Teaching? Always.

Do I really want to do this?

As part of our FSP program, we had to write a reflection on whether we wanted to be professors. If so, why or why not? Below is my answer. I just wrote nonstop until the last period. I re-read it and realized I had already thought about it but never wrote it down. So here it goes.

Teaching has been one of my favorite hobbies. Growing up, I took immense pleasure in teaching our maids how to write and read. I was so happy every time they could write and read their names. I called that "playing school." Becoming a professor was not a goal as I got into science. I wanted to be an MD for my family, specifically my father; however, doing undergraduate research granted me many opportunities, including attending WUSTL to complete my Ph.D. Still, I applied to medical schools. I am still proud that of the 22 schools I sent my application to, Harvard Medical School was the only one that granted me an interview. It was a complete disaster. I cried during the interview; go figure. Today, I used these early academic experiences to teach my students some of the critical components of a medical school application. What to do and what not to do. Anyway, I digress.

Overall, going through the doctoral program was fun. The memory of my thesis defense is bittersweet. The room was packed with friends, family, and professors. But one person was missing, my dad. I called him when it was over to tell him I passed. He said: "Je suis fier de toi; on a tous un Ph.D. maintenant! Je te verrai en mai." ("I am proud of you; we all have a Ph.D. now! I'll see you in May." I never heard his voice again; the last time I saw him in the flesh was in 2010; it was a great visit. My dad died a week later. I kept moving along my career path.

Next step: postdoc. That is when all hell broke loose, and doubt started creeping in. My project was not moving forward; I was getting scooped left and right. I was supposed to end up at an R1 institution. That was the goal. I couldn't do industry, probably because I had never been outside academia. So, I found refuge in volunteering to teach science to kids at an underprivileged elementary school and tutoring high school students. Although it was fulfilling, I knew I couldn't be a teacher in K-12. Just no! Then my postdoc mentor, may he be forever blessed, saw what I couldn't see. He asked one innocuous question: "Have you considered being a scientist-educator?" Excuse me, what? Is that a thing? I can teach and do science. I can actually teach my science. It now sounds silly that I didn't know or didn't entertain that option. But again, I was at research-intensive institutions, and no one talked about PUIs or teaching.

I agreed to a pay cut from my postdoc and be an adjunct at a state school and two private schools. I could relate better to students at the state school; I felt needed. Thus, it is no surprise that I was elated to be a faculty member at a state school that mainly serves underrepresented students. At the time, I didn't care about the crappy salary; I didn't care when my mother said: "that's it?!" with all the disappointment and disapproval she could muster. I gave it my all at that institution; I tried to fit in and advocate for our students, Black students in particular, as it felt to me they were underserved and forgotten. I tried and implemented everything I knew and learned about pedagogy, inclusion, equity, etc. I tried to run a research program to help my mentees get to their next academic/professional journey and train more diverse future scientists.

I tried, but it all came tumbling down. My hope for the future was shattered piece by piece, day by day, as I saw no prospect; as I was reminded I didn't fit in; I was too much, too intimidating, too this or that. That's when I asked myself: "What am I doing? Do I really want to do this? Who am I in this space? Is it worth the pain and hurt I feel daily? Is it worth the strife in my marriage and the mental agony I put myself through? Is it worth the isolation and the tears? Is it worth it?" So I decided it wasn't; I could no longer be part of the faculty at THAT place anymore.

I had decided to quit and take a break for a year to figure out what was next. Truthfully, the break was to heal from the trauma I endured as a Black woman and immigrant junior faculty. I had lost myself in trying to please everyone: students, faculty, and staff. I had lost what mattered to me and operated from a place of fear. I was afraid to teach; eventually, I felt like a failure despite assurances that I was doing good and was on my way to getting tenured. But that - tenure - was not enough to lose myself. I now see the path to tenure as a set of golden chains dragging you toward so-called freedom in academia. I still feel that many people who already walked the path used their positionality as tenured faculty to keep junior faculty in their place: quiet, docile, and obedient. Do not make noise or call for changes. I saw behind the scenes; I saw the ugly side of this career. But I also saw its beauty and reaped some of its rewards.

So I left but stayed. I stayed a professor because I loved it. I love my students; I love learning daily. I love imparting knowledge with the hope of making a difference in someone's life. I love what I do; I have decided I was born to do it. No one will take that away from me: not my mother, not the disgruntled student, not the condescending colleague, no one. There is no replacing the joy of seeing a student getting it, no replacing the creativity in crafting your teaching materials, no replacing the curious eyes that stare at you thinking you know everything, no replacing any of it.

I am a professor, a scientist-educator, because I do not want to be anything else. It is a choice I made, one that I will make again and again. My only hope is to do it in an environment where I do not have to pretend, for I have learned that to be a good teacher, I cannot be someone I am not. I hope this new place is it.

So yes, I love being a professor and will remain until I can't do it anymore.