I don’t think I want to choose between research and teaching.
Part of that is personal. I grew up around women—cousins, family, girls I knew closely—who were every bit as sharp as I was. Some were sharper. But intelligence is not the same thing as choice. I watched lives become narrower because the menu of acceptable futures was narrow: geography, money, family expectations, safety, timing, or simply whether somebody was allowed to keep going.
My own life contains an uncomfortable amount of geographical luck. I grew up in Qatar. I had parents who kept saying yes. I landed at Carnegie Mellon. I found labs with compute, funding to travel, professors who answered the extra question, and mentors willing to spend hours on a student who did not yet know enough to deserve those hours on paper.
I am, embarrassingly, a composite object made out of other people’s patience.
Eduardo let sophomore-me into a research lab when I mostly had curiosity and Jupyter notebooks. Bhiksha sat with me in Pittsburgh and walked through papers paragraph by paragraph until I learned how researchers actually read. Other mentors gave me second attempts, longer explanations, compute, introductions, and room to be unfinished.
There is research behind the feeling, too. One longitudinal study associated having a school-based natural mentor with a 9.4 percentage-point increase in college attendance, with the largest effects among students from lower socioeconomic backgrounds. A recent meta-analysis of faculty–student relationships similarly examined their relationship with achievement and persistence in higher education.
That is probably why Benjamin Bloom’s idea of mastery learning has lodged itself so firmly in my head. In Learning for Mastery, aptitude is treated partly as the amount of time a learner needs to reach mastery—not simply a fixed ceiling on what they can learn.
I think about that whenever we are too quick to call somebody “not a math person,” “not technical,” or “not research material.”
And the educational divide does not disappear when you reach a university. It just gets quieter. One student gets an H200, conference travel, people who read three drafts, and the freedom to run the experiment again. Another gets a laptop, a cloud-credit limit, and documentation.
Both can be brilliant. One simply gets more iterations.
I want to spend part of my life giving people more iterations. More time. Better explanations. A second attempt. Access to the machine. A seat in the room. Someone willing to say, show me exactly where it stopped making sense.
That is the kind of educator I think I want to become.