A Good Astronomer and the Work of Privilege

The is a repost of a blog I wrote on seanfor.science from June 2, 2020. I’m posting it again here - in a slightly edited form - because it seems relevant in light of the Astro2020 report.

I’m probably going to tell this story over and over again, there’s an idea in it that I’m struggling to breathe life into. But I think it’s a good vessel for that message.

When I started graduate school, the physics department had also created an entirely new astronomy department. It was funded from an enormous, generous donation from an outside benefactor. It’s not often that you get to build a department from scratch, so everyone wanted to do it right. To lead the endeavor, they tapped a very senior astronomer who had spent his career to that point working in observatories, away from the politics of a university. For the uninitiated, observatories are research facilities with those massive, industrial scale telescopes, often situated on high mountains peaks far from the light pollution of civilization.

For simplicity, let’s just call that astronomer, Rick.

Rick wasn’t a surprising choice, he was more than qualified. If anything, it was surprising he came down to join a University. Rick was educated in California and led the team that won the Nobel Prize for discovering the accelerated expansion of the universe. From his own account, he knew what a big deal the result was. Rick helped to make sure folks closer to the front lines got the credit, and therefore the prize.

From all accounts, Rick is a dedicated teacher. He is incredibly intelligent, kind and genuinely cares about both the communication and the advancement of Science. It is clear from his public talks and actions that he understands these two things were tightly connected.

Folks that tend towards an Academic career also tend towards thinking deeply on complicated topics. Like identity. When he found out I was from Hawai`i, we discussed what it was like being the only haole, sitting alone, in the middle of the night at Ken’s House of Pancakes outside the Hilo Airport, traveling to or from the summit of Mauna Kea. I have a distinct memory of Rick sitting at the university Starbucks with a small group of students. Answer questions. Engaging in bigger ideas. Undergraduates! From his introduction to astronomy course! That’s unheard of at most any state school, especially ours.

To me Rick is kind of an aspirational figure. A role model. A shining example of how a serious Scientist works and acts. I’m no astronomer, I’m a theoretical physicist, but I still ask myself almost day how I can be more like Rick. He’s that kind of figure. Every single interaction I’ve had with Rick has been overwhelmingly positive. Save for one.

Liquid Physics

The Physics and Astronomy department had a happy hour every Friday. The astronomers were the kinds of folks that bought beer for the graduate students. Beer isn’t a staple on a graduate student’s budget. So everyone was usually in a good mood. I’ve even seen one of the most Texan, most intelligent, and biggest curmudgeons of the department break into uncontrollable laughter at these gatherings.

One time we were talking about the size of the next generation of Telescopes. The Extremely Large Telescopes (ELTs). Things like the GMT, the LSST and the TMT. These are facilities with an enormous footprint. In Hawaii there is a longstanding tension between astronomers and Native Hawaiians. But this was before the TMT became a household issue. With that background in mind, I mentioned to another graduate student, “That kinda sounds like mountain top removal, like in the Appalachians. You know, at some point you astronomers are going to have to reckon with the environmental - and social - impact of those big telescopes.”

Rick, apparently, was listening. But who spoke up sounded like an entirely different person.

Memories are a funny thing. We all interpret events differently, and those memories can easily mutate as time evolves. And this was almost a decade ago. But the distinct impression was a militant response from Rick.

“No… That’s crazy… That’s anti Science... People who come to the mountain and say these kinds of things. You just ignore them. “

The impression I had was. Well. Unbridled intimidation. An unseen intensity. Loud. Red face. Open mouth. Spittle. Talking over. Foaming. We fell quiet for a minute. It felt like an eternity. But we moved on. We never really talked about that again. While work was certainly underway, the TMT debacle wouldn’t happen until well after I had left Texas.

Afterwards

In retrospect, those kinds of reactions are informed by a long history and passionate advocacy. It was also Friday afternoon, and there was beer. No doubt Rick has spent a lot of time defending Science generally, and Astronomy in particular. I can only imagine that battles he’s had to wage just to get things done. I tell this story not because I’m mad at Rick or think he’s a bad person. No because I miss having folks like Rick around - and I do - but I tell it because in the present context, it feels relevant. I tell it because I think I have a grasp on who might be listening.

Personally I have two lessons that come from this. First, these outbursts can and do happen to everyone. No matter how sophisticated you are. No matter how progressive you are. No matter how kind and caring. It’s called being human and we need to accept that - and expect that - within ourselves. The trouble happens when these outbursts are put in context. The context of leadership. The context of being privileged to make decisions. To influence policy. But it also appears while in the outdoors. When you see others cutting trails, who are they and how do you react? When you decide to take your dog off leash and someone calls you out. How do you react? When interacting with folks in the parking lot.

It’s thinking fast versus thinking slow.

The second lesson derives from the first. The way we think as humans also affects how we gather information. It affects how we read and interpret people’s opinions. When we think fast, we take what we read as gospel, subconsciously. It happens so fast it’s hard to see. But when you feel that reaction boiling, press pause for a second. Contextualize what you’re reading, what you’re seeing. As scientists, we try to gain as much context as possible. As adventuring types we need to know everything that can happen in the outdoors. As humans, our goal should be to broaden our cultural context so we understand each other more. But it’s a slow process that transcends intention. It’s a perpetual responsibility.

Thinking fast helps when your house is on fire. When your life is in danger.

The Science and outdoor adventure communities are have biased enrollment with a ton of structural privilege. Because we’re privileged enough to work and play in these spaces, fate has assigned us additional work. Some of that work, the portion of that work I’m talking about today, exists in thinking slow. For those of us who have the luxury of living in relative calm. Who can access the outdoors when we want to: we need to understand our context. And the context of others. Kind. Curious. Not defensive. Not taking over. Not with spittle.