SciCon: How Science Communication Became a Weapon of Corporate Propaganda
Unpopular Science
“And by the way, this is called gravity.”
The soundboard operator smashed the mic drop effect just as the prop hit the Nightly Show stage (the real mic was clipped on Neil deGrasse Tyson’s collar). The deep boom, the squeal of feedback, the memetic “ohhh” that punctuates a freestyle rap knockout erupting from the crowd... Tyson stepped back and flexed, as if reveling in the intoxicating new drug coursing through his veins:
the dark power of pop culture.
On a distant couch in Boulder, Colorado, a bunch of validated nerds pantomimed slam dunks and mind explosions: my college friends and I, big Neil Tyson fans. Even if it didn’t rhyme, the soliloquy set the record straight: Earth is not flat, despite the wild conjecture of rapper B.o.B., which had somehow become the subject of an entire media cycle. We were sick of it and we weren’t alone. Something changed that day. Science got sassier, meaner – and everyone loved it. Looking back, I cringe.
It began with good intent. The virulent spread of climate denialism online clarified the fact that science was facing its own crisis of communication. Academics began to reflect on the way that no one was reading their paywalled manuscripts and coalesce around the need to create new strategies for engaging in the online media scape. A new brand of science communication evolved. Sometimes it was cute: the chemistry cat. Sometimes it was relatable: “sciencing”. Sometimes it was edgy: I Fucking Love Science. Almost always, it was cringeworthy. Apropos of the internet age, it was brandished with a hashtag: #SciComm.
Social media quickly became the battleground for SciComm’s war against disinformation. Trenches crossed every comment section. It started organically against the obvious and harmful junk science – anti-vaxxers, climate deniers, flat-earthers – but it didn’t stop there. Communication soured into condescension. Fire opened wide on the tree-huggers, the animal lovers, the astrology girls. Objectionable assertions proliferated upon questionable science. Politicians began to signal solidarity with hollow mantras like science is real. Corporations noticed the cult of personality forming around science communicators… and they started hiring them.
The agrochemical industry was perhaps the first to truly weaponize pop science for its own interests. The advent of genetic engineering in food raised serious concerns around the environmental toxicity of herbicide, the impact of insecticides on pollinators, and the predatory use of patent law to crush small farms and diminish crop diversity. But the backlash also drew in some hippie types, making easy targets.
Using its financial influence, agribusiness successfully framed public debate around the safety of consuming genetically modified organisms, where their argument was strongest. Communications stressed positive applications of genetic engineering: we could fortify foods to fight nutrient deficiencies; we could increase leaf trichomes to make reflective, climate-mitigating crops – yet the industry was laser-focused on using the technology to increase pesticide sales.
And of course, they bought star power. When the foodie internet sphere generated Food Babe, the industry boosted a Science Babe. When Bill Nye got a Netflix contract, Bayer-Monsanto got an executive onto a panel before Nye danced with people in GMO costumes. Neil deGrasse Tyson himself narrated an industry-affiliated film, reading the script he was given, of which he said, “Maybe there were eight lines that I offered changes on.” And the most amazing part is almost everything they said was true. They just left a lot of things out. That’s what makes persuasive propaganda.
Today, corporate science messaging is all around us. Every industry has a communications command center and every science communicator is up for sale. Our privatized system of research funding has opened up whole new career paths for peddling commercial SciComm. They’ve even embedded their operations in public universities.
As for B.o.B., he still believes the planet is flat – and the media pile-on only strengthened his resolve. Just last August, he dropped a new track reflecting on his feud with the astrophysicist and media at large. “The whole music industry was rooting for me to fall,” he raps, implying that the media mockery predisposed him to believe worse conspiracy theories. In hindsight, it catapulted him to new heights. For many reasons, I’m no longer a Neil Tyson fan, but none are seared into my memory like that microphone, dropping like a nuclear bomb, backfiring a mushroom cloud of pop culture corporate science propaganda. Now we are living in the fallout. Welcome to Unpopular Science.
“And by the way, this is called gravity.”
The soundboard operator smashed the mic drop effect just as the prop hit the Nightly Show stage (the real mic was clipped on Neil deGrasse Tyson’s collar). The deep boom, the squeal of feedback, the memetic “ohhh” that punctuates a freestyle rap knockout erupting from the crowd... Tyson stepped back and flexed, as if reveling in the intoxicating new drug coursing through his veins:
the dark power of pop culture.
On a distant couch in Boulder, Colorado, a bunch of validated nerds pantomimed slam dunks and mind explosions: my college friends and I, big Neil Tyson fans. Even if it didn’t rhyme, the soliloquy set the record straight: Earth is not flat, despite the wild conjecture of rapper B.o.B., which had somehow become the subject of an entire media cycle. We were sick of it and we weren’t alone. Something changed that day. Science got sassier, meaner – and everyone loved it. Looking back, I cringe.
It began with good intent. The virulent spread of climate denialism online clarified the fact that science was facing its own crisis of communication. Academics began to reflect on the way that no one was reading their paywalled manuscripts and coalesce around the need to create new strategies for engaging in the online media scape. A new brand of science communication evolved. Sometimes it was cute: the chemistry cat. Sometimes it was relatable: “sciencing”. Sometimes it was edgy: I Fucking Love Science. Almost always, it was cringeworthy. Apropos of the internet age, it was brandished with a hashtag: #SciComm.
Social media quickly became the battleground for SciComm’s war against disinformation. Trenches crossed every comment section. It started organically against the obvious and harmful junk science – anti-vaxxers, climate deniers, flat-earthers – but it didn’t stop there. Communication soured into condescension. Fire opened wide on the tree-huggers, the animal lovers, the astrology girls. Objectionable assertions proliferated upon questionable science. Politicians began to signal solidarity with hollow mantras like science is real. Corporations noticed the cult of personality forming around science communicators… and they started hiring them.
The agrochemical industry was perhaps the first to truly weaponize pop science for its own interests. The advent of genetic engineering in food raised serious concerns around the environmental toxicity of herbicide, the impact of insecticides on pollinators, and the predatory use of patent law to crush small farms and diminish crop diversity. But the backlash also drew in some hippie types, making easy targets.
Using its financial influence, agribusiness successfully framed public debate around the safety of consuming genetically modified organisms, where their argument was strongest. Communications stressed positive applications of genetic engineering: we could fortify foods to fight nutrient deficiencies; we could increase leaf trichomes to make reflective, climate-mitigating crops – yet the industry was laser-focused on using the technology to increase pesticide sales.
They had a covert comms strategy as well. Agrochemical corporations captured deep influence over the EPA, using it to suppress public health reviews and secure favorable determinations on glyphosate. They ghost-wrote scientific articles. They astroturfed think tanks and journalism institutes. They courted posters from far and wide on social media.
And of course, they bought star power. When the foodie internet sphere generated Food Babe, the industry boosted a Science Babe. When Bill Nye got a Netflix contract, Bayer-Monsanto got an executive onto a panel before Nye danced with people in GMO costumes. Neil deGrasse Tyson himself narrated an industry-affiliated film, reading the script he was given, of which he said, “Maybe there were eight lines that I offered changes on.” And the most amazing part is almost everything they said was true. They just left a lot of things out. That’s what makes persuasive propaganda.
Today, corporate science messaging is all around us. Every industry has a communications command center and every science communicator is up for sale. Our privatized system of research funding has opened up whole new career paths for peddling commercial SciComm. They’ve even embedded their operations in public universities.
As for B.o.B., he still believes the planet is flat – and the media pile-on only strengthened his resolve. Just last August, he dropped a new track reflecting on his feud with the astrophysicist and media at large. “The whole music industry was rooting for me to fall,” he raps, implying that the media mockery predisposed him to believe worse conspiracy theories. In hindsight, it catapulted him to new heights. For many reasons, I’m no longer a Neil Tyson fan, but none are seared into my memory like that microphone, dropping like a nuclear bomb, backfiring a mushroom cloud of pop culture corporate science propaganda. Now we are living in the fallout. Welcome to Unpopular Science.