Michelle Thaller
The Truth about Graduate School
When I was a child, scientists seemed like wizards: infinitely wise, noble (yet mysteriously ambiguous), with access to hidden universes. Now that I actually am a scientist, I often wonder what went wrong. Why don't I feel like a wizard? Where is that secret dark knowledge? Were scientists always just a bunch of regular people trying to eke out a living, deal with office politics, and maybe make a few discoveries along the way?
Scientists, of course, haven't become any less magical, and although it's hard to internalize it, I possess as much "secret knowledge" as any of them ever did. Things always look different from the inside, because once you're inside, you realize you didn't get there all at once. Scientists aren't created in some secret rite, but in small steps. Each step doesn't seem all that difficult or complicated, so it doesn't feel like you've changed once you emerge on the other side.
Going to college doesn't seem all that scary. Most people can even visualize majoring in physics, as distasteful as it may seem. But the real disconnect happens in those obscure years between a bachelor's degree and Ph.D.: graduate school.
People really do seem to disappear for those 5-7 years, somehow transforming themselves from a cheery, dorm-dwelling undergraduate to a steely professional scientist. What happens behind those walls, and dare a mere mortal attempt to enter? Like most mysteries, the truth is comforting, but a bit disappointing. Graduate school is not so bad, but not so magical after all.
It starts like this: at the end of college, an aspiring astronomer must take a series of standardized tests called the GRE's (Graduate Record Exams). Most of the GRE is identical to the SAT, with questions to test general math and language skills.
There is, however, another part of the GRE that tests you in a specific topic, like physics or chemistry. For astronomy grad schools, the physics test is required. These tests, as well as your college grades and letters of recommendation from your professors, will decide your fate with graduate school admission committees.
Now the truth (and I really wish someone had told me this when I was going through it!). Almost no domestic students do well on the physics GRE. Although I aced the general math and language sections, I got something like a 17% on the physics GRE.
It was a huge blow, and almost sent me scurrying away from science altogether. What no one told me was that I was in much the same boat as every student in the United States. For some reason, foreign students totally blow Americans out of the water on this test (why this happens in an interesting question). And graduate schools know this.
They don't base their decisions on these test scores. Your grades are important, but surprisingly, the most important part of your application is the letters of recommendation. Astronomy is a small profession, and professors talk to each other, especially if they work in similar areas of research.
If a trusted and respected professor tells his or her colleagues that you have potential, chances are you will be admitted to grad school. So my advice to college students hoping to pursue a career in science is simple: cultivate personal relationships with your professors. Do a special research project with them or take a summer job as their assistant. That relationship may make you more attractive to graduate schools than anything else.
Academically, not much changes in the first two years of grad school. It's much the same as college, except you take classes exclusively in your chosen field. No more history or literature requirements, now it's only astronomy and physics. I didn't find graduate school courses any more difficult than college courses, just more specialized (entire courses on stellar spectroscopy or galactic structure, for example).
The real challenges in those first few years are personal. While graduate students do get a "stipend" (they would be too embarrassed, and rightly so, to call it a salary), it's hard to live independently on $1,000 a month. Finding roommates, apartments, transportation, and sustenance must all be done without the support structure of dorms and cafeterias.
I tried to live fairly frugally (I decided not to have a car, and you can ask my Mom about some of the sub-standard housing I managed to find), but I still ended up taking out large student loans, as well as running up several credit cards. But again, speaking from experience, this turned out to be normal. All my friends ran up debts too, and we've all paid them off. Don't worry about it too much.
Most graduate schools require you to pass two large exams in order to get a Ph.D., a "qualifier" and a "defense". The qualifier is administered at the end of the second year of grad school, after all course work is completed. My qualifier was a six-hour, open-book written test followed by a one-hour oral exam, covering the entire topic of astrophysics.
Now, before any of you run away and decide you weren't really cut out for a career in science anyway, let me say that this wasn't as bad as it sounds.
For the most part, the professors had given us questions they knew we'd never seen before. The point of the test was to see if we could put all the equations and techniques we'd learned (and remember, this was open-book), to solve problems that were new to us. The oral exam, given a few days later, focused mainly on questions we'd missed on the written exam (it's pretty easy to guess which questions you didn't do well on, and you had a few days to bone up on them before the oral).
Of course this was stressful (even painful when my hand cramped up during the six-hour written test), but it wasn't impossible. At this point, you've seen this stuff over and over again and you're comfortable with it. It's not that bad.
Now the truth (and here's where I get on my high horse a bit). None of this has anything to do with being an astronomer. I don't remember how to do any of the problems on my qualifying exam. In real life, astronomers use computers to do all this stuff. I haven't solved a quantum mechanics problem or calculated the time a star rises since my exam.
In my more cynical moods, I think of graduate school (and most of undergraduate physics) as a large-scale hazing ritual. It's just a rite of passage (after all, your professors tell you, we had to do it too) meant to keep people out of science (more jobs for us).
Now, I know the reason we take all these classes is to understand the basis of our science. Taking all these courses allows us to have some idea of what our computers are doing as they solve all this stuff for us, as well as give us some familiarity with a wide range of topics in astrophysics.
But I honestly don't remember much of it at all, and what's more, it has almost nothing to do with being a successful scientist. But enough of that. Suffice it to say, after your qualifier, things start to get real.
The last few years of graduate school were a wonderful time for me, honestly. At this point, you've taken your last class, done your last homework assignment, passed your last test. Now, the emphasis is on turning you into a scientist.
For the next few years, you'll pursue a research project that will lead to your Ph.D. It's an apprenticeship in the old style: your life now revolves around working closely with an "advisor" (one of the professors in your department), and learning the ropes of your trade.
Many students have a set idea about what research topic they want to pursue, but in my case, I chose my research based on the professor I felt most comfortable working with. I think this is really important. Not all advisors will be as attentive or as encouraging.Some more high-powered professors seem to think of their grad students as slave labor and don't seem to care much about helping them succeed.
In any case, this is another time when the personal relationship you establish with your advisor will have huge ramifications. The better you work together, the smoother getting your Ph.D., and probably your first job, will go.
In my case, my advisor assigned me one of the research projects he had been working on for a few years, a study of the atmospheres of massive stars. I didn't have to think of a project all by myself; instead, it was part of a larger research effort that had been going on for many years, with many collaborators.
Immediately, I came into close contact with a group of astronomers around the world all working on the same sort of research. My advisor took me to conferences and conventions, allowing me to meet and network with all these people. And it's these connections that set you up for your first job. Chances are, for your first job after grad school, you'll be hired by someone that works closely with your advisor.
And the research was wonderful. I traveled to observatories around the world gathering data, which I brought back home to organize and examine. I never discovered anything that rocked the foundations of modern astronomy, but each time I went on an observing trip, I'd find some little surprise in my data. Just small stuff, but over about three years, I'd accumulated enough to string together into a Ph.D. dissertation.
Writing it all up took time and effort, but for the first time, you get to feel like a real scientist. This is your research, your discoveries. The feeling of connection to your work can be wonderful.
For the most part, the last exam, "the defense," is a formality. If there were any serious problems with your research, your professor should have let you know long before. During this exam, which is entirely oral, all the professors in your department ask you questions about your research.
But at this point, you are the expert. None of them knows nearly as much about your project as you do, and I actually found my defense to be an enjoyable chance to explain all I'd done and learned in the last three years. After conferring in secret committee (no resemblance to a hazing ritual here), the professors make a few small suggestions for changes in your thesis, then congratulate you on being a newly minted astronomer.
Part of you does feel like someone just waved a magic wand over you and changed you forever. But you got there by taking baby-steps, and you hardly noticed the change at all.