The Other Woman: At the Intersection of my Astronomical and Gender Identities.

We welcome contributions from our readers! This week’s guest post was written by Andie Vanture, a tenured instructor at Everett Community College. She holds a BA in Physics and an MS and PhD in Astronomy. Her research interests are stellar nucleosynthesis and astrobiology. Andie has been teaching undergraduate students physics and astronomy for 32 years. She lives in Seattle with her wife of 39 years and their son. Occasionally, when the rain clouds part she gets to see the Sun, Moon and stars. She can be reached at avanture_at_everettcc.edu.

 

Andie Vanture (Credit: Diana Canzoneri).

As I sit here writing this it is the last weekend of Pride. At this time last year, a friend and former student asked me about the intersection of my identities as an astronomer and a transwoman. It is one of those questions that stumps you, and I was unable to drag forth an immediate answer. I have never thought of my identity as an astronomer in the same light as my identity as a transwoman. With the exception of the planets in our solar system, in particular Venus and Mars, we don’t gender astronomical objects. But astronomer is an identity as deep as one’s gender identity. As astronomers, not only do we learn the tools of our trade but we also confront the vastness of the Universe and the profound questions that poses. Seeking to answer these questions shapes our lives as deeply as other experiences of our lives. All of us have had that “pale blue dot” experience which affects in larger and smaller ways our experience of the world around us. There is no single answer to my friend’s query. My various identities are tightly interwoven—the becoming of one affects the becoming of all the others. However, pursuit of a career as a professional astronomer has impacted my struggle with my gender identity. In turn, that struggle informed the path of my career as a professional astronomer. Particularly impactful in my struggle with gender identity and my desire to have a career in astronomy.

Discussions of identity often challenge one’s own identities, particularly among people who are not members of the identity being examined, leading to feelings of discomfort and defensiveness. So, I wish to make a few points clear before I go into detail about those impactful events I referred to in the previous paragraph. I am not young, at least chronologically. The sign marking the exit ramp to retirement is clearly visible ahead of me. I did not come out and transition until I was 54 years and did not let my transition be known in the wider astronomical community until about two years later. Most of my life and career in astronomy, I was perceived as a cisgender, heterosexual, white man and had all the accompanying privileges that I obtained with that identity. So, often, I am reluctant to speak up in women’s spaces, being keenly aware that I have not shared many of the experiences of my cis-sisters. In addition, there have been times in these spaces where my womanhood has been policed, which has added to my reluctance to speak up. Second, I am not going to name specific people or institutions. I am sure that a little sleuthing will allow you to figure out some identities, but I would encourage you not to go down that road. It makes it too easy to scapegoat those involved and not examine the broader, important points here. The events I describe could apply to any institution and set of people during the late 80s and early 90s. All the people involved are friends, colleagues, teachers, and most importantly good people. Their friendship, support and mentorship have enhanced my life in ways I cannot begin to describe. Lastly, essays such as this can at times seem to be a grievance. While I have had to process many things about my life as I write this, and it is at times painful, this is not a forum where I wish to share that pain, though it may peek through here and there. I hope you will be understanding when it does and realize that I think I have an important perspective to share with our astronomical community.

For reference, I earned my PhD in 1992. It was the height of the AIDS pandemic; gay men were fighting for survival and there was no such word as “transgender” that I could apply to myself. In the media, transwomen were depicted as prostitutes if we were “lucky”, and at worst, as a caged psychopathic killer being interviewed by Jodie Foster¹. Astronomers were making efforts to include women in the profession and largely getting it wrong. All the societal messages made it difficult to figure out that I even had a gender identity issue. 

Many of the experiences I will describe involve the presence of an openly transwoman who was a visiting graduate student in our department and as I was given to understand, was there to transition before returning to her home department. My interactions with her were limited. Mostly, I was a spectator. Hers is not my story to tell--I don’t know her struggles. However, as her ship passed in my night, her presence had a great impact on my view of myself as a transwoman astronomer.

A heart wandering downstream in a creek near our home
(Credit: Andie Vanture).

I am embarrassed to say that I don’t remember her name. For reasons known only to my subconscious, I think of her as the “other woman.” Perhaps you have ideas why. However, for ease of discussion I will refer to her as Celeste, which seems an appropriate name for an astronomer. I passed her in the hall at times, but she did not spend her time in the graduate offices so I only knew her by sight.  Most of my experiences of her presence were rumors and gossip. I did not engage in these conversations and feigned disinterest for fear of outing myself by being seen as too curious. The one time I did speak up was during a conversation around me in the graduate student offices. Sitting at my desk, working, and trying not to pay attention to the conversation going on around me, I was drawn into the conversation as my fellow students kept referring to her as “it.” At some point it was too much for me and I had to say something. I opined that referring to a person as “it” was exactly the kind of dehumanization that let the Nazis round up and exterminate Jews. Needless to say, the comment shut down the conversation and we all returned to doing our astronomy. However, it did make it very clear to me how transpeople were viewed. 

A second occasion, vivid in my mind, is a conversation that occurred over lunch. A recent alum of the department and a group of us graduate students were having lunch together at a local pub. Somehow, the topic turned to Celeste and whether she would be eligible for scholarships designed to promote the participation of women in astronomy. Our guest was a member of some scholarship committee, in my remembrance an AAS committee, but I could be wrong. It was a long time ago. He explained that this topic had been considered by the committee and it was concluded that transwomen were not eligible. The consensus of the committee was that transwomen were men before transition and had not faced the historical barriers experienced by ciswomen. In retrospect, there are so many things to unpack here that I will not attempt to do so here. 

The last occasion, though not directly a conversation about Celeste, but perhaps prompted by her presence, occurred during a group outing to celebrate the granting of one of us their PhD degree. The conversation turned to gossip about a professor in the department who had long ago been stabbed by a graduate student. My advisor had been department chair at the time and described going to the student’s apartment with the police, finding wigs and women’s clothing—shadows of the trans villain.  At some point Celeste left, went back to her home institution, and conversations about her disappeared.  I did not expect to cross paths with her again. Based upon my observations, I didn’t think she would have a career path in astronomy.

To my great surprise, I crossed paths with Celeste two more times. Once at a AAS meeting, in Berkeley I think, I saw her from across the exhibition hall having an animated discussion with another young astronomer. The second time was more personal. I was leaving my first job as a visiting assistant professor at a small college. Though I could not be a member of the hiring committee, being the only astronomer in the department, I was asked to interview the candidates and give some feedback. To my great surprise, one of my colleagues showed up at my office with Celeste in tow. She and I spent about a half hour discussing her teaching philosophy and experience, and her plans to include students in her research. I didn’t mention our graduate education connection, thinking that in the context of an interview this might make her feel uncomfortable, disrupt her concentration and of course, be inappropriate. Later that day, a colleague commented on the size of her hands, so I knew they knew. Celeste was not offered the position. When I asked the department chair why she had not been hired. I was given a vague answer about the committee feeling that she would not be able to connect with the students. However, the underlying reason seemed clear to me. At this point in my life, I felt I had been presented a clear message about the compatibility of being an openly transwoman and a professional astronomer. To have a future in astronomy, I knew that I could not risk being outed or to out myself. I spent almost my entire career deep in a dark closet unseen. It was only after my career as a research astronomer was clearly over and my life hung in the balance that I did what I needed to do and transitioned.

What does this all say about the intersection of my identity as an astronomer and my gender? If I had the courage and bravery of Celeste, what would my career have been? That is hard to say. I can’t rewind time and redo the experiment while changing that one parameter. I don’t know if I would have thrived or failed as an astronomer. As it was, I survived and managed to continue doing research for almost two decades and have had a long and successful career as a community college professor. Year after year I have been able to share my love of astronomy with students and hopefully inspire a few to pursue astronomy as a career. One thing I do know is that a great deal of my emotional and intellectual energy has been absorbed in arriving at a place where I can accept my gender identity. At least some of that energy would have ended up in my astronomy if I had not had to worry about being accepted for who I am in the world. 

Showing pride at our home
(Credit: Andie Vanture).

One impact of my transition, something I imagine I share with many of my colleagues who are women, BIPOC or differently abled, is the dreaded modifier. So often in interacting with the world, the identity modifier that comes before astronomer, somehow inserts a question mark of legitimacy. People love astronomy and there is a level of joy that comes with the unmodified astronomer identity when interacting with others. However, at this point in my life I have made peace with that modifier. That intersection of my trans identity and my astronomical identity grants me a uniquely privileged vantage among the eight billion people on this planet. I am extremely lucky that I have been able to pursue my astronomical identity and now to be able to express my true self.

My life has been my life. It is only one among many stories of trans people and astronomers on this planet. However, I think there is a point that can be derived from my experiences that as a community we need to consider. In February of 2015 I was asked to give the keynote address at a faculty retreat for our college. The topic needed to be something I am passionate about but needed to be linked to teaching and learning. Naturally, things astronomical needed to be the core of my talk and my presentation discussed all those unseen things astronomers study, from nearby, dim stars to dark energy, and the ways we have learned to see them in the darkness. At the end of my talk, I asked my colleagues to consider ways in which the unseen worlds, internal and external, of our students impact the ways in which they learn. Within a few decades the United States will be a “majority, minority” country. Also, astronomy is an international endeavor, so it is worth noting that it has never been the case that the world has been mostly white. Ipsos, a market research firm, recently reported that nearly 20% of people in Gen Z identify as queer. This is twice the rate of the previous generation of millennials and four times that of boomers and Gen Xers². These statistics are derived from a survey of people in 30 countries. Students of this generation are the future of astronomy. While it is a point that is raised often, I hope my experience might personalize it for you and come to mind the next time you interact with a colleague, a student, or a member of the public. 

My story is one of a young person, unseen, affected by the words of my colleagues. Many of today’s students are in similar situations, masking many of their identities to pursue a career that is their passion. A word spoken out of ignorance or a word of welcome and affirmation can change the course of a life. As we search, we only know of one “pale, blue dot.” Carl Sagan pointed out that speck in the Universe contains all the people who live, have lived, and possibly will live. So, as we continue our communal endeavor to understand the Universe and assuage our species-level loneliness, our future success depends upon inviting people, particularly young people, into our endeavor, and not only as professionals. Words matter. Inclusion matters.

Yours astronomically with pride and love, Andie

¹ Silence of the Lambs ² NBC News (June 1, 2023) “Global survey finds 9% of Adults Identify as LGBTQ", by Julie Moreau.