The Dating Game Theory

In high school, only the moody, introspective, and (back then) way un-cool were interested in dating me. But ever since they were dubbed emo and Conor Oberst made “scrawny nerd” the new “outgoing quarterback,” those boys left me in the dust. So I have turned to the one group that has pretty much no chance of making the leap to trendy—scientists. More accurately, physicists.

Perhaps the reflective power of my oversized glasses presents an unparalleled opportunity for photon-related experiments, or maybe I’m still emitting radiation from my visit to the cyclotron in the tunnels under Pupin. Whatever the case, physicists flock to me like charged particles to a superconducting magnet.

This recent relationship trend has led to a challenge from my family: go on dates with physicists from all seven continents by the time my younger sister graduates from college. I have three years and five continents to go. Already checked off are North America (by way of Mexico) and Africa (by way of Rwanda). Antarctica might prove to be a challenge, but when you consider that virtually the entire human “population” of that continent is composed of scientists, it starts to look less daunting and more like a real-life version of “The Dating Game.”

As a look at particle accelerators will tell you, the most interesting collisions often occur between opposites. For the last 40 years, Fermilab’s Tevatron has made some the most amazing and important discoveries in particle physics by smashing matter (protons) and antimatter (antiprotons) together and watching what comes out. Due to Einstein’s most well-known theory, E=mc², the energy produced by the high-speed collisions is converted into mass, and due to quantum mechanics, that mass can come in an astounding variety of particles.

Quarks, one type of particle that accelerators produce, rush to form groups in the nanoseconds after the collisions sends them hurtling out into the detector. These groupings form new particles (such as protons and neutrons) and often occur so quickly that physicists rarely have the chance to study a single quark on its own. Forget penguins; conservatives should be looking to the subatomic scale for their next marriage mascot.

But their shotgun weddings aren’t the only time quarks pair up. The six flavors of quarks come in three generations: up and down, charm and strange, and top and bottom. The generational pairings represent identical opposites. If the charm quark is a developed photo, the strange quark is that same photo’s negative.

In physics disparate and unique things are always coming together in surprising ways. In fact, the ultimate goal of particle physics is the unification of the four fundamental forces, producing the grandly-named “theory of everything.” At extremely high energies, three of the forces—the electromagnetic force, the strong force, and the weak force—prove to be one and the same. We still haven’t found a way to fit in the weakest force, gravity, which only meaningfully operates on large scales like planets orbiting the sun and apples falling from trees, but some of the theories as to why are really cool—think dimension-hopping gravitons, folds in space-time, and other things that make scientists and sci-fi writers alike drool.

Perhaps even more difficult to discover than the theory of everything is any unifying force between “math people” and “humanities people.” Our entire education system has instilled in us a feeling that the intrinsic differences of these two groups create rifts so deep that it is impossible to unify them. I, for one, have encountered the inability to communicate without graphs, a masochistic apathy toward fashion, and an astounding lack of music taste over the course of my potential pairings.

While I may never convince them to listen to the new MIA or give up the sandals-and-shorts look, I can take those graphs and turn them into words. Numbers and letters are also identical opposites, each communicating the same information in profoundly different ways. Maybe it is not the oversized glasses or the radiation at all, but the fact that as a science writer, I can explain the equations they solve. My work would be impossible without the scientists’ ability to figure out that increasing exponent values in certain equations leads the discussion of extra dimensions, but the scientists’ work would not have nearly the impact it does without my explanations of what extra dimensions actually mean.

If you think you might be the next strange quark to my charm quark, let me know. Those with Antarctica experience are particularly encouraged to apply. The ability to color-coordinate outfits is optional. The willingness to pillow talk about neutrinos is required.

Elizabeth Wade is a Barnard senior majoring in comparative literature.
Fear of Physics runs alternate Mondays.
Specopinion@columbia.edu