At 19, when I began studying astrophysics, it did not bother me in the least to be the only person in the room with two X chromosomes. I was happy to lose myself in austere calculations and gave no more thought to gender (mine or anyone else’s) than I did to eye color. But while earning my Ph.D. at MIT and then as a postdoc doing cosmological research, the issue started to loom large. My every achievement–jobs, research papers, awards–was viewed through the lens of gender politics. So were my failures. People seemed unable to talk about anything else. Sometimes, to avoid further alienating myself from colleagues, I tried evasive maneuvers, like laughing the loudest when another scientist made a sexist remark. Other times, when goaded into an argument on left brain versus right brain, or nature versus nurture, I was instantly ensnared, fighting fiercely on my behalf and all womankind. I was perpetually inflamed and exhausted. It permeated every aspect of my life. Take this very essay. Here I am, somehow talking about being a woman in science, trying not to even as I do so. Imagine my frustration.
Then one day a few years ago, out of my mouth came a sentence that would eventually become my reply to any and all provocations: I don’t talk about that anymore. It took me 10 years to get back the confidence I had at 19 and to realize that I didn’t want to deal with gender issues. And I didn’t have to. Why should curing sexism be yet another terrible burden on every female scientist? After all, I don’t study sociology or political theory. I study the history of the cosmos written in the laws of physics. That’s a story I tell pretty well.
Today I research and teach at Barnard, a women’s college in New York City affiliated with Columbia University. Recently, someone asked me how many of the 45 students in my class were women. You cannot imagine my satisfaction at being able to answer, 45. I know some of my students worry how they will manage their scientific research and a desire for children. And I don’t dismiss those concerns. Still, I don’t offer them succulent anecdotes or tell war stories. Instead, I have given them this: the visual of their physics professor heavily pregnant calculating the electrical capacitance of a neuron. And in turn they have given me the image of 45 women rapt and driven by a love of science. And that’s a sight worth talking about.
title: " This Topic Annoys Me " ShowToc: true date: “2023-01-26” author: “Virgina Keller”
At 19, when I began studying astrophysics, it did not bother me in the least to be the only person in the room with two X chromosomes. I was happy to lose myself in austere calculations and gave no more thought to gender (mine or anyone else’s) than I did to eye color. But while earning my Ph.D. at MIT and then as a postdoc doing cosmological research, the issue started to loom large. My every achievement–jobs, research papers, awards–was viewed through the lens of gender politics. So were my failures. People seemed unable to talk about anything else. Sometimes, to avoid further alienating myself from colleagues, I tried evasive maneuvers, like laughing the loudest when another scientist made a sexist remark. Other times, when goaded into an argument on left brain versus right brain, or nature versus nurture, I was instantly ensnared, fighting fiercely on my behalf and all womankind. I was perpetually inflamed and exhausted. It permeated every aspect of my life. Take this very essay. Here I am, somehow talking about being a woman in science, trying not to even as I do so. Imagine my frustration.
Then one day a few years ago, out of my mouth came a sentence that would eventually become my reply to any and all provocations: I don’t talk about that anymore. It took me 10 years to get back the confidence I had at 19 and to realize that I didn’t want to deal with gender issues. And I didn’t have to. Why should curing sexism be yet another terrible burden on every female scientist? After all, I don’t study sociology or political theory. I study the history of the cosmos written in the laws of physics. That’s a story I tell pretty well.
Today I research and teach at Barnard, a women’s college in New York City affiliated with Columbia University. Recently, someone asked me how many of the 45 students in my class were women. You cannot imagine my satisfaction at being able to answer, 45. I know some of my students worry how they will manage their scientific research and a desire for children. And I don’t dismiss those concerns. Still, I don’t offer them succulent anecdotes or tell war stories. Instead, I have given them this: the visual of their physics professor heavily pregnant calculating the electrical capacitance of a neuron. And in turn they have given me the image of 45 women rapt and driven by a love of science. And that’s a sight worth talking about.
