We just launched a new undergraduate program in Science Communication at Stevens, and I continue agonizing over what I should teach. When I asked the science editor for a major publication the skills his company looks for in new hires, he replied, “Video.” His company, he explained, is increasingly dependent on revenue from online video ads for cars, computers, cell phones, and other expensive items. The companies running these video ads want them linked to video journalism.
I’ve never done video journalism. My students no doubt know more about making videos than I do, which isn’t saying much. I’m trying to convince myself that my shortcomings aren’t fatal, and that I can fulfill the description of my course “Introduction to Science Communication”:
Students will learn basic skills required for researching, analyzing, and communicating science-related topics, especially those with important ethical, political, and economic implications… The course will help students become more astute consumers of scientific information, prepare them for careers in science journalism and/or science communication for corporate, governmental and nonprofit organizations, and teach engineering and science majors how to communicate more effectively to peers and the public.
This paragraph is dense with assumptions, so let me unpack them a bit. First, “science communication” encompasses a vast range of activities: a journalist like me blogging about cancer tests, an astrophysicist giving a press conference about Earth-sized planets beyond our solar system, an Eli Lilly salesman pitching a new antidepressant to a psychiatrist.
The course description above also acknowledges, implicitly, that few Stevens students want to become full-time science communicators; most view communication as a skill that can augment their careers in engineering, science, and business.
My reference to students becoming “more astute consumers of scientific information” is especially important. All of us, whether or not we are full-time or part-time science communicators, should be informed about issues like global warming, genetically modified food, and Cybersecurity. Right?
Being a smart consumer requires assessing the credibility – and weighing the risks and benefits – of scientific claims. In other words, you need a good bullshit detector. My hope is that my students, if they enter science-related professions, will also switch their bullshit detectors on themselves, and consider the social, political, and ethical implications of their own work.
So here is how I’ve convinced myself that I’m qualified to teach science communication: first, I’ve decided – yes, self-servingly – that writing is and always will be the most important form of science communication. I also have a pretty good bullshit-detector, in part because I have seen so many bogus scientific claims come and go.
Of course, my bullshit-detector isn’t infallible, and my writing style, sadly, doesn’t appeal to everyone. To compensate for my shortcomings, I thus expose my students to lots of other science communicators, who employ different methods for finding, assessing, and transmitting information. Some speak to my classes; others give talks to the entire university.
The journalist Andrew Revkin recently gave a terrific public “talk” at Stevens about environmental communication. I put quotation marks around “talk” above because Andy didn’t just talk. He also showed us photographs and blog posts and videos, and he wrapped things up by pulling out his guitar and singing a rousing song about carbon. Talk about multimedia communication!
Revkin left me feeling more upbeat about science communication. I’ve decided that my uncertainty is a feature, not a bug. I’m going to experiment in my classes, and to encourage my students to do the same. After all, good science communicators, like Revkin, tend to be experimenters, always seeking new ways to enlighten, exhort, provoke, persuade.
I’ve even decided to incorporate video journalism into my courses. I’m going to make my students present video versions of their final papers and teach me how they did it.
John Horgan directs the Center for Science Writings, which is part of the College of Arts & Letters. This column is adapted from one originally published on his Scientific American blog, “Cross-check.”
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