Tamiko's arrival put a lot of pressure on me to complete my degree. Joane would work in the day while I took care of Tamiko, most often taking her to the lab, where she could sleep in the buggy while I counted fruit flies. I would take her home for dinner and then leave to spend long nights continuing the experiments. The work paid off, as I completed my doctorate in zoology in less than three years after graduating from Amherst.
The Zoology Department at the University of Chicago had had a long and distinguished record in the classical fields, whereas cell biology and genetics were relatively recent arrivals. Aaron Moscona was a top developmental biologist there, and Hewson Swift was a cell biologist with expertise with the electron microscope. Bill Baker was the geneticist. As well, there were terrific people in other departments such as botany, microbiology, and biochemistry, and there was an atmosphere of intellectual excitement. I took courses with two of the “grand old men of ecology,” Alfred Emerson and Tom Park,
both of whom gave me a grounding in ecology and introduced me to students in the area.
But exhilaration about the recognition that deoxyribonucleic acid (DNA), was the genetic material, the James Watson — Francis Crick model that explained it, and other advances in molecular biology seemed to extend into every area of the life sciences. I remember Tom Humphreys, one of the bright grad students in Moscona's lab, protesting, “You geneticists seem to want to take over all of biology.” He was right — we did. As far as we were concerned, the entire field of developmental biology was the consequence of differential activation and inactivation of genes. We grad students in genetics were pretty puffed up with ourselves as a result of the recent discoveries and tended to be condescending toward the more traditional, descriptive sciences. Now that I realize how important it is to bring an ecological perspective to environmental issues, I feel a need to serve penance for my youthful arrogance.
In June 1961, I received my PhD and had the added thrill of receiving the sheepskin directly from the university's new president, George Beadle. He was a Nobel Prize winner who had begun his career working with corn, then switched to fruit flies, and finally settled on the bread mold, Neurospora crassa. Through this research, he and Edward Tatum had discovered the one-gene/one-enzyme relationship that suggested each gene specified the production of a specific protein or enzyme. I became a fully licensed scientist upon receiving my degree from an eminent fellow geneticist.
My thesis adviser, Bill Baker, had worked for years at the Biology Division of the Oak Ridge National Laboratory (ORNL) in Tennessee and strongly recommended that I apply for a position there. I did, and I was delighted to receive my first full-time job as a research associate in the lab of Dan Lindsley, one of the world's experts in manipulating chromosomes.
ORNL had been created in the mountains of Tennessee as a top-secret project to purify uranium for the Manhattan Project, set up in 1942 to develop the atomic bomb. After the war, research on radiation continued in the Biology Division, but by the time I applied, the division had shifted its research emphasis to basic biology. Once there, I was free to follow any avenue of research I wanted in the company of some of the best scientists in the world. There was a wonderful spirit of collegiality and helpfulness that encouraged cooperation and exchange of ideas as the best way to develop one's skills. I came away much more confident in my abilities as a scientist.
World War II had created Oak Ridge, and, ironically, the institution that had been the source of material for the bombs that had demolished Hiroshima and Nagasaki was now a hotbed of world-class research and international cooperation, and I was part of it. There was another legacy, from the Great Depression of the 1930s. Tennessee had been one of the poorest regions of the U.S.; the forests had been cut down long before, and farmers had overworked the soil, leading to loss of the land's fertility and to erosion. During the Depression, U.S. president Franklin D. Roosevelt had galvanized people with his vision of a New Deal to create wealth and get people working. At his urging, Congress established the Tennessee Valley Authority (TVA) in 1933 to oversee a massive make-work project. The TVA was a radically new approach that took a more holistic view of problems like malaria control, flooding, deforestation, navigation, and erosion. A network of lakes created by dams provided flood control and, most important, power for industries and home use.
Around Oak Ridge, there were TVA dams that supported populations of fish. Below the dams, I would fish for trout and shad, and above in the lakes, silver bass were plentiful. I would take the family camping in the Smoky Mountains. Dad came to visit and was soon driving along back hills, meeting hillbillies and sharing their moonshine.
But Tennessee had been a slave-owning state and a part of the southern Confederacy in the Civil War. There were still overt signs of racism. Because of my own experience during World War II, I identified strongly with the black community. Most of the scientists at ORNL came from the North, so the facilities were an oasis of liberalism. In Dan Lindsley's lab, the chief technician was Ruby Wilkerson, an African American who lived with her husband, Floyd, in the nearby village of Philadelphia. Ruby and I would sit at our microscopes across from each other, and she would regale me with stories about the many geneticists who had gone through Lindsley's lab.
When Joane and I visited Ruby and her family, guests sat at the table with the men while the hosting women stood behind and filled our plates and glasses as needed. The TV was always blaring. Once I was holding forth when I suddenly realized that no one was listening to me — they were all riveted by the appearance of a black actor on the TV screen. It was a stunning illustration of their desperate need for someone with whom they could identify.
There were lots of black employees at ORNL, including Ruby's husband and his brother, but almost all worked in support positions — as janitors, kitchen help, and animal caretakers. I became involved in the local chapter of the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People (NAACP) and, in empathizing with the problems of discrimination in the South, began to resent all white people. Joane and I traveled into the Deep South, where I was distressed by the blatant racism in signs restricting the use of drinking fountains and washrooms.
Patricia with trout at Dad's pond near London
Although I could have stayed on at Oak Ridge and had been offered several faculty positions in the U.S., I felt deeply estranged from the culture because of the overt racism. Even though Canada had invoked the War Measures Act against Japanese Canadians, the country was smaller, and I believed there was more of a chance to work for a better society. The opportunities for a scientist in the U.S. were much greater at that time, but I have never regretted my decision to return home.
A position as assistant professor arose in the Genetics Department at the University of Alberta, which I eagerly applied for, and I was gratified to be offered the job. I accepted it. Edmonton was an excellent place to begin my career, although I took a cut in pay compared with what I would have received had I stayed at ORNL. The province was booming and provided far more support for research and staff than most universities received. When I arrived in the summer of 1962, I would leave the lab at 2:00 or 3:00 in the morning and was thrilled that it was still light out because of Edmonton's northerly latitude. I was not so happy when I was assigned to teach an Introductory Genetics course to a group of agriculture students, but they turned out to be the hardest-working and hardest-playing group I've ever had.