White coat, check. Goggles, check. Rubber gloves, check. Tissue culture plate, x-ray film, pipette, check, check, check. Alright, Mr DeMille, I'm ready for my close-up.
It's all my own stupid fault, really. I was caught up in the adrenaline rush of the moment, having just had a nice piece of research accepted in a rather good journal. And when our institution put out a press release on the work, the local news sent over a photographer. Me! Going to be featured on page 37 of the second section of the Palookaville Daily Herald on a Tuesday-slow-news-day - with a heading that will probably run, “Local Scientist Uses Molecules to Cure All Known Diseases”, and the disclaimer in the last paragraph quoting me as saying, “This may take a while”, and a picture of me, dressed as a scientist.
As a rule, and one that I offer as a pearl of advice, I never talk to reporters. I used to, but not any more. It all happened a few years ago, when a reporter who was writing an article for a very prominent newspaper (one I read every day), asked me to take some time to explain the field that is near and dear to my heart. After two hours of in-depth discussion, he casually asked me about other scientists in my field and when one of them would win the “N” prize. I told him that there was one friend who should (and subsequently did). He then asked about another friend, Dr Stoat. A few days later I read the article over breakfast and sprayed coffee (in homage to classic TV comedy). The story concerned only my friend Stoat, and how sharp his teeth are, how early he gets up in the morning, and how very terrific he is. And there was the quote from me, saying, “Oh there are other researchers who are more deserving of such prestigious recognition.” I did promptly clear the air with my friend, but Mrs Stoat still won't talk to me.
No, I don't talk to reporters. When they call, I ask them to email me a list of questions, which I answer in writing, and keep a copy for myself. I've noticed that it also helps them in getting the story right.
But that isn't what I wanted to talk about. I want to talk about lab coats.
The ubiquitous white coat is in the public's view the uniform of the scientist, a view that is ever perpetuated by news photos, television, movies and the like. Every biography of every scientist I have read includes at least one photo (usually many) of our hero wearing a white lab coat, studiously looking into a microscope, or holding a Petri dish to the sun - or, for the more modern scientist, a blot. It says, “Scientist.” Whenever I meet someone new, and by “someone” and “new” I mean a non-scientist, it is inevitable that I'll be told that I don't look like a researcher. Well, I don't. Unless, of course, I'm wearing a lab coat to the party.
So it comes as a surprise to folks who aren't scientists when they visit the lab that they see real, working scientists wearing ordinary clothes, even at the bench. Look around. How many lab coats do you see? Sure, we wear them when we're working with something that is potentially hazardous (always) and we also wear protective eye-wear and good, solid shoes. But so do mechanics. Lab coats are for getting dirty, not for dressing up. In fact, I have to emphasize that no lab coats should ever be worn outside of the lab, especially in the coffee room or at lunch - ever. That would be stupid, right?
So, what do scientists really look like? Once upon a time, way way back when I was just a mole-let, the senior scientists at professional meetings dressed in tweed jackets with patches on the elbows or like business people, with suits and ties and button-down shirts - even the male scientists. But that all changed with the rise of molecular biology.
In the 1970s and early '80s, a new breed appeared. Young, hip, and doing work that was changing everything, we were the DNA cowboys, and our uniform was old torn jeans and sneakers (some of you call them trainers I think, but we wore them because they were comfy, and cool. The whole DNA cowboy look was all about cool. Shorts and an old T-shirt became perfectly appropriate on the plenary platform of the largest meeting, provided that the work was cutting edge. A DNA cowboy who wore a suit wasn't cool and, hence, the work probably wasn't cool either.
The change didn't come all at once, though. I was once asked to give a `State of the Art' lecture at a large clinical meeting, and I was informed afterwards that the president of the society had summarily banned me from ever speaking to them again, as I was not appropriately dressed. He'd been outraged when my slovenly appearance was projected onto huge screens in the enormous hall, although, if I'm honest, I felt like a rock star. (They did have me come back and do another one, as soon as he wasn't president any more).
It was a fad, of course, and like all fads, it passed. Now pretty much anything goes. But that doesn't mean you don't have to think about it. Here's why.
I received a valuable bit of advice from one of my professors, way back in graduate school, when I asked him about the bright red hat that he wore at meetings (and never anywhere else). He told me that the trick was to be recognizable. Anyone who came to a meeting could instantly spot him, even if they didn't know what he looked like, because he was the guy in the bright red hat. He told me that I should have a trademark look, but warned me that if I went for a bright colored hat, he'd fail me on my thesis. So I took his advice, and now I don't even have to remember to wear my name badge. (I won't tell you what I wear, but if you see me, you probably already know me, even if we haven't met).
I know scientists who always wear the best suits (yes, that's different now, it can be cool), or look like criminals, some who have remarkably long hair, or very short hair, or no hair. Some who look like movie stars, and some who look like street people. They are distinctive, and I can always spot them. One scientific editor I know wears a distinctive bandana on his neck, and it looks great. I've even seen a “Mole” T-shirt, which is the height of fashion, but no you won't catch me wearing it (I'm not that easy).
Not everyone will do this, of course, and neither should you, if it makes you uncomfortable. But if you like this sort of `standing out in the crowd', do it. It doesn't hurt.
And when you have to wear protective gear, (and you do have to) let's show some individuality. If you want to dye your lab coat red, or green, or tie-dye, or plaid, do it. Hey, it's your lab coat. (Okay, not plaid please, that's just tacky). And if you like white, that's fine too.
But here's the main thing: scientists look like everyone else. And we should. Because our endeavor, this doing of science, is a fundamentally human activity. We, like everyone else, wonder about the universe we live in. We just do it for a living. We know that there is a recognized problem that school children are not learning science, and maybe that has something to do with a perception that science is sterile and clean. Like a white lab coat.
We know that science is cool. Most everyone else knows that too. I'd much rather see newspaper photos of scientists looking like people who do something for a living that they love, that excites them and that makes other people excited, than staged pictures of lab monkeys dressing for a part in a uniform that isn't a uniform. We're not uniform.
So I've put away the goggles and the white coat, and I won't pose with the vials of colored liquid. If you want to snap my photo, go ahead, but I'm not dressing up.
I look like a scientist, because I am one. And if that's news, well, good.
