Credit: Jasmin Graham

Jasmin Graham is a marine biologist, science communicator, and advocate for equity in STEM. She is the co-founder and president of Minorities in Shark Sciences (MISS), an organization reaching more than 400 members from 30 countries dedicated to increasing diversity and access in marine research through hands-on training and community-building. Her work spans conservation biology, science education, and policy to support inclusive approaches to shark science and ocean stewardship. Jasmin is also the author of Sharks Don’t Sink, a memoir that explores her journey through science, identity, and activism. She has been recognized for her leadership in making marine science more accessible and representative, including being named the 2021 WWF Conservation Leader and an Ocean Hero by Scuba Diving Magazine.

As founder and president of Minorities in Shark Sciences (MISS), you’ve built a community that challenges barriers in marine science. What gaps in the field led you to create MISS, and how has the organization evolved since its founding in 2020?

When we (myself and three other women of color—Amani Webber-Schultz, Carlee Jackson, and Jaida Elcock) founded Minorities in Shark Sciences (MISS) in 2020, it was really about creating the kind of community we wished we had earlier in our academic careers. We wanted to connect with others like us—to build a space where people of color in marine science could find support, solidarity, and mentorship. For so many of us, the field felt isolating, and we were dealing with systemic challenges baked into the structure of academia. As we built MISS, one of our guiding goals was to make it so folks that came after us didn’t have to deal with the same things (like microaggressions, harassment, de-valuation of our work) that we experienced.

What began as a grassroots effort has grown into a global network of over 400 members across more than 30 countries. We now support students and scientists at all career stages through research opportunities, professional development programs, and community-building initiatives. MISS has become more than just an organization—it’s a movement to transform who has access to marine science and how they’re supported once they get there.

MISS provides hands-on fieldwork opportunities for gender minorities of color—something that is often a gatekeeper in marine research careers. Why is access to field experience so important, and how do you see these experiences transforming the career trajectories of MISS members?

Field experience is one of the biggest gatekeepers in marine science. A lot of jobs and graduate programs are looking for prior experience in the field, but that kind of training typically isn’t provided on the job. Internships are often the only way to gain that experience—but so many of them are unpaid, which just isn’t reasonable for people who don’t have a financial safety net. We’re talking about students who are working full-time, caregivers, or people who simply can’t afford to leave home for weeks or months to work for free.

At MISS, we’ve had to think creatively about how to break down those barriers. That’s meant reimagining what fieldwork can look like—offering hybrid or shorter in-person workshops, providing support for more traditional internships, and helping cover costs like lodging and stipends.

These barriers are unique to marine science in many ways, and we also try to address others that often get overlooked, like making reasonable accommodations for people with disabilities. It’s not just about access—it’s about creating environments where people feel welcome, included, valued, and comfortable asking questions. That’s what ultimately transforms career trajectories: when people feel supported enough to see themselves thriving in the field.

The [ocean] sciences have long struggled with representation and inclusion. As a Black woman in STEM, how have you learned to navigate spaces that weren’t built with your presence in mind and what strategies or mindsets have helped you persevere and thrive?

The ocean sciences—and science more broadly—have traditionally operated with a very narrow idea of what it means to be a scientist. There’s often an unspoken expectation to conform: to look a certain way, talk a certain way, dress a certain way. Early on, I realized that I didn’t want other parts of my identity to be covered up just to fit that mold. I started to challenge the notion that there’s only one way to be a “successful” scientist. For me, it’s also about taking up space and owning that space, even when your path doesn’t look like the traditional academic route. People bring their full selves—their histories, values, and perspectives—into their work. So, I’ve focused on creating and advocating for spaces where those different experiences are seen as assets, not liabilities because diversity in science leads to diversity in thought, and diversity in thought leads to innovation.

What helps me persevere is knowing that science is better when more voices are included and that we don’t need to fit into outdated prescriptions of what a scientist looks like or sounds like.

Your book, Sharks Don’t Sink: Adventures of a Rogue Shark Scientist, is a memoir that weaves together your personal journey and your professional passion for ocean science. What inspired you to write this book, and what do you hope readers—especially young scientists—take away from it?

When I was first approached about writing a book, I was hesitant. I wondered, Do I have enough to say? But then I had to ask myself—Why do I think that? I realized it was because so many of the stories I’d read or heard about scientists came from people who didn’t look like me. And most of those stories focused on the journey’s end—the accomplishments, the accolades—not the often “messy” middle part.

I wanted to tell a story that made space for the “messy”, because that’s where most of us actually live. I’m still writing my professional story, and I think there’s something powerful about sharing the raw, unfinished parts while you’re still in them. That’s far more realistic and relatable, especially for young scientists who are trying to find their way and may feel like they need to have it all figured out.

With Sharks Don’t Sink, I hoped to create something that reminds people they don’t have to be perfect or polished to belong in science. We need more stories that reflect the real, nonlinear paths people take and that show you can still engage with science and be a scientist while figuring it all out.

As someone actively building a more inclusive marine science community, what lessons have you learned about mobilizing people, not just to care about sharks, but to care about equity in science more broadly? Also, why should people care about sharks?

One of the biggest lessons I’ve learned is that the best way to build community is for people to really listen to each other. Getting people to care not just about sharks, but about diversity, equity and inclusion in science requires stepping outside of our silos. That means having conversations with people who may not see things the way you do, and being willing to put in the effort to understand where they’re coming from. I’ve found that leading by example is powerful. When you show up with openness and authenticity, it creates space for others to do the same. And more often than not, you realize that the gap between people is not as wide as you think. A lot of us care about similar things, we just haven’t always had the chance to talk about them in a meaningful way. Real change doesn’t happen through gatekeeping. It happens through relationships, through listening, and through showing people that equity work strengthens science—it does not detract from it.

Sharks are majestic, graceful creatures that play a vital role in marine ecosystems, but they’re often misrepresented in popular media as mindless killing machines. In reality, sharks are top predators that help maintain the balance of ocean food webs. Their presence regulates prey populations and supports healthy ecosystem function. When sharks are removed or severely depleted, it can trigger cascading effects that destabilize entire marine food webs, threatening biodiversity and food security—especially for coastal communities that rely heavily on ocean resources.

Public trust in science often depends on who’s speaking—and in today’s polarized climate, science communication can be shaped by political agendas. How do you navigate this landscape when communicating about marine science, and what approaches help you connect with communities historically excluded from environmental conversations?

In today’s polarized climate, the word “scientist” can be a trigger. People don’t always see the person behind the science—they see the institution or system, which for many communities has been historically exclusionary or even harmful. That’s why I approach science communication at a person-to-person level, rather than from a scientist-to-public stance. I’m Jasmin, who happens to be a scientist; I’m not someone coming in saying, “I know better than you.”

The first thing I do when I give presentations is share who I am, holistically. Before I talk about my research or credentials, I talk about my background, my experiences—because that’s what helps people connect. I am also a scientist, but I don’t lead with that as a way to claim authority. I lead with authenticity. It starts with listening. If you want to build trust, you have to understand not just what people believe, but why they believe it. That means being curious and compassionate, even when you disagree. When people feel heard and respected, they’re much more open to listening to what you have to say and to the science you’re trying to share.

World Ocean’s Month is a time to reflect on our relationship with the sea. What does ocean stewardship mean to you personally, and what role do you think community and cultural identity play in conservation work?

To me, ocean stewardship means living in balance with the ocean—making sure that when we take resources, we also ensure those resources can be replenished. It’s about sustainability, yes, but also about reciprocity. We need to stop thinking of the ocean as something separate from us and instead see it as part of our home and our lives.

Culture plays a huge role in that, too. As scientists, we often get stuck on the way things have always been done, especially in conservation. But I think we’re underleveraging one of our most powerful tools: human capital. When people feel like they can protect their home—when they see themselves reflected in the solutions—they’re much more likely to engage. Conservation becomes more powerful when people see the ocean as connected to their home and to their identity.

Traditionally, conservation has been very numbers-driven, which is [of course] important, but it often leaves out the human element. Take something like fishery restrictions, for instance. If you just tell people they can’t catch flounder under 14 inches without explanation, it feels arbitrary. But when you take the time to explain why those limits exist—and connect it to things they already know or do—it changes the conversation. If you approach it purely through jargon or abstract data, that connection gets lost. People need to understand where the numbers come from and they need to see that their lived experiences, traditions, and values can be part of the solution.

Juneteenth represents a time to reflect and commemorate the emancipation of enslaved African Americans in the United States. How do you think the scientific community can better honor the histories and contributions of Black scientists, both past and present?

One of the most important ways the scientific community can honor Black scientists, both past and present, is simply by acknowledging their contributions openly and honestly. It’s also critical to recognize the many, many Black people whose work, knowledge, or participation have advanced science but who may never receive recognition.

We can’t go back and change it, but we can at least acknowledge it. Many of the contributions we benefit from today were made by people who were used in research without their knowledge—without informed consent. People like Henrietta Lacks, whose cells became the foundation for countless medical breakthroughs, and the victims of the Tuskegee Syphilis Study are a couple well-known examples among countless instances of unethical treatment of Black people in the name of science. These histories remind us that scientific progress has often come at a great human cost, especially to Black communities. Honoring these histories means more than celebration—it means confronting uncomfortable truths and making sure those stories are included in how we teach, communicate, and conduct science going forward. It’s about creating a scientific culture that values and uplifts Black scientists today, while holding space for the legacies that have too often been erased.

This interview was conducted by Associate Editor Michele Repetto.