Wednesday, 12 February, 2003 Anne vs. her mobile phone
As someone who spends so much time addressing the theoretical aspects of wireless communications, I would do well to note my *actual* experiences.
In the Spring of last year, I bought a Motorola Timeport 280. At the time, the only service provider who supported that phone was Fido, and it has since been discontinued. I didn’t need or want a PDA (fed gov’t workers here are decked out with BlackBerries), but I wanted something that could text, connect to the ‘Net and work anywhere in the world. Fine. Or so I thought.
Strike 1: Text-messaging is only available between mobile devices (phones, pagers, PDAs) on the Fido network. (To the best of my knowledge, this is true for each of the Canadian wireless providers.) Since I don’t know anyone (or don’t know if I know anyone) on the network, texting is pretty much useless to me. There’s something weird about community built around technology in this sense: what do I have in common with other Fido users besides using Fido-supported devices?
(Aside – I think one of HipTop Nation’s greater social strengths is connecting Sidekick users with non-Sidekick users in the common space of the Web. At a superficial level, I see very little interaction between the mobile bloggers themselves.)
Strike 2: It turns out that mobile Internet access is way too expensive for me in a cost-benefit sort of way. It insufficiently enriches my daily life, or more specifically, offers me little more than already afforded by the wireless LANin my house. But then again, I’ve never seen an outside ad-hoc wireless network in action.
Strike 3: Game over. For a number of reasons, I have had no need to use my phone overseas. But today I called Fido to see what’s up with my phone while I’m in the States next month. It turns out that I have to request, in writing, the activation of roaming services 60 days in advance of when I need them. This phone is now officially *fucking useless* for every task I wanted it to perform.
As much as I hate Fido right now, I suspect this is also karmic retribution for my technolust.
Wow. I can’t believe the state of wireless technology (just) ten years ago!
I’d forgotten that I got my first mobile phone just ten years ago. That we had wireless internet in our house for the first time just ten years ago. That in Canada, in 2003, it wasn’t possible to send a text message to someone on another network, let alone another country. That the internet on my phone was just too bloody expensive (and the mobile web too limited) to even contemplate. That mobile service provision was based on such broken notions of social interaction and so difficult to actually use.
And now I’m remembering (probably badly) a conversation with Giles Lane, around the same time, about Proboscis‘ ground-breaking Urban Tapestries project — and how the test users didn’t have access to phones like the ones being used, and some were nervous about using such expensive kit, even worrying that it might make them targets for muggings!
I can still remember watching the STS-7 Challenger launch in 1983, and even though I had seen other launches, I remember that one being different — being special — because NASA was sending a woman into space for the first time.
The day after the launch, Gloria Steinem said that “Millions of little girls are going to sit by their television sets and see they can be astronauts, heroes, explorers and scientists.”
I was one of those girls.
Other people told me I could be an astronaut, but Dr Sally Ride showed me. And that made her a real life — real live — hero.
I also remember being a bit jealous of Grundgetta, Oscar’s Grouch girlfriend, when she got to hang out with Sally on Sesame Street in 1984. I figured that she was always smiling because she got to go into space. And true enough, when the shuttle returned to Earth, Dr Ride told reporters, “I’m sure it was the most fun that I’ll ever have in my life.
To be honest, I haven’t thought about Sally Ride in a long time. Maybe even since I gave up my dreams of being an astronaut. But yesterday, when I found out she was dead, I remembered and I cried.
“Sally lived her life to the fullest, with boundless energy, curiosity, intelligence, passion, joy, and love. Her integrity was absolute; her spirit was immeasurable; her approach to life was fearless.
In addition to Tam O’Shaughnessy, her partner of 27 years, Sally is survived by her mother, Joyce; her sister, Bear; her niece, Caitlin, and nephew, Whitney; her staff of 40 at Sally Ride Science; and many friends and colleagues around the country.
As an adult — older now than she was then — I can truly appreciate the kind of calm confidence it must have taken to bear the media attention she received:
“Speaking to reporters before the first shuttle flight, Dr. Ride — chosen in part because she was known for keeping her cool under stress — politely endured a barrage of questions focused on her sex: Would spaceflight affect her reproductive organs? Did she plan to have children? Would she wear a bra or makeup in space? Did she cry on the job? How would she deal with menstruation in space?
The CBS News reporter Diane Sawyer asked her to demonstrate a newly installed privacy curtain around the shuttle’s toilet. On ‘The Tonight Show,’ Johnny Carson joked that the shuttle flight would be delayed because Dr. Ride had to find a purse to match her shoes.
At a NASA news conference, Dr. Ride said: ‘It’s too bad this is such a big deal. It’s too bad our society isn’t further along’.”
When reporters dared to bring up her boobs, Ride very coolly responded “There is no sag in zero G.” My response to any of these questions would have likely excluded me from the astronaut ranks, and definitely precluded any future interviews or public appearances.
“One witness was Roger Boisjoly, an engineer who had worked for the company that made the shuttle’s rocket boosters and who had been shunned by colleagues for revealing that he had warned his bosses and NASA that the boosters’ seals, called O-rings, could fail in cold weather. The Challenger had taken off on a cold morning.
After his testimony, Dr. Ride, who was known to be reserved and reticent, publicly hugged him. She was the only panelist to offer him support. Mr. Boisjoly, who died in January, said her gesture had helped sustain him during a troubled time.”
And although Dr Ride probably wouldn’t have made much of this either, I think the Huffington Post did right by reminding everyone:
“This is what a lesbian looks like: Sally Ride: physicist; author of seven science books for children; member of the space shuttle Challenger crew; member of the President’s Committee of Advisors on Science and Technology; director of the California Science Institute; inductee into the National Women’s Hall of Fame, the California Hall of Fame, the Aviation Hall of Fame, and the Astronaut Hall of Fame; recipient of the Jefferson Award for Public Service, the von Braun Award, the Lindbergh Eagle, the NCAA’s Theodore Roosevelt Award, and the NASA Space Flight Medal (twice).”
“Dr. Ride told interviewers that what drove her was not the desire to become famous or to make history as the first woman in space. All she wanted to do was fly, she said, to soar into space, float around weightless inside the shuttle, look out at the heavens and gaze back at Earth. In photographs of her afloat in the spaceship, she was grinning, as if she had at long last reached the place she was meant to be.”
So I’ve decided to re-publish some of the archive here, hopefully on a semi-regular basis, with updated links wherever possible, and sometimes with new commentary.
Monday, January 27, 2003
An Extraordinary Mind
German-Canadian experimental physicist Ursula Franklin is one of the scholars I most admire – even if I do not always agree with her. I was first introduced to her work during my BA. She was a pioneer of archaeometry (materials analysis in archaeology) and has studied the metallurgical material culture (and technological processes) of many ancient cultures. And in my technology and culture class, we read her 1989 Massey Lecture, The Real World of Technology. [CBC audio here and the expanded book version here.]
There’s a stack of books I read in my undergrad that changed the way I think – and that was one of them. She never separates technology from people:
“I think what we are all discussing are political issues. They are political in the best sense of the word, in the original Greek sense of the word, in that they affect the community, the very citizens who have to work and live together. When all the technology is disposed of, when we have understood or put aside all the details, what is left are the issues of how people live together. These political issues have existed ever since people have lived together and were articulate about their relationships.
To me, it is important to understand that technology is practice, it is the way we do things around here. This definition takes machines and devices into account, as well as social structures, command, control, and infrastructures. It is helpful for me to remember that technology is practice. Technology, as a practice, means not only that new tools change, but also that we can change the practice. If we have the political will to do so, we can set certain tools aside, just as the world has set slavery and other tools aside. It is also the nature of modern technology that it is a system. One cannot change one thing without changing or affecting many others.”
And today – instead of arguing details – I just want to let myself be inspired by her general concerns.
I still admire Ursula Franklin, and I think I’ve even come around to more of her thinking since my original post.
In 1967, Franklin became the first woman Professor of Metallurgy and Materials Science at the University of Toronto, and in 1984 she was the first woman appointed University Professor, U. of T.’s highest rank. At this stage in my own academic career, I can better appreciate what a big deal that is.
She’s also a convinced Quaker, and her work continues to be guided by feminist and humanitarian principles. You can learn more about her views in a 2010 interview for CBC’s The Current – here’s the video part 1 and part 2.
But really, I chose this post to start with because I’d forgotten how good Franklin is at explaining the human dimensions and political stakes of technology. I think I’ll start re-reading The Real World of Technology tonight.
When I was a girl I thought I would grow up to be a scientist. I spent hours at my workbench, patiently cutting cross-sections with a razor blade and drawing liquids into a pipette before placing my specimens on the glass slides and gently dropping the cover slips over them. I painstakingly labelled each one, and dutifully took notes on what I saw through my microscope. There was a comforting carefulness to the work, and the very idea that cells existed was magical to me. I even went through a phase of collecting samples from my own body, marveling at the reality that I was an assemblage of so many different forms of life. I loved what I was doing, and felt as though my love was rewarded with the knowledge I gained.
As a child, the only female scientist I had ever heard of was Marie Curie. My teachers always held her up as a hero, but in retrospect, never as a person. The only thing I knew at the time was that she was brilliant and her work eventually killed her–which I assumed had been worth it because of how beautiful it all was. (For some reason, I thought that was the heroic bit.)
“Certain bodies . . . become luminous when heated. Their luminosity disappears after some time, but the capacity of becoming luminous afresh through heat is restored to them by the action of a spark, and also by the action of radium.
The compounds of radium are spontaneously luminous. The chloride and bromide, freshly prepared and free from water, emit a light which resembles that of a glow-worm. This light diminishes rapidly in moist air . . . but . . . never completely disappears.
These gleamings, which seemed suspended in darkness, stirred us with new emotion and enchantment . . . The glowing tubes looked like faint fairy lights.”
But of course it was not so simple, and people do not live on research alone. Marya Sklodowska changed her name just so she could go to the Sorbonne and study physics. She became the first female doctorate in France and despite being the first woman to be awarded the Nobel Prize (with her husband Pierre), she was too ill to travel to Stockholm for the ceremony because she had recently suffered a miscarriage. Although she eventually had two daughters, she also noted that reconciling family life with a scientific career was not easy. Marie suffered horrible depression, and even though she was named the first woman professor in the Sorbonne’s 650 year history, it took the death of her husband to achieve that status. Several years later, she fell in love again and became the first person–man or woman–to win a second Nobel Prize. However, her lover and fellow scientist Paul Langevin was married, and his wife made their affair public after he refused to give her money and custody of the children. Marie suffered terribly as a result. At a time when it was not uncommon for her male colleagues to openly have mistresses, she was insulted and ridiculed by the press for her actions.
Fellow scientists wrote to the Swedish Academy, and directly to Marie, suggesting that her behaviour would taint the ceremonies, if not the award itself, and asking her not to accept it in person. To her credit, Marie responded that she would attend the Nobel ceremony because she saw “no connection between [her] scientific work and the facts of private life” and she successfully collected her award in 1911. However, the public scandal effectively ended her romance with Langevin and she eventually suffered a nervous breakdown that led her to leave Paris for some time. Marie returned to France to help in the war effort, bringing X-ray units directly to the battlefields for the first time. Without Pierre or Paul at her side, Marie started working with her daughter Irène, and she gained positive public attention for their work. (In 1935, Irène, with her husband Frédéric Joliot, became the second woman to win the Nobel Prize; she later died of leukemia, also brought on by her research.) But the new found fame proved difficult, and Marie became more and more withdrawn. By the early 1930s, it was clear that she was ill with radiation sickness and only getting worse. She kept track of doctors’ visits and her bodily deterioration like any other experiment, and her last months were spent feeling her way around the lab, as cataracts robbed her of her sight. On 4 July, 1934 Marie’s final words began, “I am absent… I can no longer express myself… ”
Today I was reading about Marie Curie:
she must have known she suffered from radiation sickness
her body bombarded for years by the element
she had purified
It seems she denied to the end
the source of the cataracts on her eyes
the cracked and suppurating skin of her finger-ends
till she could no longer hold a test tube or pencil
She died a famous woman denying
her wounds came from the same source as her power.
~ Adrienne Rich, 1974
I understand why Marie Curie is held up as a romantic intellectual hero, and I think it’s a mistake.
Because when I think of her as a person, I know we could have been friends.
And maybe, just maybe, I would have become a life scientist.
Ursula K Le Guin said it best: "Although the green country of fantasy seems to be entirely the invention of human imaginations, it verges on and partakes of actual realms in which humanity is not lord and master, is not central, is not even important."