PEOPLE OFTEN picture scientists so plainly. For many, scientists don pale white coats, talk and write in what seems like hypothetical gibberish, and somehow know just about every answer to every question—sometimes almost obnoxiously so.
My younger self saw scientists the same way. They were wizards, capable of doing anything and making everything in the world, but now, I leave college knowing differently: scientists are just as human as you and I.
They wear different types and colors of coats, not just white. Some even prefer to work in aprons or even do away with both entirely. You can bet that if the color exists, there is a coat, apron, or T-shirt in that color, each worn by a different person with different perspectives of science and life.
Scientists also actively try to communicate as a way to make sense of their profession. In the process, they too have their own struggles; sometimes they struggle enough to have humility to say the hallowed “I don’t know” a lot more than some people think.
As brilliant as most scientists are, they commit mistakes too. Scientists are not perfect.
Thus, when we generalize all scientists to be pretentious know-it-alls, we dehumanize and lose the essence of what makes science so special: the wonder for how everything was, is, and can be.
People have a tendency to see science not for what it is but for what it provides. In effect, scientists and training scientists are constantly bombarded with questions about the practicality of their pursued scientific field without the chance to explain their passion for it.
I see this reality almost every day in the Ateneo. From the classrooms of SEC-A to the laboratories of SEC-B, even when prospects of research are present, people assume that all biologists go into medicine. Similarly, people think all Faura physicists go into some form of engineering or all Schmitt chemists go into pharmaceuticals because those are fields labeled “useful.”
It is in this way that scientists do not simply face scientific pressures of success, but also confront culturally, politically, and socially charged expectations. These hurdles manifest in familiar struggles most people see too: being overworked, underpaid, and, unfortunately, underappreciated. More crucially, these pressures converge in the demand for immediate practical applications of a scientist’s research for the sake of development.
However, overshadowing a scientist’s curiosity-fueled research for these pressures damages the value of scientific inquiry, which science is founded upon. Damage that foundation enough, and it becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy of scientists really only wearing pale white coats and having blank attitudes—science becomes plain.
The beauty of science lies in its diversity. So, if science has to be anything, I’d argue to let it be about the scientists too, not just the gain from their research. Let it be about the interest in the plants and animals they study, the mechanisms they’ve yet to discover, and the stars they gaze at. Let science be science in the way that it was founded on: one’s wonder, not the political and social drama.
This is not to say that science should purely be about itself, but a balance is to be had between merely using it for society’s gain and using it for the scientist’s vocational gain. If society always encroaches on a scientist, we risk losing the diversity of thought that serves to study our complex universe.
Maybe then, when we reach this balance, people will realize that science is not something scientists do for the mere sake of improving our lives; it is also a personal pursuit. It is a practice scientists do for learning and fun—science can be fun.
The news, countless journals, and awards would have you believe that scientists are infallible blank wizards, but behind every lab coat is just another person who makes all the errors in the process of honing their skills and proving hypotheses.
Then, by the end of each day, they, too, go home, change into T-shirts, and go on with their lives just like everyone else. Scientists are not so different from you and me, and in the same way that we don’t have all the answers, they don’t have them as well—and that is perfectly fine.
Enzo is a Biology senior and the Associate Editor of HELIX, the Ateneo Biological Organization’s Publication. Rooted in service with and for others, he hopes to use all his learnings to help in creating a humanistic and science-driven future where all life—not just people—is loved and cared for.
Editor’s Note: The views and opinions expressed by the opinion writer do not necessarily state or reflect those of the publication.
