My central obsession

When I was a teenager my central obsession was Einstein’s theory of relativity. I was astonished that Einstein’s bizarre, seemingly impossible predictions about time, space, and the speed of light had actually proven to be true, and dedicated myself to understanding how nature performed such an incredible trick. By the time I entered high school I was considering trying to become a physicist when I grew up just so that I could understand Einstein’s work as thoroughly as possible. I lived in a town where a NASA facility was located, and my father worked for a contractor that I vaguely suspected was involved with space and rocketry. I hoped he might know about what kinds of jobs physicists could do. So I asked him, “What kind of work can one do as a physicist?”

He turned his mouth downward and shook his head derisively. “Nothing. Teach.”

I worried for several months afterwards about how I should deal with this problem. Finally I realized that I couldn’t imagine not pursuing physics. Life would be intolerably boring otherwise. I decided I would become a physicist, living in whatever poverty and disrepute that choice would impose upon me. I began hiding the physics and math books that I read every night in a drawer in my desk under a large pile of school books.

I went to college and majored in physics. Early on I found that I had quite a talent for teaching physics to others, and lamented that teaching should be considered “nothing.” I eventually got a Ph.D. in physics. I found out my father was wrong; I had no trouble finding work. In fact, I found that the company he worked for recruited physicists at the university I attended.

Decades later I told my mother about that conversation I had with my father as a teenager. She said, “That’s funny. Your dad started college as a physics major. He switched because he said he found it too difficult.”