What is a scientist?

I've started reading Unscientific America, a very recent book on the state of science in America. I'm only a couple of chapters in but it seems quite interesting. It's position seems to be not that the public are stupid and disinterested, or that the scientists are self-isolating, but really a less extreme mix of both! I predict it will be the sort of essay that will end up saying that scientists should be trained more in communication and outreach, and while I agree to an extent I can never help thinking this argument asks quite a lot of scientists. As well as doing their own job of research, as well as teaching and advising, as well as applying for grants, they have to be media buffs as well?

Anyway, maybe they'll propose a more stringent strategy I can agree with later on, but for now the part that interested me the most was a poll that asked people to name scientific role models. 44% couldn't answer. The rest named the top three as Bill Gates, Al Gore and Einstein. I mean really? Not even Stephen Hawking? Another poll threw up a statistic that only 18% of Americans know a scientist personally.

I voiced this to my other half, and we started a debate on what makes a scientist. He asked me if he was a scientist? We thought about it. He's a geologist now, he works in the field, he writes reports sometimes. But does he make hypotheses, and test them to forward new theories? No. He thought perhaps his bosses might advance theories as they drew up reports on exploration areas. Do they need to publish them in peer-reviewed journals to be scientists? Probably not, otherwise there would be no amateur scientists tinkering away in sheds. But I suppose they don't count under the question "Do you know a scientist personally?"

Officially then, a scientist is someone who hypothesises, experiments, refines and theorises and publishes with the approval of their peers (by which I mean by their methods not their point of view), all for a living. But anyone can be a scientific hobbyist!

In other news, I'm afraid I couldn't keep myself away from the Skeptical movement. In fact, I've done quite the opposite and joined the executive committee to help set up a Centre for Inquiry in Edmonton. We had the first meeting thursday and it was fun the just be a part of the brainstorming stage. I went away with a assistant secretary role and a responsibility for picking topics for round-table discussions, where a subject is chosen for discussion within our group and anyone else who wants to attend - local atheist or skeptic societies or even people from the opposite side of the debate (well, hopefully these too, there's no fun in just agreeing with each other is there?). For the first one I think I'm going to choose a very interesting article a friend sent me: Text of talk by Vatican Observatory director on ‘Science Does Not Need God. Or Does It? A Catholic Scientist Looks at Evolution’ It's a refreshingly well reasoned and thought-out treatment of science answering mysteries, and condemns those who fills the gaps with God. Have to come up with a few 'talking points', and will probably find a couple of other potentials too before our next exec meeting.

I've never sat on any execs or councils of any sort before, but to be honest this is the first thing I've cared enough about, rather than it just being 'It would look good on my CV'. The CFI is a particularly interesting kind of society though since it sort of has three heads: Secular, Skeptical, and to a lesser extent, Atheist. However, we decided in time of controversy we decided we'd just quote the central CFI's mission: "The mission of the Center for Inquiry is to foster a secular society based on science, reason, freedom of inquiry, and humanist values."

Finally, I thought I'd share my second essay for my non-fiction writing class. I was much more pleased with this one, it came so naturally. After we've gone through a couple of rounds of workshopping, our groups have to choose one essay to be read out by the author in the next class. I volunteered to read mine since at the moment I feel it's the most inspiration I'll have for one of these things!

___________

Proud Capital

I have sat here for a thousand years, on the rocky apex of the Atlantic, grounded on black lava. The jagged Reykjanes Peninsula shields me to the South, protecting me from the brunt of the long ocean. To the North Mt Esja watches over me, trapping the clouds and providing shelter. That’s not to say the Weather Gods don’t make it hectic here. Snow and hail blow in fierce gales and thrash against my buildings. Those walls are young, but my people are an old and hardy race and their language is ancient.

I am the proud capital of this beautiful country, but I am not so vain to presume you all know who I am. So I’ll be fair to you. My name is Reykjavik or “Smoky Bay” in your young tongue. Iceland is my domain, and two thirds of its brilliant people live under my blanket. Forgive me, I cannot help but enthuse about the virtues of my citizens: they work hard, they are high achievers and they are always curious. But still they are so few, and I welcome the multitudes of foreign friends that descend upon me to help them out.

One such visitor moved into one of my homes, near my centre by the concrete spire of Hallgrimskirkja Cathedral, at the end of a summer. She was a young girl from my southern neighbour England, and though it was still August she noticed a chill in the sea air that was different from the coastal breezes of her hometown. That wind had gathered cold and scent from the length of the Atlantic. My days were still long though, and she enjoyed the ever-light that gives energy and joy to all my young party-folk.

The season soon changed and with it came school for the girl; it seemed she would be staying the whole year to learn from my people. My autumns are short and pass swiftly into winter. I have heard that in other countries great trees turn yellow and naked, but there are not so many leaves to fall from my scant trees. Nevertheless, I cooled with the season as she warmed to my charms. I don’t believe I am being too egotistical when I say she fell in love with me; she adored my uncrowded streets and wide open harbour. Yes, I am a capital city, with all the culture, business and pomp that goes along with that, but I am not so populous. Unlike those noisy capitals like London or Paris I am not flashy, but that means crime is low and my people live in comfort. The girl seemed to like seeing my children bubbling with energy around every corner; they are free to play here. Yes, she loved me alright, even down to my nagging greylag geese and the relentless drone of the propeller planes that graze the roof of her home.

Winter arrived suddenly that year. A great swarm of snow fell all in one night, covering me to a depth that made it quite difficult for my folk to walk around. I was pleased to see that the girl was delighted; this sort of snow seemed rare to her but it was the coming of a familiar friend to me. The bright snow highlighted the days, but it also made my people realize how short those days had become. Sometimes I am sad when winter arrives and they retreat into their homes, their feet less often stepping my streets. I console myself with the thought that trapped inside their buildings my people are creating great works of art, literature and song. Still, they try to make my outside pleasant, and decorations for the winter festivals are strung from my lampposts and shop fronts.

I believed the girl was enjoying my beautiful winter when I saw her turn to leave. Suitcase in hand, she trundled towards the bus station on the way to the international airport in my sister city Keflavik. Where was she going? Was my wind too cold now; was that smile on her face simply stuck there from the autumn? I asked the Gods to throw a little sharp snow at her. She carried on. Upset and angry, I called on them to blow all the wind and snow from the ocean at her. It raged across the runway and no planes flew. The Weather Gods tried their best for me, to keep her from leaving so soon. She hadn’t yet seen my spring! But my pilots are too talented, and she did escape me in the end. My winter continued in further darkness.

She came back, and I felt like a fool for thinking she wouldn’t. I’d forgotten that people have families and friends they like to spend the dark winters with. But I remembered it when I saw my own people sitting down together, sons and dottirs around a table enjoying the traditions of this land. I was sure that while the girl was away she was enjoying the winter traditions of her own land.

Abashed, I asked the Gods to prepare a bright, cool day for her return. There was that smile again, not pasted on but real and rejuvenated. She seemed happy to see me too. My winter lights stayed up until February, and it was a cheerful time for us both. I believe she even captured the heart of a foreign boy, and they strolled along my shore together, breathing in the coastal sunsets. He taught her how to take pictures of me and I must say I looked good in their photographs.

I am not as cold as many people think and my snow soon turned to slush and filled the streets with wet shoes and cold feet. Spring would soon be coming. Yes my friends, my winters are not so long and arduous. A lone tree grew outside the girl’s window, inhabited by a small black bird. As the snow melted below the tree, buds burst beneath the feet of the little bird, and as suddenly as winter had arrived, it was gone. My folk thrust open their doors and embraced my streets again. The girl too sprang out of her house and re-immersed herself in my experiences. She took a boat to watch the whales, took my best singer’s cavernous voice into her ears and heart, and took her last looks at the monuments of mine she loved the most.

She was leaving again, but this time we both knew she wouldn’t be back for a long time. I saw how she lingered and tried to cement the memories of all my wonders deep inside her heart. An extra long soak in the hot tub, with an indulgent swim in the geothermal swimming pool. An evening spent just sitting by the Viking ship by my harbour and watching the calm water leading to Esja. A careful stroll down my main street, visiting every shop for one last souvenir, as if those objects could keep me alive when she was gone.

I knew she loved me now, and I her, so I let her go. A bright day at the beginning of summer, with a calm coolness only I can deliver, carried her to Keflavik and onto a plane. She looked out on the wide landscape of my great country with solemnity.

Come again girl, and I’ll be waiting. At Keflavik I’ll post a sign for you: Velkomin heim. Welcome home.