Whom Do I Serve

As I work at the lab bench, pipetting antibodies into the well of my tray containing cochlea tissue from the mouse I am studying, I pause and ask: “whom do I serve with my research?” Reflexively, I think of Dr. Dwayne Simmons, my PI of 2 years. But as I ponder, I realize this answer has come too quickly. While I have been blessed by his mentorship, I realize my impetus, my drive emanates from elsewhere. An artist does not encapsulate the horizon with textures and dyes to simply sate the appetite of a peer; a poet does not pour out their sorrow and grief into metered stanzas to whet the palate of a critic. And while I know my work at present lacks the refinement of true art, my craft serves a purpose greater than the satisfaction of my mentor. Pausing once more, I answer that my work serves my own hand. As the potter imbues his clay with spirals and swirls, edges and curves to the delight of his eye, so too must my craft serve the specifications of my heart. But in this I hesitate. The specifications of the craft are the means to it, but not the purpose; the antibodies that I apply to my tissue serve the objective, but do not in turn take its place. And, while caught up in an initially introspective spirit, I realize the remarkably lonely world I have created where my hand’s only master is myself. Self-betterment and reflection are key parts of the optimism and adaptability that make us human, but when we prioritize them for their sake and their sake alone, we lose sight of their function in helping us to engage with others, to form and build upon community. Thus I turn away from the self-centric notion that my craft serves the craftsman. 

Pondering once more, I realize that my labor serves a purpose beyond the laboratory. A carpenter may only ever see the merchant they deal their arboreal craft to, though their hours of sweat and strain are directed towards the benefit of some unknown consumer. Likewise, this obscure population, not readily visible to the researcher themselves, are the people who hope to benefit from my research. Research transparency is so often discussed, but this functions almost as a one-way mirror. The public may know exactly what the researcher is investigating, but at the lab bench it is difficult to see the faces of our beneficiaries; I can see those of family and friends, but the orphan, the widow, and the critically ill are faces I may never know. While the carpenter may never know the final recipient of his workmanship, his work retains its grace and function; the ornate table may sit in an unknown home, yet it still bears witness to great feasts. It is by serving this unknown, striving to do his best in spite of his limited knowledge, that the carpenter’s craft gains its widest influence. His toil reaches beyond himself, beyond his family, beyond his employer to grace the populace. Thus, in ordering my hand to the service of those unknown to me, I achieve the broadest and most noble direction to my research. Satisfied with this answer, I set back to the bench with renewed vigor.