I remember the day clearly when DNA was first introduced to me. Two names stood out—Dr. James D. Watson and Francis Crick (Wilkins was there too, but it took me a while to remember his name). Our textbooks presented them as heroes, Nobel Prize winners who had discovered the structure of life itself: the double helix.
Twelve-year-old me took one look at Watson’s name and thought, “That’s where I want to be.” A Nobel Prize seemed like the ultimate proof that curiosity and perseverance mattered. He became part of a mental hall of fame of scientists whose work felt almost mythic. And yes, I may have daydreamed about white coats and fancy labs more than once.
It wasn’t until college that the picture got murky. Everyone has their demons, sure, but for a man who spent his life chasing scientific truth, some of his demons were particularly messy.
Watson’s scientific legacy is monumental. The double helix is a cornerstone of modern biology. Genetics, medicine, even how we think about life at its most basic level—it’s all been reshaped by his work. But science doesn’t happen in a vacuum, and people… well, they’re complicated (and sometimes really frustrating).
Take Rosalind Franklin. Her X-ray diffraction images of DNA were critical to the model Watson and Crick built. Yet Franklin didn’t share the Nobel. Watson’s own portrayal of her in The Double Helix was dismissive, even sexist. He minimized her role, taking credit that was, at the very least, disproportionate. And yes, that’s a tricky thing to wrap your head around: celebrating genius while realizing someone else’s brilliance was overshadowed.
Starting in the early 2000s, Watson began making public statements on race and intelligence that were widely dismissed as baseless and offensive. In 2007, comments he made to The Sunday Times about Africa sparked outrage. Cold Spring Harbor Laboratory suspended him, and he resigned from leadership roles. A 2019 PBS documentary in which he reaffirmed these beliefs accelerated his isolation. The laboratory stripped him of honorary titles. Colleagues distanced themselves. And yet, the science that made him famous remained untarnished… technically (and yes, it’s weird to admire the discovery while side-eyeing the discoverer).
Sexist, homophobic, and inflammatory remarks peppered his public life, deepening the divide between Watson the scientist and Watson the man. The dissonance is jarring: the intellect that mapped life itself, but a worldview that so often contradicted the ethics we hope science embodies.
This brings me to a question I can’t stop asking myself: how much should we, as students, be taught about the human side of scientists?
When I first learned about Watson, it was only the double helix, only the Nobel, only the triumph. I cheered from the classroom desk (and maybe imagined my own Nobel speech). But should we have also learned about the complicated, often troubling person behind the achievements? Should ethics have a louder seat in science education, or do we stick to the formulas, experiments, and discoveries and call it a day?
It parallels the debates in the art world; where some say, “Separate the art from the artist,” and others say, “If the creator is flawed, maybe the work shouldn’t be celebrated at all.” We argue endlessly about whether we can enjoy the painting, the movie, or the song while questioning the person behind it. Isn’t this the same discourse we face with scientists like Watson?
There’s a major difference, though. Art is subjective; science is (mostly) absolute. The facts don’t change because the scientist does. But that doesn’t mean personal biases don’t seep into hypotheses, experiments, or interpretations and, sometimes, they do. Research suggests that people find it easier to morally decouple a scientist’s personal conduct from the value of their contributions, compared with artists, whose work is often seen as an extension of themselves.
Watson’s legacy encapsulates this tension perfectly. His discovery of DNA’s double helix remains foundational to modern genetics and CRISPR technology. Yet his personal racist and sexist opinions led to social ostracism. The scientific community largely continues to build on his work while criticizing and distancing itself from him as a person. The pragmatic separation of “keep the science, question the scientist” shows the cumulative and self-correcting nature of scientific knowledge.
But personal biases do leave traces. Watson’s dismissive portrayal of Rosalind Franklin in The Double Helix influenced both public perception and recognition of her contributions. His controversial views on race cleary show how personal belief can skew interpretation of data, even when the underlying science is sound. Early research culture, shaped by male dominance and Eurocentric assumptions, also influenced which questions were pursued and who received credit. And yes, biases like selection, confirmation, and observer bias continue to shape studies today.
Watson’s influence also reminds us that leadership positions shape research culture. Decisions on which questions get priority, who receives credit, and what gets published are all subtly affected by the human biases of those in power. While his discoveries were grounded in empirical data, the way he represented colleagues, interpreted results, and engaged with the public reflects the inescapable human side of science.
So here’s my take, and I say this as someone completely unqualified to judge a Nobel laureate: Watson’s words mattered. His discovery mattered even more. But his story reminds us that we can’t separate science from the human behind it entirely. The discussion, at least, is worth having, especially in classrooms, labs, and boardrooms where tomorrow’s discoveries are taking shape.
In the end, I’ll always remember that twelve-year-old me, staring at the page in awe. And I’ll also remember college me, staring at the same page, but now with questions. Not just about DNA. Not just about the Nobel. But about the humans who unravel life and the ethical choices they make along the way.
James D. Watson changed the world. But maybe the world would have been even better if we had also changed how we tell his story. (And yes, I still daydream about labs—just with slightly more ethics discussions.)
