eager emigrant (part II)

So, there I was at my new university to start my postdoc -- new lab, new projects, even had a month of exotic field work to motivate me. It seems like most people I know *loved* their graduate institution and had, at best, middling feelings about their postdoctoral institution. It's possible that my year as a postdoc is colored by the things any postdoc has to deal with: Leaving behind the comfort and familiarity of your old home; Not knowing anyone in a new place; Having to figure out where the printers, paper, and staplers are. These things, and the impact they have on your happiness, are not to be underestimated. But beyond those normal transitional things, I noticed some very disturbing things about myself and my new institution:

1. I was very carefully avoiding talking about science with my new adviser (to the point of sneaking past his office quietly). He didn't seem very eager to talk to me either.


2. I was constantly bored and fidgety during seminars. I started leaving early.


3. Everyone in my building worked with their doors closed. Aside from some of the graduate students, almost no one said hello or smiled when we passed in the halls.


4. The graduate students were afraid to give talks about their research in departmental seminars.

We could debate the meaning and significance of each of these observations, of course. But what they added up to was simple and clear: Isolation. I worked alone. Days would go by and I wouldn't have talked to a single person about what I was doing. So there was an intense physical and emotional isolation. But there was also a practical isolation from the real world.

By definition, the Ivory Tower is a place in which people focus on subjects that are far removed from the concerns of the layman. And many academics seem to enjoy this. My work was no exception in that there was no obvious connection to what went on outside of the university walls. So when I stopped caring about what I was doing, there was really no one left to care about it.

The Ivory Tower is kind of like a Club Med resort on a poor Caribbean island. While you're visiting, you can fret over whether to spend the day snorkeling or sailing, or whether to drink Cuba Libres or apple-tinis. Because you are surrounded by other vacationers trying to make equally critical decisions, you can easily begin to believe that these decisions are meaningful. But one step off of the Club's groomed beaches tells you that they are not.

Lots of academics are fully aware that their work has never had -- and will never have -- any tangible impact on the world. It's not my intention to criticize them. On the contrary, I fully believe in knowledge for knowledge's sake. It's simple. It's beautiful. And in some cosmic way, a greater understanding of our environment at any level advances humanity as a whole.

During my time as a postdoc, I sincerely wished that I could be satisfied in my esoteric niche. I was doing well at it. I had a steady job, a steady stream of publications. The problems that commonly plague scientists, such as difficulty writing or feeling pulled in too many directions, were not issues I was having. But I wasn't happy. At 28 years old, I couldn't see the point in staying the academic course (tenure-track professorship! tenured! emeritus!) for the next 40+ years.

When you step off of the Club Med beach or get away from the gleaming white walls of the Tower, it can be a bit of a shock. You realize that you speak a different language than everyone else. You don't quite know where you fit in. And you're no longer treading the predictable, well-worn path from the baby pool to the big wide ocean.