I Would Never Have the Patience

I am easily bored. And distracted. And… oh, sorry. What was I saying? I think a cat wandered by the window.

Anyway, I think of myself as a person without much patience, tending to want instant results, unwilling to put in the time. I suspect that some of you who have known me for a long time and have watched me change “careers” every three years think of me the same way. But I’m starting to think that maybe this particular part of my self-image is inaccurate. Certainly I am easily bored. And frustrated. I don’t suffer organizational politics gladly, and I find that hours and hours of commuting to get to a job drains my life force, no matter how much I love the job in question.

When I spent the weekend knitting in public, I heard the comment again and again, “Oh, I would never have the patience.” I have found myself saying the same thing to people over things that look so repetitive that I’d just need to… well. Quit.

I think that we are not using the word to refer to the same thing. I am certainly willing to wait for outcomes; I have grown garlic and leeks, and planted asparagus four times without a harvest to show yet after 12 years (I’m sure that the fourth time is the charm). I can put in the hours: I have knit five pairs of socks, several scarves, and a couple of sweaters in the last year.  I have procreated and made life choices that involve spending significant amount of time with small people whose main goal in life is to test the boundaries of their egos against mine. I can even keep my cool in challenging situations. Some of the time.

I do finish stuff. I undertake enormous projects like degrees, or technical specifications, or complete course designs. But medium-sized projects are most promising. I think I excel at the 200 hour project, not the 2000 or 10,000 hour one. I want something tangible to show at the end of it all, which is why I am willing to spend 30 hours wrestling 2500 words into a reasonable order. But I’m willing to revisit a particularly thorny intellectual problem year after year after year, as long as I feel like I’m making progress.

What I don’t have the patience for is the interminable tasks – the laundry, the dishes, the accounting. These are the ones that are never finished, and for which we have nothing to show, because other people come along and undo our work before we have completed the task. There is nothing that makes me snap so effectively as walking away from a clean counter to hang up the dishcloth and coming back to find that somebody has placed something on my new work surface in the intervening 15 seconds. Demoralizing. Unless it is the colleague that is withholding information or professional contacts to maintain control of a project. Infuriating. I’ve had both those kinds of jobs. And I can say without a doubt, I don’t have the patience.

The Festival of Lights, Rural Style

I went to our local Santa Claus parade this evening. It was pouring rain and we had trouble finding the float that the kids were supposed to be on. There were about 20 floats altogether, including the fire trucks from the nearest three volunteer fire departments (hopefully nothing burned or crashed during the parade!) Some of the floats were nothing more than decorated utility trailers pulled behind SUV’s. But they were done up beautifully, made into boats and sheds and houses and stories, wound with lights and improved with added sound systems. And I found myself standing at the side of the road, dripping wet, waving back at the drivers and the enthusiastic singers, and crying with happiness.

There is nothing cynical or artificial about this parade. There is no sneering nod to sophistication, nor are they trying to be quaint (as much of the culture is in this locale, being a major tourist destination.) This is creating a parade for the sheer joy of it all, for the sake of homemade cakes, hot chocolate and a big pine tree beside the fire department lit up for the season. This is the world I live in now, and it runs to this day on the strength of the volunteer fire department and the ladies’ guilds of various types.

I’m not from here, and I probably never will be. Not quite. But sometimes it is enough to bask in the reflected glow of the people who are.

These Books Matter

When I took a course on Race, Culture, and schooling at grad school, the instructor’s main goal as stated was not to get us to “do” multiculturalism better, but to examine the very nature of discourse on race, ethnicity, and class. That course changed everything for me: it changed my reading practices, it changed the way I think about culture, it changed my ideas about research methods, truth claims, and identity politics. So many of the racialized images we see are of poverty, inner city crime, gang violence, and the “exotic other”, and they encourage a perpetuation of essentialist ideas. I don’t like talking about race, but the fact that I think I have a choice is why it is part of my work.To be honest,  I’ve also sat on this post for three weeks, just in case I’d screwed it up. But, as I have said before, It only gets better if we do something about it.

I didn’t pick up the button for my Blog Action Day post, nor did I snag any photos of women carrying huge burdens of water on their heads. If you have ever read anything I’ve written, or met me, you will know that it is not that I don’t want these situations alleviated. It is that I fear that images like this evoke pity, not solidarity.  And I will be darned if the only picture of a person of colour on my blog is an image of poverty and pathos.

I also avoid reading explicitly “multicultural” books to my kids. Multiculturalism may be better than allowing a tacit assumption that everybody is white, middle-class, Christian, able-bodied, and male. But it is a step on the path, not the solution itself. As a person with some invisible othernesses, I don’t find myself accurately represented, so I deduce that they are probably not doing a very good job for others. When I choose to read a book to my kids about people that don’t fall into the same categories as us, I try to make sure that it was actually written by a member of the group that is represented.

These books matter to me, because my children are growing up white. Really, really, white. In this rural area, we are at risk of staying stuck in 1956, where everybody looks like us, does what we do, and believes what we believe. (Clearly, the last is not true, since we are not actually members of the dominant culture around here, but let’s assume that is a risk.) So I try to make sure that my babies see diverse images in which diversity is not the point. These books matter because they normalize the idea that urban kids with dark skin go out and play in the snow. And have fun. And play tickle with their moms and dads. I am assured that they also matter to urban kids with dark skin who get to see themselves represented.

I was just reading a book by a white male author who was reflecting on his own childhood reading. (I will not name names, because I’m about to say something Not Very Nice about him, and he’s trying.) He was questioning the idea that girls want to see girls in their picture books and African Americans want to read about African Americans, because he remembers wanting to read about people different from himself. And I thought, “Ah, yes. But you had the option.” There are white boys that are heroes, and white boys that go on adventures, and do magic, and drive cars, and write books, and give wells to the “third world”. They get to be the villains, and the ones who fly in Peter Pan, and Treasure Island, and Where the Wild Things Are, and Harry Potter.

We talk about race, and the way it is portrayed. But more important for me is to include situations in which race is present, but only incidentally. This work is hard. But that is no excuse not to do it.

The Magic of Eleven

I have an eleven-year old child. He has the advantage and disadvantage of being the oldest, which means that at every age he is taking me through another page of motherhood. I have been blessed with a most gentle journey, with a most gentle soul, so with him as my guide, I’ve been able to say honestly at every age, “THIS. This is the best age ever”. I’ll admit that with the younger ones, I sometimes look forward to the passage of particular stages. Like Three. Three is hard. But when he was three, I didn’t know how much easier four would be, and I was so astonished by his emerging language, preferences, and desires that the obstinacy of the three year old was less prominent. I will try to remember this magic with my new three-year-old.

Now he is eleven, and I can see that he is on the cusp of the teenage years. I don’t know what comes next, but this age is perfect, just like all the others were. He comes up to my chin, so when he sits in my lap he goes all the way down to the floor. He’s had three growth spurts since February, and his next pair of shoes is going to have to come from the men’s department. In all likelihood, he has already spent more than half the time he ever will spend living with me in my house. He is not my baby any more, but he is still my child.

Somewhere in the last couple of years the nightly bedtime story ritual became disrupted when we both realized that a) he reads faster to himself than we can do it aloud, and b) the books he is reading are too scary or too gross for Mom. He is particularly entranced by Percy Jackson and Artemis Fowl, and is on the second (or third) pass through both series. His usual reading involves trips to the underworld, monsters, and swords. But a couple of nights ago I was reading a book of stories to the younger pair, one tucked under each arm, and he came around the corner. “Oooh!” he said. “Can you read the one with Too Many Mice???” So he settled in with me, all my babies in a big pile, and we read about Too Many Mice. And he chortled, and snuggled, and kissed us all goodnight. And then he went to read some more stories about kids battling monsters to keep themselves alive, dancing back and forth between staying children and growing up. And it’s all just right.

Hanging with The Artists

I had a brief flirtation with the arts community this weekend. I got to be the helper in the booth for one of my friends who makes really fabulous pottery. (You can see it at her blog over here: http:\\lizziespots.blogspot.com) I got to demonstrate my vicarious understanding of the vagaries of hand-building vs. thrown and porcelain vs. stoneware. My comprehension isn’t going to win any awards, but it can sell a few pots. I got to knit in public and call it work. (She happens to make some spectacular yarn bowls) My socks were admired.

But the best effect hanging with people who live creatively was that I got to practice introducing myself as a writer. I was having trouble before I left. I hit a big ol’ Wall of Resistance, otherwise known as Writer’s Block. Wrote myself so badly into a corner that I couldn’t see the way out, and I no longer believed what I had started out to argue. While this may be developmentally promising, it does not produce a convincing a story to send to an editor. Having left my job at the library, though, I had nothing else to fall back on when people said, “And what do you do?” So I took a deep breath, and I said, “I’m a writer.”

And the world did not stop turning, and nobody rolled their eyes, and people took me seriously. “What do you write?” Oh. That’s a harder one, because I’m not currently being *paid* to write, and pretty much… you’re looking at it. But I realized some time ago that most of the corporate and university contracts that I’ve had since 2000 were actually professional writing. So I used that as a jumping off point, said that I’m in the middle of a transition to magazine writing because my real passion is in long-form journalism, and it rang true in my heart as it fell from my lips.

The weekend included several hours in the car with a working artist, and an agreement to honour my creative work.With this stage set, I arrived home to discover an application package for a one-year Journalism program. I did request this, or at least tip my hand to the recruitment officer, so it’s not QUITE the universe dropping things on my doorstep. This time. The program has an 8 week core, followed by three six-week workshops, and they have options in Narrative Non-fiction, Radio broadcasting, and online writing (as well as television and newspaper). Technically and professionally, it is exactly what I need to make this transition cleanly.

I have only two concerns. One is that there is a number of degree programs beyond which one is definitely mockable, and this might put me over the tipping point. I’m pretty sure I already passed it, though, so mayhaps it is not really an issue. Also, money, shmoney. Once you’ve hit six figures on your post-secondary education, another $10,000 here or there starts to feel like noise.

The other is that it involves leaving my babies for a couple of weeks at a time and only being home on weekends for 8 months. The youngest will be 4 and a half by next September, so it is not completely out of the question. Just… I was only gone for 5 days, and I REALLY wanted to get home this weekend. There was a prolonged snuggle before sleep this evening, and I left the two younger ones in my bed to maximize my time soaking up their beautiful presence. However, I have extracted myself with a promise to get out of the corner I’m written into before the end of the day tomorrow.

Because the babies are doing just fine sleeping without me. And sometimes the most important part of the creative process is just showing up.

There Ain’t No Such Thing as a Free Pet

It started with tadpoles. Ordinary, run of the mill, free from the pond up the road, tadpoles. They arrived home in a rubbermaid container, or a yogurt container, or something plastic, small and cheap. But the kids wanted to keep the tadpoles, and see them turn into frogs.

This seemed like a reasonable science project, so I went out and got a 5 gallon fish tank (that’s the smallest kind). Tadpoles eat pond slime and occasional bits of lettuce, so these actually were a pretty cheap pet. So far, we were only about $20 in the hole. After several weeks, we noticed that the tadpoles weren’t doing very much, so I had a look around on the internet and discovered that this particular type of frog might stay tadpoles for up to two years. They were kind of boring, and the temperature was dropping, and I wanted them back in the pond while they were still able to get resettled for winter. (Let us just pretend that most tadpoles don’t get eaten, shall we?) But after we sent the tadpoles on their way, we had this fishtank.

See where this is heading?

So, since this is a long and boring story involving increasing levels of minor expenses adding up to a tank that is worth about 20 times what we paid for the fish inside… let us cut to this afternoon. I was on the phone with my mother, and noticed the fishtank, gone! “Where’s the fishtank?” I asked my husband. “Well, there’s a story to that.” “Do we still have fish?” I asked.

“Yup,” he said. “And three-quarters of a fishtank.”

Let us just say that it is not a great idea to set a preschooler up with a fish craft next to a tank with a marble lid. (Cause of the cats. Ask me what happened to the first set of fish.) He gets ideas. Bad ideas. Ideas involving taking a closer look at the actual fish while you’re out of the room. By moving the too heavy marble lid. ‘Nuff said.

So after dinner (and Taekwondo), I set off for town in search of a replacement tank, which was sweetly discounted 50%, but is 4 times the size of the tank I started with. This resulted in two hours of work to set up the tank, including moving several pieces of furniture and nationalizing my son’s desk. By some time tomorrow morning we can get the fish out of the bathtub and into a much nicer environment with a lid that actually was designed for the tank. As a bonus, we get our pastry board back in the kitchen. Maybe I can pretend that makes it a bargain.

In a moment of solidarity, I find myself mentally apologizing to my mother for all the kittens I acquired over the years. And my husband, I guess, since I still haven’t solved my cat addiction.

Now (I murmur while rubbing my hands together in glee) what kinds of new fish should I get to make the tank look a little less empty?

Poem: With Apologies to Erica Jong

With Apologies to Erica Jong

And our other foremothers who spent our childhoods
storming the gates of power
so that when we came of age, they would stand open,
gaping before us, beckoning.

And to my sisters who ran with me towards the maw,
firmly convinced that this.
This.
was the key to it all.

And when we found ourselves standing, surrounded,
by paper, and power, and politics,
Looking longingly out the windows of our 14-th floor offices
and wistfully whispering, “Is that all there is?”
We balked,
We talked,
We walked.

Thank you Erica Jong.
We conquered our fears, we flew.
And without that we never would have known to ask,
Why only some get to fly.

My feminism asks different questions than,
How do we seize and hold the slippery reins of power?

Like, Who holds them? And Why?
And why do they care so much?
And, what if… we dare to ask…
what if there were no reins?

I can’t careen ahead and leave my sisters in the mud,
Or no mud, carrying water.
My liberation can’t come at the expense
Of hers, or his, or hirs.

So I went back to hold my children’s hands,
and lead them to a different kind of question.

If I want them to build a different world, I have to show them how.
If I want security for
Everybody,
I have to start at home.

We can’t become free by seizing the reins of power.
Liberation doesn’t come at the end of a gun.
It comes when
Nobody
is willing to hold it.

On the Care and Feeding of Trolls

Warning: Contains obscenities, which is almost completely uncharacteristic for me. Just in case you care.

Photo from wikimedia commons

I got a troll on twitter. Just one, and it was mild, and I did not deign to reply. I chose instead to revert to my sister’s IRL approach (which she brilliantly came up with at 14, I might add.) “You’re not worth the effort it takes to open my mouth to insult you.” It’s a good one. It confuses them. “But you just… but…” Trust me, it works. Especially if it is finished off with a flouncing departure.

The problem on the internet is that there is no flouncing departure. There’s just another comment, and another comment, and a comment conflagration, and people taking sides, and crawling into bed thinking, “But that’s not what I meant at ALL! What is wrong with those people?!?”

Emulating my brilliant and funny sister, I read the comment, ignored it, and went on with my day. At least, that’s what I *meant* to do. But he had implied that I had an eating disorder (specifically overeating) and I found myself defending my food. Again. To myself, in my head. All day long. I made a couple of tweets about it, and then followed with four days of excessive exercise, avoiding food, not eating enough… All this yoga, meditation, therapy, reading, cognitive behaviour therapy, and one miserable bastard implies an eating disorder and I’m screwed up for days. And I never even *had* an eating disorder to start with. What’s UP with that?

Well, let me put on my academic hat to do a little self-analysis. Out there on the internet. Where somebody might call me names. Again. OK, a little risky, but hey, it only gets better if we do something about it, eh?

One of the main ways that we learn about “what we are like” is through external cues. This is called mirroring, although I can’t find the reference in which I learned about it. It was somewhere in the B.Ed., I think. Anyway in this ego-driven world, almost none of us get accurate mirroring. Either we are diminished (“How could you be so stupid?” “Aren’t you *ever* going to do this better?” “How many times do I have to tell you…”) or we are unreasonably boosted, (“What a *fabulous* job!” “You’re the smartest/prettiest/best kid in the world!”) Most of us get a bit of both, just to keep us on our toes. In either case, the disconnect between what we think about our selves and what is reflected back creates cognitive dissonance. As social creatures, we are susceptible to the external validation (positive or negative) and modify our own self-image to better correspond to what we hear.

One of the things that we are encouraged to do as parents in this day and age is to provide more accurate mirroring, so that we comment only on what we see and express our own experience, without judgement. “I see that you haven’t cleaned your room as I asked you to do. I am frustrated, because I would like to play a game with you, and I think that it would be irresponsible of me to do that when your room isn’t tidy.” “You did really well on that math test. I’m proud of you, because I know how much work you put in for that.” Here’s the problem: almost nobody talks that way. I mean, sure, when we put in the effort and we are committed to clear and non-violent communication, when we have a philosophical position regarding boundaries, and the moral autonomy of the person we are speaking to, when we’ve had enough sleep and enough to eat, and we’re centred, we might be able to pull it out after practising with our kids for a few months. Or years.

But somehow, even though we know all of those things, when we encounter, “What kind of stupid bitch are you?” (or, my personal favourite, “People like you shouldn’t be allowed to have children!”) on the internet, our inner child melts. It’s not just a diminishing or negating mirror; the troll provides a distorted evil-fun-house mirror, reflects back some hideous caricature and says, “My God, how can you even live with yourself?!?” And we might be able to pull it together enough to say, “Fuck off, you miserable troll!” but the damage is done. Because that nasty little voice inside us that looks outside to say, “Am I good enough? Am I OK? Is the world OK?” has just gotten enough ammunition to turn on us.

“Aha!” it yells! “See what I said? Not good enough! Not smart enough, not sexy enough! You are a failure!!! Oh, you are disgusting, you are a waste of AIR! Oh, and BTW, the world is full of horrible people, just waiting to attack you!!! You think it’s ever going to get better??? Give up, you stupid bitch.” (Oh, it’s just me? Never mind, then.)

On the off chance that it’s not just me, let me look at dealing with the inner troll. That is more of a problem. It’s very tempting to go back to the original source of the trouble, to try to change the distorted reflection, to flatten the mirror. We get into flame wars, call names, take sides, take positions, and look for other external validation to drown out the internal troll. “All those other people agree with me. I must be OK, after all.” But you can’t grab the voice in your head by the collar and say, “Shut. The Fuck. Up.”

As difficult as it is to flounce successfully out of the room on the internet, it is impossible to do inside.

So here is why it matters not to feed the trolls: You will never win. They will never say, “Oh, you’re right, I’m being a prick. I see the error of my ways.” Never going to happen, my friend. And it consumes your energy and provides more power to the inner troll. So here is a troll practice: Do not hit send. Walk away from the computer. Sit. Breathe. Listen to the inner troll. That is the one that matters. Stroke your own head. Cry for the loss of innocence, the self-hatred, the demons that haunt you. Hug yourself, find the people who will help you back out of the dark. Again. And again. If you must, seek the outer voices that will reassure you.

But do it behind his back.

Don’t give the outer troll the power to withhold. His demons are not your responsibility, but they are using yours to feed them.Starve them out. Take your power back.

Gluons Make me Dance

In a long ago meme in blogland, people offered to write posts about things that they don’t usually talk about. One of my friends going through old LJ posts asked me to write about the Standard Model of Physics. So here we go…

“At this final stage you teach me that this wondrous and multicoloured universe can be reduced to the atom and that the atom itself can be reduced to the electron… So that science that was to teach me everything ends up in a hypothesis, that lucidity founders in metaphor, that uncertainty is resolved in a work of art.” Albert Camus, The Myth of Sisyphus, 1942

I didn’t know that I had a favourite sub-atomic particle until I was teaching a class on the Standard Model. Then I found myself at the front of the class, dressed in a suit, and hopping up and down. “Oh!” I clapped my hands, childlike! “This is the best part!” I suspect that there were a few raised eyebrows, but I was in Physics-Land, so I’m not entirely sure. I did catch myself, however, and sheepishly faced the classroom. “Gluons,” I said, “are really cool.”

The Gluon, you see, is the particle that holds everything together. I’d love to take you there, but we need to tunnel down through some levels of “reality” as we physics types describe it. You may have heard the word “quarks”, but I’ll start this exploration a little higher up, at the enormous scale of the atom. (1)

Let’s talk atoms

Richard Feynman once told us that if he were going to preserve only one piece of scientific knowledge, it would be that the universe is made of atoms. These are not a modern conception; they were originally envisioned by the ancient Greeks to be the indivisible building blocks of the universe, from which everything else is constructed. You might want to think of them as Lego, but don’t get too attached to that image, because it’s not very useful in the end. At very least you need to think of them as more than just those single-bump legos. Those can be Hydrogen, though. For now.

NOT TO SCALE! Image by Ryan Somma. Reused under Creative Commons license.

Everything is made of atoms, but atoms are made of still smaller particles: protons, neutrons and electrons. In the technical lingo, atoms are not fundamental particles. They contain a veeeeeery tiny core made of protons and neutrons surrounded by a cloud of electrons. What defines the type of atom (or the Element) you are looking at is the number of protons in the nucleus. Scientists have “observed” 118 elements at last count, but you need a particle collider to make anything heavier than plutonium, which is the 94th.(3)

High school chemistry may have steered you awry, because along the way we still teach a model of the atom with the electrons orbiting the nucleus like planets in the solar system. It’s only a stop on the way to the final destination. The math is simpler and it’s easier to picture… which makes it a dangerously enticing model, because it is wrong. Unless you need to calculate a hydrogen spectrum, you should throw it out, because it’s going to make things harder from here on in.

The sneaky but vital electron

Here’s the sneaky quantum part: electrons don’t really exist, not the way that you and I do (or the chairs, or table, or computer). Now, they are REAL, but they sort of, erm… blip in and out of existence as they interact with things. When you aren’t looking, they aren’t exactly there. But when you do look, or feel, there they are again. Electrons are key to all of our experiences of the world, so don’t abandon them. Just don’t imagine them as little plinko chips bouncing around. That will take you down a completely wrong path for imagining the structure of the universe. (4)

Touch your fingertips together for a moment. Try warming your hands by rubbing them quickly. Now feel a couple of different textures around you. Each of those interactions is a situation where electrons on one set of atoms are interacting with electrons in your skin. The electron clouds around atoms can’t go through one another, so you don’t fall through the chair you are sitting on. They also let you touch things, and feel the edge of your body. What’s more, the messages that travel up your arms and deliver themselves to your brain do so via a cascade of electron interactions. The same can be said of the chemical processes that allow your body to move, breathe, and live. Texture, temperature, taste, sight – all our perceptions of the world are made possible by the fact that electrons are not permanently bound to their nuclei. They vibrate, they absorb and emit energy, and they get moving so fast that they pop right off one atom and move to another.

Nothing you see is standing still. All around us, electrons are careening around, being struck by photons, attaching to new atoms, raising and lowering their energy states and kicking out radiation as a result. No panicking, here! When I say “radiation”, I mean heat and light, not just the scary stuff that runs a nuclear reactor. The atoms and molecules containing the electrons are doing the same things. That’s why your guitar doesn’t stay in tune, why your glass of water evaporates, and why your broken-down-car’s brakes are worse after it has been sitting for several months. At the material level, everything is in constant motion.

Teeny-tiny quarks and charge

Which brings us back, indirectly, to gluons. If you recall, the electrons in atoms are flitting about in clouds around a nucleus that is made of protons and neutrons. As far as we know, electrons are fundamental – that is, they don’t break down into anything smaller, and they have no internal structure. Protons and neutrons, on the other hand, are built of still-smaller particles: the quarks.(5)

But wait! Before I can talk about gluons and what they have to do with quarks, I have to talk about charge.

Remember the electron? The electron has a charge that we define as “negative”. Negative charges do not like to be too close together – they repel one another. Protons also have “charge”, which we define as “positive”. (pro = positive) Stay with me here, because protons repel one another every bit as much as electrons do, but they are jammed together into a much, much smaller space. If an atom containing electrons is a football stadium, the nucleus containing protons (and neutrons) is a marble at the middle. (6) The atom is held together by the attraction between the electrons and the protons, because opposite charges attract.

Quarks also have charge. I suspect that if they had been imagined earlier, the whole definition of charge would be different, but they weren’t, and it isn’t, so quarks have fractional charges.(7) And when you combine three of them, they add up to either 1 (proton) or 0 (neutron). But here we have a problem – the nucleus is highly compacted, and highly charged. If the electronic forces were all that was at work, there could be no nuclei. The protons would blow apart and the universe would be a soup of structureless particles. The gluons hold it all together so that we get to eat, and breathe, and sleep, and make love. And dance!

Finally! With the gluons, and the dancing, and the hopping up and down!

Oh, I am so proud of you for staying with me so far! I tried not to put in too many numbers. Did it help?

In addition to the particles that make up matter, the Standard Model of Physics includes force-carriers. These are particles that are exchanged by bits of matter to… um… let them know where they are in space, how to stick together, and what types of particles they are, so to speak. Lets think of them as a conversation among the fundamental particles that tell them how to make themselves into protons and neutrons, how to combine to make atoms, how to be attracted together to make galaxies – in short, how to create the structure of the universe.

The gluons are only one of the charge carriers, but they have charge, and they have colour, and they have ephemeral existence, and are created by borrowing energy (very briefly) from the space-time continuum. They are SO COOL! They’re elegant. And they’re dynamic. And they, themselves are in a constant dance. In fact, what the standard model of physics tells me is that change and communication are the fundamental characteristics of the universe. We are in one giant sub-atomic cosmic dance with the stars, the galaxies, the protons, and the gluons, the cats, the chickens, the mountains, and the oceans. The dance is what is fundamental. So, you see, I just can’t help myself. It’s the way I am.

If you want to see an animation of this, have a look at this BestofScience video . The voice-over is a little irritating, and I’m not sure what’s up with the robotic scientist narrators, but the gluon part starting at 5:50 has pretty pictures.


1. The scales I used to work on were so small that I once complained (in all seriousness), “This model sucks. My atoms are moving around by an entire angstrom.” Reality check: That is 1/10th of a nanometer, or 1/10,000,000,000 th of a meter.
2. If you want a sweet song about the atoms and their classification, I can recommend They Might Be Giants song Meet The Elements. For older kids and adults, you might want to take a look at The Particle Adventure. I got my students to look at this as a pre-class activity. They had funding. It shows.
3. Also, most of them above Plutonium are only good for showing off how your particle collider is better than your colleague’s particle collider. I, myself, do not have a particle collider, so I may just have PC envy.
4. Don’t completely discount this approach, though. It’s a very good model for building electronics.
5. For our purposes, we are going to pretend that quarks only come in two “flavors”: up and down. There are four more, including the Strange one, but they are considered “exotic”. If you want more detail, check out the Particle Adventure.
6. I haven’t checked this calculation. I’m feeling lazy at the moment, and I’d like to get to gluons before I turn 40. And I still have to worry about Taekwondo, heteronormativity, and chickens in the chard, and that’s just today. Really, I’m just trying to explain why I was jumping up and down in class.
7. up quarks are +2/3 and down quarks are -1/3

 

Here’s the Payoff

Last night I was taking my 7-y.o. daughter to her first Taekwondo class, and my 11-y.o son asked to come along for the ride. In the car on the way the conversation turned to why she wanted to take it in the first place. “Well,” she said, “Christopher likes it. And I like a lot of boy things. So I thought I would like it too.”

In my mind, the thinking went a little like this: “Hmm. Boy things, eh? Yay, liberation, I guess! Um.”

My son said, “What do you mean, boy things?” So I kept my mouth shut and kept listening.

She said, “You know. Pokemon. Soccer. Running. Boy things.”

Son was kind enough to say, “Those aren’t boy things.”

“Sure they are.”

“No,” he said. And then the conversation took a turn I wasn’t expecting. “What if,” he said, “there are no boy things or girl things, there are just things. And what if,” he continued, “there are no girl colours, or boy colours, there are just colours?”

“What???” said his firmly-committed-to-pink sister.

“Did you know that 200 years ago, pink wasn’t considered an appropriate colour for girls?” (This is historically accurate, BTW.) “It was considered too strong a colour.”

“What?” (A brief conversation ensued regarding the social construction of conformity regarding clothing choices, colour, and aesthetics. Really. This is the sort of thing we talk about in the car.)

Then my son offered: “And that girls didn’t used to be allowed to do boy things?”

“What?”

I did chime in here. “Did you know that women weren’t allowed to be doctors, or run for parliament?”

“Or vote,” added my son. “In fact, only rich, white, men got to vote.”

I got a shiver, really I did. Name race, name class, name gender in the same sentence and warm the cockles of my heart, dear child. 11-year-olds don’t tend to bat around the words “privilege” or “intersectionality”, but that’s a kid who is going to grow up to tell a different kind of story.

And yes, this time I’m totally bragging.

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