Rob Santos

Greetings, fellow statisticians. Here we are, in the throes of our dark winter of 2021. I thought we would be in a better place when I closed my January note to you with this sentence: “Let’s do our part to help society get through the pandemic and address societal imperfections, and let’s do that with our statistical acumen and our hearts.” Alas, that closing statement appears to be even more relevant today—in mid-January, after the US Capitol insurrection but before the US presidential inauguration—than when I wrote it.

I suspect many of us are miserable and stir crazy from being confined to our homes, or apprehensive due to a job that requires in-person interaction with others. Yet most of us are the lucky ones who continue to be employed, a blessing too few of us enjoy in society. We have been apprised by our fellow epidemiologist experts that the worst of the pandemic is yet to come, especially as more contagious viral variants emerge. Moreover, we in the US are in the midst of unprecedented civil upheaval and racial strife. I am optimistic that the civil unrest will abate, but that is yet to be seen. And so I begin this second communication to you much as I ended my first, encouraging you to help your family, friends, colleagues, neighbors, strangers, and society cope with the challenging, darker days that still that lie ahead. We will emerge stronger for having survived.

A key to surviving and thriving is to draw upon our personal resilience and reach out to others for support. So, for my president’s corner this month, I will relate a personal story of resilience from a time I was in graduate school in the late ’70s.

I first attended the Joint Statistical Meetings in 1979 when it was held in Washington, DC. I was 23 years old and only two years earlier had moved from Texas to Ann Arbor, Michigan, for graduate school in statistics. Being a native of San Antonio, moving to Michigan was the first time I had been north of Dallas, Texas. Moreover, the 1979 JSM represented my first trip to the nation’s capital. I was awestruck, of course, and totally intimidated by all the seasoned statisticians around me. I knew nothing about being a ‘professional.’ I was just this long-haired hippie type sporting an earring (long before they became popular) as part of my evolving Chicano identity. At the JSM, I wore the one suit I owned that my parents had bought me and donned a pair of ‘dress shoes’ that totally did not match the suit (tan vs. navy blue). But I wore them together because I had nothing else to wear and wanted to at least try to ‘look professional.’

So there I was at JSM with my long hair, earring, and mismatched attire, wandering around like a lost puppy, fascinated every minute by the JSM spectacle before me—including all the people who, like me, loved statistics. Fortunately for me, a wonderful demographer on the faculty at the University of California at Los Angeles named Leo Estrada, who was a longtime ASA member and well known to the federal statistical system, took me under his wing at these meetings.

I met Leo earlier in Ann Arbor when we worked together on a summer research methods training program for Latinx graduate students from across the country. He showed me around JSM and was especially helpful at mixers, introducing me to famous statisticians he knew. I was pretty shy back then and would not have gone to those mixers alone.

At one point, Leo introduced me to a fairly high-ranking statistician in a federal statistical agency using the typical language one draws upon for such introductions—nothing special. I will never forget this. As he introduced me, I raised my hand for a handshake and … the person refused to reciprocate, even acting a bit annoyed by my mere presence. We awkwardly exchanged oral greetings and Leo hastily ushered me to someone else. Naturally, I was devastated. I fairly quickly exited the event, sequestering myself in my hotel room for the evening.

I suspect this person’s recalcitrance was based on my appearance, but the reason really did not matter. It hurt. And as a shy kid at a big conference, I wondered if I had made a huge mistake by attending. I did not sleep well that evening.

This is where resilience emerged. The next morning brought a new perspective. Although I did worry that new encounters risked a repeat of my terrible experience, I decided I was not going to let this one instance ruin my JSM anymore than it already had. So I went back to the conference and met fellow students and some wonderful, seasoned statisticians. This was the start of my national network of friends and colleagues that would last a lifetime.

I leveraged my self-resilience, intense interest in statistics, and desire to meet ‘folks like me’ to move past a humiliating experience and embrace my passion for statistics. And I guess it worked because I have attended all but a handful of JSMs since then and met some absolutely wonderful human beings who happen to be statisticians.

By the way, I do not hold grudges. So, guess what? Because we shared a passion for statistics and survey research, I ended up becoming friends with the senior statistician who refused to shake my hand. I suppose we just needed to understand that we had so much more in common than our appearances predicted.

Sound familiar? That lesson applies very much today. Our society could use a reality check to realize we are united by our humanity. We ASA members are united by our passion for all things statistical.

Returning to the topic of resilience, we all maintain personal reservoirs. Contemporary times require us to tap those reservoirs to navigate the day-to-day challenges we face and, more importantly, help those of us whose wells have run low. Helping others replenishes your own resilience reservoir, I promise.

So I have shared my story of resilience with you. I have many others, of course, including the one and only time I had a panic attack while making a conference presentation. But that is another story, although I now look back on that experience fondly because it helped me grow personally and professionally.

I’m sure you have your stories, too, and I would love to hear them if you would like to share. As I noted earlier, we have so much more in common than not.