This book is a collection of photographs and essays that seem to be more literary than scientific in nature. Rather than try to summarize, I will give you a ‘flavor’ of its contents. In the introduction, Gould says, “...although each of these essays features some odd little corner of the natural world... I would venture to state... that these essays treat the two great themes of philosophy through the ages: ontology, or the nature of reality, and epistemology, or how the human mind obtains its knowledge of reality” (p. 13).
One of the essays is about how we perceive individuality and what it means to be biologically individual. The four page essay covers Ibsen, Darwin, cloning, and conjoined twins. Mixing literary theatre references with the history of science as well as current scientific phenomena, Gould makes a the point that clones are as much individuals as identical or even conjoined twins, and that the fear and concern over Dolly is perhaps not necessary. The essay goes with pictures of ang and chang, and a two-headed sheep.
Another essay is about misunderstandings in the fossil record. Gould tells two stories of how scientists misidentified fossils and were later corrected. The story includes a lovely photograph of a bird of paradise and photos of the misidentified fossil of a giant water salamander. This essay alludes to constructivism, but , as the book is not tailored to scholars, it presents the information in a subdued way.
I think this book is an attempt to do just what Lehrer is talking about, and bring artists into the world of science; however, Gould is acting more as an artist or poet than a scientist. I’m not sure what I think of the book, other than that it is interesting. I like that it doesn’t fit a genre, and needs to be dealt with in a different way.
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Latour, 1998, How to be Iconophilic in Art, Science, and Religion?
This article is from Jones & Galison, Picturing Science Producing Art, 1998
Latour frames this discussion using the famous McLuhan quote, “the medium is the message” but he gives this quote a new meaning. He says that the in the past, science has been portrayed by stressing the two extremes of the Mind and the World. The medium, what is in the middle of these (but not between according to L) is what we are now focused on. Mediation, he says, consists of, “the humble instruments, tools, visualization skills, writing practices, focusing techniques” (p. 422). He calls these “re-representations.” He makes a constructivist argument that these mediators do not merely sit in between the Mind and the World, but have a hand in producing that which comes in and out of mediation.
Latour finds that the field of Art History has much to offer the History of science because of the way the “constructivist character is built into the arts” (p. 423).
Latour then turns to his concept of “immutable mobiles.” (Immutable mobiles are defined most clearly by Law & Singleton, 2005, as things that move around but hold their shape, either physically or relationally/functionally). I should add here, that there is a discussion the turns more toward religion, and is fascinating, but very difficult, and not necessarily relevant, I will leave you to read it if you dare :).
Latour says that as these mediations become immutable mobiles, they are, in a sense, erased (seems tome he is saying the mediators of science are black-boxed), and what is left is a picture of “a calculating Mind, a calculable World, a substance which lies under its passing attributes, and the medium of language to circulate in between” (p 427). He says that all other mediations are “found wanting” because they fail to provide an “accurate access to the world.” Art, he says, escapes indictment because it is marginalized as “only art” and does not inform what we can know. Latour rejects this as a “hideous scenography.”
Latour proposes that we do not go down this road, but stick to the mediators we can arrive at a place where the arts will no longer be merely subjective and “impotent” and the science will no longer be “merely accurate.”
Latour concludes by suggesting that the difficulty we face is that in being iconophilic in one form of visual culture renders us iconoclastic in the others. He advocates a world in which “angels and immutable mobiles circulate, each in their own way” (p. 438).
Latour frames this discussion using the famous McLuhan quote, “the medium is the message” but he gives this quote a new meaning. He says that the in the past, science has been portrayed by stressing the two extremes of the Mind and the World. The medium, what is in the middle of these (but not between according to L) is what we are now focused on. Mediation, he says, consists of, “the humble instruments, tools, visualization skills, writing practices, focusing techniques” (p. 422). He calls these “re-representations.” He makes a constructivist argument that these mediators do not merely sit in between the Mind and the World, but have a hand in producing that which comes in and out of mediation.
Latour finds that the field of Art History has much to offer the History of science because of the way the “constructivist character is built into the arts” (p. 423).
..it is possible to take much greater pleaser in learning the laws of the thermodynamics after having read the social historians on the of the first or second law, but this reading, precisely, takes on some aeschtetic character. The ame mediators that should have been black-boxed to produce scientific certainty, now that they are developed by the historian, generate a type of pleasure that we rightly associate with the arts. Even if I exaggerate the differences, it remains fair to say that Beauty is more easily seen as a construction than is Truth (p 423).
Latour then turns to his concept of “immutable mobiles.” (Immutable mobiles are defined most clearly by Law & Singleton, 2005, as things that move around but hold their shape, either physically or relationally/functionally). I should add here, that there is a discussion the turns more toward religion, and is fascinating, but very difficult, and not necessarily relevant, I will leave you to read it if you dare :).
Latour says that as these mediations become immutable mobiles, they are, in a sense, erased (seems tome he is saying the mediators of science are black-boxed), and what is left is a picture of “a calculating Mind, a calculable World, a substance which lies under its passing attributes, and the medium of language to circulate in between” (p 427). He says that all other mediations are “found wanting” because they fail to provide an “accurate access to the world.” Art, he says, escapes indictment because it is marginalized as “only art” and does not inform what we can know. Latour rejects this as a “hideous scenography.”
Latour proposes that we do not go down this road, but stick to the mediators we can arrive at a place where the arts will no longer be merely subjective and “impotent” and the science will no longer be “merely accurate.”
Latour concludes by suggesting that the difficulty we face is that in being iconophilic in one form of visual culture renders us iconoclastic in the others. He advocates a world in which “angels and immutable mobiles circulate, each in their own way” (p. 438).
The DNA Mystique: The Gene as a Cultural Icon
Dorothy Nelkin and M. Susan Lindee's book is a study of the cultural meanings surrounding DNA and the gene in popular culture today. The book is a critique of genetic essentialism, the tendency since the 1980s and 1990s to attribute personal traits to biological rather than social or environmental determinism. Humans become reduced down to their genes, their DNA molecules. Despite much interdeterminacy and complexity in genetic science about exactly how genes interact with environment in complex ways to express certain traits, the public has simplified the gene to a causal, determinist explanation, often supported by scientists' own popularizing rhetoric to generate funding support for large projects such as the Human Genome Project, and this popular understanding feeds back into scientists' own motivations for pursuing certain avenues of research. Narratives of genetic determinism build upon historical understandings of the importance of blood for kinship ties, and current discourse is very similar to early twentieth century eugenics discourse, which focused on the similarly constructed "germplasm." The gene is seen as a computer program coded with our instructions, as a sacred text which will reveal the secrets of human existence, and as a surrogate for the soul, both the repository of human identity and the guarantor of immortality. The gene powerfully reinforces traditional notions of family in an era when the nuclear family seems under attack; genetic kinship makes adoption appear unnatural and problematic. Genes are also seen to be the root of both genius and criminality; by redirecting moral responsibility to genes, we absolve or mitigate individuals of guilt in a society where individual free will is held responsible. However such relocating of blame, while absolving parents of bad parenting, puts new moral pressures on parents not to reproduce in order to not pass on bad genes, seen as having social costs for a taxpayer society. Genetic essentialism has been used both to positive and negative effect by various marginalized groups, including feminists, African-Americans, and homosexuals, arguing that their innate differences either make them superior or give them a claim to special protection and equal civil rights. But essentialism is a double-edged sword, for it also can be used by neo-Nazis and conservative supporters of eugenics to limit reproduction for such marginalized groups. Genetic essentialism can create a new class of the genetic disadvantaged, pressured by society not to procreate. Thus the icon of the gene has all sorts of political, moral, and legal implications being played out in current society: who should have custody of an adopted child, whether criminals or job applicants should be screened, whether genetic dispositions should be used to calculate insurance premiums, the rights of the disabled to have children. Nelkin and Lindee foresee a frightening future whereby voluntary eugenics, based on the public social understanding of genetic essentialism, forces people to make reproductive choices rather than any state policy. They also see that genetic essentialism favors a fatalistic view of social problems, advocating inaction with regard to social welfare and education reform (why bother to help dumb kids?), and promoting racialized attitudes towards inner city welfare mothers breeding indiscriminately on taxpayer money. The gene has become the supergene, explaining everything in the human condition.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Turney: Frankenstein's Footsteps
Turney, J. (1998). Frankenstein’s Footsteps: Science, genetics, and popular culture. New Haven: Yale University Press.
• We are both mesmerized with and concerned about the progress of the biological sciences over the last century and into the 21st century.
• Author uses Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein as a “framing device” for public images of new technology and biology: “…when we look for ways to interpret the latest developments, the hot news from the lab, the technological promises for the twenty-first century, when we look for stories to tell about what we are about to do, we commonly reach back to a story which is almost two hundred years old” (p. 2). Frankenstein is identified as a “myth of modernity.”
• Shelley offered “concerns which go to the heart of our response to science” (p. 3)—namely, ambivalence towards the power of the biological sciences: the idea that progress in the sciences in its striving towards “power over the body” can be cause for “celebration,” but also always accompanied by “unease” (p. 10).
• Author feels that there is a clear relationship between “art” (in this case, popular conceptions of science in historical literature and film) and “science” and that art may, in fact, influence scientific developments: “My premise is that fictional representations matter, that the science and technology we ultimately see are partly shaped by the images of the work which exist outside the confines of the laboratory report or the scientific paper” (p. 3). Shelley’s Frankenstein can be seen as one way to understand the “source” of contemporary attitudes towards and perceptions of present-day science:
(1) Motif of the mad scientist, both inspired and tortured by his (or her) creation
(2) The consequences of playing God and creating life (manifested in current debates over genetic engineering).
(3) Meeting scientific progress with a mix of excitement and ambivalence
(4) A Pandora’s Box of unknown consequences.
Chapter 1: Mary Shelley’s Creation
• Author draws our attention to Shelley’s original novel, arguing that the central theme of the “Frankenstein myth” relates to getting/using knowledge and the power conferred—“dramatized by the creation of life” (p. 13). Ambivalence about this power is central to the story.
• Author compares Frankenstein to other creation myths in Western culture; in the case of Frankenstein, there is no “supernatural agency” (p. 14), as the human acts on his own. Frankenstein also brought to light new ideas about a “mechanistic” view of living things” (p. 16). In her myth, “science is a substitute for God” (p. 23).
• Points out Shelley’s personal background and the idea that she blended together scientific (e.g., Erasmus Darwin, Humphrey Davy) and literary sources (e.g., Byron) to shape her tale. Shelley was well versed in the “science of her time” (p. 22), and her familiarity with social issues of the time (e.g., grave-robbing) also become apparent.
Chapter 2: Hideous Progeny: Frankenstein Retold
• While Shelley’s novel is interesting on its own accord, it’s even more fascinating to look at how the story has become “embedded in our culture” (p. 26): is it folklore, legend, or myth? The author goes on to explore different definitions of these terms, and what various critics have had to say about the book.
• The story propagated in many ways: first published in 1818, then published in “simplified form”, then to the stage, then to film. There were various transformations of the story in each of these genres. Along with Dracula, Frankenstein helped provide a blueprint for the “horror movie.” The author notes that movie versions would draw particular attention to different facets of the story (e.g., more attention on the creator than the creature itself).
• Why has the myth endured? Or, what about the story has endured? Most importantly, according to the author, the “science” element of the story has been maintained in all the adaptations: “…the endurance of the myth plainly does testify to a deep disquiet at the potentialities inherent in scientific discovery in general, and the science of life in particular”(p. 36).
Chapter 3: As Remorseless as Nature: the Rise of Experimental Biology
• The image of the biologist has changed immensely since the mid-19th C: “the transition between the first image of the biologist, the frock-coated skull-hefter, and the second, the white-coated microscopist; the transition from natural historian to experimenter” (p. 45).
• Author provides a timeline of some of the developments/trends in biology, including Victorian “antivivisection” movement (experimentation on animals) as well as the eugenics movement.
• Certain popular novels at the time are pointed to as perpetuating images of the biologist at the time period (e.g., the biologist as the “unfeeling obsessive” as portrayed by Jack London’s characters—see p. 54, Wells’ Dr. Moreau).
Chapter 4: Creating Life in the Laboratory
• The possibility of spontaneous generation of (artificial) life became a focus of biologists and source of growing optimism in the power of science at the end of the 19th C. Jacques Loeb was the first major scientist to be linked with possibility of creating life in the lab. Alexis Carrel was also an important “visible” figure in the beginnings of transplant surgery and tissue culture.
• The author seems to stress that, emerging from these scientists’ very publicized work, was the view that life could be “controlled” and “manipulated.”
• These developments were often viewed publicly as positive, but also with growing unease. In some cases, there were clear “spiritual” and “moral” implications that the public saw as related to these developments. These feelings of ambivalence that we see even today in regard to biological advancement, are not new.
Chapter Five: Into the Brave New World
• Interwar period of biology is considered, a time when the “high hopes” of the pre-war vision of biology were somewhat dampened when life was shown to be much more complicated than first understood.
• More general awareness of the complexity of human life led to the conclusion that creation of life in a lab was, perhaps, not so imminent as previously predicted; however, the press still functioned to forward the idea (“prophecy”) that scientists could, in fact, perform this feat.
• Karel Capek’s play (1921) R.U.R. (Rossum’s Universal Robots): explores idea of artificially created humans and production lines. This work, while “symbolically rich, lacked any referenced to contemporary research” (p. 99).
• Haldane’s Daedalus or Science and the Future: outlines a history of futuristic, somewhat improbable scientific developments that are thought to be “just over the scientific horizon” (p. 101).
• Aldous Huxley’s A Brave New World (1932): future-oriented view of how biology would/could affect the human condition: “The emphasis on biology was deliberate, born of Huxley’s wish to portray ‘the advancement of science as it affects human individuals’” (p. 114). The book deals with, among other things, the reproduction of identical humans, recalling Capek’s R.U.R and “a society in which the ultimate result of applied science is to bring development to a halt—a direct contradiction of the actual experience of modernity” (p. 115). The book had a tremendous impact on both scholarly and popular thinking, and continues to be cited today; however, it was (and continues to be) seen mostly as “distant prophesy” (p. 117).
• Importantly, the ideas that these popularized writers seemed to be suggesting (or foreseeing) would be revisited by science later: “More significantly, perhaps, some researchers and orchestrators of research have been directly inspired by the vision of biological control” (p. 118).
Chapters 6-10
• Nuclear energy and nuclear weapons are case studies in how the Frankenstein myth pervades our attitudes toward scientific achievement: Lauded for their potential to provide energy “too cheap to meter,” but also feared for their unique ability to benefit the world as a whole or end it all together.
• Second case study: current debate over genetic engineering. Life sciences could change the very essence of what it means to be “human.” We can create, not just modify, life (i.e., cloning).
(1) Frankenstein myth – creating life (a new modern Prometheus?)
(2) Brave New World motif – engineering the essence of being human.
• “If ever a research program drew on fictional images from its inspiration, and interpretation, it was the work which led to human in vitro fertilization. The Frankenstein script has been generalized to apply to almost any technology, even though it still has a special affinity with technologies of life. The idea of conception outside the body identified with Brave New World has a more specific connotation. And once that script established its hold, any research which seemed to offer control over reproduction was readily figured as a step toward Huxley’s world” (p. 160).
** How far should we go in our quest for knowledge? When do we cross into the realm of the forbidden, whether it involves nuclear proliferation or in vitro fertilization? **
Conclusion:
• Frankenstein may be just a book, but it tells a story just like science and history – about our past, present and future and how we have interacted, are interacting, and will interact with technology
• Telling stories to make sense of an issue (implications, meaning), to predict outcomes, and promote interpretations/perspectives in the course of debate in the public arena.
• “Together, all these stories form part of a diffuse public debate about science and technology, about what research is desirable or permissible, what applications are to be hoped or feared, about how our society shapes and is shaped by the science it builds (p. 201)
Summarized by Laura and Chris
Introduction• We are both mesmerized with and concerned about the progress of the biological sciences over the last century and into the 21st century.
• Author uses Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein as a “framing device” for public images of new technology and biology: “…when we look for ways to interpret the latest developments, the hot news from the lab, the technological promises for the twenty-first century, when we look for stories to tell about what we are about to do, we commonly reach back to a story which is almost two hundred years old” (p. 2). Frankenstein is identified as a “myth of modernity.”
• Shelley offered “concerns which go to the heart of our response to science” (p. 3)—namely, ambivalence towards the power of the biological sciences: the idea that progress in the sciences in its striving towards “power over the body” can be cause for “celebration,” but also always accompanied by “unease” (p. 10).
• Author feels that there is a clear relationship between “art” (in this case, popular conceptions of science in historical literature and film) and “science” and that art may, in fact, influence scientific developments: “My premise is that fictional representations matter, that the science and technology we ultimately see are partly shaped by the images of the work which exist outside the confines of the laboratory report or the scientific paper” (p. 3). Shelley’s Frankenstein can be seen as one way to understand the “source” of contemporary attitudes towards and perceptions of present-day science:
(1) Motif of the mad scientist, both inspired and tortured by his (or her) creation
(2) The consequences of playing God and creating life (manifested in current debates over genetic engineering).
(3) Meeting scientific progress with a mix of excitement and ambivalence
(4) A Pandora’s Box of unknown consequences.
Chapter 1: Mary Shelley’s Creation
• Author draws our attention to Shelley’s original novel, arguing that the central theme of the “Frankenstein myth” relates to getting/using knowledge and the power conferred—“dramatized by the creation of life” (p. 13). Ambivalence about this power is central to the story.
• Author compares Frankenstein to other creation myths in Western culture; in the case of Frankenstein, there is no “supernatural agency” (p. 14), as the human acts on his own. Frankenstein also brought to light new ideas about a “mechanistic” view of living things” (p. 16). In her myth, “science is a substitute for God” (p. 23).
• Points out Shelley’s personal background and the idea that she blended together scientific (e.g., Erasmus Darwin, Humphrey Davy) and literary sources (e.g., Byron) to shape her tale. Shelley was well versed in the “science of her time” (p. 22), and her familiarity with social issues of the time (e.g., grave-robbing) also become apparent.
Chapter 2: Hideous Progeny: Frankenstein Retold
• While Shelley’s novel is interesting on its own accord, it’s even more fascinating to look at how the story has become “embedded in our culture” (p. 26): is it folklore, legend, or myth? The author goes on to explore different definitions of these terms, and what various critics have had to say about the book.
• The story propagated in many ways: first published in 1818, then published in “simplified form”, then to the stage, then to film. There were various transformations of the story in each of these genres. Along with Dracula, Frankenstein helped provide a blueprint for the “horror movie.” The author notes that movie versions would draw particular attention to different facets of the story (e.g., more attention on the creator than the creature itself).
• Why has the myth endured? Or, what about the story has endured? Most importantly, according to the author, the “science” element of the story has been maintained in all the adaptations: “…the endurance of the myth plainly does testify to a deep disquiet at the potentialities inherent in scientific discovery in general, and the science of life in particular”(p. 36).
Chapter 3: As Remorseless as Nature: the Rise of Experimental Biology
• The image of the biologist has changed immensely since the mid-19th C: “the transition between the first image of the biologist, the frock-coated skull-hefter, and the second, the white-coated microscopist; the transition from natural historian to experimenter” (p. 45).
• Author provides a timeline of some of the developments/trends in biology, including Victorian “antivivisection” movement (experimentation on animals) as well as the eugenics movement.
• Certain popular novels at the time are pointed to as perpetuating images of the biologist at the time period (e.g., the biologist as the “unfeeling obsessive” as portrayed by Jack London’s characters—see p. 54, Wells’ Dr. Moreau).
Chapter 4: Creating Life in the Laboratory
• The possibility of spontaneous generation of (artificial) life became a focus of biologists and source of growing optimism in the power of science at the end of the 19th C. Jacques Loeb was the first major scientist to be linked with possibility of creating life in the lab. Alexis Carrel was also an important “visible” figure in the beginnings of transplant surgery and tissue culture.
• The author seems to stress that, emerging from these scientists’ very publicized work, was the view that life could be “controlled” and “manipulated.”
• These developments were often viewed publicly as positive, but also with growing unease. In some cases, there were clear “spiritual” and “moral” implications that the public saw as related to these developments. These feelings of ambivalence that we see even today in regard to biological advancement, are not new.
Chapter Five: Into the Brave New World
• Interwar period of biology is considered, a time when the “high hopes” of the pre-war vision of biology were somewhat dampened when life was shown to be much more complicated than first understood.
• More general awareness of the complexity of human life led to the conclusion that creation of life in a lab was, perhaps, not so imminent as previously predicted; however, the press still functioned to forward the idea (“prophecy”) that scientists could, in fact, perform this feat.
• Karel Capek’s play (1921) R.U.R. (Rossum’s Universal Robots): explores idea of artificially created humans and production lines. This work, while “symbolically rich, lacked any referenced to contemporary research” (p. 99).
• Haldane’s Daedalus or Science and the Future: outlines a history of futuristic, somewhat improbable scientific developments that are thought to be “just over the scientific horizon” (p. 101).
• Aldous Huxley’s A Brave New World (1932): future-oriented view of how biology would/could affect the human condition: “The emphasis on biology was deliberate, born of Huxley’s wish to portray ‘the advancement of science as it affects human individuals’” (p. 114). The book deals with, among other things, the reproduction of identical humans, recalling Capek’s R.U.R and “a society in which the ultimate result of applied science is to bring development to a halt—a direct contradiction of the actual experience of modernity” (p. 115). The book had a tremendous impact on both scholarly and popular thinking, and continues to be cited today; however, it was (and continues to be) seen mostly as “distant prophesy” (p. 117).
• Importantly, the ideas that these popularized writers seemed to be suggesting (or foreseeing) would be revisited by science later: “More significantly, perhaps, some researchers and orchestrators of research have been directly inspired by the vision of biological control” (p. 118).
Chapters 6-10
• Nuclear energy and nuclear weapons are case studies in how the Frankenstein myth pervades our attitudes toward scientific achievement: Lauded for their potential to provide energy “too cheap to meter,” but also feared for their unique ability to benefit the world as a whole or end it all together.
• Second case study: current debate over genetic engineering. Life sciences could change the very essence of what it means to be “human.” We can create, not just modify, life (i.e., cloning).
(1) Frankenstein myth – creating life (a new modern Prometheus?)
(2) Brave New World motif – engineering the essence of being human.
• “If ever a research program drew on fictional images from its inspiration, and interpretation, it was the work which led to human in vitro fertilization. The Frankenstein script has been generalized to apply to almost any technology, even though it still has a special affinity with technologies of life. The idea of conception outside the body identified with Brave New World has a more specific connotation. And once that script established its hold, any research which seemed to offer control over reproduction was readily figured as a step toward Huxley’s world” (p. 160).
** How far should we go in our quest for knowledge? When do we cross into the realm of the forbidden, whether it involves nuclear proliferation or in vitro fertilization? **
Conclusion:
• Frankenstein may be just a book, but it tells a story just like science and history – about our past, present and future and how we have interacted, are interacting, and will interact with technology
• Telling stories to make sense of an issue (implications, meaning), to predict outcomes, and promote interpretations/perspectives in the course of debate in the public arena.
• “Together, all these stories form part of a diffuse public debate about science and technology, about what research is desirable or permissible, what applications are to be hoped or feared, about how our society shapes and is shaped by the science it builds (p. 201)
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
Thinking about Television Science: How Students Understand the Nature of Science from Different Program Genres
Koshi Dhingra's study looks at the role of television science in informal learning and its relationship with formal science learned in school, drawing on recent understandings of science learning that emphasize the role of informal learning outside the classroom that students bring to shape their learning of science in the classroom.
Dhingra's study identifies four different program genres of television programs from which the high school students in the study learned science or gained a view of science. These genres, news, documentary, fictional programming, and magazine format, emerged from the data.
Dhingra grouped responses to questionnaires, interviews, and free writes into coded categories, two of which emerged from the data (ethics and validity of science, science as portrayed by practitioners), and two of which where derived from the author's theoretical framework: Duschl's (1990) concept of final form science as unquestioned facts, and school science versus television science based on Bybee's (2001) study on combining free choice and free education sectors.
The most interesting finding was that the news and fiction genres offered views of science as uncertain and open to question, whereas the documentary and magazine-format genres offered final form science with little need to question the facts presented. Thus the framing of the science that was presented had a significant effect on how science was perceived. (The drama noted by the students in question at this time was The X-Files, however, which might have been unusual in its portrayal of uncertainty in science.)
Another important finding was that, especially in the case of The X-Files, but also in the case of the magazine format Bill Nye, the on-screen characters were highly important in helping the audience connect to the science, making it feel immediate and relevant to the viewer. One respondent mentioned that he felt science in fiction to be more realistic than that in documentaries because it was more relevant to experiences he imagined he would have (an operating room, versus a jungle with monkeys). The portrayal of Scully as a competent female scientist was particularly important in showing a gender divide in how the character related to viewers. Girls felt that Scully was an important role model, while boys thought that her competence in seemingly all scientific fields was unrealistic. Opinions on Bill Nye also differed from positive to "corny".
Another interesting finding was that discussion of TV science in class tended to have a leveling effect, as the teacher and student were both discussing a topic with which the students had as much, if not more, expertise than the teacher. This disruption of the usual roles was noted with tension, in cases when the teacher would reassert authority and the student was made to "feel stupid."
Dhingra concludes that documentary and magazine science should try to learn from news and fiction genres in presenting science as an uncertain process, not final form facts, and do so in a way to relate directly to people's experiences, rather than science talk "all the time" which seemed to bore some of the student viewers. This would improve such programs, both in terms of engaging the viewer more, helping them learn better, but also improve the content as viewers would better understand science as an uncertain process and be trained to think critically and debate, rather than passively receiving facts.
Amateurs versus professionals: the controversy over telescope size in late Victorian science (Lankford)
John Lankford is interested in the historical process of professionalization and institutionalization of science that occured in the late 19th and early 20th Centuries. Although he notes that the relationship beween professionals and amateurs in astronomy is unusual, if not unique, among contemporary sciences, he examines professionalization through the lens (ha!) of a rather bizarre controversy that occupied astronomers between 1885 and 1911.
During and shortly before this period, as the field of astronomy commanded increasingly large resources from the government, astronomers were differentiating themselves into pros and amateurs. For example, as the Royal Astronomical Society increasingly catered to those astronomers with the best equipment and the most training, the British Astronomical Association was created to meet the needs of the new class of amateurs.
Around 1885, William F. Denning, a particularly highly decorated amateur British astronomer, started arguing that smaller aperture telescopes were superior to larger aperture scopes. He reasoned that larger scopes were more sensitive to atmospheric conditions, more prone to suffer from glare on bright targets such as planets, and less able to resolve subtle details. It should be noted that Denning worked with instruments of less than 13 inches in diameter -- apparently reflectors.
Professional astronomers, outfitted with the likes of the 36-inch Lick refractor, argued against Denning. The argument proceeded, on and off, for over 35 years. Lankford notes that Denning basically never changed his arguments, regardless of the evidence or logic brought against him.
One interesting dynamic in this debate is that, especially in the early stages, it was largely between Denning and American professionals. Lankford doesn't particularly explore this, though.
A key point in the controversy occured when respected amateur A.S. Williams reported discovering spots on Saturn with his 6.5-inch reflector that no one else seemed able to see, not even with the monster at the Lick. Even Denning was doubtful. When Captain William Noble, former president of the BAA (the amateur group), defended Williams at a meeting of the RAS, he came across as a rather uneducated enthusiast. For example, Noble confused the optical phenomena of chromatic and spherical aberration. This episode showed in stark contrast the growing gap in specialist expertise (such as knowledge of optical theory) between pros and amateurs.
Another very interesting point -- indeed, one of the few interesting points of this whole thing -- is that Williams was intent on catching the faintest, subtlest details on Saturn's surface; whereas pros such as E.E.Barnard at the Lick were more interested in features that could be documented with certainty, measured with mathematical precision, etc. This demonstrated that the pros and amateurs were already developing different visual vocabularies and ways of seeing.
The controversy more or less ended when, in 1911, one of the most celebrated amateurs, Rev. T.E.R. Philips, went to the observatory at Meudon and took a look through its 33-inch refractor. He was completely blown away. He wrote a piece saying essentially that its optics were otherworldly (ha!) compared with smaller scopes used by amateurs. When one of their own was able to pass into the realm of the pros and come back with this report, the amateurs shut up.
When it was all said and done, the amateurs also had to specialize to remain relevant. They were left with an important but relatively diminished role in astronomy as mere data-gatherers.
During and shortly before this period, as the field of astronomy commanded increasingly large resources from the government, astronomers were differentiating themselves into pros and amateurs. For example, as the Royal Astronomical Society increasingly catered to those astronomers with the best equipment and the most training, the British Astronomical Association was created to meet the needs of the new class of amateurs.
Around 1885, William F. Denning, a particularly highly decorated amateur British astronomer, started arguing that smaller aperture telescopes were superior to larger aperture scopes. He reasoned that larger scopes were more sensitive to atmospheric conditions, more prone to suffer from glare on bright targets such as planets, and less able to resolve subtle details. It should be noted that Denning worked with instruments of less than 13 inches in diameter -- apparently reflectors.
Professional astronomers, outfitted with the likes of the 36-inch Lick refractor, argued against Denning. The argument proceeded, on and off, for over 35 years. Lankford notes that Denning basically never changed his arguments, regardless of the evidence or logic brought against him.
One interesting dynamic in this debate is that, especially in the early stages, it was largely between Denning and American professionals. Lankford doesn't particularly explore this, though.
A key point in the controversy occured when respected amateur A.S. Williams reported discovering spots on Saturn with his 6.5-inch reflector that no one else seemed able to see, not even with the monster at the Lick. Even Denning was doubtful. When Captain William Noble, former president of the BAA (the amateur group), defended Williams at a meeting of the RAS, he came across as a rather uneducated enthusiast. For example, Noble confused the optical phenomena of chromatic and spherical aberration. This episode showed in stark contrast the growing gap in specialist expertise (such as knowledge of optical theory) between pros and amateurs.
Another very interesting point -- indeed, one of the few interesting points of this whole thing -- is that Williams was intent on catching the faintest, subtlest details on Saturn's surface; whereas pros such as E.E.Barnard at the Lick were more interested in features that could be documented with certainty, measured with mathematical precision, etc. This demonstrated that the pros and amateurs were already developing different visual vocabularies and ways of seeing.
The controversy more or less ended when, in 1911, one of the most celebrated amateurs, Rev. T.E.R. Philips, went to the observatory at Meudon and took a look through its 33-inch refractor. He was completely blown away. He wrote a piece saying essentially that its optics were otherworldly (ha!) compared with smaller scopes used by amateurs. When one of their own was able to pass into the realm of the pros and come back with this report, the amateurs shut up.
When it was all said and done, the amateurs also had to specialize to remain relevant. They were left with an important but relatively diminished role in astronomy as mere data-gatherers.
Krasny & Bonney – Environmental Education through citizen science and participatory action research - By Gina
The article summarizes the challenges and goals for citizen science projects and participatory action research emphasizing the need to balance interests among participants, students, educators, and scientists. With these diverse interests comes a flurry of challenges for citizen science including balancing science and education, ensuring data quality, forming partnerships to enhance educational goals, evaluating impacts, and building institutional support for such activities (p180).
Longer Summary
The article focuses on two case studies one of which is on the Cornell Lab of Ornithology’s (CLO) successful citizen science projects, as well as Cornell’s Garden Mosaics project.
CLO offers many citizen science projects including Project FeederWatch, Classroom Feeder Watch, The Birdhouse Network, etc. Many of these programs work because of the balance of goals. First, looking at research goals, scientists realized they could collect data through a count protocol that proved to be statistically and scientifically successful (p179). While in the process of collecting data, participants began to raise interesting questions regarding bird habitats, migration patterns, etc. With this response, scientists realized that there needed to be more attention paid to the educational aspects of the project. This is when CLO partnered with their education division to devise “research kits” that explained the process of collecting the data as well as potential findings (p179). This partnership between scientists and educators allowed the participants to not only contribute to a scientific research project, but to also gain an education or learning experience as well.
All projects, no matter how successful, come with challenges. Here we will summarize the challenges and their respective descriptions.
Balancing science and education – “Engaging lay people in real research raises questions about what kinds of scientific questions are appropriate for various audiences and how the research promotes educational goals” (p180). Citizen science coordinators need to be open to changing research or educational components to meet the needs of all participants.
Ensuring data quality – There are three main issues under this challenge, data collection protocol, data editing and analysis, and observer training. First, the protocol developed for CLO’s bird counting considered people’s weekly schedule allowing more people to participate while still being scientifically sound. Second, to ensure accurate data editing and analysis, participants are prompted by “friendly messages” to double-check their entries if the computer has determined that a data point doesn’t make sense. Additionally, scientists double check and “clean” the data after entry. Lastly, CLO offers training opportunities for all participants.
Forming partnerships to enhance educational goals – “The key to successfully adapting and disseminating projects has been to work closely with educators to develop materials that they can meld into their own programs” (p182).
Evaluating impacts – Citizen Science projects should partner with education or communication departments that can help conduct project evaluations or surveys. These surveys can evaluate what the participants have learned or taken away from the study.
Building institutional support for Citizen Science – It is important for citizen science projects to have the commitment and resources they need. This means support from their parent organization in terms of employees and financial resources. Additionally, many projects apply for outside grants.
After reviewing these challenges, the section concludes with three reasons for why citizen science projects should exist. First, they comment that both the researchers and participants benefit from the project. Second, these projects create a culture where there is support for both educational and scientific goals. Lastly, when done properly, there is a nice division of labor between educators and scientists. This fair division allows programs like CLO to run smoothly.
The second case study, Garden Mosaics, has similar goals, but is more focused on learning science content, having students participate in an environmental action project, as well as form partnerships with their elders (p185). For the first point of learning science content, organizers realized that they needed to provide more guidance compared to that of citizen science projects. Second, once the science learning occurs, students are required to take that new knowledge and create an action project. This project emphasizes not only learning, or “taking away” local knowledge, but also giving back to that local community. This is also where students begin to form relationships with their elders.
The article ends with the recognition that Citizen Science projects do not directly influence behavior. They state, “Citizen Science does not directly address some of the behavioral goals of environmental education, particularly those that focus on changing personal behavior. Rather Citizen Science defines behavior change in terms of critical thinking, and it is hoped that through engaging in such thinking during their research, participants will be better able to analyze information about the environmental issues and to make sound decisions about the environment” (p192).
Kolsto: Scientific Literacy for Citizenship
Kolsto, S.D. (2001). Scientific literacy for citizenship: Tools for dealing with the science dimension of controversial socioscientific issues. Science Education, 85(3), 291-310
Kolsto argues that “many of the suggested teaching models suffer from lack of discussion and inclusion of knowledge concerning the nature of science and scientific knowledge” (p. 292). In order to remedy this fact, he proposes that classroom students be exposed to “controversial socioscientific issues.” Rather than just focus on the content of the science involved, however, students should be guided in taking a closer look at “content-transcending topics” such as “the human character of science, values in science, limits of science, and tactics for decision-making in science” (p. 293). By outlining eight “content-transcending topics,” Kolsto argues that he is offering a remedy to the “three challenges” facing science teachers:
• Specificity: As those of us who have delved into the S&TS literature know, “content-transcending topics” typically discussed in regard to the nature or process of science might be too vague or broad to guide a traditional secondary classroom curriculum. Kolsto suggests that his selected topics narrow this broadness.
• Relevance: Teachers should be able to stress how each topics “might contribute to different problems the students might encounter in their adult life” (p. 293).
• Amount of information: It is important that teachers emphasize the amount of knowledge about a particular topic so as to “put it within reach of most students” (p. 293).
By meeting these goals, the eight topics “constitute a minimum range of knowledge, skills, and attitudes necessary to emphasize in science education” (p. 293).
The eight topics suggested are as follows:
Topic #1: Understanding the nature of scientific consensus (or lack thereof). Whom do you believe? The difference between “ready-made-science” and “science-in-the-making” (building off of Latour’s concept) in terms of certainty, disagreement and debate; How the latter can transform into the former (and perhaps vice-versa).
This topics “leaves us with a description of science as involving social processes through which scientists are scrutinizing the validity of presented experimental evidence and proposing explanations and through which consensus sometimes evolves [but not always]” (p. 295).
Why important: To allow students to see that science is both “an institution” and “socially-constructed.” Kolsto argues, “This contrasts the presentation of scientific knowledge as merely the result of the individual works of a few brilliant scientists like Darwin and Einstein and will also constitute a step away from the positivist epistemology often implicit in school science” (p. 296).
Topic #2: Sciences as one of several social domains. Centrally, Kolsto feels that students should understand that science is but one of several “social domains” that exercise influence on decision-making (others being religion, ethics, politics, etc.). Can science “solve” socioscientific problems? The potential for stakeholder disagreement on problems and solutions; The inability of science to weigh different sets of values against each other; Not everything can be broken down into a simple cost-benefit analysis.
Why important: To make students open to, and accepting of, knowledge from domains other than science.
Topic #3: Descriptive vs. normative statements. The issue of “value-free” versus “value-laden” science; In the risk communication field, this issue is often manifested in the phrase “acceptable risk” – that is, on what grounds do we judge risks to be “acceptable” (or not)?
Why important: To make it easier for students to evaluate claims and arguments and discriminate between “knowledge” and opinion.
Topic #4: Demands for underpinning evidence. Scientific inquiry is traditionally seen as objective and neutral. In the context of uncertainty and controversy, however, it is important to consider the motivations of scientists who are arguing as to what counts as “evidence” and what does not.
Why important: To allow students to question what particular interests may be at stake in a particular scientific issue.
Topic 5: Scientific models as context bound. The need to understand local knowledge, even if we don’t necessarily consider it “scientific” in nature; The now-famous Cumbria sheep farmers example.
Why important: To allow students to be able to “criticize expert reports and question the premises and assumptions of relevance that they are based upon” (p. 301).
Topic 6: Scientific evidence. How do we define “evidence?” Similar to topic #4, our underlying values help shape what information we consider valid and what information we do not; The issue of statistical versus anecdotal evidence, manifested in the tension between “no scientific proof” and “I am the proof.” The need for these two camps to understand – rather that dismiss – each other.
Why important: To allow students to have an awareness and appreciation of the role of both “anecdotal” and statistical evidence as important in the decision-making process.
Topic #7: Suspension of belief. What happens when, given uncertainties, scientists decline to give firm answers? All things being equal, “most scientists will restrict themselves to information that they believe to be noncontroversial and consensual among researchers within the field of study” (p. 303). If scientists don’t draw conclusions (“frame” the data), someone else will.
Why important: To show the students that they must, ultimately, make decisions for themselves based on the “best intersubjective knowledge available” (p. 303).
Topic 8: Scrutinize science-related knowledge claims. The role of skepticism in science; The importance of considering contextual and social factors – credibility of the source making a scientific claim, its motivations and values, etc.
Why important: To help students come to question the idea of a “scientific fact” vs. an “opinion.”
** In sum, Kolsto argues that by teaching these topics in the classroom, students will be able to become “autonomous and critical” (p. 307) and to evaluate “socioscientific controversies”and draw informed conclusions, thus fulfilling his idea of “citizenship.” How, you might ask, would this sort of curriculum actually be implemented in practice? Kolsto spends a bit of time in the discussion referring to issues of training instructors and forging collaborations between teachers of different subjects to teach these topic areas. Importantly, one would need to have a baseline understanding of both teachers’ and students’ baseline “knowledge and views on science as a social enterprise and science in social contexts” (p. 308) before beginning a curriculum like this.
Reviewed by Chris and Laura
This article argues that to effectively participate in discussions involving socioscientific issues, individuals should be aware of eight topics “concerning the nature of science and scientific knowledge” (p. 292). These topics, broadly defined, center on the process of science rather the objective knowledge of scientific concepts per se. We might think of this as being more aware of an S&TS approach to science. (Chris and I agreed that this seemed to be an—albeit ironic—use of the deficit model to reject a traditional deficit model approach to science education!) Kolsto seems to position science education as preparation for citizenship; the bulk of his article concerns strategies for secondary school curriculum, as will be outlined in more depth below.Kolsto argues that “many of the suggested teaching models suffer from lack of discussion and inclusion of knowledge concerning the nature of science and scientific knowledge” (p. 292). In order to remedy this fact, he proposes that classroom students be exposed to “controversial socioscientific issues.” Rather than just focus on the content of the science involved, however, students should be guided in taking a closer look at “content-transcending topics” such as “the human character of science, values in science, limits of science, and tactics for decision-making in science” (p. 293). By outlining eight “content-transcending topics,” Kolsto argues that he is offering a remedy to the “three challenges” facing science teachers:
• Specificity: As those of us who have delved into the S&TS literature know, “content-transcending topics” typically discussed in regard to the nature or process of science might be too vague or broad to guide a traditional secondary classroom curriculum. Kolsto suggests that his selected topics narrow this broadness.
• Relevance: Teachers should be able to stress how each topics “might contribute to different problems the students might encounter in their adult life” (p. 293).
• Amount of information: It is important that teachers emphasize the amount of knowledge about a particular topic so as to “put it within reach of most students” (p. 293).
By meeting these goals, the eight topics “constitute a minimum range of knowledge, skills, and attitudes necessary to emphasize in science education” (p. 293).
The eight topics suggested are as follows:
Topic #1: Understanding the nature of scientific consensus (or lack thereof). Whom do you believe? The difference between “ready-made-science” and “science-in-the-making” (building off of Latour’s concept) in terms of certainty, disagreement and debate; How the latter can transform into the former (and perhaps vice-versa).
This topics “leaves us with a description of science as involving social processes through which scientists are scrutinizing the validity of presented experimental evidence and proposing explanations and through which consensus sometimes evolves [but not always]” (p. 295).
Why important: To allow students to see that science is both “an institution” and “socially-constructed.” Kolsto argues, “This contrasts the presentation of scientific knowledge as merely the result of the individual works of a few brilliant scientists like Darwin and Einstein and will also constitute a step away from the positivist epistemology often implicit in school science” (p. 296).
Topic #2: Sciences as one of several social domains. Centrally, Kolsto feels that students should understand that science is but one of several “social domains” that exercise influence on decision-making (others being religion, ethics, politics, etc.). Can science “solve” socioscientific problems? The potential for stakeholder disagreement on problems and solutions; The inability of science to weigh different sets of values against each other; Not everything can be broken down into a simple cost-benefit analysis.
Why important: To make students open to, and accepting of, knowledge from domains other than science.
Topic #3: Descriptive vs. normative statements. The issue of “value-free” versus “value-laden” science; In the risk communication field, this issue is often manifested in the phrase “acceptable risk” – that is, on what grounds do we judge risks to be “acceptable” (or not)?
Why important: To make it easier for students to evaluate claims and arguments and discriminate between “knowledge” and opinion.
Topic #4: Demands for underpinning evidence. Scientific inquiry is traditionally seen as objective and neutral. In the context of uncertainty and controversy, however, it is important to consider the motivations of scientists who are arguing as to what counts as “evidence” and what does not.
Why important: To allow students to question what particular interests may be at stake in a particular scientific issue.
Topic 5: Scientific models as context bound. The need to understand local knowledge, even if we don’t necessarily consider it “scientific” in nature; The now-famous Cumbria sheep farmers example.
Why important: To allow students to be able to “criticize expert reports and question the premises and assumptions of relevance that they are based upon” (p. 301).
Topic 6: Scientific evidence. How do we define “evidence?” Similar to topic #4, our underlying values help shape what information we consider valid and what information we do not; The issue of statistical versus anecdotal evidence, manifested in the tension between “no scientific proof” and “I am the proof.” The need for these two camps to understand – rather that dismiss – each other.
Why important: To allow students to have an awareness and appreciation of the role of both “anecdotal” and statistical evidence as important in the decision-making process.
Topic #7: Suspension of belief. What happens when, given uncertainties, scientists decline to give firm answers? All things being equal, “most scientists will restrict themselves to information that they believe to be noncontroversial and consensual among researchers within the field of study” (p. 303). If scientists don’t draw conclusions (“frame” the data), someone else will.
Why important: To show the students that they must, ultimately, make decisions for themselves based on the “best intersubjective knowledge available” (p. 303).
Topic 8: Scrutinize science-related knowledge claims. The role of skepticism in science; The importance of considering contextual and social factors – credibility of the source making a scientific claim, its motivations and values, etc.
Why important: To help students come to question the idea of a “scientific fact” vs. an “opinion.”
** In sum, Kolsto argues that by teaching these topics in the classroom, students will be able to become “autonomous and critical” (p. 307) and to evaluate “socioscientific controversies”and draw informed conclusions, thus fulfilling his idea of “citizenship.” How, you might ask, would this sort of curriculum actually be implemented in practice? Kolsto spends a bit of time in the discussion referring to issues of training instructors and forging collaborations between teachers of different subjects to teach these topic areas. Importantly, one would need to have a baseline understanding of both teachers’ and students’ baseline “knowledge and views on science as a social enterprise and science in social contexts” (p. 308) before beginning a curriculum like this.
de Chadarevian, 1996, Laboratory science versus country-house experiments
This article traces an historical debate between Darwin and botanist Julius Sachs regarding Darwin’s findings in botanical experiments, which were published in his book, The Power of Movement in Plants. The article begins by providing a history of the relationship between the two men, then describes Darwin's experiments, his findings, and Sachs’ heated dismissal of Darwin’s ideas.
It seems that Sachs had much respect for Darwin’s Origin of Species, and spoke well of him until Darwin printed findings from experiments that ran counter to Sachs’ results. The debate between the two was about root growth in plants. Darwin proposed that the tip of the root was sensitive to gravity, which ran counter to Sachs’ position, which was considered authoritative.
While Darwin took much care as he tread on Sachs’ toes, Sachs responded with rancor. Chadarevian focuses on the fact that Sachs did not argue with Darwin’s method or theory, but instead, he attacked Darwin’s skill and ability to carry out experiments.
Chadarevian points out that there are contradicting accounts of Darwin’s abilities as an experimenter. Many, like contemporary botanist Asa Gray admired Darwin’s work. They point to his remarkable powers of observation. Others, however, point out that he was carrying out precise measurements with imprecise measuring devices and seemed unaware of any issues.
The latter argument is fairly close to Sachs, who went on to argue that science could not be carried out in one’s country home, but rather required a formal laboratory. Though ultimately, Darwin’s theory about the tip of the root’s sensitivity to gravity prevailed, it only did so after formal experiments in a lab confirmed his results. In this sense, Chadarevian argues, Sachs ultimately triumphs.
I think what Cadarevian is getting at here is that this marks the transition from science as the business of gentlemen to science as a profession. Darwin was a gentleman scholar: a man of means who had the intelligence and leisure to study science. This tradition was exchanged for one in which a proper laboratory was needed to be a scientist. This professionalization of science was a major shift, but I think it was from one form of elitism to another.
It seems that Sachs had much respect for Darwin’s Origin of Species, and spoke well of him until Darwin printed findings from experiments that ran counter to Sachs’ results. The debate between the two was about root growth in plants. Darwin proposed that the tip of the root was sensitive to gravity, which ran counter to Sachs’ position, which was considered authoritative.
While Darwin took much care as he tread on Sachs’ toes, Sachs responded with rancor. Chadarevian focuses on the fact that Sachs did not argue with Darwin’s method or theory, but instead, he attacked Darwin’s skill and ability to carry out experiments.
Chadarevian points out that there are contradicting accounts of Darwin’s abilities as an experimenter. Many, like contemporary botanist Asa Gray admired Darwin’s work. They point to his remarkable powers of observation. Others, however, point out that he was carrying out precise measurements with imprecise measuring devices and seemed unaware of any issues.
The latter argument is fairly close to Sachs, who went on to argue that science could not be carried out in one’s country home, but rather required a formal laboratory. Though ultimately, Darwin’s theory about the tip of the root’s sensitivity to gravity prevailed, it only did so after formal experiments in a lab confirmed his results. In this sense, Chadarevian argues, Sachs ultimately triumphs.
I think what Cadarevian is getting at here is that this marks the transition from science as the business of gentlemen to science as a profession. Darwin was a gentleman scholar: a man of means who had the intelligence and leisure to study science. This tradition was exchanged for one in which a proper laboratory was needed to be a scientist. This professionalization of science was a major shift, but I think it was from one form of elitism to another.
Monday, April 7, 2008
Moving upstream
Wilsdon, J., & Willis, R. (2004). See-through science: Why public engagement needs to move upstream. London: DEMOS.
______________
I selected this reading because of my familiarity with the topic of “upstream” versus “downstream” engagement. This issue is currently very “hot” in regard to how to engage the public on nanotechnology-related issues. After this post are citations for two (2) really good articles that discuss upstream engagement in the context of nanotechnology.
According to Wilsdon and Willis, upstream engagement is based on the realization that “broader social acceptance of new technologies, especially where they are novel and raise concerns, requires open dialogue throughout the development process” (p. 26).
Engagement, in this context, moves “upstream” because we recognize the importance of debating issues in advance of any decision being reached about their implementation. The goal is not to “soften the blow” of already agreed-upon decisions (which downstream engagement implies), but instead to debate concerns before actually reaching such decisions.
The authors used the Royal Society inquiry into nanotechnology applications as an example, in which upstream engagement was used to broaden the scope of the public debate to involve issues that may have been overlooked, such as the social and ethical issues nanotechnology raises.
At its core, upstream engagement does not restrict public input to “particular stages in the cycle of research” (p. 18). Instead, it embraces – indeed, demands – public involvement at the very beginning, when the issue in question is still being defined and “deeper questions about the values, visions and vested interests that motivate” scientists and other stakeholders are still somewhat uncertain (and perhaps underrepresented).
Upstream engagement can help identify more socially-acceptance policies (at least in theory) if we work to get all the issues on the table.
This is a rather general summary. Here are the two citations I promised:
(1) Pidgeon, N., & Rogers-Hayden, T. (2007) Opening up nanotechnology dialogue with the publics: Risk communication or ‘upstream engagement?’ Health, Risk & Society, 9(2), 191-210.
(2) Rogers-Hayden, T., & Pidgeon, N. (2007) Moving engagement “upstream”? Nanotechnologies and the Royal Society and Royal Academy of Engineering’s inquiry. Public Understanding of Science, 16, 345-364.
______________
I selected this reading because of my familiarity with the topic of “upstream” versus “downstream” engagement. This issue is currently very “hot” in regard to how to engage the public on nanotechnology-related issues. After this post are citations for two (2) really good articles that discuss upstream engagement in the context of nanotechnology.
According to Wilsdon and Willis, upstream engagement is based on the realization that “broader social acceptance of new technologies, especially where they are novel and raise concerns, requires open dialogue throughout the development process” (p. 26).
Engagement, in this context, moves “upstream” because we recognize the importance of debating issues in advance of any decision being reached about their implementation. The goal is not to “soften the blow” of already agreed-upon decisions (which downstream engagement implies), but instead to debate concerns before actually reaching such decisions.
The authors used the Royal Society inquiry into nanotechnology applications as an example, in which upstream engagement was used to broaden the scope of the public debate to involve issues that may have been overlooked, such as the social and ethical issues nanotechnology raises.
At its core, upstream engagement does not restrict public input to “particular stages in the cycle of research” (p. 18). Instead, it embraces – indeed, demands – public involvement at the very beginning, when the issue in question is still being defined and “deeper questions about the values, visions and vested interests that motivate” scientists and other stakeholders are still somewhat uncertain (and perhaps underrepresented).
Upstream engagement can help identify more socially-acceptance policies (at least in theory) if we work to get all the issues on the table.
This is a rather general summary. Here are the two citations I promised:
(1) Pidgeon, N., & Rogers-Hayden, T. (2007) Opening up nanotechnology dialogue with the publics: Risk communication or ‘upstream engagement?’ Health, Risk & Society, 9(2), 191-210.
(2) Rogers-Hayden, T., & Pidgeon, N. (2007) Moving engagement “upstream”? Nanotechnologies and the Royal Society and Royal Academy of Engineering’s inquiry. Public Understanding of Science, 16, 345-364.
Lessons without limit: Free choice learning!
Hi all:
Forgot to post this last week. However, it will be relevant to the paper Laura and I will summarize in class this week
___________________
Falk, J.H., & Dierking, L.D. (2002). Lessons without limit: How free-choice learning is transforming America. Walnut Creek, CA: Altamira Press.
____________________
This book focuses on Free Choice Learning (FTL) or more accurately life-long learning. According to the authors, FTL is about
possessing the skills, commitment and capacity to learn across an entire lifetime…it goes without saying that there is a growing awareness of the importance of non-school sources of information and education that extend learning before and after the years of schooling” (pp. 2, 5).
FTL, in other words, is about our ability (as learners) to control what we learn, how, when, how fast, and under what circumstances. FTL stresses that knowledge is not just functional in nature (i.e., so we can get a college degree or a job), but also experiential (we learn simply because it enriches our lives…and because it’s fun).
According to the authors, FTL is the “new wave” of education because it embraces four realities:
(1) Learning is contextual – what we learn depends on our experiences, attitudes, feelings, motivations, and perceived social norms (just like all behaviors to a large extent).
(2) Learning is transactional – we control what we learn as well as why, when and how.
(3) Learning is experiential – we learn best when we can directly experience what we are studying. Francis Bacon would be proud!
(4) Learning is like a diamond: it’s forever - humans are hardwired to seek out and acquire new knowledge, whether it involves our immediate surroundings as infants or more abstract concepts in our adolescent/adult years.
Clarke’s take - The book gives a very eloquent overview of the importance – if not the necessity – of free choice learning in our society. I agree that we are innately programmed to learn and that we spend our entire lives acquiring knowledge, not necessarily because we have to but because we want to do so. However, after reading the book, I am left with one overriding thought: duh! I find it exceedingly obvious that learning is a life-long endeavor that neither begins nor ends in the classroom. Moreover, the authors’ disdain for formalized education is troubling. I would argue that rather than stifling individual creativity, the classroom (broadly defined) gives us the resources and motivation with which to continue future, informal learning.
The authors also treat FTL as a novel concept or as something they only recently discovered. Finally, I found their framework for encouraging FTL rather vague and uninspiring – in effect, riddled with platitudes.
** One final thought: If FTL is contextual, how can we develop any kind of uniform standard for how to go about doing it? **
Forgot to post this last week. However, it will be relevant to the paper Laura and I will summarize in class this week
___________________
Falk, J.H., & Dierking, L.D. (2002). Lessons without limit: How free-choice learning is transforming America. Walnut Creek, CA: Altamira Press.
____________________
This book focuses on Free Choice Learning (FTL) or more accurately life-long learning. According to the authors, FTL is about
possessing the skills, commitment and capacity to learn across an entire lifetime…it goes without saying that there is a growing awareness of the importance of non-school sources of information and education that extend learning before and after the years of schooling” (pp. 2, 5).
FTL, in other words, is about our ability (as learners) to control what we learn, how, when, how fast, and under what circumstances. FTL stresses that knowledge is not just functional in nature (i.e., so we can get a college degree or a job), but also experiential (we learn simply because it enriches our lives…and because it’s fun).
According to the authors, FTL is the “new wave” of education because it embraces four realities:
(1) Learning is contextual – what we learn depends on our experiences, attitudes, feelings, motivations, and perceived social norms (just like all behaviors to a large extent).
(2) Learning is transactional – we control what we learn as well as why, when and how.
(3) Learning is experiential – we learn best when we can directly experience what we are studying. Francis Bacon would be proud!
(4) Learning is like a diamond: it’s forever - humans are hardwired to seek out and acquire new knowledge, whether it involves our immediate surroundings as infants or more abstract concepts in our adolescent/adult years.
Clarke’s take - The book gives a very eloquent overview of the importance – if not the necessity – of free choice learning in our society. I agree that we are innately programmed to learn and that we spend our entire lives acquiring knowledge, not necessarily because we have to but because we want to do so. However, after reading the book, I am left with one overriding thought: duh! I find it exceedingly obvious that learning is a life-long endeavor that neither begins nor ends in the classroom. Moreover, the authors’ disdain for formalized education is troubling. I would argue that rather than stifling individual creativity, the classroom (broadly defined) gives us the resources and motivation with which to continue future, informal learning.
The authors also treat FTL as a novel concept or as something they only recently discovered. Finally, I found their framework for encouraging FTL rather vague and uninspiring – in effect, riddled with platitudes.
** One final thought: If FTL is contextual, how can we develop any kind of uniform standard for how to go about doing it? **
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
Dewey (1927) The public and its problems.
Since Gina and I covered the same reading this week, I thought I'd try to contribute something additional to the blog, rather than rehashing what she's contributed. John Dewey's The Public and its Problems deals in large part with the problem of broadening access to scientific and specialized knowledge in way that realizes the ideals of democratic societies. This work comes up a lot, so the Cliff-Notes version might be useful. A disclaimer: I'm cribbing heavily from a paper I wrote on the topic. Anyhow, Dewey's argument in The Public unfolds roughly as follows:
If we believe, as most political philosophers do, that human societies and nations are distinct from bands of animals, we should not try to explain the structure of our societies by referencing subconscious instincts—an impulse to democratic government, for instance—but by focusing our attention on those faculties we possess that are unique to humans. People are distinct from animals in their ability—or at least in the extent of their ability—to perceive the consequences of their actions and adjust their behavior accordingly, so as to maximize positive consequences and minimize negative ones.
If we examine this faculty in the context of social relationships, we can begin to see why political states emerge and how they function. Most actions by and between people are private—which is to say they affect only the individuals in question and are of no legitimate interest to anyone else. But some activities on the part of individuals may have indirect consequences on others. For instance, if two neighboring farmers agree to dam a stream to irrigate their fields, their action, while perfectly pro-social in the context of their dyad, may have devastating consequences for others who live downstream and suddenly have no water.
Thus, the downstream group has an interest in the actions of the farmers. When private actions, such as those taken by the farmers in this example, have indirect consequences that negatively affect a large enough group, that interest group becomes, in Dewey’s terms, a public, with a stake in regulating the actions in question. The public, then appoints officials whose job it is to intervene in the undesirable action. The officials require resources, which are collected from the affected public, and constitute the common-wealth. The officials, who collectively form a government, employ these resources to organize the community into a regulated body, and the people who are subject to this regulation are known as the populus.
But political states come with several sorts of problems. First, officials often turn the wealth and authority invested in them by the public to their own personal ends. This is, Dewey says, only human. Despotic governments throughout history have been prime exemplars of this difficulty. Problem governments also exist for a second reason, which is that, in the face of nasty indirect consequences, people are not always able to identify the source of these consequences or adequately recognize their common interests to a degree sufficient to become an acting public.
Lastly, insofar as publics coalesce in response to adverse consequences that are likely to be locally and temporally situated, new publics are, or would be had they the means, popping into and out of existence all the time—while the governments they create are likely to grind along unresponsively under their own inertia for quite some time.
Democracy, says Dewey, is one sort of response to these problems—potentially an effective one—but has so far been sabotaged by serious inconsistencies among its founding principles. It is, he says, a victim of its own mythology. Americans found colonial laws and practices inappropriate for the frontier. As such, Americans became a public interested in doing away with enforcement of these laws and practices by colonial powers.
Americans who sought to jettison colonial rule needed to rationalize their increasing disobedience to England and found great utility in emerging political philosophies that championed the sovereignty of the individual over that of the government and the church. Such philosophies were snapped up by American revolutionaries with such abandon that it apparently did not matter whether all of them made sense individually or were compatible with one another. More on this in a moment.
Democracy provides a potential solution to earlier problems of the state because, in predicating official power on regular elections and guaranteeing the electorate freedom of expression, it provides a check on officials’ tendency to abuse their power for private ends. To stay in power, government officials must first and foremost serve the interests of the electorate. Unfortunately, the reality of democratic societies has relegated these checks on official power to theory and rhetoric. And this is largely because of some founding fallacies perpetuated in democratic government. One of these is the notion that the individual can be a sovereign.
By predicating our legal structure on the notion that individuals can, through their rationality, work and live in full independence of one another, we (1) forget that all our human faculties are developed in and by larger communities, and (2) consequently grant rights to individuals to do things that are ultimately destructive to the community as a whole. This makes room for a second fallacy—namely that laissez faire capitalism can benefit the community, that individuals can act in their own interests and, in doing so, serve the greater good. In fact, says Dewey, capitalism has run amok, and while the government itself has carefully avoided laying hands on its citizen-consumers, industry has risen to become the new organizing force in society. The doctrine of capitalism ultimately preserves pre-democratic notions of property rights, which benefit the elite at the expense of the community.
The industrial revolution and the first World War ultimately brought this division between the capitalist elite and the working masses into sharp relief. In the wake of advances in science and industry, democracy and capitalism have called forth bureaucracy. Production and large-scale governance have begotten specialized work roles. All knowledge has become specialized, and the pioneer ideal that any person can do any task has faded, or at least become more rhetoric than reality. This specialization adds inertia to our systems of class and governance. When no one can wrap his or her head around the mechanisms from which undesirable consequences proceed, no public can organize itself. Matters of importance to the people are decided outside their purview and when they do speak, through elections, they are most often asked to choose between vetted candidates and bills on largely superficial grounds.
Thus the specialization and abstraction that have entered into science and industry serve the elite at the expense of the populus. Dewey insists that until the fruits of science and elite knowledge can be made accessible to the layperson, the public will remain eclipsed and alienated, while the elite will continue their rule. Thus, improved education and communication are necessary if specialized knowledge is to be opened to the masses and the public thereby emancipated. Until such time as this improved communication is available, democracy, in its ideal form, cannot exist. And until ideas and modes of governance are road-tested through social experimentation in everyday life, for and by the public, our knowledge of how best to regulate the populus cannot increase, and scientific ideas cannot serve the common good.
Political Communication and Deliberation Chapter 1, By John Gastil - Comments by Gina
Note: This book is in the process of being published, so only chapter 1 was available. I also read some other articles by the same author.
The author opens with a question, how do we know when we have a democracy? He sets three criteria:
He then outlines the steps of deliberation
"Less intuitive is the idea that you also have a right to comprehend what others are saying, albeit within limits. If another person explains a problem to you in terms you cannot understand, it may be that you lack the technical training necessary to comprehend the complexity of the issue. It is more likely, though, that the speaker has not made an effort (or simply failed) to communicate in a way that you can understand" (p9)
This is one of the key components that could potentially break down the deliberation process for many people. Recall that according to Gastil's democratic characteristics, people have the right to have an "enlightened understanding." If they cannot understand a speaker's presentation, their journal article, or their visuals, do they have the opportunity for enlightened understanding?
The last section of the chapter outlines the rest of the book, but also poses statements that warrant more research. He opens with, "One of the challenges of studying deliberation and political communication is that they happen in so many different places - from street corners to legislatures. But even more difficult is tracking them across different levels of analysis" (11). The chapters in his book appear to look at these different levels (face to face, group, organizational, etc.)
He ends with, and I pose the question for our consideration, "Are we deliberating? If not, how can we make the process more deliberative?" (12) When we think about public meetings on environmental issues, for example, are they deliberative? Does everyone have a right to vote? to be aware? to have enlightened understanding?
The author opens with a question, how do we know when we have a democracy? He sets three criteria:
- Inclusion - A democracy must allow all adults within its geographic boundaries to take part in the political process, noting that society has to decide what age an adult is.
- Participation Opportunities - A democracy must allow all adults to have "equal and adequate opportunities to participate in three related ways - putting issues on the agenda, expressing your views on those issues, and voting on these issues, directly or indirectly" (p6).
- Enlightened Understanding - All participants in the democracy must have a chance to recognize which topics concern them, have an opinion on them, and be aware of how they would vote given the opportunity.
He then outlines the steps of deliberation
- create a solid information base to understand the problem or issue
- identify and prioritize the key values at stake with the problem or issue
- identify a broad range of solutions to address the problem/issue
- weight the pros, cons and trade offs to these solutions in step 3 by applying our values from step 2
- Hopefully, you end with the best decision possible
"Less intuitive is the idea that you also have a right to comprehend what others are saying, albeit within limits. If another person explains a problem to you in terms you cannot understand, it may be that you lack the technical training necessary to comprehend the complexity of the issue. It is more likely, though, that the speaker has not made an effort (or simply failed) to communicate in a way that you can understand" (p9)
This is one of the key components that could potentially break down the deliberation process for many people. Recall that according to Gastil's democratic characteristics, people have the right to have an "enlightened understanding." If they cannot understand a speaker's presentation, their journal article, or their visuals, do they have the opportunity for enlightened understanding?
The last section of the chapter outlines the rest of the book, but also poses statements that warrant more research. He opens with, "One of the challenges of studying deliberation and political communication is that they happen in so many different places - from street corners to legislatures. But even more difficult is tracking them across different levels of analysis" (11). The chapters in his book appear to look at these different levels (face to face, group, organizational, etc.)
He ends with, and I pose the question for our consideration, "Are we deliberating? If not, how can we make the process more deliberative?" (12) When we think about public meetings on environmental issues, for example, are they deliberative? Does everyone have a right to vote? to be aware? to have enlightened understanding?
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
See-through Science: Why public engagement needs to move upstream
James Wilsdon and Rebecca Willis have authored a pamplet discussing and arguing for a new model of public engagement with science, the upstream movement.
A brief historical overview critiques earlier phases of public engagement with science, beginning with the deficit or PUS model, and then moving on to a dialogue, but downstream, in which public dialogue with science and technology occurred only after directions, goals, values and trajectories had already been established by experts, with the public merely reacting negatively to an already stable science or technology. The mistakes of this approach are exemplified by the GM debate. To avoid this in newer science and technology initiatives such as nanotechnology, engagement must move "upstream" during the initial development process itself. This is necessary from a pro-science and technology government standpoint as well as an activist standpoint, because proponents of science and technology realize, having received a black eye from the GM debate, that earlier public engagement in science can help identify, diffuse or solve problems earlier, before they become crises.
In Chapter 2, Wilsdon and Willis argue that the exclusive focus on risk assessment in much current public engagement discourse is a dominating tyranny squeezing out fruitful discussion of larger questions, such as why this technology and not another, who needs it, who controls it, who benefits from it, can they be trusted, and what will it mean for everyday people?
Focus on risk ignores these larger questions because they deal with sociopolitical issues, and risk assessment allows the topic to consider only techno-fixes.
This is related in Chapter 3 to the reasons why governments which to engage the public with science. These are normative–because people seem to think it is the right thing to do; instrumental–because engagement serves the interests of government or industry; and substantive–to improve quality of decision-making, create more socially robust scientific and technological solutions, improve social outcomes in a deeper way, involving citizens as participants in the process.
Most current public engagement activities do so mostly for instrumental and a bit of normative reasons, but few do so for substantive reasons, which the authors wish to promote. They point out the difference between forms of engagement which close down rather than open up debate, critiquing the Royal Society's model of public involvement as one out of many checkboxes for proceeding with nanotech as deficit model Mark 2.
There are many methods of public engagement, including deliberative polling, focus groups, citizens' juries, consensus conferences, stakeholder dialogues, internet dialogues, and deliberative mapping.
Each of these has different characteristics with regard to openness, representation, hierarchy, purpose.
When choosing a method of engagement, one must ask, is the goal to have a process of deliberation where views are formed and discussed, or simply to take a snapshot of existing views in order to inform decisions? Is the sample supposed to be representative? Is the relationship between expert and lay in the process hierarchical or not? Is the goal to arrive at consensus or to explore views?
The authors argue that a true, substantive engagement with science needs to go beyond merely voicing public concerns, interests and opinions on science, but must become part of the decision making process of science itself. This is political, thus public engagement must become part of the process of deliberative democracy.
Chapter 4 discusses the need for public engagement of corporate, as well as government funded, science and technology. Finland's model of open, citizen-led innovation is held up as a model. Corporate social responsibility and sustainability are potential avenues for public engagement with corporate R&D to gain traction. However two tendencies, that of marginalization and of bureaucratization, need to be countered. In addition, a more nuanced approach towards the precautionary principle (it can, contrary to conventional wisdom, be good for innovation in proper regulatory environments), is needed.
Finally, in the last chapter Wilsdon and Willis articulate their vision of upstream public engagement of science: see-through science. A number of criteria for see-through science are necessary: the government must be clear and transparent about how the outcomes of its engagement initiatives will be used in decision-making. The process should be deliberative, allowing public and expert to exchange views without priority to be given to either one, and both civil society and the political process should be involved, and engagement should take place early enough in the science/technology's development to affect its trajectory. The debate should set the agenda for future research, informing research priorities. Afterwards, continued dialogue via smaller engagements should be conducted to revisit issues and keep up with research as it develops. The findings should inform the national stance on the issue in international forums, and will bolster its democratic legitimacy.
A brief historical overview critiques earlier phases of public engagement with science, beginning with the deficit or PUS model, and then moving on to a dialogue, but downstream, in which public dialogue with science and technology occurred only after directions, goals, values and trajectories had already been established by experts, with the public merely reacting negatively to an already stable science or technology. The mistakes of this approach are exemplified by the GM debate. To avoid this in newer science and technology initiatives such as nanotechnology, engagement must move "upstream" during the initial development process itself. This is necessary from a pro-science and technology government standpoint as well as an activist standpoint, because proponents of science and technology realize, having received a black eye from the GM debate, that earlier public engagement in science can help identify, diffuse or solve problems earlier, before they become crises.
In Chapter 2, Wilsdon and Willis argue that the exclusive focus on risk assessment in much current public engagement discourse is a dominating tyranny squeezing out fruitful discussion of larger questions, such as why this technology and not another, who needs it, who controls it, who benefits from it, can they be trusted, and what will it mean for everyday people?
Focus on risk ignores these larger questions because they deal with sociopolitical issues, and risk assessment allows the topic to consider only techno-fixes.
This is related in Chapter 3 to the reasons why governments which to engage the public with science. These are normative–because people seem to think it is the right thing to do; instrumental–because engagement serves the interests of government or industry; and substantive–to improve quality of decision-making, create more socially robust scientific and technological solutions, improve social outcomes in a deeper way, involving citizens as participants in the process.
Most current public engagement activities do so mostly for instrumental and a bit of normative reasons, but few do so for substantive reasons, which the authors wish to promote. They point out the difference between forms of engagement which close down rather than open up debate, critiquing the Royal Society's model of public involvement as one out of many checkboxes for proceeding with nanotech as deficit model Mark 2.
There are many methods of public engagement, including deliberative polling, focus groups, citizens' juries, consensus conferences, stakeholder dialogues, internet dialogues, and deliberative mapping.
Each of these has different characteristics with regard to openness, representation, hierarchy, purpose.
When choosing a method of engagement, one must ask, is the goal to have a process of deliberation where views are formed and discussed, or simply to take a snapshot of existing views in order to inform decisions? Is the sample supposed to be representative? Is the relationship between expert and lay in the process hierarchical or not? Is the goal to arrive at consensus or to explore views?
The authors argue that a true, substantive engagement with science needs to go beyond merely voicing public concerns, interests and opinions on science, but must become part of the decision making process of science itself. This is political, thus public engagement must become part of the process of deliberative democracy.
Chapter 4 discusses the need for public engagement of corporate, as well as government funded, science and technology. Finland's model of open, citizen-led innovation is held up as a model. Corporate social responsibility and sustainability are potential avenues for public engagement with corporate R&D to gain traction. However two tendencies, that of marginalization and of bureaucratization, need to be countered. In addition, a more nuanced approach towards the precautionary principle (it can, contrary to conventional wisdom, be good for innovation in proper regulatory environments), is needed.
Finally, in the last chapter Wilsdon and Willis articulate their vision of upstream public engagement of science: see-through science. A number of criteria for see-through science are necessary: the government must be clear and transparent about how the outcomes of its engagement initiatives will be used in decision-making. The process should be deliberative, allowing public and expert to exchange views without priority to be given to either one, and both civil society and the political process should be involved, and engagement should take place early enough in the science/technology's development to affect its trajectory. The debate should set the agenda for future research, informing research priorities. Afterwards, continued dialogue via smaller engagements should be conducted to revisit issues and keep up with research as it develops. The findings should inform the national stance on the issue in international forums, and will bolster its democratic legitimacy.
Lastly, the authors argue that proper upstream engagement with science will have the potential to transform the practice of science itself, pointing to Rob Doubleday, a sociologist, embedded in a research lab helping to communicate and mediate between the scientists and social scientists and the public. They promote more reflective capacity of scientists themselves, bringing out the public in the scientist–scientists need to see themselves as parents and citizens, and more contact with non-experts and laypeople should help them gain broader perspectives on the social implications of their work.
Finally, the authors recommend that companies, NGOs, and the media be reached out to in new ways to further the cause of see-through science.
While the Forward's tone is celebratory of science and technology as the engine of Britain's continued economic competitiveness, and thus calls into question the motives of the pamphlet, it is clear that Wilsdon and Willis see public approval of state S&T initiatives as only part of the reason for upstream endeavors, albeit one which can be leveraged to sell their vision of see-through science to politicians, policy-makers, and corporate leaders. Rather, their agenda is that a science which involves the public at its earliest stages will be more socially responsible and richer in the long run, serving the needs of society rather than the narrow needs/imaginations of technocratic elites. They draw from some S&TS work such as Steve Hilgartner and Sheila Jasanoff, but overall their attitude towards science and technology is more positive than critical. Rather, it is the fact that the public is excluded from the deliberative decision-making processes going into S&T that they disapprove of, and hope to change with their manifesto. Their vision of see-through science seems to almost invoke a utopia of civil society, government, and techno-scientific experts all working in harmony for the betterment of society through socially and environmentally responsible science and technology.
Finally, the authors recommend that companies, NGOs, and the media be reached out to in new ways to further the cause of see-through science.
While the Forward's tone is celebratory of science and technology as the engine of Britain's continued economic competitiveness, and thus calls into question the motives of the pamphlet, it is clear that Wilsdon and Willis see public approval of state S&T initiatives as only part of the reason for upstream endeavors, albeit one which can be leveraged to sell their vision of see-through science to politicians, policy-makers, and corporate leaders. Rather, their agenda is that a science which involves the public at its earliest stages will be more socially responsible and richer in the long run, serving the needs of society rather than the narrow needs/imaginations of technocratic elites. They draw from some S&TS work such as Steve Hilgartner and Sheila Jasanoff, but overall their attitude towards science and technology is more positive than critical. Rather, it is the fact that the public is excluded from the deliberative decision-making processes going into S&T that they disapprove of, and hope to change with their manifesto. Their vision of see-through science seems to almost invoke a utopia of civil society, government, and techno-scientific experts all working in harmony for the betterment of society through socially and environmentally responsible science and technology.
Saturday, March 29, 2008
Guttman: Dilemmas and Contradictions Abound!
Guttman, N. (2007). Bringing the mountain to the public: Dilemmas and contradictions in the procedures of public deliberation initiatives that aim to get “ordinary citizens” to deliberate policy issues. Communication Theory, 17(4), 411-438. Reviewed by Laura.
• Scholars have already outlined a number of normative conditions for making deliberative forums “work.” Drawing on a number of scholars’ previous approaches to this project, Guttman outlines these broad concerns as follows:
1. Fairness: Can all participants get to the meetings (i.e., physical access)? Do all participants receive an “equitable opportunity to influence the decision-making process”? (p. 414).
2. Competence: Do participants understand the issues and their implications? Are they able to assess and understand the “technical information” involved?
3. The discursive process: “Will participants be attentive and respectful of each other” and, instead of just arguing, engage in “mutual learning” (p. 414)? Will sufficient time be allotted for contemplation and discussion?
4. Power: Will participants be able to influence the process or the outcome of the process? Do they have any say in how issues are framed, presented, discussed, etc.? Will they be able to avoid “uncritical adoption of dominant assumptions” (p. 416)?
• To account for the concerns listed above, policymakers must ensure “fairness physical, psychological, cognitive, and cultural access in the discursive process” (p. 416). More specifically:
o Attendance at the meeting (i.e., being able to overcome physical or cultural barriers to get there)
o Materials and information on the topic
o Confidence to express oneself
o Participation in the discussion itself (i.e., “turn-taking”)
• Using the four categories listed above, the author first presents evidence of how the Israeli Health Parliament Initiative (the case study described) strove to meet these considerations (e.g., employing facilitators, providing background materials in a variety of formats and at a variety of literacy levels, employing “consultants” to answer the participants’ questions, etc.). Representative quotations from the deliberation are presented to illustrate the participants’ reactions to these different aspects of the process; most participants seemed fairly happy with it.
• Guttman then presents us with the paradox that makes up the crux of this paper (and his contribution to the literature): “The attempt to make the participative processes more ‘competent’ appears to present a paradox: The more procedures are proffered to enhance competence (i.e., various information resources, simulation activities, consultants), the more occasions there are to frame the issues according to those in power” (p. 426). For example:
o The framing dilemma: If participants begin to discuss the concerns of the many more than their own, personal concerns, does that represent a “stronger conception of the public good” (p. 426) or “co-optation” by the elite?
o The responsibility dilemma: Does the participative process empower (by entrusting citizens with unique responsibility) or does it “absolve” officials from “making unpopular decisions or from seeking alternative solutions” (p. 428)?
o The empathy with the officials dilemma: When participants feel more empathy or trust towards public officials, is this a positive advancement of the democratic process, or “does it reflect a co-optation” (p. 429)?
• Guttman ends by noting that practitioners and theoreticians alike need to be aware of the dilemmas or contradictions that can emerge as a result of trying to meet the stipulations of participative processes. He suggests that practitioners may be able to distinguish between “avoidable” or “unavoidable contradictions” (p. 431).
• He also mentions the idea of calling for “policy literacy” among citizen participants, some sort of amalgamation of literacy and critical theory approaches, according to which, “people’s capacities should be enhanced to critically analyze information that can affect policy decisions and to critically understand institutional processes that affect problem definition and how it may be influenced by the terminology or the language used” (p. 431).
My reaction:
I find Guttman’s three dilemmas compelling, much in the way that I appreciated his earlier work on the ethical dilemmas posed by public health communication campaigns. I’m left to question, however, how it is that we can tell (I suppose, empirically) whether “co-optation” has occurred, as opposed to the other, more positive alternative? Guttman does not appear to address this issue. At the close of the article, when the author posits other theoretical areas that should be in conversation regarding participative deliberation, I think that he ignores the contributions of educational theory, particularly in regard to civic formal and informal efforts. The literature on educating for democracy (e.g., the need to “listen across difference” that Walter Parker talks about) could be very relevant to Guttman’s conception of “policy literacy.”
• Scholars have already outlined a number of normative conditions for making deliberative forums “work.” Drawing on a number of scholars’ previous approaches to this project, Guttman outlines these broad concerns as follows:
1. Fairness: Can all participants get to the meetings (i.e., physical access)? Do all participants receive an “equitable opportunity to influence the decision-making process”? (p. 414).
2. Competence: Do participants understand the issues and their implications? Are they able to assess and understand the “technical information” involved?
3. The discursive process: “Will participants be attentive and respectful of each other” and, instead of just arguing, engage in “mutual learning” (p. 414)? Will sufficient time be allotted for contemplation and discussion?
4. Power: Will participants be able to influence the process or the outcome of the process? Do they have any say in how issues are framed, presented, discussed, etc.? Will they be able to avoid “uncritical adoption of dominant assumptions” (p. 416)?
• To account for the concerns listed above, policymakers must ensure “fairness physical, psychological, cognitive, and cultural access in the discursive process” (p. 416). More specifically:
o Attendance at the meeting (i.e., being able to overcome physical or cultural barriers to get there)
o Materials and information on the topic
o Confidence to express oneself
o Participation in the discussion itself (i.e., “turn-taking”)
• Using the four categories listed above, the author first presents evidence of how the Israeli Health Parliament Initiative (the case study described) strove to meet these considerations (e.g., employing facilitators, providing background materials in a variety of formats and at a variety of literacy levels, employing “consultants” to answer the participants’ questions, etc.). Representative quotations from the deliberation are presented to illustrate the participants’ reactions to these different aspects of the process; most participants seemed fairly happy with it.
• Guttman then presents us with the paradox that makes up the crux of this paper (and his contribution to the literature): “The attempt to make the participative processes more ‘competent’ appears to present a paradox: The more procedures are proffered to enhance competence (i.e., various information resources, simulation activities, consultants), the more occasions there are to frame the issues according to those in power” (p. 426). For example:
o The framing dilemma: If participants begin to discuss the concerns of the many more than their own, personal concerns, does that represent a “stronger conception of the public good” (p. 426) or “co-optation” by the elite?
o The responsibility dilemma: Does the participative process empower (by entrusting citizens with unique responsibility) or does it “absolve” officials from “making unpopular decisions or from seeking alternative solutions” (p. 428)?
o The empathy with the officials dilemma: When participants feel more empathy or trust towards public officials, is this a positive advancement of the democratic process, or “does it reflect a co-optation” (p. 429)?
• Guttman ends by noting that practitioners and theoreticians alike need to be aware of the dilemmas or contradictions that can emerge as a result of trying to meet the stipulations of participative processes. He suggests that practitioners may be able to distinguish between “avoidable” or “unavoidable contradictions” (p. 431).
• He also mentions the idea of calling for “policy literacy” among citizen participants, some sort of amalgamation of literacy and critical theory approaches, according to which, “people’s capacities should be enhanced to critically analyze information that can affect policy decisions and to critically understand institutional processes that affect problem definition and how it may be influenced by the terminology or the language used” (p. 431).
My reaction:
I find Guttman’s three dilemmas compelling, much in the way that I appreciated his earlier work on the ethical dilemmas posed by public health communication campaigns. I’m left to question, however, how it is that we can tell (I suppose, empirically) whether “co-optation” has occurred, as opposed to the other, more positive alternative? Guttman does not appear to address this issue. At the close of the article, when the author posits other theoretical areas that should be in conversation regarding participative deliberation, I think that he ignores the contributions of educational theory, particularly in regard to civic formal and informal efforts. The literature on educating for democracy (e.g., the need to “listen across difference” that Walter Parker talks about) could be very relevant to Guttman’s conception of “policy literacy.”
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
Hein: Learning in the Museum
George E. Hein's book is part synthesis, part manifesto. He attempts to synthesize a variety of educational and social science theories developed over the last century, and discusses their implications for understanding museums as places of learning. In particular, he draws upon educational theories and the field of "visitor studies." All of his conclusions from this synthesis ultimately become supporting arguments for a programmatic vision of an ideal museum that he calls The Constructivist Museum. Essentially, his argument is that, if we consider all that we now "know" about learning and museums, this particular vision is the logical result.
Hein schematically summarizes all theories of knowledge as falling along a continuum between realism and constructivism. An extreme realist would say that there exists a reality independent of our consciousness, which can be known empirically. An extreme constructivist would say that nothing can be empirically verified or falsified and that all knowledge is essentially an artifact of our consciousness. (It's worth noting that, in this book, Hein is generally not concerned to define his terms with exhaustive rigor, and he uses "constructivism" a bit loosely; however, he mostly tends to use it in the sense of cognitiveconstructivism rather than what we'd call "social constructivism" in STS.)
(Already it's apparent from the characterizations of each term and theory where Hein's sympathies lie.)
Here are some of his answers:
The postulate that "learning takes place in museums" is Hein's starting point. He also asserts that the educational responsibility of museums in our society has increased, particularly their roles as "interpreters of culture" and ideational venues.
Hein breaks down "educational theory" into three broad components:
- Theories of knowledge (epistemologies)
- Theories of learning
- Theories of teaching (pedagogy, or "andragogy" for adults)
Hein schematically summarizes all theories of knowledge as falling along a continuum between realism and constructivism. An extreme realist would say that there exists a reality independent of our consciousness, which can be known empirically. An extreme constructivist would say that nothing can be empirically verified or falsified and that all knowledge is essentially an artifact of our consciousness. (It's worth noting that, in this book, Hein is generally not concerned to define his terms with exhaustive rigor, and he uses "constructivism" a bit loosely; however, he mostly tends to use it in the sense of cognitiveconstructivism rather than what we'd call "social constructivism" in STS.)
Likewise, Hein describes theories of learning as falling along a similar bipolar axis. At one extreme is the basic assumption that learning is a passive process of receiving static information, which accumulates incrementally in the learner's mind like sediment. At the other extreme is the idea that learning is an (inter-)active process that dynamically restructures the mind.
The interesting move is the synthesis of these two axes onto a single heuristic plane with four quadrants, each corresponding to one extreme on each axis. This becomes the theoretical framework for Hein's typology of educational theories:
- Didactic, expository (realist epistemology + passive learning)
- Discovery (realist epistemology + active learning)
- Stimulus-response (constructivist epistemology + passive learning)
- Constructivism (constructivist epistemology + active learning)
(Already it's apparent from the characterizations of each term and theory where Hein's sympathies lie.)
Hein emphasizes that these theories are not particularly useful without corresponding teaching methodologies. He goes into less detail here, but his description of "the Constructivist Museum" can be seen as a program for constructivist pedagogy.
In the next section of the book Hein reviews the history of the field of visitor studies and its major theoretical and methodological traditions. As he describes it, there have been two main schools of thought. One of these he calls "experimental-design," which takes behavioral psychology as its model and tries to study museum visitors with quantitative rigor. The other tradition, "naturalistic," is more reminiscent of anthropology and uses qualitative methods to draw conclusions. Hein says that, roughly speaking, the former school prioritizes the reliability of data over validity, while the latter does the reverse. (For example, using anecdotes or actual visitor quotes is more likely to accurately represent at least those visitors' experiences than statistical aggregation, but the latter gives more generalizable, repeatable and "scientific" data.)
Hein makes more than the usual obligatory reference to Kuhn when discussing the significance of paradigms in the sciences, including the social sciences. He also discusses Stephen Pepper's ideas about competing "world theories" based on fundamentally incommensurate "root metaphors," which prefigured Kuhn's work. Hein pretty much says that all social science theories draw upon one of two "root metaphors:" the ladder (linear, hierarchical) or the network (non-linear, non-hierarchical). While he clearly tends to favor the latter (not the ladder), he acknowledges that when applying social theories we have be pragmatically eclectic. So, while he likes his children to learn by exploring and constructing their own knowledge about their surroundings, he had no compunction about delivering a top-down, one-way message about safety when crossing the street.
Hein also takes care to note that theories, and their applications, "have politics," to use Winner's phrase. They draw upon and have affinities with certain political ideas, and also have real-world political consequences.
The penultimate chapter of Hein's book discusses some of the more recent findings from visitor studies with respect to how visitors actually learn things in museums, and what kinds of museum environments are conducive to learning. For example, it's important to get visitors' attention with landmarks. Visitors learn best when they are comfortable, so this means giving them access to amenities and appropriate spaces in which to contemplate, relax, meet family, etc. Prepping them with some sort of conceptual background prior to entering exhibits enhances their ability to understand and retain information. And so on. Furthermore, Hein notes that it's important to allow for -- and even take advantage of -- the fact that each visitor learns differently depending on a host of factors including age, personal experience, how many times he or she has visited before, etc.
The final chapter is Hein's manifesto for creating "the Constructivist Museum." He says that "the basic questions that need to be addressed are:
- What is done to acknowledge that knowledge is constructed in the mind of the learner?
- How is learning itself made active? What is done to engage the visitor?
- How is the situation designed to make it accessible -- physically, socially, and intellectually -- to the visitor?"
Here are some of his answers:
- "The Constructivist Museum makes a conscious effort to allow visitors to make connections between the known and the new."
- "The Constructivist Museum will provide opportunities for learning using maximum possible modalities both for visitor interactions with exhibitions and for processing information."
- "The Constructivist Museum not only accepts the possibility of socially mediated learning, it makes provision for social interaction and designs spaces, constructs exhibitions, and organizes programs to deliberately capitalize on learning as a social activity."
- "The Constructivist Museum will have policies that dictate its desire to reach a wide range of visitors and will have practices that have been demonstrated to do so."
- "The Constructivist Museum needs to publicly acknowledge its own role in constructing meaning.... It's important that this human decision-making process -- full of compromise, personal views, opinions, prejudices, and well-meaning efforts to provide the best possible material for the public -- be opened up to view."
- "The Constructivist Museum will view itself as a learning institution that constantly improves its ability to serve as an interpreter of culture by critical examination of echibitions and programs. The most rational manner in which to do this is for the staff to become engaged in systematic examination of the visitor experience; in short, to carry out visitor studies."
Some of Hein's prescriptions accord well with some of our other authors. For example, one of the consequences of a constructivist perspective which acknowledges that learning is an interactive partnership between the museum and the visitor is that the museum must therefore focus more of its efforts on understanding its visitors' perspectives. Other things seem to contravene what other authors have said. For example, whether people would really want the full messiness of "this human decision-making process... opened up to view" is debatable. At least one author (was it Durant?) suggests that people want museums to be authoritative purveyors of hard facts. They might not want to know how exhibits, and thus knowledge, are constructed.
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Public Understanding of Research: Opportunities and Issues
The readings I did focused on the opportunities and issues in the public understanding of research (PUR) initiatives in museums.
Bruce Lewenstein and Rick Bonney first take a step back to define PUR. There are two main definitions of PUR: communicating cutting edge scientific results, and communicating the process of research itself. Getting these two goals confused or not separating them out clearly when designing or evaluating PUR initiatives will lead to less than successful projects. Both objectives can be difficult to achieve in a museum setting: focus on cutting edge research requires constantly updated exhibits, which are time-consuming and expensive. Focusing on research is difficult because museums are typically oriented more to displaying objects than a process. The debates between these two meanings have been informed by the similar debates on public understanding of science and science literacy. Public understanding of research (PUR) is preferred over public understanding of science (PUS) in regard to the two definitions given above because they are more precise: PUS often has been taken to mean public appreciation of and support for science, or to mean public engagement with science, either critically or for neutral edification. Much of this debate centers around the deficit model of science literacy as a minimum standard of scientific factual knowledge that needs to be pushed down to the masses from elite scientists. Critics argue both that the lay public may have reasons for not knowing or wanting to know scientific facts, and that there is a level of mistrust of scientific elitism among the public and a sense of needing oversight. The critique of science literacy naturally maps onto a critique of PUR as communicating the latest products of scientific research, rather than on the process. Lewenstein and Bonney hope that clarifying these two definitions of PUR, rather than stymying action, will lead to clearer choices about the kinds of PUR activities to pursue.
If PUR is inherently difficult to do in museums, why do it in museums? Albert and Edna Einsiedel respond to this question by answering that museums are today's public agoras, cultural centers where debates on issues are held. They locate the many activities occurring in museums today along an Engagement Continuum, with the passive deficit model on one end, and a fully interactive, science in context and public as inquiring expert model on the other. Lectures and televised programs, observations of scientists at work through a window, lie on the passive end of the spectrum. Expeditions, travel programs, workshops and conferences lie at the more engaged and interactive end, where at one extreme the participants themselves become active researchers. The most significant of these interactive PUR programs is the consensus conference, in which demographically representative members of the public are selected to be on a panel of lay participants, who watch presentations by scientific experts and then pose questions to the experts. The conferences are open to the public, who also are allowed to pose questions. The consensus conference is held up as an example of maximum public engagement with science. Such conferences are hosted at museums because museums are seen as cultural centers and sites of authority by both the public and scientists, are already oriented to public communication of science, usually have the necessary facilities for conferences, and are seen as less elitist and more populist than universities. The challenges of such interactive projects, aside from most museums' traditional orientation towards stable and established knowledge, lies in the potential for controversy, especially in regard to contentious and uncertain knowledge, and the potential to alienate donors and sponsors.
Martin Storksdieck and John Falk address the question of how to evaluate PUR initiatives. They caution that before an evaluation is conducted, two things must be clarified: what are the goals of the exhibit or program, and what are the outcomes of the designed activities on the experiences of visitors?
In looking at these two, Storksdieck and Falk ask us to keep in mind a number of issues.
How do visitors learn from museums? The meanings they make are heavily dependent on what they already know, whom they are with, where they are, and why they are motivated to learn. Thus outcomes are not determined purely by museum exhibit designers, but also by what visitors bring to their experience, most strongly by their agenda for visiting. Thus visitors should be allowed to self-define their outcomes, rather than have them imposed. Evaluation of outcomes should take into account visitors' actual experiences and own accounts of what they gained.
The second issue is the relative exposure of visitors to PUR that the program/exhibit in question provides compared to other sources of information, and how their experience fits into peoples' general framework for addressing PUR issues. Museum experiences are not isolated events, and evaluations that focus only on short term goals, such as factual knowledge gained during the visit, may miss the longer term effect that people may become motivated to be more interested or engaged in science, and studies need to address this.
The third question is what are visitors' background knowledge of and interest in PUR? Much data suggests that a majority of visitors are less interested in learning about the process of scientific research compared to its products. Visitors also come into museums as heterogeneous groups, comprising individuals with differing levels of knowledge and interest.
Thus the final issue for evaluators to keep in mind is what kind of PUR activity they are providing, and what audience are they addressing? Strorksdieck and Falk suggest defining layers of outcomes appropriate for different types of visitors. They themselves define 5 levels, from the lowest, most general and assuming the least amount of knowledge, hands-on lab experiences and simulations, field experiences and citizen science, suitable for children and families and teaching the thrill of collecting and interpreting data, to the highest, most abstract, and with the most specific audience (science and policy attentive audiences) focusing on the role of science in society, history and philosophy of science, STS type questions, with programs conveying the process of how science is done and how knowledge is produced lying in the middle.
Bruce Lewenstein and Rick Bonney first take a step back to define PUR. There are two main definitions of PUR: communicating cutting edge scientific results, and communicating the process of research itself. Getting these two goals confused or not separating them out clearly when designing or evaluating PUR initiatives will lead to less than successful projects. Both objectives can be difficult to achieve in a museum setting: focus on cutting edge research requires constantly updated exhibits, which are time-consuming and expensive. Focusing on research is difficult because museums are typically oriented more to displaying objects than a process. The debates between these two meanings have been informed by the similar debates on public understanding of science and science literacy. Public understanding of research (PUR) is preferred over public understanding of science (PUS) in regard to the two definitions given above because they are more precise: PUS often has been taken to mean public appreciation of and support for science, or to mean public engagement with science, either critically or for neutral edification. Much of this debate centers around the deficit model of science literacy as a minimum standard of scientific factual knowledge that needs to be pushed down to the masses from elite scientists. Critics argue both that the lay public may have reasons for not knowing or wanting to know scientific facts, and that there is a level of mistrust of scientific elitism among the public and a sense of needing oversight. The critique of science literacy naturally maps onto a critique of PUR as communicating the latest products of scientific research, rather than on the process. Lewenstein and Bonney hope that clarifying these two definitions of PUR, rather than stymying action, will lead to clearer choices about the kinds of PUR activities to pursue.
If PUR is inherently difficult to do in museums, why do it in museums? Albert and Edna Einsiedel respond to this question by answering that museums are today's public agoras, cultural centers where debates on issues are held. They locate the many activities occurring in museums today along an Engagement Continuum, with the passive deficit model on one end, and a fully interactive, science in context and public as inquiring expert model on the other. Lectures and televised programs, observations of scientists at work through a window, lie on the passive end of the spectrum. Expeditions, travel programs, workshops and conferences lie at the more engaged and interactive end, where at one extreme the participants themselves become active researchers. The most significant of these interactive PUR programs is the consensus conference, in which demographically representative members of the public are selected to be on a panel of lay participants, who watch presentations by scientific experts and then pose questions to the experts. The conferences are open to the public, who also are allowed to pose questions. The consensus conference is held up as an example of maximum public engagement with science. Such conferences are hosted at museums because museums are seen as cultural centers and sites of authority by both the public and scientists, are already oriented to public communication of science, usually have the necessary facilities for conferences, and are seen as less elitist and more populist than universities. The challenges of such interactive projects, aside from most museums' traditional orientation towards stable and established knowledge, lies in the potential for controversy, especially in regard to contentious and uncertain knowledge, and the potential to alienate donors and sponsors.
Martin Storksdieck and John Falk address the question of how to evaluate PUR initiatives. They caution that before an evaluation is conducted, two things must be clarified: what are the goals of the exhibit or program, and what are the outcomes of the designed activities on the experiences of visitors?
In looking at these two, Storksdieck and Falk ask us to keep in mind a number of issues.
How do visitors learn from museums? The meanings they make are heavily dependent on what they already know, whom they are with, where they are, and why they are motivated to learn. Thus outcomes are not determined purely by museum exhibit designers, but also by what visitors bring to their experience, most strongly by their agenda for visiting. Thus visitors should be allowed to self-define their outcomes, rather than have them imposed. Evaluation of outcomes should take into account visitors' actual experiences and own accounts of what they gained.
The second issue is the relative exposure of visitors to PUR that the program/exhibit in question provides compared to other sources of information, and how their experience fits into peoples' general framework for addressing PUR issues. Museum experiences are not isolated events, and evaluations that focus only on short term goals, such as factual knowledge gained during the visit, may miss the longer term effect that people may become motivated to be more interested or engaged in science, and studies need to address this.
The third question is what are visitors' background knowledge of and interest in PUR? Much data suggests that a majority of visitors are less interested in learning about the process of scientific research compared to its products. Visitors also come into museums as heterogeneous groups, comprising individuals with differing levels of knowledge and interest.
Thus the final issue for evaluators to keep in mind is what kind of PUR activity they are providing, and what audience are they addressing? Strorksdieck and Falk suggest defining layers of outcomes appropriate for different types of visitors. They themselves define 5 levels, from the lowest, most general and assuming the least amount of knowledge, hands-on lab experiences and simulations, field experiences and citizen science, suitable for children and families and teaching the thrill of collecting and interpreting data, to the highest, most abstract, and with the most specific audience (science and policy attentive audiences) focusing on the role of science in society, history and philosophy of science, STS type questions, with programs conveying the process of how science is done and how knowledge is produced lying in the middle.
Section 4: What Museums Can Learn from Media Public Understanding of Research Initiatives
Tim Radford – It’s the way you tell ‘em
Science has to be told as stories in order for the public to take any interest. Media frames are chosen to sell these stories to the guy who is eating his bowl of cereal. Science stories compete for attention with every other story in the popular press. Analysis of the media brings up words like Frankenstein, Pandora’s Box, and Playing God, far more frequently than do the actual scientific words. By selling stories, however, the journalist is able to transmit science to the public. By doing this repetitively, the press can educate.
Cornelia Dean – Covering Science at the New York Times
The NY Times relies on staff writers, about half of which have some advanced degree in science. These individuals scan the science journals and convene each morning to discuss what to cover and how much space to devote to each story.
Dean describes the role of science writers in translating science in the press. She writes, “when our stories do not get the play we think they deserve, it is often because we have done a poor job communicating, clearly and quickly, why they are important. (This is a problem we share with scientists who complain that their work does not get the attention it deserves.)” (p.307)
Dean remarks on the problem of scientific specialization and the ability of staff writers to understand the research. She also describes the effect of commercialization in science. Many scientists have financial interests in companies (sometimes their own) which leads to a blatant conflict of interest.
Dean argues that most scientists do not know how to talk to the press or prepare for a press interview. Scientists, in general, are rewarded by publishing their articles in scientific journals and communicating their findings to their peers. They have little incentive to speak with the press, who will corrupt the meaning of their work. There is also a scientific cultural pressure not to overly promote oneself to the popular press.
Nancy Linde – Nova: The leading edge
In describing how Nova has been so successful as a television program, Linde writes, “There are three critically important elements in creating the perfect Nova: story, story, and story.” While TV programs are linear and do not have the time to focus on detail (unlike museums), creating programs for the public is similar. There are four basic elements when creating an episode of Nova:
2) Characters. They need to be appealing, concise, articulate, and interesting.
3) Dramatic arc. A story needs to build and release tension.
4) Visuals. TV is the medium for visuals and they should move or show a process.
A producer needs to have the courage to reject subjects because there is no story, or to reject important scientists because they cannot communicate their research effectively.
- What’s the story?
- Who is the main character?
- Who are the minor characters?
- What’s the conflict? What are the twists and turns in the story?
- What’s the resolution?
Marc Airhart – Earth and Sky: Some challenges of Communicating Scientific Research on the Radio
Earth and Sky is a 90-second radio show broadcasted on 650 stations. Because of the format, Airhart describes the biggest challenges as:
- Selecting the Topic
- The Interview. Getting scientists to go beyond presenting “the facts” to telling about themselves, their motivations, their challenges, etc.
- Accuracy versus Reality. Focusing on the parts of the story that are interesting means leaving out parts the scientist may feel are important.
Eliene Augenbraun – Crossing the Public and Commercial Broadcasting Barriers: ScienCentral’s Two Public Understanding of Research Projects.
Augenbraun itemizes the issues (financial, cultural, political, and technical) facing the production of science programs.
Monday, March 24, 2008
Gina's Comments on the Falk et al.
For this week, I read the article titled, "Investigating public science interest and understanding: evidence for the importance of free-choice learning," by Falk et al. In general the authors argue that there are many "places and contexts" in which people learn about science, i.e., the workplace, museums, science centers, school, civic organizations, etc. These places known as "leisure science learning" locations are the context in which the public engages in science, but the authors are more concerned with the intrinsic motivations of why, where, how and with whom this type of learning occurs (p456.). They focus on an asset based approach of science learning stating,
"This approach suggests that free choice science learning - the learning that individuals engage in throughout their lives when they have the opportunity to choose what, where, when and with whom, to learn - can and does make a significant contribution to public understanding of science" (p456).
Further, the author’s state,
"For if we are to communicate and teach about science effectively, we should do so in a language and a form that people are willing to listen to, which means knowing where people tend to learn about science, why they pay attention to the topic in the first place, and how they stay engaged in science throughout their lifetimes" (p457).
The authors present some interesting points and raise some interesting questions, but it's in their methodology and results that I feel uncomfortable with their statements. Their first survey is a self-report survey asking participants to rate their "interest in science and technology" and their "knowledge of science and technology." Their second survey assessed people's use of community resources for learning science. Their results show that people report a “very high interest in science and technology,” and a “moderate to slightly greater than moderate knowledge of science and technology” (p459). The authors contend that,
“While school classes or courses, and thus formal education, played a significant role as sources of science and technology learning, free-choice learning opportunities, in the aggregate, seemed to be a more important resource for lifelong science learning than school” (p461).
The important factor to remember is that these surveys are self-reporting. What does learning mean to you? How do we define having “learned”something? How much interest in S&T do you have? How much knowledge of S&T do you have? The authors state that their approach is an alternative to the science indicator tests, which we have previously discussed in class. Clearly, the science indicators have their limitations, but so too does this approach in this paper. Anyone can self-report learning some science, but how do you know if they actually learned, or took away a general scientific understanding? How many people would openly, and honestly, admit that they have “no knowledge of S&T?”
On the other hand, just as the contextualist approach was an alternative (or addition) to the science indicators, this “assets based” approach is an attempt to understand the public’s view of their own understanding and interest in science rather than the science or researcher top down approach. The author’s write, “We would argue that the key to future success in public science education depends upon achieving a more accurate understanding of the where, when, how, why, and with whom of the public’s science learning, across their lifespan and the myriad settings in which they learn science” (464). Their point emphasizes that it does not matter if they learned something or not by scientific standards, but that the public believes that these particular locations with these specific people, etc, are a conducive environment to learn science. Is it possible that the museum is not the preferred location?
Food for thought! =)
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