阅读理解
I don't ever want to talk about being a woman scientist again. There was a time in my life when people kept asking me stories about what it's like to work in a field under the control of men. I was never very good at telling those stories because truthfully I never found them interesting. What I do find interesting is the existence of the universe, the shape of space time and the nature of black holes.
At 19, when I began studying astrophysics(天体物理学), it did not bother me in the least to be the only woman in the classroom. But while earning my Ph.D. at MIT and then as a post-doctor doing space research, the problem started to bother me. My every achievement—jobs, research papers, awards—was viewed from the angle of gender (性别) politics. So were my failures.
Then one day a few years ago, out of my mouth came a sentence that would finally become my reply to any and all provocations(挑衅): I don't talk about that any more. It took me 10 years to get back the confidence I had at 19 and to realize that I didn't want to deal with gender problems. Why should removing sexism be yet another terrible burden on every female scientist? After all, I don't study sociology or political theory.
Today I research and teach at Barnard, a women's college in New York City. Recently, someone asked me how many of the 45 students in my class were women. You cannot imagine my satisfaction at being able to answer, 45. I know some of my students worry how they will manage their scientific research and a desire for children. And I don't take no notice of those concerns. Still, I don't tell them “war” stories. Instead, I have given them this: the scene of their physics professor heavily pregnant (怀孕）doing physics experiments. And in turn they have given me the image of 45 women driven by a love of science. And that's a sight worth talking about.
