【摘要】I don’t ever want to talk about being a woman scientist again. There was a time in my life when people asked constantly for stories about what it’s like to work in a field dominated by men. I was never very good at telling those stories because truthfully I never found them interesting. What I do find interesting is the origin of the universe, the shape of space-time and the nature of black holes.
At 19, when I began studying astrophysics, it did not bother me in the least to be the only woman in the classroom. But while earning my Ph.D. at MIT and then as a post-doctor doing space research, the issue started to bother me. My every achievement—jobs, research papers, awards—was viewed through the lens of gender (性别) politics. So were my failures. Sometimes, when I was pushed into an argument on left brain versus (相对于) right brain, or nature versus nurture (培育), I would instantly fight fiercely on my behalf and all womankind.
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. Why should curing sexism be yet another terrible burden on every female scientist? After all, I don’t study sociology or political theory.
Today I research and teach at Barnard, a women’s college in New York City. Recently, someone asked me how may 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 tell them “war” stories. Instead, I have given them this: the visual of their physics professor heavily pregnant doing physics experiments. And in turn they have given me the image of 45 women driven by a love of science. And that’s a sight worth talking about.
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