Dear Uncle Mole,
It was lovely to visit over the holidays, and many thanks for the parcel that arrived just after I returned home. Another lab coat is just what I need, especially since I've taken to wearing two on late nights when the lab cools down. I've been working like mad lately because I am determined: this is the year. Come hell or high water (or maybe a little of both), I'm crawling out of the black hole of my thesis laboratory. And then, Uncle Mole, your favorite Molette will be off into the bright and sunny world of opportunities that you've been telling me about since I was just a wee little mole who couldn't see straight. Of course I still can't see straight, but that's okay – no-one on our side of the family Talpidae can either. I can see my experiments though, and that's what counts...or at least that's what I used to think. Yet to tell you the truth, I'm not so sure I believe that anymore. What's wrong? you ask. Bitter? Jaded? Despondent? Me? You'd better believe it.
Here's the thing, Uncle Mole. You know how much I love your tales of lab adventures and how I've wanted to be a brilliant scientist for ages and ages. Could I possibly wish for anything else, with an uncle like you? But I've been thinking, and I believe there might be a problem of perspective between us. Chalk it up to a moment of desperation followed by a martini and a mountain of ice cream to drown my sorrows, but I've had an epiphany. As I near the end of this dark tunnel, I've realized that moving forward at the beginning of one's career can be treacherous. And the smaller one's stature, the more difficult it can be to traverse the minefield between apprenticeship and independence. So, to complement your advice from the top down, I want to pipe up from the bottom rung and pass my survival strategies on to the cousins, now that I've recovered from the shock of betrayal. After all, on the path to independence, every young mole-let needs to know how to avoid getting cornered by one potential obstacle to freedom: that most nefarious of advisors, the infamous Dr Fox.
For you see, some advisors are the magnanimous type, the ones who are never happier than when watching their protégés succeed. When it comes to these scientific influences, my advice to the cousins is simple: thank whomever you need to thank that the stars were so aligned and you were fortunate enough to cross paths. Stay in touch. Send holiday cards. Visit when you're back in town and, above all, remember their example when you have your own crew of molelets to supervise. Science is hard enough without the drama that I shudder to report has already driven too many of my fellow colleagues in the trenches to the more dependable (if less hallowed) halls of industry. When one is fortunate enough to find a mentor who combines rare insight with uncommon grace, hold him (or her) up on a pedestal. He (or she) deserves it.
However, to my chagrin, what I have discovered to be much more common is the advisor, our friend Dr Fox, who remains civil just long enough to lure the unsuspecting mole-let into the lab. All is well – more or less – until it is time to publish, time to move on, time to become the independent intellectual that was the whole point of joining the lab in the first place. It then becomes clear that Dr Fox wasn't ever looking to nurture the development and respect the growth of a mole-let seeking to become a Mole. No, Dr Fox was looking for an unthinking robot to churn out data, an automaton who never questions anything and never challenges anyone to think outside the box, a quiet drone in the corner who does nothing but meekly churn out blot after blot after blot.
To be blunt, that ain't me.
And if it's not, what is the unsuspecting mole-let to do? The bad news is this: during the process of extrication, you will likely hate every minute you have to spend in that bloody lab. You might even hate yourself for being the naive fool taken in by the chicanery of Dr Fox (note to self – at least that will never happen again). However, the good news is that there is always hope in the universe.
So, my advice to anyone trapped in such a lab is simple. First, remember that you are never alone – we mole-lets are too often fixated on the bottom-up view. The Dr Foxes of the world have their own peers and professional obligations and, as the saying goes: once a Fox, always a Fox. If mole-lets get grief from Dr Fox in the lab, it's a good bet that he isn't exactly a faculty favorite either – true colors are hard to hide. Academic politics might keep them off the record, but there is no doubt that you will have sympathetic allies who can listen and advise during those crucial months leading up to the eventual escape. You'll have a second sense about how to find them – trust your instincts. Mentors are out there, so don't hesitate to lean on their experience and wisdom.
And this brings me to point number two: the scientific world is a small one. No matter how tempting – or therapeutic – it may be to vent your woes in the lab to everyone you know, resist the urge. Stay discreet. Stay professional. There is no victory in adopting the ethics of the reprehensible, and once you start down the road of shady gossip and innuendo, it's a slippery slope to becoming a Fox yourself. I may be young, Uncle Mole, but I can see there is something to be said for personal integrity. Besides, from a practical perspective, it helps to keep one's reputation as pristine as possible. You never know when you might want to borrow a reagent or start up a collaboration with someone who might be Dr Fox's second cousin once-removed on his mother's side. It's always best to take the high road.
And then aside from the difficulties of extricating oneself from the clutches of the lab, there are also the logistical considerations of actually making a break for it. When you reach the point of no return – when it is clear that to save your sanity and your career you need O-U-T – well, here's what I'm starting to see, as the darkness begins to lift and the sun shines a bit of perspective on the situation. A career is a long time. No one discovers siRNA every day. In fact, most of us will never make a discovery of that magnitude and we can still have long and happy scientific lives. (As an aside, don't you think Sir Fleming himself was a bit of a mole, missing those Petri dishes in the corner for so long?)
But I digress: to make the best of a bad situation you have to be willing to let go. No matter how perfect things could have been, you must learn to cut your losses and let go of a deadweight reality if that's what it takes to crawl out of your own particular tunnel. Why keep yourself chained underground in a lab where you know the Fox will never let you explore the lights and color and vibrancy of the world? The art of letting go is a valuable, albeit painful, skill, but sometimes that's exactly what sets us free. Sure we're often older, wiser, and maybe even (temporarily) a bit worse-for-wear, but – and this is the important part – we can still walk away with every opportunity to make our mark on PubMed. After all, who's to say that the most difficult lessons of mole-let survival might not turn out to be just the things that help us grow into the mantle of a wise and respected Mole?
I'd like to think this is how it works. I'd also like to report that – although I pulled them out immediately – I've found a few gray hairs lately, Uncle Mole. I think I'm on my way! Madame Professor Molette...it has a certain ring to it, don't you think?
For now, please give my best to the cousins, once-removed and otherwise. I'm looking forward to sending official news of the dissertation. Maybe next time I can run some thoughts by you regarding funding secrets for the fledgling scientist?
Cheerio,
Your Molette
My Dearest Molette,
How lovely to hear from you, and very glad you made it all the way back home inone piece. I'll make sure to send your `I [favorite] mitochondria' sweatshirt, iPod and sneaker (how did you manage to leave just one?) as soon as I can find an appropriate box.
As for your note, I most heartily agree with your mantra to `let it go'. Oh, I so hate this part of the business, this sorry fact that some of my colleagues (to use a euphemism) so mistreat those who are their professional wards. Far from nurturing, aiding, advising, fostering these early careers, they instead suck the life from their young students and discard the husks. Very icky indeed, and worse, we who might see this happening often turn away and let it continue because of the simple fact that, when the student is gone (whichever way), that vampire neighbor will still be occupying the lab next door. I, for one, have no problem arming myself with garlic and crosses before giving them a good slapping (verbal, of course). But the trainees have to know what their recourse actually is or might be, and I'm afraid that this varies with the department, institution and the like. Your advice, so wise for one so young, that `this too shall pass' doesn't fix the situation, but then, it isn't the job of said trainee to fix things – just to get beyond them and remain intact. Would that it were not so.
Yes, let's have a good long chat about funding. There are a lot of tricks, you know, and I'll be happy to share.
Fondest wishes to you and the others – don't forget to tell me if that experiment works!
Cheers,
Uncle Mole
P.S. Gray hairs? Ha! Don't be in too much of a hurry to look `distinguished'. It's amazing how quickly that turns to `old'. I'm just glad that I have any hair at all!
