I was quickly proven wrong.
A chronic back injury caused stabbing pains in my legs, and it naturally impacted my studies. For two years, I walked with a cane, could not sit comfortably, and consulted every medical specialist around. I needed accommodations in class and lab, encountering bewilderment and often cruelty from the people around me. Even though I slowly recovered mobility thanks to Chinese medicine and physical therapy, I couldn’t forget how chronic pain had made me feel. In this book, I wanted to depict complexity in how Ver navigates the world: her disability doesn’t mean she’s any less of a person, it doesn’t define her, and yet she has the right to search for ways to ease her own existence and that of others with her condition.
As I continued in my science career, I learned that to some people, what was in my brain didn’t matter as much as how I looked. Neuroscience is a male-dominated field. On top of being a woman, I was also Chinese American. It felt like no professor wanted me in his lab. When I was bullied or excluded because of my gender and skin color, the university did nothing. After a year and a half of searching for a scientific home, I joined a lab that gave me a chance to do exciting science on mosquito brains, tracing the neurons and synapses that enable them to sense human prey. But I will always empathize with many of the challenges faced by scientists with identities outside the “norm.”
Science must include everyone. Science is better when everyone participates, as Ver and Aryl show with their investigations. Soon, I hope, people of all identities will be welcome to illuminate our world without questioning whether they’re the “right” kind of person. We are a long way from that ideal. Maybe things will get better.
Maybe people like you are going to make it better.