I am not an academic (for now)

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academia, altac, work

I’m a bit of a pedant when it comes to some things. I detest dangling participles, I become annoyed at misuse of the semi-colon, and I find words used as “shorthand” for much larger, broader concepts are irksome. One of the most personally egregious examples of this is the binning of anyone doing scientific research into the category of “academic”. It’s very meaning – an adjective describing those things pertaining to the academy – betrays its exclusion of those who are not part of the academy, sensu stricto. Like me.

I work for an NGO, a charity, an organization that by its very definition is non-academic. Some have dubbed this “alt-ac” (short for alternative academic), but even this moniker posits, implicitly, that one could reasonably be called an academic, rather than a researcher, scholar, scientist, or artist. I think many people are scientists, and many in science (and more narrowly the scientific academy) often forget that those non-academic, non-professorial positions exist, particularly when they opine on the challenges of grant writing, student supervision, collaborative work, or scientific (not academic!!) publishing. As a non-academic scientist, I do all these things, too.

Stephen Heard, on Scientist Sees Squirrel, recently wrote about what he dubbed “Academic Inclusive Fitness” – those aspects of his job that ultimately contribute to his professional legacy (akin to the survival of his genetic diversity in others, such as nieces, nephews, or siblings), but appear altruistic on the surface. Reviewing papers, being an editor at a journal, serving on graduate student committees (mine included!), serving in organizational administrative positions, and publishing his much anticipated book on scientific writing* are all activities that have the potential to decrease direct research output (the metric, deeply flawed, that is often used to measure scientific “production”)

In his post, Steve related an anecdote about a non-academic asking who his boss was, which is not a straightforward question for an academic to answer. Herein lies one of the biggest differences between academic and non-academic science. I have a boss. And she has a boss, and so does he. I can draw a solid line from the staff I supervise right up to the Chief Executive with ease. It was the same when I worked at Environment Canada, in the Canadian federal government. I am, ultimately, responsible to someone else in the organization for certain projects, and my research is guided, or even dictated by the organization’s research needs, agenda, and priorities.

While this might rub some the wrong way, it’s how just about every job outside academic research operates. Organizations have a mandate, and its employees work toward the goals within that remit. Academics, however, have a tenuous balancing act between the demands of their organization (teaching, administration), and their own requirements (research), though there can obviously be varying degrees of overlap.

So my first suggestion is, rather than talk about “Academic Inclusive Fitness”, consider “Scientific Inclusive Fitness” as a broader term that encompasses the entire research community.

This raises, though, some particular challenges for those of us “on the outside”, so to speak. While I’m pretty lucky, and can undertake some of these seemingly altruistic tasks, others may not be in the same situation. The result is that much of this ends up being done outside “normal work”, which often means weekends, evenings, or early mornings. This poses several problems for those who can’t (or chose not to) do this “non-work work” on, essentially, their own time. I’m under no illusion that many academics don’t face the same pressures, but when one already has a 40-hour work week, yet is still expected by the broader scientific community to chip in, it can be trying.

Which brings me to Amy Parachnowitsch’s post on Small Pond Science about how we define “work”, and the problems of “carry-over” from one position to the next. Like the activities that contribute to Scientific Inclusive Fitness, it can be challenging for non-academics (and indeed academics!) to find time to wrap up projects from their previous positions. As Amy put it on Twitter, the system works (relatively well) when everyone is in the system, but when someone leaves, it becomes very hard. This could be a student leaving research after their degree, or someone getting off at a different stop along the career subway, including leaving academic while remaining a scientist. Often it’s this past work, and activities that might contribute to “Scientific Inclusive Fitness” that get dropped.

In the end, it all comes down to expectations – both our own, and those we have of our colleagues, applicants, students, collaborators, and friends. And recognizing that non-academic scientists face many of the same challenges as our academic brethren, but also some challenges that academics may not necessarily think of. Which can be problematic when we are all assessed, judged, or evaluated against criteria driven by academia.

One day, I may end up in a university, being an academic, but that’s just a job title, not a career.

 

*I received no commission for this mention, though am open to negotiation when the royalties start piling in. What about financial inclusive fitness? Steve, you know where to find me.

Who are scientists?

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academia, alternative academic careers, NGO, scientist

One of the blog posts that caught my eye after I got back from Tristan was this entry by The EEB & Flow, wherein they take (much deserved) shots at “creation scientists”, in particular their attempt to define a scientist in a way that excluded people pushing a pro-creationism agenda under the guise of science.  In their table entitled “How to know if you are doing science”, they list four criteria by which scientists should be defined:

1. Publishing peer-reviewed papers
2. Being asked to review papers
3. Securing research funding
4. Training students

It is with this list that I take umbrage, and with which I disagree.  This is not “how to know if you are doing science”, but “how to know if you are an academic scientist” which, let’s be honest, is only a subsection of scientific endeavour, and a relatively recent one at that.  It’s also one to which an increasing number of researchers don’t aspire.

 

The terms “academic”, “scientist”, and “researcher” are often thrown about as though they are equivalent, when in fact they are like матрёшка, the nesting Russian dolls. Pardon my pedantry, but I think it’s important to know that these differ, and how.

Most broadly, a researcher is engaged in a line of inquiry. This includes biographers, art historians, sociologists, linguists, economists, and many, many more.  A subset within this group are the academics, which are researchers employed by the academy (usually a university, college, or other school).  Scientists are those,  within and outside the academy, who are researchers in a scientific field (however one chooses to define the scope of those fields; a post for another day).  Though the differences may appear subtle, I assure you they are not without meaning or importance. To suggest otherwise demeans all of us engaged in the pursuit of knowledge.

I work for an environmental NGO. I am a researcher. I am a scientist. I am not an academic.

Taking the list of four supposed requirements to be graced with the moniker of “scientist”, I find fault with each of them.  First, that a scientist must publish, and be asked to review peer-reviewed papers.  For better or worse, this is the mechanism by which we, as a scientific community, have largely chosen to assess merit and progress.  Again, whether this broken system is the best/most appropriate/only way to do so is a topic for another day.  But it excludes the foot-soldiers on the ground doing a lot of the actual work – technicians and research assistants.  “But!” I hear some cry, “They are simply following the instructions of a scientist!” Well done on demoting these people to the role of mindless automatons. Suggesting that they have no independent thought, no ability to find solutions to problems, or to pose unique and important questions is disingenuous, and placing them in a supposedly lower class of “technician” or “field assistant” absent of the word scientist reinforces the strongly hierarchical norms of our profession.  These people are scientists.

We now come to research funding, that fabled mystical land. As above, technicians and field assistants (who, you’ll recall, are also scientists) aren’t expected to secure research funding.  Similarly, some scientists in “industry” (oh, what a wonderfully nebulous term!), in government, and at NGOs are expected to deliver the organization’s scientific program using internal funding.  This is not to say that scientists in these organizations do not, cannot, and should not pursue external funding, but that it’s not necessarily a requirement of their jobs.  But “securing research funding” is sufficiently vague and broad to include meeting with one’s boss to pitch a project, and having it approved, though the typical expectation is that “secure research funding” means a competitive, often external, process.

Lastly, we come to the supposed criterion with which I disagree the most – scientists must train students. Hello there, small-world view! Training students is not a part of my job (though it’s not prohibited, either). The same can be said of scientists in industry and in government. The question of whether there are “too many” PhDs (or other graduate students) has been asked frequently (here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, and here are just a few examples), and there are no signs that it will slow down.  Even though we, as a community, have been shouting from the rooftops that the days of PhD to postdoc to tenure-track position are largely over, that progression is still the dominant narrative to which graduate students subscribe.  “But!”, some cry, “The universities need to provide/are providing them with the skills necessary to succeed outside academia!”.  When immersed in a research lab “doing academia” for 4+ years, a few hour-long workshops to present alternative careers isn’t going to make a difference. Now, I know that some PIs work at the interface between academia and government/industry/NGOs, and that their students might have a slightly different experience, but they are probably in the minority.  Because “number of students/graduated students” is another criterion against which “success” is measured, they are continually recruited, emerge in their late 20s or early 30s with burdensome debt, having worked for poor salaries (and living with the consequences thereof), and face an abysmal job market. The point of this digression is that recruiting and supervising students isn’t required of, or necessarily good for, science.

 

Taken together, these four points, while perhaps important for academics are not necessarily the same for scientists, or indeed researchers.  The conflation of these three labels is found frequently in media stories, blog posts, and other discussions, particularly those directed at academics. So please remember that I am a scientist, there are other scientists outside the ivory tower, and we’re not necessarily the same.

Academia needs more of the theatrical spirit

Tags

academia, improv, theatre

When I was in high school, I had (largely) one integrated life.  I did biology, chemistry, and calculus, but also music and theatre.  I dissected sheep brains and cow eyes by day, but played the bass clarinet and performed on stage in front of hundreds by night.  In university, I sat myself down at the end of my first year of undergrad, and succumbed to the false dichotomy of arts vs. science when I decided to pursue biology rather than theatre. (ironically, my reasons for doing so–low wages, poor job security, and constant moving–actually apply to both).

During my PhD, I was running multivariate spatial analyses of climate and avian demography one minute, and performing in lovely spaces in old St. John’s with a wonderful group of friends in Stanley Braxton the next.

Previously, I’ve discussed what science/academia can learn from both radio and theatre.  A recent post by SciCurious wherein they describe leaving academia like being unassimilated from the Borg made me twinge a bit because it rang so true.  In particular, this portion:

3. I don’t know how to take criticism. Or rather, I know how I SHOULD take criticism. I know I do not take it well. This is odd, because I remember a time when I took criticism well. I did a lot of theater and music, it was something you HAD to take well. I took it, I improved, worked harder, fixed things, and did better. Sometime during grad school, however, criticism began to paralyze me. Every critique felt like a critique of me, as a scientist. Since a scientist was what I WAS, all criticism began to feel like criticism of me, as a person. Sometimes it was indeed phrased that way. You are careless. You are not smart enough, why don’t you get this?! You are not focused.

And not that long ago, I stumbled upon a tumblr blog called academickindness, where people submitted tales of good things happening in an academic environment.  My first reaction was something like “oh, this is neat”, but as I continued reading, the stories that were being held up as exceptional examples of kindness would likely be considered ordinary human decency in many other contexts.

Has academia descended into the pits of Hades so much that to be recognized as an exceptionally wonderful person, one just has to avoid being an ass? That, my dear reader, makes me sad.

Academia (and here I use a broader sense to mean not just universities, but the many and varied facets of science scholarship) is a culture built to inflame egos and prey on insecurities.

Quantifying artistic performance

From 1999-2012 I was involved in some way or another with the Canadian Improv Games.  This is probably the most amazing organization I’ve worked with.  High school students from across Canada compete together in a series of events at the regional, and eventually national level.  Like science, improv takes a series of foundational skills, and higher-order integration.  It’s not just “making it up”, but knowing what and how and when to do/say something.  It’s also something we do every single day of our lives.  There’s no script when you wake up in the morning, or go to work, or eat in a restaurant.  Improv is life. Life is improv.  That’s been my motto.  And as an aside, you can see some of the amazing students in this video trailer (yes, it says 2008, and I don’t think the video was ever made, but it epitomized my 13-year experience, and you can check out some of the events in the “Related videos”).

The way an improv tournament runs is that a panel of judges use a rubric to score skills in the various events, and the teams get an overall score each of the four rounds.  After the night of play, they meet for 15-30 minutes with an adjudicator who goes over the four rounds exclusive of the scores to provide feedback, critiques, and praise.  I’ll say that again – the scores are entirely separate from the verbal feedback the students receive.  The focus is on the skills.  The whole philosophy of the Canadian Improv Games minimizes emphasis on the numbers.

For 9 of the years I was involved, it was my job to be one of the judges/adjudicators.  It’s tough work, quantifying art, but I’d fathom that we’ve put more thought into pedagogy and assessment tools than many who teach at the university level*.  After 95% of the adjudications I’ve given, the team comes out energized, buoyant, and they invariably improve the next time I see them on stage. Win.

We used an adjudication technique called “The Sandwich”, which is beneficial for both the teams and adjudicators.  The basic premise is to start and end with positive feedback, with the comments for improvement in the middle.  And even in the “meat” of the sandwich, phrase things positively. “To make this even better next time, I’d suggest …” or “If you worked  little on X using techniques A or B, your next Story Event will be amazing”. More often than not, the teams go away, do A or B, and are subsequently more amazing than they already were.

Think about the last review you received or wrote.  Were there any positive comments?  Was it encouraging?  Or did you need to ‘read between the lines’ to know that when they said “your paper’s been rejected”, that it had actually been accepted?

Once more with feeling

And as an actor myself, every performance (every performance) is followed by “notes”, which is the equivalent of the peer review.  When there’s a director, s/he starts, and we go through the script/show from the top.  What worked, what didn’t, what to do differently, what to keep the same.  It can take an hour or more for a long show.  After every rehearsal.  In our improv shows, we break down each show as soon as the audience has left (or as soon as we head out for dinner afterwards).  We critique each other, going through each piece of the performance.  In any of the hundreds of shows/rehearsals I’ve been in, I have never felt as though it was a critique of my person.  Can you say the same of academia?  I don’t think I can.

So why is this?  Have I just been toiling away in the doldrums of theatre that I haven’t encountered egos and preying on insecurities that I’ve seen in academia?  That might be part of it.  Regardless, the treatment some (many?) experience in the academic environment is horrible.  And it’s pervasive enough that simply being a decent human being is recognized as exceptional.  That ain’t right, dear reader.

Because community norms are a learned aspect of any group, we do things because that’s how a) it was done to us, or b) we see others doing it.  Rarely are academics taught how to write reviews.  We learn from reading our own reviews, or under the tutelage of a single individual (a supervisor).  We see what behaviours are deemed acceptable and can conclude that behaving this way will lead to success.  This isn’t a criticism of that fact – that’s how biology and behaviour work – but when we recognize it, and notice it in our colleagues and ourselves, we can hopefully reflect a bit and think whether it was the best way to act.

The focus in theatre is more long-term, and at least in the Canadian Improv Games, takes an interest in the progress and improvement of the teams.  Academia is much more narrowly focused – this one paper, or that single grant application – that many don’t see the pay-off like I did with teams (and students) I watched over 4 years get better, and better, and better.  Some went on to become successful actors in Toronto, Vancouver, St. John’s, or Chicago.  And that makes me feel good.  I like to think that I had a part, however minuscule, in someone’s success.  When did you last feel this way about a paper you reviewed?  Or a hiring committee you sat on?

I, for one, will try to bring a little more theatre into my science.

*In fact, I persuaded a department to adopt a similar rubric approach to evaluating comprehensive exams, and move away from the pass/fail arbitrary process. 20 years after we did so in the Canadian Improv Games.