I walk out of his office. I am an ant, no--smaller than that--a flea, a tiny thing that no one would notice they’d squished inadvertently.
It starts. He interrupts the lunch I’m eating in front of my computer screen. “Flea (I’m not using my real name here, of course), I need to talk to you,” he says in a fear-inspiring voice that only be mimicked by a man who has scolded his own children after breaking mom’s crystal vase.
I gave him my draft of the paper we’re going to submit. Though that was a week ago, so perhaps this means that he’s finally read the thing. I am #4 in the line for papers being published. I guess he’s pretty tired of editing at this point.
I sit down in his office, trying to stop my heart from exploding out of my chest and my hands from trembling. It can’t be that bad, I think.
“I just don’t understand why it is that you can’t write?”
Me: “Excuse me?”
“I expect this from others who I’ve written papers with whose second language is English, but I expect better from you”.
I retreat into my safety zone in my head. I have had 4 job offers that involve scientific writing, and published an article online last year. It’s ok, I say to myself—you know better than that. Just ignore him.
“What is the problem? You’re always rolling your eyes at me! What have I done to offend you?” He takes off his glasses.
I stop the mental image of me smashing his head into the computer screen. I look at him. Perhaps he’s serious. Maybe he’s ready to listen, I’ve only been telling him for a year now, but yes—this could be the moment.
Me: “Well, I’ve been miserable for over a year now, and you only pay attention to 2 postdoc in the lab, and I’m working all alone on this project.” (Not to mention that I’ve only presented my data 3 times after 3 years of working here)
“Why do you say that I only pay attention to 2 postdocs?”
This favoritism is so obvious, in fact, that I openly joke about it with everyone in the lab, including THE Favorite. I’m not the only one who jokes about it, either.
I tell him why, and then he goes on the attack. First with the excuses. Then it gets personal.
“You know, I’ve done everything for you…. blah blah. And it’s not true that I play favorites… blah blah. That super famous researcher that you wanted to meet with—she’s a shark. And well, she only had time to speak with me and (“Favorite #2”). I already apologized for that.
An aside-- I spoke with Super famous researcher twice, after 2 different seminars she gave in Paris, and she was very interested in speaking with me. The last time we spoke, she offered me the mutant mice that they’ve bred onto a special GFP background for watching movement of stuff in real-time. The lab is already collaborating with her, through Favorite #2, so I don’t know what her being a shark has to do with the argument, except that I guess I’m supposed to be grateful to him for protecting me from her.
I can’t argue with him any more, I won’t win. I can’t win. I never win. Why does it even matter? I’m going to a new job and I don’t have to deal with this any more. I relax, my face muscles go loose and I assume the role of the passive employee.
He waxes prosaic. “You know, when I started in science -“Dr. A.” (a famous researcher back in NY) asked me if they still required students to take English class at Berkley, because my grant proposals were so badly written. And Dr. A helped me out…. I really have tried to find other people to work on this project, you believe me don’t you? I have suffered too, there have been a lot more adjustments and problems and difficulties setting up this department than I anticipated…. I need you to realize that I am working for you too. I support you. We can’t work together like this.”
At this point, my conditioning kicks in (it’s been about a year to a year and a half that I’ve experienced these recurrent episodes in his office) and I say something like, “Well, I’m here in your office trying to write this paper with you aren’t I? After 4 years this story (my research project) deserves to be told.”
He interrupts—“and it WILL be told. Don’t forget that there are other people out there who are following this story. THEY want to know what happens. Even if I were to be hit by a bus tomorrow, the story would continue. It’s bigger than me, even.
You know what you can do? You can read the sentences out aloud to see if they sound good….”
I go back to my happy place, but it’s on a sailboat now, sheets of paper with my figure legends on them are floating by, edited in bold red pen strokes, but I don’t stop to pick them up. I keep on sailing into the sunset.
Thursday, October 23, 2008
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
I work where they used to cut open the bodies.
Really.
I discovered something enlightening while sharing a beer with labmates the other day. Ever since joining this outfit we call an Open-Plan Collaborative Lab, I've wondered why the sinks look like trough urinals one would find at Red Sox stadium, rather than, well- sinks.
I have to give you some back story first. If you've been keeping up-to-date, you'll recall that I was supposed to arrive in a totally renovated state-of-the-art lab space. I actually arrived to find half the lab in a semi-demolished state, lacking even a sub-floor, let alone electrical wiring or anything that resembled a lab. The entire workgroup worked in the remaining space that was transported from 1980's Soviet Russia and plunked down in the middle of Paris. This is what science is like in France, I thought? Exposed pipes, glass-topped benches, old-style metal centrifuges that made a god-awful noise--this was a far cry from the modern conveniences described by my boss before I decided to move to another continent in the pursuit of science (and adventure, I'll admit).
Well, I'm leaving the lab and the construction is still unfinished. Sure, we moved into the newly-renovated main space, but it took another 6 months for them to install the shelving and drawers we needed. I still wear a hat and gloves at my desk when the weather turns cool, since there's a huge hole all around the window where it joins the wall. I mean, the lab itself is pretty gorgeous but as soon as you step in the hallway and see the filth and smell the urine and stench of homeless people that take shelter in the building, you realize that working in Harlem in New York City wasn't too bad in comparison.
The bathrooms are the best part, if you've got a twisted sense of humor like yours truly. One john functions as as darkroom for developing westerns. Convenient if you have to take a piss while exposing yourself, er- I mean your film. The other bathroom is mixed, but picture a truck stop off I-75 with hospital-style tiling, rather than the posh mixed toilets replete with dancing co-workers made infamous in Ally McBeal. And funny enough, the sinks are actually big enough to wash a body in, which is what they used to be used for. I learned while drinking that beer that our floor used to be Anatomy and Autopsy for the biggest hospital in Paris. I now chuckle each time I wash my hands in the stadium sized trough sinks, happy in the knowledge that my days in this place are numbered.
I discovered something enlightening while sharing a beer with labmates the other day. Ever since joining this outfit we call an Open-Plan Collaborative Lab, I've wondered why the sinks look like trough urinals one would find at Red Sox stadium, rather than, well- sinks.
I have to give you some back story first. If you've been keeping up-to-date, you'll recall that I was supposed to arrive in a totally renovated state-of-the-art lab space. I actually arrived to find half the lab in a semi-demolished state, lacking even a sub-floor, let alone electrical wiring or anything that resembled a lab. The entire workgroup worked in the remaining space that was transported from 1980's Soviet Russia and plunked down in the middle of Paris. This is what science is like in France, I thought? Exposed pipes, glass-topped benches, old-style metal centrifuges that made a god-awful noise--this was a far cry from the modern conveniences described by my boss before I decided to move to another continent in the pursuit of science (and adventure, I'll admit).
Well, I'm leaving the lab and the construction is still unfinished. Sure, we moved into the newly-renovated main space, but it took another 6 months for them to install the shelving and drawers we needed. I still wear a hat and gloves at my desk when the weather turns cool, since there's a huge hole all around the window where it joins the wall. I mean, the lab itself is pretty gorgeous but as soon as you step in the hallway and see the filth and smell the urine and stench of homeless people that take shelter in the building, you realize that working in Harlem in New York City wasn't too bad in comparison.
The bathrooms are the best part, if you've got a twisted sense of humor like yours truly. One john functions as as darkroom for developing westerns. Convenient if you have to take a piss while exposing yourself, er- I mean your film. The other bathroom is mixed, but picture a truck stop off I-75 with hospital-style tiling, rather than the posh mixed toilets replete with dancing co-workers made infamous in Ally McBeal. And funny enough, the sinks are actually big enough to wash a body in, which is what they used to be used for. I learned while drinking that beer that our floor used to be Anatomy and Autopsy for the biggest hospital in Paris. I now chuckle each time I wash my hands in the stadium sized trough sinks, happy in the knowledge that my days in this place are numbered.
Top 10 signs- that you are an Invisible Postdoc
The lab potted plants get more attention than you do from your boss. You've even tried to schedule weekly meetings with her/him--to no avail.
That one technician/student/postoc who looks at the boss with starcrossed eyes is on every paper that's come out of the lab since they've joined, and she/he doesn't even know how to refill the carboy of milli-Q water.
You're boss starts saying things like, "Why can't you be more like Isabella (the perfect postdoc)? She does these experiments without trouble and always has good results".
Someone in the lab (could it be the Favorite?) has been to every conference on the continent, while others with greater seniority have not been to a single one.
There are no labmeetings unless The Favorite is present.
You've created an excel spreadsheet calculating the costs of having "I'm the favorite Postdoc" T-shirts printed and distributing them to each lab member.
Your blogspot entries read like Acts from a Shakespearean tragedy
You've photoshopped your boss's head onto that of Dr. Evil (and briefly considered printing T-shirts).
You start collecting stories of Scientists Behaving Badly and spend more time looking for another job than you do reading scientific papers.
Your boss begins to look at you like you've been caught with your hand in the cookie jar, and you feel guilty somehow though you're not sure why.
That one technician/student/postoc who looks at the boss with starcrossed eyes is on every paper that's come out of the lab since they've joined, and she/he doesn't even know how to refill the carboy of milli-Q water.
You're boss starts saying things like, "Why can't you be more like Isabella (the perfect postdoc)? She does these experiments without trouble and always has good results".
Someone in the lab (could it be the Favorite?) has been to every conference on the continent, while others with greater seniority have not been to a single one.
There are no labmeetings unless The Favorite is present.
You've created an excel spreadsheet calculating the costs of having "I'm the favorite Postdoc" T-shirts printed and distributing them to each lab member.
Your blogspot entries read like Acts from a Shakespearean tragedy
You've photoshopped your boss's head onto that of Dr. Evil (and briefly considered printing T-shirts).
You start collecting stories of Scientists Behaving Badly and spend more time looking for another job than you do reading scientific papers.
Your boss begins to look at you like you've been caught with your hand in the cookie jar, and you feel guilty somehow though you're not sure why.
Friday, June 27, 2008
Postdoc journal: April 3, 2008
The danger of feeling undervalued as a Postdoc is that you start to think: "why bother?"
For instance, if no one notices that I'm responsible for ordering half of the things we need in the lab, then I should start hiding what I need for my experiments and let everyone else fend for themselves, right?
My boss routinely enters the lab and speaks to one of 2 postdocs, rather than stopping by each person's bench. I concede that these 2 are pregnant, and will soon be leaving the lab on maternity leave, but I'll be leaving the lab soon too, as I intend on publishing and getting out of here before the coverslips have dried for my last experiment. Evidently, I have to get knocked up in order to get his attention.
He insists that the reason we don't communicate well is because I don't "stop by his office". Well, the only time I've seen him today was when I ran into him in the hall and he asked me where favorite #1 was.
And then there are stories like this, that are just--totally demoralizing.
I found out from favorite #2 that a visiting professor was giving a talk nearby, and my boss had scheduled a special meeting with her, himself, and the favorite postdoc. I asked my boss if I could attend the meeting as well, since I know a postdoc in this lab is working on the same mouse as I am, and we're friends, in fact. He said, "No, I don't want to take the focus away from (#2's) project". I found out that during the meeting my boss discussed not only the project on skin of favorite #2 who attended the meeting, but also the project of favorite #1 which is totally unrelated. My project was not discussed, though it is more closely related to the visiting scientist's interests.
It sounds like he is not interested in my studies at all, doesn't it? But I can't publish this paper without him. There's the rub. And this is how the world of science turns. There is no honor, no fairness, only the motto, "She who publishes first is the better postdoc, it's self-evident".
For instance, if no one notices that I'm responsible for ordering half of the things we need in the lab, then I should start hiding what I need for my experiments and let everyone else fend for themselves, right?
My boss routinely enters the lab and speaks to one of 2 postdocs, rather than stopping by each person's bench. I concede that these 2 are pregnant, and will soon be leaving the lab on maternity leave, but I'll be leaving the lab soon too, as I intend on publishing and getting out of here before the coverslips have dried for my last experiment. Evidently, I have to get knocked up in order to get his attention.
He insists that the reason we don't communicate well is because I don't "stop by his office". Well, the only time I've seen him today was when I ran into him in the hall and he asked me where favorite #1 was.
And then there are stories like this, that are just--totally demoralizing.
I found out from favorite #2 that a visiting professor was giving a talk nearby, and my boss had scheduled a special meeting with her, himself, and the favorite postdoc. I asked my boss if I could attend the meeting as well, since I know a postdoc in this lab is working on the same mouse as I am, and we're friends, in fact. He said, "No, I don't want to take the focus away from (#2's) project". I found out that during the meeting my boss discussed not only the project on skin of favorite #2 who attended the meeting, but also the project of favorite #1 which is totally unrelated. My project was not discussed, though it is more closely related to the visiting scientist's interests.
It sounds like he is not interested in my studies at all, doesn't it? But I can't publish this paper without him. There's the rub. And this is how the world of science turns. There is no honor, no fairness, only the motto, "She who publishes first is the better postdoc, it's self-evident".
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