All posts by ngates

Roland Pellenq Wants You to Know That Concrete Isn’t Cement (and Vice Versa)

Profile

Roland Pellenq’s office is both tidy and cluttered. It’s built around the centerpiece of a stack of papers and manilla  folders that sits one foot high on a corner of his desk, right next to his Mac desktop. On the windowsill is a variety of interesting trinkets—a mug, an hourglass filled with black sand, a replica of what looks to be a fanciful tower of some kind—and opposite the small, round table I sit at is a wall of books. The organized chaos reminds me of someone who makes a mess when working and then cleans up before they leave, enacting the process so consistently and repetitively that they end up with a perfectly efficient system.

On paper, Dr. Pellenq is an accomplished academic. Beyond a Master of Science from Marseilles in France and a doctorate from London, he is the director of the CNRS branch at MIT—a joint lab effort that links MIT to Marseilles, where they study complex porous materials. He’s also one of the founders and leading researchers at MIT’s Concrete Sustainability Hub (“Not cement,” he interjects quickly ), but he assures you right away  that he isn’t the only one, and he’s  happy to talk about the people who work for him or who have helped him in his career. He’s published several papers over the years, some under the auspices of industry giants like Shell, and, although modest, he enjoys pointing out how his research has led him to meet some of the top leaders in the gas and cement industry.

Such is  the man who greets me outside of his office. I had knocked on his door and hadn’t gotten an answer, but Pellenq emerged minutes later from the office just next door to his, apologizing for not realizing I was there. He’s dressed in jeans and a gray sweater,  with a blue scarf wrapped loosely around his neck, and he balances the hanger holding his suit jacket on  bookshelf before he ushers me to a seat.

“The reason I’m here is kind of random,” he tells me with a laugh as he eases into his office chair. He pauses to consider this. Then:  “Well, not random. What happened is that I work for CNRS. Do you know what that is?”

As happens with most of the questions he asks me, Pellenq gives me no chance to respond before launching into an answer: CNRS is the largest governmental research agency in France—“probably the biggest one, actually,” Pellenq adds—and he is one of its most productive members. (In fact he was Director of Research there from 2002 to 2007.) It’s clear that this is a man who loves his work and loves explaining to others what he does, and it takes very little prodding for him to jump on a new story or explain another process. I barely even ask how he ended up at MIT before he launches into the tale of working with a fellow MIT civil engineering professor, Franz-Josef Ulm, when he first arrived in the States.

“We were still smokers back then,” he says with a laugh, as if that has everything to do with the story. He tells me how the CNRS approved his visit to the US and sent him on his way, and how he bridged the gap between MIT and CNRS to create a joint lab. I press him for details, and it’s hard to hold back a laugh at his earnestness when he says, “I sent a text message congratulating Alain for the new job, blah blah blah blah. And then I say, ‘What, by the way, why don’t you come to MIT,’ and he said, ‘Yes, okay, alright, okay,’”—as though texting Alain Fuchs, then acting president of CNRS, was no big deal.

But for Pellenq, it isn’t a big deal.  His relationship with his home country and the people there is one of fondness and familiarity, though after eleven years of living here he’s very comfortable with his situation in the United States. Perhaps a little too comfortable, even—at one point he says excitedly, “What we have,” only to stop and correct himself by saying, “Or rather, what you have,” before going on to explain that while at MIT he has plentiful resources, it’s in Marseilles where some of the really snazzy tech work  like three-dimensional imaging takes place.

Pellenq’s openness isn’t limited to the candor with which he speaks of his own work and life. At the end of the interview, he pelts me with questions about my interests and majors and plans for the summer, suggesting several places that I might find good to work at and encouraging me to apply. I laugh and thank him as I leave his office.  Then I recall that we hadn’t shaken hands or even introduced ourselves.  He had simply checked that I was who I said I was before he settled in to speak. Clearly, the niceties of formal introductions are, for him, unnecessary.

If You Want Diversity, Open the Gates

Op-Ed

Computer science is hard. That’s what everyone says, and they’re right. It’s not just because you’re learning an entirely new language with its own rules, syntax, and semantics, and it’s not because programming doesn’t click right away for everyone. It’s not even because it can be a struggle to find teachers to help you learn it. The real reason that computer science is so hard isn’t even related to the study itself; it’s because if you aren’t a White or Asian man, you’re in a field where the odds are stacked against you from the very beginning.

I walked into my first computer science classroom my junior year of high school and was one of three women in a class of thirty people. Then I went to my first computer class at Wellesley with no cisgender men in sight. At last, no working with just select, trusted male friends, carefully vetted before the class; at last, no men trying to explain something that I already knew better than they did; and at last, no more enduring the endless comments about how easy something must be if she can do it. It was a breath of fresh air.

But one thing didn’t change: the gatekeepers were ready and waiting.

The majority of students who graduate from college with a computer science degree are White or Asian, and the majority of those students are male. Studies point out numerous reasons for this, from the cultural stereotypes that surround computer science to the sexism that pervades the field in companies and universities. But the crucial element that discourages diversity in computer science? Gatekeeping—that is, controlling and limiting access to something. It’s not just the big companies that do this—it starts with schools failing to reach those who need the most help.

You’d think a place like Wellesley College wouldn’t have this problem. Yet last year, a CS professor at Wellesley accidentally sent out to the CS student body a document meant for faculty. It contained a list of “problem students” who, according to a subsequent faculty explanation, were struggling in class and needed to have a watchful eye kept on their progress. While we’ll never know for sure the list’s exact purpose, some students correctly identified it for what it was: a key component of gatekeeping. Just by seeing their names, the listed students were discouraged from continuing their classes because they were taking more time to program than they should. This document heightened awareness of how professors and lab instructors keep each other informed of which students are doing poorly. Ostensibly, instructional faculty do this so that those students can receive more help, but it’s unclear how many students received that help and how many dropped their major after the list was circulated.

CS faculty are the first to welcome anyone into the department, but   the gatekeeping at Wellesley is much more overt than the professors think. The first two introductory classes for CS have long been known for “weeding out” students who want to go into CS; discouraged by their difficulty and the time sink required for a passing grade, many drop the courses and pursue other interests. Even as the department is growing as interest in coding increases, these two classes prevent too many students from experiencing the fascinating aspects of computer science.

It shouldn’t be this way. Programming and the knowledge surrounding it should be accessible, especially since the world around us is becoming increasingly reliant on computers—your smartphone has artificial intelligence built into all of its core systems, and in the last ten years, virtual reality has left clunky machines behind and moved to affordable headsets. But gatekeeping keeps computer science out of reach for students who don’t meet the minimum requirement (read: White or Asian cisgender male). The assignments for many CS classes list the number of hours it takes to complete them; go over that hour limit and you are supposed to seek help from faculty or peers. Imagine how demoralizing it is to see some peers breeze through assignments when you have to constantly go to the help room and office hours. For some, it’s easier to just give up and take different courses. Who wants to spend fifteen hours on a single problem set?  Who wouldn’t rather do anything else?

Help room and office hours can be intimidating for a first-year student, particularly for first generation students and students of non-White and non-Asian descent. No one should be ashamed of how long it takes to learn to program. It’s time for colleges in general—and Wellesley in particular—to have a more robust program in place to catch students who slip through the cracks. It’s time for them to promote the diverse environment they claim to support.

A Future Unclear

Movie Review: "Ida"

In contrast to the Poland of 2013, which oozed economic potential and seemed to eager to further relations with NATO and western partners, the picture of Poland in 1962 that Pawel Pawlikowski paints is much more bleak. The film’s black and white frames pull the viewer back to a post-war communist Poland, where the collective memory and national identity of the Polish people is complicated and questioned through the story of Anna (Agata Trzebuchowska) and her aunt, Wanda (Agata Kulesza).

In the days before taking vows to become a nun, Anna is sent by the mother superior to meet her only living relative, who reveals that Anna is a Jew named Ida Lebenstein whose parents died during the war. Ida and her aunt set off across Poland to find where Ida’s parents are buried, starting with the village where Wanda and her sister Roza grew up. Their journey uncovers fragments of  Wanda Gruz’s past life as a state prosecutor where she was known for sending “enemies of the people” to their end. The film draws a comparison between the faithful, innocent, naive Ida and her life-hardened, bitter aunt who regularly engages in nights out, heavy drinking, one-night stands, and smoking. It is through this pair of characters that Pawlikowski presents his inquiry into the history and identity of Poland.

What is remarkable about “Ida” is the numerous and overlapping contrasts that Pawlikowski weaves into the film. Not only are the personalities and lifestyles of Wanda and Ida at odds with one another, but the two represent larger societal chasms. The most visibly obvious of these is generational. Wanda was witness to the war and remembers the invasion, occupation, and liberation as lived personal experiences. Ida, on the other hand, is part of the generation that grew up in its shadow of the war. Yet another contrast is that of ideology. Ida is a devout Catholic, and adheres to a tradition that has been an important part of Poland’s history. Although Wanda was once an active and proud member of the communist party, her idealism was dashed as the party betrayed the people’s revolution. This highlights the third of the film’s contrasts, that of devotion. In contrast to Wanda, who has lost her devotion, Ida remains pious, reading her bible and saying her prayers even as Wanda looks on condescendingly.

Both women are reflective of political and cultural sects present in Polish society. In this way, the tension in their interactions and the challenges they face are representative of the same challenges to identity and tension between sects that existed in Poland in the post-war years, and perhaps persist today. The days of traveling and the weight of what the pair might discover create an environment in which these ideologies and ways of life are set to clash. In the hotel room, when intoxicated Wanda mocks Ida’s devotion to the church, Ida pulls the book from her aunt’s hands and places it under her pillow on the farthest side of the bed from her aunt. Though this scene is the most confrontational between the two, the tension is set up much earlier, as Wanda asks while still in her apartment “And what if you go there, and you realize that there is no God?” However, while the heaviness of their potential discovery creates the atmosphere for this clash, it also forces each to confront a shaking reality that ultimately blurs these demarcations.

The setting of the film presents contrasts of its own, including the interplay of different cultural influences in everyday life. Wanda’s previous involvement with the Communist party is a reminder of the political and social influence of Russia in Poland in the post-war period. However, at a bar in the hotel where the two stay during their journey, a young musician, who takes an interest in Ida, plays and discusses the music of Coltrane. Though the film is set in the sixties, the possibility of outside influence, even through the iron curtain, calls Poland’s identity once more into question. Context, dialogue, and action are in short supply; silence is plentiful. “Ida” is a relatively short film filled with long moments. Following the conclusion of dialogue, the camera stays focused within the frame seconds longer than necessary in terms of the narrative. The tension from the scene, whether it is a result of grief, guilt, or anger, persists in the moments after the action of the scene concludes. It is the pauses, these prolonged silences, that cultivate the heavy, inescapable bleakness that pervades Pawlikowski’s film. The use of silence, in tandem with shots of the convent, the rundown home of Ida’s parents, Wanda’s apartment, and the Polish countryside create an image of a Poland that is peaceful but disturbingly stagnant.

In this aspect as in others, Pawlikowski’s film rests on the belief that viewers will read in between the lines and grasp the indirectly delivered themes and motifs of the film. This reliance on cultural and political knowledge contributes to the sense that the film belongs to the 1960s despite its 2013 release. In fact, the film runs for 15 minutes and 3 seconds before the word wojna – war – is ever uttered, which is surprising since the action of the film is derived from understanding the tragedy and legacy of this event. The film “Ida” conforms to artistic norms of post-war film in terms of subject, cinematography, and the innate ability to question the political reality while creating art within the bounds of censorship. Sound, for much of the film, is diegetic, which is common in films of the early sixties. Like other film of this era, “Ida” focused on the cost of the war and the impact on individuals in ways that earlier film didn’t allow, fitting in with the black and white films of the late-50s and early-60s and after the Polish October (1956). Though the film itself makes no ideological claim, its subtext calls into question the systems of both organized religion and communism.

Pawlikowski’s juxtaposition of numerous contrasts, the links to past film, and the intersection of multiple components of Poland’s history results in a gray zone, not only in reference to each character’s place in society, but also in reference to Poland itself. Catholicism, Judaism, and Communism intermingle in Pawlikowski’s consideration of Polish identity. At the end of the film, viewers understand the choices and identities of Ida and Wanda. What Pawlikowski does not venture to answer, and what he leaves hanging in the final sequence, is the identity of Poland. After complicating viewers’ perception of Poland’s history and people, he leaves his viewers once again with silence, forcing them to find his message in frames not seen and words not said. The image of Poland is one of people immersed in gray uncertainty. They are neither fully aligned with the eastern bloc, nor with the western. It is clear that Catholicism plays a significant role in Poland’s identity, but the place of both Judaism and Communism is more uncertain. Poland has experienced tragedy and stagnation, and there is little hint of what is yet to come.

War Criminal’s Accomplice

Letter to the Editor

To the Editor:

It seems the case of Shamima Begum has exposed several British political double standards. Patrick Galey’s “UK’s racist two-tier citizenship” (Feb 21, 2019), highlights the racist double standard being applied in this case, but I think there are other layers to this debate.

Although recent headlines suggest otherwise, Shamima, who left home at 15 to join ISIS, is
neither the first nor the last returnee. Hundreds of other European ISIS fighters and “those
affiliated with them” – their families – have returned to their home countries. Shamima is
getting much more media attention due to her pleas for return which went viral on social
media and the home secretary’s decision to strip her of her UK citizenship. Shamima does
not have a second citizenship, nor does she have the ability to guarantee one. Thus the
government’s decision effectively renders her stateless, an action that is illegal under
British law and international law.

Had she been allowed to return, Shamima would not have been the first European “ISIS
wife” or even ISIS fighter to face the consequences of her decisions in her own country.
Hundreds of returnees have been processed by their respective countries and have
received verdicts ranging from life sentences to participation in rehabilitation and de-
radicalization programs. As your writer points out, the homes secretary’s assertion that she
can be stripped of her citizenship because her mother is a Bangladeshi immigrant is, on its
face, hypocritical and racist.

But Shamima’s case also exposes a far different facet of British hypocrisy, one exemplified
by a British citizen who does in fact hold another passport. This is a woman who is married
to a brutal war criminal, the one responsible for the largest number of civilian deaths Syria
has ever witnessed. She has defended her husband, consulted with him on strategy and
publicly expressed her allegiance to him repeatedly. So the conversation around ISIS wives
and terrorist accomplicity begs the following question: Where is the challenge to Asma Al-
Assad’s British citizenship in this debate? Where is the call to hold this European citizen
accountable to the crimes against humanity, the terrorism, she has helped defend? The
first lady of Syria and the accomplice of a mass murderer surely deserves as much debate
as a pregnant teenager who ran away from home at 15 to join a terrorist organization.

Armenia!

Feature Report

Armenians made an unusual pilgrimage this year. Although many diasporan Armenians do try to return to the homeland during their lifetime, this year the journey was a bit shorter for many of them. From September 2018 to January 2019, the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City held an exhibit titled Armenia! to celebrate the art and culture of this small nation.

I made the pilgrimage this year, albeit by accident. For the past three years, I have been making a different kind of pilgrimage. Ever since working at an Armenian summer camp, I have been getting more involved with my Armenian heritage, and have been making my way down to New York City each January to reconnect with my friends from camp. This year, my voyage serendipitously coincided with the MET’s Armenia! exhibit. Looking for something to do, and figuring that as American-Armenians we really ought to go, my five friends and I made our way to Manhattan.

The exhibit featured the largest collection of Armenian art ever displayed in a museum. The exhibition hosted over 140 objects from medieval Armenia, including intricate stone work pieces, gilded reliquaries, illuminated manuscripts, woven silk textiles, impressive carved woodwork, and altar frontals. A common element among the pieces, and in Armenian art and culture in general, are the deep Christian roots of the nation. Armenia was the first nation to adopt Christianity, and as such, the religious spirituality is deeply ingrained in the culture of the people, and is reflected in the artwork. Some of the most entrancing pieces of the show were the stone crosses, or khachkars. These crosses were so intricately carved that I found myself staring and wondering about the artists who devoted their lives to creating these expressions of faith. As I made my way through the exhibit, I paused to admire the delicate textiles, ornate reliquaries, and detailed carved wooden doors. But what most caught my eye were the inscriptions on the illuminated manuscripts. These elaborate manuscripts were brought to life through vibrant and gilded images as well as the calligraphically written Armenian alphabet. The Armenian alphabet was developed around 405 AD by the linguistic and ecclesiastical leader Mesrop Mashtots, and is still used today. Though I cannot read Armenian, the experience of seeing the language of my people on display in one of the nation’s greatest museums was a moving one, for myself, as it must have been for the many others who passed through this exhibit.

Armenia! did not exude the same glamour as some other installations at the MET – it was a simple exhibition structured like many others devoted to the medieval period or Christian artwork – but what brought life to this exhibit was the overwhelming feeling of representation in the room. Armenians have faced a long history of persecution and strife. Slaughtered and forcibly removed from their homeland by Ottoman forces during the – still unrecognized – Armenian Genocide of the early 20th century, Armenians have not had it easy. Armenians were a minority Christian people living under the Muslim Ottoman rule in the early 20th century when World War I broke out, and a systematic extermination of the Armenian people began. The genocide drove tens of thousands of Armenian people to escape their homeland, creating the widespread diasporan communities we see today. Though forced to flee far and wide across the globe due to their religious beliefs, the Armenian people have never lost their sense of self and their ties to the homeland.

This exhibit served as a beacon of hope, for the first time displaying the art of this small and turbulent nation on a such a large platform. I looked around and listened in on the overlapping chatter of voices. I heard families speaking Armenian, some who had moved to America over 100 years ago to flee the genocide, and some who had recently immigrated. I saw older people, young children, and even ran into a different friend from camp. More astonishing, however, were the crowds of non-Armenian people in this space, looking on with the same wonder as those whose culture these artifacts represent. Speaking with my friends afterward, I found they shared my sense of pride at seeing the story of our small nation get told through artwork not only to our people, but to such a diverse audience. One of my friends told us how her parents visited the museum as often as they could, and how her father became emotional when he observed the many enchanted non-Armenians and saw his culture projected on such a large platform through a lens of wonder and admiration.

The history of the Armenians may be one of erasure, but the persecution has been unable to stop our people and culture. Our story, like the Christian roots of the nation, is what ties together the many people worldwide who claim this small nation as home, and is what has fostered such a strong community. Art is a way of celebrating a people, and so to the Armenians, seeing their art displayed alongside some of the greatest works in history was a glorious recognition and uplifting of a people once almost wiped off the map.

Where coffee is more than a drink

Blog Post

Enter a Starbucks or Caffè Nero in the heart of Boston, and you’ll see clusters of people at booths and tables, earbuds plugged in and eyes fixated on a screen of some sort. Ceramic mugs and paper cups holding lattes, mochas, and espressos remain momentarily abandoned, inches away from fingers tapping on keyboards. Customers pour in and out of the shop, leaving equipped with a lidded cup of a caffeinated beverage.

Entering a coffee shop in Barcelona on my second day in the city, I half-expected to see the familiar sight of customers plugged into devices, sitting in separate solitary but virtually-connected universes. I expected to see laptops and iPads scattered on tables. I expected to hear the clicking of keyboards against the soft backdrop of pop songs playing from overhead speakers. I expected to see a steady stream of customers exiting the front door, paper cups in hand.

What I saw instead were tables scattered with ceramic saucers, small metal milk jugs, and round mugs brimming with café con leche, espresso, and chocolate caliente. I heard the clink of spoons against mugs, the gentle rustle of a newspaper, and the soft murmur of conversation. To my surprise, I saw a coffee shop meant for drinking coffee. And there was not a pair of headphones in sight.

My friend spotted an empty table, and we sat down. Moments later, a waiter dressed in a black apron came over to take our order.

“Dos cafés con leche, por favor,” my friend said.

Giving a friendly nod, the waiter left to prepare our drinks. My friend took out her phone to check Snapchat. I too debated pulling out my phone. It’s a gesture that feels natural to me any time I’m made to wait. I reached into my pocket, yet decided against it in a split second. Few other customers were using their devices, and I preferred not to stick out.

Instead, I turned my attention to the window. Watching streams of people pass the coffee shop, I found myself noticing details that I would normally overlook. The purple plumage of a pigeon. A lady grinding a cigarette into the ground with her tall, high-heeled boot. A group of school children in dark blue uniforms being shepherded by two brisk teachers.

A waiter interrupted the world of my thoughts, sliding two full mugs onto the bar. “Dos cafés con leche,” he called.

My friend and I stood up to get our drinks. A delicate curl of steam wafted up from my mug, which was filled to the brim with coffee. On the surface, the baristas had crafted a dainty lattice of frothing milk, almost too perfect to drink.

When I sat down again, I noticed how small the cup was, compared to what I expected. It was a drink meant to be savored, not downed. I had the urge to take a photo of the picture-perfect mug and preserve it on my SD card forever. Yet, I once again resisted the natural inclination to use my phone, choosing instead to capture the memory in my head.

I took my time opening a black paper packet of sugar and poured it into the cup. The brown crystals formed a small pool on top of the lattice pattern before sinking downwards. With the small metal spoon, I gently mixed the liquid and watched the milk and coffee swirl together, producing a warm, toasted color. I set the spoon down and lifted the cup to my lips. The sweet, roasted taste of coffee blossomed on my tongue. Frothy, earthy, and aromatic.

I savored each sip, pausing in between to absorb the taste, the color, and the scent of my café con leche.

When only a few drops remained in the cup, I couldn’t help but feel disappointed. For the first time in a long while, perhaps even before I’d set foot on the plane, I felt calm and present. The coffee shop was a place that made me feel refreshed and invigorated. It was a place where one could sit down to have a drink, rather than hurry out the door with a disposable paper cup in hand. It was a place where newspapers and conversations replaced devices and electronics. Where people came to savor presence, rather than caffeine.

Where coffee was not just a drink, but an experience.