Note: This blog post isn't done yet. It was basically a piece I started to throw all of my creative juices into while I kept my lab report as boring and academic as possible. However, what I'm doing in the lab (a 4000-level microbiology course) is anything BUT boring.
For the past two years, I’ve been eyeballs deep in Biotechnology studies at university. In those two years, I’ve gotten a summary of basically everything scientists know about biology… which isn’t really a whole lot.
Physics, mathematics, and even chemistry are pretty well understood these days. After all, scientists began to revolutionize mathematics as early as the 1400s, though algebra has been known about since the Babylonians started solving quadratics in 2000 BCE. Once Calculus was developed in the 1500s and 1600s, the study of Physics took off, culminating in the invention of the nuclear bomb. Alongside Physics, Chemistry was also experiencing a sort of revolution, since understanding atomic bombs and space travel required a solid understanding of Chemistry, too.
However, Biology- the scientific study of life- was pretty much left on the back burner for that whole time. Until the 1970s and 1980s, most of the technology required to study biology at a molecular level (where all of the fun stuff happens) didn’t exist. But even then, the technology to study biology at the molecular level wasn’t cheap or accessible enough for most scientists and researchers to obtain until the late 1990s and early 2000s.
Even still, everyone- from the general public, to the government, to the scientists themselves- were terrified of advancing biotechnology, especially after several major, high-profile fuck-ups that resulted in patients dying in horrific ways.
All that basically explains why the study of Biology and the development of Biotechnology have only started to see some major progress in the past 25 or so years.
Crazier still, I get to have a part in advancing this knowledge in one way or another, as a lowly undergrad, right now.
As soon as the Fall 2026 semester began, I was basically thrown out of the frying pan and into the fire by my Microbiology lab professor. A sweet yet very quiet woman with a thick Indian accent. Since everyone in the lab was desperate to be there, I did not get first dibs on a seat up front. So, I found (and still find) myself sitting towards the very back of the lab room, straining my ears to hear my professor's instructions.
Personally, I was expecting the first day of lab to simply be a lecture introduction to the class. Instead, right away we were told to take out our professional-style lab notebooks, don some rubber gloves, and start fucking around with E. coli.
Ok, it wasn’t that sudden. We were given about 10 minutes to refamiliarize ourselves with the micropipettes using water before we were asked to jam those into some actual samples of E. coli. But once we showed the professor that we could successfully configure and use each of the different micropipettes, she gave each of us our own sample of E. coli to work with, along with the DNA we wanted to jam into the E. coli.
Understandably, E. coli is a scary word. It’s a bacteria that makes people violently sick, and can even lead to death. Why, then, mess with E. coli, and was I just asking to be another Patient Zero for the next Covid-style pandemic?
First off, unlike Covid, E. coli is a bacteria that cannot get airborne unless one snorts an entire liquid sample of it and immediately sneezes it out. Even then, E. coli can’t really get into the system via the respiratory system (nose and lungs). It has to be ingested, or somehow get into one’s bladder. E. coli exists in everyone’s digestive tract and feces. It just doesn’t always cause infections.
In other words, every time someone takes a dump, they risk getting an E. coli infection in their bladder if they wipe the wrong way, though that risk is very low. It is even lower in the lab.
Every college lab in the United States follows extremely strict safety protocols. I had to take several other lab courses, along with two years of lectures about microbiology, before I was allowed to get into the E. coli lab. Had I done anything stupid in those previous labs, I would not have been allowed into the E. coli lab at all.
Long story short, as long as everyone wears gloves and nobody licks the sample, working with E. coli in the lab is safe. After all, nobody- especially those of us who took a handful of microbiology courses and learned about all of the terrible things that can go wrong- wants to get sick.
So, given that the risk of me starting the next diarrhea epidemic was (and is) very low, what was I trying to do in this experiment with E. coli anyway?
Along with a small vial containing a sample of E. coli cells, we were given another vial containing a little piece of DNA called a plasmid.
What is a plasmid? A plasmid is basically a tiny ring of DNA that can hang out in the environment without being inside of a cell. Plasmids are how bacterial cells protect themselves from viruses and antibiotics, but I’ll explain that a little later.
Anyway, what the hell is DNA?
While DNA is a popular buzzword, few people actually know what DNA is or does. Just like in the movie, Idiocracy, everyone knew the buzzword “electrolytes”, but nobody actually understood what electrolytes were (for those curious, electrolytes are basically any atom or molecule that can conduct electricity).
Simply put, DNA is a large molecule called “Deoxyribonucleic Acid”. There are four different types of smaller molecules that make it up: Adenine (A), Guanine (G), Thymine (T), and Cytosine (C). These letters form long chains with each other to make the helical structure of DNA. Aside from DNA, there is RNA which stands for “Ribonucleic Acid”, which usually hangs out as a singe strand. RNA and DNA are both made of A’s, G’s, and C’s. However, instead of using Thymine like DNA does, RNA uses Uracil (U).
Why is it important to know this? Because, DNA and RNA work together to make products, which are proteins. RNA essentially copies down the instructions provided by DNA, turning G’s into C’s, T’s into A’s, and A’s into U’s. Proteins are the structures our cells create, which our bodies rely upon to stay alive and healthy.
Our skin is made of various proteins, as are our muscles and our hair. Our eyes are made of proteins, as are our stomachs and our hearts. The list goes on. Health problems arise when the correct proteins aren’t being made.
How do DNA and RNA work together to make a protein?
DNA is like the “boss”. DNA contains all of the instructions (genes) to form a living body. RNA is like the “secretary”, which writes down everything the boss (DNA) wants to make. RNA then leaves the boss’s office (AKA the nucleus of the cell), and goes to the factory which are little things in our cells called ribosomes. The RNA tells the ribosomes (AKA factories) to make the products (proteins) the DNA wants to be made.
This is called the Fundamental Theory of Molecular Biology:
DNA→(transcription)→RNA→(translation)→Protein
Everything that goes on- both right and wrong- in biology, relies upon the shoulders of DNA, RNA, and proteins.
When DNA forms into little rings outside of living cells, we get plasmids. Plasmids exist everywhere in nature, and are how bacterial cells become resistant to viruses and antibiotics.
How do bacteria use plasmids to become resistant to viruses and antibiotics?
Basically, when a bacterial cell dies following a battle with a virus or an antibiotic, it leaves behind little bits of DNA- many of which are plasmids- that can tell other bacterial cells how it died. The surviving bacterial cells can then take in those plasmids and incorporate the plasmid DNA into their own DNA, so that they can survive what the other cell didn’t.
This process is known as cellular transformation.
How exactly does cellular transformation work?
First, a living bacterial cell must come across a dead bacterial cell that has left behind a few plasmids. The living bacterial cell then reads the DNA from the dead cell and “learns” about what killed the cell, and how to not die from the same thing. If the cell determines that some of the information is useful, it uses various enzymes (AKA Molecular Scissors) to cut open the useful DNA plasmid so it is a string instead of a ring.
Then, the bacterial cell cuts its own DNA open with the same enzymes, and through a series of very complicated DNA-healing steps, can integrate the plasmid DNA into its own DNA. That way, when the transformed living cell comes across the same thing that killed the other cell, it can defend itself from it.
Many plasmids come equipped with molecular scissors that can chop up DNA and RNA from outside sources, the most notable one being an enzyme called Cas9. Enzymes such as Cas9 can read DNA and RNA that the bacterial cell comes across and takes in from its environment. If a virus attempts to hijack a transformed cell, the cell’s new Cas9 scissors can be used to chop up the viral DNA/RNA, preventing the virus from hijacking the cell.
Since 2012, scientists have figured out how to make Cas9 cut specific portions of cellular DNA, so that new DNA sequences- made by the scientists themselves- can be incorporated into a cell’s genome, permanently.
This technique- colloquially known as “CRISPR”, which stands for Clustered Regularly Interspaced Short Palindromic Repeats- has been used to cure genetic conditions such as Sickle Cell Anemia and an unknown metabolic syndrome in a baby named KJ in 2025.
Indeed, CRISPR has been, is being, and will continue to be used to literally cure genetic conditions!
Back in the lab, I was tasked with getting my E. coli cells to take in a plasmid that contained two genes: a gene that would give them resistance to the antibiotic Ampicillin and a gene that would allow the E. coli to glow green under blacklight, called the Green-Fluorescent-Protein (GFP) gene.
The GFP gene comes from bioluminescent jellyfish, and was first used for microbiology purposes in 1994. GFP helps scientists mark a specific protein or organelle within a living cell, and see what it does under a blacklit microscope in real time. It also allows scientists to measure the length of specific fragments of DNA in conjunction with another technique known as Gel Electrophoresis.
The GFP gene was directly stuck to the Ampicillin-resistance gene, guaranteeing that if my E. coli cells could grow in an agar plate laced with Ampicillin, they would also glow green under blacklight.
How was I going to force my E. coli cells to take in the GFP plasmid?
While the process is, on paper, simple. In practice it’s very tedious, but still easy enough for a lowly undergrad like myself to do.
First, I had to thaw out and mix the E. coli DNA and the plasmids together in a single tube, just like I was mixing waffle mix and milk in a bowl to make pancake batter.
Immediately after mixing my E. coli and plasmids together, I cold-shocked them by putting their tube in ice for exactly two minutes, immediately put them in a hot water bath for exactly 30 seconds afterwards, and returned them to the ice for exactly two minutes following the hot bath.
After that, with much less urgency, I added a handful of buffer solutions to my E. coli + Plasmid solution to stabilize the shocked DNA, then spun them really fast and hard in a centrifuge to separate the junk from the DNA I wanted. The stabilized DNA (which included the plasmids and the still-living E. coli cells) floated to the top of the tube, while the unwanted junk (such as dead E. coli cells and excess buffer solutions) formed a nasty little pellet at the bottom.
I transferred the less-dense liquid containing my wanted stuff into a new vial, used a couple different wash buffers to purify the solution, then added a sugary, nutrient-dense goo to whatever was left of my living, hopefully-transformed E. coli cells.
Finally, I added that sugary, gooey mixture of transformed E. coli cells to three different agar plates to grow cultures of the stuff. One agar plate simply contained the agar (which is just a fancy term for unflavored Jell-O) for anything and everything to grow on. One agar plate was laced with an antibiotic called Kanamycin, which was pretty much guaranteed to kill everything that touched its plate. The last agar plate was laced with Ampicillin, upon which only my transformed E. coli cells would grow upon.
All three of those agar plates were put into an incubator to grow for two days.
While having multiple plates may seem redundant and even wasteful, each plate served a specific, important purpose.
The first plate- the one that wasn’t laced with any antibiotics- was my “positive control”, meaning that unless something went horribly wrong, something was guaranteed to grow on the plate. The second plate was my negative control, meaning that unless something went horribly wrong, nothing was gonna grow on that plate. The third and final plate was my actual experimental plate- the plate that would only grow the E. coli that I wanted it to grow- which was my successfully-transformed, glow-in-the-dark, Ampicillin-resistant E. coli.
To be continued...
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Note: I wasn’t sure where to put this piece. I sat down intending to write a continuation of my E coli story. But instead, this came out instead. I will keep this piece at the end of my E coli story, and may even try to integrate it. But, I'm not sure. My brain does weird things sometimes.
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Lately, I’ve been feeling exceptionally alone and afraid. I’ve come to the expected-but-still-very-scary realization that, as intelligent and knowledgeable as the “adultier adults” in my life are, I know a lot of things that they don’t. I chose to study biotechnology at university, which is a field that was entirely science fiction until the 1970s.
Even then, it didn’t get much attention until 2012, when scientists such as Dr. Jennifer Doudna, Dr. Feng Zhang, and Dr. George Church figured out the mechanism behind how bacterial and prokaryotic cells protect themselves from viruses and antibiotics, known colloquially as CRISPR, which uses an enzyme called Cas9 to chop up DNA for alterations. Up until 2012, we knew a lot about genes and genetics, but almost nothing about how to fix fucked-up genes and genetics. But the discoveries made in 2012 suddenly made gene-editing a reality.
A little over ten years later, I’ve become one of the very few people in the world to successfully harness CRISPR/Cas9 to make simple E. coli cells glow green under blacklight using a gene originally found in jellyfish.
Trying to explain that to literally anyone outside of my Biotech classes is damn near impossible, it seems. I almost feel like I’m doing some Manhattan Project shit in the 1950s, even though I can freely discuss what I’m doing. People just don’t understand it, including my own friends and family.
Over the weekend my dad, smartly, challenged me to explain what I was doing in my microbiology lab course in a way that even his scientifically-illiterate ass could understand. After some thinking, I managed to liken a cell to a company, with DNA being the boss, RNA being the secretary (or the human printer), and everything else being the product makers and managers.
Luckily, once I put cell biology in those terms a construction manager like my dad could understand, he understood the gravity of what I was doing pretty much right away.
“So, just so I understand, you basically genetically engineered a jar of E. coli to glow green, so you could see what it was doing, and how long its DNA was, in real time.”
“Yup!” I answered him, “And this is just the beginning of my cell biology projects. In about a month, I’ll be CRISPR-ing a mammalian cell.”
“So you really are on the cutting edge of this shit, huh?”
“Pretty much.”
“Doesn’t that freak ya out a bit?” my dad asked.
“Oh abso-fuckin’-lutely! But if I don’t do it, who else will?”
But if I don’t do it, who else will?
That question has been haunting me ever since I took an introduction to microbiology course, where my professor had us wrestle with that question damn near all semester. After all, there are numerous ethical issues to contend with in the field of biology, especially in biotechnology, which attempts to apply all of humanity’s collective knowledge on biology we have, so far, to every major problem that faces the world.
However, while the knowledge is there- and more continues to be discovered every day-, the the vast,vast, vast majority of scientists and researchers cannot explain that knowledge in a way that connects with people outside of those niche, scientific circles. Obviously, there will always be geeks and nerds to market popular science to. But how do we (as scientists) reach beyond the science freaks who have a subscription to PopSci and can’t get enough of Star Wars and Star Trek? Moreover, how do we reach people who are, at best, skeptical of science, or outright opposed to some forms of science, because they perceive it as something that conflicts with their religious or philosophical beliefs?
Well… I think scientists- not just science communicators, but actual scientists who work in and run actual labs- must humble themselves and find ways to reach across to those who are not exactly “fond” of science.
How the hell do we do that?
To answer that question myself, I honestly don’t know. There really is no easy answer to the question, “How do we communicate science to people who aren’t scientists?”, especially since every person and demographic has their own reasons as to why they may or may not “trust the scientists”.
For instance, many black people- especially those old enough to remember what life was like in the 1960s and before- vehemently distrust scientists and medical professionals for very valid reasons. The Tuskegee Syphilis Experiment is one of the most famous cases of medical maltreatment of black people, especially since it didn’t end until 1972. Meanwhile, throughout the 1960s and 1970s, numerous Native American women were sterilized against their will, and were outright lied to by doctors who told them that their fallopian tubes could be retied after being severed when they got better. Even today, the health outcomes between white women and black women are significant, and are just now being seriously investigated by medical science.
Clearly, it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out why people of color may be so wary of scientists and medical professionals.
However, these examples don’t necessarily tell anyone why so many white people- especially upper-middle class white people- distrust science so much, too.
Unfortunately- or, perhaps fortunately, depending on how one looks at it- I grew up with at least one foot in conservative, evangelical, fundamentalist Christianity (or “evangelicalism” for short).
I remember my grandparents taking me to events held by Focus on the Family and buying me books written by Answers in Genesis. I also attended a very conservative private Christian school for exactly one year in 10th grade. Even today, a little over half of my entire family remains steadfast in the faith-and-flag conservative ideology.
Knowing that, it makes perfect sense as to why I have been feeling like I’m losing touch with my family. Because, in a way, I have.
So, how do I continue to learn and gain new knowledge, without completely severing ties with my family? Is it even possible to do that?
Those two questions I have for myself, go hand-in-hand with the questions surrounding communicating science to people who aren’t fully-fledged science nerds.
After all, one of my goals in my career is to be able to communicate science to people who couldn’t care less about what Hank Green or Cleo Abram have to say. And/or who don’t like people like Dr. Richard Dawkins or Dr. Neil DeGrasse Tyson because of what they’ve said about faith.
How could I possibly be a good science communicator if I can’t even explain the simplest shit to my own family in a way that they can understand and accept?
Truth is, I can’t.
As much as society repeats the mantra, “Don’t judge a book based on its cover”, everyone’s always judging everyone else by how they look no matter what. It’s just how we’re wired. We’re wired to see something and make snap judgements about it. If we see someone who doesn’t quite “fit in” to what we’ve been accustomed to, chances are, we will automatically look at them with curiosity and suspicion.
Again, literally everyone from everywhere does this automatically. We are just raised (usually) to use critical thinking skills to call our snap judgements into question, particularly when it comes to someone’s race.
But what happens when a blue-haired person with a nose ring steps into a bar in Red Wing, Minnesota on a Friday night?
I asked myself that question last year when I was visiting family in rural Minnesota, and immediately kicked off the trip by going bar-hopping from Red Wing to Zumbro Falls. However, my question wasn’t answered because- while I share political beliefs with the blue-haired progressives at my university- I dress in camo hoodies and rugged blue jeans, and know the lyrics to Hank William Jr’s song, Young Country by heart.
Thus, when I slipped my way into the Hay Creek Saloon, literally nobody batted an eye, because I looked just like everyone else there.
For the record, I didn’t feel uncomfortable there, either. In fact, I was almost lulled to sleep by the shitty live country music and the musty scent of cheese curds and cheap beer. Why? Because that’s just part of the culture I was raised in. Conservative evangelicals love their shitty country, cheap beer, and open-carry firearms. And ya know what? I do, too.
So, what am I trying to get at?
Most scientists- especially the famous ones- tend to be cleancut, nerdy, super left-wing on every possible policy, and, to be entirely honest, socially-inept. I understand why that is pretty well.
Many universities and pretty much every scientific conference requires some sort of professional dresscode, and scientists are people who’ve dedicated their whole lives to studying a niche, relatively-unknown aspect of nature regardless of its usefulness in society.
When I toured Lockheed Martin, every single scientist I met there was your stereotypical, Ivory-tower nerd. At university, pretty much all of my professors have fit that same bill: nerdy, a bit out-of-touch, and a little arrogant.
Hell, I kind of fit that stereotype myself. I’m scrawny, wear big glasses, use big words, am diagnosed autistic, and I’m socially challenged in more than a few ways.
There are very few things that separate me from being a fully-fledged, walking stereotype of a scientist. But those few aspects of me are why I’m so loved by people who would otherwise sneer at a nerdy freak like me.
What are those few aspects of me that separate me from the rest?
Most of those aspects are superficial- things that cause people to make snap judgements about me.
I fit in so well in rural Minnesota because I look and sound like everyone else. There’s nothing outward about me that screams to everyone else, “I’m different and new!” To everyone who sees me, I’m just another farmer’s daughter. Boring. Unexceptional. Definitely not a threat.
But if I were to dye my hair and spend a bunch of money on piercings and tattoos, the bar would’ve fallen silent and turned to stare me down the second I stepped inside. Why? Because what on God’s green earth is a city-born libtard doing in the middle of nowhere on a Friday night? That doesn’t just happen, generally speaking.
Conversely, if I were to dye my hair and decorate my face with piercings, I’d fit in perfectly on my university campus. Why? Because lots of people do that. I could’ve also gone the less extreme route, and just traded in my jeans and hoodies for khakis and sweaters, and still achieve the same goal as looking like every other student on campus.
By going to class every day dressed like my redneck relatives, I’m basically walking into a rural bar with a bright pink mohawk.
Until people get to know me, there’s a decent chance they’ll be wary of me. Perhaps even outright fearful of me, because of their preconceived notions regarding what generally people are like who dress in square-toed boots and baseball caps.
But I do it anyway, knowing damn well what it is I’m doing.
What, exactly, am I accomplishing by being unapologetically myself on campus?
In psychology, differentness attracts more attention than sameness (obviously). That means that by dressing differently, not only do I garner more attention from curious peers and professors who want to know what a hick like me is doing at an urban university. But I become way more memorable and recognizable.
And as people learn more and more about me- from the simple fact that I was born and raised in Denver, not Red Wing, to the fact that I’m a Biotech major with Cystic Fibrosis, and thus have a much greater dog in the fight than most- the more they want to see me succeed and are willing to lend a helping hand.
Indeed, having Cystic Fibrosis and an “interesting” look about me have become assets, not drawbacks, in the academic world, so far. Especially since, contrary to popular belief, professors tend to look at new, different things with curiosity and a willingness to learn, rather than with fear or disdain.
To be continued…