to become a performer

I saw Ovid Tzeng's picture on Observer! Observer is a magazine published by the Association for Psychological Science.  As a member of the organization, I receive the magazine every month.  It's a casual read for catching up some interesting updated findings in cognitive, social, and educational psychology.  I usually skimmed it during my lunch break and left it on the coffee table in the waiting room.

The texts accompanying Tzeng's picture, in which he was holding his Golden Bell Award with a huge smile, described his contribution to cognitive psychology, neuropsychology, and education in Taiwan.  Tzeng's image stared back at me.  My memory went back to the day when I first met him.  Or I should say when I first saw him.  I did not officially meet and greet him three years after that first impression, which literally changed my life.
Of course the content of his talk made me choose my career.  But what also impressed me was not only his knowledge but his passion about pursuing the knowledge.  Tzeng was so passionate that I had to do what he was doing.

Many successful characters have great passion on the subject where they are so successful.  Having passion is essential but not enough to inspire new generations.  Tzeng was a great speaker.  He delivered his passion to a group of high school students and encouraged at least one of them to pursue science.  It's like Steve Jobs encouraged people to buy iPhones or Al Gore convinced people that human behaviors can change the climate.

Then I was closely coached by Toby Mordkoff.  Even though we are on first-name basis, my respect and gratitude to him is much more than to most of the professors who lectured me.  Playing the role of my academia father, he was not the father figure of my graduate years.  He was too insensitive (some people may used the word "eccentric") to be caring his students like his children.  But I love watching his interaction with his children. That was the first man I met in my life who demonstrated what a father should be like. I wish I had that kind of love and expression of love from my father.

Toby has an incredibly logic mind that processes information more rapidly than anyone else I've known.  I may never be as clever, creative, and critical as him.  I was once upset when I realized that I might not be smart enough to be his student.  Oh, being a doctoral student definitely makes you humble.  Then I gradually came to embrace such realization and accepted who I was and what I may become.
 
One of many thing that Toby taught me was presentation.  He was a genius with few social skills, but his presentation of his thoughts was always easy to follow.  "You are teaching," he said, "the goal is to help the audience learn rather than burden them with the material."  Oh well... that was not exactly what he said (as memory changes every time humans recollect it), but that was the essence I got.

Toby's presentations were enjoyable.  One universal tip was that fewer words are way much better than lengthy descriptions -- people are listening to you, not reading the slides!  But another tip gave me a much more significant impact: Anything appearing on the slide has a purpose; if you are not talking about it, don't put it there.
When I was in the drama club during my college years, one thing was taught and practiced a lot was: Anything appearing on the stage has a purpose; you have to make every single word and movement purposeful.
If I ever become a great lecturer or speaker, Toby will get the credit.

In recent years, the two best talks of all I attended are performed by Kenneth Heilman and Brenda Milner. Both of them are well-established scholars whose work is frequently cited in textbooks.  Ken (as I respectfully call him on his first name) is one of the greatest neurologists.  Milner (who I never talked to in person so I am going to call her by her last name) is one of the most influential experimental psychologists.  However, great researchers are not always great speakers. (I shall not give examples here).

Ken was about 80 years old at his talk. Milner was 94.  Both delivered tremendous amount of passion about their work with very few slides.  The audiences in the separate events were so engaged and felt how lucky we were to be part of the events.

Ken talked about spatial neglect and anosognosia.  He shared his life-time story of conducting research to seek answers.  I remember the story of his encountering patients who could only finish the half of food placed on the right side of the plate.  I remember his explanation of the Greek word "anosognosia" -- the disorder of not knowing.  Perhaps because I study spatial neglect and because people with spatial neglect often have anosognosia, I was already inclined to get engaged in his talk.
Actually it was hard not to get engaged when Ken was talking.  Ken used only one slide bearing information that I cannot remember at all.  He just talked without looking at any note.  He articulated every single difficult concept and elaborated with understandable examples and evidence.  It was an intellectually entertaining and stimulating talk show.  Immediately he reminded me of Toby, who never used powerpoints for lectures.
I want to become a speaker like Ken or Toby.

A month ago, I sat in the audience of Milner's talk.  Her topic was remotely linked to my research interests.  But being a psychologist or neurocognitive scientist, one must know of the case of H.M. (i.e., the now revealed Henry Molaison).  H.M. made Milner's career.  Milner's career has shaped what we know about memory -- the definition of memory, the categorization of memory, the systems of memory, the mechanism of memory, the function of memory, and the entire research field of memory.  The tales of H.M. have been told million of times in books and movies.  However, Milner clarified details that were overlooked by media.  For example, the famous star tracing task was actually a random task that Milner tried out for curiosity.  Also, H.M. surprised Milner at the first meeting: anticipating that H.M. would not learn new facts, she gave him four digits to remember. About half hours later, she asked him the digits, H.M. gave the correct answer and told her the strategy he used to memorize the digits; however, H.M. had no memory that he had met Milner 30 minutes ago. In fact, over almost five decades working in experiments with Milner, H.M. never remembered her.

Among so many things Milner talked about during that hour, one epiphany she shared stuck with me. At the death of H.M. in 2008, Milner felt that she lost a long-time friend. Her sadness was soon overcome by the realization that H.M. never remembered who Milner was. For H.M., Milner was no one. This man had stopped forming long-term declarative memory since he was 27. He had no new friends since 1953.

This is so hard to imagine. It is equally hard to imagine how patients with spatial neglect live their life. H.M. simply was not bothered by his amnesia or that neglect patients simply believe that their world was as normal as before their brain injuries.  Why should we, the so-called "normal healthy people" (or neurologically typical individuals), feel sorry for them?  They are happy.  They have no complaint.  They are not aware of their disorders even if they are told or if they are trying to be aware.  They are cognitively unable to comprehend why we want to feel sorry for them.
We thank them for teaching us memory and spatial cognition.  They may feel flattered and go on with their lives.

A science presentation is no more than a performance.  Any great performance (speech, research report, movie, play, musical, etc.) evokes further thoughts and discussions. 
I want to learn from these great performers and become one of them.
Finally after five years, I set a new personal goal. Wish me luck.