Eureka Moments: How four people discovered science

We all know the common stereotype of a scientist: the white-coated, bespectacled genius, in desperate need of a decent haircut, experiencing a flash of insight in his lab. In this mental cartoon, the scientist is positioned below a light bulb and a text bubble with the word "Eureka!" (Greek for "I have found it!") inside. Science is full of eureka lore, from Archimedes' sudden understanding of how to determine the purity of gold (the original eureka moment, in fact) to Thomas Edison's cry, "Come quickly, Watson, I need you," to Einstein's rapid trajectory from a Swiss clock tower and street car to E=mc². We set out to collect such "eureka moments" among some of the scientists at the Mag Lab. We wanted to know when they discovered the wonder of science and realized they would pursue it for a living. We discovered that our hypothesis was a bit off: The path of a future scientist reveals itself not so much in a sudden flash, but in a sequence of events. On these pages four Mag Lab staffers, from lab assistant to scholar scientist, describe how they came to be where they are today.

Math stood in the way of chemistry career

By Amy McKenna, Ph.D., Ion Cyclotron Resonance Program

I always enjoyed school, but I struggled with math, even in elementary school. I tried really hard and did my best, but never quite excelled at math as I did at other subjects. As a headstrong teenager, I refused to accept "that some people just are not good at math," as my parents would say. Academic rock bottom came in high school when I got a D in algebra. I was furious at myself and directed my anger at my terrible algebra teacher. I blamed him for my inability to excel, refusing to believe that the same studying approach that earned me As in other courses was insufficient for math. I scraped through math in high school, barely above average.

When my father died after my freshman year of college, it took me six years to find my way back to school. At 25, I wanted a worthwhile degree that was going to mean something and be a challenge. I fell in love with chemistry because it was methodical, logical and followed a defined sequence. I liked that it was based on data rather than opinion. When I saw the courses required for a degree in chemistry, I knew I needed to tackle upper-level math: not just complete the courses, but actually understand the material. I went to the first day of calculus with a resolve that I would understand the material and enjoy it.

It worked! The biggest surprise was that I actually enjoyed it. I remember going home from my bartending job on Friday nights, excited about working on differential equations. Now that I had a handle on the math fundamentals, I could focus on chemistry. Analytical chemistry found me. My first professor at the University of Tampa took me under his wing and told me, "You will go to graduate school." I was married by then with a baby boy to take care of, and had not even considered an advanced degree. But my husband pushed me to apply to schools and we settled on Florida State University.

In retrospect, I am amazed to be a Ph.D. in analytical chemistry. After eight years of study – all while raising three children – it seems like a huge mountain I have climbed. But I never looked at the big picture while I was going through it. I focused on the immediate future, telling myself, "Just get through this semester, then you can quit if you still want to." I soon realized it wasn't so hard, after all. It was no longer work; it was what I wanted to be doing.

Magnets fueled passion for science

By Dominic Maldonado, lab assistant

I remember my first science-fair project. I was in 7th grade, living in Hawaii. After flipping through my science book for ideas, I chose to experiment with electromagnets. The components seemed simple enough – magnets, power source and wiring – and the concept of amplifying an unseen electromagnetic force intrigued me. Some days later, after picking up a stack of magnets, a 6-volt battery, booster cables and tri-fold poster board from the hardware store, I set off to explore uncharted territory at the kitchen counter.

The magnets I bought had holes drilled through the middle, so I threaded my pencil through them, aligning them north to north, south to south, such that the repulsion stretched the entire length of the pencil. With that I was hooked; I moved from the kitchen – homework territory – to my bedroom, where I always escaped to play. After all, I was no longer doing schoolwork; I was having fun. I experimented with various objects – toys, loose change, paper clips – to see how they would interact with the magnets. I was fascinated by this unseen force, more powerful than gravity, which had suddenly become visible to me. I started putting the puzzle pieces together in my head.

I became so obsessed with the magnets' properties and behavior that I forgot I was doing a science project, let alone one that was due in a couple days. I prepared my poster board and presentation so quickly, in fact, that I forgot to test my experiment with the battery, which turned out to be a dud. Despite the technical difficulties, I scored well at the fair. But I wasn't concerned with the project so much as the new hobby tickling the back of my mind.

I'm now a senior at Florida State University. My majors are international affairs and creative writing, but science continues to tickle my mind. I read about it, notice it all around me. That's what drew me to the Mag Lab. As a part-time lab assistant, I get to work with lasers, optoelectronics and ferrofluids while expanding my knowledge of electromagnetism by attending seminars at the lab. Science also finds its way into other things I do: I write science fiction and choreograph routines – inspired by atomic motion, quantum electrodynamics and superluminal theories of space-time – for the motorbike crew I manage and perform in.

Eureka? More like a gradual dawning

By David Graf, postdoctoral associate, Condensed Matter Science

I'm sure some people have a real discovery moment, when they sit down and have a light bulb go off over their heads about science. But for me it took a long, long time to go from, "Hey, maybe I'll try science," to, "I really like doing research."

In high school and as an undergraduate physics major at Buffalo State College, I spent summers landscaping. I even considered it as a career, and at one point offered to buy out my boss (he wasn't interested). Then one year my adviser asked, "Why don't you come and work for me for the summer?" I thought, "Sure, why not?"

That summer I saw graduate students and postdocs work long hours and speak passionately about topics that would put most people to sleep. I didn't get it: I still lacked the skills it took to fill a 12-hour workday. Physics was interesting enough that I ultimately decided to go to graduate school, but I didn't know if I would ever be as invested in research as the scientists around me.

In the beginning of my research assistantship, if I arrived early, stayed late or worked during the weekend, it was partially because I thought my adviser expected me to be there. I needed lots of specific instructions, because no one knows what they're doing right off the bat. You know you're supposed to read papers, but which papers? You know you're supposed to fix things, but which things, and how do you fix them? But as you learn what you're doing, you become self-motivated. You can come in to work and prepare a mental to-do list: "I need to read this paper, repair that probe, prepare figures for a manuscript and begin my next measurement."

After several years I started to work on my research without my adviser looking over my shoulder. Occasionally, I even came up with my own ideas of how to improve the experiment and results. I began to read papers because I was searching for answers, not because I knew my adviser would ask me if I had. I learned to focus, and I started to become territorial. That's when you start to feel like a scientist, because you feel like, "This is my project, I need to understand the science behind this research."

Now I have been doing research for almost a decade. I see new graduate students in the lab every summer looking a little bit lost. I have a theory that you can tell what year a graduate student is in by how slowly they walk in the hallway. Early students just need to be taught new skills and be pointed in the right direction, while students in their last year usually look like they are racing towards a finish line.

A scientist from day one

By Denis Markiewicz, scholar/scientist, Magnet Science & Technology

Children learn early from those around them, and from my youngest days I was taught the wonder and awe of the natural world. Simple things like the beauty of flowers, a rainbow, the Milky Way, the action of waves at the beach, were valued experiences when shared with a loving adult. I remember gathering in the backyard with family and neighbors one night to watch a lunar eclipse. This atmosphere was a most important factor in forming my interests, and from a very early age my general orientation toward science was set.

Somewhat later, even as a boy from a family of modest means living in a small town, I had the opportunity to see the workings of science on a large scale. During World War II my father had been a radio operator aboard a Navy destroyer. He later taught himself how to repair TVs, which were just becoming widely available, and he made a business out of it. So we had a set several years earlier than would otherwise have been the case. In the afternoons, I selected the stations. After the war there were many documentaries on the development of the atomic bomb, and I learned the story of Oppenheimer, Trinity, the Enola Gay, Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Although the events were terrible, I could see the importance of science, and that science could be a means to having a life. "Scientists go to work and get paid to do science," I thought. And for me the choice has been good. Science offers the opportunity to work hard and the satisfaction of accomplishment.

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