Rethinking Gendered Language in Science

The phrase “Mary Anning was the first female paleontologist” struck me hard. After reading it, I felt compelled to comment on the manuscript, effectively saying, “This must change.” Discussions about who should hold the title of the first woman in paleontology can easily spiral. People have been captivated by fossils long before the formal study of paleontology emerged. Indigenous cultures often had a deeper understanding of fossils than their European counterparts. If we restrict ourselves to the 19th-century context, it's worth noting that Anning learned many aspects of fossil collection from the Philpot sisters along England's southern coast. However, it was the last two words of that sentence—“female paleontologist”—that truly unsettled me.

In my field, I’ve never heard anyone refer to a “male paleontologist.” We don’t describe Gideon Mantell, William Buckland, Henry de la Beche, or Georges Cuvier as “male paleontologists.” The implication is that the discipline is inherently male-dominated, with the term “female” implying a sense of novelty, as if women are merely dabbling in science.

This issue extends beyond terminology. The word “female” is frequently employed in biological discussions. For instance, if we discover a Tyrannosaurus with egg-laying bone tissue, we might say, “That’s a female.” Yet, when this terminology is applied to humans, it becomes fraught with complications.

Recently, a paleontologist invited me to join a directory of women paleontologists. I appreciated that they recognized my non-binary identity while using feminine pronouns. My identity was framed as a blend of gender and profession—a trans person exploring ancient rocks and documenting findings. However, if someone were to focus solely on my perceived biological sex, it could lead to misunderstandings. A transphobic perspective might declare me a “male paleontologist” based on my not having undergone bottom surgery or on my assigned gender at birth. Such a viewpoint would erase the identity I have fought hard to establish.

Understanding biological sex is complex. While real differences exist in nature, our conception of biological sex—and what aspects are relevant—is theoretical and evolving. Clearly, we need to revisit how we categorize these distinctions.

Yet, I continue to see colleagues, particularly men, using phrases like “female paleontologist” or “female scientist.” This terminology reduces individuals to their reproductive anatomy, often emphasizing their deviation from a male norm.

This is not always intended as an insult. Language can be tricky, especially in translation. Some of my male colleagues genuinely aim to acknowledge women's contributions throughout history. However, they need to scrutinize their word choices as carefully as they would any scientific terminology.

I admit to this error as well. Years ago, before I came out as trans and before I grasped feminist discourse, I attempted to support underrepresented individuals in my field by compiling a list of Women in Paleontology. At that time, I didn’t recognize that such lists can inadvertently marginalize women and non-binary individuals. I intended to celebrate the brilliance of women in my field, but I mistakenly interchanged “woman” and “female,” which upset a non-binary colleague. I didn’t realize then how my efforts could unintentionally diminish the visibility of women I sought to uplift. It took time and reflection to understand the need for greater representation and equity in my work.

We’re still grappling with how to highlight marginalized groups in science without reinforcing stereotypes. Labeling individuals as “women paleontologists” can be problematic, especially when we hold events specifically for women without striving for broader diversity in all scientific contexts. Hosting a “Women in Paleontology” conference without addressing equity in publications, fieldwork, and outreach treats participants as tokens rather than valued contributors.

Paleontology, like many scientific disciplines, experiences significant gender disparities. Women in the field are promoted less frequently, face more harassment, and receive less support than their male counterparts. We must create safe and inclusive environments for cisgender, transgender, and non-binary women, whether through online forums or conference gatherings. Ignoring gender altogether would obscure existing challenges. The fight for equity and representation for women in paleontology remains urgent.

Moreover, we should actively seek to understand how our peers identify. Some may prefer “female-identifying” over “woman,” and it’s crucial not to make assumptions based on names or appearances.

The English language complicates this issue. Science is often portrayed as a meritocracy, where researchers wish to be recognized solely for their contributions, not merely because they belong to a minority. While we can describe scientists who happen to be women, this phrasing can feel awkward. Context matters; a man discussing “women paleontologists” might reinforce existing gender norms, while a supportive statement about women in the field can inspire aspiring scientists.

As we navigate these linguistic challenges, the term “female scientist” has no place in contemporary discourse. We shouldn’t reduce individuals to their reproductive anatomy, especially when our understanding of sex is far more nuanced than we learned in elementary biology. I hope to see paleontology and science evolve, even if progress is slow and arduous.