Karin Bodewits
You Must Be Very Intelligent
The PhD Delusion
Karin BodewitsMunich, Germany
ISBN 978-3-319-59320-3e-ISBN 978-3-319-59321-0
DOI 10.1007/978-3-319-59321-0
Library of Congress Control Number: 2017945402
© Springer International Publishing AG 2017
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I dedicate this book to all the proud parents of PhD students.
Keep your spirits up…
… and please don’t read this book.
Preface
Ever since I finished my PhD, or maybe even before that point, I knew I had to write this book. However, this is not a diary of my time as a PhD student at the University of Edinburgh. Having said that, it is not quite a work of all-fiction either. If it were, I would probably have added some Frankenstein-like personalities and mad, sleep-deprived, eccentric geniuses, as beloved by atmospheric old movies. Or I would have described secretive, non-ethical research taking place in dank basements beneath cloisters, proving that scientists are amoral psychopaths. I did meet some people I could imagine creating a three-headed sheep for shits and giggles but I never actually saw anyone trying it.
However, I saw stuff that was dramatically dark, barking mad and hilariously ridiculous, but in an everyday way. I saw the monsters beneath the meniscus of human nature surfacing in a supposedly sedate world; of frustrated egos the size of Africa, where competition is pathological, volcanic rages seethe and tin pot dictators are drunk on oh-such petty power. It’s a world where glory is the goal and desperation is the order of the day; a world where young adults are forced into roles that make Lord of the Flies look like Enid Blyton.
It was an education. And it taught me to be wary of education.
Karin Bodewits
Prologue
The evening sky is vivid orange as if the sun is leaking colour into it. In a few minutes this warmth will disappear and the city of Edinburgh will fall into darkness. From the air I will be able to sight only lines of streetlights, Edinburgh Castle and the Forth Road Bridge. And then the plane will remove me from this island which I have come to love. When this happens I let out a deep sigh, thinking “It’s over. It is really over…”
The backpack, between my feet, is heavy from the thesis and copious notes I scribbled in preparation for my PhD defence. If I could open the tiny window next to me in the airplane cabin I would joyously throw it all into the night sky.
My stomach feels queasy, the clothes I am wearing smell of puke, I smell of puke. It was only a few hours ago that I stood in front of the synagogue on Salisbury Road and threw up the alcohol still in my stomach from the evening before. I’m not anti-Semitic, I just happened to be there when I couldn’t keep it in any more. Friend Felix had stayed with me the whole night, to make sure I would survive. I have no memory of his presence in my room last night but he was sitting at my bedside this morning when I awoke in a pool of shame. When I noticed the towels on my bathroom floor I understood why he had stayed – I had indeed needed help.
During the days leading up to my exam I hardly ate, owing to nerves. I only had half a pint of Guinness the evening before to calm me down and help me sleep. After the exam I still wasn’t hungry. I went straight to the pub, first on campus, then in town… I danced and drank… mainly drank.
Almost four years earlier I had started my PhD at the University of Edinburgh like a good girl. At that time I truly believed that researchers in the ivory tower were idealists driven by the desire to make the world a better place through the advancement of knowledge. My faith in the university system, as the crucible of meritocratic refinement, was absolute: only the extremely knowledgeable and wonderfully intelligent would ever hold chairs and professorships. If you are not smart enough you would have to leave. Hence, like many other PhD students, I arrived at a high-ranked university feeling excited and privileged, brimming with hope and wondering if I could prove myself worthy. I wasn’t only an ambitious student, and an aspiring scientist, but also a beloved daughter and sister. I had been dating a sweet guy called Daniel for years; he would follow me to Edinburgh where we would meet our inevitable demise. I believed in the goodness of people, I believed in the goodness of the ivory tower and I saw professors as intellectual role models. I would follow their path, as far as I could…
That seems like another person in another life. When I started my PhD I had been scared I wouldn’t be clever enough to become a doctor, but I did believe I had at least done enough to prepare myself for starting this degree. The truth is, I was clever enough but nothing had prepared me. Looking back, whilst cringing in embarrassment at my naiveté, I wonder now if I was actually unlucky to be accepted?
I now have my title, the two letters I have been craving, I have made my parents proud – I am a doctor… What does that mean? Marginally less than a Girl Guides’ Camping Badge. This is what I’ve learned.
Trembling and hazy, I gaze down at my lap where there is a bread roll, which I promised Felix I would eat. My hands are still pale and shaky, and my legs throb with exhaustion. What course my life will now run, I know not. I only know it will be a life outside of the lab, away from university, away from the academic path and, crucially, very far away from my PhD supervisor, Mark. Despite my physical condition, this is like a euphoric dream. Listening to Dylan’s Blowin’ in the Wind , I look out of the window into the sea, I am away, forever, it really is over…
Contents
Part I: Before
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Part II: Year 1
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Part III: Year 2
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Part IV: Year 3
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Epilogue
Part I: Before
© Springer International Publishing AG 2017
Karin BodewitsYou Must Be Very Intelligent10.1007/978-3-319-59321-0_1
Chapter 1
Karin Bodewits1
(1)Munich, Germany
Karin Bodewits
Email: [email protected]
I wake to the sound of raindrops tapping on the window of the tiny room in Pollock Halls of Residence. Situated on the edge of Holyrood Park near the foot of the dramatic little mountain, Arthur’s Seat, this should be a sweet awakening. But I’m soaked in feverish sweat, my stomach is cramping crazily with every little movement, my head is pounding like a gong and my back feels like I’ve ridden a camel across cobbles all night.
The mattress I am lying on is hanging through the bed frame as if something weird and dramatic has recently occurred here, such as two sumo wrestlers having torrid sex. It resembles lying in a toaster rather than a bed. The wooden desk, attached to the window sill, looks askew on just one twisted hinge. I am not sure if it really is, or if my vision is distorted by the weird bed. From the outside, Pollock Halls is a beautiful and renowned student residency, which is rented out during semester breaks as a B&B. From the inside, it’s like a slapdash sitcom set – at least the room I’m staying in.
For a few minutes I lie in silence, wondering how I will ever get through this day. In three hours I am expected at King’s Buildings, the university campus where the School of Chemistry is located, to interview for a PhD position. Since coming back to Europe one week ago, after almost a year working for Unilever in China, I had been at my parents’ place in the North East of the Netherlands. In the last seven years, I hadn’t spent more than the occasional night in the village where I grew up, but for now I had nowhere else to live. My childhood bed had been binned long ago and my room converted into a guest room. I didn’t want to stay in the village for a week, but I had been ill. At first I thought I was suffering a prolonged hangover from my goodbye-to-Shanghai night out. When the hangover hung around all evening and even seemed to intensify with ibuprofen and coffee, I wondered if I had perhaps caught a virus. It was not until I was pretty much hallucinating and loosing litres of sweat that I started to fear a strange Asian parasite was flourishing within me.
I had postponed my flight to Edinburgh for a couple of days, cutting out the tourist part of my trip. The sickness had subsided to a flu-like condition, but it had drained me; I feel exhausted and defeated. And I want to collapse, for days. But cancelling such an important appointment was never an option. I am not sure if postponing would have diminished my chances of getting a PhD but I didn’t want to risk it. Now there was nothing for it but to haul my woozy body out of the godforsaken bed and pretend to be sentient for the duration of an interview. I convince myself that painkillers and fever blockers will get me through.
I applied for this PhD position – conducting research on cystic fibrosis – just a few weeks ago, after reading about it on a job portal for scientists. In fact I don’t really have any particular interest in cystic fibrosis but during the previous years I had learned that it doesn’t really matter to me what I work on. It could just as easily have been Alzheimer’s or cancer or some strange single cell organism no one really gives a damn about. Of course there are scientists obsessed with finding a treatment for one particular disease. But I am not. I am not sick myself, and nobody close to me suffers from a strange illness to get emotionally attached to, or even a mainstream disease to get particularly zealous about. In the area that I graduated you zoom in tight on the tiniest details, like single proteins or molecules. The relevant illness is very distant and abstract. However, the larger picture is important in order to avoid social isolation at parties. Being a cancer researcher draws interest and respect. Studying complex fluids in an inexplicable matrix that no one has ever heard of is everything but glamorous and makes you an intellectual freak.
For me, however, the main appeal is contributing to fundamental know-how that might find a future application. It was only after I spent time in a couple of industries, and had several unconvincing job interviews, that I decided my future would be in science, nowhere else. I had never been more than a trumped-up intern in the “real world” though I enjoyed many aspects of it: I found it extremely cool to sit on the 23rd floor of a skyscraper in Shanghai and video-interview with the Boston Consulting Group in Amsterdam. I felt important and wanted when Unilever paid for someone to chauffeur me around town. On top of that they provided a salary and spoiled me with a ludicrously large and luxurious flat in Shanghai. But I didn’t belong in that world. I don’t care about optimising returns, extensive and allegedly important meetings, developing shampoos that make your hair shine EVEN more (oh wow, how interesting, well worth several years study…) or producing milk with additives no one really needs. I hate cutlery etiquette. And I hate people talking for the sake of talking. I don’t want to spend my holidays skiing with colleagues, pretending to be part of a happy, smug family. I don’t want to smile for the sake of the customer. I’m not a team player. I am an individualist, content to sit in an office working for hours upon hours alone. I am a scientist…
When opting for academia, I fully understood that from a financial and quality-of-life perspective I was taking a step back. From living like a queen in China, I would go to mashed potatoes and peas. A Unilever secretary would book me business class flights. If I’m lucky Dr. McLean might cover a self-booked EasyJet ticket. But if it means I can advance science and do what I love, so be it.
The position is at a famous and prestigious university – good credentials for the future. And as the cherry on the cake, it means working in a country I have never been to, yet am keen to live in. When I sent my CV and cover letter, the last thing I was expecting was an invitation to present myself. I graduated with good marks, but the competition at this university, ranked in the top ten in Europe, would be fierce. Plus, my background wasn’t exactly what they were looking for. I had been thrilled when the email came in from Dr. McLean, my potential PhD supervisor, telling me I had made it through initial selection and would be welcome to fly to Scotland for an interview. And here I am.
I slowly get up from the toaster bed, hearing my spine crack and reposition. I have to concentrate all my energy on not throwing up. Slowly I bend over to my backpack and get ibuprofen, a diarrhoea blocker and Vomex. I’m not sure if I’m supposed to take these drugs together but I feel too weak to open my laptop and research the matter. Why would I care? It couldn’t get worse? After swallowing the three meds I set my alarm for an hour later.
There is no way my back will accept another nap in the bread toaster position, so I take the sheets off the mattress, resplendent with old sweat circles, and carefully lay them on the tiny bit of floor space between the bed and the wall. It is hard and cramped but comparatively luxurious.
When the alarm goes off, and I believe I’ve only watched the roof of the room for the last hour, I feel better. I down an old bottle of Coke; it’s flat but I get the caffeine rush. I take clothes out of my backpack which my mum had packed while I was crashed sick on her couch. She assembled and ironed an outfit for the interview based on wishes I had muttered, rather deliriously I now suspect. I put them on and conclude that the ensemble doesn’t work; light brown trousers and a cream-coloured top – neither are items I would ever be likely to wear and they don’t go together. Admittedly, they do come from my stack of clothes, and I’m not sure what clothes would best present who I am anywa
y. But I hope it’s not this prim, dull clobber…
I feel a weak spark of adrenaline going through my body, like a vibrator on its final stripe of battery. I stand in front of the mirror stuck on the cheap built-in cabinet, and conclude that I look awful, sort of Kate Middleton’s junkie cousin trying to look posh. My face is pallid; even the freckles have faded to grey, and I’ve got comically puffy eyes. He is not going to take me. I look much more like a lost extra from The Walking Dead than a ground-breaking research scientist…
I turn away from the mirror and tell myself to concentrate on my interview instead. Worries shoot through my head about the presentation I have to give in two hours. I have managed to put some PowerPoint slides together, about my previous experiences and research projects, but I didn’t really get round to the words part. I need something to accompany the smile and slides, the “Hello, I’m great” show. I open my laptop, call up the PowerPoint presentation and start to talk. It’s terrible, I think, I presume, I don’t actually know, my head is spinning…
In my hazy state I decide I have to refine my detailed, scientific presentation whilst walking to campus, though I don’t even know the way. I check on Google maps and have a last glance in the mirror at my mismatching clothes atop the mismatching shoes I just added. Yip, I look like prime shit. I pull my hair back into a ponytail, a last touch of general awfulness, and walk out of the door feeling visually offensive.
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