Five hundred hours

500 hours.  That is the cumulative number of hours that I have spent speaking in front of a group.  That is three summers I taught courses with 40 lecture hours each; 8 quarters of graduate teaching assistantship; and 10 quarters of undergraduate group tutoring where I led lab lectures for an hour once a week before one-on-one tutoring.  That is six conference presentations (and four practice talks), one in-house research presentation, an advancement proposal, and a commencement address.  That is two guest lectures in a graduate class, and one in an all-girls' day school.  That is at least one trite talk for general-education requirements (I lost count after one, because it matters so little).

I am not so nervous about public speaking anymore.  It really does come with practice.

Birth partners: Lend me your ears!

I am actively seeking birth partners in California for interviews!  My research is on how birth partners prepare for birth and their roles, goals, and support strategies in supporting a mom through birth.  Sorry, doulas -- though I value your work, I am interested in the non-professional kind of birth partner.

Interviews last 30-45 minutes and are compensated with a $10 gift card to Amazon.

A birth partner is someone who was, or expects to be, in a role of emotional, physical, and/or informational support for a woman in labor.

You are eligible if:

• You are expecting to be a birth partner in the next 3 months (i.e., the mom is in her 3rd trimester, or 26 weeks along); or you have been a birth partner less than 4 months ago.
• The birth takes place (or plans to take place) in California.
• You have never had a baby yourself.
• You can dedicate 30-45 minutes of time.

Please contact me directly (phdoula <> gmail dot com)  or post a comment below.  Thanks!

Advancement to candidacy

I advanced to candidacy (O glorious day)!  It was a strange advancement with an unpredictable outcome.  In this article I itemize the six surprises, much like the seven gates of hell (with one reserved for future implementation) through which I passed on the way to the positive outcome.

The Gates of Hell by Auguste Rodin
share little resemblance to advancement
to candidacy.

In my department, the advancement to candidacy signifies several simultaneous milestones that, in other departments or in other universities, are separate events.  First, it implies that all courses for the program are complete satisfactorily.  This includes core and required classes, electives, breadth requirements, and the requisite number of units within the department.  Second, part of the advancement is the qualifying exam, which takes the form of an in-depth question-and-answer session with the advancement committee members (like an oral examination for which you do not have the questions in advance).  Third, it is a defense of the research proposal and n-year plan.  Approving the research defense is an indication that the student has enough background and domain knowledge to venture off on his or her own research topic.

Anatomy of an advancement

The advancement goes like this.  First, the student (and student's friends, if any are available) arrive to set up some snacks.  This is very important, because the whole procedure takes at least three hours, and everybody knows that hungry advisors are unhappy advisors, and unhappy advisors are likely to fail their students.  Quality food is best, though sweets and carbs are usually a hit.  At one advancement I attended, the student's wife made fresh, home-made chili and zucchini bread.  Another had a giant bottle of organic orange juice.  Yet another had an assortment of pastries and chocolates from an organic foods store nearby.

Ideally, the student arrived with enough time to set up his or her computer, connect it to the projector and Internet connection, and mentally and emotionally prepare him- or herself for the ordeal to come.  It is not exactly a snake fight portion of your thesis defense (that part comes in a few years), but it can be a long and exhausting test of mental strength.

Colleagues, cohort, and friends arrive.  The committee members, of which the student has at least four, arrive promptly, and the student begins his or her research goals presentation as other audience members filter in.  Motivation, prior work, theoretical underpinnings or significance, proposed contribution, work plans, and a timeline.  Then, the floor is opened to questions from the audience.  When the student has sufficiently satisfied the easy audience questions, everyone leaves the committee alone with the student.  The committee members ask their tougher questions (this is the oral examination).  This can take over an hour.  Having satisfied the committee, the student leaves, and the committee deliberates in private while the student paces outside in the hallway, waiting to be called in.  Soon, the committee calls the student and discusses their decision (which is hopefully a positive one).  The decision along with key points of the deliberation are written up and submitted as evidence of completion of this milestone.  The student pays a fee and -- poof! -- is a Ph. D. candidate.

Anatomy of my advancement

I arrived with half an hour to spare for my 9:30am advancement with a collection of bagels and spread, nuts, chocolates, and other snacks from Whole Foods, and a gallon of Peets Coffee with organic cream and fancy brown sugar cubes (my husband was amazing and did all the shopping).  While my husband and some friends were setting up the food,  I went to pick up the projector I had reserved the night before.

"Just pick it up from me," the graduate advisor for my department, a sweet older lady in a darkened room lit by only a 25-watt table lamp, said when I made the reservation in person.

"My advancement is at 9:30am... will you be here?" I asked.

"Yes, I will," she said, and went to hang up the announcements with my name and abstract printed on them.

So, on the morning of my advancement, I was met with...

Surprise #1.  The advising staff lady for my department decided to work from home that day.  OK, no problem, I thought.  I'll ask the other department's grad advisor, whose door is right here.

I knocked, but no answer.

I walked down the hall to faculty support.

"My advancement is in half an hour, and I have no projector," I said.

"You needed to have reserved one through your department's advisor," the girl behind the counter said.

"I did.  She isn't here today," I replied.

We both leaned over and looked down the long hallway to the row of closed advisors' doors.  She looked down at her reservation book.

"I don't have any projectors available," she said, with a sad note in her voice, "and no access to your grad advisor's room."

At this point, my friend Cat found me.  "I have one in my lab," she said.  "I'll bring it down."

I went back to the room of my advancement to set up Skype for the committee member with a sick baby to connect from home.  Then, I was met with...

Surprise #2.  An e-mail from another committee member that said he was sick and would not be coming.  Just like that.  It is probably no big deal, I thought.  That's right.  No big deal.

As the time drew near and passed, the room filled with people.  Eventually the majority of my committee arrived, and I began my talk.  Much of it was about a childbirth video game that I had invented, developed, and deployed, and where I planned to go next with the topic.   When I finished, there was a lot of discussion among the audience, and I fielded questions.  And then...

Surprise #3.  My committee chair said, "I don't play games, and I don't have children, so I'm not probably the worst person to be on your committee."  (At this point, I amazed myself with my own poker-face ability.)  "How are games better than pamphlets you can get at the doctor's office?"

Hang on, what?

"It's just that I don't see how playing this game ---"

"Simulation," I corrected.

"How playing this simulation is going to prepare me for childbirth. I'd rather read a book."

Before I could reply that he, esteemed committee member, was clearly not my target audience...

Surprise #4.  One of my colleagues in the audience replied, softly yet firmly: "If you were going to learn to fly a plane, would you specifically avoid flight simulators as training tools just because you don't believe in games?"

Then, a games-as-learning-tools debate ensued... one in which I was not involved.  Very surreal.

The public Q&A ended, and nothing particularly out of the ordinary happened behind closed doors.  My Skype-advisor asked some tough questions but was on my side throughout the whole process, even flashing me a big grin and double-thumbs-up on the screen when she thought nobody else was looking.

One committee member said, "Now we will talk alone and vote.  You can leave the room."

"Should I just... uh, how will I know you are done?"

"Just wait outside the door and pace the hallway nervously," he replied.  "It's tradition."

Rather than pacing, I looked down the hall and saw that the other department's grad advisor, a younger woman with a lot of blonde curly hair, had come in.  I thought I would use this opportunity to ask about my missing advisor.  When I told her what had happened, her eyes got as big as dinner plates and she picked up the phone, dialing a number with her long fingers, without taking her eyes off me.  Then, she turned away and tersely described the situation to the person on the phone: "There's an advancement candidate here, and one of her committee did not show up.  What does she do?"

Then: "I see."

Then again: "I see."

Surprise #5.  Turns out, you actually do need all of your committee members.  See, there need to be three tenured faculty that vote on whether or not the student passes.  Failing that, the advancement is nullified and must be repeated.  I had two tenured and two untenured present (including my Skype-advisor).  My heart skipped a beat before sinking; my face paled and reddened and paled and reddened in rapid succession.

The grad advisor turned to me, placed both hands palm-down on her desk in front of her, and looked at me sternly.

"You tell your committee to get him" (the missing committee member) "on the phone. Drive to his house.  Whatever.  He needs to cast a vote."

"And," she added, "we never had this conversation."

As I paced outside the room as required by tradition (I was ready to do so now, as this was the killer that finally broke my confidence), I waited.  I knew the gallon of coffee would come in handy: as the committee left, one at a time, to go to the bathroom, I notified them of this new development.

Over an hour passed.  There was no way it was so hard to decide to pass me.

Finally I was called back in: "Congratulations, Candidate.  We got his vote on the phone."  But I was not prepared for...

Surprise #6.  "We want you to switch departments."  So that's what all the deliberation was about.

To be continued...

The nighttime smells like hospitals

Maybe it is because I do not stay out late anymore unless I am attending a birth.  Maybe it is because the floors were freshly cleaned.  But when I was working late in my lab last night at the University, when I left my office to walk down the long, clean hallway to the stairs, when I could hear my shoes squeak gently beneath me with each light, quick step, I could swear it smelled like, and felt like, the hospital.  I did a double-take.

There are two possibilities.  Either it was in my mind, or it was in my hallway.  Probably, a combination of the two.  But it really threw me for a loop.

The only times recently --- in the past year --- that I had been out past 8pm were to attend births.  Both birth centers that I have been to smell like cleaning agents, blue hospital gowns, and hand sanitizer.  With just one exception, each birth I attended was at night, with nobody else around: an empty parking lot, no visitors, and reduced hospital staff.  Inside the hospital, long, clean hallways with wide linoleum separate the main entrance from the nurse's station and from the patient rooms.  In our engineering building, the nurse's station is replaced by a small shared kitchen in which an espresso machine delivers medicine rather than a labor and delivery nurse.  So for me, being out at this hour, walking down similar hallways, with nobody else around, down the echoing staircase, into the empty parking lot, I felt like I was returning home from a birth rather than my own research.

Only women would find this interesting.

A little bird told me this story about perceptions of my research in helping people learn about childbirth through video games.  This story has been anonymized as much as possible.

I was speaking with my advisor after a group meeting with another professor on my future advancement and dissertation committee.

"I am going to present at the research event on campus this morning," my advisor began.  I nodded attentively.  "I showed my slides to the dean."  She continued:

"'These are interesting projects,' the dean said. 'Except this one, about childbirth. Perhaps you should leave it out.'

"'I'm not going to leave this out,' I told him, 'it's my student's work!'"

"'Well, maybe if you have time, you could mention it at the end.  It's just not very compelling.'

"I told him, 'No! I'm going to present my student's work.'

"'Maybe,' he said, 'if there are women in the audience, they might find it interesting.'"

We both had a good laugh.  I stooped to pick up my jaw from the floor.


And even now, I just do not know what to say.  This kind of gendered mindset is the reason we still have sexism and the reason fantastic essay-books such as Beyond Barbie and Mortal Kombat exist, to raise awareness and teach us that gender is not necessarily a good predictor of the success of certain games.

Anyway, I am not sure what I expect next.  At the poster session the same day, I stood in front of my poster and received positive feedback from nearly everybody that passed by.  I saw the dean amidst the scholars, usually with his back to me.  He had his back to the whole games group and both of us human-computer-interaction (HCI) students.  He never came over to see what we were about.

What bothers me most is that the dean fails to realize that what he said to my advisor was not only controversial, it was sexist, bigoted, and incorrect.  When I tested my childbirth video game, most of the participants were male, and overwhelmingly, the game was rated as pretty damn fun.  Moreover, these participants learned a bunch of new ways to help a woman in labor.

MWF seeks ACC

Advancement to candidacy: this is the next major milestone on my academic path.  Once a Ph. D. student has advanced to candidacy, he or she is called a Ph. D. Candidate.  The small change in title comes with an appropriately-small increase in salary.  But the real benefit is knowing you are one step closer to finishing.

To advance to candidacy, a student must prove to a committee of professors that she is ready.  She needs three things: a thorough understanding of the relevant work, a clear idea of what her work will entail and how it will contribute to and further the field, and a step-by-step plan, complete with a calendar, of everything that needs to be done to achieve the goal.

The advancement to candidacy is like a contract between the student and her advisor.  They agree on the amount of work that needs to be done, its scope, and the deadlines of its components.  Once all the work proposed by the advancement process is done, the student writes the dissertation, and obtains the Ph. D.

Here in my department, the advancement to candidacy is coupled with the qualifying exam.  That is, the committee members and anyone else that wants to can come and grill the advancement student asking sometimes relevant, sometimes off-the-wall questions about all aspects of science and engineering.  (I can see it now.  "How many cross-chip pins will your design have?"  But my design is a baby.  "So, how many pins?")  Once advancement is over, the student (rather, the candidate) is deemed qualified to proceed with her research.

I am at the stage of putting together an advancement committee.  The chair of the committee needs to be a tenured faculty member from my department.  I did the rounds, and was met with some resistance.  Like The Little Prince, I traveled between planets and encountered different folk.

Professor A, the first professor I visited on my journey, was standing in the middle of his office, playing with a red laser.

"Professor A," I greeted as I approached him, "would you be my advancement chair?"
"What is your research in?" he replied.
"Well, it's hard to say... it's got to do with serious games, babies, and human-computer interaction."
"I do research with blind people and technology."  He paused.  "Will your babies be blind?"
"No, sir," I said.

Next, I traveled downstairs to Professor B.

"Dear Professor B!" I exclaimed.  "How nice you look today."
"Hello," he said, not turning from his computer, his back to me.
"I was wondering if you would chair my advancement committee."
"What is your research in?" he asked, turning towards me and folding his hands in his lap.
"Babies... serious games... some HCI.  Pregnant ladies," I replied, leaning on the door post.
"I don't have any kind of experience in any of that stuff.  Can't you ask someone else?"
"But I want you!"
"How about Professor A? That is so much more his area."
"I asked Professor A.  He says he only works with blind people."
"Pregnant ladies?  So poke their eyes out," he said, turned back to his computer, and resumed typing.

Finally, I traveled virtually, via e-mail, to my advisor, and reported my findings.

"Perhaps," she said sweetly, "it's time to switch departments."

In the other department, there are other people that do, sort of, what I'm working on.  This is an option.  But it's a sad option, because it compounds my long-standing identity crisis.  Am I turning my back on my beloved department?

Deep inside, I know that what I am feeling is just psychological reactance.  People have a hard time letting go of options --- even if they never intend to exercise them.  I do not feel ready to let go, to switch to an alien department, to have a different title attached to my name, to redefine myself as a student.

And so, here I am: married white female seeks advancement committee chair.

Action slips

When I was the teaching assistant for the undergraduate human-computer interaction class, the question that sparked the most discussion was about action slips. In this post, I answer the question, "What is an action slip?"

Freudian slips

This question brings us back to Freud. Remember Freudian slips? A Freudian slip is a term used to describe saying something you did not mean to say (and, of course, it is usually dirty or has sexual connections). For example, you meant to say "Let's go play in the park," but instead, you said, "Let's go kiss in the dark."

A Freudian slip is when you lay one thing and mean your mother. Er, it's when you say one thing and mean another.

Action slips

An action slip is like a Freudian slip... with your whole body. It is when you mean to do one thing, but end up doing something completely different. For example, you are emptying the coffee grinds from your coffee maker. You have to separate the grinds from their container. The container is in your right hand, the grinds are in your left hand. You mean to throw the grinds into the trash, but accidentally throw the container instead (or you throw both).

Or, you are driving on the freeway on your way to visit a friend, but take the exit to go to work, because that is what you are used to doing.

Or, you are clearing the table after dinner, and putting the leftovers into the refrigerator: butter, juice, rice, napkins, forks...

What is not an action slip

It is not an action slip when you make a typo while typing. It is not an action slip when your finger accidentally brushes against the hang-up button on your phone while you are talking. It is not an action slip when you stub your toe.

Characteristics of an action slip

An action slip must have an intended action --- something you meant to do --- and an unintended result --- something you did instead of the intended action, out of habit or incorrect muscle memory.

Anyway, just wanted to clear that up.

Identity crisis, part 2

Not a week after making what perhaps may have been the most difficult decision of the last decade (apologies to those who think a decision involving them was hard to make), I was instructed by both my advisor and a committee member that now, I must choose a specialization track.

It was like I'd just broken up with my favorite boyfriend, and my mother was trying to set me up with the Rabbi's son.

"Why not? He's tall and smart, and sometimes handsome."

Regardless of whether or not I am still grieving, it is already time to move on. Academia waits for no man. Three similar yet distinguishable paths stretch out like streets at a roundabout, and I will continue driving in circles until I can take a stand: grow a pair, and commit.

To be fair, it has less to do with commitment as weighing options. Which subfield has more funding? Which subfield has more mentors or people willing to advise me? Which subfield has more promise as a fruitful publication venue? Over the next few months, I will be accepting applications, so to speak, and evaluating each subfield's merit.

One of them will be named the winner, and one --- or more! --- of them will be out.

Identity crisis

Two paths diverged in a long, white hallway, and sorry I could not travel both. One led to an open door in the architecture lab, and the other to an open door in the assistive technology lab.

Architecture is the love of my life. She and I have spent years, beautiful years, together. Broadly, I know her every gesture. Openly, she calls to me, arms outstretched, and whispers: you can perfect me. And I know I can. I know I can squeeze 5% more efficiency out of her. I know I can come to know her not only well, but also intimately. I know that we make a time-tested couple. A gorgeous couple.

For the past year, I have been biding my time in the assistive technology lab, waiting for a spot to open up for me in the architecture lab. I was promised that if I hang out for a year, the following year there would be a Ph. D. spot, and funding.

But in the past year, something unexpected happened. I have done significant work towards a Masters degree, and mobilized dozens of people across different sciences --- because I am doing real work. Because I can make a difference, and it is not just about efficiency. It is about people's lives. And what I am doing barely feels like work at all: it just feels right.

Now, that time has come. It is time to make a choice. To both labs, the door is open, and here I am, standing at the crossroads of two engineering fields. This is the identity crisis.

On the one hand, there is the architecture lab. This is the field that I have identified with; that has defined me. I am an architect; I have wanted to be an architect. I teach architecture. On the other hand, there is the assistive technology lab, where I have been working (and which funds me). Can I come to identify with human-computer interaction? Can I become an HCI expert?

Do I give up on my dream, on my true love, to pursue this project that has become more than the sum of its parts?

The answer is obvious.

My work: "Who on earth would care?"

Why is it mothers are so hard to please?

I have been sending out feelers in the professional communities with which my project could be identified, to see if my research idea is of any interest to people in the field, and have met great results. Everyone I have spoken to has been excited and supportive. One professor in the medical field, for example, has offered to sponsor me for an upcoming conference (more on that in another post). Several professors in human-computer interaction (HCI) and women's issues have been helpful as well. One professor in my department, who is not on my committee, offered to have me over at her house, with my infant, for brainstorming if I like.

Yesterday, my mother and I had the following exchange.

I had just finished telling my mother about the fantastic feedback I have been getting, and how excited people in four different fields are about my research.

"I have these same thoughts about your research as I do about some of my friends' hobbies: I think, 'Who on earth would care?'"

"What if I were working on verifiability of system-on-a-chip designs? Would you have the same attitude about my work then?"

"Well, no! That would be real work."

And so, my complex work (that is, not real -- get it? math joke!) continues. I can only hope my work makes enough of an impact on the world, and on women, that the ones I love notice and appreciate the work.

After all, sometimes, pleasing our parents is the greatest honor of all.

Grace Hopper Celebration of Women in Computing 2009

This year I had the pleasure of attending the 9th Grace Hopper Celebration of Women in Computing. This was a sold-out event with 1600 technical women in attendance from all walks of academia and industry.

For me, it was an event at which I could talk babies with computer science and computer engineering women! Well, and network with other women in my field, and learn about new trends in the industry, and see what the powerful women of technology today are doing.

I met Brenda Laurel, a sassy human-centered designer of a multitude of projects, ranging from energy conservation in low-income homes to a toy bee that teaches 6-year-olds about power and battery life to a video game for girls which was bought and killed by Mattel.

Unfortunately, I do not think Dr Laurel was particularly wowed by my thesis idea (though she tried to appear interested when I pitched it). Several grad students, particularly those with children or in a child-care field, however, came to chat with me about it.

At the end of Jen Mankoff's talk, I asked how one goes about finding interdisciplinary collaborators, and, though shyly, spoke briefly into the microphone about my research idea. I received several good answers, both from Jen and later through e-mail from another professor that was attending the talk. But the most startling thing for me was when I got up to leave, at the end of the talk -- I was nearly sprinting out the door because it had been several hours since I nursed my son, who was in the free, sponsored day care. Three women intercepted me and began asking about my work. I was so happy... and proud!

Now, I know that I have yet to blog about what the research is, but hang tight. Let me get some preliminary prototypes going, and some preliminary results, and I will tell you all about it.