Statement

Before Jobs and Wozniak gave birth to the Apple computer, my father was an engineer and research and development manager at the Palo Alto division of Hewlett & Packard. My sister and I spent many weekends with Dad at “the plant,” soldering electronic components to circuit boards or, more often, wiring them together to make jewelry. Sitting at a teletype terminal, we played Zork (an interactive fiction computer game) on a mainframe computer with whirring hard disks the size of a suburban home’s external air conditioning unit. By fifth grade, I was programming an HP 9830A desktop calculator to draw beautiful geometric curves known as spirographs and exploring John Conway’s “Game of Life,” a mathematical recreation that generates a universe of complex patterns from simple rules.

With such precocious interests and early exposure to electronics and computers, one might expect that since childhood, I knew I wanted to be an engineer, as my father had before me. On the contrary, engineering was not a compelling career option. Despite my love for math and science, I never knew what I “wanted to be.” This disenchanting lack of direction reached a critical point in high school. I agonized over college applications. My parents would financially support a technical education but not a liberal arts degree. My developing interest in creative writing was considered impractical. The one idea I put forward – applying to Harvard for a degree in science journalism – was anathema. Ultimately, I decided to attend the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, but the acceptance letter delivered no sense of accomplishment because the choice had not been mine to make.

I acted out a delayed adolescent rebellion at M.I.T., defying expectations by majoring in biology instead of engineering. I individuated by rejecting my parents’ educational philosophy. I desired to learn about the “big picture” and the “existential-humanistic level,” ill-defined terms that were more than adequate to alert M.I.T. faculty to my enthusiasm for, and utter ignorance of, the liberal arts. With their guidance, I pursued an education rooted in mathematics, physics, and chemistry, reaching through cell and molecular biology to behavioral and cognitive neuroscience, intellectual history, ethics, logic, literature, poetry, essays, and fiction.

Even at a public liberal arts university like William & Mary, students need encouragement to follow their interests and take intellectual risks. When I sense that an instrumental, market-driven perspective has produced uncertainty about the intrinsic value of education, I tell the story of how I found the humanities at M.I.T. and encourage my students to embrace the William & Mary experience, explore their interests, and follow their hearts. Students struggling with academic performance, career choices, and personal failure are heartened by my longer, truer story. Today, I am a full professor, a reasonably productive and well-funded scholar-educator who can’t imagine a satisfying alternate career. However, I nearly dropped out of M.I.T. when my parents divorced. Post-baccalaureate life gave way to five dark years plagued with indecisiveness, alienation, and pathological doubt. When I first applied to Ph.D. programs, I was unanimously rejected. For these reasons, I carefully listen for an echo of destiny in my students’ aspirations and concerns.

My scientific perspective and teaching philosophy were forged in graduate-level physical chemistry, a required course that most biologists detest and I found fascinating. With clarity, intensity, and astonishing chalkboard work, UC Davis’ Professor Susan Tucker illuminated the quantum mechanics of electron orbitals and chemical bonds. I have adopted her style of lecturing, her focus on problem-solving and group study, and her high standards for and commitment to students who are challenged by a complex and rigorous subject. An intellectually formative event was the realization that the mysteriously shaped electronic orbitals of pre-medical organic chemistry were, in actuality, spherical harmonic functions, idealizations, and the solutions of a mathematical equation! I was so awed by the intimate relationship between theoretical physical chemistry and mathematics that I began to wonder about “theoretical cell biology.” Did this scientific discipline exist? I was told, “No, not yet,” but directed to the late Prof. Joel Keizer, one of the fathers of this emerging field.

Prof. Keizer was my graduate advisor and mentor, and my approach to research and academic life is an adaptation of his. Joel deeply understood many scientific disciplines and was confident, academically generous, productive, and humble. His scientific intuition was extraordinary, but he was not particularly facile. Similarly, I am a slow, plodding thinker. I do not solve mathematical problems as rapidly as others. However, I am scientifically creative and have an innate grasp of the delicate balance between realism and simplicity required for mathematical models to influence experimental biology. If there is any truth to the view, once expressed in an open recommendation letter, that I have become “the epitome of an interdisciplinary scientist, a true leader,” it is from following Joel’s example.

Looking back, grace and serendipity appear to have orchestrated the ironies and reversals of my academic life. Years ago, I avoided parental expectations of a career in industry. Today, I am a biologist who thinks like a chemical engineer, a scientist who “reverse engineers” the cell. Confusion over the relative merits of technology and humanities propelled me into a broad, foundational education; paradoxically, this instruction prepared me for highly focused interdisciplinary technical research. Today, I am a professor in a technically oriented department at a public liberal arts university. My philosophy of science education emphasizes intellectual breadth, critical thinking, and reading scientific literature, as well as numeracy and the use of mathematics as a scientific language.

The technology vs. humanities tension that I have experienced since childhood is a gift that has informed and empowered my academic achievements to date. Indeed, nothing has served my scientific career better than my enjoyment of writing. Proposals and papers are critical to the success of a research program, and technical communication through journal articles depends on understanding the reader’s scientific culture and prior convictions. An academic mentor once spoke of my “ability to communicate and interact with students and colleagues from many different backgrounds.” Indeed, I believe that the breadth of my scientific interests, even more than their depth, has enabled my unique accomplishments and contributions.

Still, my childhood interest in science journalism has not yet been actualized. As I consider the future, I have a growing sense that my pedagogical writing will grow in significance and stand alongside substantive research results, clear and inspiring lectures, and student mentoring (the most rewarding aspect of my job). I hope to use my writing to improve public understanding of science and communication between radically specialized academicians. If these appear to be unrealistic and inadequately defined goals, perhaps I should begin to wrap up this personal statement by again invoking Steve Jobs, who said, “We’re here to put a dent in the universe. Otherwise, why even be here?”

I remember being impressed at the number and range of collaborators who attended my graduate advisor’s memorial service. Many of these scientists would have been unable to read each other’s papers, but Joel worked closely with them all, and each benefited from knowing him. Similarly, I hope to nurture the academic community at W&M through informal discussions, scientific collaboration, and administrative work, creating an environment where faculty can confidently share work in progress, appreciate the successes of others, and sensitively mentor, enabling each student to make their own “dent in the universe.” Like John Conway’s mathematical “Game of Life,” the algorithm is straightforward: understand deeply, generously share that understanding, and repeat. If executed with care, generation after generation, this simple rule would decorate the earth with an unimaginably complex and beautiful pattern.