Tag Archives: responsibility

Treating like cases alike: bioethics edition

Crash course in philosophy—treat like cases alike.[1]

That means that if you think a much-hyped article on the health benefits of chocolate is unethical, your reasons for this conclusion ought to apply consistently across other similar cases. Put another way, if you think John Bohannon acted unethically in publishing a study that claimed to show a relationship between the success of weight-loss diets and chocolate consumption, fooling the science journalism world; and if your reasons for thinking this bear on relevantly similar cases, you ought to arrive at similar conclusions about the ethics of those cases as you do about Bohannon.

1) For example, you might think—as I do—that whether or not the study was intended as a hoax, some human subjects protection ought to be enforced. You might worry that there’s no mention of research ethics review or informed consent in the journal article that caused the furor, or any of Bohannon’s writings since. Kelly asked Bohannon on io9 what kind of approval he got for the study, if any. I’ll update if anything comes of that.

But if you do have this concern, then such reasoning should lead you to treat this study conducted by Facebook with similar suspicion. We know that no IRB approved the protocol for that study. We know that people didn’t give meaningful consent.[2]

2) Say you are worried about the consequences of a false study being reported widely by the media. It is true that when studies are overhyped, or falsely reported, all kinds of harm can result.[3] One could easily imagine vulnerable people deceived by the hype.

But if you think that, consider that in 2013, 23andMe was marketing a set of diagnostics for the genetic markers of disease in the absence of any demonstrated analytic or clinical validity. They were selling test kits with no proof that the tests could be interpreted in a meaningful way.

I think that the impact of the latter is actually much greater than the former. One is a journalist with a penchant and reputation for playing tricks on scientific journals. The other is a billion-dollar, Google “we eat DARPA projects for breakfast” backed, industry leader.

But if Bohannon’s actions do meet your threshold for what constitutes an unacceptable risk to others, you are committed to concerns about any and all studies that could harm distant others that reach that threshold.


If you think Bohannon was out of line, that Facebook was unethical in avoiding oversight, and it was inappropriate for 23andMe to flaunt FDA regulations and market their genetic test kits without demonstrating their validity, then you are consistent.

If you don’t, that’s not necessarily a problem. The burden of proof, though, is now on you to show either a) that you hold one of the above reasons, but the cases are necessarily different; or b) that the reasons you think Bohannon is out of line are sufficiently unique that they don’t apply in the other cases.

Personally? I think the underlying motivation behind a lot of the anger I see online is that scientists, and science communicators, don’t like being made out as fools. That’s understandable. But if that’s the reason, then I don’t think Bohannon is at fault. Journals have an obligation to thoroughly review articles, and Bohannon is notorious for demonstrating just how many predatory journals there are in the scientific landscape today. Journalists have a responsibility to do their jobs and critically examine the work on which they report.

Treat like cases alike, and use this moment for what it should be: a chance to reflect on our reasons for making moral judgement, and our commitment to promoting ethical science.


  1. Like anything in philosophy, there are subtleties to this ↩
  2. Don’t you even try to tell me that a EULA is adequate consent for scientific research. Yes, you. You know who you are. I’m watching you.  ↩
  3. Fun fact: that was the subject of my first ever article!  ↩
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How not to critique: a case study

The original title for this piece was “How not to critique in bioethics,” but Kelly pointed out that this episode of TWiV is a case study in how not to go about critiquing anything.

Last Monday I was drawn into a conversation/angry rant about an article by Lynn C. Klotz and Edward J. Sylvester, that appeared in the Bulletin of the Atomic Scientists…in 2012. After briefly forgetting one of the cardinal rules of the internet—check the date stamp— I realized the error of my ways, and started to inquire with my fellow ranters, in particular Matt Freiman, about why a 2012 article suddenly had virologists up in arms.

Turns out that the Bulletin article was cited by a study on dual-use authored by Marc Lipsitch and Alison P. Galvani; a study that was the subject of a recent post of mine . The Bulletin article draws from a working paper where the provide an estimate for the number of laboratory accidents involving dangerous pathogens we should expect as a function of hours spent in the laboratory. Lipsitch and Galvani use this figure in their analysis of potential pandemic pathogens (PPPs).

Freiman joined Vincent Racaniello, Dickson Despommier, Alan Dove, and Kathy Spindler on This Week in Virology (TWiV) on June 1 to talk about (among other things) Lipsitch and Galvani’s research. What followed is a case study in how not to critique a paper; the hosts served up a platter of incorrect statements, bad reasoning, and some all-out personal attacks.

I’d started writing a blow-by-blow account of the entire segment, but that quickly mushroomed into 5,000-odd words. There is simply too much to talk about—all of it bad. So there’s a draft of a paper on the importance of good science communication on my desk now, that I’ll submit to a journal in the near future.Instead, I’m going to pick up just one particular aspect of the segment that I feel demonstrates the character of TWiV’s critique.

“It’s a bad opinion; that’s my view.”

Despommier, at 58:30 of the podcast, takes issue with this sentence in the PLoS Medicine paper:

The H1N1 influenza strain responsible for significant morbidity and mortality around the world from 1977 to 2009 is thought to have originated from a laboratory accident.

The problem, according to Despommier, is that “thought to have originated” apparently sounds so vague as to be meaningless. This leads to a rousing pile-on conversation in which Despommier claims that he could have just easily claimed that the 1977 flu came from Middle Eastern Respiratory Syndrome because “he thought it;” he also claims that on the basis of this sentence alone he’d have rejected the article from publication. Finally, he dismisses the citation given in the article as unreliable because it is a review article,[1] and “you can say anything in a review article.”

At the same time, Dove notes that “when you’re on the editorial board of the journal you can avoid [having your paper rejected].” The implication here is that Lipsitch, as a member of the editorial board of PLoS Medicine, must have used that position to get his article to print despite the alleged inaccuracy that has Despommier so riled up. Racaniello notes that “[statements like this are] often done in this opinion–” his full meaning is interrupted by Despommier. It’s a common theme throughout the podcast, though, that Lipsitch and Galvani’s article is mere “opinion,” and thus invalid.

Facts first

If he’d done his homework, Despommier would have noted that the review article cited by Lipsitch and Galvani doesn’t mention a lab. What it does say is:

There is no evidence for integration of influenza genetic material into the host genome, leaving the most likely explanation that in 1977 the H1N1 virus was reintroduced to humans from a frozen source.[2]

So Lipsitch and Galvani do make an apparent leap from “frozen source” to “lab freezer.” Despommier doesn’t pick that up. If he had, however, it would have given us pause about whether or not is a valid move to jump from “frozen source” to “laboratory freezer.”

Not a long pause, however; there are other sources that argue that the 1977 strain is likely to have been a laboratory.[3] The other alternative—that the virus survived in Siberian lake ice—was put forward in a 2006 paper (note, after the publication of the review article used by Lipsitch and Galvani), but that paper was found to be methodologically flawed.[4] Laboratory release remains the most plausible answer to date.

The belief that the 1977 flu originated from frozen laboratory sources is widely held. Even Racaniello—at least, in 2009—holds this view. Racaniello argued that of multiple theories about the origin of the 1977 virus, “only one was compelling”:

…it is possible that the 1950 H1N1 influenza virus was truly frozen in nature or elsewhere and that such a strain was only recently introduced into man.

The suggestion is clear: the virus was frozen in a laboratory freezer since 1950, and was released, either by intent or accident, in 1977. This possibility has been denied by Chinese and Russian scientists, but remains to this day the only scientifically plausible explanation.

So no, there is no smoking gun that confirms, with absolutely unwavering certainty, that the 1977 flu emerged from a lab. But there is evidence: this is far from an “opinion,” and is far from simply making up a story for the sake of an argument. Lipsitch and Galvani were right to write “…it is thought,” because a plausible answer doesn’t make for unshakeable proof—but their claim stands on the existing literature.

Science and policy

The idea that Lipsitch and Galvani’s piece is somehow merely “opinion” is a hallmark of the discussion in TWiV. Never mind that the piece was an externally peer-reviewed, noncommissioned piece of work.[5] As far as TWiV is concerned, it seems that if it isn’t Science, it doesn’t count. Everything else is mere opinion.

But that isn’t how ethics, or policy, works. In ethics we construct arguments, argue about the interpretation of facts and values, and use that to guide action. With rare exception, few believe that we can draw conclusions about what we ought to do straight from an experiment.

In policy, we have to set regulations and guidelines with the information at hand—a policy that waits for unshakeable proof is a policy that never makes it to committee. Is there some question about the true nature of the 1977 flu, or the risks of outbreaks resulting from BSL–3 laboratory safety? You bet there is. We should continue to do research on these issues. We also have to make a decision, and the level of certainty the TWiV hosts seem to desire isn’t plausible.

Authority and Responsibility

This podcast was irresponsible. The hosts, in their haste to pan Lipsitch and Galvani’s work, overstated their case and then some. Dove also accused Lipsitch of research misconduct. I’m not sure what the rest of the editors at PLoS Medicine think of the claim—passive aggressive as it was—that one of their colleagues may have corrupted the review process, but I’d love to find out.

The podcast is also deeply unethical, because of the power in the platform. Racaniello, in 2010, wrote:

Who listens to TWiV? Five to ten thousand people download each episode, including high school, college, and graduate students, medical students, post-docs, professors in many fields, information technology professionals, health care physicians, nurses, emergency medicine technicians, and nonprofessionals: sanitation workers, painters, and laborers from all over the world.[6]

What that number looks like in 2014, I have no idea. I do know, however, that a 5,000–10,000 person listenership, from a decorated virologist and his equally prestigious colleagues, is a pretty decent haul. That doesn’t include, mind you, the people who read Racaniello’s blog, articles, or textbook; who listen to the other podcasts in the TWiV family, or follow the other hosts in other fora.

These people have authority, by virtue of their positions, affiliations, exposure, and followings. The hosts of TWiV have failed to discharge their authority with any kind of responsibility.[7] I know the TWiV format is designed to be “informal,” but there’s a marked difference between being informal, and being unprofessional.

Scientists should—must—be part of conversation about dual-use, as with other important ethical and scientific issues. Nothing here is intended to suggest otherwise. Scientists do, however, have to exercise their speech and conduct responsibly. This should be an example of what not to do.

Final Notes

I want to finish with a comment on two acts that don’t feature in Despommier’s comments and what followed, but are absolutely vital to note. The first is that during the podcast, the paper by Lipsitch and Galvani is frequently referred to as “his” paper. Not “their” paper. Apparently recognizing the second—female—author isn’t a priority for the hosts or guests.

Also, Dove and others have used Do Not Link (“link without improving ”their“ search engine position”) on the TWiV website for both the paper by Lipsitch and Galvani, and supporting materials. So not only do the hosts and guests of the show feel that the paper without merit; they believe that to the point that they’d deny the authors—and the journal—traffic. Personally, I think that’s obscenely petty, but I’ll leave that for a later post.

Science needs critique to function. Critique can be heated—justifiably so. But it also needs to be accurate. This podcast is a textbook example of how not to mount a critique.


  1. Webster, Robert G, William J Bean, Owen T Gorman, Thomas M Chambers, and Yoshihiro Kawaoka. 1992. “Evolution and Ecology of Influenza A Viruses” Microbiological Reviews 56 (1). Am Soc Microbiol: 152–79.  ↩
  2. ibid., p.171.  ↩
  3. Ennis, Francis A. 1978. “Influenza a Viruses: Shaking Out Our Shibboleths.” Nature 274 (5669): 309–10. doi:10.1038/274309b0; Nakajima, Katsuhisa, Ulrich Desselberger, and Peter Palese. 1978. “Recent Human Influenza a (H1N1) Viruses Are Closely Related Genetically to Strains Isolated in 1950.” Nature 274 (5669): 334–39. doi:10.1038/274334a0; Wertheim, Joel O. 2010. “The Re-Emergence of H1N1 Influenza Virus in 1977: a Cautionary Tale for Estimating Divergence Times Using Biologically Unrealistic Sampling Dates.” PLoS One 5 (6). Public Library of Science: e11184. doi:10.1371/journal.pone.0011184; Zimmer, Shanta M, and Donald S Burke. 2009. “Historical Perspective — Emergence of Influenza a (H1N1) Viruses.” New England Journal of Medicine 361 (3): 279–85. doi:10.1056/NEJMra0904322.  ↩
  4. Worobey, M. 2008. “Phylogenetic Evidence Against Evolutionary Stasis and Natural Abiotic Reservoirs of Influenza a Virus.” Journal of Virology 82 (7): 3769–74. doi:10.1128/JVI.02207–07; Zhang, G, D Shoham, D Gilichinsky, and S Davydov. 2007. “Erratum: Evidence of Influenza a Virus RNA in Siberian Lake Ice.” Journal of Virology 81 (5): 2538; Zhang, G, D Shoham, D Gilichinsky, S Davydov, J D Castello, and S O Rogers. 2006. “Evidence of Influenza a Virus RNA in Siberian Lake Ice.” Journal of Virology 80 (24): 12229–35. doi:10.1128/JVI.00986–06.  ↩
  5. I’m aware that peer review is not sufficient to make a work reliable, but absent evidence that the review process was somehow corrupt or deficient, it’s a far cry from mere opinion.
  6. Racaniello, Vincent R. 2010. “Social Media and Microbiology Education.” PLoS Pathogens 6 (10). Public Library of Science: e1001095.  ↩
  7. Evans, Nicholas G. 2010. “Speak No Evil: Scientists, Responsibility, and the Public Understanding of Science.” NanoEthics 4 (3): 215–20. doi:10.1007/s11569–010–0101-z.  ↩

Bad Bioethics Headline: 1918-like flu edition

Terrence McCoy has an article in the Washington Post‘s “Morning Mix” on the 1918-like flu virus gain-of-function study. It provides a bit of extra information beyond the coverage at the Guardian, and is worth a read.

The article, unfortunately, has a terrible headline. A “we need an award for Bad Bioethics Headlines” headline.

The headline reads “Was it ‘crazy’ for this scientist to re-create a bird flu virus that killed 50 million people?” There are some glaring errors, or misinformation, embedded in this headline; errors that, unfortunately, aren’t explicitly dealt with in the content of the article. And the errors, to a certain extent, undercut the seriousness of the work done.

1) First, nothing was “re-created.” The 1918 strain of H1N1 influenza has already been recreated using reverse genetics—in 2005. This work is also widely considered dual-use research of concern.

The work performed by Kawaoka and his team, however, is not a recreation in the traditional sense—the sense we mean when we talk about piecing together a poliovirus, or synthesizing Spanish flu. Rather, this new research involved piecing together a “1918-like” virus—one whose proteins differ by a few amino acids from the one that emerged almost a century ago—using segments of avian influenza. This wasn’t a recreation; it was just creation pure and simple.

2) The influenza pandemic in 1918 isn’t really “bird flu” in the conventional sense. Sure, it is likely that the strain of flu in 1918 emerged from an avian (and swine) reservoir at some point, but that’s because of the 18 different types of hemagglutinin (the “H” in H1N1), and 11 types of neuraminidase (the “N” in H1N1) that we know of, all of them can survive in birds. So all flu has something to do with birds.

We tend to label viruses as "bird" or "pig" viruses when we're talking about the most common host.

We tend to label viruses as “bird” or “pig” viruses when we’re talking about the most common host.

But that’s definitely not what we typically mean when we talk about “bird flu.” Avian influenza is used to describe influenza viruses that arise predominantly or exclusively in birds. What makes H5N1, or H7N9 scary is that they are viruses that predominantly occur in birds, that are crossing over to humans. Fortunately, H5N1 hasn’t been terribly successful at this, and H7N9—while more successful—is not at pandemic levels. Yet.

The “recreated” virus isn’t an avian influenza virus in the same way. The influenza that served as its template is ostensibly “human” or at least “mammalian” flu, that to the best of our knowledge came about from both avian and swine viruses that combined to make a human-transmissible superbug. The parts from which this novel strain was stitched together are bits of bird flu.

The point Kawaoka has been trying to sell the world on is that he wanted to find out—for the good of us all, he has claimed—if something like 1918-influenza could emerge from H5N1. Apparently, the answer is yes.

These all matter because they bear heavily on the “why?!” of this story. This virus didn’t come out of nature, but rather was made in a lab. And it hasn’t been recreated, but outright engineered. As with other gain of function studies, proponents of this story like to say that this will raise awareness about the pandemic preparedness, disease surveillance, and so on. I’ve voiced my skepticism about this before.

It also matters because—as the study notes—the virus created isn’t as harmful as 1918 influenza, but more harmful. Kawaoka’s paper notes that the virus his team created is more pathogenic than an authentic avian influenza virus, or the 1918 influenza pandemic strain. We’re not dealing with Spanish influenza: this is a human created, mammalian transmissible strain of flu that outperforms the “Mother of All Pandemics” in trials. That’s scary. And, while they were only testing the strains on three ferrets at a time, which isn’t enough to give us an idea of how this would affect humans in an outbreak, it is certainly enough to give us pause.

There is power in the platform. The Washington post, by its own numbers, has a readership of 24 million people. It should probably work a little on its headlines.

 

 

A Quick Note on Andrew Bolt

I wrote a dissertation on censorship, and I’ve devoted thousands of hours to studying the right to freedom of speech, professional obligations of journalists, and the harms that are caused when people open their mouths and say things that are hateful, spurious, or just plain wrong. This is, for better or worse, my job. So I feel compelled to write about Bolt’s “I am, you are, we are Australian.” (I’m not going to link to it. I feel bad enough having read the screed; if you want to give him those clicks, do it yourself.)

There are so many things wrong with Bolt’s article, but I’m going to limit what I want to say to a couple of glaring errors he makes about Australian constitutional history. Perhaps if Bolt had done his homework , he’d note that the statement

[The writers of the Australian Constitution] were inspired by the creed that all citizens — those, at least, we admitted — are as one before the law.

is 100% false. In point of fact, Edmund Barton—first Prime Minister of Australia, and one of the drafters of the Australian Constitution—had the opinion that

the moment the Commonwealth obtains any legislative power at all it should have the power to regulate the affairs of the people of coloured or inferior races who are in the Commonwealth.

This led to section 51(xxvi) of the Constitution, the so-called “race power.” The race power granted the Commonwealth the power to make special laws for anyone on the basis of their race.

Surprisingly, the race power did not extend to Indigenous Australians, until that exception was removed in 1967. Not that it made a difference, as section 122 of the Constitution, which allows for the Commonwealth to set law in the territories, provided for plenty of opportunity to act in paternalistic, degrading, and generally awful ways to the detriment of Indigenous Australians.

Then there is Bolt’s claim that

although, contrary to popular myth, they granted Aborigines the vote in all states where they had the franchise

which is a red herring of sorts. The Commonwealth Franchise Act 1902 excluded

aboriginal native[s] of Australia Africa Asia or the Islands of the Pacific except New Zealand’ unless covered under Section 41 [of the Constitution, which grants the right to vote for both houses of the parliament].

But section 41 left voting matters to the states. So speaking of the Constitution’s power to grant voting rights is more or less meaningless—state action and Indigenous Australian involvement did the work. The Australian Electoral Commission itself notes that the Constitution was interpreted to deny Indigenous Australians the vote  That’s why Queensland didn’t give Indigenous Australians the vote until 1965. That’s why compulsory voting wasn’t applied to Indigenous Australians until 1984. Which in itself is a form of civic disenfranchisement that, in a country where mandatory voting applies to everyone else, is a travesty.

(I haven’t even got to the unspeakably racist language Bolt uses. If anyone can explain Bolt’s term “race industry professionals” to me in a way that doesn’t make me swear loudly, I’ll give you a prize. That he uses “scare quotes” around “race” is equally terrible.)

Whatever his intentions, Bolt paints a false picture. He’s again abused his platform to spread misinformation, and on a subject about which he’s already contravened the Racial Discrimination Act once. The Herald Sun should pull this article.

When someone misuses their power to convey ideas to millions, and does so in a racist and harmful manner, they should be taken to task.  Bolt should have the book thrown at him—and that book should probably be on the constitutional history of Australia. The other editors at the Herald Sun have an obligation not to let their colleague spread falsehoods.

Disclaimer: If I’ve made any mistakes that are indicative of my privilege as a white Australian (or any other privilege I’m carrying—and I carry a lot), let me know, and I’ll do my best to rectify it immediately.

Professionalism in Science Writing

If you’re here, there is a good chance you know what I’m talking about. Bora Zivkovic, former editor at Scientific American and cofounder of the ScienceOnline conference, sexually harassed a number of women: of those who named Zivkovic and identified themselves, we know Monica Byrne, Hannah Waters, and Kathleen Raven. The circle of Twitter I occupy has veritably exploded with the news, and I suspect will—should—continue to discuss and work with these revelations for some time to come.

Kelly Hills, writing about biologist Dr. Danielle Lee being called a whore for refusing to write for Biology Online for free, mentioned a post of mine on science writing, authority, and responsibility. Considering the events of the last week, it seems an apt time to revisit issues of authority and power in the science writing community.

Talking with Thomas Levenson and Joanne Manaster, I claimed that I thought Zivkovic is, and given what we know, was bad at his job. This proved divisive, and I want to paint a clearer picture about what I mean in light of an idea building from authority and responsibility: professionalism.

Of Professionals and Professionalism

Science writing—journalism, blogging, communication—is an essential activity promoting a moral good. The scientific enterprise promotes value both as it generates knowledge, and allows that knowledge to be used to improve people’s lives. That knowledge, however, only realises a small part of its value when kept wrapped up in papers and conference proceedings. We need good ways of disseminating scientific knowledge, in order to promote science and its benefits, inform citizens of what happens to part of their taxes, and promote general education (which has a whole suite of follow-on benefits).  Science writing sits at the intersection between the lab coat and the person in the street; at its best it can make real differences to people’s lives.

When I look at science writers as a group, I see people pursuing the morally important activity of disseminating of scientific knowledge. They use a special set of skills: I challenge anyone who has tried to write to deny the significance of the skill of writing well. They teach each other the tools of their trade through collaboration, mentorship, conferences and social networks. And finally, they need to be autonomous to pursue their trade.

In my line of work, we call those people professionalsThe term is typically used to describe doctors, lawyers, and (historically) the clergy, but journalism is very much like a profession. Science writing fits even better into this paradigm, by virtue of its subject matter.

What Zivkovic did, however, was unprofessional in the extreme. Now, not every act of wrongdoing by a professional makes them a bad professional—a doctor cheating on their spouse doesn’t make them a bad doctor. Rather, as Hills has already noted, Zivkovic abused his power: the power he had as mentor and gatekeeper to the science communication world. By diminishing the self-worth of people vulnerable to him—by virtue of the role he occupied in their professional lives—he acted contrary to the institution in which he resided.

Zivkovic has also harmed the community at large—the “collateral damage” of which Janet Stemwedel writes. That, to me, is one of the lessons of the  #ripplesofdoubt hashtag. Even if Zivkovic’s abuses of power didn’t pervert his judgements about the quality of writers and their work (and there have been serious questions asked about the degree to which it has), the mere possibility is enough to cause havoc within the community. People who abuse their power change the communities they inhabit as much by their actions as by their omissions; Zivkovic’s transgressions were a corruption of the role he held. This is what made him bad at his job.

The Road Ahead

The revelations about Zivkovic’s actions have opened a wider conversation about the overall direction of the science writing community. Chad Orzel recently pointed out that science blogging has become “less a medium than an institution;” he’s also pointed out that ScienceOnline has become caught in between the image that “everyone is equal in the big happy Science Online family,” and the power structures that certainly exist within the community. Hills has also noted that the image of ScienceOnline as a group of friends hanging out actually make inclusiveness more difficult. The question of where ScienceOnline goes in the wake of Zivkovic’s actions has dovetailed into a larger discussion about what ScienceOnline should ultimately look like.

I believe that incorporating professionalism will improve the community’s ability to hold perpetrators accountable, and secure against further harassment. It will also help focus questions about what the community should strive to be. As ScienceOnline looks to continue its mission—and Scientific American, I sincerely hope, does a bit of soul-searching of its own—knowing what to fix can be aided by reference to what great practice must look like.

A vibrant professional culture in science writing, to me, means offering a diverse and inclusive set of perspectives. It also means having the processes to foster and encourage individuals with those perspectives to pursue both the deep knowledge required to write excellent pieces, and the tools to make that knowledge entertaining and accessible. It means—especially in the context of freelancers, who are incredibly vulnerable to abuses of power—protecting individuals from harassment by others within the community. It means establishing a stable and reliable platform for those harassed, assaulted, or otherwise harmed by others to raise their voices with the knowledge that they will be believed, and the matter fully and compassionately investigated; a platform that can, where necessary, criticise and sanction the leaders of the community. It means people in the community knowing—again, and with confidence—that success or failure in their field is judged on the quality of the work, not the unprofessional standards of the gatekeepers.

All of those things are necessary. Remove one, and you damage the edifice on which people’s livelihood’s rest.

It will take time, but individuals are already moving to offer suggestions on what comes next, such as Maryn McKenna’s thoughtful analysis of where ScienceOnline should go from here. Understanding the different elements of professionalism in science writing allows people looking for solutions to ask “does this allow us—the community—to better serve the needs of our members in fulfilling our professional mandate?” ScienceOnline, to their credit, already has a mission that loosely tracks this professional model. I think that an enduring legacy for ScienceOnline would be to build the safety of its members not simply as a separate policy, but as a central feature of this mission.

To finish, I want to acknowledge that Monica Byrne, Hannah Waters, and Kathleen Raven have done something truly heroic by sharing their stories, and bringing to light this unconscionable abuse of power. I’ve spent my words here on the institution that is science writing, but I want to make clear that any critique of institutions should begin with the recognition of personal stories. At great risk to themselves these remarkable people have exposed corruption within their community. That’s true professionalism.

Anxiety and Agency

Anxiety can be, and is, a bad experience. It leaves bad memories. It is just a generally bad time.

Problematic anxiety, that is. Not all anxiety is bad. Here, I’m talking about the anxiety that won’t go away, that breaches the situational and bleeds into the rest of your life. That swallows relationships, accomplishments, and experiences wholesale. That undermines you.

And that’s, in my experience,[1] one of the worst parts of anxiety. It undermines you and your feeling of agency. It takes away your ability to own what you do. This leaves life grey, and brings with it a feeling of helplessness. It also makes you very, very vulnerable to others—something that carries all sorts of risks.

What do I mean by undermining the feeling agency? To start, I’m not claiming that when I suffer periods of anxiety I am not responsible for what I do. Every harsh word, badly written paper, bungled talk with my supervisor or to a crowd; all that is mine. Anxiety doesn’t stop me being an agent.

Rather, I experience it as a loss of ability to own what you do. In the worst periods I’ve been through, it seems as if action and intention are divorced. This bizarre disconnect takes over, in which I can see something going wrong, but can’t stop it happening even if I think I can see a way out. Everything spirals—the term I use for the feeling of how my anxiety manifests and progresses—and collapses in on itself.

And when you get to the end: to the flaming, burning wreck that is the talk or the meeting or the conversation, you can’t own that wreck. I mess up all the time. Part of the business of being a researcher and a scholar is making mistakes. My “favourite” was the fifth talk I gave as a PhD student, in which I went in completely unprepared for the audience to which I was speaking  (an occupational hazard for a multidisciplinary scholar). Everything went horribly, hilariously awry.

But on that day in 2009, I could go “yup, that’s my mistake. Damn, what a clusterf*ck.” But by early 2011, I’d come out of meetings with my supervisor going “how did that happen?” I’d spend the day in shock (or in tears), totally overwhelmed by the loss of control over myself.[2]

Anxiety—my anxiety—also undermines the good with the bad. It takes away your ability to own your successes. In my graduate years I published a swathe of articles on a variety of topics, from military ethics and biosecurity, to the philosophies of dignity and friendship. I also edited a thirty chapter volume on the ethics of war with my officemate. These are decent accomplishments for a graduate student trying to make it through their dissertation. But throughout,  each success was muted or simply taken away from me by the sense that it had all been luck and charlatanry. That it was only a matter of time before I’d be discovered.

Both sides of that coin are pernicious in the extreme. It is important to own mistakes and celebrate victories. Getting roasted by your peers should be cause for reflection; passing peer-review for the first time should be a great feeling for a grad student.

It shouldn’t be something that causes even more anxiety.


  1. A billboard-sized disclaimer. I’m not writing as a counsellor, or as a professional psychologist or psychiatrist. I’m not writing as a sociologist, an anthropologist, or any other person who studies anxiety empirically. None of my anecdotes are data, and none of the things I went through—go through—to break my own personal demons are recipes I can endorse for others. These are just the experiences of a former grad student, trying to process what he experienced and share it with others. I’ve argued that we have a responsibility for what we write, and I want to make clear that I can barely take care of my own mental health issues, much less give advice to anyone else.  ↩
  2. Of course, it really didn’t help that the ANU kicked my department out of the university that year. That’s another, much angrier story.  ↩

Who is responsible for all those cranks?

So a running theme in my work is responsibility for communication—how we understand our obligations to communicate truthfully, accurately, and with the ends we seek. So it was with great interest that I watched Suzanne E. Franks (TSZuska), Kelly Hills (Rocza), and Janet D. Stemwedel (Docfreeride) hold a conversation in the wake of Virgina Heffernan’s “Why I’m a creationist.” I’m not going to spoil the amazing train-wreck that is Heffernan’s post; if you’d like to see some of the fireworks that ensued you should head across to watch the fallout as Thomas Levenson and Carl Zimmer got stuck in.

The conversation between Franks, Hills, and Stemwedel is interesting, I think, for the way they navigated Heffernan’s alleged status as a Foucauldian, and how this linked up with issues with postmodernism more generally. Postmodernism is an area I’ll leave to the experts above; what interests me is how we connect the bad apples, the cranks, and the downright malevolent with broader criticism of a field.

I’ll work with my own field, the analytic tradition of moral and political philosophy. It has all sorts of bad apples and problematic characters: we seem destined (the horror) to include people like Robert Nozick. Now I am about as anti-Nozick as it gets, but I can’t deny that he was an American political philosopher from the same cohort as John Rawls; someone whose theories are not so important to me as is one of his students, whom I count as a friend and mentor. I feel I have to kind of have to grind my teeth and allow Nozick as part of the “family,” albeit not a part I much like.

But do I have to own responsibility for every obnoxious kid that reads Nozick? And takes him seriously? Yikes. That sounds terrible. Yet perhaps in some cases I do—if there is a professor out there teaching that Anarchy, State and Utopia is God’s Divine Word, I’m probably stuck with their students as a product of my field’s “sins.” 

I will hang my head cop the criticism that analytic philosophy has produced a frightening amount of first-rate assholes in its time.

Will I, however, take responsibility for right-wing libertarians and their fascination with Adam Smith’s “invisible hand?” I’m hesitant—primarily because most libertarians just casually gloss over The Theory of Moral Sentiments and run straight for The Wealth of Nations, and that just seems like intellectual laziness and cherry-picking at its worst. I can be held for bad writing; bad theories improperly rebuffed; or teaching that is antiquated, bigoted, or just wrongheaded. But it is much harder, I think, to say that I am responsible because a whole group of people found it inconvenient to read the other half of a body of work.

These, I think demonstrate a (non-exhaustive) series of relations we might have with certain elements of our intellectual movements and traditions, who use common language to achieve results that don’t sit right with us.

We could, of course, just reject that someone is properly part of our practice. This is, I’ve no doubt, as much political as it is a question of whether someone’s practice possesses the necessary or sufficient conditions to be classed as part of one’s group—we want to be able to say that some practices that take our name are simply Doing It Wrong. Yet we don’t want to allow just anyone to get away with that at any time–it removes a powerful and often legitimate critique of being able to point at an element of some set of people and go “they are a problem, and they are indicative of some larger issue.”

Another way we could approach this is to say “well that’s an instance of Bad X, but Bad X is not the same as X being bad.” That’s an important part of managing a field’s boundaries. The problem, of course, comes in identifying at what point instances of Bad X become signs of X being bad. My co-supervisor, Seumas Miller, has done work on institutional corruption that I think would be interesting to apply here, but that’s a paper in itself.

Finally, we could acknowledge and go “that’s not just an instance of bad X, but a sign that there is something wrong with the way we practice or communicate X. We should fix that.” I’ve talked before about the need for responsibility in science writing, and that applies to my field as much as any other.

Which of these is Heffernan? Is she Just Doing It Wrong, a bad po-mo (but not evidence of po-mo being bad), or a sign of something more problematic? I don’t know. Franks, Hills, and Stemwedel, I think, cover all three possibilities. Maybe Heffernan is a combination, a hybrid, or something altogether than these three distinctions I’ve made.

I’ve thrown the original chat up in Storify for anyone who wants to see the source I’m working from. It has been edited inexpertly, but I hope not leaving anything important out (though I did leave out an entertaining discussion on Foucault and Emo-pop that you’ll have to track down on Twitter). You can find it here.