From ScienceMag:

The rejection email from an elite journal was still fresh when my two co-authors and I jumped on a Zoom call to commiserate. When I suggested another outlet we could try next, I was shocked by their immediate and vehement opposition. That’s when everything unraveled. They already had a paper under review there. I’d known about their other project using the same data set. But their paper had morphed substantially since I’d last seen it. Now, it looked disturbingly similar to ours. I was livid. This was my idea from the start. I had invested nearly 3 years working on it. Learning they had poached it felt like a huge betrayal—and transformed my approach to collaboration.

My academic career started auspiciously with two fast, singleauthored publications. But when I pivoted from economics to business and management, I got nothing but rejections for a couple long years. I was an outsider in the field of management studies, and I thought collaboration would help me out of this quagmire. Increasingly I worked with co-authors, seeking mentorship from senior ones and complementarities and energy from the junior ones. The result was multiple publications, conference invitations, and a growing network of collaborators. I thought I had mastered the game and that “we” was the answer—until that Zoom call.

I reached out to several senior journal editors for guidance and solutions. Dishearteningly, all advised me to drop it; authorship disputes, they said, are messy affairs where nobody wins. I felt utterly powerless. My health deteriorated, especially my mental state. I couldn’t sleep, couldn’t work, couldn’t even enjoy time with my family.

Nevertheless, I followed my heart and decided to fight back. I wrote to the journal where my former co-authors’ paper was under review. The journal ultimately rejected their paper—but based on reviewer recommendations, not ethical grounds. I contacted ethics officers at my institution and one of theirs. Though initially sympathetic, their message was consistent: Drop it, it’s messy, no one wins. Professional organizations to which we all belonged shrugged off my inquiries on the grounds of sporadic membership. I reached out to mutual co-authors from other projects, but they wouldn’t get involved either.

I finally decided to move on and focus on other research. For nearly 2 years I worked alone—until I finally considered reviving the original project, which had never been published. Again, I would have to collaborate with others to put together the underlying data set. This thought filled me with anxiety. But I also knew isolation was not sustainable, and my productivity would suffer.

After much thought, I found someone who seemed like a good fit for the project. Before our first substantive conversation, I proposed something I’d never asked before: a formal collaboration agreement. We outlined roles, established authorship criteria based on concrete contributions, and agreed to document key decisions via email rather than casual chats. A couple of years later, we published the research together using a much larger data set and more sophisticated statistical analyses than before.

Beyond vindication, the lessons I learned have reshaped my approach to collaboration. First, safeguard self-sufficiency. Knowing I can execute and publish high-quality solo research has been my rock throughout these tribulations. Second, vet collaborators carefully. I now approach research partnerships like hiring decisions, checking collaborators’ work, asking around, and taking time to decide on new endeavors. Third, always protect yourself. Before sharing ideas, I establish clear collaboration agreements. I settle matters in writing, documenting key conversations and milestones, as these records prove invaluable if things go sideways.

After 16 years in academia, I’ve become more selective about collaboration. It remains a joy and a blessing, but I’ve also learned how quickly “we” can turn wicked. The key is choosing your partnerships wisely and keeping “I” as a strong safety net.

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From ScienceMag:

Faculty and administrators at the University of California (UC) have settled into a bitter stalemate in a dispute over privacy and academic freedom. For more than a year, faculty members have voiced loud opposition to a cybersecurity mandate they say hands administrators and federal agencies access to their research and communications. Last month, they learned the UC president’s office would not issue any further statements on the issue, a decision faculty say underscores their frustration over limited dialogue about the mandate, which began going into effect in May.

The long-running dispute centers on Trellix, a cybersecurity software UC now requires on all university-owned computers used by faculty and even personal computers accessing certain online university resources. UC officials say it is essential for defending against a surge in digital threats. But faculty warn that Trellix is highly intrusive and effectively gives administrators the ability to view, or even remotely manipulate, nearly all activity on their devices. Trellix’s participation in the federal Joint Cyber Defense Collaborative, which aims for “rapid information sharing” between private companies and federal agencies, is stoking the concerns. Faculty fear the software could expose sensitive research, regulated health data, and high-value innovations to a presidential administration already hostile to higher education.

“Putting this kind of software on our machines completely obliterates our ability to speak and think freely in our academic communities,” says Lilly Irani, a communication scholar of technology at UC San Diego (UCSD). “It feels very much like Big Brother is sitting on the shoulder of every worker at the University of California,” adds Mia McIver, executive director of the American Association of University Professors, which sent a letter to UC officials today expressing “deep concern” about the policy.

Trellix is part of a class of cybersecurity tools that shield against ransomware and other attacks by constantly scanning a computer for any sign of intrusion. According to information posted online by the UC Office of the President (UCOP), Trellix can collect file names and browser history as needed and can remotely remove malicious files. 

In February 2024, then–UC President Michael Drake announced all employee computers connected to university networks would be required to install Trellix by May 2025. Campuses failing to comply would face penalties of up to $500,000 per security incident and a 15% increase in cybersecurity insurance costs. Unionized employees, including postdocs and graduate students, were exempt because adding such terms to their contracts would have required separate negotiations.

A spokesperson for UC, which in 2020 paid $1.14 million to a ransomware gang that penetrated computers at UC San Francisco, told Science the university established the mandate in response to “numerous requirements under federal and state law” and “to remain eligible for cybersecurity insurance at a reasonable cost.” University officials add that UC is not alone, claiming the software is in place at more than 600 colleges and universities—though the spokesperson and Trellix both declined to provide a source for those numbers.

UC faculty note that Trellix, formerly known as FireEye, was itself hacked by Russian intelligence in the 2020 SolarWinds cyberattack that compromised more than 250 federal agencies. Because it has full administrative control over every computer it monitors through a mechanism called “root access,” Trellix could become a single point of failure if breached, faculty argue. Adopting Trellix could make UC systems “more rather than less vulnerable to threats,” the UC Berkeley Division of the Academic Senate wrote in a May letter to the UC president.

Trellix’s root access privileges could also allow administrators or the government to view anything on faculty computers at any time, without a warrant, says Kevork Abazajian, a cosmologist at UC Irvine (UCI). In an email to Science, a Trellix spokesperson wrote that the company “will not disclose any UC or other customer data unless required to do so under law or a valid government order. In such an event, we would first give the customer notice of the demand and an opportunity to object, unless legally prohibited from doing so.”

UC says it would not allow such intrusions in the first place. “The university’s long-standing Electronic Communication Policy … strictly prohibits administrators from accessing user content without due process, such as a warrant,” says Van Williams, UC’s vice president for information technology services.

But many faculty members aren’t convinced by those assurances. “Once someone has access for a legitimate purpose, there is also access for illegitimate purposes,” Abazajian says. Given federal efforts to cut university funding, Irani also fears it might be hard for UC administrators to stand up to government officials seeking information on faculty computers. “It seems like a recipe for UCOP to end up in a situation where it’s going to get blackmailed by grant cancellations to give up information about what we’re teaching and researching.”

The objections have sparked a flurry of letters, petitions, and resolutions. Most recently, in June, UC’s Academic Senate—which shares decision-making power with the administration on matters affecting teaching, research, and academic policy—passed a resolution with an 82% supermajority demanding an immediate halt to Trellix. That same month, more than 1000 faculty signed a petition opposing the rollout, followed by another 1 August letter calling for its suspension. But on 15 September, Academic Senate Chair Ahmet Palazoglu relayed that UCOP would not respond to the August letter or issue future UC-wide messages regarding Trellix.

Despite the protests, all 10 UC campuses have rolled out the software, with varying policies. UCSD has said Trellix is required on both university-owned and personal laptops that access “trusted resources,” such as restricted research databases. UCI requires Trellix even for access to routine resources such as Canvas, the learning platform professors use to communicate with students, and employee timesheets. In response, some UCI faculty say they have resorted to teaching from “burner laptops” or virtual machines to avoid putting Trellix on computers where they store their data.

Organizers of the push to end the mandate say their fight isn’t over. “We certainly intend to keep the pressure up,” says Claudio Fogu, director of UC Santa Barbara’s Italian program.  A UC spokesperson told Science that administrators continue to be committed to an open dialogue with faculty. “This is a complex matter that requires nuanced, continuous conversation,” they wrote by email.

The stalemate has shaken faculty confidence in the Academic Senate’s power and has pushed some toward unionization. The UC system is home to a union that represents nearly 50,000 graduate students, postdocs, and academic researchers—but no tenured and tenure-track professors. “For many years, I thought we didn’t need a union,” says Walter Leal, a professor of molecular and cellular biology at UC Davis. “Now, I believe the only way out is if we’re effectively unionized, which is a very dramatic change.”

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From ScienceMag:

On a warm June evening, I sat alone in my house, sobbing as I watched a choppy, pixelated livestream of my mother’s funeral. Thousands of kilometers away in Venezuela, my family grieved together while I remained in the United States, unable to travel because of immigration restrictions. I tried to tell my 17-month-old son I was sad, but not because of him. I was heartbroken and overwhelmed with guilt for not being there. I kept asking myself whether choosing a career in science, so far from home, had been the right decision. I felt a little like the species I study as a postdoc: the spotted lanternfly, an invasive insect that threatens U.S. ecosystems. I, too, was unwelcome and out of place.

As an undergraduate in Venezuela, I became captivated by the biodiversity of the tropics and began to research fruit bats. A cold email to a U.S. scientist working in the field opened the door for me to pursue a Ph.D. in her lab. I worried about not fitting in and was sad to leave home. Still, I felt thrilled and fortunate to move abroad. Visiting my family back home would never be a problem, or so I assumed. And after completing my Ph.D., I could return to Venezuela, teach at a local university, and share what I had learned abroad.

During my first year as a Ph.D. student, my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer. My first instinct was to move back home, but my mother—wise and selfless—assured me I should stay and keep pursuing my dream. Her illness made me more determined to finish so the sacrifice would feel worthwhile. I visited her three times during my program, and we shared long video calls. I followed her doctors’ visits, her hair loss, her fading strength. She supported me amid my research struggles and celebrated my progress, professionally and personally. She met my partner virtually. She watched my Ph.D. graduation online, and my wedding 2 months later. Despite my deep sadness, I found joy in my work and felt deeply grateful for the life I was building in the U.S.

Meanwhile my plan to return home had begun to dissolve, as Venezuela’s political and economic collapse made academic careers nearly impossible there. After my marriage I submitted a green card application so I could continue my career in the U.S. In the meantime, I transitioned to a postdoctoral position studying invasive species, working under an Optional Practical Training extension—a program that allows student visa holders in STEM to work in the U.S. for up to 2 years after finishing their degree.

Still, I wanted to visit Venezuela. My husband and I had welcomed our first son, and my biggest dream was to take him to meet my mother; her cancer had metastasized to her bones, leaving her too weak to travel. But until I had my green card, I could not leave the U.S. Under my student visa extension, I would not be allowed to re-enter the country. My husband and I spent countless hours navigating the immigration system, reading confusing guidelines, filling out dozens of forms, triple checking instructions. I lived in a constant state of waiting, hoping my green card would be approved.

In June, new regulations and a travel ban triggered warnings from my university’s international office, warning that my visa could be revoked at any moment and further discouraging international travel. I was advised to speak with immigration attorneys. For the first time, I began to question whether I truly belonged in the U.S. I even became self-conscious about my accent and appearance.

The clock was ticking. My mother’s health was deteriorating rapidly. Each morning, I checked my green card status. I was desperate to see her one more time. But the most consistent advice remained: Do not leave. A few weeks later, my mother passed away. I never got to say goodbye, and she never met my son.

I find comfort in believing my mother was proud that the curious girl she raised had followed her dream of becoming a scientist and turned that curiosity into a career. And although some may see me, and others like me, as invasive pests, I choose to focus on a different aspect of my study species: Even in foreign lands, it’s possible to survive, adapt, and thrive.

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From ScienceMag:

Media coverage can give scientists a powerful career boost, raising their visibility and signaling that their work matters beyond the lab. But a new study finds that benefit goes disproportionately to men, potentially widening existing gender gaps and shaping public perceptions of who counts as a researcher. In an analysis of 1.2 million news stories about scholarly research, men-led papers were found to receive more attention overall and were heavily overrepresented in the top 5% of most covered studies. Women-led papers, on the other hand, clustered at the bottom.

“News media sit at a crucial gateway,” says senior author Chaoqun Ni of the University of Wisconsin–Madison. “If coverage systematically tilts toward some groups over others, that doesn’t just affect individual careers—it can reinforce stereotypes about who ‘looks like’ a scientist.”

Ni and colleagues searched for English-language news coverage of more than 1 million papers with U.S.-based corresponding authors published between 2018 and 2022 in highly media-cited journals; broadcast coverage, such as TV and radio, and blogs were excluded. Overall, only about one in eight of the papers—which spanned STEM, social sciences, and the humanities—received any media attention at all, the authors reported in a paper published in Science Communication in August. Of the 129,000 studies that did garner coverage, men-led papers were on average highlighted in more outlets than women-led ones. To classify gender, the authors used a computational tool based on names—a widely accepted but imperfect method, particularly for non-Western names.

A paradox also emerged across fields in terms of whether a study was covered at all. In male-dominated areas such as economics and business, women-led work was slightly more likely to be covered than expected. But in fields nearer gender parity—public health and social sciences—women-led papers were less likely to make the news. The authors compared media coverage with the real gender balance in each field—for example, if only one-quarter of the papers in a field were led by women, that was the baseline for judging under- or overrepresentation.

“Women often ‘outperform’ in fields where they are least represented, whether in citations or grants,” says Cassidy Sugimoto, an information scientist at the Georgia Institute of Technology, who was not involved in the new study. What stood out to her was the scale and nature of the skew. Women-led papers were more likely to be featured in local outlets than in national, international, or science-specialty media. They appeared more often in liberal-leaning outlets than conservative ones. And coverage of their work carried a more negative tone. “When women’s research is politicized or framed negatively, it risks eroding the perceived credibility of women scientists,” Sugimoto says.

The study doesn’t investigate possible mechanisms underlying the results. But multiple steps along the publicity pipeline could be at play, as well as broader structural imbalances. News coverage often reflects what universities and journals promote through press releases to the media, notes Ivan Oransky, co-founder of Retraction Watch. “If men are more likely to request press releases, that could tilt the pool.” High-profile journals—which often publish papers that warrant news coverage, and are more likely to have the resources to promote those papers to the media—also tend to have disproportionately male corresponding authors, says Priyanka Runwal, an associate editor at Chemical & Engineering News.

A first media mention can also open the gate for a researcher, says Yong-Yeol Ahn, a data science researcher at the University of Virginia who was not involved in the study. Who reporters can reach for interviews—and whether authors agree to talk—can determine whether an initial mention snowballs into high-visibility coverage. “Small biases can compound as attention spreads,” he says.

Even when reporters work hard to talk to women researchers, some hesitate to agree, Runwal says. One study found women were more likely than men to cite harassment, appearance-based comments, or lack of confidence as barriers to interviews. This echoes Oransky’s concerns. “Are men more able to answer journalist calls? Are they getting snappier quotes that journalists love?”

Scientists can help shape coverage, Runwal says. “If it’s a field I regularly cover, I often ask researchers to keep me in the loop about upcoming publications,” she says. For women especially, who may hesitate to speak on sensitive topics, she suggests opening a dialogue with reporters about concerns such as backlash or harassment. “You can always ask questions, set boundaries, and if you’re not convinced, decline to go on the record.”

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