Neil and Apollo

 

                I was out of town when the news hit that Neil Armstrong, the first man on the moon, had passed away.  Quite stunned, I sat there for a few minutes thinking about the grainy moon images we have all seen and wondering what it felt like to climb down the steps of the lunar module.  Neil couldn’t tell us anymore.  In fact, the number of people who can describe that feeling to us are quickly dwindling.  

                The United States race to the moon began with a speech by JFK.  At age 16, I bought what was arguably the most defining book in my life: “A Man on the Moon” by Andrew Chaikin.  It was the first non-fiction book I ever devoured willingly and the first time my mother said, “That’s an odd book.”  (This phrase has been uttered by her countless times in my life since.)  My library has grown since that book to include nonfiction and fiction books on all topics, but none stand out to me quite like this inaugural tome.  And inside, you’ll find that I diligently outlined JFK’s inspiring words.  At this point, it’s almost unnecessary for me to read them; they are devoted to my memory:

                We choose to go to moon!  We choose to go to the moon in this decade and do the other things – not because they are easy, but because they are hard.  Because that goal will serve to organize and measure the best of our abilities and skills, because that challenge is one that we are willing to accept, one we are unwilling to postpone, and one which we intend to win… (pg 2)

               

                What I found most fascinating about the early Apollo astronauts was that they were not scientists.  Looking up at the moon or Mars these days, most people want to know what is there, is water present, has life ever scurried its way across the surface?  We can all agree that these are scientific questions that need to be probed in thoughtful ways.  However, the Apollo program was simply about getting to the moon.  Neil Armstrong, Buzz Aldrin, Mike Collins (forgotten Mike!), Jim Lovell, Ken Mattingly, etc. were all military pilots.  Their skills were in flight.  They offered up their talents to try and progress Kennedy’s message and push themselves to limits beyond Earth.  Simply reading the passages describing the Eagle’s landing is enough to remind you that, at least in these early days, scientists had no place on the moon yet.

                Fifty feet above the moon.  Now thirty.  Eagle was drifting slowly backward and Armstrong did not know why, but he knew he must not land while he could not see where he was going.  He pulsed the hand controller, struggling to arrest the unwanted motion.  He was displeased with himself, sure that he was not flying Eagle smoothly.  He wished he could buy more time, but he was too low on fuel to slow the descent any further.  Twenty feet to go.  He’d stopped the backward drift but still wrestled with a sideways motion that had crept in.  They were flying the dead man’s curve now, too low to abort if the engine quit, but in the back of his mind, Armstrong knew that if that happened, they’d be okay, they would just fall to the moon… (pg 199)

                Once landing on the moon, there was the complicated reunion with the command module to plan and then a trip through the Earth’s atmosphere down to the Pacific Ocean.  The fact that we landed on the moon at all is a testament to so many things: human ingenuity, desire to break through barriers, skill at designing and flying machines, team work, and just plain courage.  Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin are only the most visible of that program.  Thousands of people worked to get them there and many egos were on board to fulfill this dream.  By all accounts, Armstrong was a quiet, humble and shy man.  I don’t believe that they could have picked a better person to become the face of discovery.

                Harrison Hagan Schmitt, called Jack, was the first geologist to turn astronaut.  Five other geologists joined Schmitt in training and they were all outsiders to the other pilots.  These men first needed to learn to fly, which many of them did, but they face challenges at being accepted.  After earning some respect, the tragedy of Apollo 13 followed, further pushing the desire for a scientist-turned-pilot on these missions to farthest corners.  Instead, geologists trained the astronauts on geological points.  Dave Scott, in particular, carried the rally cry of the scientists, was their advocate, and pushed the core to train appropriately for a scientific, not merely a flying, mission.  Jack Schmitt finally flew to the moon on Apollo 17, the final mission for the program.  

                Since then, the merging of science and flight has come a long way.  Almost every shuttle mission had scientific experiments that were carried out while the Internal Space Station is continually probing the confines of space.  The Apollo missions helped shape the mold between pilot and scientist and began a lifetime of working together.  If the Apollo program doesn’t inspire you, then at least be inspired by the idea of what humans can do when they put their might to a task.

                In Mattingly’s mind what stands out most is what happened to him not in space but on earth.  “It was being part of a team that was dedicated to something that transcended individual aspirations.  That’s what Apollo was.  It was thousands of people who were willing to work day and night… You can’t imagine what that’s like compared to an everyday experience. (pg 579)

I believe we’ll go back to the moon one day, whether by force or interest.  We hardly learned enough on our time there.  While Mars is a bit more “sexy” at this time, I think what we learn on Mars will force us to ask questions about the Earth and the moon.  Some people say that we shouldn’t waste money on NASA when there are problems on Earth to be fixed.  The same could have been said during the times of Columbus or Captain Cook.  Exploration is natural.  Questioning our reality helps us understand ourselves, our world, and our existence.  Sometimes you must step outside your own surroundings to understand the bigger message.

Thank you to Neil Armstrong, all the Apollo, Gemini, Mercury and Space Shuttle astronauts.  You inspired so many to think beyond what we all thought was possible.

 

REFERENCES

Chaikin, Andrew. “A Man on the Moon.” 1994, Penguin Putnam Inc.  New York, New York.

                The forward of this book was written by Tom Hanks

                This book serves as the basis for the HBO mini-series “From the Earth to the Moon.”

The Future

This is an interesting post to write mostly because I’m at an interesting place in my life.  Science careers don’t unfold quite the way other careers seem to.  Or, more likely, I went into all of this without a well-formed plan.  I don’t know – life doesn’t always follow your plans so am I really at that much of a disadvantage?  I tend to believe not.  To distract myself from panicking and/or second guessing my own future, I’m trying to pull pieces of wisdom from each step in my career thus far that will eventually be stitched together into a quilt of my own experiences.  

My science career began with a desire to prove myself.  I’ve told you before that I chose chemistry as my major in college because I wanted a challenge.  I wanted to leave school with a degree that made me immensely proud.  I succeeded whole-heartedly and learned the joy that comes with pushing yourself to the limits of your own brain.  

Unfortunately for me, I never chose chemistry because I had a long term career vision.  I didn’t have a ladder scribbled away in some diary where graduating from college with a bachelor’s in chemistry was the first rung on an extended trip to glory.  It was just a personal choice at a time when I was learning who I was.  

As a technician, I was thrown full force into the life of a scientist.  College hadn’t prepared me for that (sorry, but it didn’t and, unless you work day in and day out in a lab, then nothing will).  I was a very passive participant in the whole ordeal.  Since I wasn’t in college anymore, life dictated that I needed a job and a source of income.  I applied for employment that matched my experiences, which included entry-level positions working in academic research.  I received an offer and I took it; bam.  The only part of this that was an active decision was my choice to live in Boston, but that wasn’t even science related – I wanted to be close to my high school friends.  

After two years, I was intrigued.  I thought Ph.D. scientists were brilliant and I wanted to be like them.  Somewhere during those two technician years, I finally decided that I wanted to go to graduate school.  I learned from college that pushing my limits gave me great satisfaction while passively thumping along brought me little, so I decided to challenge myself again.  

Graduate school was amazing.  I’m the only one who loved it (I swear), but it gave me an amazing sense of accomplishment.  I can easily say that those six years were some of the happiest of my life.  I learned to think, I learned to reason, I learned to ask questions and find answers, I learned to trust my instincts and myself, and, more than anything, I learned that if I put my mind to something, I really can do it.   However, I missed one important lesson that wouldn’t become clear to me until recently.  I chose a research project in graduate school about which I was deeply passionate.  I underappreciated how crucial this was to my success.

Following graduate school, I found myself in familiar territory: I needed employment.  I chose the path of least resistance: staying in the comforts of my favorite city (Philadelphia, PA) and becoming a post doctoral associate.  I did branch out beyond my graduate school research interests, but otherwise, I passively followed the path that scientists before me had laid out: college > technician > graduate school > post doc > academic PI.  If I ever wanted a ladder to lead me to success, this was the one to follow.

I’ve been unhappy for two years.

           Interestingly, I now know that I’m rebelling against the formula.  When I look back on the past thirteen years since my fateful decision to pick a chemistry major, I need to trust what I’ve learned.  I’m happiest when challenged.  My best decisions come from stepping outside my comfort zone into a new area of interest, but being unsure of success there.  Trailblazing, making my own paths, and creating my own sphere of experiences appeal to me more than passively ticking off the pre-determined boxes that lead directly to a pre-determined place.  I will work tirelessly on a passionate cause, but only half-heartedly on something I have only minimal interest.  I can ask the right questions (is this the right path for me?) and find the right answers (I don’t think so at this time).  My graduate advisor often let us wander off course during research in the hopes of finding our way back, but carrying new experiences and wisdom on our shoulders.

Finally, after all this time and with the highlighted points in mind, I’ve written my own career plan, complete with erasure marks and arrows delineating exit strategies or loops back to places I might want to revisit.  I’m excited, hopeful, and terrified all at once.  The next rung on my ladder is to take a break from bench science and move over into scientific publishing.  While I started this blog because I loved the idea, it was also an excuse for me to read outside my research areas.  I have so many scientific interests and I want more knowledge about all of them.  I feel strongly that, in the end, this breadth of knowledge is best thing that I can do for myself as a scientist.  Working the bench does not allow for a lot of extra reading time, but what you learn by reading outside your own field allows you to be a more diverse researcher and have greater understanding of science as a whole.  If you’ve read my first post, then you know it’s equally important to me for others outside science to have a large scientific knowledge base.  I want to do both: I want to read academic science at its height and I want to pass that knowledge to those who aren’t in science.  I want to be on the cutting edge, see what is going on in different fields, identify exciting new areas, and then tell others about it.  The passion for me is the writing and all the things I will learn; the challenge is now understanding a wide array of science fields and mastering the job of an editor; the trailblazing is that this is a veer from tradition and my decisions that follow this experience will probably be less than orthodox.

They say that “knowing is half the battle,” and they are correct.  I know this is what I want to do, but now I have to find a job.  Wish me luck!

REFERENCES

Me, myself, and I 

 

Twitter

I've joined Twitter.

With some things in my life winding down and other things just beginning, I've decided it's time to up my readership.  Twitter seems to be a good way to go about it.

Check me out at @AmedeoBlog.

London Olympics 2012

                The Olympics come but once every four years … or two years since the fateful switch in the 1990s where we saw the Winter Olympics held in 1992 (Albertville) and 1994 (Lillehammer).  Being born in 1980, I don’t think I became aware of the Olympics as an interesting event until Atlanta 1996.  Who didn’t fall in love with Kerri Strug that year?  I also have this image in my head of a hundred Atlanta children exclaiming “Y’all come back now, y’hear?” at the Closing Ceremonies.  To be fair, I was aware of the epic Nancy Kerrigan/Tonya Harding Slugfest 1994, but mostly because Nancy’s crying face was on every newspaper in the country.  Sadly, I was completely oblivious to the Sydney 2000 Olympics being as I was a junior in college and had more pressing things to do (drink… don’t judge).  I still think the Beijing Olympics of 2008 were fascinating and I’m nostalgic for awesomely named venues like “The Birdnest” and “The Watercube.”  Somehow London 2012’s “North Greenwich Arena” leaves something to be desired.

                Recently a friend recommended the application Viggle to me so I’ve been watching entirely too much of the London coverage while desperately trying to earn points towards Barnes and Noble giftcards (I have an addiction).  I haven’t enjoyed the Games this much since Dominque Moceanu gymnasticked her way through “The Devil Went Down to Georgia.”  

                So… being in the Olympic spirit, I decided to provide you with an Olympic-themed post.  Enjoy!

London

                The Royal Society in London is one of those organizations that I’ve wanted to research further due to its rich history.  Loosely strung together in the 1640s, it officially came into existence in 1660.  Of the twelve founding members, one was Robert Boyle (he was important in my Absolute Zero post).  This was a grouping of scientific men who discussed theories, hosted lectures, and published their works.  It’s been influential and high brow since its inception.

                King Charles II provided the society with a royal charter in 1662.  While that seems important, my interest was piqued by another important happening that year: the society received a paper for publication outlining a technique for making sparkling wine (aka champagne).  The method was developed not by a Frenchman, but by a one Christopher Merrett.  He was born in Gloucestershire, England and died in Hatton Garden.  Dom Perignon, widely considered to be the father of champagne, didn’t have a protocol for making the beverage until 1697. I don’t think I need to further spell out the irony of this situation.

Gold

                Who doesn’t like gold?  Have you seen the price of gold recently?  Good gracious – I have to buy a piece of white gold jewelry, but it’s not happening soon.  Apparently a lot of people like gold right now.  

And what’s not to like?  Elemental gold is rather content to hang out by itself.  It doesn’t react readily with other earthly components and will, as such, stay pure gold for the majority of its lifetime.  However, an elixir (of sorts) exists that will dissolve gold and platinum: aqua regia.  Meaning “royal water,” it got its name because it could melt away some of the finest metals worn by royalty.  

How it works I will leave for another post, but I did come across an interesting use for aqua regia.  At the beginning of World War II, Neils Bohr was in Copenhagen and protecting two Nobel Prize medals from Nazi hands.  Smuggled out of Germany in direct defiance of Nazi decrees, Bohr could not be found with them.  Given that German soldiers were now marching on Copenhagen, a fast and desperate decision had to be made.  Georgy de Hevesy, a Hungarian chemist in Bohr’s lab, dropped the medals into aqua regia.  They dissolved slowly, causing much stress and panic among the scientists, but both eventually did dissolve completely and the flasks of pale yellow liquid were stored safely on a shelf while the Nazis tore the laboratory apart.  

Amazingly, the bottles remained undisturbed during the war.  Upon returning, de Hevesy reversed the chemistry to bring back out the solid gold.  In 1952, the Nobel Foundation recast the medals for Max von Laue (1914 Physics winner) and James Franck (1925 Physics winner), the original owners.  

Silver

                Google “silver and medicine.”  The sheer volume of results in astounding.  I did not know that silver was considered an antibiotic – did you?  I also didn’t know that silver’s medical uses have a history that stretches back into Roman times!  I found an article that summarizes the many uses of silver across the times here.  A few highlights: Persian kings would not drink water unless it was carried in silver containers and it continued to be used as a preservative up through World War II.  Interestingly, both the gold and silver medals at the London Olympics are 92.5% silver – good to know in case you need it.  

               Also, McKayla?  Wear that silver proudly.  We all watched your previous four vaults - you're the best even if yesterday wasn't your day.

Bronze

                Most people will never win an Olympic medal or even be in the running for one.  It seems like just being on the podium would be enough for a lot of us.  However, thinking of the crying Russians this past week in the women’s gymnastics team and all-around finals, I have to conclude that silver was not something they felt good about.  I even read an article that said Viktoria shoved her silver medal in her jacket pocket instead of continuing to wear it.  On the flip side, 27 year old Beth Tweddle won the bronze medal in today’s uneven bar final.  She has been competing on the international stage for nearly a decade (an eternity in this sport), but had yet to earn an Olympic medal.  According to what I’ve read, she was thrilled with her victory.

                In 1995, three social psychologists set out to answer this question: Who is happier: a silver medalist or a bronze medalist?  The answer was a resounding “bronze!”  Silver medalists are heartbroken at being so close to gold while bronze medalists are thrilled to just make the top three.  I will, however, happily accept any Olympic medal anyone wants to give me. 

Enjoy the rest of the London 2012 Olympics!!

REFERENCES

London: http://royalsociety.org/about-us/history/

London: http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2012019/French-Champagne-invented-British-doctor-Christopher-Merret.html

 

Gold: http://www.npr.org/blogs/krulwich/2011/10/03/140815154/dissolve-my-nobel-prize-fast-a-true-story    

Silver: http://tse.colloidalsilverkillsviruses.com/pdf/history.pdf

Silver: ^ DeMarco, Anthony (26 July 2012). "London's Olympic Gold Medal Worth The Most In The History Of The Games". Forbes. Retrieved 30 July 2012.

Bronze: http://www.jiskha.com/social_studies/psychology/almost_made_it.html

 

Bronze: http://www.nbcolympics.com/news-blogs/gymnastics/tweddle-medal-good-as-gold.html

 

Things you’d think we know… but we don’t.

                “Hey, do you want to be an expert witness?” my husband asked me one night.

                “Maybe,” I answered suspiciously.  “What am I an expert on?”

                “Aluminum,” he said rather matter-of-factly.  I, however, started laughing.

                “Oh, I am?  Says who?”

                “Everyone!  You have a Ph.D. in chemistry!”  I could tell from his response that he wasn’t kidding.  I simply smiled and shook my head.

                “I’m not that kind of chemist,” I explained.  “I do biological chemistry.”

                “Aren’t they same?  Aluminum’s a chemical and you know about chemicals.”

                “Not really,” I sighed.

                Oh, there are so many things that I do not know; my incomplete knowledge of the earth’s soft metals is only the tip of the iceberg.  This exchange highlighted one of the many misconceptions about a regular scientist’s knowledge and skill set.  Having a degree in science doesn’t mean that I know everything about every kind of science.  Physics isn’t the same as either molecular biology or cellular biology, nor are those two the same as each other.  Just as a neurologist has a different knowledge base than an orthopedic surgeon, such does a chemist, biologist, physicist and astronomer.   

                “Okay, can you be an expert on explosives?” he asked with greater enthusiasm.

                I just stared at him blankly.

                While walking around lab this past week, I paid attention to the things that my colleagues and I didn’t know that would probably be interesting to those outside of my field.  We all have notions about other professions.  I’m rather certain that my lawyer husband spends all day/every day reading thick legal books and that my chef brother-in-law has encountered every food-stuff ever to grace this earth.  They can tell you why I’m wrong about them, but I’ll dispel some common misconceptions that I run into about scientists.

We’re excellent at math.

                The first day in my graduate lab, an older student asked me to calculate something.  When I asked for a calculator, he looked at me like I suggested nailing my hand to a wall.  When I mumbled that even a pen and piece of paper would be helpful, he sighed and told me the number I needed with a “do better next time” look.  I was humbled.  And scared.  Was everyone in science like this??

                Turns out, the answer is a resounding no.  Even for the simplest of calculations, I still pull out a piece of paper to set up the basic algebra.  I have to.  Others feel similarly, but choose their gloved hand instead of paper for writing out equations.  While a technician, my boss would often write all over his glove, circle the important numbers, and then promptly throw the glove away before doing the experiment.  He’d then pull out another glove and do it all over again.

                Members of my graduate lab predominantly kept to themselves when doing work, but my post doctoral lab is more … incestuous … about experiments; everyone’s in each other’s business.  In turn, this means that we’re all checking each other’s math.  I’ve become the de facto checker because I’m the chemist; most of the biologists would rather think about more abstract things than if they added the right amount of reagents.  I’m not sure if one of my labmates even owns a calculator – he just avoids experiments that require any kind of quantitation.

We’re not social.

                The stories are out there; I know you’ve heard them.  Little can top the blurb posted on my Facebook wall last week about a lively dinner involving several physicists and my friend Jay.  Apparently Jay discovered that those of the physics variety would rather watch white-water rafting (for hours) on the internet than partake because it was less dangerous.  I believe they also squared away that drugs and rock-n-roll are bad for everyone and that long awkward pauses enlighten even the most dismal dining experiences.  I can’t tell you how hard I laughed at this because, while I understand that these people exist, they are not the norm.  I promise.

                Granted, scientists tend to be a little nerdier than most (we read constantly and understand the terms “nanoparticle” and “western blotting”), but we also have frustrations that drive us to the bars just like the lawyers, med students, and financiers of the world.  I don’t think I’ve ever gone to as many happy hours or been anywhere near as social in my life as I was while working on my Ph.D.  I went out with members of other labs several nights a week and had lively conversations.  Okay, it was a lot about our jobs, but mostly our boss frustrations or teaching nightmares.  We rarely bemoaned that our ethanol precipitations of DNA didn’t work and we most definitely didn’t discuss abstract theories unless to say “It makes no sense!”  Often the loudest or the largest group in our favorite bars, we had befriended most of the bartenders, were well-known and well-liked.

                Life is quieter now that I don’t work at a university, but if getting scientists to some sort of event is necessary, alcohol and not making the topic extra ridiculously nerdy is always a good call; the normals from all labs will be drawn out to have a fun time together.  Unfortunately, those physicists up there won’t make it, but their labmates will and we’ll have a good laugh at everyone’s expense.

We always understand the results of our experiments.

                In a recent group meeting, one of my labmates gave a presentation where he openly stated that he got a result that no one in our lab understood immediately.  It was most definitely the truth because the result was so strange.  My PI announced he was uncomfortable with such a public statement of ignorance and that my labmate should re-tailor this area of the presentation.  Myself and another labmate asked why admitting limited knowledge, especially on something that no one had ever encountered before, was a bad thing.

                The entire point of science is to push the boundaries of what we know and understand.  It’s what makes a graduate student get up at 5am to go to lab or a post doctoral associate cry at night when his data isn’t good enough for a Nature paper.  It’s what we live and breathe on a daily basis.  Sure, we go into an experiment having assumptions on how it’s going to turn out, but that’s most definitely not always what happens.  However, even when we get some screwy results, we are usually able to frame them in the context of previously known science.  But, ever so rarely, we do come across data that defies logical explanation.  In short, the community’s knowledge cannot offer any sort of framework.  These moments are rare and to be celebrated.  It was this type of situation my labmate was describing and we have every right to say “WTF is that?”  

                An undergraduate student at that same lab meeting said her friends often ask her why we haven’t found the cure for cancer yet if we know so much.  The answer is obvious, we don’t know everything yet.  Given the complexities that are constantly being discovered about our cells, proteins, DNA, and environmental interaction, I sometimes wonder if we ever will.

REFERENCES

Me, myself and I