How I came to study science in college and my experience doing so.
By Red Sox Steve
Right around the time I was a high school sophomore, I started to understand that it would be a good idea to think about my future. What did I want to do with my life? What did I want to study? What was I good at, and how could I apply my skills, knowledge and talents in a practical way? Suffice it to say that my sixteen year old brain did not spend as much time on these issues as more pressing matters like girls, cars and sports. My regrettable approach to my life (but, justifiable at the time) meant that others could easily sway me - I come from a multi-generational, Italian, working-class upbringing that lives in a tight-knit, small community and I'm the first-born son in my own nuclear family. As soon as I started to read well and bring home good grades, many told me I should become a doctor. And I believed them.
To me, the idea sounded great - for all I knew, doctors worked cushy hours, drove fancy cars, and relished in the type of prominence and esteem that mean so much to so many, especially in a small community. Little means more to many local parents than the ability to tell someone, "my son/daughter is a doctor." So, as I prepared for college, my chosen path was medicine - my parents encouraged me, therefore, to study science. After all, their poor, sometimes unpredictable, blue-collar upbringing required them to always pursue practical goals - they saw ability in me, and we all looked at each other and said, "a doctor. Why not?"
In high school, I got a decent education, what many would call "average" for America. As a result, I entered college a little more well-prepared than some, and not as well-prepared as others. My competitive instincts drove me early and often - my grades were good, my chances of getting into medical school were high and, above all, the continuous positive outcomes confirmed that I - with the financial support of a frugal mom and dad - was on the right track. Over 10 years ago.
There is no MD in my by-line, so you know the story doesn't end there. In fact, that's where it really begins. College was going well at the end of my sophomore year. I was learning a lot, building up a pretty decent medical school application, and the average high school graduate I was had morphed into someone on track to graduate with Latin honors. However, a plan I had at the time was thwarted - my university had options for those who wanted to apply for early acceptance to medical school (my parents and I said, "why wait?"), so I applied, and found out mid-summer of 1998 that I didn't get in. I wanted to continue to move forward, so in spite of this, I threw myself completely into the effort. That summer ended up being pretty good - It was my first in Boston: I had two jobs, studied, and enjoyed myself in the first big city I'd ever seen, visited, or lived in.
When I started my junior year in the fall, I saw no reason to slow down - I was halfway through, and wanted to make the most of my remaining time. So, I took on an undergraduate research project with the hopes of developing my resume and skills. I wanted to remain a competitive applicant for medical school, with the dream my parents and I had still weighing heavily on all my decisions. I concluded, mostly because of what my peers were doing, that getting more practical experience in chemistry (my chosen major) was probably a good idea.
To begin research as an undergraduate at my school, you have to first choose a professor who will lead you. With good grades on my transcript and myopic, but considerable, ambition fueling my desires, I sought out the most prominent organic chemistry professor at my university. This turned out to be an eye-opening experience. Prior to spending my time in an academic research lab, I was a student who sat in class my whole life - I passively absorbed data and regurgitated it for exams and lab sessions, lasting an hour or two at the most. This was different - there were graduate students in the lab, and they had been there for years working towards their Ph.D.s. The professor was responsible for allocating lab resources, guiding his students towards their dissertations, and - most important of all - continuing to bring prestige and funding to the chemistry department and university. Before I became a small part of a large lab, my goals were always front and center - my parents and teachers enabled my dreams unconditionally and supported me through ups and downs. The lab, however, was different, unfamiliar even; and like a sailor in uncharted waters, I didn't realize how unsettling it was until things got choppy.
The problems began within a few weeks - I learned how unhappy the graduate students were and realized that listening to them was unsatisfying; there were romantic affairs among lab members, adding another level of general unease to my time there, and, above all, I felt like these matters were too burdensome for me to continue. Work seemed to be secondary to the soap-opera like undercurrents that flowed through the lab. My first semester was, therefore, my last - I couldn't stomach the nonsense of it all. I saw no benefit to committing the rest of my undergraduate career to working around people like this! I resigned, made an official complaint to the department head about rumors I had heard (but couldn't substantiate), and felt like my hopes and dreams had come crashing down. My plan was a failure and so was I.
I felt like the rest of my time in college was spent fighting an 'uphill battle' - every decision now weighed a ton and it seemed that absolutely nothing was going in my favor. I had another year until graduation, though, and continued to push forward. I worked hard, but the gratification and positive third-party confirmation I previously associated with my efforts was gone. My parents grew anxious, further eroding my confidence, but any honest discussion of it all was swept under the rug - maybe if we acted like nothing was wrong, nothing would actually BE wrong. For the first time in my life, it seemed like the working-class pragmatism that had propelled me upward was starting to drag me down.
In the months that followed, I continued to work hard, but the future seemed more opaque than ever before. Graduation was looming, I had trouble focusing, and - again, for the first time - doubt replaced certainty when I thought of my future. I graduated on time in May 2000, but was tired, burned out, and doubted myself and my abilities - again, something that happened for the very first time. Within a matter of months, my desire to go to medical school had all but vanished, as gone as my undergraduate days, and I had no idea what to do. I found work, but had no understanding of how to leverage the experience - college was easy, but I found my post-college life much more challenging. Anxiety, depression, and a lousy diet led to weight gain, and I was in therapy - you guessed it - for the first time.
I stumbled into my science degree, with all the gusto of a drunk circus clown. I thought it was a means to an end, and that ultimately, all the sacrifice would be "worth it" when I became a doctor. The conversations I had with my parents leading up to my college graduation had been premised on the fact that I would go on to medical school, but, with that option off the table, I concluded that my knowledge and undergraduate degree left me with no appealing choices. Shortly thereafter, I stepped away from science, and worked as a Peace Corps Volunteer, living outside America... for the very first time. The demands I had to meet as a science major left me with no opportunity to satisfy my other curiosities. Two years living and working in a South American jungle were only the start of an experience that helped inform my perspective; what I learned while living there has since shaded every decision I've made. Stay tuned, because that story isn't too far away.




























































































