The local NPR affiliate has a terrific radio program called University Focus, in which a chair or director of a program at UNM is interviewed about what's happening in that department. This weekend's guest was the head of the Education School. She delivered a broad overview of what each person in her area was doing, and how it impacted the broader field. She was able to explain all of this cogently, and talk about the interfaces between the sub-fields so that even I was nodding along. At one point, she paused to explain to the interviewer (unapologetically, I might add) that she is a generalist---curious about everything, hyper-aware of the big picture, and the interconnections between sub-fields. And I thought, 'I'm one of those!' Now, here's what's interesting:
1) I didn't have this word before. I had 'specialist', but not 'generalist', and that says something important about the culture I inhabit. I have never heard one of my colleagues call themselves this. They ALWAYS say they 'specialize in' this or that.
2) Because I didn't know the word, I didn't know myself. I get frustrated with people or situations that require me to specialize. I thought this was a character flaw, not a strength. I work primarily with specialists, and have always been troubled that I just don't obsess about the fourth significant digit in the same way they do. I thought there was something wrong with me, partly because my specialist colleagues so often denigrate the big picture. (i.e. 'The first thing we should do with all these E/PO people is take them out in the backyard and shoot them.' Yep, someone actually said this to me, casually, over lunch. Youch. Still having trouble not over-reacting to the casual shooting talk... I probably over-reacted a little. Ok. Maybe a lot.)
3) Because I didn't know the word, I didn't have the idea, and I couldn't plan around my strengths. Here in Socorro, I've been learning that, while I think it's fun to dabble in specialization, it's not because I'm interested in the specific specialization. It's because I'm interested in the idea of specialization and the people who specialize. Other people are MUCH better at chasing down every last detail, and taking 18 months to get the bandpass right. It's not that I don't care, or don't think it's important. It's just not captivating to me. I'm not intrinsically good at it. Oh, I actually would do it. I'd spend days tamping down the noise in an image, or perfecting the gaussian fit to a maser spot. I'd drag myself to it day after day, instead of rushing to it. And the last few years, the dragging feeling for this kind of work has gotten much, much worse. I thought this meant I was lazy, and getting lazier. Lazy? No. Probably not. It's crazy, the things we do to ourselves in our own heads.
4) The word explains a lot of things that have been mysterious to me. It explains my Black Holes talk. It explains why I'm so good at public talks, and teaching, and E/PO. It explains why people tell me that I could probably talk about tax law, and still make it interesting to a general audience. It explains why some other people are not this way, and can not do this. It explains why my advisor and I had such a clash of wills. He was a specialist, and expected me to be one too. It drove him crazy when I'd give broad overview in the first 35 minutes of a talk, and spend 10 minutes delving into the details of my data reduction, and then ask for questions. It explains why I dread talks to specialists about specialties. Oh, I can do it. I can even do it so they love it. But once it's over, I forget it, and I spend no more time thinking about it, refining it, thinking about how I could do it better next time. But I do this for more general talks. They'll keep me up at night, thinking of new, better metaphors, long after the talk is over.
5) When the word showed up in my head, it caused an almost physical sensation of a mental paradigm shift. An appropriate metaphor is that I had a foot stuck in the mud, and a quarter of my attention focused behind me, because that's the direction everyone else was looking. Suddenly, that foot has come free, and my attention is one-hundred percent in the direction I've actually been going. Bigger steps are possible, without that one foot always stapled down someplace I didn't want to be. That's kind of terrifying actually, to recognize that I've not been completely devoted to the things I'm good at. Terrifying for a lot of reasons. It's probably going to terrify a lot of people too, who seem to think they have a stake in what I do. ; )
I think I was just ready to own this word, and the idea it represents. I had to come to Socorro to know for certain that I COULD be a specialist, which makes it much easier not to be one. That sounds odd, but makes a lot of sense for someone like me, who also has issues about being told she can't do things. (Want me to do something? Tell me I can't, especially in the sense of mayn't. Oy. Such an Achilles heel, that.) I am now certain that I don't want to be a specialist of this kind. The research institution's brand of single-minded devotion is something I'm capable of, but it chafes in the long term. That doesn't mean I have a short attention span. It means I have a broad attention span. (to shift the metaphor from time to space...)
It helps a lot that I recently met Richard Sabo in Montana, an extremely distinguished retired surgeon, (once President of the American College of Surgeons---wow) who commented to me off-hand that he wasn't sure he'd want to be a surgeon now, because the field is so specialized. He'd hate to do only gall bladders. All gall bladders, all the time. I knew what he meant, but I didn't have a word for it. Now I do. He's a generalist. Ah. I get it now. I'm one of those.
.jpg)
