Chapter 1: The Path to Physics Education Research at the University of Washington

Although my main motivation for writing this book was intellectual, it has some features of a memoir. I thought that some insights into the background and personality of the author might provide a perspective that would be lacking if only facts were recorded. This history might have been very different had my early education, undergraduate and graduate school experiences, and reactions to later events not been what they were.

I was born in Manhattan and grew up in the northern part of the island, which was then relatively unoccupied compared to most of New York City. I lived in a bilingual home, which sometimes has advantages, as I think it did for me. Both of my parents were born and educated in Greece and met in the USA. They insisted that my brother, George, and I speak Greek (in addition to English) at home and not mix the two languages in the same sentence (which we often did). My father was a lawyer who came to the USA for political reasons. My mother came to prepare to become a teacher. Neither expected to stay, but both did. This heritage enriched my education. Its dual nature is reflected in my parents’ choice of names: “Lillian” for my official first name and “Lilika” for my middle name, which was used at home.¹

In 1936, I began attending P.S. 187, the local public school. What I recall most clearly about my Kindergarten–8th grade elementary school was the emphasis that my seventh-grade teacher placed on English grammar, an interest that I still have. I had earlier “skipped” the first half of the third grade, in which long division was taught. I learned this skill from my father, who taught me by asking questions rather than by only showing me what to do. I did not realize then that he was teaching me in the way that Socrates had taught much earlier in Greece. It was not until many years later that I recognized that teaching by questioning and waiting for answers is often more effective than teaching by telling.

My bilingual childhood was reinforced by weekly three-hour Greek lessons in which my brother George and I were joined by other children who came to our family's apartment. Our Greek teacher was a stickler for grammar and the underlying logic of the language. She often made connections to the English equivalents. (Perhaps that is why I remember my seventh-grade English grammar lessons well.) Besides reading, spelling, and grammar, we learned about the history of Greece.

I entered Hunter College High School as a ninth grader in 1944. It was a public all-girls school at that time. Admission was based on a competitive examination in English and Mathematics. I traveled 45 minutes each way by bus and subway from my home in Manhattan near Fort Tryon Park to 68th Street and Lexington Avenue, where Hunter High was then located. There was little choice in the curriculum. Three years of Latin were required. My study of Greek made Latin particularly interesting to me. The logical structure of both languages inspired me to think critically about my use of English.

Physics was compulsory in the third year. I remember learning many facts that I thought were interesting (e.g., how a refrigerator works). The course consisted mostly of memorization and did not offer much practice in logical reasoning. Instead, I began to develop that skill in other courses. In a civics course, for example, a quiz each week on an unannounced day would pose a challenging question such as “Discuss the underlying causes of the U.S. Civil War (1861–1865).” We were expected to support our response with logical arguments based on facts.

During my senior year at Hunter College High School, I applied and was admitted to several liberal arts colleges and to Cornell University. Vassar College was my first choice. A scholarship from Vassar and a NY State Regents scholarship made it possible for me to attend. At that time, Vassar was an all-women's college, one of the “seven sisters.” My high school education had been so rigorous that I found my first year in college much less stressful than did many of my classmates.

I enjoyed my course in English literature at Vassar with its emphasis on critical thinking and careful writing. I also very much liked biology and physiology. However, I realized that it was not for me when, during a laboratory session, the instructor took the frog from my hands and pithed it for me. (I think she was afraid that I would faint.) Having confidence in my ability in the introductory physics course was another matter. I remember telling the professor that I did not really understand the material. She very kindly told me to wait until after the first exam to discuss the problem. When I received the highest grade in the class, I began to realize that “understanding” does not have the same meaning for everyone. I chose to major in physics, partly because I was squeamish about hurting animals, but mostly because I thought it was harder than other subjects and I wanted to understand it better. In those years, Vassar had no male students (who tend to be more confident about their competence in physics).

One of my fondest memories of Vassar was my almost daily walk to the Music Building. I had a Music Scholarship that funded my piano lessons. The only requirement, besides daily practice, was a one-year course in music theory or history. I took both as well as art history and philosophy. I was elected to Phi Beta Kappa during my junior year.

It was at Vassar that I first began to think about becoming a physics professor. What I had in mind was a small liberal arts college with an academically strong program, a compassionate faculty who cared about students, and an atmosphere that promoted cross-disciplinary conversations among colleagues in a garden-like environment (like Vassar). I did not envision becoming a member of the faculty at a large institution like the University of Washington (UW). My experience as a student at Vassar and my idyllic perspective on the life of a professor probably influenced my later choice of physics education as my field for research.

There was a very important incident that occurred during my college years that had lasting consequences, not only for my personal life but also for my professional future. My father died unexpectedly from a heart attack just one week before the beginning of my sophomore year. As soon as I arrived at Vassar, the Dean came by my room to assure me that I would have a full scholarship until graduation in 1952. Later, this sad event in my life also determined which physics graduate school I would attend. I knew that my mother needed me at home in New York City; therefore, Columbia University was almost my only possibility for graduate study in physics. I was awarded a Baker Fellowship from Vassar College and a Higgins Fellowship from Columbia for my first year in graduate school (1952–1953). In retrospect, fellowships do not seem to me to be the best way to start graduate study. Although an incentive for recruiting good students, I think that being a TA (Teaching Assistant) is a better beginning for most students. The experience can be helpful for strengthening one's understanding of physics and for learning how a Physics Department operates.

Another recipient of a Higgins Fellowship that same year was Mark Nordman McDermott. He had chosen to attend Columbia (instead of Princeton) because New York City was even more different from Walla Walla, Washington, where he had attended Whitman College. We both had lunch almost every day at a restaurant with Jesse Weil (later at the University of Kentucky) and Ed Nicollian. The four of us formed a study group with a couple of other students that sometimes met at my family's apartment. Mark and I gradually became very good friends. One outcome was that we were married in June 1954. Our classmates, Noémie Benczer (later at Rutgers University) and E. Leonard (Lenny) Koller (later at Stevens Institute), were married soon afterward.

My first year at Columbia University differed greatly from my undergraduate experience. Life was in the “sink or swim” mode. A few Nobel Laureates were on the faculty then. One, I. I. Rabi (1944 Laureate), greeted our entering class in 1952 with the words “Look to the right and look to the left; half of you will be gone by the end of the year.” Later, Polykarp Kusch (1955 Laureate), who was also Mark's research advisor, upon seeing me in Mark's atomic physics laboratory, sarcastically remarked that the Higgins Fellowships had at least succeeded in promoting romance. Another discouraging incident occurred during an oral examination that I had to take because I had not done well enough in thermodynamics on the Qualifying Examination. The oral exam was administered by C. H. Townes, a later Nobelist (1964 Laureate), who began by stating that it was his responsibility to decide if I belonged in physics. (Fortunately, he decided that it would be okay for me to continue.) My memory of these experiences was softened by kind treatment from Rainwater (1975 Laureate) and Steinberger (1988 Laureate). I also fondly remember C. S. Wu, the only female member of the regular Columbia physics faculty (later nominated, but not awarded, the Nobel Prize). As one of very few female students, I was determined to survive.

Most of the students in our entering class were TAs in their first year and later became Research Assistants (RAs). However, I could not afford to have only a TA or RA salary because my mother and brother (a Columbia College student) needed financial help. I became a Woman Technician—which I think was the official title—at the IBM Watson Laboratory, a short walk from Pupin (Columbia Physics Building). The gap in salary between my full-time job at IBM and what TAs and RAs earned part-time at Columbia University was small but it made a difference. Mark and I lived on his RA salary, while mine helped support my family.

I remained with IBM for approximately two and a half years, during which I clocked out of my job to attend classes. I have the unhappy memory of punching a time clock on my arrival every morning. If I were even one minute late, the printed time would turn red. There was nothing that I could do by working late (which I always did) to avoid a reprimand. At that time, Mark and I lived in Fort Lee, New Jersey, and were part of a carpool. The driver, a Ph.D. physicist at the IBM Watson Laboratory, did not have to account for his time and was casual about his arrival. I remember being scolded for being a few minutes late for several days in a row. Knowing that I did not want to be treated in that way strengthened my determination to obtain a Ph.D. My final experience at IBM was even more compelling. After my brother graduated from Columbia College, I told the Director of the Laboratory of my plans to become an RA at Columbia University to complete the physics Ph.D. program. To my surprise, he admonished me for a lack of appreciation for what IBM had done for me. I was disappointed because I had thought that he would be pleased that I wanted to continue in physics. Except for the difference in pay (and often treatment) between men and women, I felt that the company had been good to me and I was grateful. This episode strengthened my desire for an academic future.

I began research as an RA on the Columbia Van de Graaff accelerator, joining as the sixth graduate student in experimental nuclear physics. Professor W. W. Havens was my formal advisor, but post-docs (Ray Benenson, Keith Jones, and Lee Lidofsky) supervised our work. I was assigned the task of identifying the effect of traces of O¹⁶ on the elastic scattering of alpha particles by N¹⁵ (Herman Smotrich's Ph.D. topic). The complications introduced by the presence of O¹⁶ were sufficiently challenging that a similar experiment on the elastic scattering of alpha particles by O¹⁶ became my dissertation topic. Herman built most of the equipment and I did most of the analysis for both elements. As the last one to join our group, I had the lowest priority for accelerator time. However, I was able to overcome this handicap because Mark learned how to operate the Van de Graaff accelerator. I could therefore collect data over weekends when there were no technicians and my fellow students were less eager to work.

I completed my research and wrote a paper for the Physical Review within a couple of years after joining the group (McDermott et al., 1960). I then had to take a written Final Examination on my graduate coursework, a Physics Department requirement. I think that the faculty believed that passing the Qualifying and Final Examinations demonstrated a sufficiently deep understanding of physics to teach undergraduates. My subsequent experience at three other universities convinced me otherwise.

I defended my Ph.D. dissertation in the spring of 1959, three weeks before our son, Bruce, was born. Mark completed the Ph.D. requirements in experimental atomic physics very soon afterward. We had experienced the trials of graduate student life more intensely than others. The crises were doubled (Ph.D. Qualifying and Final Exams), but so were the happy events. We often had dinner at a restaurant on Saturday nights, followed by a movie or concert. We occasionally went dancing. Sometimes we played tennis in Riverside Park on Sunday afternoons.

We left New York City for Urbana-Champaign, Illinois at the end of summer in 1959. Mark had accepted a post-doctoral position as a Research Associate in atomic physics with Robert (Bob) Novick at the University of Illinois. The Department made us feel very welcome—a great contrast with Columbia University. We were therefore disappointed when, after one year, Bob accepted a faculty position at Columbia. If Mark were to stay at Urbana, their collaboration on their joint experiment would be difficult. Therefore, Mark decided to return with Bob to the Department of Physics at Columbia.

We reluctantly moved back to New York City late in the summer of 1960. In 1961, I began teaching physics at City College (CCNY), part of City University of New York (CUNY). I could accept a full-time appointment because my mother and her Uncle John offered to take care of Bruce. I taught introductory calculus-based physics. The students had the same instructor for lectures, laboratory, and recitation sessions. I relearned a lot of basic physics. I also learned that enthusiasm and good teaching evaluations are not reliable indicators about what students have learned. I recall one student who seemed fascinated by my lectures. (I remember his big brown eyes.) My illusions were shattered after the first exam. His grade was the lowest in the class.

After we had been in New York for almost two years, Mark began to search for a position at a university or in industry where he could continue research in atomic physics. He received offers from both. He finally narrowed the choice to the University of Maryland and UW. On the flight back to New York City from College Park, MD, he noted the continuous line of lights below. Not wanting to live long-term in that environment, Mark accepted the offer from UW. Besides the beauty of the area and his Washington State roots, the presence in the Physics Department of Hans Dehmelt (atomic physicist, later 1989 Nobel Laureate) was also an incentive. In September 1962, Mark and I moved to Seattle with three-year-old Bruce. By the summer of 1964, he had two sisters: Melanie (Meli) and Constance (Connie).

Until the passage of the Education Amendments of 1972, which included Title IX, anti-nepotism policies barred close relatives—usually wives—from working at the same institution. The intent had been to lessen financial hardship on families from the Great Depression (1929–1939). Before its passage, only one wage-earner per household could be employed by any institution that received federal funds, which effectively eliminated women from faculty positions [see Rossiter (2012a; 2012b)]. On moving to Seattle, Mark and I had not known how strictly UW still adhered to the anti-nepotism policy.

In December 1964, I applied for a faculty position at Seattle University, a Jesuit university. There were two possibilities: one tenure-track, full-time; the other, part-time. During my interview, Father John Fitterer remarked that the latter would be better for a woman with three children. I took his advice and began teaching introductory physics at Seattle University in January 1965. I would depart for home at about 12:30 p.m. daily, but I gradually became aware that some full-time faculty (all male) often left at about 2:30 p.m. On learning that their salaries were proportionately much higher than mine, I began to question my choice. Another disadvantage later became evident: part-time positions could be easily eliminated. While at Seattle University, I was often asked to teach at UW as a “last-minute” request to substitute for a regular faculty member. Under such “emergency” conditions, the nepotism restriction could be temporarily suspended. By 1967, I was a part-time instructor at both universities.

By the time I received my Ph.D., understanding, motivation, and, eventually, practice had begun to shift in the world of science education. Results from research on intellectual development in children by Jean Piaget (a Swiss psychologist) motivated the development of new curricula by American scientists (Piaget, 1971).² Russia's launch in 1957 of Sputnik I, the first artificial satellite to orbit Earth, mobilized efforts in the USA to do the same. As a result, the NSF increased its support for development of new elementary and secondary school science curricula.

In 1968, Arnold B. Arons, Professor of Physics at Amherst College, joined the Department of Physics at UW at the invitation of the Chair, Ronald Geballe. Arnold planned to develop a course and write a book for preparing prospective elementary school teachers to teach physical science by inquiry. He liked the inquiry-oriented instructional materials produced by physicists in the post-Sputnik era. When the aerospace recession known as the “Boeing bust” (1970–1985) hit Seattle, part-time faculty at UW and Seattle University lost their teaching positions. I was among them. A billboard near the airport in April 1971 asked the last person leaving Seattle to “turn out the lights.”

Although we had not yet met, I went to see Arnold and asked if I could help as a volunteer in his course, an offer that he accepted. Despite child-care complications, Mark was enthusiastic. Not having a regular faculty position was not my concern. I was worried that if I did not remain active in physics, I would not be able to return.

My motivation to conduct research in physics education began to develop in 1971 when I started assisting Arnold Arons as a volunteer in his course for prospective elementary school teachers.³ Whether students asked him questions, or whether he knew from experience that they had them, he would pose additional questions and listen carefully to the responses. Arnold had previously identified from conversations with students some common conceptual and reasoning difficulties. However, he did not teach by providing correct answers. After determining where students were intellectually, he would ask a series of questions to guide them through the proper reasoning. In a sense, Arnold was conducting informal research on student learning. Working with Arnold, I became convinced of the value of his approach as I realized through my own experience that the one who learns most from explanations to a student by a teacher is the teacher. At the same time, I gradually became convinced that to influence other faculty of its validity, documented studies were necessary.

I did not initially connect Arnold's way of teaching with how I had learned to do long division. When I requested help, my father (who had been educated in Greece) would ask questions that led me to “discover” what to do. Later, in my philosophy course at Vassar, I learned about the “Socratic method.” Neither of these experiences, however, had suggested to me the idea of teaching physics by asking questions to help students develop an ability to do the reasoning. Although I did not begin formal research in physics education until after I became an Assistant Professor at UW in 1973, I began to develop my view of research in physics education during my experience in Arnold's course for prospective elementary school teachers. After my experience as a volunteer instructor, Arnold asked me to develop a similar course for prospective high school teachers. I eagerly agreed.

I decided to include the preservice elementary school teachers who had been students in Arnold's course in my new one, hoping that they might provide good examples of learning by inquiry. The idea of a “combined course” proved useful. The prospective elementary school teachers would not accept as answers the types of memorized responses to questions that the future high school teachers tended to give. I taught the new “combined course” by posing questions to guide students as I had observed Arnold do in his course. The students in my new course collaborated on “hands-on” investigations that served as the basis for the development of physical concepts and scientific reasoning skills. I also included a practice-teaching component in which the preservice teachers taught elementary school students.

The developers of the new inquiry-oriented science curricula anticipated that they would generate enthusiasm. Elementary and middle school teachers could be trained in short workshops and continue learning with their students. High school teachers could learn enough in short Summer Institutes. Arnold believed that teachers at all levels needed more preparation. I was convinced that he was right. In the early 1970s, I helped him write a proposal to the U.S. NSF for a series of eight-week National Summer Institutes in Physical Science and Biology at UW for in-service K–12 teachers as well as for additional support to produce a book. Leonie Piternick (Biology Instructional Program), John P. Smith (Science Education), Jim Minstrell (high school physics teacher and doctoral student in the College of Education), and myself were included.

Our first NSF Summer Institute in 1972 included physics and biology as well as practice in teaching young students. (Among them were my daughters, Melanie and Connie.) When Jim visited classes taught by participants before and after the Summer Institute, he noted an increase in questioning, instead of lecturing, by the teachers. After our NSF proposal was funded, I became a part-time Lecturer in Physics at UW and the official instructor of the “combined course” that I had begun to develop as a volunteer. I described the course in our report to the NSF. Arnold urged me to submit a version as two articles to the American Journal of Physics (AJP) and to write a third for The Physics Teacher (TPT) (McDermott, 1974a; 1974b; 1975). Around that time, Arnold began writing The Various Language: An Inquiry Approach to the Physical Sciences (Arons, 1977).

Together with a few graduate students, I conducted weekly courses for K–12 teachers during the academic year (McDermott, 1976). I invited local participants in our NSF Summer Institutes to be peer instructors.⁴ They came to UW once each week to prepare. Recalling their enthusiasm later when on the regular physics faculty, I instituted weekly academic-year Continuation Courses at UW for local participants in our NSF Summer Institutes. The courses reinforced the commitment to teach science by inquiry, helped build a professional community, and expanded our opportunities to develop, test, and revise the curriculum.

In 1971, J. W. McKinnon and J. W. Renner had administered the Lawson Classroom Test of Scientific Reasoning to preservice teachers in a physical science course at the University of Oklahoma (McKinnon and Renner, 1971). They found that many were still concrete thinkers, a result that drew the attention of Arnold Arons and Robert Karplus and that was also consistent with my experience.⁵ By then, I had realized that asking students the right kinds of questions and waiting for answers was a useful strategy, not only for teaching physics but also for examining student learning. Helping preservice teachers and other students deepen their understanding by active inquiry motivated my initial interest in conducting systematic research on the learning and teaching of physics.

During 1972–1973, Arnold Arons was offered a position at the Woods Hole Oceanographic Institute. He negotiated a retention offer from UW that included a tenure-track position in physics education in the Provost's Office or in the Department of Physics. Because the faculty did not want the subject taught elsewhere, the appointment in 1973 of an Assistant Professor would be in the Department of Physics.

In a timely coincidence, responding to Title IX of the 1972 Education Amendments, UW revoked its anti-nepotism policy. As a result, I could apply for the new faculty position, which was widely advertised. As one of three finalists, I gave a UW Physics Department Colloquium about my teaching experience. I remember being terrified, but I must have done well enough because I was appointed an Assistant Professor, becoming the first woman on the tenure-track faculty at the University of Washington. The salary was lower than that for elementary school teachers, but I was happy to be on the regular physics faculty. Gradually, Arnold, I, and the graduate students who taught with us came to be known in the Department of Physics at UW as PEG—the Physics Education Group.