Christmas Eve, 2005

It’s been non-stop today. Trying to get the house clean for my parents, grocery shopping, buying last-minute gifts, helping with moving Aunt and Uncle, church, having family over for snacks, then putting together toys for the little one so everything would be set up when she arrives tomorrow with her parents. They’re back together, by the way, so forgive me for my melodramatic tendencies when discussing the matter. I’m actually one of the more stable ones in my family, but that could probably constitute a whole other series of posts.

Jesus is the reason for the season – the phrase makes me cringe, but it is something to remember, especially in the last day’s push to get everything done and ready for December 25. So while Dad decided to lounge around here at home, Mom and I got pretty and headed off to church for the evening service. It’s normally a candlelight service, lasting about 30 minutes, at 11PM. There was some sort of scheduling conflict this evening though, so we met at 6 instead. It was dark, and I’m exhausted from the moving and general business, so 6=11 to me lately.

Mom and I arrived early and snuck in through a side door, grabbing our bulletins and candles on our way to our pew. My family normally sits on the left side of the sanctuary, about ¾ of the way back. So I headed in that general direction, and started reading about who had donated the poinsettias.

They were gorgeous, I thought – strikingly vibrant against the red brick backdrop of the high church walls. The pots were crowded together, a reminder of loved ones absent and present, festive and bright, a constant of the holiday season. I didn’t care for the insert though, printed on the top half of a sheet of bright pink paper. I would have done it on cream paper, and used larger text in a different font, centered vertically and horizontally, I decided. Lately, I’m very into how words appear in print. It doesn’t bother me too much online, but if you’re going to go to the trouble to make something appear on paper, why not do it right?

That should have provided a clue to my mood, which was fussy and heading into judgmental and critical. Then I saw the band warming up – checking the microphones (one gentleman said “check” 9 times in a row – I counted. Excessive.), tuning up (You’re not quite there yet, guitar guy.) and generally doing their best to attract attention. So involved with thinking about how I would have organized the service, I didn’t notice the incoming congregants.

Mom leaned over and whispered – “we’re the only people on this side of the church.” And looking over, I noticed the right side was rapidly reaching capacity while we were, in fact, the only 2 people on the left.

“They’ll have to come over here soon,” I replied quietly. “They’re almost out of room over there.”

Mom had already scoped out 2 seats though. “If we went up 2 rows, there are some seats in the middle of that pew.” She informed me, trying not to smile, tilting her head in the direction of the right side of the church.

I giggled with her, and we looked around together, both of us pleased when a woman sat on our side, about 5 rows up. Satisfied, I returned to my bulletin. They were alternating verses with carols in the sing-along fashion I was used to with some basic contemporary variations – the “praise team” would perform certain songs, and would add a skit near the middle. Now, I’m not crazy about the performances or skits, but it’s Christmas, so I’ll tolerate it, I decided.

My musings were disturbed when Mom gasped. I looked over to see her watching the woman a few rows up, our only left-sided friend, abandon us for a seat on the right side. At that point, though I knew there was no reason for everyone to sit on the right, I started to look around to make sure there wasn’t something I’d missed. It was too warm in the church, so they couldn’t all be huddled for warmth. They can’t all know each other – they’re not talking, and I recognize people who normally attend the traditional service in favor of the contemporary one. Perhaps they all want to be on the side with the band? Or maybe they think Jesus loves that side more? Does Santa only visit those who are seated on the right side of the church?

We eventually had 11 or 12 people on our side, while there was hardly room to breathe on the other side of the church. Mom and I giggled about it for a long time. And we should have moved – there’s safety in numbers.

The service started late, which again, I don’t like. Scrupulously organized, if I plan an event, it will run on time. Since I’d been busy all day, I was running at full mental speed. I wanted to get things going, and the continued checking and tuning and talking of the band started to grate on my nerves. Don’t glare! I lectured myself – it’s Christmas. We finally got started, and right away, the band started into a song when it was time for us to hear a Bible reading from Luke.

You can only pull off the “pretend this was the way things were supposed to go, and nobody will notice we screwed up” trick if people don’t have printed version of the order in which the service should proceed. Other things that bothered me:

Cool Band Leader asked if people wanted to sit or stand to sing – there will always be those who’d rather sit and those who’d rather stand. I personally don’t care. But that’s why you have someone decide beforehand. Then you put a nice little cross by certain hymns, and we all know we’re supposed to be on our feet. Otherwise, we sit. So there was this awkward little pause when every song started as we all looked around to see if we were going to stand or not. It wasn’t a big deal, but it disturbed my focus.

I grew up in this church, and I adore the organ. It’s just how some hymns are meant to sound. And having never attended a contemporary service there, I wasn’t used to hearing amplified guitar, flute and drums. It didn’t work for me. It also didn’t work for me when Cool Band Leader decided to get all showy with the music. So people would start singing at different times during his lengthy intro, get confused when he started to jam a little between verses, and stop singing and look around, befuddled, when he’d perform the verses out of order. At one point, I wanted nothing more than to see the guy running the overhead slides to put a “what the %$#@&?!” sign up because they lyrics matched the band only about 60% of the time.

If you’re going to provide lyrics on a screen up front, I guess that’s fine. And if you want to use some sort of song-relevant picture as a background, that’s great too. But you might not want to pick a photo of a cross that’s very dark on one side, and bright white on the other. Then, when you use white letters to print your lyrics, people can only read the ones located on the dark background. This leads to an unfortunate sound-silence-sound-silence cycle as we can read-not read-read-not read your screen. It also makes me laugh until I can’t read any of your lyrics at all, defeating the purpose of the song.

If you decide you’re going to put the program back in order again, just have someone decide to do it – there’s no need for a discussion with every member of the band, the pastor, and the guy in the front row. Seriously.

If you have children come up to participate in part of the program, use a microphone. I thought it was fine that you were just talking to them, but the little old lady who kept yelling “what?” and “we can’t hear!” disagreed.

Then if the children are too shy to read the huge paper you take out of the manger, just read it for them. Don’t wait a full minute, asking each of them to come up, then asking groups, the finally coaxing everyone on the steps. Then trying to sound out the words. And I heard 2 girls read it, and I was sitting near the back, but neither “actor” acknowledged them. Of course, I had 2 people between me and the front of the stage, so sound traveled pretty well. Those people packed into the right side of the church probably missed it.

If you’re Cool Band Leader, don’t make a joke at the children’s expense on needing a literacy program in Sunday School so that they can read a simple paper. It isn’t true, isn’t funny, and really serves to make you look like a jackass to the children, their parents, their grandparents, and a young lady in the back who was trying not to glare at you before, but when you told said joke, decided to make sure you know she thinks you’re an idiot each time you make eye contact (which is a lot, since there are few people sitting in front of her).

So within all these petty complaints and annoyances, you might think I didn’t get anything valuable out of church service this evening. But I’ll remind you that I’m quite educated, and therefore able to weed through useless and irritating distractions, and hone in on the take-home message. I’ve been through some classes with professors I don’t like, but still try to gain some grasp of the concept they’re trying to teach. So what’d I learn today?

The Bible stories must focus on how other people reacted to Jesus’ birth. He was obviously a baby, so he wasn’t trying to teach yet. So we talk about Mary and Joseph, the wise men, the shepherds, the angel. Sing songs, read verses, and try to imagine our own reactions when faced with someone so awesomely miraculous. They don’t know what Jesus is capable of, have no proof that His teachings will be so very important. But they celebrate the possibilities, I think. The power of what God could do here on Earth – the lives He could touch, the gifts He might eventually give to us.

We had 2 little ones at my parents’ this evening. My niece, and a cousin’s baby. We’ll see the third little one tomorrow at dinner – he was napping tonight. Looking at them, it’s easy to play games and try to make life easier. Offer snacks and diaper changes when they’re fussy, teach them how far to tip the sippy cup to get the drink to come out at the right speed, watch them play with the Fisher Price balls that go in the little jungle spinning toy or the bubble gum dispenser-type toy. But to consider the possibilities that exist for these 2 girls is kind of amazing. So I like thinking of Christmas that way – the beginning of an incredibly productive, yet painful journey. One that took incredible courage, strength and faith.

The other big moment for me was during the candlelit version of Silent Night. I stared down at the flame on the tip of my white candle. I’d made sure the wick was far enough out of its protective plastic cup so it could be lit as the pastor made his way down the aisle. Then I leaned over to lit Mom’s. I watched the flickering light, looked around at the others as we sang in the darkened sanctuary, then returned my gaze to my own candle.

Spread light into the world, I thought. Love other people, but provide an honest portrayal of who you are – your weaknesses, minor irritations, and major pet peeves. I think we all deal with these traits for a reason – there’s a lesson God wants to teach us from all of this, and I might be a little more energized and strengthed now if I’d been more focused on Him than on the list of things with which I was not impressed. For some reason though, it's important for me to figure work past those things. I notice them, so maybe I'm supposed to note certain minor instances. Or maybe I'm meant to understand something else.

But starting at that tiny flame, even as the wax found a way through a tiny hole in my cup and onto my fingers, I was filled with hope and peace. Though Christ suffered, He’s fine now. There are still infinite possibilities for Him, as there are for us. Just as there’s darkness – exhaustion, irritation, and too much work – there’s light.

I drew my candle deep into the plastic cup to protect it. I didn’t want it to burn out – it was so beautiful and I wanted to watch it for as long as I could. A stray breeze or air from a heating vent could extinguish this tiny representation of hope and peace for me, and I would do all in my power to keep it safe and free from harm. So I stood still and watched it, huddled carefully around it. Looking away from it for just a moment, I noticed the pastor. He had returned to the front of the church after lighting candles. The advent circle was complete – we’d prepared and waited and the time for celebration was near – the church was alight with tiny flames. But when the song was over, he walked briskly down the aisle toward the lobby. He held his candle in front of him, not worried it would blow out, certain of its strength and ability to withstand his motion, stray breezes and a chance sneeze by a worshipper.

Moved, I slowly pushed my candle up and through the plastic cup. I wanted to be brave too. To celebrate the birth of my Lord, to acknowledge that there was a chance things could go wrong in my own life – that some opportunities would bring pain rather than success – and face the future and all its possibilities with confidence. Walk smoothly and briskly with my candle in front of me, unconcerned with the chance that the flame could be blown out. I said a prayer when the song ended – asking for His blessing on everyone inside and outside that church – and carefully blew out my candle before laying it on the tray by the door.

Thank you, I thought as we headed toward the exit. I appreciate so very many things you’ve given me, but the ability to head You speak, if only for a moment through a fleeting thought as I watch a candle burn, and despite my poor attitude during the service, humbles me.

Merry Christmas.

Moving

I was 18, a freshman in college, and painfully sure of myself. I was there on scholarship – National Merit Scholars (that’s right – and it shocks me that I waited over a month to introduce that fact here online) went to my undergrad institution gratis. So I was smart, had my life figured out, was making friends, and lived close enough to see my family often.

In fact, I was on my way to see my family then. Pulling off onto a side street and parking behind Aunt & Uncle’s car, I headed toward the house where I spent my first 6 years. My parents decided to move after Brother was born, and bought the house I’m currently sitting in.

They rented the old house for a couple years, then discovered friends of friends who wanted to buy it contract for deed. I don’t understand exactly how things work, and recall that I was young, probably around 9, when this all began. But I saw it as kind of a rent to own arrangement. The Olds would pay my parents each month, and there was a contract where they had to insure and pay taxes on the property, and the couple and their 3 children would live in the old house. After enough payments were made, they would own the property outright.

I think it worked fine for about a year. Then the checks stopped coming. Mom would call, then when the phone was disconnected, would go over to see what was happening. We quickly learned that they were mired in debt, and eventually they stopped paying my parents completely. The last straw for Mom was when he was condescending. We don’t tolerate that well at all in my family.

Our assumption was that since they violated the contract, they would move out, we would sell the house and things would be fine. That seemed the fair way to resolve the situation. But bankruptcy and other legal issues kept them in the house for 8 years when my parents received little, if any, payment. They kept at it though, paying a lovely lawyer who diligently worked at getting the old house back for us.

I never went to court, but it always upset my mom. We never got the results we wanted – they continued to get chance after chance to make payments and tried to put themselves in a more reasonable financial situation. They would lie to the judge outright – claim they had loans, other jobs, alternate sources of income. But when it came time to pay, money never materialized. My parents were relieved when they saw the same judge twice in a row. The third time, he warned, would mean eviction.

The third time had come, and I had arrived at the house to move their things out. My parents understood that they would refuse to leave, and had planned to move their belongings out of the house. I was going to help because I was family, but also because I felt they deserved it. I had been angered on my parents behalf – what gives someone the right to take advantage of such great people?! – and was eager to express some of that irritation.

Until I saw the front lawn, littered after only an hour with bags and boxes full of clothing, bedroom furniture, shoes, and toiletries. A police officer was stationed at the front, and I learned another was located at the side door. I was appalled immediately, stopping to look around, standing still at the enormity of what was happening, until Mom saw me and motioned me inside.

She introduced me to the officer at the door, but I couldn’t make eye contact. We needed the money – I knew that. My parents had bought that house, paid for it over 10 years, made improvements. They deserved compensation when someone else moved in. But to do this? Pack up someone else’s things and put them outside? Where people could see?

I remember the little girl’s room most clearly. I’ve largely blocked the rest of the house – the roaches that moved under the carpet, the stench of the basement where they kept their dogs, the thick grime that coated the kitchen as we packed dishes and food. I remember thinking we should find them a cooler for the perishable items. The fact that their milk could go bad upset me greatly, though it only took a glance outside to see they had bigger problems.

But their youngest child, a girl, was perhaps 5 years younger than I was. She had a pink bedroom set, and her shoes were neatly lined along one wall. A pair of ballet slippers, one pair of dress shoes, brown boots, and pink boots for snowy days. Her clothing all neatly hung or placed in the drawers of her dresser. I think she had a single picture of her with some friends in an inexpensive frame. But everything was lovely.

She was there when the police came to notify them that they had to leave, my mom later told me. The parents weren’t around, and had apparently disregarded the earlier notices that had been posted. So the 2 youngest children, one my age, the other Brother’s age, were home alone. Crying, my mom said, tearing up herself, shocked at the thought of being forced out of their home.

I walked out of the girl’s room after hearing that. I wasn’t able to cope with touching her things – so lovingly cared for – and putting them outside. Instead, as punishment, I went to the basement where the smell of waste stole my ability to breathe, and carried up items I don’t remember save their weight. I then tackled the garage on one corner of the property.

It was repugnant – everything about it. I returned to the dorm, snuck down the hall to my room, and threw the clothes I had worn away. They were old anyway – work clothes worn to a job I thought I wanted to do, but was actually incapable of handling – and I could never have worn them again. Then I showered, spending long minutes crying and trying to remove the smell from my hands and arms, attempting to forget that I had played a role in someone’s horror, and trying to determine if what we had done was right.

Praying always gave me comfort, and continues to do so. But I got stuck on one line – many use trespasses, but our church never had.

“…Forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors...”

I helped move Aunt and Uncle today. They built a house out of town, and it’s exquisite. And as I tread across the hardwood floors, put groceries in a stainless steel refrigerator, and lined up shoes they don’t often use in an extra bedroom closet, I thought about the Olds and their little girl. In her 20s now, I hope she’s well. I hope that someone out there gave her the confidence that I have that the world is benevolent, full of good people who want what’s fair and right and kind. That there are infinite possibilities, and that each path has some joyous turns and some rocky climbs.

But I didn’t show her that. And I still wonder if there will come a time when I won’t be forgiven my debts. I certainly don’t deserve to be. But God knows my weakness, understands how very sorry I am, and I’m sure answered my prayer to watch over her and hers and He cares for me and mine. For tonight though, my sore legs and back match a twinge on my conscience, the former from moving today, the latter from a time long ago.

Jack & Jackie - an opinion in progress

Being a woman in the sciences can be difficult. While my particular field has a decent sized female population, I’ve had many classes where I’m the only girl. I’ve also been left out of group lunches or social events, excluded from casual conversations that shift to academic discussions and lead to valuable collaborations.

There are people who expect you to do poorly because you’re female and others who expect you to be extraordinary to prove stereotypes wrong. Most of the time, I feel completely normal – as productive, talented and with as many opportunities as a man might have. But sometimes, especially when I’m having a bad day, it’s just hard.

I think having positive role models are important. Women who take responsibility for their choices, foster healthy relationships with collaborators, encourage younger scientists. And I’ve known many of these women. But there are some people, male and female, who I’m still trying to figure out.

When I started grad school, I met Jackie. She was in her mid-30s, was finishing up a post-doc of her own, had been married for a couple years and was expecting her first child. Jackie was lovely – smart, friendly, helpful, pretty, and had developed a very nice CV. I thought, what a lovely role model – she seems to really have everything together.

I didn’t see Jackie much in my first semester. I’d pass her in the hall and ask how she was feeling, but then returned to my obsession over labs and reports. I happened to see her on the bus as I rode across campus and weaved my way through the crowd until I could reach her. There must have been construction or snow since the ride took an abnormally long time. I quickly determined that her pregnancy had progressed to the constantly uncomfortable stage, and that her professional life wasn’t much cozier.

Post-docs offer many advantages, but a stable medical plan sometimes isn’t one of them. Her boss didn’t have money to pay her while she was on maternity leave – she was funded from grants and her time was up. That sometimes happens – money runs out, grants don’t get renewed, new applications are slow to be processed and someone loses because there’s no way to pay them. Jackie seemed to be in that situation. Her husband was also in the academic world, so he wasn’t exactly setting records with his earning potential, and she worried over their ability to support a family.

I wasn’t too concerned. I was looking at 2 bright, extremely educated people and what good is learning a whole bunch of stuff if you can’t make good decisions? They’ll be fine, I assured myself, and didn’t really think about them again.

The year before I left graduate school, I was sitting a cubicle wall away from Jackie’s husband, Jack. He had taken what I believe was his 4th post-doc position in the lab that she had left when they started having children. Interestingly, she was pregnant with her 4th child at the time. He would startle me with muttered curses throughout the day. It’s not often that you’re working on a figure for your talk and disturbed by explicit phrases you’ve never heard before. But it became normal, albeit irritating, for me.

He would stop by occasionally to talk – I’d inquire after Jackie and the children, then he’d start in on how the world was out to get him. What a paranoid freak. I’d think, trying to formulate some plan of how I could politely look busy so he’d leave. People were taking credit for his work, he wasn’t allowed to write the grants he needed to get funding, professors didn’t like his attitude. I nodded, but more in agreement with the “evil-doers” in our lab.

Jack was a jerk – telling me soon after I’d joined the group that I was taking up funding that could be going to him to support his ever-growing family. How white males were discriminated against as they searched for employment in higher education. How his intellect intimidated his superiors, and they sought to find ways to make him look stupid. At some point, when everyone is unified in their distaste for your antics, I thought as I blocked out the continuing list of complaints, it starts to seem like you’re the problem, not the victim.

John would correct me though. He was a few years ahead of me in his program, but taking his time finishing up. Well-versed in the history of the department and the people therein, he told me that Jack had once been a great guy. Easy-going, bright, convinced that he’d get his break after he put in a bit more time. But as he moved throughout the different departments in the university, never catching a break, he became increasingly bitter and unable to contain his displeasure with the system behind a pleasant façade.

I thought of the couple on and off today. The last I heard, they were planning to move back in with her parents on the west coast. The public aid that I’d heard stories about from Jack before I could escape was evidently not enough to support a 6-person family on a post-doc income. The feeling of being inadequate despite extensive education and subsequent training must have been overwhelmingly difficult.

I watched the little one today. Running around after her, naming objects ad nauseum (Ball? Door? Dog? Blanket? Juice? Cup? Baby? Presents? Tree?), helping her up and down the stairs, spooning up applesauce and yogurt (she doesn’t eat meat), trying to keep her away from Nick (she can hit keys to screw him up that I don't even comprehend), figuring out how to make her nap so I could catch some sleep as well, changing diapers, watching The Brave Little Toaster (NOT a good children’s movie! I was angry and upset several times during my viewing). It’s hard to watch her for a day – let alone be responsible for her full time.

So I imagine Jack and Jackie had a rough time of it. Four children is a lot. When they're all born within my four years of grad school, that's ... well, I don't know what that is. I only saw that their bitter paranoia was hurting them – people didn’t want to hire Jack because all he would speak of is a flawed system. People didn’t want to help Jackie because her life became a litany of how nobody was able to handle Jack’s brilliance and how, though she adored being a mother and had no plans to return to work outside the home, the financial difficulty was overwhelming. They had alienated most of the people they knew personally and professionally, and continued to dig themselves a hole they became increasingly unlikely to escape from.

I probably was, and continue to be, too hard on them. Too convinced that success in the graduate field must lead to great things afterward to believe that sometimes it just falls apart. I wasn’t sorry when the department let Jack go – I was sick of the constant swearing, complaining and printing of 200 freaking resumes when I just wanted my single journal article to get some time on the printer! They became annoying – casualties of a competitive system that can devour the weak. What’s the lesson here? I’m still not sure – perhaps I continue to lack the maturity and perspective to figure it out.

But as I chased the little one today, loving her dearly but desperate for a nap, I decided Jack and Jackie’s situation probably wasn’t as simple as I’d construed it. I’ll let you know when I figure it out. But for now, I’m guarding against my own bitterness – advising myself that I’m never too experienced or educated to learn from someone, that students are a vital piece of this academic puzzle and therefore deserve a great deal of my respect, that faculty members, tenured or not, are stressed and fallible in addition to being innovative and wise. I’m still looking for my place, and that option of turning my back on academia at some future point is an appealing one. But I’m glad I didn’t do it yet. There’s still a lot for me to learn here.

Nick

Goodness, but I spend a lot of time online. I’m really noticing now that I have to dial in, and watch billable minutes tick by in the corner of my screen. I decided I deserved a laptop from some of my misc. fellowship funding, so I bought mine in June. Actually, on June 1, the exact date the fellowship grant rolled over and I had money to spend, I arrived at the tech store bright and early, parked illegally, and filled out paperwork to bring my shiny new PowerBook home.

I named him Nick (so his full name is Nick Mac – cute, right?!), and have built a rather unhealthy relationship with him. I was home last week, and had been doing some reading when I decided to take a break and see what some people were saying in their lovely little blogs. But the light that brightens and dims on Nick’s side wasn’t on.

“Nick?” I said fearfully. Picking him up and pushing the screen up. Tapping the space bar multiple times, frantically trying to wake him. I plugged him in, then pressed the power button. Firmly. For a long time. Nothing.

So I put him carefully on the table, jiggled the power cord to make sure he was recharging, and sat on the couch. I had my feet flat on the floor, hands folded in my lap, looking solemnly at Nick as he sat silently, no little light to tell me he was sleeping. I was able to wait a full 4 minutes before opening the little silver laptop and pressing the power button again. And Nick came back, albeit without my address book, and let me read blogs, compose my own entries, edit my IRB form – all the critical things which must happen to maintain my normal life.

I smiled at myself as I waited for the log in screen to appear. I quickly sent an email to a friend when Nick was back up and running. I think I have a problem. I wrote. I panicked when Nick wouldn’t start – I felt sick to my stomach thinking about how I wouldn’t be able to write and read and research in my living room like I love to do. So you may have to reply to me care of some sort of Mac dependency rehab program. But I’ll have to find one with excellent wireless internet service.

In fact, rather than curtailing my reliance on Nick, I’ve decided he needs a friend. So I’m planning to buy myself a belated graduation gift. A snazzy little iPod which will back up Nick’s data. Apparently this will also allow me to listen to music, rendering my radio habit obsolete, and watch video. I already watch quite a bit of television so that feature is probably not going to enrich my life. Decrease my productivity, yes. And I’m sure that soon upon receiving it, I’ll have no idea how I was able to live without one for so long.

Here at home, Nick offers some comfort. A place to sit and write – get feelings on paper so they don’t swirl inside, creating an ugly mess. I adore my family, but we’re not always nice people. Quick to judge and deem people lacking, negative thoughts creep in and I often allow them to fester. When I write things out though, I can see them more clearly.
That’s not right, I often think. I don’t really feel that way – there’s another side to this story and it too deserves some room on the page. So as I’m writing something that I feel comfortable publishing, I often figure things out for myself. In the event that I do write something crappy, I either file it away to deal with later, or put it out there to release some of the anger. Either way, I hope I’m presenting something of some value. And as I go over some archives, I think it’s helping me.

While I’m here though, I'm completely in the moment. Watching re-runs of TV shows and laughing hard because I didn’t notice the subtle humor the first time – distracted by email and internet. Cleaning the house without stopping to see what people are saying about the transit strike in New York, though I am curious. Picking up various items and putting them away, wiping away the light coating of dust that’s accumulated since Mom cleaned last week, vacuuming the bits of kibble that dogs (one mine, one Brother's) have scattered throughout the house. Carefully placing play dishes in the play kitchen so the little one is able to scatter them yet again tomorrow when she comes.

I composed entries the whole time I cleaned, updating the mental list of what needed to be wiped free of fingerprints, made piles of mail to be sorted, books to go to the office, shoes to distribute to various bedrooms. But the fleeting thoughts didn’t appear on my screen here – I was busy trying to accomplish something – establish some much needed sparkle in my family’s holiday.

I do what I can – react to the circumstances that have presented themselves on this visit home – and try to do something to improve the situation. I clean so Mom will smile and give me a hug of gratitude. I call Brother to make sure he’s OK, not knowing how to make him smile. I sit in the living room with Dad when he arrives home from work, eager to tell me joke he heard. Today it was a vet joke about “cat scans” and “lab work”. I enjoyed a lot more than yesterday’s dirty blonde joke. And me? I long for my wireless router, and the distractions of reading other people's words rather than being stuck trying to write my own. I miss work, and feeling productive and competent. I crave the quiet – being responsible for nobody’s happiness and well-being but my own.

I do love my parents and fervently wish for Brother to find his path to a happy future. He’s struggling again today, but that’s a different entry. But it’s getting old, and I’m starting to count down the days until I can pack the car, load up the dog, and head back to my place. I wonder if that should make me feel guilty.

Header 2

Memories and updates

I laid a rose, pale pink like I received for my graduation bouquet, on each grave. They lay side by side in Springdale Cemetery, deep within the grounds near the mausoleum. I had carefully parked my car in the curve of the road, and made my way down the icy hill. I walked right to the graves, only glancing at one wrong marker before finding the one I wanted to visit. Kicking snow off of her side, I knelt in front of the marker and brushed snow, dirt and grass off with a napkin and my bare hands. Then I started to talk, opening my laptop and adjusting it so there wasn't excessive glare on the screen.

Hi. I never know quite what to say when I come here, so I wrote something before I drove over. I thought I could read it to you.

I know I haven’t been here for awhile. It’s sad – missing you, feeling guilty for not thinking of you as often as I once did, moving on without you. I think about you often lately as I watch Mom and Dad play with the little one. Remembering how I would call – yours was the first number I learned. Do you remember? How I’d ask if I could come and play? One of you would always come get me. And I’d bask in the warmth that was always at your house, not understanding that someday it would be gone.

I finished my PhD. Daddy got me the flowers like the ones I brought you. I still don’t have a real job though. I’m doing another bit of training to try to figure out what I want to do. I’m living near [youngest of 2 cousins name], so I went south. Not quite to Florida where you guys went when Mom and Aunt were little, but farther south than here. It’s not so cold there.

I bought a house too. Dad really likes it – he picked it out from the 8 that we looked at. It’s light brick, like Mom and Dad’s, like yours was. I have your pictures up in the hall – the ones taken right around the time you were married. You were both so beautiful then. I keep another picture on my desk at work. Brother was little, so I must have been 5 or so. Grandpa sat on a lawn chair in the back yard and you were leaning over his shoulder, Grandma. I sat on his lap, smiling prettily, but Brother was trying to get down so he could run around.

We’re still like that – I’m content to sit and think, maybe write something on my computer. Remember the little red notebook I’d write stories in? You always read them – told me what I good writer I was. I think I still wanted to write when I was in high school. I decided to go into science instead, but I’m sure you know that. You’ve been watching, right? Brother is always busy - with work, friends, family - always eager to get somewhere else, never content to be still.

We’re doing well. Dad’s seeing doctors after his heart attack, but he’s 5 years out from the angioplasty and doing well. Mom’s knees are bothering her and she still works too hard. She misses you a lot – it broke my heart the first time she called herself an orphan, but I guess it’s true. She still needed you, but she knew you had to go away. I try to listen and support her, but sometimes I don’t do enough. I’m sorry about that.

Aunt sold the house you arranged for her to buy all those years ago, Grandpa. They loved that house, and Uncle didn’t want to move. But they’re getting older too, and wanted a house with less steps. I’m going to help them move in tomorrow, and the girls will bring their husbands and babies for Christmas. William’s named after you, Grandpa. We all still miss you so much.

I put up your Christmas decorations in my new house. Mr. and Mrs. Santa are on my mantle, and that little church you painted for me is at the entrance to my dining room. I put up your china in my kitchen too – the dishes with the wheat pattern and little blue bows. Mom and Aunt say you’d be pleased that they’re being displayed, Grandma. It's my favorite part of the house - it reminds me of you, and some of the things I hope to pass on to my children, should I ever have them.

And I still read – all the time. Remember how you’d keep books for me in the hall closet? I have shelves in most rooms, and other containers in the rest of the house – all holding books. We read to the little one too.

We still go to your church, Grandma. It reminds me of you in a warm way. I watch some of the old ladies and think about the tiffs you’d sometimes have with them. I get that same pinched look in my face when someone irritates me. Oh and I still use the trick when you tell someone to go to hell but smile the whole time so they don’t know you’re serious. I’m always serious.

Brother is having some problems. He has an adorable little girl – she’s walking and starting to talk. She waits until she’s ready to do things though – you can see her thinking about words before she opens her mouth. He married a twit. I never have liked her – she’s one of those useless fluttery girls. Not like us at all. She’s pretty, I guess, but the little one looks like us. Dark hair and her eyes are still getting darker. They’ll be the same deep brown yours were soon, Grandma. The same as Mom's and mine and Brother's. The twit says she’s leaving Brother, and I personally think that’d be for the best. But the thought of losing the little one is breaking Mom’s heart. So that’s hard right now.

Selfishly, I wish you were here to cuddle all of us, and assure us that we’ll all be fine. I always believed it when you said it. I’m trying to accept it now, but I’m not sure I do. I don’t have the perspective you did – watching family members get married and altering the dynamic we have going. Knowing that things change but the core of what we have remains strong and resilient.

I remember you though. How much you loved us and took care of us. How proud you’d be of everything we’ve done, just because we did it. I’m sure you’d worry over us, pulling us close and patting our backs, offering comfort and support because we’re yours. We’ll be OK – we all had wonderful examples of how to build and care for a family in you. And I’m glad you’re together – I know you missed him after he was gone, Grandma. That you were ready to rest too – moving on to be with God and Grandpa. I do miss you, and I love you so so much.

I hope you’re celebrating up there – the joy of having more of our attention than usual for the holiday season, hoping that we take care of each other a little more and laugh a little harder than usual. I love you.

The leaves on the pink rose over Grandpa’s name flutter in the slight breeze. I cleared the snow off of Grandma’s side and sit, nearly numb, as I read from the screen of my laptop to them. I’m crying – watching the tears drip off my face and onto my coat. The United States Air Corps emblem is clean, and the pink roses I left mirror the ones in the center of the marker that surround the words together forever. And as they are, my family is as well – all connected with memories and blood. United in our desire to remember these 2 amazing people from whom we’ve come. But it’s nice to sit here alone – cold, but peaceful. But it’s time to go.

I pressed kisses to fingers that had gone numb from the cold and then touched both names on the bronze gravestone. Then I carefully found a path up the hill to my car, started it and waited for it to warm up, gazing back on the resting places of 2 people who were dearest to me in my childhood. I look down at the ring that encircles the middle finger of my right hand – the only ring I wear and one I never remove. It was Grandma’s engagement ring and serves as a reminder of the greatness from which I came. The love, the warmth, the dreams, and now the tears as I continue to grieve for Grandpa after 20 years, and for Grandma after 9.

God, bless all of us, I think, as I pull away and weave my way through the cemetery toward the exit. Let things work out and allow us to enjoy our blessings and forget about our troubles for awhile. Grandma and Grandpa would have liked that.

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Intermissions

I stood in the corner of a large lobby, sipping bad white wine and trying to think of a topic of conversation for my date. He could best be described as nondescript, I decided. Light brown hair, light brown eyes, normal-looking features. Not overly attractive, but certainly not repulsive either. He didn’t even have on a sexy black suit – it was a dull grey with a navy tie. He’d studied some sort of agricultural discipline at a large Midwestern university, and I don’t know much about farming. My feeble attempts at that conversation were given cursory answers. So I tried to discuss the opera he’d chosen – didn’t work either. So I looked around, tugged at the hem of my dress and wondered how many times I could excuse myself to go to the restroom in a 20 minute span.

Intermission is hell on dates like this. At least when you’re engrossed in a show, you can enjoy yourself. Forget that you have little in common with someone who in all probability is a lovely man. Try to block out the fact that you battled for any sort of conversation at dinner, then made the drive to the theatre in silence. Enjoy the spectacle – the music, the costumes, the happenings inside the audience.

But intermission brings the tension of having to deal with your escort. Feeling responsible that he’d bought tickets and dinner, knowing with all certainty that you won’t see him again. I waited, glancing upward at regular intervals, waiting for the lights to flicker to let us know that we could return to our seats and yet again pretend to read the program. Then the next half of the show would start and the evening would be one step closer to being over. Minutes would ease by until I was home again, out of my dress and stockings, and into comfortable sleepy pants and a t-shirt. I sighed, finished my wine, and smiled at my date. He was looking around too, poor guy, undoubtedly as eager as I to wrap this evening up.

I’m currently in another intermission. Seated not in the corner of my own couch, comfortably cushioned with beige and white striped pillows propping my computer on my lap, but tucked into the corner of a brown and tan checked sofa next to a brightly colored Christmas tree at my parents’ house. We kept my little niece today – ran some errands, played with her new pre-Christmas present kitchen set, finished up cookie trays for the neighbors. Then a phone call came – it was my sister-in-law, who we’ll call Cindy. She had left work early, she told my mom, and was coming to get my niece.

One of her friends had told her that Brother had tried to kiss her. And Cindy then had no choice but to pack her things and move back in with her parents. She had taken her clothes, she explained, and wanted the little one so that she could proceed with her plan. She spent an hour with my mom and sobbed in the bedroom while Dad and I watched “The Search for Eden” on the Discovery Channel (good stuff, by the way).

She believed that he had cheated on her, and I don’t know that to be true or false, and had gotten completely dramatic over the whole situation. Refusing to talk to Brother, she decided to upset my parents and my niece by creating a larger mess than she started with. I rolled my eyes when I went to get some good white wine – “my friends wouldn’t lie to me! They love me!” “He told me he loved the little one! But he did this to her!” “He can’t live without me, and he deserves to suffer!”

They’d gotten together, Cindy and Brother, when he was still dating someone else. In fact, Brother has always started new relationships while firmly involved in old ones. So why Cindy thought she could build a life with him and not have to face some infidelity issues speaks strongly to her conceit and stupidity to me. To her credit, Brother is smart and incredibly charismatic. Even I want to believe him when I’m quite sure he’s lying. But Cindy got pregnant at exactly the time she decided not to continue her studies at the community college. Her parents were not pleased with her leaving school, but she convinced them that her new vocation of motherhood was a worthy goal.

So she and Brother got married and had a beautiful, smart, sweet little girl. They haven’t been happy – my parents tease me that they fight every time I’m home. Whether over money or drinking or cheating, there’s always something that upsets one of them and builds into a complete clusterfuck of epic proportions. Screaming matches, bouts of tears and countless conversations as the families of these 21-year old children try to patch things back together.

So this is just another chapter in a continuing saga as I wait with my parents and my dog in the living room, waiting for Brother to arrive for Act 2 of this little drama. And yet again I’m reminded of my dislike of intermissions – where people who aren’t actors in the show have to make conversation – speaking of the work they’re viewing or making some sort of small talk, fixing dinner or having drinks – while they wait impatiently for the next act to begin. Because only then can the evening be over, a fight hopefully ending in some sort of reasonable resolution, and we can head off to bed.

But for now, we wait. Dad’s fixing a toy the little one broke today, carefully taking apart the truck and poking at the mechanical device inside. Mom’s sorting through the mail – she’s been through it 3 times so far as I sit here and type. Will Brother go home and drink himself into a stupor? Forcing us to leave the sanctuary here and confiscate keys so he doesn’t make yet another foolish decision and drive while drunk? Or will he invade the quiet here and charge it with righteous indignation and protestations of innocence? Whatever the outcome, and whatever form the upcoming drama takes, for now we try to keep busy as we wait for this portion of the evening to end and the next to begin. All of us already longing for sleep and trying to gather our resources to deal with what’s to come.

Publications, part 4: If at first you don't succeed, revise and try again

We’re down to the last 3 papers – the ones that I’ve written myself, babied through other author revisions, reformatted, formed countless figures and tables to aid in reading the text, and made large strides in understanding my work by clarifying it for others. There are 2 manuscripts on my thesis project. One details my method in a small sample – something like 22 datasets. There was some optimization, and many areas were exciting and encouraging, but it contained little in the way of true validation. And that’s a problem. I’ve done simulations, attempted ways around the lack of data, but realized early on that I’d be fighting an uphill battle. But I believe in this work – I think it’s important and innovative and think that if someone has the means to do some additional testing and application, I’d like to let them know how I think it should work.

This paper originated in my second year of study, and was abandoned after only one submission. Taking lessons from that experience, the description of my novel technique was much more concise and clear. But it was rejected from another 2 journals in its new form.

The second rejection came immediately before I boarded the plane for an industry job interview. I don’t know how I can describe the feeling of a rejection when you’re praying for something positive. It’s crushing – demoralizing and awful. I read over the reviews after I landed at my destination – taking 10 minutes before catching a cab, needing to understand the rejection – pick at the scab that had barely formed over my tender feelings on the 2 hour plane ride. It was hard – one author was clearly pushing his methods and criticizing some fair but very minor points of my overall work. I felt that some additional explanation would clarify the issue at hand for the readers. But the priority score was not adequate to merit a second look by that particular journal.

The third journal accepted the paper though, asking for some large-scale rewrites but without demands for additional data. It was a low-tier journal – I don’t know that I’ve ever read a paper from it. And I am completely realistic about the audience for this paper. My feeling was that it had to go out there.

My impression is that people in my field are quite prolific in terms of putting material out there, and it’s not like there are a shortage of journals to choose from. So, at the advice of my advisor, I continued to push. Sadly picking up the pieces from negative reviews, wallowing in feeling pathetic and picked on, then regrouping and trying to create a paper that would be better received. So my first paper found a home, and I found a journal that has a very great deal of my affection and gratitude.

The second paper is more of a case study. It takes some reasonable results from my method and compares them to another relatively new technique with promising results. There are clues as to the important questions that my work will have to answer. But if I had a sample size issue with the first paper, I have a catastrophe with the second. Again, I believe in the work – I think it’s novel and important and credit it with my job search success. But is it publishable? I’m starting to have questions on that point. I’ve been through 2 rejections on it – one from a journal that requested the paper in a different form and was incredibly encouraging in terms of the quality and importance of the work. But the resulting case study was rejected, and now is awaiting the assignment of yet another set of reviewers. It’s at a moderate impact factor journal – around a 2.1, I think. So I’ll see what happens there, and reevaluate its future in case of another rejection.

The last, and the most disappointing and baffling of the three, is based upon the work I did with Carrie. I saw some holes that an additional experiment would fill, and collected the data, analyzed it, saw what I expected and thought I would, and thought I had a lovely little paper. Some reasonable experimental data validated in a somewhat novel way merited a try at a high impact factor journal. It failed there, which in itself isn’t that bad, but there were 3 reviews. One very positive, noting 2 very minor issues that a single sentence would have corrected. The other was very negative, noting multiple problems that were the result of not reading the manuscript carefully. I asked several people who had read the pre-submission paper if they saw any problems in similar areas – thinking I may have been vague or worded something awkwardly. They assured me that the questioned sections were quite clear. I truly believe the reviewer didn’t exercise proper care when reading my paper.

The third reviewer was fair – noting positive points and refuting some of the issues reviewer 2 had discussed. But his opinion of the paper wasn’t high enough to merit publication. So I fixed the problems they found, noting that all but one were quite feasible. The only issue I didn’t repair was based upon the entire validation theory that we had. I thought that Carrie’s work was adequate, and even designed, to provide enough information to validate new studies. It took several conversations and my personally reviewing all of our claims, making new outlines, examining every statement for speculation vs. what we could prove. It was an excellent exercise and created what I believe to be a cute little paper. It’s not earth shattering, but it could help someone out. I submitted it to its second journal about a month ago, and expect to hear within the next several weeks.

I think it’s important for me to review all of this. To look around and think about where I am, how I got here and where I hope to go. I don’t think the academic world, or any world, is all about accomplishments. Sometimes it’s about lessons learned – building character, furthering your understanding, allowing people to figure out their own paths, even knowing that sometimes they won’t act in your best interest.

The cool thing about publishing science in some sort of public forum is that people can think about it with me. The same is true for my thoughts in this space. Charlie can say that other people experience authorship problems as I did with Kermit. That’s unfortunate – giving comfort on one hand that I’m not alone in handling a situation badly or in allowing myself to be pushed aside, and giving me confidence that the stories, mine included, add to the collective good of the community. One of my great problems is that I allow myself to feel like a failure when I’m experiencing some situations that occur with many people.

I don’t consider myself to be a great heroine in all of this. I’ve made mistakes, been foolish in some cases, mean-spirited in others. To review my graduate career, and even my post-doc so far, is not to be completely proud. I don’t look back over every day and smile over how mature and lovely a woman I’ve become. Some days I suck – I make bad choices, get lazy, and let people down.

I don’t pretend that my publication record is stellar – I don’t look over the CV and see triumphs, although there may be an element of that. I also see areas where I need to improve and some problems I continue to ponder where some outside input would be completely welcome. I also hope that some of my experiences – the kindness shown by others, the problems with some colleagues, work with friends, and the times I’ve stumbled with each of my own first author papers – might be read by someone who’s discouraged. Maybe she’s feeling isolated because she failed a test, or depressed over a poor performance at a conference, or irritated over lack of interest in her work. In any case, perhaps knowing that I’ve gone through my own challenges and made it to a place where I feel content, even knowing I’ll face greater problems in the future, is something worthwhile.

Publications, part 3: Stage presence

I went 2 years without having much going on in the publication department. And that’s not good. We had trouble getting data for my thesis project, and while 3 different people said they could fix it, none of them had any luck. I started to get worried after my prelim when each of my committee members told me what a great presentation I’d made, but that the project was huge and it would be difficult to complete. One of them approached me, patted on the shoulder and said “You’ve set yourself quite a challenge. Let me know if I can help – you’re going to need it.”

So I did what you might suspect I’d do if you’ve gotten to know me at all here. I panicked. I quickly emailed students who had graduated to get an accurate assessment of my situation. I had learned quickly that they were observant and honest and would tell me whether I was in a bad situation. I was clear from the beginning – I needed a first-author publication. I was ending my third year of grad school and hadn’t exactly been prolific in the realm of writing.

Whether she felt sorry for me or truly needed the help in her post-doc research, Carrie offered me a solution. She had a multi-faceted project and was committed to doing a tremendous amount of analysis as well as responsible for designing and perfecting the method. I knew she was stressed – we were a matched pair in terms of freaking out when considering the tasks we faced. But we balanced each other – listening to her reminded me that I too overreacted to circumstances that ended up being fine.

There was a large body of work that could be done remotely, she said. If I could take over certain pieces of the project, she would have time open to do some optimization that had been delayed. I happily accepted, unconcerned with putting off working on some major sections of my project. Apart from the lack of data, I was stalled – not knowing how to bring everything together in some sort of cohesive unit. So I stared at all my data a lot – an organizational nightmare and a methodological question mark. I knew where I wanted it to go – where I still hope it ends up. But I had no view of the path to get there.

So a distraction seemed in order. Carrie was concerned that my advisor would see a problem with my spending work hours on other projects, especially those centered at another institution. Unwilling to let a chance at a publication slip away, especially when my future in print was extremely uncertain in my current environment, I decided to work from home. Putting in the requisite hours at the office – doing reading, helping younger students, serving on various committees in the graduate school as well as my own department – I would go home to more work.

My fourth, and last, year in grad school was by far my most productive. I did eventually tell my advisor that I was doing another project and was warned that he expected progress on my work for him as well. I agreed, and since he saw no problem with my work ethic, I was allowed to complete parts of Carrie’s project. We talked relatively often toward the end of the work – exchanging up to 20 emails each day, several phone calls, and faxes. I felt it was collaboration at its best.

We knew each other’s strengths and used resources – journal subscriptions, software licenses, contacts – not only to make the work possible, but to increase efficiency. I had several ideas that aided the projects tremendously. It was, I thought as I was exhausted from lack of sleep and mental resources, the perfect solution. I had taken primary responsibility for one project, and had contributed largely to a second. In addition to the publications that would result, I had found an idea that would eventually complete my thesis research. The initial idea that Carrie had refined could be taken in a different direction and applied to a completely different idea. Thrilled with the prospect of solving all my problems – the lack of publications and lack of a clue on where to go with my project – in 5 months of work, I was eager to wrap up with this project and move on.

After writing all but the discussion, Carrie and I faced a problem. We didn’t have enough of a grasp on the literature to make a complete determination of what our results meant to the community. Understanding this, her post-doctoral advisor suggested having well-established authors in the field write the papers. It would give them initial acceptance where young authors might be greeted with some skeptism, he reasoned. And faced with the daunting task of reading another 100 papers, understanding them and creating some reasonable explanation, I decided that was a more reasonable course of action. I had stepped outside my comfort zone and learned a lot. But I was willing to let someone else be responsible for the paper in order to publish in a more respected journal and allow the data, which I found to be compelling, to find the audience the suggested author would provide.

So it was with some regret that I passed along my text, graphs and tables to another remote location. I once again completed revisions and repeated some analyses for another first author. Had I not been confident in my thesis work, which was moving forward quickly and with great initial success, I might have clung to this work. I would have written a decent paper, and been accepted to a mediocre journal. It seemed selfish though – a decision that would serve only myself when the community would undoubtedly benefit from a beautifully-written paper from a different author. So I’m pleased when I look at the next 2 papers on my list. The first, one that I guided and felt complete ownership of until a time when I gave it away, was met with a great deal of approval. We completed some minor revisions after review and went on to publish easily. Likewise with my other contribution to Carrie’s work.

So there are 2 papers where my name sits second. I’m pleased with both of them – I felt I did good work, made good decisions and gained some experience with concepts and people outside my major focus of interest. In addition, they are in the strongest journal of the ones I have listed. And they've been widely read and discussed in a little niche field, which pleases me to no end.

It was a critical lesson for me as well – someone knows how you should solve many of the problems you encounter in your research. So listening to talks and working on projects which may seem irrelevant to your own work can yield amazing benefits. If you keep half a mind on what you want to know and let the other half be engrossed by new concepts, you’re sometimes able to bring disparate ideas together to create some sort of novel solution.

The other point from these 2 papers is that Carrie is incredible. A wonderful friend, we’ve laughed and talked over countless hours since I met her. Always roommates at conferences, and the donor and recipient of many silly emails sent only to make a friend laugh, this project gave me a way to relate to her experiences after leaving grad school, and gave us a reason to keep in close touch – to provide a continued support system and give each other breaks, share contacts and ideas, and provide some much needed impressive text to the “peer-reviewed publications” sections of each of our CVs.

Publications part 2: It's not easy...being mean

“Do you have some time?”

I glanced up at a female faculty member – recently tenured, she was the darling of the department. Smart, well-liked, well-funded. I smiled and answered that of course I had some free time. I had wanted to work with her – understanding the importance of networking even within the department.

I was ready to tackle the research world that first summer. I had been admitted to the top school on my list, and allowed to do research with the group that most strongly appealed to me. Life was good.

Then classes started, and killed my spirit. I had no time to do research, and all the work I had put into selecting a group felt useless. I had this dream of how graduate school would be and this was not it. So when someone I liked and respected offered an opportunity during the winter of my first year, I decided to let classes slide a bit to have a chance to work with her.

There was a man who worked in our group. Not one of the usual suspects – faculty, student or post-doc – but someone less predictable in his motives and goals. He has a voice like Kermit the frog. The voice, his lack of higher education and qualifications, and his overall demeanor made me scoff at the idea that he was dangerous to my career.

She asked if I would assist Kermit with a minor project. Though disappointed I wouldn’t work directly with her, I was basically familiar with how this research should be done, and she thought that picking up a few additional skills would give me a good start at collaborations. Kermit had started with the work, she explained, then was sidetracked with clinical duties. So this would be an excellent opportunity for me to contribute to the overall research group.

So I did it – analyzed the data, made some figures, moved the results around so they were available. Then I asked the professor what to do, and she in turn went to Kermit, who happened to be her husband. That’s right – Kermit was married to the darling, and while it turned my stomach a little bit – the blatant nepotism of allowing someone ill-equipped to do a job that should have gone to a student or faculty member, there was little recourse.

Since I didn’t see a way out of the project at this point, I ran many more analyses at Kermit’s request. Over and over – changing small parameters and having him view results to “see what looked good.” In the hands of a scientist, there would have been a plan – some reasonable course of action that would or would not lead to publishable material. But in the hands of a husband, it was a fishing expedition – a grueling task of guess and check that eventually resulted in enough data for a low impact factor publication.

I had been warned, gently and with humor, from the more senior students that Kermit would take first authorship. Any sort of contribution on his part resulted in excessive credit for fear of offending his wife. So the days of having ownership of a project and a subsequent career boost were over, but I was fine with that. Continually having things handed to you fosters weak character, right? A second author paper from my first year of graduate work was a lovely prospect for me.

But Kermit wasn’t smart enough to write the paper. He asked me for help, but I was in the middle of exams and not exactly familiar with how you put these things together. The experiment design was his, and I had written the methods and results. In terms of discussion, well, it wasn’t my idea to do the study. Normally, when you design something, you have some sort of reason for it. But apparently in the mind of Kermit, you just start something, have your wife find someone to finish it, then and only then wonder why you ever did it in the first place.

So he asked a friend to give him some advice on the paper, and was aided in literature searches and the formation of some reasonable discussion. I viewed the draft, made some vital corrections on the methods. I also corrected the spelling of my name, placed rightfully second since I had done a vast majority of the work. But the idea and experiment design were his, and he had the first author position with my blessing.

Many months later, he asked me to make some revisions that had been requested. I began studying gender effects and found some papers that described a reasonable method of answering some reviewer questions. Pleased that I had redeemed myself after my initial lack of input on the discussion section, I handed text and tables over to Kermit. He dismissed me with a quick thank you.

I complained to the senior member of the group – a man whose talent was equaled only by his humor. I remember him smiling at me, and putting his arm around my shoulders.

“I’d ask to see the revised paper in total.” He said, not unkindly. “You’re not where you thought you were in author order.”

I assured him that he was incorrect, but later sat at my computer, looking at the title page of the revised manuscript. It had taken me 3 emails and a personal visit to receive it, and I now understood why. His friend, a well-established faculty member, was now the second author. So I was bumped to the third author position, and not until I saw the reviewed manuscript was I even aware of it.

The lesson here is that just as there are great people – those who are established and eager to help further the careers of others – there are slimy, insecure frogs who will take credit for your work, present it at meetings and publish it, continuing to move you further down on the list of authors without your consent or knowledge.

Being third author is fantastic, and I’m proud of my other contribution at that level. I also appreciate that collaborations are naturally tricky. That’s why it’s best to be clear on what the responsibilities are, who has ownership of the work, and the expectations of the contributors. Perhaps I let Kermit down by being less the helpful with writing certain sections of the initial draft. Or maybe when you’re in a position where you’re not qualified to do your job, let alone gain promotions, you feel the need to assert some dominance over students. I continue to believe that I got screwed on this paper – when you look at workload and critical facets of the project, I did the most work. If we were clear on how the author order would play out, I would have politely extricated myself from the project much earlier. At the very least, I was owed an explanation of why the authorship had changed.

But when there are political lines that won’t be crossed, everyone gets screwed. Kermit was ridiculed, and I joined in wholeheartedly after this fiasco. If he was smart enough to be able to find his car in the parking lot after work, he knew that students and faculty alike thought very little of him. And his wife knew he was sullying her reputation as well. But students got picked off, one by one, starting far before I joined the group and continuing on to the present, to provide the skill and time to complete work, which was then taken back and published by Kermit.

I wanted to do something about it – file complaints, have meetings, make the professor aware of the crap she had created. But I was warned multiple times to leave it alone – that I wouldn’t be asked to work with him again, and retribution was predicted if I tried to mess with a system that had created Kermit’s career, built off of naïve students’ work.

So I didn’t. This is the first time I’ve mentioned it to anyone outside my family. My parents felt that I should do something or tell someone so another student wouldn’t be disillusioned. I was scared – still am, or I wouldn’t have hesitated to publish this story last night – that my career might be harmed if I tried to fix what I see as a bad situation. But I saw, courtesy of ScienceWoman, this advice to graduate students. Among the first things is to assume that nobody cares about you and to expect the worst. This taught me both things - sometimes people will screw you over with your long-term best interests in mind, and sometimes out of insecurity. Whatever his reasons, “mean” is the kindest adjective I can come up with for Kermit. And looking at my second publication, my first from my graduate career, I see bad decisions. Some belonged to the faculty member, Kermit was responsible for others, and some were mine.

I someday hope to be successful, and will therefore be responsible for younger colleagues. In furthering my career, I hope I never make someone feel abused in their contributions. So maybe that’s the lesson I needed to learn. Or maybe Kermit finds it pretty darn easy to be mean after all.

Testing

So...did I tell you I've been to Japan?

Have you ever been on a bad blind date? One where your friend said "you'll have so much to talk about!" and proved herself to be a malicious liar? When occupations, friends, television and books fail to create any sort of response, I go to travel. And it generally works - provides me a topic I find fascinating, so at least I enjoy hearing myself talk for awhile. So not that this is like a bad date at all - I'm sure I'd have a lot to talk about with all of you. I can't overstate how pleased I am with all the comments on the last post. The next installment was going to be negative though - it was a bad experience, and I'm still slightly bitter. I think it's important, both for me to write out and perhaps for someone else to read. I'm pondering some wording and how much detail I want to share, knowing that someday I might need to take ownership of these words in a more personal way. So as I continue to think and revise the next publications post, I'm heading to my back-up plan. I thought I'd show some pictures of a trip to Kyoto!

The nice thing about traveling alone - or taking time away from a group of boys who walked far faster than I did, in the case of Japan - is that you can never say "hey! Look at that!" so you take pictures of everything so that someone at home might share your experience. So I took 6 rolls of film in Kyoto, and probably could have done more if I hadn't attended so much of the conference. The lessons we learn, right?

I love the pictures. I recall going into my advisor's office 6 months before the meeting, and informing him that I would not be traveling to Japan. Why? It's on the other side of the world! If you're looking at a globe, you don't just have to shift it a little to see Japan, you have to turn it around. And that's weird to me - completely disturbing for some unknown reason. And the whole time I was flying, sandwiched between one of the guys from my group and a man I called Satan, who urged me to enjoy porn with him on his laptop, I was bothered by the fact that we were leaving the familiar behind.
It turns out that they have some good stuff on the other side of the world. I ended a 4-hour morning walk one cloudy day at a temple, Chishaku-in, before heading back to my hotel. The first picture is looking in a section that was closed, mid-way through the grounds. I stood behind the rope and peered up the stairs, capturing the statue in a photo since I couldn't get closer. I was always conscious of the rules in Japan, horrified of doing something disrespectful.

For the middle photo (part of a lovely series), I paid 350 yen to see these exquisite wall paintings created in the late 1500s. So I paid 2 lovely women who gave me a brochure with a page in English (which I removed from my album to consult for this post). I removed my shoes and walked alone through the building, awestruck at the paintings, lingering at each doorway, reading my brochure and staring at these incredible works of art. There's something about being without shoes, as if the intial show of respect prepares you for the full experience of something unique and special. I adored the gardens outside while I walked from room to room, viewing the paintings. So now maybe you can adore them a little too.

I had my map and walked around the area of Kyoto with the largest concentration of temples. Unlike my adventure in London (if you haven't read the post, please go look at the picture - it's my favorite one), I didn't get lost at all. Why? Landmarks - gorgeous temples, incredible cemetaries, and the slow pace. I found that amazing things could be found around every corner and walked accordingly slow, cherishing each step and new sight.

This last photo was taken earlier on my walk. I had gone a little farther than I intended and reached the Otani Mausoleum. I sped up at this point, eager to hit 2 more temples (does that make me a stupid American? That I had a timed agenda to see the spiritual sights of Kyoto?) and had not allocated time for this area. But I was here, so it was logical to walk through.

And it, like many other places, was amazing. Quiet, somehow separate from the business of the city, lushly beautiful, and intense.

Minor Revisions: the meaning behind the title

I have 7 publications. I guess depending on your field, that can seem fantastic, average or not so great. Since 2 of my 3 first author papers remain under review, I continue to log in to submission pages and hope that the review process is moving along smoothly. And when I get the email – the one with decision in the subject line, I take a moment to inhale, hold my breath for a moment, and then exhale whispering “minor revisions, minor revisions, minor revisions.”

I’ve been around long enough to know that no community is reading of scientific work and saying “yes! Print this as is! To touch it would be to alter a masterpiece!” There’s always something, and if anyone has ever received a total acceptance – no changes at all – I’d really like to hear about it. Send an email or leave a comment. You’ll change my life.

But to complete a request for minor revisions is to change some wording, add additional explanation – generally quick, easy fixes that clarify your work. Major revisions – well, that’s worse. It’s still positive – you found a journal that’s interested, but you need to head back to the project you thought you’d left behind and do some serious work. Restructure, add data, explain something completely differently than your original attempt.

Worse yet, and I have more experience here than I care to detail, is the outright rejection. I’ve most often received detailed critiques, the kindest ones contain encouragement and positive points on which to expand. The others, if you aimed too high in your selection of journals or wrote a paper that the reviewers, for whatever reason, hated, just send a short note – rejected, but please think of us for your future publishing needs.

So I wanted to go over my papers – the stories, the status and how they came to be. Plus, then if I’m crushed by yet another rejection, I can tell you about it and maybe elicit some sympathy. But I’ll talk about those last.

This will give me another series post, which I like. First, it encourages repeat visitors. And when I see people who have returned on my site meter (which if you know anything about me, you know I love that little counter!), it makes me happy. That you found something that made you want to return is a big deal to me.

Second, sometimes I’m not sure what to write about. Someone told me that the first 100 posts on a blog tended to be a little less than brilliant. Since then, I’ve relaxed – written just to write, and forgive myself for any lack of insight or helpful information because until I get to 100, I’m still practicing. Getting used to forming thoughts and connecting experiences. But these series posts give me topics for a couple days. And it’s nice to have something to write about when very little is going on at work right now.

The first one’s free
Paper 1 came from my summer research experience before my senior year of undergrad. I worked hard – came in really early, toiled over weekends, read the same textbook until I almost had it memorized as I desperately tried to understand concepts for which I had no background.

My effort was duly noted though. My summer advisor decided that we would publish the results and that I would be first author on the paper. Though I didn’t know it then, it was a generous gesture for 8 weeks of work. I wrote the paper – spotty introduction taken largely from my textbook knowledge and review papers, methods, results, and a few paragraphs of discussion. I didn’t really know what we had, to be honest.

It took 3 years to publish the sucker. I’m not sure how many journals they went through, but they continued to revise. Waited on more results that would make the climate more friendly for our work. They took rejection in stride – when I would send email to check progress, my summer advisor would tell me that they were doing more reading, getting more reviews, working through some interpretation problems.

I was impatient – wanting to get that publication on my CV for grad school, then fellowship applications. But they waited – the 2 professors in engineering. Kept it in mind, but allowed themselves time to process. Moved past the irritation at reviews that are incorrect – a result of reading too quickly or misunderstanding a point that should have been clear – to gather the valuable information that would improve the paper. And they were successful – publishing in a good journal and proudly sending me 5 reprints and a congratulatory note.

I got spoiled – they liked me, thought I did a good job, and endeavored to help me and my career through this publication. As I read through this paper, words that aren’t mine for the most part, I find snippets of my original text – a few sentences in the introduction, several paragraphs of the methods, the graphs in the results. The work that made the paper – the reading, the rewrites, the mulling over ideas, discarding some, keeping precious few. Fighting for some interpretations – sending letters to the editors seeking additional consideration, abandoning others that may be right, but constitute only speculation. I didn’t do any of that – was physically separate from the process by virtue of being 200 miles away finishing undergrad.

It was a gift – a summer experience made successful through sacrifice of graduate students who trained me, helped me solve problems, and answered questions over the reading. Then a paper that was carefully tended to in my absence, and eventually brought to print. It sits first on my CV under Peer Reviewed Publications. And what I think of when I see it is what academia can be. A place where confidence is built, people are welcomed and taught, and hard work is rewarded. I think of how I need to help other people – sometimes padding my own CV is less valuable to the community than spending some time editing abstracts for younger students. Giving them the knowledge that sometimes the educational system is about learning, not just pride, publications, and funding opportunities.

Post-doc positions: pros (and cons)

I seem to have crept away from dealing with work issues. I was going to do a different post, but it’s going to take awhile and I have priorities (Gilmore Girls is on tonight!). But I was reading Ms. PhD’s most recent post and I didn’t want to take up a lot of her space commenting. But I did have some thoughts.

As much as I enjoy reading her site (and I do - she's funny and brave and a lovely writer), I really wish I could disagree strongly with this discussion of being a post-doc. There are 2 reasons I can’t do that. 1. She’s been at it longer than I have so she probably knows more. And 2. She’s right. So what is there to say?

I can tell you that my post-doc experience so far has been overwhelmingly positive. Countless people would undoubtedly tell you that being doing some sort of post-doctoral work after graduating is not exactly the dream of every grad student. Because who in their right mind goes to grad school in the first place? And of those people, what kind of idiot can’t figure out that the research job sucks. Really bad. To the point where I’ve been curled up on my bathroom floor, listening to the shower run to mask the sounds of sobs because my life is so miserable. But I signed up for more of that – an extension of grad school that provides additional training in research and teaching.

I’ve mentioned before that I needed to gain some confidence. My graduate studies taught me that even the most brilliant and experienced people sometimes have no idea what they’re talking about. So you start to see people as fallible and real rather than bright and intimidating. And then something cool happens – like I met someone at a conference last year and had a question on his technique. In the course of a 5 minute conversation, I rocked. I knew papers, I knew where critical authors were from, I knew that some of his suggestions wouldn’t work because I tried them already. He offered me a job soon after our conversation, and it was the moment I knew I was ready to leave grad school. I knew stuff.

I’ve since decided I don’t know stuff, but I think everyone has good and bad days. Some battles you win – you’re knowledgeable and capable, experiments work, your hypothesis was right; and others you lose, lying moaning under a suffocating pile of papers you haven’t read, studies you weren’t aware of, equipment you broke, and data you can’t interpret. Experience gives me perspective. I’m less frustrated when I mentor students, I don’t have to leave in the middle of the day to go shopping because my Matlab script keeps giving me error messages. I'm getting better, but I’m still learning – trying to figure things out and learn fields that remain unfamiliar and baffling to me.

If you don’t want to be miserable, I think there are a couple of ways to do a post-doc that is beneficial to you and your institution of choice. Yes, people take advantage of you – they did in grad school and they will if you become a faculty member. For the hours that academics work, we’re not paid enough. The stress levels can be insane. The competition is daunting. But hopefully you’re doing something interesting that challenges you and allows you to see amazing places and work with brilliant people.

So how do you do this without ending up in a ball on your bathroom floor? For me, it was a matter of knowing what I wanted. I didn’t want to be a faculty member – man, that sounds like it sucks to me. I deeply respect people who do it – those I know and those I read of here online. But for me? I had a list of things I wanted to learn, some of them encompassing huge amounts of literature and experimental possibilities. I wanted to delve deeper into my thesis work, which was promising but inconclusive. I have hopes that it will find a home in applying some techniques I love to clinical practice. So I wanted to use the devices here, and take advantage of some amazing collaborative relationships, and hopefully do some profound research.

I also happen to work for some famous people in my neck of the woods, so we’re extraordinarily well funded. I had 3 post-doc offers. One was pretty low – I had to talk them up $5K to the NIH recommendation. The other was generous - $5K higher than the first after I worked them up to a reasonable level. But the one I took? $12K higher than the first one. The group is so active in grant awards that they are able to supplement all of the post-doctoral fellow salaries to make the offer extremely attractive. Benefits – got ‘em. And they’re great. There’s a strong history of post-docs getting grants they apply for here (and therefore becoming faculty) because of the infrastructure that’s already in place.

I have always felt very respected, yet coddled. They’re interested in my expertise, but eager to teach what they know. But this is the Mecca of post-docs in my field. There are a lot of us here, and we’re good at what we do. We move on to excellent things – faculty jobs near and far, industry, clinical positions. Working for people who are well-established – their awards are won, funding secure, CVs filled in – allows you to take credit for the work and ideas that may not have all originated with you. It gets you introduced to other important people in the field who have ideas and opportunities to offer. It ensures you get to travel, and I’m currently in the position of deciding whether I’d like to go to the pacific northwest or eastern coast of Italy in the spring. I’m submitting abstracts to both meetings, but crossing my fingers for Florence.

I think that your post-doc (or post-doc free!) future depends on what you want and what you lack. It’s competitive out there, and if I can spend a couple of years working with nice, successful people, I’m up for that. I hope that someday I look back on this experience and think I learned a lot there, met good people and did excellent work. Then I hope I visit the webpage to look at my own pictures of Italy rather than this one I found online and remember how it feels to be there – somewhere I never thought I’d go, doing something I wasn’t sure I was smart or talented enough to do.

Oh, but the best piece of advice comes from Ms. PhD, who says “One last piece of advice: don't do one if you can figure out a way to avoid it. If you must do one, make it quick, make it famous, and get out as fast as humanly possible.”

To which I can only add, interview at many, weed out any that make you feel funny or nervous, and pick the best one. Ask people you trust where they would go to learn more. Then stay focused, take advantage of as many people and opportunities as you possibly can, and build your knowledge and network. Then yes, get out. But while I'm here? I'm looking around and liking what I see. At least for now.

Don't be mad, but...

I tend toward being liberal – I like people in general, and feel like if you’re not hurting anyone, you pretty much can do what you like. I long ago decided that everyone has their issues with God – even the most religious person can’t say he’s never had to go before the Lord to beg forgiveness. We’re all beautifully flawed, so I try to have my own deal with God and allow you yours. Mostly.

If you’ve seen a political map, you’ll notice that parts of the Midwest, especially those away from major urban areas, are red. If you move south, as I have here recently, it only gets more red. The thing is, these people are lovely down here – kind and gracious and helpful. And in my liberal view, I once decided that there was something wrong with them – that they must be hateful and ignorant. I’m not at all sure that’s the case now, and I’m pleased with myself for that realization. So as I walked through the mild afternoon breeze to my car that has yet to be covered with any frost, let alone snow, I realized I was feeling quite good about living here, much as that might horrify some folks I knew in grad school. And, it turns out, one I knew in undergrad.

The problem comes when people generalize. The arguments stop being reasonable and focused and deteriorate into the screaming matches that you had with your roommate when she thought you were bothered by the dishes that she didn’t do, but you’re really yelling at her for all the times she didn’t clean the kitchen and bathroom. And that time she borrowed your CD without asking. And then scratched it! Or how she flirted with that boy you liked, even though she had a boyfriend. Whore. And she still owes you $10, which you’d like back sometime, thank you. And she ate your carrot cake, which you had been carefully saving for later. Selfish.

So, I get tired – I feel like arguments just get redundant – people keep saying the same things ad nauseum (see how I said people got redundant, then rephrased to say it again, therefore being redundant myself. Nice.), and never answer any new questions or address the real concerns. If I ask a question, do not belittle it or say it’s not a reasonable question. There’s no faster way to alienate me and make me dig in my heels. I think the problem is the feeling that the “other people” whoever they are, are ignorant or stupid or mean. Then rather than talking about the issue at hand, you feel it necessary to educate someone in all the problems facing the nation. Someone’s always ruining everything.

I was emailing a friend and a politically-oriented topic came up. I knew I'd disagree with her, but felt like I should hear the arguments so I could more carefully consider the issue. I ended my 4th response (argument is getting petty and repetitive at this point, so I'm trying to conclude the discussion) saying that we all wanted pretty similar things. When you’re talking about moderate people (who I believe are dominant because they're who I know), we’d like things to be fair and for people to have a nice shot of being happy. I hate to see people suffer, and don’t mind paying taxes to help them. I don’t mind making charitable contributions, and have looked closely at my finances to ensure that I’m giving as much as I can. I’m sincere when I say that I believe that people are good and that we all want positive things for each other.

To which my friend replied, I don't think there's much that conservatives or liberals share right now. It's about as divided as it can be. I can see the other side of the fence...but it's filled with so much hatred and bigotry and general nastiness most of the time these days that I can't imagine ever agreeing with any of it. And I wanted to kick her in the shin. Hard. Because I think she's saying I'm on the other side of this fence. I don’t think there is hatred – I think there’s anger. And it’s caused by someone saying I’m a hateful, nasty bigot. And that there’s no way you could “ever agree with any” of my opinions. I think that many conservatives are irritated, not necessarily by liberal politics, but by the fact that so many people who live in the “big city” feel that they’re so much more informed and educated. Or vice versa – liberals feel attacked by conservatives and have lost so much lately that there’s an imbalance of power that must be fought. And that sucks – truth be told, I was much more bothered that everything was Republican-dominated than by Presidential results in the last election.

It’s that attitude she expressed – that seeing the other side is truly seeing evil somehow – that continues to separate me from politics. I don’t know what the answer is in terms of coming together, but I know I ended that particular discussion, writing

I can't do this anymore. I'm not involved with the general political scene for this very reason - I find it absolutely infuriating that - you know what - screw it. I don't think we're very far apart at all in what we think and want, but there are a couple of points that we'll disagree on. And though I doubt it was your intent, I was hurt by a couple things you wrote so rather than try to subtly try to hurt you in return, I'm quitting.

This may be a case of you becoming passionate about some issues (which is fantastic and vital and I'm proud of you) with which I disagree, at least on some points. And my desire to be validated by having someone understand what I'm trying to say is rivaled only by wanting to be liked. So I don't know where we go from here. But I'm out for now.

Basically, I don’t like being angry – I hate feeling like I’m talking in circles and wasting my time. I honestly have more enjoyable things to do. I’m reading Alan Furst, and while some horrific things have happened before page 100 (hell, before page 10), it’s incredibly well-written. I look forward to certain blogs, and have refreshed one many times today trying to get a weekend recap. I’m trying to finish a proposal and abstract within the next couple of days – perhaps I’ll go to Italy in the spring, and that would be darn cool. I like to laugh. I like to think – hear what other people’s interests and views. And I’m not awful – I truly would like to help you out, and if you offer me a good way to do that, I’ll try. But being condescending or belittling what I already believe is not a great way to change my mind. In fact, I started out leaning slightly toward the conservative way of thinking on the particular issue we debated. By the end of the discussion, I was rabidly in favor of many things conservative. Why? Because she pissed me off!

In the end, I’d rather watch the Daily Show and Colbert Report than Anderson Cooper* though. I can sleep after the former combination, while the latter keeps me awake – wondering where we’re going, what role I should play, what my thoughts are – independent of my family and current environment, what responsibilities I have. And I do enjoy sleep. I don’t want to be lazy – I want to be informed and passionate. But where do you find the energy? Some days I come home from work so mentally exhausted that I can’t bring myself to decide what to do for dinner. I grab my box of Wheat Thins or some yogurt and sit on the couch. Just sit – try to recharge, find some energy. I don’t want to feel bad, and will seek distractions if I start to mentally wander in some upsetting direction.

But if I don’t participate in some dialog – become aware of what people think and say – how do I expect to initiate any change, to make my voice heard, to feel like I’m doing something to deserve being part of this society? But it infuriates me to have people try to make me feel badly for having an opinion. I don’t like being wrong – I’ll admit that. But when I argue, I work hard at remaining polite and open to new opinions. I notice, much to my dismay, that the longer I listen, the more closed off I become, certain that I’m better, more knowledgable, more reasonable and that my opinions must matter more than yours.

If you watch the Colbert Report (and if not, do yourself a favor and get a dose of the truth), and you caught the interview with Anderson Cooper (who was too adorable for words – did you see how his whole face scrunches up when he laughs?), you might remember Stephen saying something about facts again. I can’t quote directly because it was a couple days ago and I starting to drift into sleep, but he was talking about how he doesn’t like facts, because facts can change. But his opinion never will. And I think that’s what we’re facing, so I find the Report equal parts hysterically funny and strangely profound. I think it highlights what we as a nation face – passionate politics that have erased any sort of ability to see the other side without animosity.

And that’s sad – I think we all want things to be better. If you want to work, you should have a job – one that pays well and offers you access to all the healthcare you’d want or need. If you do something bad, you should be punished, but in a reasonable and humane way. You shouldn’t spend more than you earn. You should help people who need it – whether you see them every day or you’ll never meet. We’re a rich nation – people shouldn’t feel hungry. They should be able to learn effectively – from the time they’re born until they die. I don’t think anybody’s evil here, but if you don’t fight fair, I might just change my mind.

*I will point out that CNN always wins over Fox News. Because Fox News makes me mad sometimes too. Which probably couldn't have fit into this post somewhere, but now I'm tired from being angry about politics.