Preaching the Microbial Gospel!

Classes begin next Tuesday...gulp! Still, I am very much looking forward to working with a new crop of students, and promoting my (only half humorous) concept of "microbial supremacy."  At that link, you can even read how I came to be called a "microbial supremacist," if you like.  My response?

Artwork by the talented Kaitlin Reiss (http://kaitlinreiss.com/)

I have long had this attitude.  I loved microbiology as an undergraduate at UCLA (Syd Rittenberg, William Romig, and Gary Wilcox had a huge impact on my early education into Matters Microbial™), and enjoyed working with "undomesticated" microbes as a PhD student, postdoc, and in the biotech industry. 

But I believe my "Saul of Tarsus" moment regarding microbiology occurred when I took the famous Microbial Diversity course at the Marine Biological Laboratory in Woods Hole, Massachusetts right after I returned to academia from biotech.  A wonderful history of this course, and its role in the careers of many microbiologists can be found here, authored by the great Ralph Wolfe.  

My instructors in 1996 (wow!) were the inimitable, wise, eloquent (and occasionally outrageous) Edward Leadbetter and Abigail Salyers.  To get a good sense of Abigail's disarming and subversive humor, listen to this.  And getting ahead of the game, even in (semi)-retirement, Ed was recently honored by the American Society for Microbiology with the D.C. White Research and Mentoring Award for this coming year.

To say that it was an inspirational experience with inspirational instructors would be a vast understatement. Ed and Abigail changed the way I looked at microbiology, period.  And forever. Plus they both stayed in touch with me after that course, mentoring and guiding me as an, ahem, slightly older student.

It was in collaboration with Abigail that my first "microbial motto" was born:

Courtesy of my wife, Dr. Jennifer J. Quinn, and her creative efforts.

I still love the expression "Prokaryotic Pride," though the work of Norman Pace and others has suggested that the "P-word" be expunged from microbiology.  Regardless of that debate, I think we could all agree that "First Evolved, Last Extinct" is accurate! I later came up with an alternative motto:  "Free the Organelles!" because of the simple fact that both mitochondria and chloroplasts were originally bacteria (alpha proteobacter relatives of modern Rickettsia and cyanobacteria, respectively), cruelly enslaved by primitive eukaryotes!

During my first stint at teaching and doing research at an undergraduate institution, a remarkable student named Rachel Hendrickson (now a dentist in Southern California) came up with an image to represent my perceived role in the microbiology classroom:

Many thanks to Rachel Hendrickson for making this design as a surprise for me, during a very rough time!

Again with the "P-word," but I truly am passionate on the subject. Even monomaniacal. 

Thus,  I am set to begin my proselytizing yet again on the topic of microbial supremacy in the classroom, starting next week. So much to tell them, and so little time...  This semester, I am teaching on a Tuesday-Thursday schedule, so there should be more time for student discussion and interaction. I cannot wait!  

In fact, I am fortunate enough to have been asked to give a talk (part of the Daedalus Society here on campus) on this topic to faculty, staff, alumni, and other interested people, in late September.  I have already received some good natured (I hope) ribbing on the invitation that was sent out a few days ago:

Artwork by the talented Kaitlin Reiss (http://kaitlinreiss.com/)

Now, I will do the best I can to promote microbial appreciation and literacy.  I doubt I can match the job of so many other engaging proponents of Matters Microbial™, such as the one and only Jon Eisen:

That said, whether or not I throw plush giant microbes out into the audience, I will have a good time.  And I will promote the One True Microbial Faith! I hope the audience likes it.

And my students, as well.

Dispatches from the Teaching Front, Part 1: Student Self Evaluation.

During a recent Twitter exchange with the wonderful Ana Maria Barral (@Bio_prof and barralopolis.wordpress.com) and Jennifer Garner (@BiologyJen), the subject of helping students "self-evaluate" their performance and habits came up.  For some years, I have carried out an exercise with students related to this...and I thought I might share it with any interested readers.

There is a pithy and truthful quotation from the great Carl Jung that is much with me:  "You are what you do, not what you say you will do." It's a blessing, a curse, and a warning, all at once.  Most people are not by their natures fans of self-examination.  That goes double for students, especially freshmen who are experiencing a very different "world" in college than they had in high school.

For my freshmen Biology students in particular, I hand out a survey that I have them fill out and return.  Some of the questions are straightforward:  names, prior classes taken, specific interests in the course material ahead, etc.  But others a different intention.

Specifically, I ask two questions in order:

What grade do you expect to earn in this course?

Notice the expression "earn"?  Because it is true:  I do not "give" grades; students "earn" them.  And it is vital to the concept of "ownership" that students internalize and appreciate this basic rule. 

And then:

How many hours per week, outside of lecture and laboratory sessions, will you devote to studying course material?

Obviously, most students don't think deeply, and respond to the first question with "an 'A'" and often add "...of course." Fair enough.

For the second question, I receive...interesting...answers.  Such as "10  hours a week."  Now, I am experienced enough in education to know better.  Such a statement has a different intention than a promise to spend time studying; I think the "meta-definition" is "I want to be identified by my professor as a serious student."

But it is important to me to have the statement about study time spent in my three ring binder.  And I am well aware that a student and yours truly might have very different definitions of "studying." For example, looking at PowerPoint slides while watching television is probably not an optimal strategy.  But that is my opinion, based on watching student performance.

Then comes the Dreaded First Exam™.  The class average for that exam is generally 78%.  But I find the course results are quite often bimodal, and there are a fair number of students who have not performed quite as well as they had hoped.  

I then begin to get requests for student conferences from students who have not performed to their personal standards.  Some of these students will have earned a 55% on that first exam, and are a little outraged---never having performed at that level in high school.

So I sit down with them.  I offer them candy (I find this helps).  I open the binder.  I listen closely and supportively to their concerns. And then I point to their page in my binder.

I look them in the eye.  "So, is this '10 hours a week' answer really true?  You truly do put ten hours a week---outside of lecture and lab---into studying for this class."

There is usually a pause.

"Friend," I go on.  "It's just you and me. I'm on your side. Tell me the truth."

They look down and usually admit to three hours a week.  Which means less, I know.

"Great!" I exclaim, with a big smile on my face.

They look confused.

"No, really," I continue.  "If you were putting ten hours a week into this course, and getting a 55%, I would be worried.  But that's not true.  I know exactly how to fix this!  You just need to study more, come to office hours, and so on.  We will work together on this. Problem solved!"

I shake their hands, beaming.  And it's not fakery:  hard work and partnering with the professor really is the answer.  

I go on to remind them of the class average, and I will often show them a histogram.  So it's not personal, and they can see that there are folks in the class who are meeting their personal goals.    

It's all about ownership.  If they put in the time, come to office hours, are engaged and so forth, things usually work out just fine. There are always exceptions, of course.  But I have found few of them using this approach.

And it is much kinder than the professor-cathartic though student-critical primer by the very tough Dr. Dutch of the University of Wisconsin!

In any event, this is the key:  getting students to see their role in the partnership between student and professor.  To get them onboard working together with professors/educators like you and me.  Why, they may even find they enjoy learning biology!

In any event, I strongly urge educators to try my "survey approach" to help students look at and evaluate their own role in our partnership.  Happy teaching!

Social Media, Syllabi, and Blowing Off Steam...

It has been a while since I blogged, and I do apologize for that.  It amazes me that some people enjoy reading my blog, based on the number of page views (they all aren't my family, after all)!  I will have some news about blogging to announce shortly.  And thanks to those of you who do read these entries!

It was quite an eventful summer, with a visit to my slowly recuperating father in Southern California, a last minute genomics workshop in Washington, D.C., and a trip to Florida with my family (including waverunning and parasailing and beachcombing, oh my...).  I kind of want classes to begin so I can get some rest!

As I was beginning to put materials together for my classes this Fall, like most people, I looked for other things to do.  Classical displacement behavior.  Social Media can be hugely useful or a huge distraction, but it is there regardless, and exerts an inexorable and near-tidal pull on my mind.

Many educators on Twitter like to blow off steam by talking "faux-tough" and generally acting quite differently than they do in the classroom.  This may not be wise, career-wise, but folks do need to blow off steam.  So do students, I know.  This almost "locker room" gender neutral behavior is common, healthy, and blows off steam (I keep repeating that phrase because many of us are under a certain degree of stress). There have been a couple of great examples on Twitter of this sort of thing recently, such as  #overlyhonestprotocols or #melodramaticlabnotebook.  Both made me laugh and wince in equal measure.

But the other evening, a Twitter hashtag #overlyhonestsyllabi became quite popular.  Many educators generated 148 characters of snarkiness on this topic, myself included (mine was bemoaning students turning in term papers that were not stapled, by threatening to deduct 5 points).  It was funny and snarky and not terrifically politically correct, as you can see here.

The hashtag certainly touched an academic nerve among educators! On the other hand, it occurred to the inimitable Dr. Isis that such a Twitter-plosion was a bit mean spirited and antithetical to what we claim to believe in and do when we teach.  Read her blog post here, which was insightful and heartfelt.

I do think that educators needs a certain degree of catharsis, such as the "tough love" Dr. Dutch's "Top Ten No Sympathy Lines." I also think it is good for students to see some of this; many students are surprised that professors are not "flexible" and do not realize that most educators were in fact flexible early in their careers...and have been burned multiple times into their pose of inflexibility.  As always the problem is simple: we focus on the 10% of students who don't need our help, or/and the 10% who "go ghost" on us during the term.  Yet we often tend to forget the 80% who are working hard, and are pushing to stay afloat and do well.

There must be some elegant quotation for this issue, but I sure cannot think of one right now.

I blogged earlier about an "extra credit" assignment I gave my freshman biology students during the Spring semester.  For the most part, these students were in the 80%.  And I was delighted by their creativity and hard work.  What is especially nice is that the University of Puget Sound's alumni magazine, Arches, chose to create a three page write up about that class and those students. You can read it here if you like (they understand the concept of "layout," unlike yours truly).

So even though many educators disdain extra credit, I am glad I gave that assignment.  It helped the students---in particular that important 80%---and it warmed my heart.

To the folks behind #overlyhonestsyllabi, I appreciate the moderately snarky posts.  They made me laugh.  To Dr. Isis, I appreciate the reality check.  You made me think!

Time to get back to syllabi building for my beloved Microbiology lecture and laboratory!  We will be doing some cool things, and I hope to blog about them here and elsewhere.

Stop Action Video, Bdellovibrio, and My Brilliant Spouse!

Summer research, paperwork, parental duties, family life.  It's a juggling act.  Things move quickly (I often say:  "Time doesn't fly; it flees").  I have some interesting ideas for microbially-oriented posts on this blog, but I need to get past this current tsunami of paper! Until then, here is something that happened today that is a lot of fun.

In my undergraduate-oriented research laboratory here at the University of Puget Sound, I work with students on several microbiology-related projects.  I have long had an interest in predatory microbes, including the wonderful and wily Bdellovibrio.  

Bdellovibrio has an interesting life cycle.  Free swimming "attack phase" cells swim very quickly  (up to 50 cell lengths per second) in search of prey.  When an "attack phase" cell contacts the "correct" prey (pretty much any Gram negative bacterium), it quickly enters the periplasm.  Swiftly, the predator modifies the outer membrane of the prey so that subsequent Bdellovibrio attacks do not occur readily.  It also begins to degrade prey cell macromolecules swiftly and quite efficiently.  The invading Bdellovibrio (nestled within the prey cell periplasm) causes the prey to "round up" into a structure called a bdelloplast.  After several hours, the depleted prey organism bursts, releasing a number of progeny Bdellovibrio cells.  And the Circle of Predatory Life™ begins anew.

It sounds like a super-bacteriophage, but in fact Bdellovibrio in attack phase has an extremely high metabolic rate as it chase prey.  So until we find some kind of girus with innate metabolism, this remains a good rule of thumb to exclude that "super virus" thinking.

Some researchers are beginning to think of Bdellovibrio as a "living antibiotic," and have begun investigations in chickens and other systems to see if the predator could be used to reduce pathogenic bacteria during infections.  

It's a challenging system with which to work, especially with undergraduates.  I have long loved working with "undomesticated microbes" but they do seem refractory to cool and simple molecular techniques.  I take it a little personally.  But Bdellovibrio is fascinating.  And my wife Jennifer Quinn, who is not only a brilliant mathematician but quite a creative artist, made the following "stop motion" video for me, using her iPad, an app called "Stop Motion," iTunes, iMovie, Play-Doh, and a whole lot of creativity:

I hope you enjoy her video as much as I did.  And keep in mind that microbial predation is quite widespread in nature.  Which brings us back to Jonathan Swift:

So, naturalists observe, a flea

Has smaller fleas that on him prey;

And these have smaller still to bite 'em;

And so proceed ad infinitum.

(from:  Poetry, a Rhapsody)

It's true that Swift was referring to editors in this very long poem, not predatory bacteria.  But Bdellovibrio is still a fascinating, fascinating system.  And predators and prey continue to do their coevolutionary dance, even among the tiniest of creatures!

Being a Father and Thinking About My Father on...Fathers' Day.

Wow, but it has been a busy summer this far!  Anyway, this post doesn't have a thing to do with microbiology.  Directly.  

June 16th is a very special day to me, and crowded with events.  It is "Bloomsday" from James Joyce's quite unusual novel "Ulysses."  Everybody seems to get in on the Joyce-ian act for that day, such as here and here.   It is also my birthday, which is less and less important to me with every passing year. In addition, it is my parent's anniversary, which seems to be growing in importance to me since my mother's death last October.  And this year, it is also Fathers' Day.  This is probably the most important holiday on that list for June 16th this year, since being a good father is vital, even if we fellows fall short of the goal from time to time.

So I would like to write a few words about my father, Jack Sevard Martin, Sr.  

My father was born in Marysville, California in July of 1931.  He was raised on a small farm, and took care of chickens, milked cows, butchered pigs, picked peaches, and helped feed his family during the Great Depression.  He was too young for World War II, and narrowly missed being drafted into the Korean War.  There is something of the soldier in my father, regardless.  In 1951, he married my mother, Wanda Jean Burton.  

When my father was fourteen, he had to start helping out at home to pay his way, and thus began going to school in the day and working at night.  My father was always, always about the work ethic.  As a boy, he worked as a ticket seller in a theater.  Cleaned floors in a department store at night.  Later, my father was a radio dispatcher for a trucking company.  When he realized that he couldn't really make a good living in Northern California, he moved to Southern California and drove trucks and eventually worked in the oil fields.  First my brother Jack was born, and then yours truly.  Dad worked even harder to provide for his family.

In the early 1960s, when my father was about 30 years old, he joined the Long Beach Fire Department.  There,  he found his niche.  These are my strongest memories of him. When I was a boy and a teenager, this is how I remember my father.

My father worked very hard at his job.  My father is not at all political (well, neither am I!), but continued to advance via hard work and excellence.  Eventually, he became a Captain of the LBFD, and finally a Battalion Chief.  During the run up to becoming a chief, my father finally earned his Bachelor's degree from Cal State Long Beach in his 50s (which still impresses the heck out of me).  After retirement, he worked for many years teaching Fire Science at local colleges, to help men and women prepare for careers in firefighting.  As I have mentioned, there is something of the military in my father, and he blossomed under the organized environment of the fire department.

Plus, he genuinely made a difference.  I mean, I enjoy teaching and doing research.  But I have no illusions about my job:  I save no lives.  My father---personally---has saved dozens of lives and delivered many babies during emergency situations.  Every day, he made the world better in concrete ways that can be listed and applauded.  So I respect him not just as my father, but as someone who is truly a hero.  And why not?  Firefighters run into burning buildings to save other people.  Can you think of a better definition of "bravery" and "hero"?  I can't. 

My father tries to present himself as an "aw shucks" simple man, but he is very intelligent, thoughtful, and introspective.  He despised people receiving special privilege, hated prejudice (despite his salty and non-PC language), and generally stood up for fairness.  When women first began to become firefighters (we used to call people in the profession "firemen"!), my father was at first troubled, growing up where and when he was. Yet when he met young women willing to work hard, and devote themselves to the goal of becoming a firefighter, who were honest and honorable, my father became a big supporter of women in that profession...at a time when that point of view was not common.  

A most unusual man, though he would say something rude in response to that complement, I'm sure.

My father has an unusual sense of humor.  Yes, he loves to tease, and I learned quickly to not take the bait.  I well remember playing the card game "Uno" with my parents on one occasion.  My father kept "saving up" cards that would force me to draw more cards from the deck, passing up opportunities to use them strategically.

"Dad," I finally said, "why are you doing this?  You keep burying me in cards and Mom wins every game."

"You don't understand," he replied with a grin, moving an ever-present toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other.  "I don't care who wins as long as you lose."  And my father would grin his faux-evil grin at me.  

Yes, it was about the teasing, but the teasing was a form of affection.  He never did that kind of thing to people he didn't know or didn't like.

There is a lot to say about my father, because he was and is a very complex and interesting man.  To my father, being honorable and honest were the cornerstones of life.  He might try to cheat me a bit at cribbage, but he was as honest as a Roman judge otherwise.  Very, very high standards.  And a burning hatred for unfairness.  My father had seen much unfairness in his life, and insisted on fairness in his own sphere of influence.  I feel much the same way, in my little laboratory and in my classroom.

My father loves little kids, and always has.  Teenagers are a different story, yet he was fair and honest with me.  Remember, this is a tough man who had little, who worked at least two jobs while I was growing up, and was tired all of the time.  Dealing with "Emo" children such as myself who didn't like sports and were not "tough" was probably not his favorite pasttime.  Yet I forgot that, as a Captain on the LBFD (while I was a teenager), my father had a great deal of experience dealing with young men not a whole lot older than yours truly.

Once, when I was sixteen, I had had my adolescent heart broken by a young lady.  Dieseling on testosterone fumes, I asked my father for advice.  My brother was in college, and my mother visiting her own mother in Northern California.  Dad sat down, lit up one of his menthol cigarettes (which he smoked because no one would steal any from him at the fire station), and asked me to explain the situation.  So I did, in all my Emo glory.

My father considered the situation.  Took a draw on his cigarette.  Blew out the smoke like a dragon, and observed "Jeez, kid, you got a lot of free time."

At first, I was angry that he didn't honor my existential despair.  But the truth was different.  My father explained to me that we all have limited time on this planet, and got to choose how to spend that time.  Did I really want to spend a whole lot of time on that particular issue?  Then he laughed at me and clapped me on the shoulder.

My father is kind of an Eric Hoffer type:  a working class type of  philosopher.  Seriously, Hoffer wrote things that my father often said (and Hoffer is well worth your time, incidentally).

Later on, when I attended UCLA, I had some trouble in my classes.  For the first time in my life, I earned some bad grades.  Part of that was due (again) to my dieseling on testosterone fumes, and being too proud to ask for help (after all, I did pretty well in high school).  This was before the FERPA laws, so that the postcards with my college grades would arrive home for parental review each quarter.

Times have changed.

So my second quarter grades arrived that winter, and they were, um, decidedly not stellar.  My mother, rest her soul, let me have it with both barrels.  I dreaded my tired, overworked father getting home from the fire station after a 72 hour shift and giving me the business, only more so.

I will never forget sitting at the small table in our kitchen on Poinsettia street in Long Beach, California that day.  My father, toothpick in mouth, tapping the postcards on the table top.  

"Is this the best you can do?" he asked evenly.

I started to defend myself, to explain myself.  Working up some righteous indignation, since no one could possibly understand my life and challenges.  Forestalling all of this, my father held up his other hand.

"If this is the best job you can do, son," he told me, "then I am proud of you.  No one, and I mean no one, can ask for more than your best."  He paused, and tapped the postcards again on the tabletop.

"So one more time," he asked, his green eyes on mine, "is this the best you can do?"

I mumbled a bit, and allowed that I could have done better.

"Very good," my father replied.  "Now, how can I help you to do better?"

He found out about one of the jobs I had taken on campus, because I felt badly asking for spending money.  My father worked out a deal with me. He would give me a little money under the table, and I would quit the extra job, and study more.  

Bit by bit, my grades improved, though not like the grades my much smarter brother earned.  I had to sweat it more, and that is okay.  My mother would point this out (I miss you, Mom, but it is true).  Dad never did.  Not once.

As a senior in college, I was amazed to learn that I had gotten into PhD programs all over the country (my brother had talked me into applying to places I would normally not have considered possible).  My grades were good in my Biology major, but overall quite pedestrian.  I had done very well indeed on the GRE.  And I surely did love research.  I guess some admissions committees saw my potential.  So I was so happy to share with my father all these acceptances.

My father almost never cries.  But there were tears in his eyes when he said, "Son, I am so very proud of you.  But I am ashamed to tell you that I just can't afford to send you to places like Yale or Stanford.  It's a big honor, but I just can't do it."  I could see how much that cost him to say.  Pride is expensive, but my father worked so very hard, and pride in what he had created for his family was reasonable.  

I explained to him that each letter referred to a stipend that would pay my way (modestly).  At Yale and Stanford, there were NIH training grants, for example, that would pay my tuition, fees, and provide a (very small) living stipend.  My father couldn't get his brain wrapped around that concept; when my brother went to law school, the idea of loans made sense....despite what my offer letters explained.  In fact, when my father drove up to Palo Alto with me to start my graduate career, his last words before he drove off were "If they screw you over, kid, call me collect and I'll get right up here."

And that's the point about my father.  The life I chose made no sense to him at all...yet he did his best to help me out.  I wasn't as hard of a worker.  I wasn't athletic.  I wasn't tough.  But what I was, was my father's youngest son.  That counts for much more than a father who did understand academia, I think.

I could tell my going to graduate school and earning a PhD was a big deal to my father.  He even got me---one of the few "surprise" gifts I have ever received---a graduate school class ring!  He bought an old book, hollowed it out, and hid the ring inside.  I wear it in his honor.

As my father grew older, and retired, and helped my mother with her long struggle with cancer, I think that I learned to appreciate and understand my father better with each passing year.  What most people do not understand about my father (and it is true for my brother and I both) is that he likes to make people laugh, but is in fact a very serious person...and not particularly upbeat.

But we do like to make other people laugh! 

Here is my father with one of the few genuine smiles I have seen on his face, except when he is hugging his grandchildren.

That is not quite the faux-evil grin, but similar.  He is a character, my father.  My goal, growing up, was to make him laugh.  From time to time, I was successful.    

My father is from a generation that was decidedly not "touchy-feely."  Thus, there were many things I could not comfortably discuss with him.  Yet, we bonded over my becoming a father.  I was late to the fatherhood game, having my sons at 42 and 45.  When I called my father with news of my first son Anson's birth, my father said "Kid, now you have the tough job:  you have to be his father, not his friend."

It took me a while to realize that he wasn't talking about me being a father, at all.

Years later, I was standing in front of my parent's house in Mission Viejo, California, chatting with my father.  Down the street, I saw a man cross the street with two little children, heading to the local park.  

My father pointed at the distant figures with his cigarette.  "That fellow," he told me, "got laid off six months ago.  His wife went back to work, and he looks after the kids."  After a couple of puffs, he said "What must the kids think?"

Without thinking myself, I replied "That their father is taking them to the park."

It took me a while to realize I wasn't talking about the people down the street, either.

To my father, work was everything.  And because he worked so hard, he missed a great deal of his sons growing up...and knew it.  But he had to provide for his family.  That was Job #1.  

In 2005, when my sons were small, my wife and I moved to Tacoma, Washington.  And from that distance, my father got to see my children growing more quickly than I did, since I was there every day.  For example, here are Anson and Zachary the day before we moved to Tacoma:

And here they are on Friday, the last day of 7th grade for Anson, and the last day of 4th grade for Zachary:

There is a saying I like:  Time doesn't fly, it flees.

In every conversation with my father, he has emphasized being a good father, the best father possible.  He always cautions me that no one is perfect, but to do my best.  Even as my mother became very ill, and finally passed away.  And afterwards.  In each conversation I have with my father, he discusses how to be a good father with me, the ups and downs, the challenges and the successes.  I treasure those conversations.  I never thought I could have had those conversations with him, growing up.  

It was very sad to lose my mother, of course, and I have written about it before.  But I am glad that I talk with my father frequently, and that he came up to see us last Thanksgiving.  Here is a shot of he and I (with my hambone youngest son photo-bombing us in the back).

And here he is with my sons.  That is probably the most genuine smile I have ever seen from him.

Starting in January, my father has been fighting respiratory diseases.  He has been hospitalized twice, and has good days and bad days.  Our goal is to get him home, as soon as he can take care of himself (with some folks to help out with physical therapy and such).  

Hospitals are not fun for patients.  My uncle arranged for my father to have an iPad, and my brother's son Justin Martin has been teaching my father how to use it.  I hope that will help my father feel more connected.  Here he is today, enjoying some, um, non-hospital approved food (well, Carl's Junior is pretty good).

He is tired, and on the mend, but that's my Dad!

So, Dad, let me take this opportunity to say "thank you" for providing me with a home, for honoring my education (and helping out a lot), for standing by me through thick and through thin.  I would like to be 50% of the father you have been to me, to my own sons.  Whenever I feel stressed, I remember what you dealt with, and successfully.  Salute!

I read a lot of science fiction.  There is a great novella, written by Steven Popkes, called "The Egg."  In this story, a little boy is looked after by a strange alien creature called Gray.  Gray teaches the little boy important lessons, and none so important as what the alien calls "the three loves."

To Gray the alien nanny, the three loves are "Love of family, love of work, and love of duty...and always, always in that order."

My father would say much the same.

Happy Fathers' Day, Dad!  I can't wait until you get home from the hospital, so we can play some cribbage.  My family up here in Tacoma loves you, and most especially so do I.

Graduation, Richard Feynman, and Choosing the Right Career

Because we just had graduation here at the University of Puget Sound (even though I was out of state at the ASMCUE and ASM meetings), the idea of student potential and career choices has been much on my mind.  Especially as a I grade final exams of freshmen!

Then I saw this wonderful image on Facebook.

Thanks to advice from talented science artist and all around cool dude Glendon Mellow, I have been trying to chase down images and give them proper credit in blog posts and elsewhere (it makes sense:  I don't like it when people steal images from my CafePress site---it's insulting to the wonderful artist Kaitlin Reiss as well as yours truly).  It turns out the image was to be found here, with a nice explanation I suggest interested folks marvel at as they read.  The image of an atom itself, complete with wave function---a tiny periscope into the spooky quantum world!  Amazing!

This image reminded me of a wonderful essay by the late, great Richard Feynman (background information here and here).  Feynman's books, essays, and videos have long had quite an impact on me.  

But first, a typically Feynman story, that actually happened to me as an undergraduate.  In the 1970s, when dinosaurs ruled the planet (according to my students), I was an undergraduate at UCLA.  I had always loved science, and the ideas of astrophysics enthralled me.  Even though I struggled with higher mathematics, I felt drawn to the field.

After winning his Nobel Prize in 1965, the always iconoclastic and unusual Feynman came to hate the adulation and attention he received.  So he would often give seminars "incognito," using an assumed name, to actually meet with real students instead of acolytes.  Thus, he came to UCLA to give a lecture on "The Structure of the Atom," but I had been clued in by a friend in the Physics Department:  it was Feynman, he of the "Feynman Lectures in Physics!"

Oh, such a lecture that day!  Feynman was exactly, precisely, as he was in the videos that many of you have seen, and that I adore:  theatrical, fast, irreverent, and full of fun.  Not at all stodgy or arrogant, though he was clearly brilliant beyond words.  Complicated things like quantum electrodynamics suddenly seemed straightforward, real, clearly correct as he paced the stage.  Feynman was a little younger at the time, but this video gives the best flavor of how he talked with undergraduates like myself.  The lesson in that particular video has stayed with me for a lot of years. If you haven't seen it, I recommend you watch it, and smile...as I always do when I see it.

And I got to talk with Feynman after his talk, Styrofoam coffee cup in my hand, untasted.  He looked at me, really looked, and for once I wasn't tongue tied in front of famous people.  Feynman was interested in what people thought.  Even me.  So I told him that I loved his lecture, but that I was sad, because though I could see the outlines of his ideas (such as his wonderful artistic manner of describing quantum electrodynamics), I didn't "speak the language" of mathematics.  And I was coming to the sad conclusion that I never would.  I was a blind man admiring a rainbow, or so it felt to me.

My wife is a mathematician, and doesn't believe me, but I strongly feel that "getting" higher mathematics is a knack, and that you must have the talent for it, like music or athletics.  And I could see the forest of what physics meant, but not the trees themselves, to mix my metaphors.

Feynman just smiled at my emotional outburst.  "Kiddo," he told me (and he talked just like that), "Don't sweat it.  Find what you love in science, and do that.  You'll know it when you see it."

Then he looked from side to side, that impish grin growing on his face, and back at me.  "Besides," he said, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, "Most physicists?  Putzes."

I didn't know any Yiddish, but I got his point. We both laughed, and he shook my hand. 

And so I delved into biology in the coming years, and found my One True Professional Love:  the microbial world.  I believe what Feynman told me:  you have to have a passion for the science you do, and you will know it when you find it.  You can't help it.  You will burn to know more, to "get it," to tell everyone about it.  The New Age writer and pseudo-guru, Carlos Castaneda, called it "a path with heart."  And so it is, for me.  I knew, just knew, that microbiology was my calling.  Which is why I get called a microbial supremacist, I suppose. 

Which brings us back to the photograph of the atom, above.

I have read a lot of books about Richard Feynman, because I admire much about his approach to science, and clear love of life.  Plus, he just makes me laugh.  But there is a book about him that means a great deal to me personally:  "Feynman's Rainbow:  the Creative Mind," by Leonard Mlodinow, written in 2003.  Mlodinow was a postdoctoral scholar in physics at Caltech toward the end of Feynman's life.  Mlodinow kept looking for wisdom from Feynman (and who can blame him?), even though his efforts sometimes appeared to irritate the scientist, then ill with cancer.  At the end of the book, Mlodinow talks with Feynman about how a person can know she or he are studying the right thing in science, both as a topic and as a career.  

I have read the excerpt that follows to many people in my life, and handed out dozens of copies of the book to undergraduate students.  To me, it is like a lamp shining the way to, again, a "path with heart."   The passage summarizes how I feel about science and about life.  I know that my brother Jack Martin understands why this is so important to me.  I'm pretty sure that my friend Gregory Benford sees it clearly, since he is a physicist, too, and has known me for many years.  I hope that my wife Jennifer Quinn sees how this is at my center as a person.  And I pray that my sons learn the lessons contained.

I don't know if it actually happened the way that Mlodinow describes, but it is very reminescent of my own short conversation with Feynman so many years before.  Regardless, it hit me like a ton of bricks.  Mlodinow starts first, with Feynman replying.

"Okay, then . . . thanks for all the . . . conversations we've had. Whether or not you've taught me anything, I've enjoyed them." 

"Look, if you're going to insist that I've taught you something, I guess I should give you a final exam." 

"Really?"

"One question."

"Sure."

"Go look at an electron microscope photograph of an atom, okay? Don't just glance at it. It is very important that you examine it very closely. Think about what it means."

"Okay."

"And then answer this question. Does it make your heart flutter?"

"Does it make my heart flutter?"

"Yes or no. It's a yes or no question. No equations allowed."

"All right, I'll let you know."

"Don't be dense. I don't need to know. You need to know. This exam is self-graded. And it's not the answer that counts, it's what you do with the information."

We locked eyes. His younger face flashed in my mind. The energetic, smiling bongo drum player I had seen pictured in the front of his book, The Feynman Lectures on Physics. A question popped from my lips.

"Do you have any regrets?" I said.

Feynman didn't snap back that it was none of my business. He didn't do anything for a moment. I wondered if he would open up about his frustration with quantum chromodynamics. But then his eyes welled up with tears.

"Sure," he said. "I regret that I might not live to see my daughter, Michelle, grow up."

That passage always makes me emotional on a number of levels.  Which brings me back to career choices for students.

It's easy for students to begin research projects like a job, instead of a calling.  But science is an unusual profession:  it's like a love affair with the universe.  Sometimes the universe loves you back.  Other times, it is unrequited love.  For me, I just knew...even if I am not at an RO1 institution with graduate students and postdocs.  So I teach undergraduates, and have a small research program with them.  There are many things I cannot do, but at the same time, many things I can.  

And I know in my bones that it is the best, the only, job for me.  So I tell my students as they graduate, hoping they will find the same path I did, to a profession that they adore.

And Feynman was right:  ask yourself if what you plan to do for a career excites you.  If it makes your heart flutter.  Because, if it does, it is indeed a "path with heart."  

ASMCUE, Citizen Science, and a Surprise!

It's important to go to scientific conferences, especially if one teaches and does research in a small liberal arts institution.  It can be easy to lose that "spark" of enthusiasm for science, or the ability to network/share experiences with colleagues, otherwise.  I try to go to two sets of meetings per year:  the West Coast Bacterial Physiologists conference in Asilomar, California in December, and the dual American Society for Microbiology General Meeting and the American Society for Microbiology Conference for Undergraduate Educators in May or June.  The latter two conferences are usually back-to-back or overlap for one day.

I have been attending ASMCUE meetings for quite a few years now.  I have developed strong friendships and a network of colleagues with whom I can share ideas or gain advice about microbiology education.  This year, the ASM-sponsored conferences were both held in Denver, Colorado.  It was a lovely time---I had a chance to attend exciting "cutting edge" talks, catch up with old friends and colleagues, make new friends, physically meet with fellow microbiology enthusiasts from Twitter (whom I call "microtweeple" or "microtweeps"), and even visit with former students attending the meetings (which is the big payoff for me, as an educator) or otherwise living near Denver.

During ASMCUE, I was quite excited to attend a wonderful talk on "Citizen Science." This idea---outreach of science to the public, or even how to obtain a bit of funding from the public---is increasingly important, not simply because external funding is difficult to get these days.  More important, I think, is the ability to inform the public of what we do in the lab, that it is exciting, and why they should care that we do science in the first place!  We often hear that the public doesn't "understand science."  This may or may not be true; what is true is that we scientists can and should do something about it.  Outreach can be a large part of this strategy, and it is increasingly clear to me that the public is receptive.  

Dr. Nicole Garneau, of the Denver Museum of Nature and Science, has a fascinating project in which she involves the public:  the genetics of taste perception.  Dr. Garneau was enthusiastic, energetic, and a superb spokesperson for "citizen science."  During her talk, she described the myriad ways in which the public could become involved with science, and the benefits---direct and indirect---of doing so.  During her talk, Dr. Garneau briefly mentioned how students could explore the connection between science and art in an educational setting, and showed a familiar image from my own past!

  
Yes, that is an image of my former student Kayla, who extracted pigments from bacteria and then created paintings using those pigments---joining microbiology and art in an effective and evocative fashion.  I took the above photograph myself, and realized Dr, Garneau had found it on my own blog post describing the linkage of art and pedagogy and microbiology!

Surprised and a bit excited, I stood up during the talk, and exclaimed "I know that student!"

Dr. Garneau (whom I had never met) smiled and replied "And I know you, Mark Martin."  She then had a few kind words about my blog and that particular post.  In fact, I asked Dr. Garneau if she would pose next to that slide after her talk.  She did so, charmingly, as you can see:

The point here goes beyond my feeling flattered that anyone, let alone Dr. Garneau, reads this blog.  It demonstrates that we are all connected via social media, and often in ways we might not expect.  And it underscored Dr. Garneau's larger point, that there are many ways in which science and the public can engage one another in productive and interesting ways.

It was quite a nice feeling for me, to be honest.  And I contacted Kayla who was very excited to learn that a small side-project she and I had carried out a couple of years ago still created some buzz outside Tacoma, Washington.

Albert Einstein is reputed to have said "If you cannot explain what you do to your grandmother, you do not understand it yourself."  There is much truth to that, regardless if it is an accurate quotation. As scientists, we must "preach" about our science to students and the public.  We rely on science in modern society, and increasingly so.  One way to help the "outreach" of science to society is by approaches such as those championed by Dr. Garneau and others involved in "citizen science."

I should add that there was an entire (and quite exciting) session on "Citizen Science" at the ASM General Meeting later that week.  Dr. Jonathan Eisen of UC Davis co-Chaired an entire session on that topic, which was quite remarkable.  He describes it here.

Do give some thought about how to best explain the excitement of your field of research to others---other scientists, students, and the educated layperson.  It is an important part of being a scientist, I think.  Perhaps one of the most important parts of being a scientist, in fact.