On May 28, on the northwestern outskirts of Tucson, Arizona, biologist Rafe Sagarin went for an evening bike ride. He intended to spend the night at the nearby Biosphere 2 facility, where he hoped to one day build a living model of the Gulf of California. He was, as always, full of plans and ideas—for himself, for his family, for his students, for the world. Shortly after 6:30 p.m., a driver, allegedly impaired, swerved off the road and hit Rafe from behind. Rafe died that evening. He was 43.
There are hundreds, maybe thousands, of people who would call themselves friends of Rafe’s. I’m one of them. Rafe was a source who became a friend and colleague, someone I saw infrequently but always thought of with fondness and respect. Over the decade that I knew him, he often gave me hope for the fields I cover most. He often gave me hope, period.
Many people have written lovely remembrances of Rafe elsewhere, including here, here, and here. I’d like to add a few words to what has already been said.
Is your cat slowly killing you? Here’s why you should…SQUIRREL! Haha, so cute
You won’t believe the 17 ways you’re doing online science journalism wrong! Number 25 will make you cry[1]
Are you a long-time science journalist? Maybe just starting your career and seeking exposure? Maybe only have a vague idea of what science even is? In today’s online marketplace, it doesn’t matter. If you can write quickly about the “science” behind semi-nude celebrities or speculate wildly about “Jurassic World,” there’s a gig for you – quality, accuracy, and payment are purely optional.
In the scramble to the bottom, it’s not about the valid blog or high-profile post that helps you increase your personal brand, or about the passion project that you want to see published despite the abysmal rate. It’s about ridiculous offers made by media companies that would have been laughed at a decade ago but are now being made in all seriousness, and about the devaluing of actual news and facts in favor of fluffy entertainment.
Not one to be left behind, I decided to give the new model a test drive.
I was recently made aware of a very special opportunity that’s so amazing I couldn’t wait to share it with other science writers: To earn the same $1,000 payment that journalists once received 20 years ago for writing a single 1,000-word article, all I have to do is post “a few” online articles. I know, unbelievable, right? OK, so “a few” equals 17 in this case, but who’s counting when you’re having fun?[2]
Oh, and I need to share them through every social media platform known to humanity (anyone know how to use Plurk or Skoob? Anyone?) because online science writing has now become an incredibly exciting competition! That’s right, think of it as a marginally kinder and gentler “Hunger Games” for journalists. You see, my pay is contingent on each post being in the top 10% of all articles every month. Plus, if I’m one of the lucky six writers with the most points, I earn the unheard-of bonus of $150![3]Continue reading →
We begin with a backward glance to a favorite post of Christie’s about the distance between email and postcard on the spectrum of serendipitous stumblings-upon.
Cassie plans a camping trip to the idyllic Apostle Islands. Then she finds out they are crawling with bears.
Guest Jennie Dusheck writes to the Pope about revising the Church’s stance on contraception. The letter arrives at the Vatican in time for the Encyclical on climate change.
Sunday is Father’s Day, a national holiday built around the giving and receiving of ugly ties, power tools and camping gear. I’ve always felt that Father’s Day is a sort of second class holiday – an awkward “me too” to Mother’s Day that is just a tick above Administrative Professionals’ Day (4/22/15) and Fairy Day (6/24/15).
Probably that’s because we don’t have a concept of what Father’s Day is. I mean, Mother’s Day is when we make breakfast in bed and treat Mom like a queen. And who helps us with that task (or rather attempts to salvage the meal and literally put out fires)? Usually Dad. But there is no such tradition, no ceremonial flavor, to Father’s Day. Breakfast in bed? Forget it, the guy gets up at like 6AM. Treat him like a king? Sure, in that you can be an indentured servant and work in the backyard (Father’s Day is a great opportunity to catch up on gardening).
Sunday will be my first Father’s Day as an actual father, though my child has not yet opened his/her eyes in the womb. And just like I’m confused about what Father’s Day should be, I’m confused about what it means to be an expecting father. My wife (and Cassie for that matter) has daily reminders of strange and amazing changes in her body. She walks down the street and people see immediately what she is and, at least here in Mexico, they give her a special kind of respect.
But no one looks at me and says, “awww, when are you due?” I can’t rub my belly and have an immediate connection with my baby. I’m not even showing yet.
“I have an idea,” said my friend Chris. We often walk and talk briskly together in the California beach town where we live. Not long before, we’d talked about how the Earth’s huge population is a major contributor to global warming. So I was only slightly amazed when she followed up with, “I think we should write to the pope.”
Although Vatican City has no families and a fertility rate of zero children per family, the Catholic Church opposes contraception. As leader of the Church, the pope has the power to make women half a world away bear children they do not want and which the world does not need. Would it do any good to ask him to change that policy? I wasn’t convinced. But I loved the idea of writing a letter that might move a pontiff and help save the world.
I knew the Vatican of the last few decades cared about science, accepting evolution and the Big Bang, for example, and sheepishly forgiving Galileo in 1992 (it takes guts to admit you were wrong). And the Pontifical Academy of Sciences, in the Casina Pio IV (shown above), looks like a great place for a sabbatical.
Chris wrote up a draft of a letter to His Holiness, tactfully pointing out that the Catholic Church has a pivotal role to play in solving the problem of global warming. I added facts, references, and polish.
We had plenty of time. Our deadline was the encyclical on climate change to be released in the summer of 2015. That was a year away, a balmy summer and a dry winter away. Continue reading →
My fascination with bears began on a family road trip from Wisconsin to Yellowstone. To pass the time, my parents and I took turns reading from a book whose title now escapes me. Was it “Bear Attacks”? Or “When Man Becomes Prey”? Well, you get the gist. It was gruesome and terrifying, a delicious read when one is safely tucked inside a moving vehicle. But later, alone in my tent with only a thin sheet of nylon between me and the bear-ridden blackness, the most devastating passages came back to haunt me.
I’m no idiot. I didn’t bring any food into the tent. But my pants, no doubt infused with the heady scent of hot dogs and toasted marshmallows, lay wadded near the flap. So I worried. My ears strained to hear everything—every creak, every snuffle, every twig snap. Even the tiniest noises echoed through the still air like the crack of a gunshot. Near dawn I drifted into a fitful sleep punctuated by dreams of bear maulings.
I never encountered a bear that trip. But last summer when I visited the Apostle Islands, an archipelago that juts out from Wisconsin’s northernmost tip into the deep blue of Lake Superior, memories of that terrifying book flooded back. My husband and I had reserved an idyllic and isolated campsite on Sand Island, part of the Apostle Islands National Lakeshore. We planned to kayak there. For weeks I had been nervous about the kayaking. Lake Superior is cold, and I am woefully inexperienced. But as I read up on the islands, a new worry emerged: The Apostle Islands are positively riddled with black bears. Continue reading →
There are two ways of reading, according to my local primary school teachers. You can sound out the words or you can just look at the pictures and infer a story. Of course, this position encourages exposure to text for non-readers, but the idea pervades adult culture too. Scanning photos and skimming headlines passes for reading the paper.
I dispute it. A picture may tell a thousand words, but those words will be a limited subset of the language, not representative of what words can do. In recent years, talented graphic designers and video editors have made spectacular multimedia pieces possible. But in many cases, more viscerally stimulating media desensitize the reader from his task of immersing himself in the writing and creating the pictures in his own mind. Continue reading →
A friend recently sent me a postcard from her overseas trip. The card reached me long after I’d seen her photographs on Facebook. By the time it arrived, she was back home in Washington DC. Still, I was delighted to receive the handwritten note. The thing about Facebook posts is that they’re broadcast to everyone. The postcard was personal, a note to say that she’d thought of me. It wasn’t necessary, and I didn’t expect that she’d have me on her mind as she was enjoying a vacation with some other friends. So the fact that she’d taken the time to send a personal note felt dear. Personal connections like these feel especially meaningful in the digital age. Sure, emails can be wonderful, but they can also be cut and pasted. Handwriting, well, it’s one of a kind. Just like my dear friend.
I’ve always loved postcards and hand-written letters, and thinking of about why reminded me of a post I published back in 2012 about what we’ve lost in the digital cloud. It’s reprinted below.
On May 28, on the northwestern outskirts of Tucson, Arizona, biologist Rafe Sagarin went for an evening bike ride. He intended to spend the night at the nearby Biosphere 2 facility, where he hoped to one day build a living model of the Gulf of California. He was, as always, full of plans and ideas—for himself, for his family, for his students, for the world. Shortly after 6:30 p.m., a driver, allegedly impaired, swerved off the road and hit Rafe from behind. Rafe died that evening. He was 43.
