I've always enjoyed solving problems. It started in high-school physics, when I learned how to use mathematics to describe natural phenomena -- the trajectory of a soccer ball, the swing of a pendulum, the sliding of a block down a ramp. So it was easy for me to become an earth scientist.
Everywhere I look, I see a new problem to be solved: Why is that mountain bigger than the one next to it? How did that Volkswagen-size rock end up in the middle of that flat slope? Why is that waterfall where it is? My field is full of unanswered questions, and I feel fortunate to have a career in which solving problems is what's expected of me.
But now, as I search for a faculty position, I'm at a bit of a crossroads. Most of my credentials -- and all of my publications -- represent "pure" research (which I interpret to mean "things that are really fun to figure out but that no one outside of academe really cares about").
In the meantime, whenever I pick up the newspaper I'm reminded of the range of applied problems in earth science that I'm perfectly poised to help solve. Hurricane-induced floods ravage New Orleans. Coastal erosion threatens Alaskan villages. Large Western cities start running out of water during historic droughts. Those are real problems that matter to real people, and my desire to help figure them out becomes stronger with each passing day.
The problem, as it relates to my job search, is this: I'm certain that my life will be far more fulfilling if my research helps us solve some of the big earth-science problems facing our world. But given the nature of my research so far, the things I'm likely to be hired to do are decidedly un-applied.
Should I be advertising to potential employers that I hope to eventually shift my research to more socially relevant problems? Or should I continue with the status quo, publishing papers on esoteric problems that excite the academic world but put everyone else to sleep? Is there a place for me in academe if I want to do research that can directly help people? As I continue to look at faculty positions, I'm trying to gather information on the answers to those questions, and I'm getting very mixed messages.
On one hand, every time I bring up the topic of applied research in academic circles, it seems like a dirty word. Maybe because many academics have built their careers on pure research, the idea that I'm eager to branch out and solve real problems sometimes elicits a defensive response: "Well," the argument goes, "you never know what the applications of your research might be someday. Think of all the practical discoveries that were made while someone was pursuing purely academic research."
I don't doubt that is true. In fact, reading the newspaper last month I noticed that the Nobel Prize in Physics went to the guys who revolutionized digital storage, thereby making the iPod possible. I would venture to guess that they weren't out to change the lives of teenagers around the world, but it turns out their research had further-reaching applications than even they could have imagined. Other examples of important discoveries built on "pure" research can no doubt be found throughout the academic world: solar energy, the Internet, Silly Putty.
But there's a problem with that argument, from my perspective: I'm an earth scientist. Pure research for me is figuring out how the shape of a mountain range changes when it starts to rain more (measured in tens of thousands to millions of years). Of course I enjoy the work, but I don't think my research, by itself, is ever going to change the life of a teenager anywhere. Meanwhile, when I pick up the newspaper and see a very pressing problem related to my field right there on Page 1, I realize that the tools I've developed might also be used to figure out some practical things -- like how the risk of floods or landslides might change when it starts to rain more. People might actually care about that.
So how does the idea of incorporating applied research resonate with potential employers in academe? Rewind to a year ago, when I was interviewing for a faculty position. After I had given my talk and met with most of the department's faculty members, I discussed my future plans with the search committee. I mentioned that I have a range of interests outside of the research I did for my Ph.D. I even talked about how important I thought climate change would be to our field, as landscapes respond to new weather patterns and hydrologic regimes.
Big mistake. I wasn't offered that job for a number of reasons, but when I asked for feedback after the inevitable rejection letter, one of the sentences in the reply stood out: "The link between your thesis work and future research plans was not very clear."
So does that mean I'm stuck? Is there really no lateral mobility in the academic world once I've defined myself by the work I did for my Ph.D.? At least in some academic circles, it's apparently not OK to think outside the box I constructed for myself during my dissertation.
All of that is reason enough to become discouraged, but there are signs that some parts of the academic market are beginning to value people who can think more broadly. For example, huge new institutes for interdisciplinary research in my discipline are popping up around the globe, embracing earth scientists who can help inform environmental decision making. Some of those places are putting geologists, climatologists, and economists under one roof, with the goal of tackling the earth-science questions that matter to humankind.
What's particularly encouraging to me is that the stated goals of those academic institutions include phrases like "societal impacts," "resource sustainability," and "transdisciplinary linkages" -- apparently without shame. It's clear that, at least in some circles, the idea of research applied to real earth-science problems makes sense.
Meanwhile, a new panel at the National Science Foundation called "Coupled Natural and Human Systems" wants to "enhance fundamental understanding of the complex interactions within and among natural and human systems." In FY 2007, that panel had $14.5-million to pass around.
In addition, the instructions for all new National Science Foundation proposals require us to explicitly address "broader impacts," including the question, "What may be the benefits of the proposed activity to society?" It's always seemed to me that I should be able to answer that question with a straight face if I want to feel fulfilled in my career. But with current trends in science funding, it's at least possible that applied research might also become a vital source of job security. So what is the academic world waiting for?
I certainly believe that understanding how the earth works is a worthwhile endeavor. Even if there's no clear application of my research to society at large, it's worth figuring out what makes our planet tick.
But I can't help thinking that my generation of Ph.D.'s is in something of a unique position in our relationship to the earth. Our existence on this planet faces some very real challenges, and many of us are equipped with the tools to figure out how to solve those problems. So as my job search continues, I think I will at least keep talking about applying my skills to real problems. If an earth-sciences department doesn't welcome that idea, perhaps I just need to look elsewhere.
