After an abysmal trudge through the academic job market this fall, I face the spring in the same postdoc I have had for the past three years. I love my job at a federal research facility and, luckily, have been granted a coveted fourth year. I could happily stay here four more years, but I know that it is time for me to grow up and move on.
I thought that the next step would be as easy as deciding between a position in academe or one in government research. Now I discover that the decision is neither easy nor solely mine to make.
Rumors of multiple faculty openings in a department in my discipline, and at my dream university, had pepped me up for my job search back in the fall.
I applied as soon as the positions were announced, and made sure my application was flawless -- typo-free, supported by wording from the department's Web site and job descriptions, and full of enthusiasm. If I had thought it would help, I would have sprayed my paperwork with a provocative scent, a la Elle Woods in Legally Blonde.
We've all crafted those perfect applications. That's why it is so devastating when you hear that you haven't even made the cut for an interview.
After a couple of months of no word, I finally telephoned the head of the search committee. I hated making that call because I knew it would be as bad as ripping off a stupid hangnail; it's something that I had to do, but knew would hurt.
The search-committee chair was extremely polite and even claimed to remember my application: Your application was strong. You were a good fit for the department. We had many competitive candidates. Blah, blah, blah. I wanted to scream, Just tell me the truth and don't feed me canned lines that we both know are meaningless.
I did finally get a nugget of advice from the chair. It seems that since I didn't have my own research grant yet, my work, although it would have been a good match for the department, was not in a "hot funding" zone.
I can accept that. I'm at a federal research facility. I don't have to secure my own grants; in fact, some postdocs at my facility are even restricted from applying for grants. And I am not one of those super-duper researchers who is on the path to the big prize. In an incredibly shrinking pool of research dollars, I can see why new faculty hires would be expected to roll in on their own slick, already-paid-for wheels.
Here's what I can't accept: From what I have heard about the folks who did get interviews, not one of the candidates even trained specifically in the discipline of the department!
I just don't get it. Well, I guess I get it, but I don't want to. My research answers some neat questions that have very solid, practical applications. But apparently, my research wasn't basic enough: I don't explore the molecular makeup of a single potassium channel that functions in one tiny little region of the brain and that may answer a small question in Alzheimer's research.
I'm not trying to diminish the importance of basic biological research, but the department in question does not focus on basic biological research. It focuses on applied research.
At least that's what it claims to do, on the surface. Beneath that image, I guess it is still chained to the grant-making gods. It's committed to practical and applied research only if grant money is conveniently, easily, and copiously available. My research, unfortunately, does not fall into any of those categories.
The whole experience flung me into a haze of resentment toward academe. My rallying cry became, "Government, here I come."
Funnily enough, just a week or so after I heard about the academic job, I was rejected for a federal research job that had been advertised as an "-ologist" position. I am an "-ologist" and trained in "-ology." I did not make the cut for that job because I do not have 12 graduate credits of -ology, a guideline that the federal government established to classify someone as an -ologist.
I don't think I could stop laughing for three days. I live, eat, and breathe -ology, but because I only took nine graduate credits of -ology, I can't be considered an -ologist. I'm still trying to regrow the hair that I pulled during that laughfest.
So to recap: My research isn't going to attract big grant money. It's too applied. And I'm only masquerading as an -ologist.
I'm not above frying burgers or shoveling manure, but, darn it, if I'm going to work as a scientist, I want to do the science that I want to do, not something that's only hot because it's "fundable" or may earn someone big bucks at a drug company.
I'm not giving up, but I have expanded my search to government jobs that are less research-focused. I recently interviewed for just such a job, and while the position sounds like it could be challenging and interesting, it is not one that would give me much time to generate data and turn those data into articles.
I can't see myself in a job that doesn't put me in the laboratory or in the field, and writing papers. I also struggle with the same issues raised in some of the articles written by the X-Gals, an informal group of nine female biologists who have been chronicling their career and family challenges. If I jump off the research truck, will I become road kill?
I have been doing scientific research for as long as I can remember. I was one of those "what if" kids -- you know, the ones who crashed their bikes, got stung by bees, and fell a lot. I can't pass a toad or a snake without trying to catch it. If I couldn't spend my days poking and prodding, I'm not sure I would want to go to work. And I wonder if I would feel successful in a job that wasn't in research.
I thought the question of where to take my career would be as simple as "government or academe," but apparently, it's a lot more complex.
Who knows, maybe I can be like Elle Woods and completely change my career direction. I don't have any pink suits and have no aspirations to attend law school to win back my man, but I do have a set of skills that sets me apart from others in my field. I just have to find the position that matches my skill set.
