Feb 28, 2023
Colleen McDermott stands at a microphone telling their story of working on a forestry crew in New Mexico during summer of 2021. (Photos: Michael Thomas)
Prior to February 13, the last time I’d stepped before a packed room with the intent to entertain had been twelve years ago. Back in third grade, I had somewhat of a one-person comedy show during lunchtime, where on the regular I would take the microphone customarily used by teachers to direct traffic flow and tell knock-knock jokes to the cafeteria. I’ve always cringed at that memory. I am far less outgoing now. Far less of a performer. And yet on a recent Monday night, I stood alone onstage at St. Louis Public Radio, looking out over a full audience and praying that hammy, uninhibited eight-year-old was still in me somewhere.
I was first introduced to The Story Collider last summer, during my undergraduate fellowship at Tyson. Sometime near the end of July, my mentor Susan Flowers had forwarded me one of their applications calling for storytellers and encouraged me to try my luck.
The Story Collider is an organization dedicated to stories about science. Every month, at shows across the US, UK, and Canada, speakers from all backgrounds share tales from their own lives to a live audience. The stories can be about anything, can be tear-jerking or funny or scary or inspiring. The only requirements are that they must be real, and they must “...reveal the vibrant role that science plays in all of our lives…” (The Story Collider).
I was immediately taken by the idea. This was the same summer I was working on Humans of Tyson, an annual project that showcases the personalities and experiences of Tyson’s research community. I was enamored by the ways the humanities could be combined with science. And so on a spare afternoon I typed up a two-paragraph pitch, sent the proposal away to its destined slush pile, and promptly forgot about the entire endeavor…all until one morning in November, when I awoke to an email from a Story Collider producer saying they loved my story and hoped to feature me in an upcoming show.
It was a whirlwind from there: a long series of email chains, virtual meetings, Word docs sent back and forth. I drafted and redrafted my story. I practiced it in the shower, in front of my mirror. I would be speaking about the summer of 2021 I spent working on a forestry crew in New Mexico, all the challenges of being a young, queer female in a hypermasculine field. I love to regale anyone who will listen with the positive, funny memories from those three months - of which there are so, so many - but this particular aspect of the summer has always been deeply personal. The story I planned to tell is doused in my identity, in my insecurities. Part of me balked at the thought of giving it away to an audience of strangers.
Fortunately, eight-year-old Colleen did come through in the end. The show was a rousing success, complete with a cheering section made up of Tyson people, the WashU Environmental Studies program’s Dr. Suzanne Loui, and a couple of my friends. And in the weeks since, I have had time to reflect on the experience and the power of storytelling in science. These are my takeaways:
1. Science is everywhere, and it belongs to everyone
Throughout the editing process, the producer I was working with urged me to highlight the role of science in my story more. This was the whole point of The Story Collider, after all, and I couldn’t figure out why I was having so much trouble until I realized I never really thought of my experience as “scientific” to begin with. Science, to me, has always evoked images of laboratories, test tubes, and white coats. Compared to that, cutting down trees and hauling logs doesn’t seem like too academic of a task.
But conservation is a science. Sure, as I mentioned in my story, in the family tree of STEM environmental science is sort of like the weird, dirty cousin, but I think I like it better that way. It means that science does not have to be hidden behind elitist walls. It means everybody engages with it, every day. Planting flowers is science. Watching birds out the window is science. And the more we tell these kinds of science stories, the ones that don’t take place in a lab, wearing a white coat, the more we can appreciate the role it plays in our lives.
2. Stories about exclusion in STEM are relatable (but they shouldn’t have to be)
The great contradiction of my Story Collider experience: the elation I felt when people told me how much my story resonated with them, and the disappointment that festered when I realized exactly what that meant.
The lowest point of my story happened during my week of backcountry training for that forester job, when a tree I was felling almost squashed me flat. Afterwards, as I sat on a rock in the woods and cried, I thought to myself that a person like me was not supposed to be in a position like this, and I tried to come up with a way to get sent back home. Luckily, I pushed through and eventually found a passion in the field of forestry. For so many others, however, they never get the chance to find that joy in science. As much as we have seen recent leaps and bounds in improving diversity in STEM, it is clear there is still a long way to go. If we are to address the looming, existential environmental issues threatening the planet, we have to also work towards dismantling the barriers that keep women, queer people, people of color, and other underrepresented groups from contributing to the conversation.
In that sense, storytelling could be a social force more powerful than we tend to realize. Obviously it is not going to take down the patriarchy or white supremacy culture on its own, but it can spread a sense of solidarity. Remind those struggling that they are not alone. Ensure that issues of exclusion will not - cannot - be ignored any longer.
3. Trust in the goodness of people
As I said, it was pretty daunting to share such a personal story with so many people, but the audience that night at St. Louis Public Radio was just amazing. They laughed at my jokes (eight-year-old Colleen has still got it). I saw people smiling and nodding along the whole time as I talked (now I know why my professors love those so-called “active listeners” in class). Even when my mouth went comically dry at one point and I lost all ability to enunciate, pausing for a minute as Susan ran my water bottle to the stage, we all rolled with it together (thanks, Susan!). I remember when I finished, as the room roared with applause, I stepped offstage to see a gruff-looking older man in the front row, with long gray hair and a beard, flash me a thumbs-up and a smile. As I walked past, he said, “Amazing. Amazing job.”
And in that way, maybe live storytelling is a lot like science too. Just as in science, there are always going to be unexpected variables during a performance. But also as in science, oftentimes the experience is defined not necessarily by the work you’re doing but the people you’re with - there to help you along when the plan veers off-script.
About the author
Colleen McDermott is an undergraduate at Washington University in St. Louis studying environmental analysis and writing. They created Placemaking Tyson during summer 2022 and currently serve Tyson as Communications Associate.