For instance, say you’re Dr. Marie Sklodowska-Curie, circa 1911. Your health has been declining after decades spent frolicking in kiddie pools of polonium. Everything’s painful and you can barely see, walk, sleep, frolic in more polonium. Sucks, right?
Well, things could suck more. You decide to do that thing you’ve been putting off: applying for membership at the French Academy of Sciences. You have two Nobel Prizes, so you should be a shoo-in, yes? Non. The Academy rejects you, and instead admits this Édouard Branly guy, who I’m sure has many great qualities—such as a penis. (If you’re wondering “Who’s Édouard? Never heard of this guy!” that’s exactly my point. Excellent job, FA of S! Take your seat on the Loser Side of History, next to the University of Krakow.)
Our tally is two major bummers, and you’re probably thinking: the shit-cake has been frosted. No other catastrophe will happen for a while. But you forgot the cherry on top: someone breaks into your young stud muffin’s apartment, steals your love letters, and sells them to the Fox News equivalent of early nineteenth-century France. Jean Hannity has a field day.
Imagine being Dr. Curie. Imagine sitting in your minuscule Paris apartment, trying to eat a Camembert baguette while the mob rages outside your window because you dared (gasp!) to be an immigrant! To be a woman in STEM! To fuck! Wouldn’t you tell yourself that there’s a reason this cluster of shit came about? Saturn ascending to the house of Sagittarius. Not enough lambs sacrificed to the Spaghetti Monster. Bad things come in threes. We’re only humans. We’re full of “whys,” drowning in “whys.” Every once in a while, we need a bit of “because,” and if it’s not readily available, we make it up.
Long story long: despite popular belief, a saying is just a saying, and disasters do not come in threes.
Except when they do.
The first is on Thursday night, right after the successful dress rehearsal for Friday’s presentation. I’m almost looking forward to seeing Trevor tomorrow—well, not him, but his face when he realizes what my simpering womanly brain has accomplished. I distractedly exchange a high five with Lamar while checking my phone, and I’m so shocked by my Twitter notifications that I forget my hand in midair.
They’re blowing up. In a bad way. As they often do. Except that this time the chaotic mess of insults isn’t coming from the incels, or the stemlords, or the men’s rights activists—but from other women in STEM.
“You gonna leave it there?” Lamar asks, pointing at my arm. I smile weakly and walk away.
@SabineMarch I cannot believe how you have betrayed us.
@AstroLena I hope STC presses charges, you bitch. #WhatWouldMarieDoIsOverParty
@Sarah_08980 Hundreds of women in STEM have been working tirelessly for #FairGraduateAdmissions, and all along you have been pretending to be an ally while only looking out for your gain. Shame.
The last tweet is from someone I’ve chatted with as recently as yesterday. We talked about the events she was organizing, she asked me for advice, told me she loved my account. I blink at my screen and begin scouring for the source of whatever the hell this is.
I find it soon enough. On the account of one Benjamin Green—a name that’s familiar but not easy to place until I read the Twitter bio. VP at STC. I frown, and then I see the tweet.
It’s a screenshot. Many screenshots. Of a conversation that happened in a private Twitter chat between Mr. Green and someone else. Someone whose icon looks a lot like Marie Curie wearing sunglasses. I read the name: @WhatWouldMarieDo. Me.
Impossible. I’ve never chatted with this guy. I rapidly scan the handle again, one, two, three times, looking for typos or missing letters that would signal an imposter. There are none. I frown and start reading the conversation. The time stamp is from last night.
@WHATWOULDMARIEDO Hi, Jonathan. I’m aware this is a bit unorthodox, but I hope that what I have to say will be beneficial to the both of us. I know STC has been struggling with the negative publicity #FairGraduateAdmissions has brought upon you, and that you are concerned about the movement gaining even further momentum. As you know, I’m one of its most prominent activists, and played a significant role in its inception. You probably see me as an enemy, but it doesn’t have to be like that.
@WHATWOULDMARIEDO I’d like to offer you a deal. I’m open to help shift the narrative toward STC, and to tell my followers and collaborators that the demands of #FairGraduateAdmissions are excessive. That while there might be a need for reform, we do need standardized testing, and therefore it would be in our best interest to work with companies that already exist to improve on instruments that are already widely utilized. Of course, I would not be doing this for free. My real name is , in case you need to look up my credentials. I am open to hearing your offers.
I blink at my screen, floored. Then I scroll up to read the public comment Green made on top of the screenshots.
@JgreenSTC #FairGraduateAdmissions activists and the universities and institutions who take them seriously should read what @WhatWouldMarieDo, one of their leaders, asked of me. This is the real agenda of this movement: extortion.
@JgreenSTC At STC we’ve decided not to make this individual’s identity public (for now.) We’re consulting with our lawyers and keeping our options open. In the meantime, time to reconsider where you stand #FairGraduateAdmissions.
I feel light-headed. Because I haven’t been breathing. I force myself to inhale some air, in and out and in again. This has to be photoshopped. Yes. There’s no other explanation. Very well done, but... in grad school Annie photoshopped a tentacle coming out of her butt. Anything’s possible, right?
I sit at my desk, noticing that lots of people I’ve talked with recently have blocked me—do they believe this rubbish? They can’t possibly. They know me. Right?
MARIE: Shmac, I just saw the STC shitshow. Have you?
I bounce my foot and wait for his answer. Minutes later Rocío comes in and starts sliding stuff into her backpack. When I say “sliding,” what I mean is “aggressively throwing as though she’s practicing her pitch for an upcoming stoning.”
“You okay?” I ask, regretting it even before the words are out. I’m probably too anxious to help her with whatever she’s going to tell me.
“No.”
Shit. “Is Kaylee okay?”
“No. She feels like crap.” She zips up her backpack, forcefully sliding her arm through one of the straps. “All the work we’ve been doing for #FairGraduateAdmissions, flushed down the toilet because one of the leaders outed herself as a damn crook.”
I freeze. Of all the conversations, I cannot imagine one more uncomfortable, untimely, unpleasant—lots of Uns.