My track coach, Anthony Segun Sokenu, and Marilyn, 1st Gold Medal 2008 |
Chapter One
I
won a gold medal in shot-put at the 2008 Maryland State Senior Olympics and
qualified to participate in the National Senior Olympics held on the Stanford
campus in summer 2009. My success at throwing a shot-put, something I’d never
done as a youth, was based on attention to physical details required to propel
a heavy metal ball as far as possible. It required mental concentration,
practice, and a commitment to training for over a year. All of these
requirements are needed for anyone to be a success in life, whether personally
or professionally. Over the next 5 years, I wracked up a real, honest to
goodness “track record” competing in local and state track and field meets in
the shot-put, discus, 100 meters dash events, and football throw, an event
sponsored by the DC Senior Olympics. I earned Gold and Silver Medals in each
event, not always because I excelled necessarily, but because I showed up early
on a Sunday morning, while other women of my age class slept in.
Today,
as I write the story of my life, I’m sitting at a desk in the corner of my
renovated bedroom in Mariposa, California, in what will be my final office
space. I look out on the California foothills, the Guadalupe Mountains in the
distance, quail and acorn woodpeckers flying between towering blue and valley
oaks. I’m now largely restricted to mental exercises, as my body slowly shuts
its voluntary muscles down owing to the silent ravages of ALS (Lou Gehrig’s
disease). In this year I have embarked on this new journey, it seemed the right
time to write about the remarkable life I’ve lived through an era that has seen
the rise of women as respected scientists and the start of a new field in earth
science---biogeochemistry.
A person’s personal life
has its own voyage, not necessarily mirrored by one’s career. In my case, I
can’t separate the two. Experiences in both spheres have shaped me as a person.
Is it possible to be a 1st
class scientist, mother and wife at the same time? Lynn Margulis, a noted and
controversial evolutionary biologist, once said this is impossible. I am not
sure what 1st class really means in either context, but I think it’s
possible for women to achieve success as scientists, wives, and mothers at the
same time. Learning to live with small imperfections is key. Finishing what you
start is critical. Laughing at your self is necessary. Taking a stand and doing
what is “right” can help you sleep at night when unfinished business,
housework, and relationships internally nag at 3:00 in the morning. Keeping an
eye on the long run, not short term setbacks. I believe I succeeded at all three; what I’ve done has been good
enough, and just recently has been judged by others to be 1st class.
That’s not as important, however, as how I judge myself. To be comfortable in
your own skin, to know what makes you happy, and to allow yourself to be what
you want to be is as important to me as “1st class.” Rewards come at
odd times. My children talk about cool adventures, my husband and I continue to
enjoy life ALS not withstanding, and I’ve had a whale of a good time with
colleagues young and old.
Isotopes
are invisible—why have I bothered?
Most people work with
things they can see. Doctors deal with patients, real humans. Even if they are
trying to figure out a disease, they can look at blood and tissues, listen to
organ systems working away. Most ecologists deal with plants, animals, or soils
that they can hold or observe, count with their eyes, or manipulate. Even
chemists can carry out reactions with liquids, solids, and gases and create
products that can be seen, smelled, and weighed. Engineers create tangible
things—cars, computers, and bridges. Non-scientists sell things, nurse people
back to health, teach students, or manage money.
I’ve spent over 40 years working
with something that I can’t see, hear, smell, or taste—studying the stable
isotope, which can only be studied through a complicated series of chemical and
physical steps that result in a very small electric charge being turned into a
computer signal. The work is abstract. It’s picky. I have to be satisfied with
looking at a computer screen or a spreadsheet to get my work’s reward.
Why in the world would anyone spend
four decades in such a pursuit? Because those small differences in the types of
isotopes—carbon, nitrogen, oxygen, hydrogen, and sulfur—can tell those who have
studied them how animals and plants have survived over billions of years. We
can understand chemical reactions that can’t be seen, but are vital for living
organisms to function. We can tell the types of foods you’ve been eating. We
can figure out where you were born and where you moved during your childhood
years.
My expertise did not come suddenly,
and it wasn’t learned from a book. When I was a graduate student, I knew
nothing. We had to memorize how a mass spectrometer—the instrument we use for
our measurements—worked, but had no real understanding. As a postdoc, I made
many mistakes in the laboratory. Broke a lot of glass lines, blew up a few
things. I learned from those mistakes, but truly, couldn’t work my way out of
any complicated situation. What I did learn during this time was how to
interpret the “magic numbers” that were calculated after all the chemistry and
physics was done right. I figured out something about the biology of the
organisms I was working on. The magic numbers were no longer “magic”—they were
real.
As a new staff member building my
own lab, I built up my experience by learning new things every year or so. Many
scientists spend their whole lives researching one slim topic. I branched out
quite early, which was key for developing a broad sense about invisible
isotopes and what they mean. Today, I can trouble shoot an instrument from my
desk in Mariposa, talking to students and postdocs via Skype. None of us see
the isotopes, but we measure times, temperatures, flow rates, and peak sizes.
They are learning the nuts and bolts of their chosen field.
We analyze substances referred to as
isotope standards. There are internationally recognized isotope standards,
commercial isotope standards, inter-laboratory isotope standards, and
individual laboratory isotope standards. These substances range from toilet
seats, peach leaves, plastic, oil, amino acids, milk protein, water, gases,
hair, feathers, fertilizers, extinct fossil shells to meteorites. Some believe
that if you are going to analyze animal tissue (e.g., squirrel monkeys), you
need to have a squirrel monkey standard. Every time we isotope geochemists
measure one sample, we analyze 3-4 standards of different types to compare it
to.
For a first pass, our standards need
to provide the correct “magic number” or else something is wrong. One of the
chemical steps might need adjustment. There might be a vacuum leak. An
electrical wire might be loose. If the numbers do come out matching what others
have measured, we then look to see if they are reproducible. The laws of
chemistry and physics are the same in Riverside, California, as they are in
Beijing, China. If we can make a measurement in August, we should be able to
repeat it in December. To make accurate and precise and reproducible
measurements of small, sub-microscopic particles demand that attention be paid
to the smallest details.
What sort of person takes up this
type of science? Starting in the 1960s, only a handful—literally—was interested
and involved in the field. When I started in the 1970s, everyone personally
knew almost everyone in the field. We read just about every paper published
with stable isotopes. Now, there are several thousand scientists interpreting
these “magic numbers,” to figure out topics as widely ranging as how the Moon
was formed, learning about processes on distant planets, and finding out if
Tour d’France bike racers used illicit performance enhancing drugs.
We’re a fairly tight knit group in
some ways. I correspond with about 100 different people a week on the small
details of stable isotope analyses. We criticize each other’s work, usually
supportively. Many of us meet once or twice yearly in person, where we present
our findings for critical review.
The hazards in this field are
numerous. We depend on explosive chemicals—fluorine gas, for example. We
generate poisonous gases—carbon monoxide, for example. We use deadly
chemicals—hot mercury and hot uranium. I’ve been burned, shocked, hit with
flying glass shards. Some of my colleagues have suffered much worse. With only
a very few exceptions, isotope scientists are careful people. We work well with
details.
Now, when I see a landscape or learn
about a new animal, I think, “How would stable isotopes help figure how these
things work?” It might be surprising to some that I could spend such a long
time devoted to things I can’t see, smell, taste or hear. But, to others, not
surprising at all. We’re isotope nerds.
Dominic Papineau, Marilyn, Seth Newsome, Geophysical Lab 2009 |
A. What is an
isotope?
An isotope is a variation of a basic
element. This means that atoms can have different “flavors.” Isotope “flavors”
of the same chemical element always have the same number of protons (atomic
number), but different number of neutrons. For example, one of the most common
elements is carbon. Three isotopes of carbon are carbon-12, carbon-13, and
carbon-14. The number after carbon represents the mass of each isotope
respectively. Each of these isotopes has 6 protons, therefore an atomic number
of 6. To determine the number of neutrons just subtract the atomic number from
each mass.
We call carbon-13 the heavy isotope
and carbon-12 the light isotope. “Lighter” isotopes can run faster through
chemical reactions and “heavier” ones lag behind. Because the different
isotopes move at different speeds through plants and animals, the amounts of
light and heavy isotopes can change. For instance, plants use carbon dioxide in
photosynthesis. The plant will use carbon dioxide with carbon-12 faster than it
will use carbon-13. Therefore, leaves in plants have less carbon-13 in them,
than in the carbon dioxide. The difference in the isotope concentrations
between two pools of carbon, for example leaves and air, is called isotope
fractionation.
Penn State Years
The origin of life on Earth holds many
mysteries for scientists of all disciplines. In the 1960s, professors and
students at Harvard published papers describing their findings of trace fossils
from early microbes in some of the Earth’s oldest Precambrian rocks, 1 to 4
billion years old. At the time, the biological revolution was still a decade
away. In earth science, plate tectonics did not yet provide the framework for
interpreting how continents were built or how their sedimentary features had
been formed. Dating of rocks was just being developed, and many of the
Precambrian deposits studied at this time for the presence of fossils had just
been dated. A key publication for me as a biology major at Penn State
University was a review in Scientific American by Elso S. Barghoorn,
Harvard professor and paleontologist (Barghoorn, 1971). Along with his student
William Schopf, the two published photographs of thin sections and electron
micrographs of putative microbial cells (Schopf and Barghoorn, 1967).
Barghoorn noted that life had to
conquer three different thresholds to evolve to where it is today. From the
chemical soup of the early Earth, organisms needed to develop biosynthetic
pathways such as photosynthesis. He presumed that the first organisms were heterotrophs,
feeding on compounds in the chemical soup. Barghoorn argued that
autotrophy—making biomass like plants do today-- was also needed to continue
the supply of organic nutrients for heterotrophs. The second threshold was
diversification, in order for single-celled organisms to develop into more
complex forms, including chains of cells or stromatolites, macro structures
seen in sediments over the years.
The third threshold that organisms
needed to transcend was the formation of cellular microstructures, notably the
nucleus, in order to become multicellular organisms. Sedimentary deposits from
three different continents, Africa, Australia, and North America confirmed to
Barghoorn, Schopf and others that life was widespread on the earth during its
first 2 billion years and had originated in similar fashion across the planet.
The conclusion that these were fossil
microbes (Schopf and Barghoorn, 1967) started a four-decade debate about the
biogenicity of these structures found in ancient rocks. The authors noted that
although it is difficult, I would say impossible, to relate the potentially
biological structures to intact cells, they concluded that the spheroids are
“almost certainly of biological origin” representing cells, most likely algae.
Electron microscopy of ancient sediments was a new technique at the time.
Microscopic examination coupled with chemical and isotopic analyses seemed to
prove the interpretation that these were fossil organisms. Their paper
certainly caught my eye and my interests because it combined new chemical
instrumentation to describe once-living organisms in a geological context.
These three fields of science--biology, chemistry, and earth science--rolled
into one sparked my career.
At Penn State, two experiences largely
determined my interest in these fields: a 3-month Marine Science quarter at
Wallops Island, Virginia, and a special class in Geochemistry. Both of these
opportunities were sparked by my friend Nancy “Natasha” Peters. “Natasha” and I
met first quarter in summer 1970 when we lived on the third floor of Curtin
Hall. We were both out of state students, thrust into the rural atmosphere of
State College—she from the DC area, me the Philadelphia suburbs. That summer we
were introduced to a group of renegade fraternity guys who inducted us into
their frat with a ceremony complete with robes, candles, and the secret
handshake. After that experience, we were partners in adventure for the next
three years. Natasha was a biochemistry major, aced all her exams, but wasn’t
bitten by the same science bug that I was, but nonetheless dug up these
interesting courses. She heard about the marine science program and wrangled
us, just technically juniors, into a competitive list of students chosen to
participate.
Wallops Island Station is a former Navy
base on the coast of southern Virginia. It also served then and now as an
outpost for NASA satellite tracking and small rocket launches. In March 1972,
forty Penn State students led by Professor Albert Guber from the Earth Science
Department moved into former Naval officer quarters on the outskirts of the
base. There were only 4 women in the group---Nat, Nancy Zeller, and me, all
long time friends, and one other. As students in the first class to start this
program, we were pioneers. The quarter was broken into three segments in which
we concentrated on subjects—Physical Oceanography, Marine Biology, and
Geological Oceanography. It was heaven on earth for me as a student. Our
studies consisted of evening lectures with day times spent in the field in the
neighboring environments of Chincoteague and Assateague Islands and beaches.
Weekly we went out on small boats in the bays and offshore collecting
sediments, water samples, and marine organisms that we kept alive in tanks in
our lab.
Nancy Zeller, Nat, and I pitched in our
meager resources and with the help of Nancy’s dad purchased a small skiff with
an outboard motor that we moored under a bridge on the road to Chincoteague.
The inlet opened up to miles of pristine salt marsh with its green Spartina grasses, oyster beds, and tidal
flats beckoning us to investigate their mysteries first hand. When we had a
slow day, we got in that little boat in early morning, making temperature and
salinity measurements, digging up clams that we cooked for dinner, and just
plain immersing ourselves in the environment. Years later this experience
influenced my choice of research projects. I was now thoroughly hooked and
prepared to do whatever was necessary to make marine science a career.
A year later in spring 1973, Nat rushed
into my dorm room and said, “Mar! You’ve got to signup for this class--Organic
Geochemistry. The professor is this older British man and the class has only 5
students in it, most of them grad students. The only problem is the class meets
at 8 am.” Ugh, I thought. I was in my 4th quarter of required
physical education classes and had signed up for bowling Monday, Wednesday, and
Friday at 8 am, same time as the Geochemistry class. I went to meet with the
professor Dr. Peter H. Given in his office, which contained the requisite piles
of correspondence, journal articles, and unfinished business that usually
graced professors’ desks. Given dressed formally in coat and tie, albeit on the
rumpled side, sported a full white beard, and a robust frame. Turns out, he
despised early morning classes and readily came up with the idea of changing
the time of the class to later in the day. He managed to change two of the
three classes, but I needed to tell my bowling instructor that I needed to miss
one class per week. I was a pretty decent bowler with an average of 150 points
per game, having spent my Saturdays as a youth on a bowling team in South
Jersey. Reluctantly, I was given permission to miss a class, but my grade
dropped to a “B,” nothing compared to the life-changing class I took with Dr.
Given.
We learned about petroleum and coal
formation, how living organisms decayed and entered the fossil record, and
about the origin of life on Earth. The research on Earth’s earliest life was all
very exciting for me. Given revealed a set of fascinating papers to our small
group of undergraduate and graduate students. I was immediately hooked! As a
biology major, I wanted to know how to identify chert, the rock type where
fossils were found. I wanted to use my fascination with biochemistry to find
molecular fossils. Last but not least, ironically at the time, I was not at all
interested in the carbon isotope papers published by Tom Hoering (1963; 1967)
and others. Little did I realize then that carbon isotopes and the process of
isotope patterning by blue-green algae (cyanobacteria) would come to occupy the
majority of my research career.
Prof. Given’s class was a huge eye
opener for me in many ways. I was able to use my knowledge and love of chemistry
to begin to understand biological, environmental, and ecological processes. In
the 1960s, scientists at the Carnegie Institution led by Philip Abelson, Tom
Hoering, and P. Edgar Hare were discovering simple molecules like fatty acids
in marine sediments and fossil shells (Abelson et al. 1956; Hare and Abelson,
1968). Then postdoctoral fellow Patrick Parker published a landmark paper
(Parker, 1964) in which he not only described the molecular distributions of
fatty acids in marine organisms, but isolated these molecules to measure their
carbon isotope patterns. Parker and colleagues at the University of Texas
Marine Science Institute (UTMSI) were publishing papers at a rate of one a year
in the journal Science on new compounds found in sediments, marine
ecosystems, and blue-green algae.
At the conclusion of my undergraduate
years as a biology major, I was convinced that I wanted to combine biology,
chemistry, and geology in an interdisciplinary career. Professor Given helped
tremendously by suggesting two United States labs and one British group, that
were engaged in the research I was most interested in. I chose to attend the
University of Texas Marine Science Institute (UMTSI) in Port Aransas based on a
welcoming phone call from Professor Patrick L. Parker. Pat Parker provided a
positive response to my potential and offered me a position as a graduate
student in an interdisciplinary course of study under the joint supervision of
Parker (a marine organic geochemist), Chase Van Baalen (an algal physiologist
and specialist in cyanobacteria), and Bill Behrens (a marine geologist). I
accepted the position and in January 1974 I headed south to Port Aransas,
Texas, on the coast of the Gulf of Mexico. In hindsight, my decision to study
at UTMSI with Parker was without question the right choice. Parker’s research
on the relationship of modern organisms to the compounds found in Recent
sediments, as well as his interest in carbon isotopes, set the path for my
career in biogeochemistry.
Brother Fred, Marilyn, sister Barbie, dad Art Fogel, college years, circa 1973 |
Standing out as a woman scientist
When I first started my career as a
young undergraduate at Penn State, we all took a test that would help us
determine what we might be interested in and suited for in terms of a career.
Recently, I unearthed the old results of that test taken nearly fifty years ago
in 1970. Options for careers for women at that time--college educated
women--included nun, secretary, and sewing machine operator, among other
women-only type careers. My results indicated a suitability for Chemist,
Entertainer, and Naval Officer. One of them was spot on; the other two describe
me in some sense. As a leader of a scientific laboratory for 40 years, you’ve
got to have some “military officer” personality to succeed. As a college
professor for the past 6 years, I’ve also had to be an Entertainer on occasion.
In 1970, there were quotas for how many
men could be accepted to universities and colleges vs. how many women. Most of
the “top” universities were just starting to accept female undergrads. 1969 was the watershed year for high-ranking
places like Yale and Princeton to decide to accept women for the first
time. At Penn State, the ratio of men to
women was 3:1; at Cornell University where I also applied, the ratio was 8:1. A
male student from my high school with nearly identical test scores and grades
was accepted to Cornell, but my woman friend and I were not. Luckily, I was
accepted at Penn State; competition for women to get accepted to first-rate
school was intense, probably because of the quotas. Owing to the fact that I
was from out of state (New Jersey), I needed to start classes in the summer. At
that time, we sensed the discrimination based on quotas was unfair, but no one
did anything about that. In my science classes, there were about 20-30% women
in biology, fewer in chemistry, geology, and physics classes. As a youngster,
having more young men around than young women was fine with me.
During my high school and undergraduate
years, I worked at many low-level jobs that helped reinforce my determination
to build a more interesting life in science. Starting with babysitting in
junior high school, a short run as a Howard Johnson’s waitress, I spent summers
as a chambermaid in a hotel at the Jersey Shore and as a gardener and maid in
Santa Barbara, California. I much preferred the quiet life of the maid or
gardener rather than the time sensitive, outgoing requirements of a waitress.
In my senior year of college, friends helped me get a coveted position as a
Peanut Saleswoman at Penn State football games. This might sound like a menial
job but it had great benefits---I could sell my football ticket and make ten
bucks! Peanuts cost 40 cents, but if you went into the alumni stands, more
often than not you got a whole dollar and “keep the change.” In the student
sections, guys offered you a drink of whiskey from a flask they’d smuggled in.
You could sit at the 50-yard line in the stadium if you needed a break. My
parents came up for one of the games, but they were embarrassed that their
daughter had to sell peanuts instead of dressing up and going to the game with
a date, which was not my style. After that game, they upped my weekly allowance
from $10 to $20, which I used for all of my food, entertainment, and
incidentals.
Working for bosses who were
disorganized or even mean was a good learning experience. Showing up for work
on time and prepared at an early age is a skill never to be forgotten. Today as
I teach undergraduates at the University of California, I encourage them to
sample as broadly as possible the jobs people have that fall far below
students’ expectations. Working with people from all different walks of life
provides education far beyond what is learned in school.
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