Giants, Ghosts, and I
“For it is a false and fond similitude, which some writers adopt, though they think it witty and suitable, that we are, compared with the ancients, as dwarfs upon the shoulders of giants. It is not so. Neither are we dwarfs, nor they giants, but we are all of one stature, save that we are lifted up somewhat higher by their means, provided that there be found in us the same studiousness, watchfulness and love of truth, as was in them. If these conditions be lacking, then we are not dwarfs, nor set on the shoulders of giants, but men of a competent stature, grovelling on the earth.” - Juan Luis Vives, De causis corruptarum artium (1531)
I. Giants
I had the chance to see my mother a few weeks ago for the first time in months. As we were catching each other up on the goings on of our lives, our conversation naturally steered toward my graduate program and ongoing attempt to earn a PhD. As we spoke, she said something to me, unprompted, that took me by complete surprise: “I am so very proud of you.”
Now, it’s not like I’m MAD about this, and it’s not like my mother had never said it! But hearing a parent say that, even for the hundredth time, might be one of the most important moments in a person’s life. I will quite openly say that I nearly burst into tears on the spot. It meant the world to me.
But the ever-present part of myself that always pokes and prods the world around me in order to better understand it couldn’t help but wonder: proud of what? Sure, getting to where I am is some accomplishment, but there is still so much more that I wish to do. I feel unfinished, unfulfilled. And my mother does not know genetics. She doesn’t know her transposons from her introns, even if I were to explain it. Nor do I think she should! It’s just not that interesting to her and likely wouldn’t enrich her life. But if I were to try to be objective, that means that her esteem in me means little with respect to the quality and significance of my work.
And yet, it still mattered to me when she told me that. And when I could not articulate why, the words she spoke began to sit at odds with me until they lost their warmth and became an anchor tied around my neck. If she didn’t really know the field, could she really be proud of me in a way that matters? Doesn’t it make her pride in me hollow if all it boils down to is she’s my mother?
She was proud of me, but I wasn’t.
Research relies on the work of those who came before. In school, I would often be told: “We stand upon the shoulders of giants”. But I never imagined myself in such a lofty place. These giants, the foundational members of the scientific effort, whose names are spoken in respect decades after they passed, cast lengthy shadows. Shadows where I often find myself.
A part of this is habitual. To use another tired cliche: “comparison is the thief of joy”. And compare I do! Honestly, I think its a natural impulse for anyone, and in my experience especially those invested in a field where legacy is sometimes measured in the span of centuries. But cliches are cliches for a reason, and placing myself next to these giants invariably makes me feel small. In my weakest moments, I feel as if I owe them success. That if I cannot reach their shoulders and look beyond, then everything I’ve ever done is worthless.
“Standing on the shoulders of giants” evokes a sense of humility and deference. But if they who came before were giants, am I then a dwarf? In the future will I grow in size? When is my science-puberty supposed to hit? And when I use a formula or method that bears the name of someone who died long ago, should I feel reverent? Honored? Because I don’t. If I feel anything, it’s haunted.
II. Ghosts
Every scientific discovery was made by people. People who, like all of us, experienced doubt, shame, embarrassment, sorrow, joy, anger, all of it. People who lived alongside other people, no matter what their circumstance or station was. And through their discovery their experience was distilled and flattened into a discrete set of concepts. When I think about I feel as if their ghost is with me, caught somewhere between the figures and numbers, begging to be seen. If objectification is dehumanizing, then so is lionization. Thinking of those who came before as giants is a disservice to them as people. It also is, in my opinion, irresponsible and complicit. Because it isn’t just the giants who haunt me.
My field is built upon the broken lives of countless people. People who were singled out and othered by the luminaries and pioneers of my field, using the very methods and ideas still taught today. This is no secret! In fact, I wager that nearly every scientific field has bones in the closet and blood stains on the rugs. Our original sin is eugenics. If that is an unfamiliar word to you, know that it is a concept rooted in genetic study that seeks to isolate the “good” traits in humanity from the “bad” traits, in order to further improve the human race. I say “is” and “seeks”; while it has fallen out of favor it still lives on today. However the intellectual movement of eugenics reached its peak in the early 1900s and has its hand in countless atrocities enacted in the name of purity and scientific advancement, reaching even to today.
And are these the actions of giants?
Because from where I’m standing, it looks like people used scientific methods and inquiry as a weapon to wield against those they deemed inferior or unworthy. This was not a case of an innocent and pure science being corrupted and manipulated by some comically evil ruler or despot (nor would I argue it is EVER a case of this). The people who contributed to this movement were often just as much invested in the weaponization of their work as the most hateful bigot you can conjure to mind. And for those that weren’t their sin was worse: apathy.
In modern curricula, these names and events are spoken with a furrowed brow and a grimace. Sometimes it is treated almost like an unfortunate accident or isolated event, as if their actions and prejudices are distant memories with no bearing on their work and how it is used today. Which is patently bullshit, and I don’t think it takes much to realize it.
So what then? Is the field doomed? Are the stains of the past so deep within the foundation that it is condemned? Should I bear guilt on behalf of people who haven’t been alive in decades? If you do think of those who came before as giants, leaders, pillars of the field, the answer is certainly yes. You have taken their flawed legacy and used it to build a home. This is more than just metaphor: idealizing them deadens you to valid critiques of the development and use of their ideas, blinds you to the flaws present in their work and what can and must change as we move forward.
There is no doubt that research in genetics, as in many fields, has been a net good on the human race. But to contend with its sordid past, you must understand that ultimately, the people who contributed to this field then are no more elevated than anyone you know now. The work has always been born from human ingenuity, fueled by human curiosity, and wrought by human hands. We do not stand on their shoulders, but at their side.
III. And I
So then, where do I stand? And why is my mother proud of me?
I’m reportedly intelligent in ways that society has deemed both valid and desirable. I have taken IQ tests and scored incredibly high. I have excelled in standardized testing and common measures of intellectual ability. Are these not great things to take pride in? I am often told they are.
But being “smart” never took my hand in its own out of love. My IQ score never held me in comfort. When the world feels like it's going to crush me and all hope is lost, my intellect doesn’t step in to ease the burden and help me through. Neither has any of the people whose names adorn my formula sheets and research papers. But you know who does? My mom. My friends. My family. The people who love me and who I love in kind. And when I think of my life they are the things that bring me the most happiness and joy.
If I ask, all the people I hold dear would say they were proud of me too without a moment’s hesitation. But the ghosts remain, as ever, silent, and I will never earn their approval. And perhaps pride is enough for someone to feel fulfilled and happy. But it is not for me.
I wonder, if you could speak to the dead and you asked them what they were the most proud and happy about, would they cite their own work? Would Newton cite his laws? Einstein his famous theory?
I think being unfamiliar with my field is exactly why my mother is proud, and I think she’s right. To her it is not a matter of understanding history and context. She doesn’t need to scale the back of a giant to see the view for herself and judge whether or not she should be proud. She’s proud because it matters to me. Because she cares about me and the things that I commit myself to. She’s seen the work and effort I put in, she knows how passionate and motivated I am. And to her it’s enough. She sees it all and is proud, not of an accomplishment or achievement, but of a person. Of me.
I want to live up to my own idea of what I am capable of and who I am. But in a sense I already have; the people in my life are proof positive of that. There is no bar to meet, no criteria to satisfy in order to earn the worthiness to be held in high regard. If all the people in my field who came before me were human just like me, why do I struggle to be giant: perfect, lofty, unreachable? Those who came before me were never giants to begin with. And striving to remember the human in the work and the people who do it (myself included!) may redeem us both yet.
Saying it doesn’t magically make me stop pursuing perfection. I am still at odds with my mother’s words. But less so now as I come to terms with the idea that I am not here to impress some long-dead scientists, nor earn the right to be respected. No amount of academic achievement will ever make me human. I am here because I want to be, and the people around me support me because they love me, regardless of how long someone remembers my name. The work that I do is not for the long-gone or the yet-to-come, but for the people beside me, with whom I stand shoulder to shoulder and hand in hand. And if I do have a debt or obligation, it's to no one other than us.