Staff scientists shouldn’t feel invisible. We deserve more voice

From ScienceMag:

When I finished my presentation and opened the floor for questions, I was flummoxed by the opening response. Instead of addressing me—a staff scientist—a senior faculty member turned to my mentor and congratulated him on the project. I felt it in my gut first, then in my cheeks. I had provided project support for scientists for more than 10 years and was used to being overlooked in discussions. But it was not what I was expecting on this day, during a presentation about my own work. My mentor made a point of looking my way when responding, saying I had been at the “tip of the spear” for the project. I was thankful for his vocal support. But my path as a staff scientist hasn’t always been easy.

I began my career in academia providing administrative support for two associate deans. I had just graduated with an undergraduate degree in English, I was in my late 20s, and I was looking to pay off my student loans. I had explored many different career paths—hospitality, nonprofit management, wedding photography—but none felt right.

I was eager to find ways to contribute and succeed. So, when an entry-level research position opened up in a research center one of the deans oversaw, I decided to apply. It still involved many administrative tasks. But after starting, I found that I enjoyed dipping my toes into data collection and analysis and that I was drawn to research methods. After several years in this role, I was encouraged to pursue a master’s in public health.

Two years later, with my master’s degree in hand, I took an entry-level position as a statistical data analyst. I thoroughly enjoyed the work. But I was rarely included in high-level planning meetings. I was simply handed a to-do list without a chance to learn the goals of a project or contribute to the strategy. I felt valued but not included, and over time I grew dissatisfied.

Other research staff who shared my dissatisfaction advised me to stay focused: “You have to be committed to the work, you can’t care about the credit.” But I didn’t see it that way. Years earlier, I had come across an article about the Toyota Production System, which achieves high efficiency in part by respecting and listening to all employees and involving them in problem-solving. Ever since then, I have been hyperaware of how people on the lower rungs of the academic hierarchy—research support staff, for example—are not routinely included or fully tapped.

I felt I had my own contributions to make. So, after 5 years of supporting faculty, I worked to create the staff scientist role I currently hold. I was given projects to lead, and I wrote my own proposals in collaboration with faculty members. But when it came time to communicate the work, I was often bypassed. At the conclusion of one project I was asked to write talking points for the faculty member who would present them to an external advisory committee. In another instance, I was told my name would not appear on a slide describing a project I was leading. I wanted credit for my own work, and I refused to prepare a summary for the presentation.

I have been fortunate to find some faculty colleagues and mentors who give me the opportunity to fully participate in the scientific process. These relationships have made all the difference for me. But most faculty seem to view the academic hierarchy as some kind of natural law, where they are knowledge producers and staff are knowledge supporters.

Those of us who lack a Ph.D. may be more likely to be excluded, but I have seen staff colleagues with Ph.D.s experience the same treatment. All of us need to seek out faculty leaders who are receptive to feedback on the staff experience and want to cultivate inclusivity. I also urge those in positions of power to think about how their current structures might render nonfaculty contributions invisible. We’re all valuable cogs in the system.

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