When it comes to an academic career in radiology, being a world-class expert in your specialty, dazzling colleagues with seminal research, and training the next generation of aspiring radiologists have their merits. Yet all of these things pale in comparison to academic radiology’s single greatest reward and most satisfying endeavor: the visiting professorship. Nothing beats it for the exquisite satisfaction of being recognized as the erudite master of some incredibly important topic you know more about than any other radiologist, living or dead, such as, for example, the middle third of the thoracic esophagus.
Ironically, the success or failure of every visiting professorship hinges on something you have no control over—that, of course, being the introduction. A weak introduction makes you seem like a charlatan who at any moment could vanish from the podium via a hidden trapdoor lurking beneath your feet. In contrast, a strong introduction has the opposite effect, elevating even bumbling visiting professors to exalted status, launching them into the outer stratosphere of roentgen superstardom. Although it’s nice to be hailed as the master of your field—even if it’s the middle third of the thoracic esophagus—the trick is not letting all that flattery go to your head. One time, for example, the host radiologist introduced me by telling the audience that he got a hernia trying to lift my CV. I explained that my CV was so long because I thought you were supposed to list all the papers you’ve read . But I’m getting ahead of myself.
It’s important to understand the evolution of the visiting professorship. Here’s the guiding principle: you start at the bottom and work your way up. That means you can’t be too disappointed if your first invitation doesn’t come from Buckingham Palace. You have to set your sights a little lower, at least until your own chairman stops mistaking you for one of the senior residents.
As an academic radiologist in Philadelphia, my visiting professorships initially consisted of local gigs, like the office for my children’s pediatrician. As I became more well known for my work on the middle third of the thoracic esophagus, however, I started receiving invitations from programs in more far-flung locales, like Camden and Newark. And it didn’t stop there. Before long I was traveling to such exotic places as Fargo and Shreveport. I especially remember my trip to North Dakota because of the chilly weather: the temperature hovered at 50 below the day of my lecture, and the auditorium had no heat. I decided to warm up the audience with some local humor by explaining what possessed me to accept an invitation to Fargo of all places—I thought I was going to the movie. In retrospect, there may have been better ways to develop a rapport with my audience.
This isn’t intended as a primer on visiting professorships for dummies, but one way to avoid having tomatoes thrown at the podium is to show a little humility about your chosen specialty. In that vein, I sometimes mention at the outset of my presentation that I can’t teach everything you need to know about gastrointestinal radiology in a 1-hour talk—it would take an hour and a half.
The truth is, I believe in using humor to engage my audience. Deep down, I always wanted to be a stand-up comedian, tossing out one liners like Conan O’Brien—scratch that—Jay Leno on The Tonight Show . Luckily, when my best material is greeted with stony silence by an audience too exhausted and miserable to appreciate my humor at a 7 am resident conference, I have a fallback position: I can always teach. Eat your heart out, Robin Williams.
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