Some rambling thoughts on field work to wrap up Pride Month

Tags

field work, Henderson Island, LGBTQ

I’ve just returned from a month in the field on Henderson Island in the South Pacific. The trip was, for several reasons, a career highlight for me. I’ve known about the Pitcairn Island since I was an awkward, precocial, pain in my grade 5 teacher’s side and we were asked to do a Geography project on a country (Pitcairn, I should point out, is a UK Overseas Territory, and was therefore not eligible because they are not totally self-governing. I think I ended up doing another obscure Micronesian island state, which largely entailed copying sections from the World Book Encyclopedia in the library). But I digress. The point is, this was the first field expedition in 15 years where I didn’t know (or hire) everyone beforehand. We had scientists, journalists, storytellers, divers, artists, and more amongst our group of 13. We were based on the supply ship that runs between New Zealand, the Gambier Islands of French Polynesia, and Pitcairn – the MV Silver Supporter – which was on this occasion crewed by a Russian & Lithuanian crew of absolutely fantastic people. And if any of them happen to be reading this, what follows isn’t directed at you or anyone else, but is the confluence of years of collective societal directions, expectations, and norms.

Since returning, the inevitable first question to come from 95% of people is “so how was it?”. In a scientific sense, it was pretty successful. We got most of the data we wanted (only one of about 8 projects didn’t materialise for reasons we couldn’t control), which is pretty good for a 2-week expedition. And I definitely met some colleagues that I would love to work with again. So after describing that, and mentioning that I did manage to see all 5 endemic bird species on Henderson and the one on Pitcairn (yay!), I often wrap it up or start in on some of the longer stories. But when the person asking how it was is one of my queer pals, before we get to the stories, I wrap up the summary of my experience with one more tidbit: it was *exceptionally* heterosexual.

Now, I’m a white, male, cis scientist with a permanent job and from a country where my human rights are, for the most part, protected. I carry a lot of privilege. But being the “only gay on the boat” for a month, despite the presence of two good friends, was still … noticeable.

Well so what? I’m sure no one cares, I hear some (non-queer) folk say. But field work brings that extra layer of social interaction – there are only 12 other people with whom you will interact for a month. You’ve no choice but to interact with them, and them with you, during work, meal times, and even in shared cabins on the ship. And you can’t just take a break or get away.

What many straight friends & colleagues may not appreciate is that, to some degree, every new interaction, every new place, and every new person has a layer of risk assessment for lots of queer folk (including yours truly). Will I come out? If so how? What will the likely reactions be? How safe will I be? How will it affect social interactions? Will that have professional consequences? Can I get out if I need to? What should I say if they mention my wedding ring? Or assume the opposite-sex person I’m with is my partner? Is it safe to speak up and call out someone’s heterosexist comment? If you think queer folk don’t go through such questions several times a day, think again. It happens in the field, in the department, at conferences and meetings… everywhere. For my last month-long field expedition, I need both hands and feet at least twice over to count all the times these questions passed through my thoughts, however fleetingly.

And in an international context, there are additional layers about local laws, customs, cultures, and that of the other international expedition members, conference attendees, etc. The consequences manifest differently for different folks. I tend to “straighten” myself and my vocabulary (yes, ugh, I know, and I wish I didn’t but hey there’s lots of fun consequences of growing up closeted in the 90s!).

So why am I telling you this? I’m a pretty resilient chap and won’t suffer any lasting harm from this trip (especially now that the 2cm bit of tree is out of my left shin). It’s because I’m reminded of something one of my first field techs told me on a pretty grim day in 2006 when all our field kit kept breaking and it was pouring with rain — “It could be worse!”, I quipped. “Yes, but it could also be a hell of a lot better” was their reply.

I often get asked “What’s it like being queer in science?”, and this is partly prompted from a fab twitter discussion. What if we shifted the question to be “what can I do to make it better for queer folks in science?”. In that twitter thread, Dan Simpson flagged something that I’ve really struggled to articulate, writing that queer folk don’t have “object permanence” for most folks. That is, “they kinda forget about us and organise everything accordingly. Then when they have to remember we exist, they often fall apart.” There’s also no way for me to know someone’s thoughts… you could be the most wonderfully accepting, affirming, validating ally, but allyship is demonstrated through actions, not self-identification. And unless you demonstrate that, many of those questions will pass through my stream of consciousness.

So what can you do to make it better for queer folk in science, and particularly in the field? Here are a few random thoughts:

• ditch the macho temptation to lift the most field gear, hike the fastest, carry the most.
• have a rainbow sticker on your office door? Why not have one on some of your field kit?
• Call. Out. Heteronormative. Crap. From. Others. On. The. Expedition.
• if your trip is international, read up on the local climate for queer folk in advance and offer support if needed
• if your accommodation is split by binary perceived gender, might want to think a bit about that one (h/t Lewis Bartlett)
• think about how things will be perceived by a queer colleague. What’s that, don’t want to me thinking about it all the time? Tough beans, because we certainly do.

I’ll post more about the expedition, its science and stories in the coming months as we go through thousands of images, crunch thousands of data points, and as projects come from the various expedition members. Working on Henderson has been a goal of mine for more than 5 years, and I’m thrilled that I was able to go. Next time, though, I’ll try to make it just a bit more queer.

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Pre-emptive thoughts on Pride Month 2019 & a look ahead

Tags

LGBTQ, year in review

June is Pride Month, and for the first time since 2012, I will be away in the field, this time on the remote Henderson Island in the South Pacific Ocean with no email/phone. To be honest I’m quite looking forward to it.

But it does mean that I’ll be largely absent for Pride Month this year, which is a bit sad because I see it as an important time, to celebrate successes and renew battles for the year ahead. I wrote a fair bit last year about queer issues in science, and since I won’t get a chance to do so (at least not as timely), I thought this year I would look back at the last 12 months, and forward to the year ahead.

 

The last year

In the last year, I had two “Queer in science” talks, including one at my own institution. Both were… ok. There were definitely things that I want to do differently, and bits that I think fell flat which I’m hoping to tweak before I give it again. I think part of my struggle is that I feel there’s just so much information I want to convey, and I worry that not everyone has the same understanding of some of the nuance, history, implications, or gravity. That may be true, but it’s something I need to get over. As a storyteller, I can’t just present facts and citations, especially for something this personal. If you suffered through one of these early attempts, thank you for being gentle.

There was also a noticeable uptick in strangers reaching out for advice. Being rather vocal about LGBTQ+ issues in science (and in general), I’ve received a few queries, usually from folks I knew already, asking questions, looking for advice, or just needing an ear. This year, though, the number of “out of the blue” messages was more than I’d had before. And figuring out how to navigate those in a sensible & compassionate way was certainly challenging. It was also quite sobering. Only last month did I receive a message that started “Hello, how are you. I’m gay from Iraq. I need help”. Now, I’m no expert in things like international aid, asylum, or the like, but thanks to some help from some organizations like Stonewall and Outright International, this person got some hopefully helpful resources. With increased connectivity and visibility I expect such queries to only increase, especially for those of us with our heads above the parapets.

I also had equity, diversity, and inclusions activities written into my annual job plan explicitly, including committees, and hopefully attending an LGBTQ+ leadership course later this year. I’m quite lucky that I can do this, and I know not everyone is able to do so, but it’s an important way that employers can actually demonstrate their commitment to diversity beyond a boilerplate statement and basic policy.

 

The year ahead

The main event for me will, as ever, be the LGBT STEMinar in January in Birmingham. This will be the 5th iteration, and it has really taken off! It’s always heart warming to hear others react so positively to this event, and catch up with the many friends I’ve made at STEMinars past.

As I mentioned, I’ve had LGBTQ+ leadership added to my personal development plan through work this year, so I will be looking to sort that out once I’m back from the field.

I’d very much like to think more about how to make my field work less heteronormative, but that will require some mental space, which is at a premium these days.

Lastly, I’d really like to pin down my “LGBT in STEM” seminar to something that feels less clunky & disjointed.

 

And lastly…

I’m curious to know what you, dear reader (of whatever orientation & identity you happen to be) would like to hear about. I keep yammering on about things as they pop into my mind, so do give a shout if there’s something on your mind (either here, or here)

Back by demand: Queer in STEM AMA & What Straight Colleagues Should Know

Tags

LGBTQ, QueerAndA

Over the summer, I put out two calls for feedback, both around being LGBTQ+ in science. One for folks to ask me questions about being gay/queer in science [original post here; responses here], and the other flipped the question on its head, asking LGBTQ+ scientists what they wish their straight colleagues knew about being LGBTQ+ in science [original post here; responses here].

I’ve had a couple of requests to open these back up, and so here we are.

Have you got a question about being LGBTQ+ in STEM? Ask it totally anonymously here! No question is too basic, too complex, or too embarrassing.

Are you LGBTQ+ in STEM & wish your straight colleagues knew something in particular (or in general?). Let me know here! No wish is too small, too large, or too impossible.

As before, I’ll compile the responses after a couple of weeks.

Cultural memory and being queer in STEM

Tags

Coming Out Day, LGBTQ, Matthew Shepard

Everyone has those “remember where you were when you heard X” moments in their life. One of the prominent ones in my life was 20 years ago today. I was sitting in my bedroom eating dinner and watching TV. It was October 7th, 1998 and I was 15. 21-year-old Matthew Shepard was beaten, tied to a fence, and left to die, which he did 5 days later.

And if you want to watch the iconic news broadcast from October 12th in full, it’s here.

My own journey to figure out who (or what) I was was still nascent and confusing. It would still be another 7 years before I came out, but the brutal murder of Matthew Shepard in Laramie, Wyoming was, for many (myself included), a watershed moment in queerness.

If one looked to mark gay/queer culture in North America by epoch, the 80s and early 90s were dominated by HIV. The late 90s and early 2000s, I contend, were dominated by greater connections made thanks to the internet, and to physical violence. We even had a term for it – gay bashing. Interestingly, this rise (and subsequent fall) can be seen in Google’s ngram viewer:

Shepard’s beating was the basis for the season-ending plot arc on the US version of Queer as Folk in 2001 at a time when the show was starting to become a staple of cable TV, and which I would sneakily watch in my shared dorm room at university when my roommate was elsewhere (the older among you will recall this was before youtube or catch-up or even the ability to watch videos on the internet at all!).

The story, and the reaction of the residents of Laramie was turned into the play The Laramie Project, which was put on at the campus theatre in about 2004, I think. I daren’t audition for fear it would let someone peek in the closet (despite playing a gay character that died of AIDS the previous year, but that’s a story for another post). The play featured interviews done by the playwriting collective with residents of the town, and explicitly did not show Matthew’s murder. I’ve also never seen footage of the actual fence to which he was tied and beaten to death, but in my mind, I have had the same still image associated with the event for the last 20 years.

And it might be convenient to consign these horrific events to the past, but they still occur regularly around the world. Maybe because they are now perceived as being more common, or because they no longer shock or resonate as they once did, they no longer receive either the media attention or national outcry they did 20 years ago. But let us not be complacent – there is still a great deal of anti-LGBTQ+ sentiment out there.

In the UK, a newspaper columnist decried the “state transgender agenda“. And half of LGBTQ+-identifying 14 year olds reported self-harming. Some places still refuse to fly the Pride flag.

In Australia, 25 people were charged with hate-speech offences for comments made during the 2017 marriage equality postal vote. And no doubt the queer community is still grappling with the repercussions of putting its rights up for public debate.

In Canada, a video went viral of a man spitting on a rainbow crosswalk, which brought to story of an assault eerily reminiscent of Shepard’s and only two years later into the spotlight (and in the city where I did my PhD only 7 years later, and in places I knew well). And the closing line from Veronica Dymond in the CBC story above sums things up quite well:

Every person in the LGBTQ community has that moment, when they realized they weren’t safe in their communities. So many people have worked hard to make this country a safer place for us, and I’m grateful. But that doesn’t erase the memories, and the struggle is ongoing.

The history of violence against queer folk permeates the culture we share. And that cultural memory can’t be dismissed, or necessarily understood by outsiders.

But cultural memory changes and evolves as those who experienced it become more removed, and those who didn’t try to understand it without having been there. This excellent thread on HIV/AIDS is an example of just that. So is the book How to Survive a Plague.

Now, dear reader, you are no doubt wondering what this has to do with science? Queer folk are less likely to pursue careers in science, and once in science, they don’t always find it to be a welcoming place (though this is getting better!). But many queers in STEM  also carry that cultural memory of the constant loss of friends or just simply queer compatriots we never knew, but might have in different circumstances. Or indeed have experienced it directly themselves (if you want to get an idea of the UK situation, check out the BBC Two 2017 documentary “Is It Safe To Be Gay In the UK?“; though not currently available on the BBC site, it might be found elsewhere). And many of us “tone down” our queerness in science and in public for fear of repercussions. Asking ourselves, is it safe, while looking over our shoulder at who else might be around. It’s the little things. Where ideas like queering our science seem revolutionary, iconoclastic, and risqué.

Lately, there’s not been a week go by where I haven’t been contacted by an early-career queer scientist who just wanted to chat with someone who had a set of shared experiences. I sure as heck don’t have all the answers, and I still struggle myself from time to time (to paraphrase a Star Trek episode title, who mentors the mentors?). One shouldn’t be expected separate one’s queerness from one’s science, even when that queerness comes with a legacy of hurt. Science is people, and people include emotion.

This October 12th, which incidentally is also International Coming Out Day, I’ll work to make my science a little bit more queer, I’ll come out (for the 4776th day in a row), and I’ll reflect on both how far we’ve come in the last 20 years, and how far we have yet to go in science and in society.

 

Reflections on 13 years as an out scientist

Tags

LGBTQ, mentoring, pastoral care

As I was cooking dinner tonight, it dawned upon me that 13 years ago I made a decision that would would have a profound impact on my personal and professional life: I came out. Or, more accurately, I came out for the first time. I wrote a bit about it earlier this summer:

On September 15th, 2005 after getting home from the lab, I realised I had to tell someone, so I called up one of my closest friends and came out for the first time. The genre of “coming out stories” was quite popular at the time (well, at least for me), so I had read/watched nearly every one I could find on the internet. The ones that went well, the ones that ended poorly. It was not uncommon for advice on coming out to include things like “keep a stash of cash for a couple of days” and “make sure you arrange with a friend beforehand to spend the night, or a couple of nights, if you need to”. Thankfully, I was financially independent and living on my own, but that’s the kind of pervasive environment that existed (or at least that I perceived).

She was, perhaps predictably, fine. Mum was the next day, and was fine in the end, though perhaps a bit surprised. Dad was the day after, and was fine, too. In fact, all the family — grandparents, sister, aunts, uncles — were totally fine once they got over the initial surprise. I was so incredibly lucky. I know others for whom it was not fine.

In our household, there are really only a few key annual events: my & my husband’s birthdays, our anniversary, and our “coming-out-iversary”. Mine is Sept 15th. He beat me by about 6 months.

On the face of it, 13 years doesn’t necessarily seem like that long a time. But in reality it’s just (barely) over a third of my life, and certainly half of my adult life. It spans nearly my entire scientific career (which I peg as starting with my honours thesis on 15 April 2004 in a freezing bird observatory next to a nuclear power plant, at about 5am). And a lot has changed since 2005.

When I canvassed for things that LGBQ+ scientists wish their straight colleagues knew, the idea that “coming out” isn’t a one-off event came up several times. There’s probably not a week that goes by where I haven’t come out to someone. Sometimes it’s subtle (a rainbow lanyard), other times it’s more blatant (a talk about being an out gay scientist).

And after 13 years (at least 7 of which I’ve been much more public in my professional life), I’ve come to a realization — I’m now one of the established gays. To draw a professional analogy, I’ve moved beyond being an Early Career Gay, and have Gay Tenure/a Gay Permanent Contract. This post by Meg Duffy on Dynamic Ecology looks at some of the less obvious, more subtle markers of career progression, and in a sense I’ve passed something similar in my professional gayness.

Some of the markers of this transition have happened particularly in the last 2 years: I’ve had staff or trainees come out to me and ask for advice, I’ve had colleagues ask me if/how/when they should come out to their students, and I’m now asked to give seminars on being an out gay/queer scientist to professional audiences. But it’s the first of these that will be the focus of this post.

—

Professionally, I’ve had the fortune to work in four nurturing, collegial research groups between my undergrad and postdoc. I learned heaps, both about science, and about HOW to science. Experimental design, paper reviewing, data analysis, permit applications, structuring an outline… I had a good number of the tools needed to become a good scientist.

What I lacked 13 years ago (and to a certain extent, still lack today) is the mentorship to navigate being a gay scientist. And what I’ve noticed in the last two years is I’m increasingly finding myself in the mentor role both in terms of science, but also in terms of being a gay scientist. And it’s one of the most fulfilling things I think I’ll experience, seeing mentees progress and achieve both professionally and personally. I literally beam with pride at their successes and wins.

Science, and academic science in particular, has a habit of segregating the personal and professional. I have a bit of experience with that kind of dual existence, and I can tell you it’s not that healthy. As an undergrad, I couldn’t imagine doing science as a job and saw the science side of my life on the opposite shore of an ocean from the rest of my life. In the closet, to use an analogy, I saw my fundamental niche from inside the closet of my realised niche. Now, the Venn diagram of all of these aspects of my life are well balanced.

When we say that “representation matters”, we don’t just mean the one-way idolization or looking up to a role model, though that’s certainly an important part. It’s more of a dialogue. Straight allies, no matter how wonderful they are, don’t have the same shared experiences. And there simply aren’t enough LGBTQ+ mentors in science (as evidenced by the frequent queries I get from LGBTQ+ folk just looking to talk to someone at a later career stage).

So I guess I’m now, 13 years later, coming out as a mentor (though I feel uncomfortable applying that label to myself. Like “ally” it’s a term that’s bestowed by someone else, and can be transient). If you’re stuck, need to chat, or whatever, drop me a DM on twitter, or an email. Like so many things, I’m offering because I wish someone had offered to me 13 years ago, and I think it’s an important part of science (or indeed research more generally) that’s often neglected.

What LGBTQ+ folk in STEM want to communicate to straight colleagues: unedited responses

Tags

LGBTQ, QueerAndA

Last week, I put a call out for things that LGBTQ+ folk in STEM wished their straight friends & colleagues could instantly understand. I had previously put together a list of “required reading/viewing“, and was drawing up my own list for a future talk on the hidden diversity in science.

The dozen responses I had were all incredibly useful, and things that I had thought about (though perhaps not articulated as well as the respondents). It was all completely anonymous, and I’m sure behind each answer is a story, or stories, to tell.

The answers are below, unedited apart from typos. So without further ado, straight colleagues: take note:

I’d love people to know more about bi and pansexuality. Because I’m in a heterosexual marriage, colleagues often assume I’m straight. Sexuality doesn’t always have visible cues (not everyone is out as queer or trans, etc.). Bi/pan identities are real, they’re not “fads” or experimentation.

 

That power differentials can make coming out much higher stakes. Yes, I’m aware that my PI has friends that are lesbians. But if my telling her I’m queer affects her comfort with or behavior toward me, that is something I can’t undo. The way some straight women behave toward queer women mirrors the toxic behavior of certain men toward women in the workplace (e.g., leaving them out of professional & social opportunities because they refuse to be alone with them). [I am 100% certain this also occurs for gay cis men & trans/nonbinary folks too, but I’m speaking about my own experience.]

 

There are two things that non LGBTQ+ people may not be aware of. The first is that because of assumptions of heteronormativity, LGBTQ+ do not come out only once; rather, they come out over and over again, often at unexpected times. The second is that it is easy to falsely conclude that STEM is always friendly to LGBTQ+ people. In reality, there are still many people and organizations that are very much not friendly to LGBTQ+ people, they are not necessarily outspoken about it. Taken together, these things can create a difficult environment for LGBTQ+ people by creating the conditions in which coming out happens frequently and with uncertainty about the consequences.

 

It is exhausting to have to keep coming out. I was out to my boss and my labmates at my last job, but I’m not yet to the ones at my new job. And it just annoys me because it is yet another thing other people don’t have to worry about dealing with. As someone who is presumed straight, if I don’t have a partner to mention, it can be really hard to find a way to come out at work (because of the inference that talking about sexual orientation = talking about sex life). I wish it could be a non-issue, but it grates on me when people just assume I’m straight.

 

Don’t assume your coworkers are straight. Lots of outwardly straight-seeming people are queer. Try your best to create a welcoming work culture not focused on heteronormativity so that your queer coworkers feel comfortable being themselves.
Every time I travel- for fieldwork, conferences, even just visiting another university- there’s an extra level of calculations I have to do. How safe is this place for me as a queer person? How much of the truth will I have to hide when meeting and working with local collaborators? How much of my gender expression- generally very non-gender-conforming- will I need to change? Recently I went for the first portion of fieldwork for my PhD. I found there were questions about navigating working in a country I’d never been to before that I couldn’t ask my advisor- since as a straight cis guy, he hadn’t ever had to consider the concerns a queer female-assumed person would have.

 

Another issue is the extra layer of uncertainty about planning for my future. That’s already a big concern just being a 20-something in grad school- but as a queer grad student in one of the most unfriendly states in the US to be queer, there’s an extra level of anxiety. Navigating a relationship in grad school is hard enough without having to worry about whether your state is going to legislate your rights away a bit more this week.

 

Coming out doesn’t just happen once in your life, it is a continual process throughout your life, always calculating how open you can be everytime you meet someone
There can be a constant low level anxiety that your work won’t be taken as seriously, or will be perceived as biased if you (heaven forbid!) address anything vaguely lgbtq2+ in your work.

 

As a cis-bisexual woman partnered with a cis-heterosexual man, colleagues often assume I’m straight. As a result I wind up hearing a lot of homophobic comments. As a result I really don’t feel safe coming out when it’s relevant to conversation. Vicious cycle.

 

I think invisibility is a problem: other groups (women, people of colour, those with clear physical differences) don’t have to explain why they’re different from the community that excludes them. We first have to come out, to explain why we feel excluded, as it might be much less obvious and then fight the battle. There are so many heteronormative assumptions to overcome before we even have an identity that we can sign up to. Also, we face problems that many others don’t (no countries execute women simply for being women, whereas quite a few still execute a man for being gay), which makes even broaching the problem harder.

 

As a trans person, I have to mentally prepare myself for every new person I meet, whether they’re a potential colleague, professor, mentor, etc. Being the first transgender person someone has ever met can be exhausting if they aren’t willing to do any research themselves. In addition, bracing myself to be misgendered and/or dead-named in front of my peers during at least the first week of every semester is continually exhausting. I notice that it takes a lot of time and energy away from my work as a student because when I go to work in a small lab where I’ve never been misgendered and I know everyone respects me, I’m less anxious and much more productive.

 

Working in the tropics, for example in Brazil, in very remote places where faith and church is deeply rooted in people’s minds and daily lives, I want straight people to understand the difference of working conditions. As a white lesbian (although gender conform) working in these places is not only a great adventure – it also means having to hide a very important part of me and to be very careful. I’m willing to make this sacrifice, but I just hope things change, even in these places, someday. Being afraid because of who you are should not be part of work experience …

 

Divorcing your ‘out’ true self from ‘closeted’ self when undertaking fieldwork in countries not that friendly to gay people. Levels of anxiety are always high, right from applying for visas (will they check your social media presence), to (and especially this) interacting on a social basis. The balance between being true to yourself and not wanting to risk the science, or letting down your team is quite stressful.