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just like ‘alien’ – moray eels have *two* sets of jaws Alison Campbell Dec 19

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Around 14 months ago the husband & I were spending a lazy holiday in Rarotonga. We did quite a bit of snorkelling on the reefs, and especially enjoyed our experiences at Muri, where we saw a good range of reef fish in near-ideal conditions (as in, clear, calm, relatively shallow water). There were several moray eels, which were at first hard to spot – and then you saw them, loitering in a crevice, giving the impression of watching you rather closely and with their open mouths exposing some rather sharp, pointy teeth: “all the better to bite you with, my dears.” We viewed them with caution.

But when you think about it, that wide-mouthed loitering would seem to pose a problem for the eels. This is because most predatory fish feed by opening their mouths wide from a closed position: water floods into the lower-pressure area inside the mouth & dinner comes along for the ride. Sitting around with your mouth half-open doesn’t sound like a good strategy. I found the answer while reading The Book of Barely Imagined Beings by Caspar Henderson, under – you’ve guessed it – ‘E for Eel’. (This wonderful book was recently reviewed on Sciblogs by Siouxsie Wiles.)

 

As an aside, I love the way this chapter kicks off:

The Snowflake1 eel, a kind of moray, is harmless if you leave it alone and refrain from drinking its blood (which is toxic).

I was also fascinated to know that the morays’ genus, Echidna, derives from a rather unpleasant individual in Greek mythology; beside her, Henderson says, “the Snowflake and other Moray eels are pussycats” – yet people still fear them:

Part of the reason for this is surely their superficial resemblance to snakes… Another may be the eels’ mouths, which are constantly open, suggesting that they are ready to strike. But this is not, I think, the whole story. An eel’s eyes, bulging and unblinking, look like those of a corpse, and the way the animal moves its body … is disturbingly sensual. Saltwater eels are uncanny.

You can see, I hope, why I like the book; the writing is lovely. But anyway, back to those gaping maws.

Henderson explains how a moray’s hunting style more closely resembles the eponymous ‘Alien’, for these eels have two sets of jaws! The second set is found in the back of the throat – the ‘pharyngeal jaws’ -  but can be thrust forward extremely quickly and retracted equally rapidly, so that they “[pull] the prey down into the oesophagus as the animal closes its mouth.” You can see how this all works in the image below, from the National Science Foundation website.

Image credit: Zina Deretsky, National Science Foundation (after Rita Mehta, UC Davis)

The work of Rita Mehta, who’s been studying moray eels’ feeding anatomy, is featured in the following video, in which you can see those pharyngeal jaws move forward to grasp a ‘prey’ item. All the more reason to be fairly circumspect on the reef, methinks!

1 If you think ‘Snowflake’ is an unusual name for an eel, how about the ‘Rusty spaghetti’ version?

essays on our fascination with those who are different Alison Campbell Oct 08

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Book Review: The Two-Headed Boy and Other Medical Marvels 

by Jan Bondeson

Cornell University Press, USA (2004)

Paperback: i-xxii, 297 pages

ISBN: 0-8014-8958-X

RRP: US419.95

It's all Grant's doing, really. If he hadn't picked up on an off-hand comment of mine (relating to vipers in bosoms) & turned that into a catchy blog post, I quite probably wouldn't have gone looking for other books by Jan Bondeson, or found The Two-Headed Boy and Other Medical Marvels

This is a fascinating, saddening, and occasionally appalling book by a humane and extremely well-read author. The subjects of Bondeson's essays are those who are (or were, for these are historical essays) in someway very very different from the rest of us: the exceptionally tall, the enormously obese, the unnaturally hairy, the two-headed boys of the title. Those who in what we'd like to regard as a less-enlightened age would have spent their lives in what were then called 'freak' shows, for others to gawk and gape at. (Not that this horrified fascination with those who are different has disappeared. We just don't deem it appropriate to pay to indulge it.) And while the money may have poured in from the gawkers, all too often most of it made its ways into the pockets of 'managers', and not the afflicted individuals. (Although there were exceptions, which we'll come to shortly.)

One of the things I particularly enjoyed about the book was its interweaving of scientific and historical perspectives. Did Countess Margaret of Henneberg really have 364 – or was it 365 – children all at once? Today we'd immediately say, well of course not! But then, what are the origins of the tale described in Bondeson's essay, "The strangest miracle in the world"? The author examines the development of the legend over the years, noting with wry amusement that until quite recently childless women would wash their hands in the bowl in which the unlikely children were supposedly baptised – even though the original was destroyed long ago. And he shows how science has a part to play in the explanation: it's possible that the Countess delivered a hydatidiform mole. Although you'd think that the midwives might have had some experience of this condition, the mass of small blobby bits might have been seen by them as a large number of gravely undersized babies.

At least Countess Margaret wasn't displayed for money (although the local townsfolk must subsequently have made quite a lot out of tourists), but money's involved in most of the stories. (And attention, which may well have been the driver for the poor lady who pretended to lay eggs – a tale which also attests to the extreme gullibility of those in attendance at the delivery!) Both Daniel Lambert (for a time the fattest-known human, although more recently he has been outweighed by a man nearly double Lambert's 700+ pounds) and the 'Swedish Giant', Daniel Cajanus, parlayed their physical extremes into quite comfortable livings, for not only were they charming and intelligent men but they also had the sense to manage their own affairs. All too often that hasn't been the case, with children put on display out of desperation or greed on the part of parents or 'managers'.

Of those children, I sometimes wonder if our most awful fascincation might not rest on conjoined twins. Bondeson discusses several examples, including parasitic twins and two-headed children. Apparently dicephalus (two-headed) twins represent around 11% of conjoined twins, the great majority of whom die before or soon after birth; certainly a google search will produce more images than you may be comfortable with. I first heard of them when reading Stephen Jay Gould's essay on the twins Ritta-Christina, in which he not only discussed the children's short, sad lives but also the issue of what constitutes an individual. Bondeson also tells their story, but the two-headed boys of his title had a better time of it; in fact, he describes Giovanni and Giacomo Tocci as the "most celebrated pair of dicephalus conjoined twins of all times". While most dicephalus twins are short-lived, often due to other structural abnormalities in one twin or the other, the Tocci brothers were born in 1877 and lived at least into the second decade of the 20th century, at least in part because the boys were 'symmetrical' in that both seemed to have properly-developed hearts and lungs. Like all the dicephalus twins described in the book, the Toccis were two distinct individuals with different personalities and intellects.

And this, of course, poses some serious ethical questions. While it is possible to separate some conjoined twins, depending on the degree to which they share organs and blood vessels, to do this for dicephalus twins means that either both would spend the rest of their lives incapable of independent movement & with significant post-surgical disfigurement, or one would be sacrificed that the other might live. To whom should this decision fall? (The parents of perhaps the most famous living dicephalus twins, Abigail & Brittany Hensel, never considered this option, & their daughters are now young adults.) 

Yes, this is a fascinating and thought-provoking book, not least because it offers a discomforting mirror in which to review how we see those who are so different from ourselves.

 

goat glands, greed, and gullibility Alison Campbell Sep 30

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Book Review: Charlatan: America's Most Dangerous Huckster, the Man Who Pursued Him, and the Age of Flimflam, by Pope Brock 

Price: US$14.95
Paperback: 
324 pages
Publisher:
 Three Rivers Press, New York, USA (2008)
Language:
 English

ISBN: 978-0-307-33989-8
                                                                  

Goat glands, greed, and the gullibility of others turned out to be a winning combination for John R. Brinkley. In the early years of the 20th century it seemed as if science could do anything, perhaps even extend life – including life in the bedroom - well beyond the allotted three-score years and ten. Brinkley saw a market there, and managed to parlay the testicles of young goats, combined with the gullibility of the vain, the impotent, and the just plain desperate into an enormous personal fortune.

Pope Brock's biography of Brinkley, Charlatan, is both entertaining & alarming in equal measure. Entertaining, because it's quite a rollicking read. Alarming, because it highlights how easy it is for someone with a persuasive manner and a feel for the market to hoodwink an awful lot of people, and get rich doing it. For despite the fact that Brinkley had no real medical training, he somehow manage to persuade large numbers of men to part with good money (hard to come by, in the Depression years) for the dubious privilege of having the gonads of young billy goats implanted into their own scrotums. (These days, I guess people buy cialis & horny goatweed on-line instead.) We're not told what subsequently happened to the goats.

Now, the mind boggles at the sequelae of this, given the way your immune system would likely reject the goat gonads, & the likelihood of the transplants decaying anyway since they'd have had no blood supply. But nonetheless, Brinkley prospered & somehow people never seemed to hear of the folks for whom things went very, very pear-shaped. Nor was he alone in his endeavours: other quacks offered chimp glands, vasectomies, & various 'electric' treatments – for rejuvenation, as well as the more personal problems in the bedroom, but somehow it was Brinkley who rose to the top, eventually even travelling to Japan to market his techniques.

Brinkley fairly quickly set up shop in a purpose-built hospital in Milford, Kansas. You'd think that staying in one place for too long would not be a sensible move for a charlatan, but Brinkley prospered there – to the extent that he even ran for governor. Perhaps he was bringing so much money, & business, into the town that people turned a blind eye to his failures. Brock describes how Brinkley built his own not-so-small empire in Milford. Having recognised the power of advertising, the good doctor expanded into mail-order nostrums for pretty much anything that ailed you, and then into the brave new world of the airwaves. When the regulators finally removed his medical licence, he simply left a couple of locums to do the operations and threw himself into expanding his radio operations, eventually broadcasting from a massive station just over the border with Mexico (to get around the US ruling that radio stations could use only 5000 watts: Brinkley deafened the southern states with his 500,000 W transmitter). In the process, Brock tells us, he even kickstarted America's love affair with country-&-western music.

There was, of course, an eventual reckoning. Into Brinkley's story, Pope weaves the tale of the various medical investigators who tried to shut him down; most notably, Morris Fishbein, eventually the editor of the Journal of the American Medical Association. It took years, but finally, in 1939, Brinkley had his day in court, and lost. Once found guilty of medical malpractice, he was sued by many individuals & the IRS chased him for back taxes. His radio station closed, & he died in 1942.

But why did Brinkley have such a long run? You'd think, with a 'treatment' that was worthless, reality would have caught up with him much earlier. In explanation, Brock provides the following quote from Samuel Johnson, which probably goes a long way to explain why charlatans like Brinkley have never really left us:

[W]e go with expectation and desire of being pleased; we meet others who are brought by the same motives; no one will be the firest to own the disappointment; one face refelects the smile of another, till each believes the rest delighted, and endeavours to catch and transmit the circulating rapture. In time, all are deceived by the cheat to which all contribute. The fiction of happiness is propagated by every tongue, and confirmed by every look, till at last all profess the joy which they do not feel, [and] consent to yield to that general delusion.

the drunken botanist Alison Campbell Aug 07

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That’s the title of one of the books I’m reading at the moment: The Drunken Botanist, by Amy Stewart. (I do not know any drunken botanists!) Contrary to any expectations engendered by the title, the book is a thoroughly engaging wander through botany, history, & a little bar-tending (although, now that I look at the recipes, there are quite a few of them!) – in the sense that it includes recipes for a range of cocktails where at least some of the ingredients are derived from plants.

But be warned. As the author points out, just because many of these ingredients come from plants, doesn’t mean you can just set to it & start brewing up a storm. She notes

Do remember that plants employ powerful chemicals as defenses against the very thing you want to do to them, which is to pluck them from the ground and devour them…

It is also important to note that distillers can use sophisticated equipment to extract flavourings from a plant and leave the more harmful molecules behind, but an amateur soaking a handful of leaves in vodka has no such control… Just because a distiller can work with them safely doesn’t mean you can, too.

Which is why those consuming ‘moonshine’ may well be at risk of more than a simple hangover.

Anyway, I am finding this book to be a fascinating ramble down a whole range of information by-ways. I’ve learned, for example, that the agave – whence come tequila & mezcal – is actually related to asparagus, & that it’s possible to persuade the plant to produce up to 250 gallons (more than 1000 litres) of sap over a period of several months, by cutting and wounding the flower stalk just as it begins to grow. (In this, an agave plant outstrips the annual production of a sugar maple tree – but the tree has the advantage that it lives to flow another year. The agave eventually dies, exhausted.) This liquid is fermented very quickly by ‘wild’ microbes, & – being an innocent in these things – I thought that would be distilled to produce tequila. But I was wrong – this spirit’s produced from a base of roasted agave hearts. And while you might be thinking of a metal or glass still, it seems in Mexico they used to use a hollow tree trunk as the basis of the still!

Apparently the worm is there as a marketing ploy…

So, there’s snippets of genetics, & palaeontology, & chemistry, & botany, & anthropology – it really is an interesting book. And Stewart has the ability to turn some lovely phrases. I’ll leave you with the following, which I love & will be using tomorrow when discussing cellular respiration in class:

The science of fermentation is wonderfully simple. Yeasts eat sugar. They leave behind two waste products, ethyl alcohol and carbon dioxide. If we were being honest, we would admit that what a liquor store sells is, chemically speaking, little more than the litter boxes of millions of domesticated yeast organisms, wrapped up in pretty bottles with fancy price tags.

A.Stewart (2012) The Drunken Botanist: the plants that create the world’s great drinks. Algonquin Books of Chapel Hill. ISBN 978-1-61620-046-6

"the aviator" – a vision of the future that’s a little too close for comfort Alison Campbell Jan 09

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I found the Herald’s front page this morning a sad and depressing read. My heart goes out to all those affected in some way by the terrible bush fires ravaging so much of Tasmania, Victoria, & New South Wales.

I also had a certain sense of deja vu as I read of the fires – for I’d read something similar last year, in blog-buddy Gareth’s book The Aviator, Book One of the Burning World series. Except that in the book, the scale of events is much greater than is (thankfully) the case at the moment, and Melbourne is destroyed by a fire storm. Gareth’s vision of a not-too-distant future in which our global ecosystems have been irreparably affected by anthropogenic greenhouse warming, is both an alarming foretaste of how things could become**, and a rather good read (another blogging friend, Ken Perrott, reviewed the book very favourably when it first came out, & I’ve been meaning to write my own review for quite a while). The story follows the key character (& narrator – well, one of them), an airship pilot called Lemmy, in his travels around a world in which ecosystems and societies have collapsed, or changed – in many instances, beyond recognition. (There are actually 2 narrators: the second is Jenny, the artificial intelligence who actually runs the airship. Their commentaries alternate, & it’s interesting to see the differences in perspective, especially given that the AI is to some degree self-aware.)

As the series title suggests, in this future world it’s not only Australia that suffers from fire. Lemmy also witnesses huge fires in the Arctic, where massive methane deposits originally locked under the ocean in the form of methane clathrates have been ignited and the flames burn seemingly endlessly. I’ve recently read more about these deposits in Bill McGuire’s Waking the Giant: we are talking significant carbon stores here, at around 2000 billion tonnes of carbon trapped in the form of clathrates: something that is highly attractive to energy companies & of deep concern to climate scientists.

The first time I read The Aviator, I thought it would be a rather good classroom resource for senior students. And that hasn’t changed on a subsequent re-reading. Its engaging focus on a current, extremely relevant topic means that the book could be used in many different areas as the basis of discussion and to provoke further student research: how do individuals, and societies, cope with change? What happens when the technologies we rely on so heavily are no longer available, or are concentrated in the hands of relatively few people? How would a rise in average global temperature affect various ecosystems? Is a future such as the one Gareth describes, something that we can yet avoid?

Highly recommended.

 

Gareth Renowden (2012) The Aviator (The Burning World). Limestone Hills Ltd.

Bill McGuire (2012) Waking the Giant: how a changing climate triggers earthquakes, tsunamis, and volcanoes. Oxford University Press. ISBN 978-0-19-959226-5

 

** In some ways it reminds me of Richard Cowper’s The Twilight of Briareus - though having said that, Cowper’s world has been sunk into an ice age, and his story has a strong mystical feel to it. But the themes of societal and ecological break-down, and how people cope with these, are common to both books.

 

 

 

 

skulls & braaiiinz – what’s not to like? (also, plants) Alison Campbell Jan 03

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The intrepid reporters from Number 8 Network e-mailed the other day. “What are you reading?” they asked; “after all, it’s the holidays & you must have heaps of time to put your nose in a book.” Which is sort of right, it is the Christmas/New Year break, but the days just seem to fly by when you’re doing not very much at all.

However, as it happens I’m working my way through several books at the moment, so I was able to oblige.

First up is Skulls, by Simon Winchester. Strictly speaking it’s not actually a book but an interactive iPad app, based on the enormous personal collection of Alan Dudley. I bought it because I find skulls fascinating (though not so obsessively fascinating as I think they must be for a collector of same) & the blurb at the app store offered me the ability to zoom in, out & around a whole bunch of bony brain protectors. This, I figured, would be quite fun & could also be a useful teaching tool (I’m looking forward to showing it to a colleague who teaches 3rd-year zoology).

And the ability to examine skulls in such detail really is great, although – a minor quibble! – I would have liked to be able to look at them from beneath & above as well as from all sides. You lose some definition at high levels of zoom but apart from that, wow! I would otherwise not have known that the Atlantic wolffish has quite so many teeth (shades of an aquatic Red Riding Hood villain) & such a wonderfully architectural skull. Or that a rabbit could somehow have lived long enough for its incisors to grow backwards & inwards in curves reminiscent of reversed (& miniature) elephant tusks.

The chapters comprising the ‘book’ struck me as a bit of an eclectic mix: we’ve got an interview with the collector himself, followed by an essay on the nature of collecting. Then, after learning about what a skull actually is & the bones that make it up, we find out about the dodo, or the pseudoscience relating to skulls – wherein we can learn about Piltdown man & phrenology but not, to my surprise, the various claims about ‘alien skulls’ from South America. Or the iconography of skulls, or skulls in art & in Mexico, & so on. One of the nice things about apps like this is that – even less than with a ‘real’ book – you don’t have to follow a linear progression through the text but can dip in & out, & that there are nice little visual cues to guide you in your choice of where to go next.

Not a lot in the text that was completely new to me, but well worth the price (at $17.99 this is one of the more expensive iPad apps) for the sheer enjoyment to be gained from viewing the images.

As for the brains – I’m also working my way through a Kindle edition of Carl Zimmer’s Brain Cuttings. Zimmer is one of my favourite science writers & this collection of essays (mostly written originally for Discover magazine) hasn’t disappointed me. The first essay’s title is from a question asked by Charles Darwin of one of his many correspondents. Wondering whether people around the world expressed emotions in the same way, Darwin asked, “Does shame excite a blush?” From this starting point, Zimmer takes us through scientists’ current understanding of the evolution of the face, a feature that began to form around half a billion years ago with the appearance of the earliest fishes. He asks why primates, in particular, have such complex, expressive faces – something that has to do with the complex social behaviour of this group of mammals. It turns out that facial mimicry is part of that social behaviour – and apparently the ability to mimic someone else’s facial expression, however briefly, may well be important in allowing us to understand how that person is feeling. An interesting experiment certainly suggests this:

[Researchers] had volunteers bite down on a pen and then look at a series of faces. They had to pick the emotion they thought the faces were expressing. The volunteers could recognise sad faces and angry ones with teh same accuracy as test subjects who did not have pens in their mouths. But they did a worse job of recognising happy faces.

Biting a pen, it just so happens, requires you to use the same muscles you use to smile. Because the smiling muscles were active throughout the experiment, [the research] subjects apparently couldn’t reel themselves start to mimic happy faces. Without that feedback, they had a more difficult time recognising when people were happy.

And that’s just the first chapter! The second essay, “The googled mind”, is an exploration of just where the mind stops. As Zimmer remarks,

[we] tend to think of the mind as separated from the world. We imagine information trickling into our senses and reaching our isolated minds, which then turn that information into a detailed picture of reality… In fact, teh mind appears to be adapted for reaching out from our heads and making the world, including our machines, an extension of itself.

In other words, it looks like the ‘mind’ is more of a complex system that comprises both the brain and various bits of its environment – books, for example, or computers, iPads – and even the tools we use.

This book’s both entertaining & informative & I’m enjoying reading it, one chapter at a time.

Third on my list is an actual, print-on-paper, hardcopy book: Fifty plants that changed the course of history, by Bill Laws. I bought this on a colleague’s recommendation, because of all the topics I teach at first-year level, botany seems to be the one that students are least engaged with, & I was hoping for some nice new examples to add my list of ‘cool stuff about plants & how they changed our world’.

My impression of this book is that it’s a bit like the curate’s egg: good in parts. My copy is a beautifully presented hard-cover edition, with lovely illustrations & some fascinating snippets of information (for example, that pineapples were grown in England over pits full of fresh dung! (This generated heat as it rotted, & augmented the warmth from stoves.) And the idea of a bamboo bicycle is an intriguing one. I’m enjoying dipping into it, a couple of plants an evening.

But unfortunately that enjoyment is tempered by moments of irritation. OK, I know I’m simply being greedy in wanting to know more about some topics than can be fitted into the 2 or 3 pages accorded them here. That’s a minor one. But saying that plants “absorb carbon dioxide and exhale oxygen” glosses over the fact that plants need that oxygen for cellular respiration as much as we do. (All too many of my first-years share this particular misconception.) And what am I to make of the following statement ?

The oldest names for the coconut are in Sanskrit, pointing to India as the source [of this plant]. However, the discovery of the fossilised remains of a tiny proto-coconut on New Zealand’s North Island suggests it might have been first taken into service here 5,000 years ago.

Five thousand years ago, there weren’t any people in New Zealand; hence no-one to take anything ‘into service’… (Interestingly, Sir Charles Fleming notes that a fossil coconut dating to the middle-late Miocene was discovered in Hawkes Bay; this would give an age of around 5-10 million years.)

So, I’m accumulating some new stories to tell in class, and I am enjoying the read, but – unlike Skulls and Brain Cuttings – I probably won’t be recommending Laws’ book to students looking for a bit of extra reading. At least, not until I’ve finished it & identified any other potential pitfalls. Although… I guess the error I’ve picked up on here would be a useful jumping-off point for a discussion of New Zealand’s botanical history.

B.Laws (2010) Fifty plants that changed the course of history. Firefly Books. ISBN: 978-1-742372-18-1

S. Winchester (2011) Skulls. Touch Press.

C.Zimmer (2010) Brain Cuttings: fifteen journeys through the mind. Scott & Nix Inc. NY ISBN (Kindle): 978-1-935622-16-1

teaching what you don’t know Alison Campbell Sep 10

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I’ve just finished writing & delivering a new set of lectures; next week we’re moving back into what is – for me anyway! – more familiar territory. At the same time I’ve been reading Therese Huston’s book Teaching what you don’t know. Huston’s examples are drawn from the US tertiary system, and as you begin reading it quickly becomes apparent that ‘teaching what you don’t know’ is a common occurrence for teachers in that sector. (And I really do mean, ‘what you don’t know’: a science lecturer teaching a general writing course, for example. At least I’m still teaching biology!)

One of the Big Questions in a situation like this is, what & how much do you tell your students? Huston notes that in some circumstances a lecturer might not want to let on that they’re teaching at the fringes of their expertise – perhaps they’ve previously felt that their authority or credibility have been challenged by students, & letting on now isn’t going to help the classroom dynamics.

Personally, I prefer to put a positive spin on this experience. First up – I’m still teaching biology, albeit an area that’s moved on a bit since I studied it. I’ve had to do a lot of extra reading, but I have the considerable advantage over the students in that I’ve already got the mental constructs into which I can scaffold my new learning. Now that I think about it, the immediacy of that learning helps me to help my students make sense of this new material as they encounter it themselves.

There’s also the fact that the pace of scientific discovery is such that it’s highly unlikely anyone could keep up with it. We don’t have the luxury of reading papers all day, every day, so we try to read the key papers, especially those in our own areas of expertise, and know with regret that there are bound to be others that we’ve missed. So the odds are good that every now and then, a curious, deep-thinking student is likely to ask a question that challenges & stretches your own understanding. The big thing is not to be thrown by this.

Huston gives a number of strategies for dealing with the challenge of teaching what you don’t know, drawn from interviews with a number of expert teachers who routinely teach outside their immediate field of expertise – & relish the challenge of doing so. One of these teachers, speaking of how quickly our knowledge of science moves on, comments that

“… we know different kinds of things, things that were unknown in 2005 we’re certain of now. And now we know that some of what was true in 2005 was wrong. They were hypotheses and we now have the data. It’s a lot of fun because students know I’m learning along with them, and we’ll say “What have we learned? What are people thinking about right now? What are the big questions that are left?”

As that lecturer said, learning new things – while challenging – is also stimulating & fun. If that sense of excitement and enjoyment carries through to your actual classes, then you’ll speak with passion and enthusiasm – how better to in turn enthuse your students?

What’s more, the mere fact of expressing uncertainty can help students learn something of the nature of science. Don’t stop at saying ‘I don’t know’ to that curly question; take it further: ‘I don’t actually know the answer to that question, it’s a bit outside my field of expertise. But I do know that in these circumstances so-&-so would happen, so I can hypothesize that such-&-such might happen in the circumstances you describe.’ And that’s a rather satisfying learning experience for everyone :-)

T.Huston (2009) Teaching what you don’t know Harvard University Press

quirks of human anatomy Alison Campbell Feb 06

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I’ve just started browsing through a book with the promising title, Quirks of human anatomy: an evo-devo look at the human body. (Held, 2009). (The Science librarian does a great job of sifting through new titles & running them past the various departments in our Faculty to see what people would like to see added to the shelves.) Held says that he wrote the book as

a kind of amusement park. Its thematic ‘pretend game’ is to inspect each body part through the eyes of an alien visitor who asks, “why is it this way and not that?”

Very early in the book there’s an image of vertebrate ‘morphospace’, which moves from the familiar to the seriously strange, and from reality to things – like Dumbo & ET – that can be conceived of but which are unlikely to exist due to various physical constraints. Cool!

As I said, I’ve only begun dipping into Quirks, but I’ve already come across a couple of examples that I’ll probably use in class. One is of a set of twins, born in France in 1844, who seemed on the basis of various tests (done when they were 17) to be monozygotic – yet one child was a boy & the other, a girl. Seems impossible… When cells from each twin were karyotyped, the boy was (as expected) XY i.e. he had 23 pairs of chromosomes, 22 of them ‘somatic’ & the 23rd pair the typical ‘sex’ chromosomes of a male mammal. His sister, however, was XO: 22 pairs of somatic chromosomes & just a single X, characteristic of Turner’s syndrome.

How could this be? The original zygote must have been XY. Presumably a Y chromosome was lost from one or some of the embryo’s cells before it split to form 2 embryos, with all the XO cells cohering & thus giving rise to the female twin.

Just as strange is the story of one Daniel Burghammer, who’d been married for 7 years when, in 1601 he gave birth to a child (doubtless to the extreme confusion of his poor wife!).  According to the contemporary account, Daniel ”was half man & half woman” & had at one point slept with a another man, an act which resulted in his pregnancy. You might think that this is just a fantastical tale, were it not for another example reported in the New England Journal of Medicine in 2004: an infant who

had a penis (with hypospadias) and scrotally enclosed testis… on the right, but a hemiuterus, oviduct, and ovary internally on the left.

Where this gets really weird is that cells on the ‘male side’ of this child were all XY, but those on the ‘female side’ were XX. Held suggests that the child may be a chimera, where 2 sperm fertilised 2 eggs, but the resulting zygotes then fused to produce a single embryo. But as he says, without DNA analysis we’ll never really know.

I am really looking forward to my bedtime reading for the next few days!. And this will certainly enliven my lectures on reproduction!

L.L.Held, Jr. (2009) Quirks of human anatomy: an evol-devo look at the human body. Cambridge University Press ISBN 978-0-521-73233-8

the mind’s eye Alison Campbell Jan 18

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I always enjoy reading Oliver Sacks’ books, not least for the wonderful anecdotes but also with the humane, compassionate way in which he described & discusses the various problems that his patients present with. And so I was delighted to get my hands on another one, The Mind’s Eye – as the title suggests, this volume examines the ways in which neurological problems manifest themselves in the way we see the world. One reason the book caught my eye was its cover: red with yellow font – & a font that’s deliberately fuzzy & blurred in places, by way of mimicking how some people see the world. Another reason was that as a child, I remember being fascinated by the question of how other folks perceived colour. I mean, was their ‘red’ the same as the ‘red’ that I saw? And if it was different, how would we actually know, given that we’d both use the same name for the colour of fire-engines & ‘red delicious’ apples. (I didn’t think of traffic lights – there weren’t any in Wairoa when I was a kid.)

The Mind’s Eye set me thinking about that second reason again, because with at least some of the patients he describes, their self-developed coping mechanisms mean that you wouldn’t necessarily know. People without the ability to see in 3-D, for example. This is something that most of us take for granted, & so we assume that everyone else (except, perhaps, those unfortunates who’ve lost an eye to accident or disease) also sees the world in glorious stereopsis. But they don’t; it’s just that in many cases they deal with it in ways that mask what we ’3-D viewers’ would see as a deficiency – & may well have adapted so well that even the possibility of 3-D vision is not attractive to them. And indeed, having monocular vision need not be seen as a handicap: Sacks comments that the first person to fly solo around the world, Wiley Post, did so with only one eye. (The other was removed surgically, following an infection, when Post was in his mid-20s.)

An individual with an uncorrected squint (strabismus) may also lose the capacity for binocular vision, & in the past it was generally thought (based on observations & experiments on other animals) that if a squint wasn’t corrected early in a child’s life, that person would forever after see the world ‘flat’, lacking the depth perception necessary for stereoscopy. But Sacks relates how he received a letter from a neurobiologist, Sue, who’d gone for most of her life in just such a ‘flat’ world after a childhood squint had not been properly corrected. When she was in her late forties, Sue’s sight began to deteriorate and, with the support & advice of a developmental optometrist, had practiced & done exercise after exercise until she acquired the ability to see the world in 3 dimensions. Take a moment & think about how this might feel… frightening? terrifying? wonderful? (It was definitely the latter, in her case.)

Another example Sacks discusses is ‘alexia’, or ‘word blindness’ – the inability to recognise written language, something that is due to damage to a specific part of the brain (say, by a stroke). As someone who reads & writes – copiously! – on a daily basis, both for pleasure & as part of my job, I simply cannot imagine what it would be like to lose this ability. It was something of a relief to read (heh) that at least one of Sacks’ patients was able – slowly and painfully – to recover some of his old skills in this area. A related disorder is ‘prosopagnosia’ – the inability to recognise faces (something that Sacks described in his 1985 book The Man Who Mistook His Wife For a Hat (Yes, seriously, that’s what happened in this particular case study).

Perhaps the most poignant example in the whole book is that of Sacks himself, in an extended essay that combines diary entries with self-reflection following on his diagnosis of a ocular melanoma – a tumour affecting his eye. The details of how the growing tumour encroached on his vision are both fascinating and awful (& if they’re bad to read, think how you would feel to have these things actually happening to you). Surgery to insert a radioactive plaque & subsequent lasering, both targeting the tumour, saw him lose his binocular vision – rather ironical given that Sacks at one point belonged to the New York Stereoscopic Society. Four years later, in 2009, bleeding behind the retina of the affected eye saw him lose almost all sight in it – including his peripheral vision. This meant that he experienced something that hitherto he’d only known through working with patients who’d suffered strokes in a particular region lf the brain – anything, any person, any object, on the affected side effectively ceased to exist for him. As Sacks describes it:

This came home even more forcefully when Kate [his PA] and I finished our walk and headed back to my office. I walked ahead and got into the elevator – but Kate had vanished. I presumed she was talking to the doorman or checking the mail, and waited for her to catch up. Then a voice to my right – her voice – said, “What are we waiting for?” I was dumbfounded – not just that I had failed to see her to my right, but that I had even failed to imagine her being there, because “there” did not exist for me.

Such personal anecdotes make The Mind’s Eye a compelling and affecting read.

O.Sacks (2010) The Mind’s Eye, pub. Picador. ISBN978-0-330-51399-9

‘the uncertainty of it all – understanding the nature of science’ Alison Campbell Nov 18

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With the implementation of the 2007 NZ Curriculum comes the need for teachers to think about how best to help their students to develop an understanding of the nature of science.

The Nature of Science is the overarching unifying strand. Through it, students learn what science is and how scientists work. They develop the skills, attitudes, and values to build a foundation for understanding the world. They come to appreciate that while scientific knowledge is durable, it is also constantly re-evaluated in the light of new evidence. They learn how scientists carry out investigations, and they come to see science as a socially valuable knowledge system. They learn how science ideas are communicated and to make links between scientific knowledge and everyday decisions and actions. (from the NZ Curriculum, 2007

But to do this, teachers need resources. From time to time a colleague & I had tossed around the idea of writing a book for just this purpose, looking at how scientific ideas have developed over time and the relationship between science & society. Well, I’ve just finished reading through the book I’d have liked to write: The uncertainty of it all: understanding the nature of science, by Jane Young (2010).

(At this point I need to let you know that I could be a biased observer, having seen an earlier, draft, version of this book and its accompanying CD-ROM.)

Jane decided to write this book after her experiences with a Year 9 class who “had issues with science” and were quite hostile to her attempts to lead them to engage with topics such as evolution and global warming. “Scientists,” they said, “don’t know what they’re talking about.” This seemed to be a reflection of a wider lack of understanding of what science is all about: that it’s evidence-based, & that scientists’ understanding of the world is thus subject to change if the evidence demands this.

So,The uncertainty of it all begins with a chapter on what science is & what it’s not. (Apparently Ernest Rutherford once said that “science is what scientists do”, which isn’t particularly helpful when you’re trying to nail the idea for a bunch of young teenagers!) Next is a section on the history and development of science, before we move on to the language of science as distinct from pseudoscience (which is generally untestable, not particularly logical, lacks plausible mechanisms – homeopathy, anyone?, disregards or ignores existing data and theories, and often claims that its finds are ignored by ‘the Establishment’).

The section on how science works includes ‘What are scientists really like?” This includes some of my own favourite examples, including the eccentric Henry Cavendish & also Beatrix Potter, who besides being a popular & successful author of stories for children was an accomplishd botanist. They’re mostly no more weird than anyone else, they don’t all wear white coats - and they get things wrong: the great physicist Lord Kelvin, for example, commented that ”X-rays will prove to be a hoax.” And the paths to scientific discovery are many and varied. While careful observation, experimentation and analysis are important, insight and plain old good luck have their place.

And I was happy to see “science and statistics” receive several pages :) A reasonably large number of students come into my first-year biology classes with no statistical knowledge (& sometimes no maths), which presents a few problems when they get into experimentation and data analysis. But even more importantly, students who’ve been exposed to experimental design & the concept of probability are better equipped to think critically about the multiplicity of pseudoscientific claims they’ll encounter over the years.

The final chapters of the book deal with people and science: ‘A love-hate relationship” begins by noting that while we use the outputs of science and technology on a daily basis, our human need for certainty doesn’t always sit well with the potential for change that is part of good science. What’s  more, science can challenge comfortable beliefs; it “asks people to see things as they are and not as they believe or feel them to be.” Jane then goes on to look at criticisms of science before dealing with the interplay between science, morals and ethics, using examples (the infamous Tuskegee study and our own ‘unfortunate experiment, among others) that should be good starting points for productive classroom discussion.

 ”A human endeavour” also offers these starters, covering misunderstandings about science, examples of using the scientific toolkit as a basis for making informed decisions (are cell phones implicated in cancer? does chelation therapy help ‘cure’ autism?), and highlighting some of the astounding achievements that science has made over the last few hundred years

 Jane’s hope for her book is that it will help “to communicate… both the excitement and the uncertainty of the human endeavour that is science.” I think it succeeds :)

Jane Young (2010) The Uncertainty of it all: understanding the nature of science. Triple Helix Resources Ltd www.biologyresources.co.nz

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