I grew up in a small town in the North of England where private schools are an unseen rarity, and the nearest colleges are an hour away by bus. By the time it was my turn to apply to university, I’d had my heart set on Oxford for quite a while. I’d been dreaming of those dreaming spires, fantasising about going to a prestigious university and all of the opportunities that would bring. So it surprised me when I realised how hesitant I was to actually put in the application. I had been dreaming about university for a long time, but now I was faced with a concrete and terrifying reality. I wasn’t ready for my dreams to come crashing down around my shoulders when (not if) I didn’t get in.
When people ask me how I was so certain of that rejection, I give a vague answer about my grades not being high enough, or my personal statement not impressive enough. But honestly, it was the simple fact that Oxford University felt so very far away. It’s the same reason I don’t think I’ll be a famous actress or an astronaut. There’s nothing explicitly stopping me from doing those things, I just won’t get there. People like me don’t get to be movie stars, or go into space, or be academics. I didn’t know anyone who had gone to Oxford. Nobody there sounded like me. Nobody there calls the meal at the end of the day ‘tea’ or knows all the tones of the phrase “be reet”. It might sound silly but Oxford may as well have been Hollywood or space. Ultimately, the reason I applied wasn’t hope of getting in, it was spite. If I was going to be rejected from my life-long dream of attending a prestigious university, then I was going to make them reject me to my face. Except they didn’t.
This is the story that I told over 300 students last week from the small town where I grew up. I told them about every moment of feeling like I wasn’t enough. I told them that 90% of people at prestigious universities don’t think they deserve to be there. I told children aged 6 to 16 that the only guarantee of rejection, is never ‘giving it a whirl’ in the first place. And it felt so good.
I’ve been involved in the science communication sphere for a while. The bottom line is that I absolutely love explaining things. I love any opportunity to talk excitedly about a subject that I’m passionate about and see other people’s eyes light up with that spark of curiosity. Every time I give a talk, wherever I give a talk, I come away refreshed. I’m reminded of all the reasons I do what I do. The motivation for those many hours staring at code or the latest draft of a paper is brought starkly back into focus. I firmly believe every scientist should do outreach. Of course it’s a very good thing to do for the community and science more broadly, but on a completely selfish note I can’t think of anything else that drives me more than telling a ten-year old that the research we do now might just change the future.
With that being said, there was something different about science communication back home. Looking out at a sea of students who were sat in the same place I was, wearing the same uniforms, and heading off to lessons with the same teachers. It hit differently. There was a sense of desperation to my words that isn’t usually there. When I told them to ‘give it a whirl’, to start exploring and to fight for their place in their own future, I meant it with every fibre of my being, because I remember with every student just how close I was to not taking that advice. I remember how it felt to think that academia was a pipedream, not for people like me. And I viscerally need them to know that isn’t true.
Every day there are students who don’t take the leap. Not because of laziness, not because their grades aren’t high enough, not because they wouldn’t absolutely thrive in higher education. Just because they think they’re not good enough. I think that’s a feeling the vast majority of academics can sympathise with. We often talk about the ‘leaky pipeline’ of academia, but ignore all the potential we lose before the pipeline has even begun. According to a report from 2021, just 15.9% of Oxford applications came from the North of England, whereas applications from the South made up nearly half of the total. If we truly want to do effective outreach, we need to reach out further.
In four days I reached over 300 students, across 5 different schools in the North West. Imagine just how much could be accomplished if ten people took one day to reach out. Not just to the North of England, but to all the groups that are historically and continually under-represented at top universities. It isn’t a trivial task, but it is a worthwhile one. Contact your funders to ask if they would be willing to pay for train costs or accommodation. Look out for grants specifically designed to improve science communication. Don’t be afraid to cold-email schools and ask if they’d be interested in a career talk. Start forging links today that might help a student in future. A perpetual issue in academia is that almost none of us think we deserve to be here. No matter your background, that is something you have in common with a population who don’t see themselves represented at university. Don’t wait for the next organised outreach event. Don’t think someone else will do it. Grab your computer, find a school email address, and give it a whirl.
Rebecca Williams
Author
Rebecca Williams [1] is PhD student at the University of Cambridge. Though originally from ‘up North’ in a small town called Leigh, she did her undergraduate and masters at the University of Oxford before defecting to Cambridge for her doctorate researching Frontotemporal dementia and Apathy. She now spends her days collecting data from wonderful volunteers, and coding. Outside work, she plays board games, and is very crafty.