I was an afterthought.
When I walked into a room of professional scientists and engineers, they addressed my male field producer first. They introduced themselves to my cameraman first. They showed off their fancy spacecraft to our audio guy before including me in the conversation. I was the host of the show—the girl in four pounds of makeup and three-inch heels. But I was an afterthought, sometimes ignored entirely. They didn’t realize that I was the only one in the group who had spent years learning about ion propulsion, lunar-lander technology, and different ways to design a rover’s wheel to make it survive harsh Martian conditions.
It wasn’t until I started asking about their technology with questions only a person who had studied nearly a decade in the field would be able to ask that they paid attention to me. Even then, I was once asked if the male engineers in the room fed me my technical questions. I would think, If I were a tall, burly man, would you have made that same assumption?
I was told that it was my own fault that I was ignored. I wasn’t “assertive enough” when I entered a room; I needed to “be more confident.”
The worst feeling would come on shoots when men would say, “Well, you certainly don’t look like an engineer!” Meant as a compliment, I would instead hear, “You pay attention to hair, makeup, and girly things. You couldn’t possibly have the brain capacity or interest to focus on science, too.”
I’m not saying these sorts of things were intentional. I believe they are the result of subconscious bias or, hey, maybe even social awkwardness! Perhaps the men were merely intimidated by my fabulous fake eyelashes. Experiences like these didn’t happen on every shoot. In fact, it didn’t happen most of the time. It never happened with my female experts, and I’d met a few male self-proclaimed feminists, who treated me as an equal. But every time one of these things did happen, it was a hurdle to overcome for the day, and something that would stay with me long after the shoot.
Then something funny happened. These sexist interactions started happening less and less. I suspect it was because the show started to do well. It got picked up season after season, and it won a few national awards for science education along the way. Instead of crafting pitches to persuade companies to film with us, businesses were reaching out to me requesting to be included in the next season. We’d created a science show with a solid reputation, and people were paying attention.
Our show’s reputation, and my reputation as the host, preceded us. My interview subjects would kindly ask about my time at MIT, my TEDx talk on space exploration, and my thoughts on searching for life beyond Earth. I was no longer an afterthought. I was seen as an individual with a genuine interest and basic understanding of science and space, someone whose voice mattered.
The experts began to look me in the eyes and include me in the conversation. They described their technology to me and stopped doubting the origin of my questions. All this happened … and I didn’t even have to change the way I entered the room. I walked, talked, and introduced myself just as I had done before.
THEY DIDN'T REALIZE THAT I WAS THE ONLY ONE IN THE GROUP WHO HAD SPENT YEARS LEARNING ABOUT ION PROPULSION, LUNAR-LANDER TECHNOLOGY, AND DIFFERENT WAYS TO DESIGN A ROVER'S WHEEL TO MAKE IT SURVIVE HARSH MARTIAN CONDITIONS.
PERHAPS THE MEN WERE MERELY INTIMIDATED BY MY FABULOUS FAKE EYELASHES.
Today women often have to work just a little bit harder to get included in the conversation, to sit at the table, or to be afforded the same credibility as their male peers.
When it comes to STEM, the bias can be even stronger. People seem to believe that women must be one-dimensional in their interests and surprised when girls can love coding and Kylie Jenner’s new lip kit. We can fight cancer in the lab and get our nails done in the salon. And, of course, we can have a deep appreciation for fake lashes while understanding the significance of rocket reusability for the space industry.