The joke that isn’t a joke: gender bias in fieldwork and the moments that give it away
by Mary Colwell, Prof Jenny Gill
Goethe famously said (I’m paraphrasing), “Show me what you laugh at, and I’ll tell you who you are”. A ‘joke’ is usually where the truth slips out, because many a true word is spoken in jest.
Recently, a moment in elite sport did exactly that. Donald Trump invited the men’s ice hockey team to the White House after winning gold at the winter Olympics. He quipped that he would “have to” invite the women’s team as well, otherwise he might be impeached. The women had also won gold a couple of days before. The tone was that of ‘we must do it guys, because you know what it’s like these days’; a shared sexist joke made in a locker room, just between men, only this time it was recorded on a phone and sent around the world. The subtext was clear, the men’s team were the real heroes, the women were an obligation that were included under sufferance and for appearances. The men joined in, laughed, and most went to the White House for a McDonald’s meal-deal and a photo opportunity.
The women’s team were invited some time afterwards, but they declined and later described the moment as “distasteful”. What was even more distasteful was that subsequent interviews with the women focussed on their reaction rather than on the astonishing feat of their gold medal run. Instead of acknowledging their achievements they found themselves talking about men, the same men who have privileged access to transport, training and support, which are denied to the women’s team. It must be so painful and frustrating.
Watching this unfold over the last few days I felt suppressed emotions rise. In the past sexism was overt and brazen, today it is more covert but still under the surface, emerging in social media moments like this. A throwaway line, a smirk, a ‘harmless’ joke, exposes the reflex to belittle and to remind women of their place. And when those women complain they are told they are too sensitive or they don’t have a sense of humour; they are called ‘love’ and their anger is dismissed as being ‘too emotional’. It is an old, tired playbook that should have been burned long ago.
This incident was good timing because Curlew Action had just held our second in-person European Fieldworker Workshop in Lancaster University, bringing together over 100 fieldworkers from Ireland to Poland to discuss Curlew conservation and to share experiences and knowledge. On the Sunday afternoon, Professor Jenny Gill and I led a workshop to listen the experiences of women doing fieldwork from across the continent.
I opened with a personal story about applying for a job as a field assistant in Antarctica in the 1980s, at a time when women were banned from working there. When I asked why, the reply stated:
- You’ll have to share accommodation.
- Some of the men might be married.
- Other countries that allow women have problems.
- You’ll have to experience long, physical hardship.
- It works well as it is, we have no intention of changing things.
Those reasons would be unlawful now. But the deeper message – we view you as a complication, not an equal colleague – still echoes in subtler forms.
Sexism in fieldwork is nuanced and varied.
The stories we heard in this intimate and personal session show that sexism appears in seemingly small but significant ways:
- being introduced as “girls” while doing professional surveys
- being assumed less capable (“don’t lift that”; “you won’t manage that”)
- being talked over, corrected unnecessarily, or ‘helpfully’ instructed in areas you already know. Mansplaining is a widespread issue.
- being ignored while a man standing next to you is automatically treated as the authority (very common)
- being treated as ‘less of a threat’, which might open doors, but at the cost of being patronised
- feeling you must constantly prove you belong in boots and bad weather, in remote places, and in male-coded spaces
They are hard to call out, the kind of moments that are open to interpretation depending on your point of view. Importantly, they allow the person causing harm to keep their self-image intact whilst the woman feels diminished.
The result is cumulative
One comment in our discussion kept circling back in different forms – it’s not just the individual incidents but the accumulation of small actions that add up to a greater whole. A single patronising remark might be survivable, but day after day it becomes a drag on confidence and ambition. It feeds the “leaky pipeline” so many organisations recognise, where women enter ecology and conservation in strong numbers but then drop away from senior field roles. The reasons are rarely simple to tackle, or even to discuss.
1) Opportunity constraints
Caring responsibilities, unpredictable field schedules, remote postings, and the financial reality of short-term contracts can hit women harder, not because women are less committed, but because society still distributes domestic and caring labour unevenly.
According to the 2021 Census (ONS), women make up around 59% of unpaid carers in England and Wales, meaning they are more likely than men to provide care for family members or others without pay (ONS, 2023). Women are also more likely to provide higher hours of care each week.
Research from the Trade Union Congress shows women are significantly more likely than men to leave work or reduce working hours because of caring responsibilities; in some age groups, women are around seven times more likely to be out of paid employment due to care commitments (TUC, 2022). Beyond direct caregiving, data from the ONS consistently show women performing more unpaid domestic labour overall, including childcare and household work (ONS, Time Use Survey).
Therefore, despite shifts in gender roles, women in the UK continue to shoulder a disproportionate share of unpaid caring and domestic work, with measurable impacts on employment, income and career progression.1
2) Belonging
If you rarely see people like you in senior field roles, it is harder to imagine yourself there. Add imposter syndrome, “boys’ club” culture, and a steady drip of being underestimated, and it becomes a rational choice to step sideways into work that is safer and more respected.
In field-based conservation and environmental science, imposter feelings are often intensified by underrepresentation and culture. Women entering ecology degrees in the UK now do so in strong numbers, yet senior field roles and leadership positions remain disproportionately male (ONS labour market data; professional body gender reports such as Institute of Physics, 2020; Royal Society diversity reports). Research shows imposter feelings are heightened in environments where individuals feel they do not fit the dominant image of who belongs (Bravata et al., 2020; Kumar & Jagacinski, 2006). In male-dominated or physically demanding field environments, where authority has historically been associated with masculinity, women may experience both subtle undermining and stereotype threat, reinforcing self-doubt despite equal or higher performance. In other words, imposter syndrome in conservation is often not a personal weakness but a structural echo from the past.
3) Safety
Fieldwork can mean isolation, lone working, dawn starts, remote sites, shared accommodation, and unpredictable encounters. Several women described how quickly what can be presented as “friendly” can tip into something else, and how vulnerable it can feel when help is far away. Even when nothing happens, the need to constantly assess risk is exhausting.
4) Comfort and kit
Even now, equipment and safety gear can be designed around male bodies and male hands, making women literally less safe or less effective.
5) Voicing concerns
This may be the hinge point. Many women hesitate to report “vibes”, behaviour patterns, or casual comments, especially in small professional communities where everyone knows everyone and where reputations travel. It can be exacerbated where short contracts create a fear of being labelled ‘difficult’. In other words, even when policy exists, the prevailing culture decides whether it works in the real world.
“But it helps sometimes…”, the double-edged reality
Modern sexism often arrives wrapped in friendliness. A woman who had worked as a habitat surveyor described meeting landowners in remote areas. When she and her female colleague were encountered in the field, the greeting was warm. “Are you all right, girls? What are you doing here?” They were offered tea, conversations flowed and the door was open to collaboration. When male colleagues visited the same sites, the tone shifted to be more defensive and protectionist: “What are you doing? Who are you? Who sent you?” So being a woman sometimes made it easier to “get in the door” as she put it, but added: “You’re not necessarily taken seriously once you get in. You’re perceived as less of a threat, but you have to suffer being patronised as a result. Often the men are consulted about actions rather than us.”
That double edge runs through many field experiences where being female may help initially, but authority is ultimately withheld and given to men.
“They go slowly because they’re scared to upset me.”
One experienced fieldworker described how farmers behaved differently depending on who approached them. “When the men ask to see how mowing a field is done,” she said, “they go quite quickly and aggressively. But when I ask, they go very slowly… they’re scared to upset me. They want to show how careful they are.”
On the surface, that can benefit ground-nesting birds, but beneath sits an assumption that women need protection from reality, we are too fragile and emotional, and we can also be easily impressed. Too often women feel like an unequal professional and constantly need to prove themselves.
Another participant responded: “That’s mansplaining. That’s being treated as if you don’t understand.” The word ‘mansplaining’ surfaced repeatedly during the discussion, and it was one of the moments when real anger rose in the room. It resonated because it named something many had experienced but rarely articulated, the subtle positioning of women as less knowledgeable, less authoritative and less competent.
While ‘mansplaining’ is a popular term rather than a formal academic category, UK and international research strongly supports the underlying phenomenon. Men are more likely to dominate explanations, interrupt women, or assert authority over knowledge in mixed-gender conversations, particularly in male-dominated settings. Classic sociolinguistic work by Zimmerman and West (1975) documented higher rates of male interruption in cross-sex conversations, and Miranda Fricker’s theory of epistemic injustice (2007) explains how women’s credibility can be systematically undermined due to gender bias. More recent reviews, such as Bravata et al. (2020) on the impostor phenomenon and workplace gender dynamics, and UK higher-education reports (e.g., Advance HE; Institute of Physics, 2020), describe patterns where women’s expertise is more frequently questioned or re-explained. While studies rarely use the word mansplaining itself, they document the behavioural dynamics the term captures.2
And yet the same fieldworker had learned to work within that unequal dynamic. She used it to build relationships with landowners and, ultimately, to protect wildlife, which, after all, is the goal. For many women in conservation, this is the reality, navigating bias whilst also reshaping it, turning difficult ground into something more productive. Progress is made not only against ecological decline, but also against the subtle, often unspoken assumptions that sit beneath daily activities.
These subtleties do not affect women alone. They can also constrain men, where expectations of competitiveness or toughness make it harder to form the trust and collaboration that effective conservation depends on. Recognising and challenging the structures and stereotypes that shape these roles is not about division, it is about creating space for better outcomes, for people and for nature.
“People automatically go and ask the men.”
Sexism doesn’t only live in remote farmland, it appears in bird hides, conference rooms, training schemes and offices. One woman employed by a major NGO described sitting in a bird hide in full reserve uniform with badges and labels on her shirt and a scope and a pile of leaflets set up and ready by her side. Her job was to explain to visitors what they might see. Many people would enter the hide and automatically address the men who were there birdwatching. “They’d go straight to them and ask, ‘What’s happening there?’ I was like, ‘Hello, I’m over here.’”
She also described the constant assumptions about physical strength. A colleague tries to ‘help’, but the help is control. The message underneath is – your judgement isn’t trusted. “I felt like I couldn’t decide for myself what I’m able to lift.” It is rarely assumed that men need help. Sexism in fieldwork is not usually dramatic, but it can feel relentless and the result is a diminishing sense of self-worth and involvement.
“It’s not actual threat necessarily, it’s perceived threat.”
Fieldwork safety came up many times. One woman described being alone at a remote site when a visitor began returning repeatedly, asking increasingly personal questions and later finding her online. “You might have all the precautions in place,” she said, “but when it happens, and help is a long way off, it’s too late.” Another described agreeing to go bird ringing with a man she didn’t know. They walked deep into woodland. Nothing happened, but she was increasingly uncomfortable and it ‘felt off’. She couldn’t enjoy the moment and just said, ‘I’m going home.’”
Someone else described how these moments shape decisions in bird ringing. “A man you don’t know says, ‘Yeah, I’ll take you out. It’ll just be me and you… we’ll go out wherever.’” And women often respond by cancelling: “Oh, it’s not worth the risk.” That’s the hidden cost: women opting out of opportunities not because they don’t love fieldwork, but because of risk management. “It’s not actual threat, necessarily,” someone said. “It’s perceived threat. Chances are it would be fine. But the perceived threat is enough to stop you.” And so those opportunities are denied simply because it doesn’t feel right.
One male participant said, “Part of that probably will be because I’m a bloke. I feel so comfortable in the field on my own.” That sentence matters not because men should feel guilty, of course they shouldn’t, but because it names the unequal baseline. It defines who says yes to opportunities, and who quietly declines.
“We all know it… but nothing would ever be done.”
The hardest stories were about speaking up. A woman described a colleague widely regarded as ‘creepy’ by women in the group. “Every woman I’ve spoken to thinks the same thing. But… nothing would ever be done.”
Why?
“It’s just loads of little comments. A vibe. You don’t have anything tangible.” And when concerns are voiced, the response can often be dismissive: “Oh no, he’s not like that.” Which leaves the speaker feeling worse and belittled for even raising it. The harm is protected by friendships and therefore persists. In small professional communities where everyone knows everyone else, it becomes even more difficult. “You’re telling on someone’s friend,” one participant said. “You feel bad… like you’re talking ill of someone.” So, you capitulate to silence instead of speaking out.
One manager described a moment that still upsets him. He had visited a farm many times as part of a wider project and felt, “absolutely zero awareness of any risk”. But a female research assistant came back and told him the farmer had behaved inappropriately. “We ended up dropping the farm from the study. But what would I have done if she hadn’t told me?… chances are I’d have been telling her to go back there.”
Short-term contracts and volunteer roles add another layer. Who wants to be labelled “difficult” in a sector where reputation matters so much?
We don’t automatically conduct risk assessments for 55-year-old men
One manager spoke candidly about how pregnancy is handled in fieldwork. “I’m required to carry out a formal risk assessment when someone is pregnant,” he said, “and of course safety matters. But it doesn’t sit entirely comfortably with me. We don’t automatically conduct risk assessments for a 55-year-old man who may have undiagnosed heart disease or other common health risks. Yet pregnancy immediately triggers a process.”
His point was not that pregnancy should be ignored, far from it. The discomfort lies in what the process can signal. Pregnancy is treated as exceptional, a potential liability requiring scrutiny, while other common risks such as heart attacks or strokes pass unnoticed. When handled without care, that framing can subtly reinforce the idea that women’s bodies are a problem to be managed rather than a normal part of the workforce. The distinction matters because safety and dignity should be mutually supportive, not work against each other. When a risk assessment is approached as a shared conversation, it safeguards both. When it slips into protectionism, however well-intentioned, it can quietly suggest that someone does not quite belong.
What actually changes things?
One woman put it simply, “Shining a light on it and talking about it is probably our most powerful tool.” It is a way for everyone to be involved in the solutions. One central idea kept emerging was the importance of the prevailing culture that infiltrates behaviours and standards. Policies and protocols matter, but it is the overarching culture that decides whether they work.
- Naming the hidden behaviours, not just the overt harassment, but belittling, dismissive jokes and patronising “help.”
- Raising expectations regularly, not only during induction but a constant reminder of respect and equality.
- Provide reporting routes beyond direct managers because they might be the problem.
- Protecting volunteers and short-term staff, who are often most vulnerable and the ones who feel least able to speak out.
- Shifting the conversation from intent to impact. As one participant put it, “Harm can be felt even when it’s not meant.” Being thoughtful and aware is a large part of what makes a culture feel inclusive and safe.
- And perhaps most importantly: believing women when they say, “I just know.” Many agreed when someone said, “As a woman you know when someone’s being inappropriate. You just know. It’s like a hardwired survival thing.” That instinct comes from experience and has to be taken seriously. It is data, not hysteria.
Beyond the joke
The ice hockey incident will fade, but what was behind it, the urge to belittle as humour, deny as humour, move-on as humour, remains too familiar. Sexism in fieldwork is most often about micro behaviours, insensitive remarks or a dismissive shrug; the behaviours that emerge in unguarded moments. If we want conservation to hold onto its talent and to stop the ‘leaky pipeline’, whereby women enter the sector but leave, then those small moments matter. Because what we laugh at, we permit, and permission feeds culture.