Science Projects

It's circa 1990. My older sister is preparing her entry for the Fifth Grade Science Fair. I'm seven years old, and I'm so excited.  

I was into Science. At least I thought I was. Specifically animals, more specifically dinosaurs. I spent a lot of time sending out for mail order animal fact cards (I had the biggest collection of anyone I knew). Everyone told me the stuff I liked was called Science, so I liked—I mean like, like-liked– Science, because I liked the potato bugs on my front lawn (Armadillidium vulgare) and I liked my golden retriever (“Roxy”). 

I loved spending an entire hour of class going over how frogs work, or how an acorn can turn into a tree, or how big the sun is (unfathomably). There’d be animals: elephants and giraffes and lions and snakes. And T. rexes! At museums! Science was my first schoolboy crush.

So of course I paid attention to the Science Fair, even though I wasn't in it yet. I was an amorous youth, unconsciously drawn to my obsession. I couldn't wait to see the Multipurpose Room in all it's glamour, brightly-colored poster boards full of delicious factual information, foldable tables teeming with experimental models.

Everybody had to make something scientific. That part terrified me. I wanted to take everything Science had to give, but I never–never–thought I had something so inspired as real science inside of me. I'm a fanboy, not here to audition, thank you very much.  

Still, if I could have stolen or bought my way to that trophy, I would have done so. I wanted to be a part of Science. Did I mention the size of my animal facts collection?

My sister, a good student, probably made it to the quarter or semifinals with her project: The Effects of Centrifugal Force on House Plant Growth. I don’t remember exactly.¹ She put a peace Lily on a turntable for a week, or something. I still consider this a brilliant experiment, but knew that unless I could somehow discover a live Diplodocus in the Amazon or invent solar-powered flying roller blades, I didn't have a chance at winning.

As it turns out, I never entered. We moved before fifth grade, and there wasn't a Science Fair at the new school, oh well! To be honest I hadn’t really been thinking about it at that point anyway. New concerns arose—fitting in, being cool, ha!

I wonder, I really wonder if things had gone differently, would things be different? What I mean is– had I competed in the Fifth Grade Science Fair, would I have gotten it out of my system? Is there a blank poster board and empty table hanging around my neck like an albatross?

An example–for some reason I wanted to publish a peer-reviewed paper (not in the fifth grade, later on). Why? Who knows. Probably caught a bit of the gunneritis from some obnoxious classmate in vet school. Talked myself into the idea that it would get me noticed, recommended for some choice internship. Accolades. Or whatever.

So I slogged through the process, and got a first author, peer-reviewed journal article published. The pinnacle of scientific achievement (well, a highly-cited first author peer-reviewed paper is really the pinnacle, but come on–how far do you need to go?). Then I did another. And another. Success was exhilarating, culminating in the prestigious 2021 Journal of Feline Medicine and Surgery: Highly Commended for the Open Reports Practitioner Best Paper Award. 

Now, I don’t know officially if that award ranks higher than the 1993 St. Didacus Elementary School Fifth Grade Science Fair, but I do know that the Nobel Committee has still not gotten in touch. They might never, because I haven't written a journal article for a few years, and all my energies are focused on the creative arts for now.

I also loved drawing as a kid. I drew so many T. rexes (still do). Now I'm taking it seriously, ambitiously. I’m pouring my heart into my book, cartoons, illustrations (and who knew–I also like writing!?). I’m doing all this because… well, because my nose told me to.

I don’t mean I stopped caring about Science because I only won an obscure academic award, or that I blindly follow the most disgusting sense organ,² I just mean that right now creativity feels like the best way to restore a sense of harmony. And no matter which branch of human activity I choose to swing on, I need a reminder that all pursuits are worthy. I put just as much care and attention into a feline lungworm project as I do into cartoons that will never see a high-output printing press.

If either one helps or contributes to anyone else–humans, cats, otherwise (I make an exception for the lungworms though)–then that feels nice. But I also need a reminder not to pursue accolades. This must explain why I'm a terrible self-promoter and subconsciously sabotaging my success as a cartoonist, which if so is at least a nice, warm, fuzzy reason.

It’s lovely to think that anyone’s gotten anything from my scientific or artistic career, but in my heart of hearts I know my best work is done just for me. 

1. She must have made it further than my brother’s toothpick castle though.
2. Okay, here’s my criteria for “most disgusting”. Which output product would you least likely want to eat? Head-to-head we’ve got: tears, fingernails, ear wax, spit, and boogers. Boogers, by a landslide.