My Hubble moments made me doubt myself. Everything I thought I knew became suspect. And everything I didn’t know became another potential Hubble. On the phone with scientists, I tried to avoid asking too many questions. If they said something I didn’t understand, I would “mmm-hmm” like I did. I’ve often heard teachers say, “there’s no such thing as a dumb question,” but that’s not really true. You don’t want to be the science writer who asks a famous astronomer, “So are you telling me that there’s a telescope in space?!”
But the less I asked scientists to explain, the less I understood. And the less I understood, the less I could explain to the reader. Sometimes I could write around the things I did not know. Then I would feel ashamed that I hadn’t asked the right questions, that I hadn’t fully understood.
I like science. That’s why I became a science writer. I especially like learning new things. But I don’t like feeling dumb. And neither does anyone else. The blush of shame I feel after each new Hubble moment is the same shame that a lot of people feel when they listen to science talks or read a science article they don’t understand. It’s the same shame that kids feel in science class when they can’t remember the word for the green stuff in plants. Instead of asking questions, we clam up. We disengage. We “mmm-hmm” and pretend things are perfectly clear.
As science writers, we’re supposed to be advocates for exactly those people. But sometimes we get caught in the trap of trying to impress scientists or other science writers. And we forget that the beauty of our job is that we get to be idiots. It’s allowed. In fact, it’s required.
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