A Disordered Review of Chanda Prescod-Weinstein, The Disordered Cosmos

Sean Yeager (bio)

A review of Prescod-Weinstein, Chanda. The Disordered Cosmos: A Journey into Dark Matter, Spacetime, and Dreams Deferred. Bold Type Books, 2021.

Chanda Prescod-Weinstein’s new book, The Disordered Cosmos: A Journey into Dark Matter, Spacetime, and Dreams Deferred, offers one possible answer to Zakiyyah Iman Jackson’s question, “how might black feminism … imagine a relation to science, physics in particular, that offers a challenge to the microfundamentalism of our present?” (637). Physicists have long acknowledged that naive reductionism is incompatible with the mathematical phenomenon of symmetry breaking.¹ Yet Prescod-Weinstein addresses a different type of fundamentalism that is far more prevalent among scientists, encapsulated by a quip that’s usually attributed to Richard Feynman, namely that “the philosophy of science is about as useful to scientists as ornithology is to birds.” Prescod-Weinstein counters by arguing that “scientists are acting unscientifically when they do not acknowledge the history, philosophy, and sociology of their fields” (223). Yet Prescod-Weinstein isn’t particularly concerned about abstract losses of epistemic potential. They² focus instead on the material and systematic ways that the physics community crushes the dreams of those who do not fit the traditional mold (i.e. white and male) of scientific “genius.”

Large tracts of the book work through Prescod-Weinstein’s observation that “it can be hard to see the wonders of the universe through the social crud” of a field that is dominated by white men (161). The casual tone of this indictment is ubiquitous throughout the book, creating an atmosphere that is welcoming, lucid, and funny. This accessible style should not be mistaken for a lack of rigor, however, for it belies a deeply interdisciplinary methodology. Prescod-Weinstein engages in cultural studies by way of canonical literature (Mansfield Park and The Invisible Man), science fiction staples (Star Trek and Black Panther), and poetic all-stars (June Jordan and Audre Lorde). They undertake historical work through their recovery of Caroline Herschel’s scientific labor, a complex endeavor that carefully attends to the intersections of racism and sexism. They also use autobiographical methods to produce some of the book’s most powerful and damning segments. This interdisciplinary strategy challenges the disdain that scientists sometimes hold for experiential knowledge while simultaneously showing that narration plays a role in everything from the personal to the cosmological. In Prescod-Weinstein’s words, “I am a griot of the universe—a storyteller” (67).

The book’s interdisciplinary nature is perhaps most noticeable in its critiques of the Thirty Meter Telescope on Mauna Kea. These sections are equally informed by Prescod-Weinstein’s personal family history, by Indigenous Hawaiian epistemologies, and by the #WeAreMaunaKea activist movement. Some of Prescod-Weinstein’s comments will be old news for humanist readers—e.g., cherished Foucauldian dogma like “science is inextricably tied to power” (197)—yet these arguments inevitably hit harder when delivered from within. Prescod-Weinstein never relinquishes their wonder for the natural world, even as they demand a fundamental reckoning with what it means to be a scientist.

Part of this reckoning involves rewriting the stories that scientists tell, both to ourselves and to lay audiences. For Prescod-Weinstein, this sometimes means critically reexamining the playbook rather than throwing it away. For example, they title the book’s first “phase” (i.e., section) “Just Physics” and explicitly evoke the influence of Carl Sagan’s Cosmos (6). This first phase is sometimes quirky, as evidenced by the chapter title, “I <3 Quarks,” which offers a crash course in particle physics. Other times it is awe-inspiring, as seen in “The Biggest Picture There Is,” which offers a succinct history of the universe as understood by physicists. The chapter “Dark Matter Isn’t Dark” critiques the nomenclature of dark matter itself, stating that dark matter “has a public relations problem because it’s got a bad name, literally,” since the substance in question does not interact with light in any capacity (34).³ Special praise is due to Sharifah Zainab Williams’s illustrations, which are enlightening and hilarious.⁴ Lay readers will likewise appreciate that Prescod-Weinstein follows Stephen Hawking’s example by including only a single equation in the entire book.⁵ As someone who stepped away from a career in physics research to focus on physics education, I found these chapters to be exemplary of cosmological pedagogy.⁶

Yet the protagonists in this telling of the universe’s story are different from the usual suspects, who are here relegated to the sidelines for their unusually suspect behavior. Isaac Newton, for instance, is not lauded as the father of classical physics but offhandedly mentioned as the sadistic warden of The Royal Mint, a man who “was said to enjoy his ability to burn at the stake, hang, and torture coin counterfeiters” (7). Other household names like Erwin Schrödinger and Werner Heisenberg are entirely absent. Instead, physicists such as Vera Rubin, Jocelyn Bell Burnell, and Elmer Imes are foregrounded for their work, respectively, on galactic rotations (one of the earliest indicators of the existence of dark matter), pulsars (Bell Burnell was controversially overlooked as a co-recipient of the 1974 Nobel Prize), and infrared emission spectra (an early piece of evidence for the validity of quantum mechanics). Furthermore, Prescod-Weinstein purposefully reaches beyond the traditionally accepted domain of physics to incorporate the many generations of “Black women [who] have looked up at the night sky and wondered. Those women whose names I do not know … are as much my intellectual ancestors as Isaac Newton is” (7).

Phase two, “Physics and the Chosen Few,” focuses on another of Prescod-Weinstein’s goals: “creating room for Black children to freely love particle physics and cosmology” (8). The first chapter in this phase, “The Physics of Melanin,” builds on their article for Bitch Media. This chapter not only discusses the molecule’s fascinating properties, hailing it as “the stuff of Afrofuturist techno-dreams” (108), it also interrogates the molecule’s artificial appropriation in the construction of race, noting that “our melanin—and our lack thereof—tells stories about what my ancestors endured” (110). The following chapter, “Black People are Luminous Matter,” will be of special interest to science fiction readers. Here, Prescod-Weinstein offers a compelling critique of Sheree Thomas’s analogy that “dark matter : Black people” (114). The analogy states that Black artists often shape the US’s cultural zeitgeist, yet rarely receive credit for this work. Prescod-Weinstein counters that Black folks are hypervisible in certain contexts, such as police brutality. They also worry about the potential for exoticization: “We know almost nothing about dark matter, but we know a lot about Black people” (116). They offer instead the analogy of weak gravitational lensing as a way of describing their experiences with racism. The gist of this analogy is that weak gravitational lensing, a complex astronomical phenomenon, is difficult to perceive unless one is well-versed in the appropriate modes of pattern recognition. The analogy is helpful, but Prescod-Weinstein’s strictly verbal description of the phenomenon itself feels like a missed opportunity to include another of Zainab Williams’s brilliant illustrations.

Prescod-Weinstein shifts to a more autobiographical mode in phase three, “The Trouble with Physicists.” Some of this section’s critiques will be familiar to many self-conscious academics, such as the observation that “cultural, structural issues” do not “magically go away with admissions and diversity initiatives” (155). Others are disciplinarily specific: “every Black woman physics PhD I’ve discussed this with had someone in a position of authority and influence tell them that they weren’t cut out to be a physicist” (157). Queer theory also informs this phase, shaping Prescod-Weinstein’s discussion of the ways in which the physics community marginalizes trans experiences. Likewise, a materialist analysis of labor distribution leads to the critique that “progress in science happens not just because of the scientists in the room but because of how their presence in the room is made possible” (192). Prescod-Weinstein also advances the critical concept of “white empiricism,” which they describe as the “practice of ignoring information about the real world that isn’t considered to be valuable or specifically important to the physics community at large, which is oriented toward valuing the ideas and data that are produced by white men” (170). The phase’s final chapter, “Rape Is Part of This Scientific Story,” is emotionally powerful and theoretically rich. It explains how “rape forms a through line in [their] story” and unpacks how the aftermath of sexual assault continues to frustrate Prescod-Weinstein’s ability to practice physics (203). Out of respect for Prescod-Weinstein’s concern that “media coverage will only focus on this chapter rather than the whole book,” I’ll say simply that there is no shortage of scientists who would do very well to read this chapter (201).

After unloading on the current state of physics, Prescod-Weinstein begins phase four, “All Our Galactic Relations,” with a question: “can we situate ourselves, collectively and humanely, in the universe?” (211). This phase features the critique of the Thirty Meter Telescope, which is informed by Indigenous theorists, scholars, and activists such as Winona LaDuke, Katie Kamelamela, Eve Tuck, and Wayne Yang. It also contains “Cosmological Dreams Under Totalitarianism,” which analyzes science’s entanglement with the militaryindustrial complex, pointing out that “science and totalitarianism … have typically had a pretty cozy relationship” (235). J. Robert Oppenheimer features centrally in this discussion. Prescod-Weinstein describes him as “a fascinating and terrifying figure,” yet expresses little sympathy for his tendency “to cling more to an institution than to his humanist values” (245). Other topics include problematic funding structures—”an inordinate amount of time in science is spent begging for money” (246)—and the involuntary human experiments performed at Holmesburg Prison and in Tuskegee. The phase’s final chapter, “Black Feminist Physics at the End of the World,” is rooted in ecocritical Indigenous scholarship, yet also draws from the transformative justice movement and from anarchist thought. Prescod-Weinstein asks if it’s possible to build “a community of scientists hell-bent on using our visionary imaginations” to reconfigure humanity’s relationship with the world (271). This chapter feels like a natural companion to the tales in Octavia’s Brood: Science Fiction Stories from Social Justice Movements, edited by adrienne maree brown and Walidah Imarisha. Here, brown and Imarisha develop the notion of “visionary fiction” to describe “science fiction that has relevance toward building new, freer worlds,” noting that “decolonization of the imagination is the most dangerous and subversive form there is: for it is where all other forms of decolonization are born. Once the imagination is unshackled, Imarisha and brown’s collection resonates strongly with Prescod-Weinstein’s hope of building a model of science that is “undergirded by a commitment to being in good relations with the world that is to come, and that requires imagination and a sense of wonder at the universe that is” (271). This final phase is followed by a deeply personal short letter from Prescod-Weinstein to their mother, which doubles as an epilogue.

Scholars might wonder how The Disordered Cosmos compares to Karen Barad’s Meeting the Universe Halfway. Both texts perform feminist physics outreach, yet they do different work for different audiences. Barad’s book is primarily geared toward academics, and it pushes boundaries within the relatively niche field of quantum foundations; it foregrounds elaborate descriptions of experimental apparatuses and introduces ten-dollar terms like “ethico-ontoepistem-ology.” Certain readers—including myself—are enticed by such maneuvers, but others are alienated by them. Prescod-Weinstein casts a wider net, with the explicit aim of reaching those who’ve been excluded from the academy. This necessarily involves sacrificing some of the depth and jargon afforded by specialist discourse.⁷ Barad asks questions like, “What, if anything, does quantum physics tell us about the nature of scientific practice and its relationship to ethics?” (6). Though this is deeply entangled with the questions that Prescod-Weinstein asks—like “Who is a Scientist?” (131)—it provokes a different response. Both texts offer crucial perspectives on physics and philosophy, but it’s sadly telling that Prescod-Weinstein through physics but through [their] work in Black feminist science, technology, and society The Disordered Cosmos will receive a similarly lukewarm reception within the physics community, though it seems inevitable that Prescod-Weinstein’s text will make a substantial impact on the humanities.

My only disappointment with The Disordered Cosmos is its relatively cursory engagement with disability. Prescod-Weinstein briefly discusses Linda Chavers’s writings on multiple sclerosis (123–4), and also talks frankly about some of their own disabilities,⁸ but these comments do not seem to warrant compilation within the book’s index.⁹ Even though Prescod-Weinstein’s engagement with disability feels offhand when compared to their fully integrated analyses of race, gender, and colonialism, they are light-years ahead of most scholars, who tend to be utterly ignorant of Disability Studies. Still, a phrase like “the biology of the disempowered” (106) craves the company of disabled thinkers like Nirmala Erevelles, Leah Lakshmi Piepzna-Samarasinha, Sara Acevedo, M. Remi Yergeau, and Therí Pickens.¹⁰

In summary, The Disordered Cosmos is groundbreaking. In the words of Sylvia Wynter, Prescod-Weinstein has composed a “deciphering practice” for physicists that will “reveal their rules of functioning rather than merely replicate and perpetuate these rules” (Wynter 261).¹¹ The text is brilliant, relatable, and eminently quotable—and it never pulls an upward punch. More broadly speaking, Prescod-Weinstein raises the bar when it comes to interdisciplinary investigation, and scholars who flippantly appropriate this buzzword (e.g. “my interdisciplinary close reading of Romantic poetry incorporates both historicist and Freudian methods!”) may wish to re-evaluate their own worthiness of the term.

Sean A. Yeager is a doctoral candidate in English at The Ohio State University. Before joining Ohio State, Sean was an Assistant Professor of Physics and Mathematics at Pacific Northwest College of Art. Sean earned their M.Sc. in Physics from Texas A&M University by working as a data analyst for the Cryogenic Dark Matter Search. Sean earned their M.A. in Critical Studies from PNCA by performing a data-driven analysis of temporal structure in narrative. Sean currently studies contemporary literature through the lenses of narratology, digital humanities, and neuroqueer theory.

Notes

Acknowledgements:

I am extremely grateful to Brian McHale, Amy Shuman, Ark Ramsey, Preeti Singh, Sean Downes, and Kortney Morrow for their feedback and support.

1. See, for instance, P.W. Anderson’s influential 1972 paper, “More is Different.”

2. Prescod-Weinstein uses both they/them and she/her pronouns professionally, but I stick to the former out of respect for their assertion that “I am genderless yet in my everyday life I am gendered by others” (175).

3. Prescod-Weinstein proposes several alternatives, such as “‘invisible matter,’ ‘transparent matter,’ or ‘clear matter'” (34) as well as “non-luminous ether” (126), but I’m unsure that any of these more accurate choices will catch. The misnomer is simply too widespread – and has too much pizzazz. Physics has a long history of similarly misleading names, spanning everything from “electromotive force” to “the God particle.”

4. Any physicist worth their salt, for instance, will laugh at Zainab Williams’s rendition of a spherical cow (30).

5. Hawking famously joked that each equation in A Brief History of Time would halve his sales, yet he still included physics’ most famous equation, E = mc². Prescod-Weinstein chooses one of Einstein’s more complex formulations, G_μν = 8πT_μν, a tensor equation that describes the curvature of spacetime. A physicist’s favorite equation offers much insight into their character.

6. But as a queer person who currently studies narrative temporalities, I worry that humanists will ascribe undue radicality to some of Prescod-Weinstein’s statements in the chapter “Spacetime Isn’t Straight.” For instance, their framing of the Palikur people’s curvilinear coordinate system as “more accurately describing the movement of stars across the night sky” than the Western framework feels somewhat misleading (49). So far as I can gather from Prescod-Weinstein’s source, Lesley Green and David R. Green’s Knowing the Day, Knowing the World, the two systems seem to predict the same stellar motion, though the Palikur’s curvilinear system might certainly be more efficient at describing it (much as long division is easier with Arabic numerals than with Roman). Regardless, I concur with Prescod-Weinstein that “intuition about space and time isn’t universal and that it has cultural and experiential context” (51).

7. The difference in depth, however, is also partly due to a difference in page counts: Barad’s book is nearly double the length of Prescod-Weinstein’s.

8. And yes, I too am disabled—or, to use the clinicians’ parlance for autism: “disordered.”

9. Despite Prescod-Weinstein’s explicit discussions of disability on pages 108, 134, 243–4, and 252, the subject has less indexical presence than racist soap dispensers (314).

10. And also, perhaps, the biologists Eva Jablonka and Marion Lamb. It’s worth mentioning too that Moya Bailey’s work is cited, but not within the context of disability.

11. For an illuminating summary of Wynter’s richly complex theory, see Jackson’s forthcoming “Against Criticism.”

Works Cited

• Anderson, P. W. “More Is Different.” Science, vol. 177, no. 4047, 1972, pp. 393–96. EBSCO, doi:10.1126/science.177.4047.393.
• Barad, Karen. Meeting the Universe Halfway: Quantum Physics and the Entanglement of Matter and Meaning. Duke UP, 2007.
• Green, Lesley, and David R. Green. Knowing the Day, Knowing the World: Engaging Amerindian Thought in Public Archaeology. U of Arizona P, 2013.
• Hawking, Stephen. A Brief History of Time: From the Big Bang to Black Holes. 10th Anniversary ed., Bantam, 1998.
• Jackson, Zakiyyah Iman. “‘Theorizing in a Void’: Sublimity, Matter, and Physics in Black Feminist Poetics.” South Atlantic Quarterly, vol. 117, no. 3, 2018, pp. 617–48. Duke UP, doi:/10.1215/00382876-6942195.
• —. “Against Criticism: Notes on the Decipherment and the Force of Things.” No Humans Involved, DelMonico Books/Hammer Museum, 2021.
• Wynter, Sylvia. “Rethinking ‘Aesthetics’: Notes toward a Deciphering Practice.” Ex-Iles: Essays on Caribbean Cinema, edited by Mbye B. Cham, Africa World Press, 1992.