Tag Archives: by Nicole Gates

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.

Exploring the Meaning of Freedom

Movie Review: "Women Without Men"

It’s hard to reconcile the masterful cinematography with the subject matter of Shirin Neshat’s Women Without Men. There is a magical quality about the filming, something that fits in with the film’s central theme of freedom, and Neshat’s artful shots, each frame itself a photograph, almost seem out of place in such a violent setting.

The film takes place in 1953 in Tehran, Iran, during the Anglo-American-backed coup d’état that overthrew Mohammad Mossadegh’s democratically-elected government and restored the Shah as dictator. The narrative begins with Munis (Shabnam Tolouei), a thirty-year-old woman who is trapped in her home by her fundamentalist brother. The opening scene shows her suicide, taking place directly after her brother unplugs her radio—her only connection to the world outside the walls of the house. Instead of mourning her, her brother curses her for disgracing him and buries her in their garden.

Faezeh (Pegah Ferydoni), a friend of Munis’s, discovers her body. She secretly wishes to marry Munis’s brother, and when she learns of his marriage to another woman, she seeks the help of a seer to ensure that the marriage fails. Instead, she hears Munis call out to her when she is in the family’s garden; when Faezeh digs through the dirt, Munis returns to live a double life as an independent woman, protesting against the planned coup d’état against Mossadegh.

Zarin (Orsi Toth) is a prostitute. So many men have abused her body that it becomes impossible for her to tell one from the next, and she flees the brothel when she sees that her last customer is seemingly faceless. The next time she is on screen, she tries to wash the marks of these men from her body; it is a painful thing to watch because these marks are indelible, and no matter how hard she scrubs, even leaving her skin raw and bloody, they will never disappear. It is only by leaving Tehran and the men who hurt her that Zarin breaks free from the loveless caresses that haunt her.

Finally we meet Fakhri (Arita Shahrzad), a wealthy woman married to a war general. Following the arrival of an old flame, Fakhri leaves her husband and purchases a villa at the edge of town. This villa becomes her refuge—and in turn becomes a safe haven for Faezeh and Zarin, who eventually arrive at Fakhri’s door. Here, the three women help each other heal from the invisible injuries men have left on them. In this newfound freedom, they can live their lives undisturbed by men. Together, they take care of each other without fear of saying or doing something wrong; Neshat seems to be telling us that they understand each other in a way that a man never could. Meanwhile, Munis is free to pursue her desire to not only interact with the world beyond her radio, but become an activist herself and fight for what she believes in.

Each shot and frame of the film is ethereal, reflecting the surrealistic nature of the cinematography. It is a unique contrast that both invites the user to question the reality of the film and decide for themselves what hidden message each scene might contain. But in keeping with this artful, ever-shifting style, the peace at the villa and Munis’s activism do not last. When Fakhri announces that she is going to throw a party to celebrate the opening of the orchard in which the villa is located, Zarin falls ill; meanwhile, the coup begins in earnest, and Munis watches helplessly as the leadership of the protest fractures after the capture of one of the key activists.

The party and the crumbling of the protest unfold in tandem as the film progresses. At first it seems odd that the two events happen together, but they are linked the moment that a woman voices her distaste for the Shah at the party. Suddenly the viewer is reminded of the coup and the ensuing rebellion, and not long afterwards the Shah’s men arrive at the villa’s door, searching for one of the activists. This marks the end of resistance as their leaders scatter and Munis mourns the freedom that could have been. When Fakhri walks around in her empty villa the next morning, it dawns on her that that party was perhaps the last moment of freedom for Tehran and its citizens.

That Neshat’s work is forbidden in Iran, as is the novel, a magic-realistic book written by Shahrnush Parsipur, that the film is based upon, creates another tension with the film’s central theme of freedom. Women Without Men is a self-explanatory title that explores the possibility of freedom—a place where women can dictate their own lives in any way they choose—in an environment where there is no way to win. Perhaps it is a reflection of how Neshat sees the world today, or perhaps it is a call to arms to fight for the freedom she shows us in the film. Whatever the case, Neshat’s love for Iran is apparent at every turn, and her artful depiction of freedom and what it means to women is central to each frame, surreal and real.

It’s Not Just About Keeping Your Voice Down

Letter to the Editor

The insight that Dr. Kate Klonick’s “A ‘Creepy’ Assignment: Pay Attention to What Strangers Reveal in Public” (Op-Ed, March 8) gives into how easily our privacy is compromised is both eye-opening and incomplete. While it’s true that people will divulge information without any awareness of their surroundings, it’s more interesting to see what kinds of people feel anonymous in a public setting. Tellingly, every student Dr. Klonick writes about performed the experiment on test subjects that had one thing in common: all of them were men.

Perhaps the three anecdotes Dr. Klonick chose to share were simply the most interesting ones. But if not, it is a disservice to overlook the cultural influences that determine who is in need of this advice. The article would paint a more complete picture of what privacy means to different kinds of people if it considered the following question: is there a reason men are less careful about revealing too much information, at least in America? The answer is straightforward: men have the privilege of knowing that the entire culture system is slanted in their favor. They take over the space around them because they feel it’s their space to take. Not only that, but they feel secure enough to do so without fear of repercussions.

Meanwhile, your author fails to grasp the fact that an invasion of privacy is not merely “creepy,” it’s an issue of personal safety. In a political climate such as ours, it’s not enough to just write about how easy it is to compromise another’s privacy. It is a gross oversight not to acknowledge the inherent dangers that a large majority of Americans face when a stranger figures out a person’s nationality, religion, gender, or sexuality without their consent. Rather than limiting herself to generalizations, Dr. Klonick should have considered what it is about American society that poses these risks in the first place, and focused her advice on those who are most vulnerable.
 

https://www.nytimes.com/2019/03/08/opinion/google-privacy.html

Fête des Lumières

Feature Report

The streets of Lyon are usually quiet this time of night. Right now, however, they are alive with a boisterous crowd and brilliant lights scattered across the city, from a lamp the size of a house to a fountain lit up with dazzling precision. Tonight is the Festival of Lights, better known as Fête des Lumières—and at just past nine in the evening on this cold December day in 2014, the celebration is just beginning.

The Fête des Lumières is a four-day festival that began in 1634 in Lyon, France. Lyon, at the time, was suffering from a deadly plague. Its leaders prayed for the Virgin Mary to spare the city, and celebrated in Mary’s name when the plague subsided. The celebration was a simple and local one that quickly grew into a worldwide phenomenon. The only tradition that remains from that solemn time is the practice of burning candles in colorful glass, which people arrange on their windowsills. These candles brighten even the darkest of streets with ethereal color, but one must be there at the right time—they are only in place  on December 8, the final day of the Fête des Lumières.

A treasure trove of modern art and rich tradition precedes this vibrant display of candles. The Fête for 2014 displayed over forty exhibits, each created by different artists from around the world. Even stores and businesses take part, with an annual competition for the best shop window in which anyone in the world can vote. Every year, the same the artistic events  take place at two of Lyon’s landmarks: an extravagant lightshow at the Place des Terreaux, and a bank of bright, colorful lights projected onto the Basilica of Fourvière. Otherwise, no two Fêtes are the same, aside from that each one draws anywhere from three to four million attendees every year.

In all  the years that this Fête has been celebrated, whether on  a local scale or as the grand festival of today, there has only ever been one incident that left its continuation in doubt. In 2015, just weeks before the Fête would begin, Lyon’s mayor, Gérard Collomb, announced that the Fête des Lumières would be shortened. Instead of four days, the Fête would be celebrated only on December 8. And instead of numerous exhibitions produced by a variety of artists, there would only be one. This exhibit, Regards, would project paintings done by famous artists across the facades of the buildings of Lyon.

It  would also project the names of one hundred and thirty people upon the walls of Lyon’s quay.

 

from http://darkroom-cdn.s3.amazonaws.com/2015/12/AFP_Getty-547102989.jpg
A photo depicting some of the exhibit Regards, by Daniel Knipper. It lists several names.

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For almost all of 2015, French officials were on edge following the shooting at Charlie Hebdo in January. Over the following months, there were other acts of violence that were cause for concern: the stabbing of French guards outside a Jewish community center in February, the explosion scare of a factory in June, and the stabbing and shooting attack on a passenger train in August (dramatized in the film The 15:17 to Paris). ISIL claimed responsibility for these attacks—and would for future attacks as well.

On November 13, 2015, France announced a state of emergency following six distinct attacks in Paris. The first was three suicide bombers at the Stade de France, where President Hollande was in attendance; the next four were at various restaurants and cafes around the city, and caused  in thirty-nine deaths. The last was a mass shooting at the Bataclan theater, where ninety people lost their lives and many more were injured. In total, one hundred and thirty people were killed and hundreds more injured.

The tragedy of these events caused heartbreak and fueled widespread fear. But this mourning inspired action and résistance. Parisians opened their doors to those who were too scared to travel home, and, as the days went on, placed flowers and candles on memorials for the victims.

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Lyon’s response to these events was a show not of fanciful lights but of solidarity. Instead of the brilliant displays, residents and visitors alike placed candles on windowsills, on the stairs of City Hall, and along the bridges and streets and roads that wound through the city. The exhibit Regards was projected on the façades across the city as a tribute to the victims in Paris, flashing each victim’s name across the quay. The Fête of 2015 was a celebration of unity in the face of horror and a memorial to those who were lost; it was at once a somber and quiet affair and a fierce and passionate promise. A plague had once unified the people of Lyon, and now a national crisis drew the Lyonnais and all of France together.

The  following year’s Fête was strong and exuberant. Though it was shortened to just three days, artists displayed exhibits that showcased their skills and creativity and Lyon’s citizens lit their candles as they always had. The Fête of 2015 was not forgotten and as a result security for the Fête of 2016 was heightened, but still, the proud lights shone in the night. The same was true of the Fête of 2017. But every year since, the Fête celebrates its full four days, displaying a testament to the resolve and solidarity of a people.

http://www.fetedeslumieres.lyon.fr/sites/fdl/files/images/2015/Actus/8_decembre_2015-14.jpg 
Candles and messages left at the foot of the statue of Louis XIV. The message at center reads, “Give me hatred… and from it I’ll make you love.”

The Way to a Grandmother’s Heart

Blog Post

“Don’t mind Grandma,” my cousin Christine said to me. “She doesn’t mean half of what she says.”

“I don’t speak Cantonese, so I won’t know either way,” I said. Christine laughed. So did her father, but the joke didn’t do much to soothe my nerves as we pulled into the restaurant’s parking lot.

“Just eat the food,” Christine said as we walked towards the entrance. “Things will settle down once you do.”

The restaurant was emptier than I expected at this time of day, and added to my feeling of isolation. Usually I was with my Cantonese-speaking mother at these gatherings; right now she was across the country in California, nowhere near this Chinese restaurant in Boston. I mustered my courage as I followed Christine to a table in the corner of the room. Seated around it were Christine’s aunts and uncles, and her grandmother. They greeted us loudly in Cantonese, and Christine and her father greeted them in return. I hung back. I hadn’t met anyone before, but when it came to the Chinese side of my family, there was no point in asking how we were related: they were my aunties and uncles, too.

One of the women noticed my silence as we took our seats. “You don’t speak?” she asked in heavily accented English.

Christine jumped in. “She speaks French.” The one who had spoken gave me a long, measuring look. Christine whispered, “That’s my grandmother.”

My mother had told me stories of my own great-grandmother, who kept a watchful eye on the family and whose word was law. It was the only frame of reference I had, but as I watched Christine’s grandmother scrutinize me impassively, it was the only thing I could think about. I lowered my head and stared at my empty plate. No food yet, so I couldn’t follow Christine’s advice.

The meal was a traditional Chinese dinner, and as the waiters brought out the dishes, Christine pointed out what was what. One was a whole duck, lightly seasoned and poached; I could still see where the feathers had been pulled out. Another was roast pork—char siu, Christine whispered—and still another was a plate of fried rice. Soon there was too much for the seven of us, but my aunties and uncles were undaunted and, speaking rapid Cantonese, began filling everyone’s plates.

Just eat the food, Christine had said. I picked up my chopsticks.

“Your hair is short,” Christine’s grandmother said abruptly. “You won’t find a husband that way. You should grow it out.”

“Grandma,” Christine said reproachfully. Her father put one of his hands against his face.

“She’s so pale,” her grandmother said loudly, and then she turned to me and said, “You go to an all-girls’ school? You will never meet men that way.”

“Grandma,” Christine said again. Her grandmother just clicked her tongue, gave me a cutting look, turned to another auntie and began speaking in Cantonese again. “Sorry,” Christine whispered.

I laughed it off, but her grandmother’s disapproval felt like a heavy weight on my shoulders; it dawned on me that I was lucky that no one had asked if I needed a fork. With that in mind, I picked up a piece of duck. At the very least, I had an excuse not to talk if my mouth was full.

“You like?” Christine’s grandmother said suddenly, and instantly the conversation stopped and all eyes were on me. It hadn’t occurred to me that they would be waiting to hear my verdict on the food, but nodding was apparently the correct answer, because she gave a sharp nod in return and said, “good,” then turned to one of her daughters. “Give her more.”

I looked at Christine. She gave me a smile (I could almost hear her saying I told you so), and tucked into a sliver of pork. The rest of the family was doing the same, chatting gaily as they served each other rice, poured tea, and offered napkins, and all at once I felt my nerves settle.

I recalled meeting Christine, actually my second cousin once removed, just two years ago. We’d been introduced over dimsum, a traditional Chinese brunch, and we had bonded instantly over bao and egg tarts. Although the circumstances were different, this dinner echoed that delicious brunch: while these were uncles and aunties I had never met, they were still my family, and now I understood why I was at this restaurant. There was no better occasion to meet them than over food that reminded them of home.

“It’s delicious,” I said to Christine’s grandmother over the din, and she smiled.