Tales Of Four Blacks In Science

Editor's note: The Scientist talked at length with four black scientists and aspiring researchers about the problems they have faced living in a culture that offers them little or no encouragement to become professional scientists. The individuals stand at vastly different stages of their careers and pursue different fields, and their experiences vary dramatically. But their stories illuminate the problems facing black scientists in the United States, and hint at possible solutions. SHIRLEY JACKSON "At a certain level, you have to stop feeling unusual." But even as Shirley Jackson speaks those words, she knows that she can't escape being unusual. In 1973, she became the first black woman to earn a Ph.D. in physics from MIT. Now she is possibly the sole black woman physicist at AT&T Bell Laboratories in Murray Hill, N.J. Whether she likes it or not, Jackson is a role model. And that puts her in a special bind. "By definition, a role model is a person in the role you aspire to," explains Jackson. "If you make so many commitments that you can't keep up with your own work, you'll find you aren't acting in that role anymore. Besides, a role model can get worn out." Jackson emphasizes that she tries to be a scientist first and a black scientist second. Conducting research for Bell Lab's department of solid state and quantum physics takes most of her time anyway, and she worries about the disadvantages of restricting her outside activities to affirmative action issues. Yet she wants to do her part to nurture the next generation of black scientists. "It's a delicate balancing act," she confesses. Ironically, were it not for one factor that our society still finds so important - skin color - Jackson's story wouldn't differ much from those of the majority of the 4,000 scientists at Bell Labs. She was just another bright girl, one of three daughters of a postman and a social worker, with an interest in math and science. "Even as a young girl," she says of her childhood in Washington, D.C., "I was always doing experiments and science projects." Early on, she got a boost from the special science programs in public schools triggered by the Soviet launching of Sputnik. Later, she took advantage of additional resources offered at the city's predominantly black Roosevelt High School. She finished her basic graduation requirements by the end of her junior year, leaving her senior year free for such college-level courses as calculus and advanced biology. She conquered them all; in fact, her only "B" came in physical education. Even though Roosevelt's rigorous program was taught by a predominantly black faculty to black students, the message that Jackson received about blacks in science was mixed. Only one of her science teachers was black, and much of her learning took place in a white world. "My concept of scientists was shaped by a series of weekend lectures at the [American] Heart Association and programs at the Smithsonian," she says. "I was especially enamored of the space program." Jackson's high test scores brought her letters from interested colleges. "I don't know if it's still true, but back then everyone at our school tried to push the students with talent," she says. "We discussed college in class, in math club, in the honor society." By the time she emerged as class valedictorian, Jackson had narrowed her choices to MIT and George Washington University. A high school administrator persuaded her to shoot for the top. "The assistant principal talked to me about MIT," she recalls. Her decision stemmed from what she calls "a coalescence of three conditions: my talent and motivation, my family's support, and the academic emphasis at my school." (More than 20 years later, Roosevelt has retained its favorable academic reputation. Guidance counselor Louis Taylor says that nearly two-thirds of the students, drawn from a largely middle-class black community, attend college.) MIT was a new world for Jackson, and not always a friendly one. For the first time in her life, she says, she felt the discomfort of standing out in a white world. "There were five black students in my freshman class of about 900. And only two of us were women." It didn't take long for racism and sexism to make their appearances. "I'd walk into my dorm and someone would yell, `Oh, Jenny, there's a phone call for you.' And I'd say, `My name is Shirley.' We both got a little tired of that." She recalls students who avoided sitting with her in class, and others who naively assumed that she had grown up in a housing project. The MIT faculty revealed a few biases of its own. "I had a very strong academic background," she says, "but some of the professors thought I wouldn't be able to do the work. One materials science professor told me that `colored girls should learn a trade.' He urged me to major in metallurgy because that was the closest to a trade that I could get at MIT." Jackson shattered such stereotypes by winning a place each semester on the dean's list. She was graduated with a B.S. in physics in 1968. Although she was accepted for graduate school by Harvard, Brown, Pennsylvania, MIT and the University of Chicago, she decided to stay at MIT. Part of the reason stemmed from the changes that were taking place. She had helped to organize a black student union, and had successfully lobbied university administrators to recruit more minority students. "MIT had been admitting between two and five black freshmen a year," she says. Aided by the growing social unrest throughout the country, her efforts bore fruit. "In 1969 they enrolled 57." After several years of progress, however, that pace has slowed. Out of 992 freshmen in this year's class, for example, 84 are black. Jackson also taught for two summers in a new university program to ease the transition to college for minority students. Another new program, which brought science students from historically black colleges to MIT for one semester, led to a friendship with Ronald McNair. McNair, a physicist, was one of the seven astronauts killed in the 1986 explosion of the space shuttle Challenger. "I picked Ron up at the airport in 1970 when he arrived from North Carolina. We got to be pretty good friends." Jackson's visibility as a black woman scientist has opened up many doors. However, she resists devoting too much of her attention to minority matters. "That's a trap for the individual, who gets worn out," she says. But at the same time, she can't not care about creating opportunities for her race. "You have to keep pushing," she says. Even without being an activist, she feels the toll of simply being perceived as a pioneer. Well-intentioned people who barrage black scientists with requests for assistance "don't understand how much we're already doing," she explains. "Then, if we turn them down, they get upset. Most of us try to have serious careers, and I've dealt with some of these pressures by doing less [outside my job]." In any case, she argues, her example alone isn't enough to lure more black students into science. "The whole issue of role models bugs me," she says emphatically. "Having role models isn't the answer for our children. The real issue is for them to get a fundamentally sound, academic education in elementary school. Improve the public schools in all communities. Reach out to parents with information on the opportunities available to their children. And most of all, challenge the students. If you have low expectations, they will satisfy them and never strive for anything better." --Anne Diffily Wade Sisk's story is the classic U.S. recipe for success. Take a smart kid with an early interest in science, give him just enough opportunities to allow him to get ahead, and let him do the rest. The result? Sisk is now finishing up his Ph.D. in laser chemistry at the University of California, Berkeley. The first, and biggest, influence on his life, says Sisk, were his parents, who owned a record shop in Waterloo, Iowa. They instilled in him the study habits and academic orientation that has allowed him to pursue a career in science, he says. "My parents were very clear on my priorities. Whenever there was a choice between doing some physical chores or studying, my father would say, `Get your lessons done first.'" Sisk's interest in science goes back as far as he can remember - and he received just enough encouragement. His favorite toys, for example, were a microscope he bought himself and a chemistry set from his uncle, a University of Iowa alumnus. "I had a romantic view of scientists," he recalls. "I was an introvert, and I thought science meant working alone in a lab, doing whatever he or she wanted. That's not the way it is, of course, but I like it anyway." Sisk's study habits helped make him valedictorian of his 1980 high school class, but he wasn't sure where to go from there. "I didn't get a lot of advice about schools or financial aid in high school," says Sisk. "I had been thinking about Berkeley [for undergraduate work] because I knew that many of the elements had been discovered there, but I had no real idea what was out there. My high school counselor tried to get me to go the West Point route, but I didn't want to be an engineer. I was interested in fundamental science." Although Sisk preferred to go here to college, Iowa was the only school that showed much of an interest in him. And the four-year state scholarship it offered meant that the price was right. He soon discovered that the school had an excellent chemistry department, and he found a mentor in the department's chairman, Leodis Davis, who is black. "Professor Davis offered me a summer job in his lab that really helped me out," Sisk recalls. "He also persuaded me to switch from biochemistry to chemistry," a move that broadened his course options. But an option isn't worth much unless it's exercised. And Sisk made the best of the opportunities handed to him. At the end of his junior year he accepted a summer internship at the University of California, San Diego, where he studied the chemistry of celestial bodies and other extraterrestial phenomena. Besides cementing his decision to major in physical chemistry, the course allowed him to prepare for graduate school. "While we were in San Diego," he recalls, "my roommates and I drove up to Caltech to talk to some of the graduate students. I asked them what courses to take, since I had already satisfied most of the requirements for a chemistry degree. They recommended some math courses, and when I got to Berkeley I realized that my first year would have been very difficult without those background courses." By his senior year, Sisk's academic stock had risen. Several graduate schools contacted him, and the University of Rochester flew him up for a visit. Laser chemist Dwight Tardy, Sisk's research adviser at Iowa, urged Sisk to apply to Berkeley so that he could work with Yuan Lee (who two years later would receive a Nobel Prize in chemistry). When the acceptance letter arrived, Sisk decided to head West. Although the academic conditions were wonderful, Sisk found that the situation for black science graduate students had changed little from what he might have found 25 years ago. "There was only one other black graduate student in chemistry when I arrived," Sisk says. That isolation is not unusual, says his research adviser, Harold Johnston, who is white. An adviser to only three black students during his 30 years on the Berkeley faculty, Johnston says that "I'm told this is higher than the average for the chemistry department." Johnston doubts that there are any more blacks going into chemistry than was the case when he advised his first black student - Wade Kornegay, now a senior scientist at MIT's Lincoln Laboratory - in the early 1960s. Sisk is committed to improving those numbers. Working through the school's Black Graduate Engineering and Science Studies (BGESS) organization, he interviews prospective black students and participates in outreach programs in the San Francisco area. The goal is exposure. "Kids get the impression that there are no blacks in these fields," he says. "They need to see adult role models, as well as other black students in the sciences. Science isn't inherently glamorous. But there are ways to make it exciting." Sisk wants to follow up his doctoral degree, which he expects to receive within two years, with a postdoctoral research appointment. But despite the need for classroom role models, he's not sure that he wants to wind up teaching, even if it will help bring along a new generation of black scientists. His decision doesn't reflect any lack of commitment to the cause. Rather, it's just not where his interests lie. Says Sisk: "My black friends say, `Wade, you should teach at a place like Berkeley because there is such a dismally small number of black professors here.' (William Lester is the only black member of the chemistry faculty.) But I don't feel that I should be forced to teach if it's not what I want to do. That would be to the detriment of the students. And I think that research is my first love." --Anne Diffily If Brian Register doesn't become a scientist, it won't be the fault of J.K. Haynes. Haynes, a professor of biology at predominantly black Morehouse College in Atlanta, knows that it's not easy to persuade talented black students to pursue a doctoral degree that would qualify them to teach at a university. But his new Office of Research Careers does everything possible to expose students to an area of science that they might not know about. "Students arrive here having known black physicians," says Haynes, "but not black researchers. Medicine and engineering are so financially attractive that most science majors opt for one of the two." Register is one of those talented black students who typically would have gotten an M.D. and spent his life treating patients. But thanks to Haynes, the degree may also lead to a career in the laboratory. "All I wanted to be was a doctor," says Register, a junior at Morehouse. Although being a physician is still in the cards, Register also hopes to become a medical researcher. "I want to contribute to science through research," he declares, "and I also want to have contact with patients." Haynes is making sure that Register gets a good look at the life of a scientist. He introduced the student to MIT's Minority Summer Science Research program, where Register spent the past summer in Kim Lewis's biochemistry lab. "I learned that there is a lot of freedom in the lab," Register says about his summer experience. "As a scientist you're always experimenting, and the facility is at your disposal. As an M.D. doing research I'd try to come up with new ideas [to help my patients]." Register came to Morehouse from Sumter, S.C., after a childhood spent crisscrossing the globe to keep up with his father's career in the Air Force. Despite enduring a succession of new schools, he learned the importance of a good education. "My parents both went to college [his mother is a nurse] and they were very involved in my education. They were strict but caring. Besides, I always loved science. I used to go to the library to read anatomy and physiology textbooks." By the time Register reached high school he knew he wanted to attend a college with a good pre-medical curriculum. He considered some prestigious white schools in the South and in the East, but a summer enrichment program for promising high school students interested in science opened his eyes to Morehouse. "It was my first time in a predominantly black environment," he says. "I found it really helped to build my confidence and provide me with an identity. At Morehouse I could see black role models and read about famous black scientists. I saw blacks teaching science and I began to think, `Hey, I can do that, too.'" Register knew that he was giving up some of the glamour of attending a well-endowed white university. But Haynes is trying hard to give Register the best of both worlds. He told Register about a summer hospital and classroom program for minority students offered by Brown University, and Register spent seven weeks last year working in a chemistry lab and making hospital rounds with a urologist. This past summer, Register attended the program at MIT. Apart from air conditioning, Register says he doesn't see any significant physical difference between the undergraduate laboratories at Morehouse and those he has worked in at MIT and Brown. Despite having just launched his future career as a scientist, Register is concerned about the lack of other black students following his path. And he believes that a successful effort must go beyond attracting the cream of the crop. "The achievers, like me, seem to get enough attention," he says. In his case, that attention came in the form of a high school biology teacher who pushed him to succeed and let him know she appreciated his hard work. "It's the average students who need to be prodded and encouraged," he says. "In many public schools, teachers don't expect enough of black students. I didn't see those students being pushed to excel, and that attitude has a negative effect on their performance." Register is doing what he can to raise those expectations. He spends Saturday mornings tutoring local public-school students in science. "We need more of these programs," he says. "When the kids meet their tutors, they see that there are some blacks getting ahead in these fields. And it encourages them." Haynes has no doubt that Register will make the most of his own opportunities. "He's an extremely bright, dedicated student, with great academic potential," he says. And Register, for all his energy, knows that success doesn't happen overnight. That's a message that he'd like to convey to black students who might be intimidated by the demands of a scientific career. "I realize that I'll be at least 30 before I'm doing what I want to," he says. "I know that there's no instant gratification in getting an M.D./Ph.D. And that can be a problem for a lot of kids. They want to be satisfied now." -- Anne Diffily Seventeen-year-old Timothy Hardy is living proof that an aptitude for science, given the right spark, can blossom in unlikely places. Unlike most of the black scientists and science aspirants interviewed by The Scientist, Hardy didn't grow up in a comfortable middle-class home, surrounded with the examples of others who had "made it" in science. In fact, Hardy grew up in Buffalo, N.Y., surrounded by very little: He never knew his father, and his mother decided when he was 11 that she was no longer capable of raising him. Hardy did get one lucky break, however. A few years after he was taken in as a foster child by a steel worker and his beautician wife, Hardy was given a computer for Christmas. The foster arrangement didn't last very long; his guardians decided that an extended family of five children and several foster children was too much to handle, and Hardy was sent off to be cared for by one of their adult daughters, who was working in Washington, D.C., as a police dispatcher. But the Apple IIe awakened a latent talent in Hardy. He started by playing video games, then moved on to reprogramming those games. Soon he realized he wanted to design and build better machines. And now, as a junior at Ballou Senior High School, Hardy has set his sights on a Ph.D. in electrical engineering. His lofty academic ambitions make Hardy, 17, stand out at Ballou. The school serves a densely populated black neighborhood where most of the households are headed by single parents struggling to make ends meet. But school officials had no trouble recognizing Hardy's scientific aptitude. They plunked him into the school's selective science/math program without waiting for him to request admission. "We take a look at their academic records," says counselor Delois Adams about the selection process. If students shows promise, she adds, "we just sort of shift them into the program." Hardy will receive a full precollege curriculum at Ballou. He is enrolled in a math sequence that begins with algebra and continues through calculus. He has already completed biology and is studying chemistry, with physics scheduled for next year. His well-rounded education includes English, history, and foreign languages. He even opted for a few years of Greek - "to help me pass my achievement tests and do well on the SAT," he explains. His pursuit of a career in science is fueled almost totally by his passion for computers. He says he knows no black scientists nor engineers to emulate, and admits that he's never even met a recent Ballou graduate who is studying engineering at Cornell, one of the universities that he is thinking of attending. He appears unfazed by the potential obstacles - both at Ballou and, later, in the outside world - that face him as he contemplates a profession still dominated by middle-class white males. Hardy does seem slightly uncomfortable about being asked questions by a reporter. He fiddles with a calculator in his pocket as he weighs his replies. Short and concise, his answers act as a shield to protect his privacy. But his shyness does not mask any doubt about his professional target, which he is literally racing to embrace. Spurred on by his track coach, he hopes to win an athletic scholarship to a top-rated college. "I plan to use track as an entrance to my field," he says about his skills as a middle-distance runner. He may not need to rely on his feet. Instead, his grade-point average of 3.75 (on a scale of 4.0) may do the trick. "We have loads of private scholarships that are available to academically talented kids," says guidance counselor Adams, "and I expect that Timothy will be able to take advantage of them." Hardy says he would have never thought of becoming a scientist if his foster parents hadn't given him a computer. Yet despite the fact that his career choice makes him something of a statistical oddity, he sees nothing on the horizon to prevent him from achieving his dream. Asked if attaining a Ph.D. is a realistic goal, he replies simply, "I guess I'll have to make some sacrifices. Instead of going out on Friday nights, I'll need to stay home and study." --H.M.

Tales Of Four Blacks In Science

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