I grew up under the guidance of my laid-back, chemist mother and my proper, high school science teacher grandmother, both of whom implicitly demonstrated, with infectious excitement and continuous encouragement, that women make amazing scientists.

It speaks to the naivety of my childhood that on my first day of college calculus I looked around the room and wondered, “Where are all the girls?” Like most of my classmates, I was busy struggling to learn difficult concepts in time for each midterm – and, like most of my classmates, I passed up the question, “Why aren’t the girls here?”

Now in my third year of physics classes, I still struggle with complicated problems. But I’ve learned – I’ve learned some physics and I’ve learned to ask the relevant questions. Like learning physics, learning to ask the right question – the weighted, pointed question – was a process.

Look around a lecture hall at the eight or nine girls (they should be easy to spot in that group of 60 guys). Most of those girls have chosen to study with each other in pairs. To the science nerd, this observation is statistically significant. If we were to take a random sampling of the class, we should find study groups comprising 5-6 guys and 1 girl. But the girls aren’t choosing to do that.

Take a look at your friends, gentlemen, and you’ll see each competing with the others to share his idea the fastest and most convincingly. “Me, me, me! Pick me,” they once yelled to their first-grade teacher, throwing forward a raised hand as if reaching for the teacher’s attention. Then and now, volume (in reference to decibel level and in terms of quantity of ideas broadcast) indicates ability. There is none of the give-and-take, none of the collaborative progress toward understanding that I find with my female classmates. This isn’t to say that science shouldn’t have a place for competition, but science should also have room for collaboration – both characteristics are necessary to do good science.

The National Academy of Science’s report “Beyond Bias and Barriers” tells me that, as a woman, I am less likely to earn tenure than my male counterpart. Should I earn tenure, I will have a smaller lab and less funding. When I submit my research to peer-reviewed journals, I will receive lower scores simply because my name is Jessica and not Jason.

These factors are what guide decisions about my immediate future, but they aren’t the same factors determining whether girls choose science in the first place.

So, why aren’t the girls here? Undergraduate physics classes at Ohio State and across the country are 80 percent male. Are there genetic traits that predispose men to be successful at mathematical professions?

The majority of 4th grade girls are interested in and excited about science, whereas the majority of 6th grade girls are not. Are we socializing our girls to believe science is an inherently masculine field?

When high-schoolers are asked to explain why they’ve received a poor science grade, the boys fault their teachers’ ability to explain a concept thoroughly while the girls discredit their own ability to comprehend difficult material. Is there a psychological advantage to blaming others or blaming ourselves?

When asked to draw a picture of a scientist, almost all 4th graders draw Albert Einstein, with his white coat and crazy hair, alone in the lab. Do girls not consider science a viable option, because they can’t relate to this conception of a scientist?

Who are the role models in science for young girls? If we all had chemist moms and teacher grandmothers from the beginning, would we want to be amazing scientists – just like them?

Jessica Hanzlik is a junior with majors in physics and French, and a math minor. Her guest column comes from her research and interest in gender issues as they relate to science education. She can be reached for comment at [email protected].