All rights reserved, 2012. Her name was changed to protect the confidence of the title character.
Summer, 1975
It seemed less an invitation than a summons.
"Students matriculating in the national Medical Scientist Training Program will convene at the Given Institute in Aspen, Colorado for four days of meetings with leading biomedical investigators. Please contact the dean's office for your travel and lodging information."
The NIH had forecast a shortage of physician-scientists capable of using the then-new techniques of molecular biology towards solutions of pressing clinical problems. In response, several students from each of the nation's medical schools were selected for three additional years of advanced research training. Like the entire program, the summer conference itself was a work-in-progress.
Still, it sounded like an exciting trip from the Midwest to the Rockies. The list of luminaries who would address us "twenty-somethings" included a pair of Nobel Prize-winners and many also-rans—these were household names in the biomedical sciences whose daring experiments were shaping our understanding of molecules inside living cells. Moreover, the schedule included morning lectures, afternoon outings and social events bracketing the evening meals. This would allow for informal networking among the students and also some time for the scientific legends to look us over as potential post-doctoral fellows in their labs.
The first day went smoothly, if predictably. There were necessary welcomes from program directors, inspirational talks about our futures. And then there were some dynamite lectures from top scientists. We were charged up by the end of the day and "what-if" brainstorming went on too far into the night.
The second day started inauspiciously. One of the luminaries had a last minute conflict and sent a young Assistant Professor to give the talk. Her name was Sylvia Chen. At least, that was the Anglicized name she used. English was all-too-obviously a second language. Giving a scientific talk in a resort town didn't come easily to her either. She wore black horn-rimmed glasses, a navy-blue suit that was about one shade off of black, a plain white blouse, hosiery and black pumps—in the middle of summertime Aspen. Needless to say, the audience --including the luminaries—were in jeans and shirts.
Her lecture was painful. No other word suffices. She made the classic error of trying to pack two hours of material into a forty minute talk. It was the first talk of the day, everyone was short on sleep and caffeine. Heads nodded off as soon as the lights went down for her slides. She garnered only the mildest applause (mostly appreciating that the talk was over, I think) and no questions from the audience. She probably didn't care what the grad students thought—we were eight years or so younger than she was. But she had embarrassed herself in front of the luminaries, and she knew it.
She was one of two faculty assigned to our group's afternoon outing—a hike up to Tabor Lake—but kept apart from the laughing and banter. She was always 10 meters ahead of the group, determined to lead. At least she had changed into jeans, a faded blue shirt, and sneakers that had seen better days. From the back, she seemed thin—wiry, even—yet moved with grace despite the altitude that left more than one student winded.
At the top of the hike, while everyone else was swigging water and munching trail mix, I wandered over to where she was sitting.
"Dr. Chen? "
She jumped like a startled deer.
"I didn't mean to intrude. And I did like your lecture this morning."
She peered over the top of her sunglasses at my name tag.
"Thank you...Pat..." . She barely read my name tag and turned away
"Really I did, especially the part about self-assembly of the ribosome. How did you figure that out?" It had been the only part of her talk that I sort of understood.
She turned back to me and took of her sunglasses. Close up, her almond-shaped eyes seemed black even in the afternoon sun.
"Do you really want to know how I figured it out, or are you just trying to be nice?"
Sometimes a white lie is just a good idea.
"Of course I want to understand your insight! It must have been a terrific feeling when it happened."
Her thin lips parted to reveal a hint of a smile.
"Well, I was on a bicycle ride, ...", she started.
She continued the story as we hiked back to the bus. Her story was more perspiration than inspiration, but that's the true nature of science. She had made several false starts. With time, she refined had her theory and did several elegant experiments. I was impressed. But I was also tired—hiking at 8000 feet will do that to you. By the time the bus had brought us back to the hotels, we were both yawning and looked forward to naps before the group dinner. We found that we were both lodged on the second floor of the old Hotel Jerome about five doors down from one another.
***
A nap, a shower and a shave, and I felt like a new person. The sun was low in the sky. I put on a clean shirt and a pair of khakis, ran a comb through my hair, grabbed a jacket—it gets cold pretty quickly in the mountains at night-- and set out for the social/cookout/music event of the evening.
It was quite a shindig. A tent had been raised, there was an open bar and a bandstand had been set up. At altitude, a cocktail or two produced a moderate buzz—and vodka and tonics seemed to be the drink of the evening. Wisely, the bartenders were keeping the pours very light. The grilled meats and vegetables were much appreciated after the long hike. The music was said to be "western"—they told us "western" was different from "country"—but to this day I can't make the distinction.
I hadn't noticed Sylvia's arrival. Several of us students were preoccupied, arguing the merits of this versus that experimental approach. We all seemed to be working on similar problems , albeit at different universities. Eventually we agreed to disagree, and to exchange notes on our results.
I went off on search of a beer and spotted Sylvia sitting alone, almost in the shadows. Despite an elegant green dress and a sweater over her shoulders, she looked uncomfortable. I imagined that the other students wouldn't talk to her—she had given such an impenetrable lecture. The luminaries were all senior to her. She seemed out of her element. I picked up a pair of Coors and walked over to her.
"Did you have a good nap, Sylvia?"
Once again she seemed startled. This time, I think it was the use of her given name. Students in her lab likely thought her first name was "Doctor". Then again, they probably didn't bring her beer. And I wasn't her student.
"Yes, I did. And thank you for the beer."
"Coors. Not as good as Tsingtao, but passable."
"How do you know Chinese beer?"
"What else would one drink with Hunan cuisine?"
"Where have you tasted Hunan cuisine?"
"New York, where I grew up."
She sniffed. "What Americans are served as Hunan cuisine is nonsense."
"So what should I ask for the next time?" She had piqued my curiosity.
"It might be too hot for you."
I rolled my eyes. "Yes, it might. That's why God invented Chinese beer."
"Ask for Gan Guo. But ask for it with chicken or pork, unless you want frog's legs or duck's heads."
***
Dessert and coffee were offered. Fortunately the band realized that the crowd was not riveted by "western-not-country", and had the good sense to switch to some 60's rock-and-roll. Beach Boys. Beatles. Even some Rolling Stones, although the organizer's faces clearly registered dissatisfaction with "Satisfaction". Since just about everyone else was up dancing, I asked her.
"C'mon. Let's dance."
"I can't!"
"You can't? I don't believe you. You look like a terrific dancer."
"I mean I won't. It's not right."
"You must be joking. Everyone else is up. Even the Nobel Laureates." It was true. They were not gifted on their feet, but they also looked like they were having a good time, especially dancing with some of the younger female students. (There must have been some interesting letters home to mom after the meeting: "I danced with a Nobel prize winner!")
Sylvia resisted half heartedly as I pulled her to her feet. "None of your students are here, nor is anyone else from your University, and no one is paying attention. So let's have some fun."
As it turned out, she wasn't a good dancer. She was a very good dancer. Good enough so some of the others noticed and even looked her way applauding at the end of each number. She had the gifts of rhythm and fluidity, conscious of her movements without being self conscious. She sat out the slow dances, of course, long enough for us to chat.
"You looked like you were having a good time out there," I said.
She looked away.
"You know, it's okay to have a little fun."
She quickly turned back and looked me squarely in the eye. "Do you have any idea how hard it is for a woman...especially an Asian woman...to become a successful academic in this country? Do you? They will look for any reason to get rid of me, pass me over." She was still tied up in knots from the lecture that morning.
I shrugged. "But look at everyone else. You are seeing them. Even if they are seeing you, you are behaving no differently than they are. Having fun on a summer evening in the Rocky Mountains is hardly bad behavior. They're not judging you. Neither am I. "
She looked away again. "I've had enough of dancing." She pulled her sweater tight and headed out of the tent towards the hotel.
I watched the crowd for a minute or so, and decided to head back as well.
***
Her pace was slower than it had been on the hike, and I caught up with her about half-way back.
"You're persistent," she said.
