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Alan Alda loves to dig to the root of things. He has no patience for jargon, for flimsy logic, for impenetrable lectures. He wants to know: What is time? How do clocks work? What are the processes that govern the universe?
Alda, now 81, is best known for playing Captain Hawkeye Pierce, the quick-witted and kind-hearted surgeon, on M*A*S*H. These days, in addition to acting, he teaches scientists how to make their work accessible, so anyone can understandâreally understandâthe universe, what makes it work, how the pieces fit together. He asks a lot of questions, and he keeps asking until he grasps the answers. Whatâs inside a flame? Itâs oxidation. Whatâs oxidation?
He is a champion of scrutiny, an evangelist of uncertainty. He says heâs not a believerâhe doesnât like the word âagnosticââbut he is insatiably curious about religion. He grew up Catholic, raised by an Irish-English mother and an Italian father, and he has a theory that heâs descended from exiled Spanish Jews. His wife, Arlene, is Jewish, and heâs learned a lot over 60 years of marriage. (Once, curious about Passoverâs history, he wrote his own Haggadah.)
Aldaâs new book, If I Understood You, Would I Have This Look on My Face?, comes out this summer. He speaks with Moment about his work, his relationship with religion and his devotion to scientific understanding.
When I was six years old, Iâd make experiments around the house, mixing my motherâs face powder with toothpaste to see if I could get it to blow up. Fortunately, I couldnât reach the ingredients found around the house that might actually blow up. In my early 20s, I started reading science avidly. It was like learning a new language. I loved learning how scientists were able to discover so many things about the universeâthings that we see in everyday life, but they could see inside them. Itâs a fascinating detective story.
When I was finished with M*A*S*H, I was asked if I wanted to host Scientific American Frontiers. I realized that they probably wanted me just to introduce the show on camera and then disappear and read a narration. I said Iâd be interested in doing it if I could interview the scientists, because I wanted to spend the day with them and learn about their work. That was the beginning of a revelatory experience: I didnât come in with a list of questions. I just came in with curiosityâand a whole lot of natural ignorance. I knew that I didnât know things. I tried to understand what they were telling me and I wouldnât let them go until I understood it. That put their focus on me, rather than on giving a lecture to the camera, and things happened between us that were human and natural and lifelike.
As a result, their science became more accessibleânot only for people like me, but for the people in the audience. And I thought: Wouldnât it be great if we could teach them how to achieve that without somebody like me standing next to them? And so I started experimenting with a group of engineering students, taught them a little improv. The way they talked about their work before the improv was so different from the way they talked about it after three hours of work. Then we started teaching classes, and you could see a real transformation take place. So we started the Center for Communicating Science at Stony Brook University. Since we began in 2009, weâve taught 8,000 scientists and doctors.
If scientists canât communicate with us, weâre going to miss the most beautiful, most entertaining thing that the human mind can come up withâwhich is an understanding of the universe. Not just what we see of it, but whatâs underneath it, what makes it work. Whatâs a clock like when you open up the back? Itâs fascinating. To really understand the way it all fits together, and what the processes are that govern itâthatâs beautiful. I donât want to miss that, and I donât want other people to miss it.
Basic knowledge is beautiful. Thereâs a wonderful quote by a great physicist named Robert Wilson. A couple of decades ago, Congress was trying to decide if it wanted to spend a few more million dollars on a collider in Texas. And the chairman of the committee said to Robert Wilson (and Iâm paraphrasing), âWill this collider help us defend our country?â And Wilson said, âWell, it will give us a picture of the universe that will be so extraordinary, itâs equivalent to the art and music and literature that make up our culture. And it wonât help us defend our countryâbut it will make our country worth defending.â Thatâs so trueâand to me, so beautiful. Didnât convince the senator. They killed the bill. The collider was half finished. There were tunnels underground. Now, instead of sending particles through the tunnel, itâs being used to store computer records. It became a storage facility instead of a way to understand nature, which is a shame.
You have to know your audience. If youâre talking to them, youâre looking at them, youâre able to read on their faces if theyâre getting it. Even if youâre writing for them, youâre imagining the way theyâre processing what youâre telling them. In a way, youâre reading their minds in the moment. The person trying to communicate has to listen even better than the person whoâs listening. Theyâre listening to find out what they need to say, and how they need to say it.
A lot of people refer to it as the Sagan effect. The more popular a scientist was, the more successful he was at communicating with the public, the more some other scientists felt he wasnât a true scientist. But I think thatâs changing. When we started the Center for Communicating Science, it wasnât always easy to convince department heads that they should let their graduate students spend time learning communication. Now weâre overbooked. Some departments mandate it. That was unheard of when we started. So I think weâve helped change the view of the importance of communication.
Alda as Captain Hawkeye Pierce in M*A*S*H.
With better science communication, I hope people will begin to think more like scientists. We all have to operate to a certain extent on trust, but if we donât determine whether a source is trustworthy, we could make poor decisions that affect our lives. The debate about vaccines is an example of that. If not enough people get vaccinated, people could die from the disease. People need to examine the evidence. Our lives depend on that more and more.
Iâm not a social scientist. I donât know how to measure it. All my life, Iâve observed people who didnât think rationallyâand at times in my life, I havenât thought rationally. I know how easy it is not to. Some people feel they can talk to the dead. People have their palms read, theyâll read the astrology column. Theyâre not accustomed to challenging that thinking with whatâs known through observation, experimentation, studies and peer review.
I donât know if itâs worse than it ever was. But itâs always been a good idea to get better at relying on evidence. And itâs not just evidence: Studies say that just showing people the facts isnât enough. They have to trust you. It has to be related to their experience. You tell them what the speed of light is, but what difference does it make unless they can relate it to their experience? You tell them that vaccines donât cause autism, but telling them that factâor even showing them the evidenceâdoesnât always do a good job. There has to be person-to-person trust.
Climate change needs to be understood for what it is. We canât keep poisoning the air and the people who breathe it. We canât keep giving them skin cancers. Rejecting real science is not a good idea. We stand the chance of hurting ourselves seriouslyâand hurting everything else thatâs alive. Thereâs nothing lost by listening to real, good, solid science. The chances of losing something valuable by ignoring it or denigrating it are much greater.
I long for the good old days of cognitive dissonance, where you could believe whatever you believed and you respected scientific inquiry. You realized that facts are facts and faith is faith, and whatâs the difference if they seem to contradict each other? I say that in a lighthearted wayâcognitive dissonance has a bad reputation. But if it allows you to believe one thing on the one hand and believe another thing on the other hand, and you donât kill anybody in the process, maybe itâs not so bad.
I donât think they necessarily conflict. It depends on how much you feel you have to give up one for the other. I donât personally happen to be a believer, but I donât resent anybodyâs believing what they believe, as long as they donât feel itâs necessary to deny the validity of reason and experimentation and evidence. Itâs not necessary to make yourself ignorant in order to believe. Too many smart people were believers.
I wanted to do a dramatic evening at the World Science Festival, and I knew that Einsteinâs letters had some wonderful dramatic moments in them. You had one of the smartest people in the world, and here were his letters to his two wives and friends. He revealed himself to be a very human person, at times all too humanâwith flaws, the kinds of flaws most of us have, thinking more about himself than the other person. And at the same time, he arrived at a view of the universe that was groundbreaking, just cracked open what we thought about the way things worked. Itâs an exciting story, to see these amazing ideas and revelations occur to him at the same time that heâs being mean-spirited to one wife so he can move on to the next.
I didnât want to put down Einstein. I wanted to share his humanity, to show that he was a person like us. I wrote a play about Marie Curie, too, called âRadiance.â The same thing was at work there. I want to see the messy, three-dimensional humans, so that we recognize that theyâre flesh and blood like usâtheyâre just very smart. But theyâre not a different species. There are a lot of reasons to recognize that. People can be drawn to science who wouldnât otherwise think they were suited to it. They can become more interested in these stories because theyâre human stories, and in the process become interested in the science.
If scientists canât communicate with us, weâre going to miss the most beautiful, most entertaining thing that the human mind can come up withâwhich is an understanding of the universe.
What might surprise you is I think I am Jewish. The reason I think so is I had an Irish-English mother and an Italian father. My grandfather told me that the Italian family left Spain 450 years ago, which would have put it around 1492, when the Jews were expelled from Spain. My guess is that the family left Spain and went to Naples, where many Jews went. Some went to Sicily, some went to other places, but a lot of them went to Naples because Naples was controlled by Spain at that time, but they didnât have the edict to get out yet. About two years later, they had to get out. Then my guess is they moved north to the Abruzzo region. And then when things calmed down, they came back down to near Naples, where the family is now 30 kilometers outside of Naples in a town called SantâAgata deâ Goti. And their name is DâAbruzzo, which means they had come from Abruzzo, but here they were in Naples. So thatâs, in my imagination, the trajectory that they were on. But Iâm not sure. Iâve taken some DNA tests, and I seem to be 4 percent Jewish. But Iâm also 2 percent Neanderthalâso maybe that was just the Jewish Neanderthals.
Weâre both very much interested in Jewishness. But Iâm not a believer, so even if I find out that Iâm genetically Jewishâitâs possible, but probably unlikelyâI think itâs easier to be Jewish and not be a believer than it is to become Jewish and not be a believer.
When Arlene studied Yiddish, I tried to take lessons from her. Sometimes weâd sit at a concert hall waiting for the concert to begin, and weâd write notes to each other in transliterated Yiddish. At her 60th birthday, I sang to her in Yiddish. Weâre both obsessed with watching movies about World War II. We could stay up all night watching black-and-white Nazis, because we want to see them lose over and over again.
No. I wanted to make sure they knew they were Jewish, but nobody in our family is religious. Although one of our daughters got bat mitzvahed at the age of 40, and her daughter was there, singing along. But thereâs more of a sense of solidarity and cultural connection than belief.
Passover. Passoverâs like Thanksgiving. People sit around and eat and drink and tell stories, are glad to be alive. I like that.
We often do, though not every single year. A few years ago, I was at a seder, and I said to the host, âHow do you think the seder has evolved over the years?â And he said, âWhat do you mean, âevolved?ââ I said, âWell, it must have started out one way and grown over the years. Donât you think?â He said, âThe seder is the seder. It didnât evolve.â We were reading from the Manischewitz Haggadah, and I thought: Before it got to Manischewitz, I think it must have been something else over the years.
I did research, and at the next seder, I had written a Haggadah that we all worked from. It didnât necessarily go through the order of the seder, but it talked about the origin of each of those events, and how much of it goes back to the Greek occupation of whatâs now Israel, and why thereâs a pillow, and why they recline, and what the Afikoman once was and what it became. Itâs very interesting. The Jews who were often at our seders who hadnât been to seders in a long time were really interested in this, because it connected them to the evolution of the holiday.
No, we havenât used it in a few years. Lately, our daughters have their own Passover dinners, so we let them run it.
The thing is, thereâs hardly any dish in the Jewish recipe book that I donât love. So itâs hard to pick a favorite. Sometimes, to pass the time on M*A*S*H, weâd say: âOkay, whatâs your favorite ethnic food? Italian? Irish? Jewish? How many dishes can you identify that you love the most?â And the Jewish foods always came out ahead. There were more things that you could love. Kasha varnishkes, Iâm crazy about. I donât like chopped liver, Iâm sorry to sayâI hope that doesnât get me off the list of supposed Jews.
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