There are three things you should never ask a scientist in training: When will you finish your dissertation? Are you pregnant? And, how much do you earn?
Unfortunately, when I was asked this last question recently, it struck a chord that resonated with increasing power for months afterward. It was on a flight up the California coast on Southwest. After the usual rugby-scrum for seats, I found myself in the escape aisle facing five other similarly aged passengers. My fellow denizens started to introduce themselves. One, clutching the latest from Dr. Andrew Weil, was a kinesiologist, "not a chiropractor" -- apparently there's a difference. Another was a manager of a Burger King, and rather eagerly handed out coupons for free drinks and burgers. I was tired, and had lapsed into a reverie about real-estate agents handing out coupons for free beachfront properties when someone asked me what I do for a living.
I'm a biologist. My wife is a graduate student at the same university. My father is a scientist, as was my grandfather. My wife's father is a professor of mathematics. Academia runs through our families five clans broad and three generations deep. The fact that we are both studying H.I.V.-1 at a prestigious research institution makes us poster children for the power of genetic predetermination and "environmental factors."
That doesn't make the job any easier, however. The workday is long: 10 to 14 hours, often spent in a windowless isolation facility. The hours are necessitated by the ferocious competition for funding in the field. And no matter how many times I enter the isolation facility, the fact that I work with live H.I.V.-1 virus still gives me pause. Nevertheless, I love what I do. The intellectual challenge, the wonderful colleagues, the sense of purpose, the excitement of new data and surprising results. I even enjoy writing grants. It's a great job. But is it a living?
Now, I've learned over the years that it's best not to blurt out a detailed scientific summary at once and immediately lose your audience, so I simply said "A researcher." "What sort?" they asked. "H.I.V."
Now they were enthralled, and the questions came rapidly: "What sort of work do you do?" "How's it going?" "What do you think of Peter Duesberg?" "When will we have a cure? "Why is the virus so hard to kill?" One of the great things about working on H.I.V. is that the public is relatively sophisticated about the disease, and quite interested. They were never this interested in my Ph.D. thesis on fruit-fly genetics.
I answered their questions as best I could. Luckily, I've had interesting new findings to report. I could see that my fellow passengers were eyeing this shabbily dressed, tired-looking person with respect. An unaccustomed feeling of self-worth flowed warmly through my body.
Then the burgermeister asked the fatal question with a knowing look -- "You must be raking in the bucks, Doc." In an instant, my brief sense of well-being was shattered, the full horror of my financial situation made it feel as if my heart had plunged through the floor of the plane and splashed down into the cold Pacific 30,000 feet below. My defenses were down. I told the truth.
"Less than 25K." The burger man blanched visibly. The kinesiologist blurted out, "Oh my God, how can you live on that?" One of the women eyed me with suspicion. I could tell what she was thinking -- this guy must be a loser. No one who works so hard and has so much responsibility would be paid so little. What did he do wrong? I could see that in many of their eyes, the noble figure of an AIDS researcher had turned to Don Quixote.
For those of you not living in California, 25K might not sound so bad. Let me set you straight. It is just above the poverty level in the area where I live. I pay 65 percent of my income on rent, the rest goes to food, bills, and gas for the car. Any emergency with the car goes on the credit card, where the debt just builds up. No savings. No vacations.
I learned recently that the immigrant janitor who sweeps my floor earns more than I do. When I told him how much I earn, he shook his head and said in broken English, "Oh, I feel sorry for you, my friend." So I don't really earn a living. I just have a hobby that demands all of my time.
Ironically, there is actually plenty of money around. AIDS research is very expensive, and commands large grants. But only a tiny percentage of the enormous sums of money we work through in a year is earmarked for salaries. Incredibly, even great breakthroughs in science offer little nourishment to researchers. Frequently, postdocs and even young professors are required to sign away their rights to the intellectual property and any hope of remuneration. I've often thought that an appropriate addition to the doctoral award ceremony would be for the dean to deliver a swift kick as the hood is being lowered over the new doctor, while the faculty chants "sucker."
Now, no one would choose to be a scientist to make money. We all know in advance that it's a labor of love. But the financial strain has refocused my daily thoughts from what the next experiment will be to how I'm going to pay my bills. This starvation mentality is pervading academic science and discouraging scientists from taking risks that might lead to breakthroughs.
Why aren't salaries better? For some, science is still a good deal -- a quick path to a green card for example. Many Europeans on foreign fellowships are paid considerably more than the Americans they work with, and they come from countries that guarantee retirement benefits and cheap health care. In fact they have it best: American-funded equipment, and European-funded salaries. So there is no lack of people to fill positions, and thus no pressure to raise salaries. In the long run, however, the home-grown American scientist may become a rare bird.
In a few months my wife will be receiving her Ph.D., and I will be in the home stretch of my postdoc. We will eventually want to buy a house, and have children. It seems that the choices are research jobs in academe or industry, or something outside of science altogether.
I've worked in industry before, and had a great time. But ironically, the low salaries in academe and the surplus of employees have driven down salaries in industry, which has made a life as an assistant professor more financially attractive. And what about creative control? Will I be selling my soul if I enter the private sector? In the months to come, I'll be interviewing in industrial and academic institutions, and comparing them. I hope to learn whether it's best to stay in academe, or if industry will catch me if I jump from the "Ivory Tower."
