the end. So how was I supposed to know who to trust? Was failure inevitable? Cruelty waiting around every corner? What if I couldn't publish those papers after all?
I sent one paper – the one least likely to get published, I thought – to the worst journal I could find. I think it was a 0.2 impact factor. I was vacationing with my family in a rented house in Destin, Florida, in late September when I got an email saying they would like to see revisions of that paper. In an upstairs bedroom decorated in yellows and blues, I frantically used the borrowed wireless connection and forwarded the email to Advisor.
“May I defend now?” I asked at the end. We had spoken again before I left, but neither of us apologized. He let me down, withdrawing support for a reason he never explained. I was completely out of line with my comments, but felt at the time they were deserved. But we didn’t speak often and when we did, we were polite. He replied to the email and noted he would make sure everything went smoothly and that I should schedule a date.
My parents – between July and October – had bothered me nearly incessantly. Each time we talked, I was asked what I’d do if I couldn’t get published. Why I didn’t file complaints. Why I didn’t go to the Dean. Why I didn’t get something in writing as to what the rules were. Why they could make up rules not in the handbook. I didn’t want to talk about it or think about it. I just wanted to wait until I could make it OK. It had to be OK. I would finish and be grateful I hadn’t burned bridges. It would somehow be made reasonably OK.
I went to campus in October for my seminar and was greeted kindly. Advisor took everyone to dinner afterward in celebration of my talk. Most students had a defense dinner – and I would have had I defended in July – but we instead dined and talked of how my talk went well and that I would come back in November to defend.
I arranged the meeting for 8:00AM on a Friday morning in November. I actually don't remember the date. I arrived in town on Thursday afternoon and checked in to a hotel near campus. I went shopping, buying a couple of university t-shirts for Christmas gifts, a book from Borders and a little red purse from Dillards. I picked up a sandwich from my favorite shop, a piece of chocolate cake from the grocery store I used to frequent and some soda from the gas station next to my former apartment. I then holed up in my hotel room, practicing the talk I’d perfected at interviews and had since forgotten in my eagerness to avoid thinking about the defense that might never be.
I spent Thursday night in and out of the shower. I was absolutely sick, shaking with fear and wide awake despite 3 Tylenol PM. While I tried to convince myself it would be fine, there was now a part of my brain that knew there was a possibility that the world could crack open and swallow me whole. There was reason to fear these people – they’d shocked and humiliated me before. I didn’t think they’d do it again, but I didn’t know for sure. In an interesting twist, I finally fell asleep after reading an erotic story. I’d read somewhere that people afraid of flying should read pornography on planes since it’s distracting enough to ease the fear. The story I read was about a woman who met the love of her life online, finally meeting him (hence the erotic parts), then marrying him. When I met Peter, I was convinced that the world was paying me back for the dissertation hell by offering my own version of the love story that might have saved my sanity. Sad, isn’t it?
Anyway. I dressed the next morning and arrived at the huge lecture hall I’d been forced to reserve. I hadn’t brought treats or coffee. It was me and my laptop, standing in the hallway outside the room, trying not to shiver.
Advisor arrived first, smiling and asking how I was. “Terrified.” I answered and he laughed weakly. Senior member then arrived, asked the same question and received the same answer. We went in the room and I set up the laptop, waiting for the other three members to arrive. One did, apologized for being late, then settled in. I hadn’t invited anyone to attend. For the July defense, I assumed the entire group would be there. My parents would have come so we could’ve celebrated afterward. Dave - another friend - had planned to make the trip back to campus. It would have been a big deal.
The actual event was treated like a secret. I wanted nobody to know in case something went wrong. So it was me and 5 faculty members. Well, four in the beginning, actually. Pete didn’t come. After waiting for 15 minutes, someone called him and said we were waiting. I started without him, he arrived a few minutes later, then asked a single question. Senior member asked another question. They were both easy and gentle, then I was asked to step outside. Advisor followed me out not more than 2 minutes later to congratulate me. I went back in to shake hands as the four other men filed out, unhooked my laptop and packed up my things.
I returned to our office space and began completing revisions so I could print a final copy for approval while I was still in town. I found a quiet lobby of the hospital to call Mom, then Dad, (both were at work) to tell them it was over. It went fine. Nothing was wrong. I’d be home that evening.
My dad went back to campus with me over Thanksgiving to print the 5 copies on the right kind of paper so we could turn them into the graduate offices. Poor Dad was worried about me and had the day off. So he drove me to and from campus to wrap up the details. We turned a copy into the various offices, I got my packet of alumnus materials, paid the final binding fees then drove home. We stopped for a cheeseburger on the way.
“I wanted to buy you something special for lunch.” He said, frowning. “To celebrate.”
“Sometimes things don’t go the way you want them to.” I said. “I just wanted it to be over, Daddy. And the cheeseburger is actually pretty good.”
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
100 More Things
I decided it was time for another link-filled 100 things post. This one was a lot harder than the first for some reason. But I did it!
In General
In General
- I generally update my blog every day. I find myself with a list of writing projects, but blogging tends to remain a high priority.
- I also tend to walk my dog every day.
- I take pictures of what's outside.
- I can be rather irritable.
- I think that's OK.
- I have The Plan. It updates each month on the 12th. That probably interests nobody but me. I'm OK with that.
- My family lives in Illinois.
- There's Mom.
- And Dad.
- Then there's Brother, Brother's wife and Little One, age 2.5 and an absolute darling.
- They're expecting another baby in September.
- In my current location, I have Cousin, her husband and her daughter, Little Cousin.
- I love and enjoy them a great deal.
- Also in my current location, I have Friend. I've considered naming her, but as with many important people on the blog, I simply call her what she is.
- I lost a friend - one of the women in my research niche I call Winnie on the blog - this summer.
- I still miss her very much and think of her every day when I look at her violet.
- It took me a long time to get it to bloom, but I finally did.
- I've had my dog - Chienne - for about 4 years.
- My cat, Sprout, has lived here since September. After a few awful events, he's now an inside cat.
- The dog and cat get along fairly well.
- The cat has his own room (formerly the guest room).
- I get depressed.
- The worst episode happened around these posts.
- I've been on Celexa since.
- I remember it started to work because I spent that day at the zoo.
- I see a therapist at work - Dr. Counselor - every other week.
- I have named some spots in his office according to a theory he uses. I sometimes refer to those colors.
- He tried to set me up with one of his clients once. Said client never called.
- My main problem? I badly want to get married.
- A lesser problem? I'm often bored.
- My birthday is in January.
- I'm now 28.
- I can build a fort. Not a great fort, but a fort nonetheless.
- I love aligning little, fuzzy creatures. I'm also quite skilled at such a thing.
- Lilacs are my favorite flowers.
- Sandpipers are my favorite birds.
- Tenderheart is my favorite CareBear.
- I come up with lists of weird facts if asked to do so.
- I'm undergoing laser hair removal - it's actually working reasonably well.
- Art appreciation is hardly a developed skill of mine.
- Unless it's obviously wonderful art.
- I enjoy watching hockey.
- If there are two boys, I'll almost always have a favorite.
- Don't know who Peter is? That's OK - it's over. But if you're curious, the whole unpleasant story is here.
- Oh, and I'm writing a novel about it. (Picture me ducking my head in embarrassment, please.)
- But I do hate the very idea of transitional relationships.
- Within the last year, I've visited three Disney parks in a single day.
- I still like the Magic Kingdom.
- I'm fairly easily confused.
- I have trouble letting go.
- I can't swallow most pills. I chew them up. (Sick and wrong, I know.)
- I talk to myself. I also answer.
- Please note the arrows in my Archive sidebar. I worked hard to get those little guys.
- I update my header and sidebar pictures relatively often.
- I can be oddly focused.
- I get migraines (and make graphs about them.)
- I'm not the best hiking partner.
- I get massages at least once a month.
- I love Snippets posts.
- I am resourceful - even when doing work.
- I'm bad at small talk.
- I love weeding.
- I wear mint lip gloss - I have tubes everywhere.
- My dog hides in the guest bathtub when it storms.
- My cat and dog wrestle, despite a great disparity in body size.
- I love any medicine that ends in PM.
- I don't like dentists, but I still went for my check-up.
- I don't like Thanksgiving very much.
- I haven't read very much lately. I used to spend about $100/month on books and I haven't come anywhere close lately. I wonder why that is...
- I have a wonderful mentor.
- I also have an exceptionally wonderful secretary.
- Others at work - according to me - are less than ideal.
- Then again, sometimes professional relationships improve.
- I submitted a grant (K99/R00 to the NCI) about a year ago, unsuccessfully. I'm halfheartedly revising it.
- I was invited to write my first book chapter. I'm thrilled, but my excitement is probably excessive for an event such as this.
- I struggled to publish my last graduate paper.
- That particular paper was amazingly worth it in the end.
- Other times, publishing is not so exciting.
- I get painfully nervous before speaking in front of people. But I generally do well.
- I tend to work from home too much.
- It's because I often want to avoid notice.
- When I speak of people at work, they're often given animal names.
- The Penguin, for example, is a collaborator.
- I'm trying to become stronger, but I mostly want people to like me.
- I find myself fascinated by certain academic characters. They're peculiar and funny and delightful.
- I continue to make progress.
- But leaving academic research sometimes appeals.
- If you're interested in my research, I crafted an elaborate (but figure-out-able) analogy.
- I really try to keep up with the literature.
- Since my own work has been slow to start, I collaborate extensively.
- Prayer works for me.
- I love, love, love my Pastor.
- I started attending a new church.
- I really like my new church.
- The Great Divorce (CS Lewis) was a great book for me to read.
- I also liked The Screwtape Letters very much.
- Friend has been attending church with me recently.
- There are chairs rather than pews.
- And the stained glass doesn't go together.
- But I really like the congregation.
Carnival!
Thank goodness - something to read while I wait for data to process! Propter Doc once again has gathered some posts written by or for or relevant to the postdoctoral experience. You can find them at What's Up, Postdoc? or go directly to the third edition.
Propter Doc always does a lovely job - I don't know how she finds time to sleep.
Propter Doc always does a lovely job - I don't know how she finds time to sleep.
Monday, April 23, 2007
OK
I talked to Dr. Counselor this morning. He irritated me in various ways.
I had an appointment to get more Celexa. Doctor said she would have helped me taper off had I called her and that if I decide to try to stop the pills again, to just let her know. But she wrote a prescription for another year and told me to do what I felt worked. I like her. And while I waited in the exam room, I read about young Chinese and Indian consumers in a very old Newsweek. I also learned the avian flu - due to some overreaction of good immune systems - would mostly affect the young and strong. I hadn't known that. Then I read about spas in India. I really need to do more traveling soon. And I don't know that Chicago in the summer counts. I mean, I do love Chicago very much, but I've been there. I want something exotic! Yet deep dish pizza makes up for a lot. So Chicago is lovely - I'm actually quite eager for that trip.
I went back to work where I have data analyzing away. I'm now making every Mac I own run at extremely hot temperatures. I did figure out my problem (yay, I guess) and think things are going well now. I hope.
I got my chapter back with some good comments. I'd like to add another section, so I'm considering how to make that work.
I'm tired. I woke up at 3 last night to start more data - the processing steps are lengthy and it's something I can set up for 30 minutes, then it runs for 5 hours. But I feel myself starting to obsess over work and I don't really want that.
When I do that, I take random comments personally. Someone asked for some descriptive text and figures for some of my work for a section of a website. He made a follow-up comment which could have just been a question or could have been a jab at my progress here. Regardless, my feelings were hurt. He's one of the polar bears and I typically feel unwelcome and inferior around them. Having that reinforced - even if accidentally - is sucky.
I'm reminded of how my session with Dr. Counselor ended this morning. "I'm OK." I said and he nodded in agreement. "I'm not happy, but I'm OK." I concluded firmly. I meant that I'm not unhappy - things are fine, I feel stable, life is reasonably smooth. But looking at the statement now, I find it rather painful. And I'm not sure how I can fix it.
I guess I'll go back to my data so I can focus on being productive. That's something. It's not happiness, but it's something.
I had an appointment to get more Celexa. Doctor said she would have helped me taper off had I called her and that if I decide to try to stop the pills again, to just let her know. But she wrote a prescription for another year and told me to do what I felt worked. I like her. And while I waited in the exam room, I read about young Chinese and Indian consumers in a very old Newsweek. I also learned the avian flu - due to some overreaction of good immune systems - would mostly affect the young and strong. I hadn't known that. Then I read about spas in India. I really need to do more traveling soon. And I don't know that Chicago in the summer counts. I mean, I do love Chicago very much, but I've been there. I want something exotic! Yet deep dish pizza makes up for a lot. So Chicago is lovely - I'm actually quite eager for that trip.
I went back to work where I have data analyzing away. I'm now making every Mac I own run at extremely hot temperatures. I did figure out my problem (yay, I guess) and think things are going well now. I hope.
I got my chapter back with some good comments. I'd like to add another section, so I'm considering how to make that work.
I'm tired. I woke up at 3 last night to start more data - the processing steps are lengthy and it's something I can set up for 30 minutes, then it runs for 5 hours. But I feel myself starting to obsess over work and I don't really want that.
When I do that, I take random comments personally. Someone asked for some descriptive text and figures for some of my work for a section of a website. He made a follow-up comment which could have just been a question or could have been a jab at my progress here. Regardless, my feelings were hurt. He's one of the polar bears and I typically feel unwelcome and inferior around them. Having that reinforced - even if accidentally - is sucky.
I'm reminded of how my session with Dr. Counselor ended this morning. "I'm OK." I said and he nodded in agreement. "I'm not happy, but I'm OK." I concluded firmly. I meant that I'm not unhappy - things are fine, I feel stable, life is reasonably smooth. But looking at the statement now, I find it rather painful. And I'm not sure how I can fix it.
I guess I'll go back to my data so I can focus on being productive. That's something. It's not happiness, but it's something.
Sunday, April 22, 2007
Teeter totter or Swings
Growing up, I was usually a bit larger than most girls in my class. I've always tended toward the heavy side, though I wasn't obscenely overweight. But when we'd play on the playground, I preferred the swings or merry-go-round to the teeter totter. My friends - lighter than me - would have an easier time being up than I would. And my legs got tired of having to push really hard to get myself off the ground, the unbalanced system leaving me falling more than rising.
It wasn't that I never had fun. Holly and Mandy and Missy were all, at times, lovely to me. And I can remember giggling and making faces as we took turns going up then down. Once I caught a rhythm, it was rather delightful. But I more often felt bulky, wishing I was more slender and girly.
I didn't have the same problem on the swings. It didn't matter if anyone else played or not - I could hold to the thick, metal chains and pump my legs and drift up toward the sky, then swoop backward toward the huge, green field that sat behind our one-story school. On the swings, I could daydream and smile, enjoying the moments where I lifted off the seat at the peak of arc, then feeling myself pushed into the rubber as I rushed back toward ground covered with tiny gravel pieces, worn smooth over the years from tiny tennis shoes.
I didn't feel heavy or embarrassed on the swings. Everything was smooth and wonderful - if I wanted to work hard, I could go high. There's something magical - a feeling that leaves me feeling powerfully nostalgic - about stretching my feet toward the sky, watching the blue expanse dotted with fluffy clouds beyond the footwear tied with lopsided bows. Other days, I'd brush the ground with my toes, pushing ever so slightly as I rested and thought and waited until the bell rang, demanding we form neat lines at the back door so we could return to our classrooms.
I don't know why it makes me feel good to be better than others. I vaguely put it with the pile of my various character flaws. I've spent a lot of time feeling inferior, so when the chance to feel a bit better comes along, I do revel in it. I do not, however, like to make others feel badly. I'm disappointed that I so eagerly participate in an environment which is so brutal on some people's feelings. (I also, by the way, hate that I feel badly about being "sensitive" when all I really want is a respect I feel is due each person.)
This weekend has been spent doing some work. But rather than watching someone across from me - trying to see how hard she's pushing off the ground, how much fun she's having as we teeter and totter along, if she laughs harder or looks prettier or seems smarter - I've been swinging on my own. It's not the healthiest, honestly. I came in from the kitchen last night - I have a Windows laptop set up on my table - and crowed that I was "so good at my job! So, so, so good at my job!" because I successfully uninstalled the old, installed the new software, and processed some data with beautiful results. I'd been putting it off for weeks, was relatively sure I couldn't do it, and was thrilled with my success. It was that glorious feeling where my bottom left the swing as my legs stretched out as far as they could go while I leaned back and grinned at how much fun swinging could be.
Moments later, I realized that most of the day's work had failed miserably. The software glitched on my laptop or I set something up wrong and I didn't have the data I needed. I instead had garbage. I'm growing increasingly frustrated as I continue to try to figure out why I have garbage or how to fix this unidentified problem. "Not good at my job." I reported this morning as I struggled out of a headache that's still nagging me under the protective cover of Excedrin. Friend looked up sympathetically as I noted, "I don't feel good. I slept too long so my muscles are sore. I didn't go to church, so I'll probably go straight to Hell. I can't make my software work, and I should know how. So now instead of asking it 'why can't you read my files?' like I did last weekend, I'll be asking 'why can't you do step 2 of my analysis?' and it won't answer so I'll have to ask for help because I can't figure it out. Not good at my job."
When there's triumph or defeat inherent in the process of research or love or life, I'm not sure why I feel the need to look outside to decide how I'm doing. Even when I know the teeter totter isn't my playground equipment of choice, I get on sometimes. Perhaps I'll try to go toward the swings - and recall that the down is inevitably followed by an up at some point - more often. Either that or find a way to leave the playground altogether. But that's a whole different post.
Now I really want to go swing (like on a playground, not in terms of professional mood).
It wasn't that I never had fun. Holly and Mandy and Missy were all, at times, lovely to me. And I can remember giggling and making faces as we took turns going up then down. Once I caught a rhythm, it was rather delightful. But I more often felt bulky, wishing I was more slender and girly.
I didn't have the same problem on the swings. It didn't matter if anyone else played or not - I could hold to the thick, metal chains and pump my legs and drift up toward the sky, then swoop backward toward the huge, green field that sat behind our one-story school. On the swings, I could daydream and smile, enjoying the moments where I lifted off the seat at the peak of arc, then feeling myself pushed into the rubber as I rushed back toward ground covered with tiny gravel pieces, worn smooth over the years from tiny tennis shoes.
I didn't feel heavy or embarrassed on the swings. Everything was smooth and wonderful - if I wanted to work hard, I could go high. There's something magical - a feeling that leaves me feeling powerfully nostalgic - about stretching my feet toward the sky, watching the blue expanse dotted with fluffy clouds beyond the footwear tied with lopsided bows. Other days, I'd brush the ground with my toes, pushing ever so slightly as I rested and thought and waited until the bell rang, demanding we form neat lines at the back door so we could return to our classrooms.
I don't know why it makes me feel good to be better than others. I vaguely put it with the pile of my various character flaws. I've spent a lot of time feeling inferior, so when the chance to feel a bit better comes along, I do revel in it. I do not, however, like to make others feel badly. I'm disappointed that I so eagerly participate in an environment which is so brutal on some people's feelings. (I also, by the way, hate that I feel badly about being "sensitive" when all I really want is a respect I feel is due each person.)
This weekend has been spent doing some work. But rather than watching someone across from me - trying to see how hard she's pushing off the ground, how much fun she's having as we teeter and totter along, if she laughs harder or looks prettier or seems smarter - I've been swinging on my own. It's not the healthiest, honestly. I came in from the kitchen last night - I have a Windows laptop set up on my table - and crowed that I was "so good at my job! So, so, so good at my job!" because I successfully uninstalled the old, installed the new software, and processed some data with beautiful results. I'd been putting it off for weeks, was relatively sure I couldn't do it, and was thrilled with my success. It was that glorious feeling where my bottom left the swing as my legs stretched out as far as they could go while I leaned back and grinned at how much fun swinging could be.
Moments later, I realized that most of the day's work had failed miserably. The software glitched on my laptop or I set something up wrong and I didn't have the data I needed. I instead had garbage. I'm growing increasingly frustrated as I continue to try to figure out why I have garbage or how to fix this unidentified problem. "Not good at my job." I reported this morning as I struggled out of a headache that's still nagging me under the protective cover of Excedrin. Friend looked up sympathetically as I noted, "I don't feel good. I slept too long so my muscles are sore. I didn't go to church, so I'll probably go straight to Hell. I can't make my software work, and I should know how. So now instead of asking it 'why can't you read my files?' like I did last weekend, I'll be asking 'why can't you do step 2 of my analysis?' and it won't answer so I'll have to ask for help because I can't figure it out. Not good at my job."
When there's triumph or defeat inherent in the process of research or love or life, I'm not sure why I feel the need to look outside to decide how I'm doing. Even when I know the teeter totter isn't my playground equipment of choice, I get on sometimes. Perhaps I'll try to go toward the swings - and recall that the down is inevitably followed by an up at some point - more often. Either that or find a way to leave the playground altogether. But that's a whole different post.
Now I really want to go swing (like on a playground, not in terms of professional mood).
Saturday, April 21, 2007
Lists, comparisons and inferiority complexes
I vividly recall sitting in a stark, white classroom on the fourth floor of the hospital where we met for one of the four first-semester graduate classes. There were about 25 students in the room and having been super-social the summer before, I felt I knew most of them pretty well. We had taken a difficult exam – our first in the program – and were waiting to see how we’d performed. I blinked at the score on my paper – it wasn’t terrible, but was hardly impressive. I looked up to see the grades – organized from highest to lowest – being written on the whiteboard in blue marker. As I waited and waited and waited to see my number appear, I finally realized 22 people – a vast majority – were better than me.
I can therefore pinpoint the moment where I started thinking I wasn’t smart/good/talented enough. I didn’t belong in grad school, let alone research. I should have worked much harder. I was obviously going to fail. People would soon understand they’d made a terrible mistake when they granted me entrance to the program and they’d force me to leave and everyone would know that I wasn’t good at all.
While I’ve had many good and bad days since, that feeling remains familiar. I’m not doing as well as I should be. And it doesn’t come from an assessment of my own work, it comes from a comparison to others. I was fine with staying home parts of this week – I’m not that busy, nobody minded, and it wasn’t that big a deal. But when Friend started to work on her paper, my stomach clenched and I was immediately anxious. If she’s working, I should work. I’ll fall behind! Be embarrassed over my lack of productivity! There won’t be enough stuff on my CV!! Oh, no; oh, no; oh, no; oh, no; oh, no.
"You have to tell me when you're working." I finally said. "So I'll know I should be feeling badly."
I attended a seminar yesterday, more out of hunger than of interest. There’s free lunch beforehand and, eager for a sandwich, I walked over with Boss and Tim, both of whom I love, and stood in line to get pasta salad, a turkey sandwich and a bag of chips. After grabbing a soda, I walked in the room and glanced around for anyone I might know. I saw Dawn sitting in the very last row, so I walked toward the back of the room to say hi.
Our exchanges that morning – we share an office – were a bit tense. She teased me a bit excessively for being out part of the week. Talked about how hard she was working and the hours she put in. How her experiment failed and they would have to implement the protocol that was considerably more complicated.
My response? I was outwardly sympathetic, but inwardly wanted her to leave me alone. She was making me feel guilty and therefore I was somewhat pleased her experiment failed. Maybe if she was nicer and more understanding, she’d have better luck. (Which makes no sense, but that’s how I think sometimes.)
Anyway, I sat in the row in front of her, a few seats over, and happily examined my lunch while I opened the soda. I turned, mouth full, when someone greeted me.
“Oh! Hey!” I said after a swallowed, greeting another of the fellows who forms my cohort. He’s an international postdoc, though I can’t remember exactly where in Asia he’s from, and is terribly sweet and funny and soft-spoken. We’ll call him Ken. Mark sat to Ken’s right and I smiled at him as well, dabbing at my lips with a napkin. “How’s it going?”
Ken made a noncommittal sound, then said, “It’s going very good for you.”
I frowned, looked at Mark, who had adopted a serious expression, and cocked my head, confused. “Not really.” I said. “It’s just going.”
“Publication list.” Mark said simply and I blinked at him, realizing what was going on. Jill had sent out the publication records for the fellows in our group early this week in an attempt to confirm that everything was correct before it went in the final progress report document. We’re all funded by a training grant and therefore our progress – individually and as a group – is officially monitored. My section dominated the document – I was moderately surprised, of course, but that feeling superiority left me glowing for days.
I nodded at Ken and Mark, unsure as to what to say. They’d each had a single line, I think.
“We were shocked.” Mark continued and I scowled at him. Shocked? Does he think I’m inferior? I am not inferior! Perhaps we should bring out that document right now for proof!
“Impressive.” Corrected Ken. “You’re doing really good.” He diffused my offense and I smiled at him.
“Thanks, but it’s really not all that impressive under closer examination.” Realizing that they’d both probably looked closely at what was there, I sought to explain. “I have friends – a few good friends – and can contribute a bit to their work so I end up listed on papers and abstracts. So you just need to get some good friends – that’s all.”
Ken nodded while smiling and Mark attempted a more friendly expression as well. “You had papers.” He noted and I nodded in acknowledgment. “All from grad school.” I explained. “It took me this long to get them all out. It wasn’t work that was done here.”
“The rest of us looked bad.” He said, and I shook my head.
“Not at all!” I protested. “Mine was just a mixture of finishing stuff up and having a network of people who are presenting their work.”
“You should have told them to just wait for next year when you didn’t have much to report.” Friend offered when I was telling her the story on the way home. And though I know I’d given her that information – that publications are going to be difficult to come by for this next year – I was moderately offended.
“I could,” I said, thinking quickly over what’s in the pipeline – what can go as abstracts, when the meetings are, how much I could have ready… - “get a list of the same size next year.” The chapter wasn’t on that list, nor was this current project that’s analyzing even as I type this. There were a couple of papers in preparation that can go on next year’s list if they get published. And there are like 10 meetings to which I could submit abstracts (we, um, like meetings in my field) so if I wanted to travel constantly and write a whole lot, I could continue to look good on paper!
The flip side – and likely the reason I got so defensive with Friend – is that once the seminar started, I was put neatly in my place. Speaker was young and he works in a different section of a niche that’s familiar to me. So I followed what he was saying pretty easily – he spoke well and I’ve read relevant literature and actually published a piece myself – and noted that he was truly impressive.
As the talk went on, I noted that he was taking figures from all the papers on which he was first author. The citation information was placed discretely in the corner of each slide. All excellent journals, I noted, and a plethora of publications. The guy was good at what he did. Then I saw the Science paper from what I assumed was the end of his graduate career. I’ve never met anyone with a Science paper, so I was impressed despite myself.
I internally coached that it wasn’t helpful to compete with people. Just assess your progress, note your goals, and see where to relax and where to improve. Like Propter Doc rightfully notes. (She, by the way, makes me feel inferior with all her service accomplishments. I probably have a reason all of you make me feel badly too. I have a problem.)
And yet I still sighed a bit over Speaker. But it wasn’t as though he had a Nature paper, I decided. But then it showed up – one from last year. Science and Nature and all the top level field-specific journals. He’s completing his first postdoc and, I assume, touring the country interviewing for faculty positions. He won’t struggle – he looks too good on paper, seemed approachable and knowledgeable during the question portion, and complements rather than duplicates what we do here. Plus, I know something about his field – he wasn’t faking it. And when Leo tried to attack one of his figures, I internally scoffed. It appeared in Nature, I thought with a sneer at the big meanie. You’re not likely to find a gross error with work he published in Nature.
I don’t feel particularly badly about myself in comparison to him though. I quite simply don’t want to work that hard. I’d rather leave early on Friday, go to Friend’s apartment to pet cats and be fed dinner and watch Nanny McPhee. I didn’t have my laptop so I could process the data I’d transferred to my USB drive (though it is running now - that's the second time I mentioned I was working on a Saturday morning, by the way), I didn’t feel the need to be writing or reading or making plans. I’ll need to run in on Sunday for an hour or so, but that’s OK. I don’t need to be outstanding. Honestly, people, I built a fort in my living room on Thursday! I don’t think they give Nobel prizes for that.
What continues to tug at my conscience is that I made other people feel badly. It was inadvertent. When asked for publications, I just copied and pasted from my CV, which I faithfully update when anything new appears. I noted that I was surprised that I had a larger list than anyone else, but it really is due to collaborations, in which I excel. It does bulk up a CV when you contribute slightly to a number of projects. But when it comes down to first author – I was responsible and in charge and did this work – stuff, I’m going to be very light in the next year. I’m figuring out ways around it – I’m also resourceful because I don’t work as hard as I should – but it’s going to be evident.
That my way of working made people feel shocked or impressed or inferior bugs me. My own inferiority complex tells me that Ken and Mark are absolutely smarter and more productive and harder working – they just don’t have the luck or collaborative network that I do. So I wonder if I wouldn’t wave off any congratulations. The cover? Oh, Boss did that – he worked and worked and worked on that paper. The graduate publications? Well, Advisor is very hands off, so I had control over where and when the papers went. Not everyone has that luxury.
My point is that comparisons aren’t fair or healthy or good. I’m a terrible offender though, constantly picking someone to whom I don’t measure up, then getting too depressed to do any work at all. I think Friend is a lot smarter than I am, and given a lab that was even slightly less dysfunctional, we wouldn’t even know each other since she’d probably work all the time. I have a truly outstanding mentor and environment and can barely get to work some days. Let’s be honest – some days I don’t even try.
I wonder – a lot – what’s wrong with me. And I think part of the problem is that I’m a competitive person in an environment that rewards such behavior. And punishes – somehow creates this internal system of self-loathing – when one can’t score near the top of that list being written on a whiteboard in blue ink.
I can therefore pinpoint the moment where I started thinking I wasn’t smart/good/talented enough. I didn’t belong in grad school, let alone research. I should have worked much harder. I was obviously going to fail. People would soon understand they’d made a terrible mistake when they granted me entrance to the program and they’d force me to leave and everyone would know that I wasn’t good at all.
While I’ve had many good and bad days since, that feeling remains familiar. I’m not doing as well as I should be. And it doesn’t come from an assessment of my own work, it comes from a comparison to others. I was fine with staying home parts of this week – I’m not that busy, nobody minded, and it wasn’t that big a deal. But when Friend started to work on her paper, my stomach clenched and I was immediately anxious. If she’s working, I should work. I’ll fall behind! Be embarrassed over my lack of productivity! There won’t be enough stuff on my CV!! Oh, no; oh, no; oh, no; oh, no; oh, no.
"You have to tell me when you're working." I finally said. "So I'll know I should be feeling badly."
I attended a seminar yesterday, more out of hunger than of interest. There’s free lunch beforehand and, eager for a sandwich, I walked over with Boss and Tim, both of whom I love, and stood in line to get pasta salad, a turkey sandwich and a bag of chips. After grabbing a soda, I walked in the room and glanced around for anyone I might know. I saw Dawn sitting in the very last row, so I walked toward the back of the room to say hi.
Our exchanges that morning – we share an office – were a bit tense. She teased me a bit excessively for being out part of the week. Talked about how hard she was working and the hours she put in. How her experiment failed and they would have to implement the protocol that was considerably more complicated.
My response? I was outwardly sympathetic, but inwardly wanted her to leave me alone. She was making me feel guilty and therefore I was somewhat pleased her experiment failed. Maybe if she was nicer and more understanding, she’d have better luck. (Which makes no sense, but that’s how I think sometimes.)
Anyway, I sat in the row in front of her, a few seats over, and happily examined my lunch while I opened the soda. I turned, mouth full, when someone greeted me.
“Oh! Hey!” I said after a swallowed, greeting another of the fellows who forms my cohort. He’s an international postdoc, though I can’t remember exactly where in Asia he’s from, and is terribly sweet and funny and soft-spoken. We’ll call him Ken. Mark sat to Ken’s right and I smiled at him as well, dabbing at my lips with a napkin. “How’s it going?”
Ken made a noncommittal sound, then said, “It’s going very good for you.”
I frowned, looked at Mark, who had adopted a serious expression, and cocked my head, confused. “Not really.” I said. “It’s just going.”
“Publication list.” Mark said simply and I blinked at him, realizing what was going on. Jill had sent out the publication records for the fellows in our group early this week in an attempt to confirm that everything was correct before it went in the final progress report document. We’re all funded by a training grant and therefore our progress – individually and as a group – is officially monitored. My section dominated the document – I was moderately surprised, of course, but that feeling superiority left me glowing for days.
I nodded at Ken and Mark, unsure as to what to say. They’d each had a single line, I think.
“We were shocked.” Mark continued and I scowled at him. Shocked? Does he think I’m inferior? I am not inferior! Perhaps we should bring out that document right now for proof!
“Impressive.” Corrected Ken. “You’re doing really good.” He diffused my offense and I smiled at him.
“Thanks, but it’s really not all that impressive under closer examination.” Realizing that they’d both probably looked closely at what was there, I sought to explain. “I have friends – a few good friends – and can contribute a bit to their work so I end up listed on papers and abstracts. So you just need to get some good friends – that’s all.”
Ken nodded while smiling and Mark attempted a more friendly expression as well. “You had papers.” He noted and I nodded in acknowledgment. “All from grad school.” I explained. “It took me this long to get them all out. It wasn’t work that was done here.”
“The rest of us looked bad.” He said, and I shook my head.
“Not at all!” I protested. “Mine was just a mixture of finishing stuff up and having a network of people who are presenting their work.”
“You should have told them to just wait for next year when you didn’t have much to report.” Friend offered when I was telling her the story on the way home. And though I know I’d given her that information – that publications are going to be difficult to come by for this next year – I was moderately offended.
“I could,” I said, thinking quickly over what’s in the pipeline – what can go as abstracts, when the meetings are, how much I could have ready… - “get a list of the same size next year.” The chapter wasn’t on that list, nor was this current project that’s analyzing even as I type this. There were a couple of papers in preparation that can go on next year’s list if they get published. And there are like 10 meetings to which I could submit abstracts (we, um, like meetings in my field) so if I wanted to travel constantly and write a whole lot, I could continue to look good on paper!
The flip side – and likely the reason I got so defensive with Friend – is that once the seminar started, I was put neatly in my place. Speaker was young and he works in a different section of a niche that’s familiar to me. So I followed what he was saying pretty easily – he spoke well and I’ve read relevant literature and actually published a piece myself – and noted that he was truly impressive.
As the talk went on, I noted that he was taking figures from all the papers on which he was first author. The citation information was placed discretely in the corner of each slide. All excellent journals, I noted, and a plethora of publications. The guy was good at what he did. Then I saw the Science paper from what I assumed was the end of his graduate career. I’ve never met anyone with a Science paper, so I was impressed despite myself.
I internally coached that it wasn’t helpful to compete with people. Just assess your progress, note your goals, and see where to relax and where to improve. Like Propter Doc rightfully notes. (She, by the way, makes me feel inferior with all her service accomplishments. I probably have a reason all of you make me feel badly too. I have a problem.)
And yet I still sighed a bit over Speaker. But it wasn’t as though he had a Nature paper, I decided. But then it showed up – one from last year. Science and Nature and all the top level field-specific journals. He’s completing his first postdoc and, I assume, touring the country interviewing for faculty positions. He won’t struggle – he looks too good on paper, seemed approachable and knowledgeable during the question portion, and complements rather than duplicates what we do here. Plus, I know something about his field – he wasn’t faking it. And when Leo tried to attack one of his figures, I internally scoffed. It appeared in Nature, I thought with a sneer at the big meanie. You’re not likely to find a gross error with work he published in Nature.
I don’t feel particularly badly about myself in comparison to him though. I quite simply don’t want to work that hard. I’d rather leave early on Friday, go to Friend’s apartment to pet cats and be fed dinner and watch Nanny McPhee. I didn’t have my laptop so I could process the data I’d transferred to my USB drive (though it is running now - that's the second time I mentioned I was working on a Saturday morning, by the way), I didn’t feel the need to be writing or reading or making plans. I’ll need to run in on Sunday for an hour or so, but that’s OK. I don’t need to be outstanding. Honestly, people, I built a fort in my living room on Thursday! I don’t think they give Nobel prizes for that.
What continues to tug at my conscience is that I made other people feel badly. It was inadvertent. When asked for publications, I just copied and pasted from my CV, which I faithfully update when anything new appears. I noted that I was surprised that I had a larger list than anyone else, but it really is due to collaborations, in which I excel. It does bulk up a CV when you contribute slightly to a number of projects. But when it comes down to first author – I was responsible and in charge and did this work – stuff, I’m going to be very light in the next year. I’m figuring out ways around it – I’m also resourceful because I don’t work as hard as I should – but it’s going to be evident.
That my way of working made people feel shocked or impressed or inferior bugs me. My own inferiority complex tells me that Ken and Mark are absolutely smarter and more productive and harder working – they just don’t have the luck or collaborative network that I do. So I wonder if I wouldn’t wave off any congratulations. The cover? Oh, Boss did that – he worked and worked and worked on that paper. The graduate publications? Well, Advisor is very hands off, so I had control over where and when the papers went. Not everyone has that luxury.
My point is that comparisons aren’t fair or healthy or good. I’m a terrible offender though, constantly picking someone to whom I don’t measure up, then getting too depressed to do any work at all. I think Friend is a lot smarter than I am, and given a lab that was even slightly less dysfunctional, we wouldn’t even know each other since she’d probably work all the time. I have a truly outstanding mentor and environment and can barely get to work some days. Let’s be honest – some days I don’t even try.
I wonder – a lot – what’s wrong with me. And I think part of the problem is that I’m a competitive person in an environment that rewards such behavior. And punishes – somehow creates this internal system of self-loathing – when one can’t score near the top of that list being written on a whiteboard in blue ink.
Thursday, April 19, 2007
On Productivity
"Now I have a headache." I said, flopping on my loveseat. "Building a fort is hard."The box from the mini trampoline on which I bounce (for stress relief - it's...odd, I know.) has been in my living room for several days now.
"It's going out in a blaze of glory."
"In your fireplace?" Friend asked. Neither of us went to work today, which was likely not wise. But stay home I did, taking a nap and halfheartedly working and craving chips and salsa. After returning from satisfying said craving, I decided to pick up my box.
"No." I said, looking at the fireplace that's never been used. It now holds candles. "I shall build a fort."
There are two entrances to my fort. You can slide down from the ottoman in front of the chair (which I did) or you can enter the door (which Sprout and Chienne tend to do). The former is a bit more challenging.
You'll notice the fort is reinforced with couch cushions, roofed with a king-sized sheet (which, yes, sags a bit. I'm out of practice with fort building) and is decorated with flowers. Oh, and guarded by a stuffed dog. Chienne embraced the fort in the beginning, pleased that I was on the floor to cuddle. Then I got a bit warm in the fort - the air doesn't move so freely in there - so we came out. She quickly became bored with whole idea.
Sprout initially ran away, but returned to play with the odd structure I built. I had my finger coming out the hole at one point, though I couldn't tell I was being stalked. (Oh, yes, I'm in the fort.)As time went on, Sprout removed more and more of the flowers from their holes. But though the fort is swaying a bit in the breeze, it still stands.
But if I'm ever to have children, I really should start building better forts. The ones in my childhood seemed a lot cooler somehow.
(I'll really try to go to work tomorrow. Promise.)
ETA: The kids who live behind me lost a ball in my yard. I was bouncing with my headphones on so Friend was left to answer the door.
"I almost made you do it." She said when I returned from my bedroom. I cocked my head at her, wondering if small children frightened her and she sighed at me.
"You have a fort. In your living room. Decorated with flowers.""Oh." I said, starting to smile.
"I decided to just crack the door open and hope they couldn't see it."
So I giggled. It's like she's embarrassed by the fort or something. (Though she did just remind me that it was her idea to use a sheet for the roof. So it's not as if she's totally anti-fort.)
I later looked at the fort, all happy in the corner, and noted that I really have to go to work today.
"Why?" She asked.
"Because I built a fort in my living room. And decorated it with flowers. Posted it on my blog."
And she agreed.
So the fort is no more, though Sprout did seem to enjoy it most of all. I took it apart, threw the box away and all that's left is the sheet that needs to be folded. I have walked the dog and am about to go dress for the office. But I was charmed by your enthusiasm over the fort. Thank you.
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