Punctuation; is not. An, option.

As a professional physicist – as I sometimes like to pretend I am – I would estimate that at least 70% of my working week is spent on words, not numbers. Many of the undergrads here at Nottingham don’t appear to be entirely comfortable with this when I point it out. Indeed, quite a few students have specifically told me that they didn’t do physics to write essays and that they will go out of their way, in terms of module choices and exam questions, to avoid having to work with words.

But not all of our students have such an adverse reaction to the more qualitative side of their subject.

I have been extremely impressed by very many of the blog posts and articles produced, as coursework, for a fourth-year module we introduced this year, “The Politics, Perception, and Philosophy of Physics”. The majority of the coursework pieces to date have been uploaded at the course blog, and the quality of writing is generally very high. And it’s not just me who thinks this: I was delighted when both Physics World and physicsfocus agreed to publish coursework articles submitted by students.

A key point about the students taking the course, however, is that they were forewarned, repeatedly, that the module was devoid of mathematics. I stressed, during an introduction to Year 4 modules at the start of the academic year, that they would be assessed on the basis of blog posts and articles they submitted. In this sense, they’re a self-selecting ‘sample’ and thus perhaps not entirely representative of the class as a whole.

On the other hand, all physics undergraduates at Nottingham, even those who take our Physics with Theoretical Physics course, are required to do experiments in Year 1 and to submit formal reports on their lab work. (All undergrads also, of course, submit project reports in later years.) The title of this blog post stems from my marking of a set of first-year lab reports a few weeks ago, where the same errors in writing cropped up time and time again. (It’s not the first time that this has happened in my 17-odd years of teaching at Nottingham…)

I’ve been meaning to put together a video which not only lays out what is expected from physics undergrads for their lab reports – which, to be fair, is often not quite as clear and well-defined as it could be – but also highlights those common failings that cause so much wear and tear on my red pen. I managed to finally get round to doing this, after literally years of procrastination, over the Christmas break and I’m including the video here. I’d very much welcome and value feedback from physicsfocus readers.


My concerns about the words-numbers divide are, however, much broader in scope than the niggles on structure, punctuation,[1] and grammar outlined in the video. Having taken on the role of undergraduate admissions tutor this year, I am now even more aware of the extent to which the A-level system exacerbates the arts-and-humanities-vs-STEM divide. I grew up in Ireland where our equivalent of the A-level system, the Leaving Certificate, makes both English and maths mandatory, and where a larger range of subjects (typically seven) is studied in the final two years of secondary school.

I was lucky to do not only all three science subjects and maths for my Leaving Certificate, but also French and English. And Irish. (Some might well say “Is fearr Gaeilge briste, ná Béarla clíste” but then they haven’t heard my spoken Irish. Or my English, for that matter.) There are, of course, other examples of education systems where there is a greater breadth of subjects than is typically the norm in the UK – Scottish Highers, International Baccalaureate. The A-level system, on the other hand, too often means that students end up making a stark choice between the STEM and arts/humanities pathways too early. This is a great shame because it serves to entrench the ‘two cultures’ divide that CP Snow criticised so forcefully almost 60 years ago.

Simon Jenkins, the Guardian’s resident STEM-skeptic, regularly bemoans the negative perception of the value of the arts and humanities as compared to, as he sees it, the unquestioned importance of STEM subjects to society. He was on fine form on New Year’s Day, arguing in an article, “Easy to sneer at arts graduates – but we’ll need their skills”, that “a humanistic education” produces better-rounded and more creative types who “seem better equipped to use their imagination and challenge conventional wisdom”. Last year Jenkins also provoked quite some ire by arguing that STEM graduates, particularly computer scientists, lack the ability to communicate effectively.

This may perhaps come as something of a surprise to readers of physicsfocus, but I have quite some sympathy with Jenkins’ concerns about the extent to which an arts and humanities degree has been ‘devalued’ in terms of its perceived value to society (and, by extension, to the individual graduate). I have always rather disliked articles and reports proclaiming that physics is so much more intellectually challenging – i.e. ‘harder’ – than other subjects. Yes, physics is conceptually challenging. And, yes, it’s intellectually stimulating and demanding. And yes, as I’ve discussed before for physicsfocus, it requires a heck of a lot of work and effort in order to ‘get it’. But, as Dave Farmer explains in a perceptive, important, and smart post, there are many types of intelligence, and there are many types of aptitude.

There are physicists at all career levels whose analytical maths abilities are truly remarkable. But ask some of them to write 500 words which are engaging and thought-provoking, and they’re flummoxed. Echoing the points made by Farmer, a capability with mathematics is just one type of intelligence. Attempting to quantify such a multi-faceted and complex human characteristic via an aptitude in one area, or, worse, via a single ‘IQ’ value, is as ludicrous as, errmm, reducing the value of a university to a position on a league table.

An ability to communicate effectively is essential, independent of subject, discipline, or career. University physics departments across the country have for years complained about the reduction in the rigour of A-level maths, and have introduced first-year ‘refresher’ modules in order to bring incoming students up to speed in mathematical techniques. But similar primers in written communication have not been introduced. Given the lack of subject breadth of the A-level system, and the associated absence of the development of writing skills for many STEM-focused students, one could make the argument that there is an equally pressing, if not greater, need for formal teaching of written communication skills in Year 1 of a physics degree.

Where my views diverge dramatically from those of Jenkins, however, is with his argument that arts and humanities graduates are necessarily more creative than those with degrees in STEM subjects. Science is intrinsically creative and Jenkins does his important arguments about the value of the arts and humanities a great disservice by playing down to lazy stereotypes of STEM graduates.

Equally importantly, an arts and humanities degree is no guarantee of an ability to communicate concepts in a clear, engaging, and effective style. I’ll leave you with Exhibit #1 – an excerpt from the work of Prof. Karen Barad, of the Philosophy Department at the University of California Santa Cruz. (I suspect that I’ll be returning to a discussion of Barad’s work for a future physicsfocus post).

“Multiply heterogeneous iterations all: past, present, and future, not in a relation of linear unfolding, but threaded through one another in a nonlinear enfolding of spacetimemattering, a topology that defies any suggestion of a smooth continuous manifold. Time is out of joint. Dispersed. Diffracted. Time is diffracted through itself. It is not only the nature of time in its disjointedness that is at stake, but also disjointedness itself. Indeed, the nature of ‘dis’ and ‘jointedness’, of discontinuity and continuity, of difference and entanglement, and their im/possible interrelation ships are at issue.”

Thanks to my colleague at Nottingham, Brigitte Nerlich, for bringing my attention to that quite remarkable piece of impenetrable writing, via this blog post.

_ _ _

[1] I’m a fan of the Oxford comma.

Philip Moriarty

Philip Moriarty

Philip Moriarty is a Professor of Physics at the University of Nottingham. His research interests lie in what has occasionally been described as “extreme nanotech” in that he works alongside a talented bunch of nanoscientists to prod, poke, push, pick, and pull individual atoms and molecules in order to explore forces and interactions down to the single chemical bond limit. Moriarty also has a keen and long-standing interest in science communication and public engagement. He is a member of the Sixty Symbols team that was awarded the Institute of Physics Kelvin prize in 2016 for “innovative and effective promotion of the public understanding of physics”. While he doesn't share his infamous namesake's fascination with the binomial theorem, Moriarty enjoys exploring the maths-music-physics interface including, in particular, the deep and fundamental links that exist between quantum mechanics and heavy metal music (a theme discussed at length in his book, “When the Uncertainty Principle Goes to 11”). He blogs at https://muircheartblog.wordpress.com.
Philip Moriarty
FacebooktwitterFacebooktwitter

Comment via Facebook

Comment via Disqus

iop-blog

Comment via Google+