This is the month that we all hear about funding. The whole academic scientific community across the country holds it’s breath in wait. Okay, maybe that’s a little dramatic. But here it is regardless. My last chance for PDF funding. If I get it, great, on many levels. If I don’t, there are some serious decisions that need to be made. I don’t want to think about it.
I’m actually the only person I know, other than my advisor, who takes the funding situation really seriously. I talk to other PDF friends who have this laissez faire attitude. They say, “Oh well, if I don’t get it, something will come through”. And I agree, something will, but I feel like my whole academic future is riding on whether I get funding. And whether I get funding is riding on my whole past scientific career. And I have done everything possible to make myself as competitive as possible, yet it will never be enough to appease the queasy-stomach gods.
Okay, that’s not true. I chose to do research that’s cool over research that’s topical and fundable. I’ve worked in places I wanted to live rather than with people who would get me Science papers. I’ve actually made some bad choices in my career, always playing for the underdog and wanting to be the rebel. And I’ve paid the price in not winning scholarships before.
But not anymore. That’s why I live across the country from my family and friends, sacrificing the last years of my cat’s life, without possessions or a stable home. I’m here to get competitive. I’m here to get the big publications and eventually the faculty position. I know I won’t get that by standing aside and saying, “oh well, something will happen”.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Sunday was international woman’s day
A week or two ago I attended our departmental meeting. It was a special occasion as we announced the results of a job competition, and also the Dean was visiting.
We had six people short-list and interview for the position: two women and four men. My favorite was number 1 and was offered the job. The women ranked fifth and sixth. I was okay with that, because they truly sucked. Totally unrelated to that event, the Dean wanted to make an announcement about the official position on increasing the number of women hired for faculty positions. To increase the number of women, he was going to facilitate more spousal hires.
(I’ll let that sink in a moment)
WHAT?! What the $%@# does that mean? That’s not a policy to hire more women, that’s a policy to hire men’s wives!
I’m a woman. I need a job. Hire me.
Doesn’t work that way, but if I marry a man with a better career than mine, I’ll get a job.
Wow that sucks!
We had six people short-list and interview for the position: two women and four men. My favorite was number 1 and was offered the job. The women ranked fifth and sixth. I was okay with that, because they truly sucked. Totally unrelated to that event, the Dean wanted to make an announcement about the official position on increasing the number of women hired for faculty positions. To increase the number of women, he was going to facilitate more spousal hires.
(I’ll let that sink in a moment)
WHAT?! What the $%@# does that mean? That’s not a policy to hire more women, that’s a policy to hire men’s wives!
I’m a woman. I need a job. Hire me.
Doesn’t work that way, but if I marry a man with a better career than mine, I’ll get a job.
Wow that sucks!
Sunday, March 8, 2009
How soon we forget; how far we have come
I’ve been growing more worried about the ‘economic situation’ as I watch tangible things around me unravel; jobs dry up, businesses close, and yet home prices still way out of my reach. And while I have been hating my postdoc for what it is, a temporary, uncertain, low-paying position, I’m now glad that I have a position and an income at all.
I have been worried about money my whole life. My parents spent a lot of time worrying about money, and I grew up very, very frugally. I grew up like it was always a recession, if not a down right depression. And I was loaded with guilt if I wanted to spend money on something. My father grew up without shoes, and my mother remembers the war. If that doesn’t guilt you into eating your gristle, nothing will. Anyway, as a result, I now have financial (and food) issues. When I get stressed, I stop spending money. Sounds good eh? It’s not, because it comes with a worrying, nagging, guilty feeling that I’ve tried to escape most of my life, and have really only been successful in the past few years.
I also left home at an early age. I remember having less than 20$ to my name for many of those early years, and I remember not having heating or food as well. When I finally decided to get my act together and go back to school, I often sacrificed food for tuition, and would then wander the halls between classes looking for spare change under the vending machines, hoping to save enough money to by a cup of soup or bowl of rice.
So that’s my story. It’s old enough now, and I’ve been well fed for long enough that I don’t think too much of it until something reminds me. That happened very unexpectedly this morning. I was at the lab bench listening to a radio story about a group of friends who decided to crunch the numbers and figure out how little low-income people have to spend on food. They came up with $80 per month. And they decided to live off that for a few months and compare notes; a sort-of social experiment for them. The details of their story was enough to send me right back to my late teens-early 20s and the worry, doubt, guilt, desperation I felt living off a sac of rice. That pit of the stomach feeling wasn’t just hunger, but also fear. I was actually emotionally stimulated enough by the radio article that I had to leave the room and take a break.
Later that afternoon, as I was entering my office, it hit me again but in a different way. I have an office. My own office. With windows. Two of them. And food in my desk. And heat in my home. And clothes on my back. I am safe, and well fed, and warm. So why won’t this uneasy feeling go away?
I have been worried about money my whole life. My parents spent a lot of time worrying about money, and I grew up very, very frugally. I grew up like it was always a recession, if not a down right depression. And I was loaded with guilt if I wanted to spend money on something. My father grew up without shoes, and my mother remembers the war. If that doesn’t guilt you into eating your gristle, nothing will. Anyway, as a result, I now have financial (and food) issues. When I get stressed, I stop spending money. Sounds good eh? It’s not, because it comes with a worrying, nagging, guilty feeling that I’ve tried to escape most of my life, and have really only been successful in the past few years.
I also left home at an early age. I remember having less than 20$ to my name for many of those early years, and I remember not having heating or food as well. When I finally decided to get my act together and go back to school, I often sacrificed food for tuition, and would then wander the halls between classes looking for spare change under the vending machines, hoping to save enough money to by a cup of soup or bowl of rice.
So that’s my story. It’s old enough now, and I’ve been well fed for long enough that I don’t think too much of it until something reminds me. That happened very unexpectedly this morning. I was at the lab bench listening to a radio story about a group of friends who decided to crunch the numbers and figure out how little low-income people have to spend on food. They came up with $80 per month. And they decided to live off that for a few months and compare notes; a sort-of social experiment for them. The details of their story was enough to send me right back to my late teens-early 20s and the worry, doubt, guilt, desperation I felt living off a sac of rice. That pit of the stomach feeling wasn’t just hunger, but also fear. I was actually emotionally stimulated enough by the radio article that I had to leave the room and take a break.
Later that afternoon, as I was entering my office, it hit me again but in a different way. I have an office. My own office. With windows. Two of them. And food in my desk. And heat in my home. And clothes on my back. I am safe, and well fed, and warm. So why won’t this uneasy feeling go away?
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