Why I no longer support #EndPlantBlindness

How can we eradicate prejudices in science communication?

Last month I wrote and published a piece called Seeing the wood for the trees. The piece, which gave a brief overview of the term ‘plant blindness’, was written with absolute sincerity. Yet now, a month later, I cannot support this term. So what changed in such a short space of time?

Little more than a week ago, while scrolling down my Twitter timeline, I came across a letter to the editor for the special edition of Plants, People, Planet on ‘plant blindness’. The letter, entitled We do not want to “cure plant blindness” we want to grow plant love, is an excellent read that points out the ableism of using a disability metaphor to draw attention to this complex problem.

Ableism is defined by the Centre for Disability Rights as “a set of beliefs or practices that devalue and discriminate against people with physical, intellectual, or psychiatric disabilities and often rests on the assumption that disabled people need to be ‘fixed’ in one form or the other”. The use of disability metaphors is a form of ableism as it frames abled bodies as the benchmark, with the assumption that all people should experience the world in the same way and this implies that people with disabilities have a less fulfilling experience of the world. In their letter MacKenzie et al. point out that the term “positions ‘blindness’ as a deficit that must be cured and negates the possibility that blind people can lead lives that are full of rich sensory flora experiences”. This is obviously not true as we can experience the botanical world through immersion of any of our senses. Kate Parsley, a Ph.D. candidate working on botany education in the Sabel Lab, has proposed the use of Plant Awareness Disparity (PAD) as an alternative term to ‘plant blindness’ in a forthcoming paper. As she explains in this twitter thread PAD still aligns with the original goals of the term ‘plant blindness’ and focuses on the attentional portion of the phenomenon without being ableist.

As science communicators, I believe it is important that we ensure that the language we use is inclusive, and I failed here by supporting a term without considering its ableist implications. We are inherently imperfect as people, and I don’t believe that there is any shame in admitting these types of faults if they are accompanied with corrective actions. This has been an opportunity to learn and unlearn, to introspect on my usage of other common phrases that include disability metaphors, and to question why I placed so much emphasis on appreciating the botanical world with only one of my senses in the first place.

Frank discussions about inclusivity within the scientific academy are necessary, and social media can be a powerful tool to amplify marginalised voices. Coordinated campaigns such as the recent #BlackBotanistsWeek have been heralded for their success in creating these dialogues, and it’s important that they happen regular. I want to encourage all scientists and science communicators, but in particular those like me that come from a position of intersectional privilege, to listen and to introspect on our role in perpetuating prejudices in our work.


Personal politics in science communication

Can science communicators be apolitical and effective?

In mid-February famed evolutionary biologist and science communicator Professor Richard Dawkins was once again the centre of a virtual maelstrom, after tweeting that theoretically selective breeding would work for humans. The tweet was met with both unwavering support for Dawkins’ seemingly factual analysis, and outcries over his supposed endorsement of eugenics. A strong dichotomy in opinion typical of most scientific “hot-takes” on social media that is, as John Nerst breaks down on his blog Everything Studies, largely due to cognitive decoupling.

Decoupling is the process of unpacking a question in isolation. To quote Nerst, this is “a necessary practice in science which works by isolating variables, teasing out causality, and formalising and operationalising claims into carefully delineated hypotheses”. Like Dawkins, Nerst, and many of my fellow scientists, I am a high-decoupler. However, Nerst stresses that rather than a natural behaviour, decoupling is a learned behaviour ingrained in scientist’s training and that society is overwhelmingly comprised of low-decouplers. Nowhere is this more evident to me than amongst my friends.

For context, nearly all of them come from a humanities background. Their interests, ranging from education to legal philosophy, are about as diverse as their thought patterns and I would be lying if I said I completely understood any of them. All of them are political and outspoken. None of them are high-decouplers. How they see they world confuses me, and how they tackle problems frustrates me. Endlessly. Yet the experience of being a high-decoupler so deeply immersed in a group of low-decouplers has profoundly altered how I approach both my science and science communication.

Several years ago if you had asked me if I believe science is apolitical, the answer would have been a confident yes. This is a common viewpoint amongst many of the most prominent science communicators. However, in my own journey of learning and unlearning I have realised that this particular sect of science communicators share a number of traits with me that I believe plays the largest role in our ability to decouple. We are largely white, heterosexual, cisgendered, and male. In other words, the most represented and glorified demographic in science’s history.

To be apolitical is in itself an act of political privilege, and science does not exist in a vacuum. It has, and always will be, a product of the society in which the experimentation occurs. In 2018 National Geographic dedicated their April edition to exploring the concept of race and the historical role the magazine had played in race relations. In her forward, Editor in Chief Susan Goldberg stated “to rise above the racism of the past, we must acknowledge it”. I firmly believe that this applies not just to race, but to all the cogs and levers of the political machinery that shapes our society. This is because it not only has a historical influence on the scientific establishment, but continues to influence science today. A sentiment that is better conveyed in this editorial of the Annals of Human Genetics on topical ethical issues in the publication of human genetics research.

As a biologist, I still agree with Dawkins’ stance that we cannot view ourselves as separate from the animal kingdom when we are another strand in the web of life. However, I must recognise the privilege of my demographic never having been marginalised or seen as sub-human; something my ancestors routinely inflicted on others. Again quoting Nerst, “to a low-decoupler, high-decouplers’ ability to fence off any threatening implications looks like a lack of empathy for those threatened”. I would take this one step further and say it is far easier to decouple a morally deplorable hypothetical, like the question of selectively breeding human beings, if your ancestors weren’t the subjects of such violent and very real experimentation. The language we choose when talking about scientific concepts with a violent history influences how our audience connects and interprets our message. I believe high-decouplers like Dawkins, who fail to acknowledge how their position of both historical and contemporary privilege allows them to perceive science as apolitical, alienate the public.

Science communication can only be effective when we connect with our audience. This is not to say that we can only communicate with those who share a similar political alignment. Rather, when framing our message we must be mindful of how differing political standpoints influence how the message will be received. In order to connect we need to understand the personal politics of ourselves and our audience, and this requires us to introspect the political machinery that has shaped what we believe can be decoupled.