Check out this new blog post, co-written by Jessica Romano and myself, about spotting invasive plants during this year's City Nature Challenge in Pittsburgh.
Information about how differently Itadori, or Japanese Knotweed, is regarded in different parts of the world forces us to appreciate the diversity of human attitudes towards plants. Why are plant species perceived positively by some people, but negatively by others? I explore this question in a new post (linked here) on the Carnegie Museum of Natural History Blog. Check it out!
The COVID-19 pandemic has altered the landscape of science education in the same way that it altered most professional endeavors, by pushing everything into the virtual space. While the transition to Zoom may have been relatively seamless for folks who worked with spreadsheets and documents, it was a substantially more challenging transition for those of us who worked outside, in natural spaces. This past summer, I collaborated with the Phipps Conservatory’s outreach and education department to develop a two-day lesson on Urban Biodiversity for their youth summer camp program. I originally pitched the idea for the workshop in the Fall of 2019, before the world shut down. I had grand plans of taking campers on hikes through the woods of Pittsburgh, collecting plant specimens, building a class herbarium, and conducting a science experiment. Those plans had to change, however, when the Phipps Conservatory made the obvious decision to host their summer camp on Zoom to protect everyone’s health. Suddenly, the education team and myself was faced with the challenge of teaching elementary-school students about urban forest biodiversity, without being able to set foot outside. Our first task was to change the herbarium activity so that it could be completed at home. Instead of collecting wildflowers from the forest trails around Phipps and using museum-quality supplies to press and mount plants specimens, we asked campers to collect plants in and around their house and press them with paper towels and heavy books. They got creative with it, adding everything from vase flowers to dandelions to garden herbs! Their herbaria may not have included the wild plant specimens I had originally envisioned, but our campers still got to learn about the huge diversity of species that lived around them. The next, larger challenge, was to adapt a hands-on science experiment to the virtual world. We explored the question “How does the biodiversity differ between forested and unforested urban habitats?” Once again, we asked the campers to find plants, animals, and insects living in and around their homes, then compile a list of species and report it back to the group. We were concerned that there’d be no easy way to help students identify species without an experienced naturalist in the room…. so we turned to iNaturalist, a citizen science app, for help! The iNaturalist app uses machine learning to identify species from phone images. As a result, the campers had their very own expert assistant on hand, to help them to identify species, collect data, and look for patterns with their classmates. The summer camp workshop ended up being entirely different from what I had imagined, but just as successful as if it had been held in-person. The silver lining was that we were able to host campers from outside of Pittsburgh proper, who otherwise would have lived too far away from the Phipps Conservatory to attend. We also were able to accommodate a wider variety of learning styles and activity levels. Some campers loved to be on camera and ask questions, while others felt more comfortable with their cameras turned off and used the chatroom to interact with the group. Sure, I would have loved to provide a “quintessential” camp experience, with hikes and team-building games and packed lunches, but that can be saved for next summer. This summer, I was grateful to have been able to share my love of urban ecology with a group of smart and curious campers... while dressed in my comfiest pajama pants. Check out my new blog post in Plant Love Stories (linked)! I write about my fieldwork adventures, and why Common Milkweed is my favorite plant.
In celebration of the purchase of his first home, my friend's family surprised him with a heartfelt gift- a cutting from a tree that had grown in his late grandfather’s yard. The tree sapling had been kept a secret for years and he was thrilled by the gift; it served as a reminder of his childhood and of the memories he shared with his grandpa. He was beaming the day he brought it home to Pittsburgh.
I, unfortunately, couldn’t share in his enthusiasm. The plant sitting in his backyard was a mimosa tree (Albizia julibrissin), which I as a plant biologist quickly recognized as an invasive species. Mimosa trees were introduced to the gardens of North America in the 18th century. The species has since escaped cultivation and can be found growing today in forests and disturbed lands across the country; displacing native plants as they go. This tree was about as appealing to me as a rabid raccoon. From my perspective, the only logical solution was to throw the plant in the trash, where it could never cause harm. This plan of attack was not supported by my friend. In fact, he was adamant that the tree be planted in our yard, despite the possibility of invasion into nearby forests. He contended that its value as a living family heirloom superseded its biological risk. I was left in a tough position; how could I argue against this paradigm? How could anyone definitively measure the cultural value of an object against its environmental cost, when both are abstract and subjective? Once this conundrum came to the forefront of my thoughts, I began to notice its presence everywhere. My next-door neighbor has a massive tree of heaven (Alianthus altissima) growing in his backyard. This attractive, invasive plant was once popular in American gardens, but is now banned from sale in Pennsylvania. Each summer our neighborhood gets covered in thousands of tree seedlings; the descendants of a single backyard tree have into invaded every forested space around us. I’ve considered asking my neighbor to cut the tree down, but I know that the request would likely be misinterpreted as an insult to their landscaping, more than anything. Several of my neighbors also keep outdoor cats (Felis catus) as pets. They make great companions, but cats too are classified as invasive. This species is estimated to kill at least 1 billion birds and 6 billion mammals in the United States each year. I often see them hunting for birds along the tree line. Even within my own community of nature-lovers, we have developed a potentially problematic connection to a nonnative species- the European honeybee (Apis mellifera). Personal beehives have cropped-up in homes all over Pittsburgh. People’s well-intentioned goals are to promote bee populations, provide pollinators for native plants, and preserve a rich cultural legacy of beekeeping. Unfortunately, there’s a growing amount of evidence to suggest that the European honeybee might cause more harm than good, by spreading disease and outcompeting native bee species. I don’t know if there are any simple ways to resolve the incompatibility between some of our cultural and environmental values. I’m also certain that I, a biologist who tends to prioritize ecological health over everything, do not have the right to impose my own ideas on neighbors, friends, and family if it simultaneously belittles their own ideologies. What right do I have to claim that a cat is malicious for hunting birds, when it also provides companionship and emotional support to the owner? Why tell a beekeeper to get rid of her hives, when it is providing a source of fulfillment and a connection to the natural world? Is compromise a possibility? I think so. For example, cats that are fixed and kept indoors pose little threat to bird and mammal populations. This is a solution that could protect ecosystem health, while still allowing people to provide a safe home for their pet. There’s also been a recent rise in the popularity of “bee houses” for native solitary bees, with evidence to suggest that these native bees provide even better pollination services to plants than European honeybees. Solutions are relatively easy to come by, but I think that the real challenge will be in getting everyone to the table and willing to be convinced of a new idea. My goal is to learn how to develop discussions that incorporate the priorities of both parties, so that everyone can be a stakeholder in some way. I can’t have this discussion by knocking on the neighbor’s door and complaining about their invasive trees and cats. But I can start friendly conversations about our shared passion for gardening and animals…. and my ideas might be heard once I’ve demonstrated that I can listen to theirs. Open a line of communication first and the rest should follow. In an effort to learn new strategies (and to become more introspective), I’ve begun reading articles related to the psychology of reasoning and mind-changing. For those interested, I’d highly recommend this review article by Elizabeth Kolbert and this one by Anna Swanson. They recommend, among other things, relying on emotional appeals to complement factual arguments and engaging in the use of calming and hedging language. This method doesn’t come particularly easily to me. I’m a strong-willed scientist who has very clear ideas about the world and how it should operate. I feel a deep responsibility to protect ecosystems; especially those that surround my home. It’s also objectively easier to wave my arms around and declare “listen to me, I know the answer!” in response to a conflict than it is to design a thoughtful, sensitive approach. But in an effort to be as effective as I am outspoken, I am trying to develop this new skillset. In the end, a third party ended my debate over the mimosa tree. Turns out that deer find value in it as well… as a tasty snack. Have you ever seen the "5 Levels of Difficulty" video series on youtube? In it, expert scientists are tasked with the challenge of explaining a scientific concept (such as gravity or CRISPR) to 5 different people; a child, a teen, a college student, a grad student, and a PhD expert. It's fascinating to watch these scientists transform across the different audiences- not only in their choice of vocabulary, but in their vocal cadence and body language as well. Those videos demonstrate just how much skill is required to effectively communicate science in an informal setting. Within seconds, you need to assess the background knowledge of the person' you're speaking to, then tailor the conversation to include topics that the person will not only find accessible, but interesting! Needless to say, all student scientists (myself included) need extensive amounts of practice to nail down this skill. I've figured out that university experiences such as TA-ing and attending conferences will take me so far, but the other half of my training needs to happen outside of academia. Thanks to the help of educational programs around Pittsburgh, I've found several opportunities to practice science engagement. I've tried lots of things; giving talks to members of a botanical garden, judging middle-school science competitions, leading field trips... but my favorite is science tabling. It's basically the Russian roulette of outreach events. Within any given day you might talk to a 3-year-old who loves dinosaurs, a retired couple that loves gardening (and can name more species of plants than you), or a person with their doctorate who wants to know the specific details of your experiment. Sometimes, these people all visit at once and you have to bounce between conversations like a telephone operator. I've come to love the informality of tabling. If your science-pitch doesn't land, the worst that can happen is a few moments of polite conversation. If you can really connect with someone, however, the best scenario is that you get to have an exciting, nerdy discussion about your favorite subject. Over time, my odds of winning peoples' interest have increased significantly; probably because I've gotten better at adapting to my audience. Most of that improvement has come through repetition. I might talk to 20 or 30 people over the course of a day about the same topic (invasive species), but tweak it a little bit every time. Kids, for example, seem to like when I turn things into a game. I get them to pretend that they are an alien (i.e. invasive species) who has just been introduced to a new planet. What sort of resources would they need to survive? How would they move around? Would they have any enemies? Then, I get them to look at images of invasive plants and guess how they were able to survive in Pittsburgh, based on their physical traits (thorns on a thistle, edible berries on a shrub, etc). I think most kids are surprised to learn that plants don't just exist in the environment like rocks. They struggle to survive and do lots of creative things to increase their odds of success. Many of the adults I meet own a garden, and by default have experienced their own share of issues with managing invasive plants. The severity of their problems range from dandelions (annoying, but easy to mow-over) to Japanese knotweed (land-degrading and near-impossible to kill). I often describe the history of how these species were introduced in the first place. People are often surprised to hear that a large number of invasive plants were intentionally brought to North America by humans. Japanese knotweed, for example, was a popular ornamental plant and used for erosion control. I then move on to talk about how it all relates to my own research (I study how invasive species interact with the native plant community) and why it's relevant to land management practices. Throughout the whole conversation, I do my best to open up a space where my audience can bring their own interests and knowledge to the table. Public outreach is one of the best parts of my job. It's a joy to leave my office for a few hours and meet new faces in Pittsburgh, as well as share my love for science in this informal setting. It's helped to improve the quality of my research questions as well. I've had to think long and hard about the relevance of my work, as well as how to communicate that message effectively across a broad audience. No matter what career I end up with after my PhD, I know I'll be greatly benefited by the skills I've acquired in speaking and engagement. For anyone interested in expanding their involvement in science outreach, I'd recommend reaching out to nonprofit organizations such as museums, after-school programs, and community clubs. They're always looking for volunteers to participate in local events, such as BioBlitzes or science fairs,. No matter where you live, people will want to learn about the research happening in their city! It usually takes me more than three weeks to prepare a good impromptu speech. - Mark Twain
One of the most valuable pieces of advice I've received during graduate school is to just get started. It doesn't matter what medium you use (drawing sketches on a whiteboard, filling up a page with nonsense words, roping a colleague into a brainstorming session, etc.). All that matters is coaxing that first draft of an idea out into the open, where you can see it clearly and shape it into something useful. In honor of my first blog post, I've decided to get the ball rolling by writing briefly about a topic I know well - myself. In particular, I'd like to share how I got my start in academia and the steps I've been taking to carve out a career for myself in the sciences. Looking back, I can see that my path towards research in ecology was a fairly traditional one. As a kid, I was fascinated with the environment and always knew that I wanted a job where I could work outside. I also fit the stereotype of being a bookworm, who enjoyed learning and sharing what I'd learned with others. Later on in college, I found opportunities in ecology labs that allowed me to do field work, sharpen my research skills, and figure out what kind of science I was interested in. After finishing undergrad I spent a gap-semester working at a garden center, then finally it was on to graduate school in Pittsburgh. The funny thing is: during this time in my life, the direction I was heading-in felt anything but certain. There was a really loud voice in my head that told me not to focus too seriously on research because only brilliant and talented people (ie not me) were allowed to pursue PhDs and become scientists. I considered myself to be outgoing and curious, but rarely stood out as above-average during college. Other students read three scientific papers for every one that I got through. Though quick to ask questions, I was slow to answer them. It felt like standing at the bottom of a mountain with a pair of rental skis, watching other people shoot down the black diamond runs while I was stuck teetering across the bunny slopes (I know because I also experienced this last winter... and learned never to pursue a career in professional skiing). The gap between the beginner and expert skill-levels feels immense- especially when believing, like I did, that you're expected to jump it by yourself. I consider myself lucky to have made it past that place. Despite having intense feelings of doubt that I can now recognize as imposter syndrome, I continued to find jobs and internships that interested me. Eventually, I built relationships with mentors who I could open up to and gained access to a support system I didn't know existed. Through mentorship I also gained "models" of scientists, whose stories I could learn from and emulate. I figured out that, although talent and intellect matters at a baseline level, what really sets great scientists apart is their enthusiasm and grit. This was a profound discovery, because grit and enthusiasm are characteristics that I have the ability to control. A scientist, by extension, began to feel like a role I could choose to take on, rather than something that was bestowed upon me by a celestial combination of genetic and environmental factors. Since learning this lesson and starting graduate school, the imposter syndrome still creeps in occasionally. Today, however, I combat the voices telling me what I can't accomplish by refocusing my efforts on things that I can, in baby steps. I finish analyzing a dataset, I submit grant proposals, I go to outreach events, and the like. After spending enough time emulating the actions of a scientist, I started to feel like I've become one. I'd like to conclude with some unsolicited advice to undergrads, who may be considering a career in the sciences: 1) Start doing something and let the momentum push you forward. Send an email to that professor you admire and ask to sit in a lab meeting. Apply to internships, volunteer at nonprofit organizations... do anything that feels genuine. Opportunities rarely present themselves on a silver platter, but you do get better exposure to opportunities by gaining work experience and building a network. 2) There are infinite ways to get to the same destination. Although my personal journey to graduate school ended up being fairly linear (by transitioning directly from undergrad to grad school), that was just one path that worked for me. Extremely successful students have previously worked in industry and for nonprofits, started families, and anything else they felt like doing. Wherever you're at now: that is a good place to start. Instructions for how to ski (author unknown): Turn left, turn right, repeat as necessary |
AuthorHello! My name is Rachel and I am a Postdoctoral Fellow at the Carnegie Museum of Natural History. All opinions expressed in this blog are my own. Archives
April 2024
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