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About The Mind Hears

A blog by and for deaf and hard of hearing academics

Conquering faculty meetings (or not…) when deaf/hard of hearing

-Ana

Making it as a deaf/hard of hearing (HoH) academic can often feel like a game of whack-a-mole. Between research activities, teaching duties, and that large nebulous category ‘service,’ communication challenges lurk around every corner. Some I can troubleshoot fairly quickly— i.e. arranging a classroom so there is walking space between desks and I can approach my students to better hear them (mole whacked!). Other challenges have required a few more tries, but I’ve eventually figured out viable solutions—i.e. belatedly acquiring an FM system was a game changer when it came to group discussions of papers (mole missed, mole missed, mole whacked!). But there is a situation that I have not yet been able to master, even after many, many years: the departmental faculty meeting.

I had less than a passing knowledge of that special faculty obligation that is the Departmental Faculty Meeting when I started out as an assistant professor. I’d heard some friends and my spouse—people who’d gotten faculty positions before me—mention them, usually accompanied by eye rolls. But I didn’t really have any expectations about what these meetings entailed or what my role in them might be.

Cue over to my first faculty meeting as a deaf/HoH faculty in a predominantly hearing institution. I walked into a an overly large room (overly large for the number of people we had) that looked somewhat like this:

A room with chairs in rows, in which a faculty meeting is taking place. Stick figures are scattered throughout, with one twisting and turning her head in an attempt to speech read what is being said by people in all corners of the room.

We were 15-20 faculty seated in a classroom meant for over 40, with everybody seemingly intent in maximizing their distance from all others. After an hour of feeling like a bobblehead as I desperately twisted my neck trying to speech read my department chair in front and my colleagues in all corners of the room, I came to three conclusions:

1. Faculty (who would have thought!) are just like undergrads, and will beeline for chairs in the last rows of a room

2. Important stuff got discussed in faculty meetings (I think I caught some words that sounded like budgets and curriculum…)

3. I was dead meat, because I could not follow anything that was being said

So I went home and cried. My first year as an assistant professor, I cried after every single faculty meeting. Granted, we didn’t have that many faculty meetings back then, but enough to confirm my deep-rooted fear that I was certainly not going to survive this career path. It was clear to me in my first year that faculty meetings were whipping me soundly; if I were keeping score I would call it: Faculty Meetings 1–Ana 0.

Of course the obvious thing to do would have been to ask my department chair to change the setup of the faculty meetings. After all, my colleagues knew I was hard of hearing and relied on hearing aids for communication. But I was terrified that if my department caught whiff of how much I struggled to hear, this would sow doubts about my competence as a teacher and doom my tenure prospects. Besides, although I had a long history of self-reliance, I had zero experience in self-advocacy. Among my many thoughts were “What in the world falls under the ‘reasonable’ umbrella in reasonable accommodation?” and “oh, wait, I’m not a US citizen, does the ADA [American with Disabilities Act] even cover me?” (I still don’t know the answer to this one).

Towards the end of the academic year I found some courage to request CART (Communication Active Real Time Translation) for a final retreat-style faculty meeting. The captionists were to sit next to me and type out all discussions. My chair knew about the CART, but I (foolishly) didn’t alert the faculty. At the beginning of the meeting, a colleague expressed discomfort about the presence of unknown people in the room (the captionists). Though an explanation brought a quick apology, I felt marked. Added to the captioning time lag that at times jarred with what I could hear, I scored another loss: Faculty Meetings 2–Ana 0.

A transmitter with an omnidirectional microphone placed on a table.

My second year brought a new department chair, a tiny increase in self-confidence, and also an increase in the frequency of faculty meetings. Aaagh! I finally resolved to approach my chair and request that faculty be seated in a round square table format during meetings so that I would have a better shot at speech reading. Simultaneously, I acquired a new FM system and a transmitter with an omnidirectional microphone — a forerunner of the one pictured here. I would place it on the center of the table and voila! OK, so it wasn’t quite 100%, and I was still missing most of the banter and jokes, but jumping from 50 to 90% comprehension (These are completely unscientific numbers. Naturally, there’s no way for me to ever tell how much I’m missing; my estimate is based on my confusion level at end of a meeting) felt wonderful. This was it! I was going to nail this faculty thing! New score: Faculty Meetings 2–Ana 1!

Then my department grew. 

Schematic of a conference setting in a hollow square format.

Okay, I get the fact that department success is gauged in part by growth. And yes, improving faculty-to-student ratios is always a good thing. But growth meant that in order to sit all of us in rectangle we were now sitting like this:

Ummm, with a gaping hole in the middle, where is microphone transmitter to go? I started putting it next to me, but of course this makes it much less likely to pick up voices from those sitting farther away. I considered going back to CART, but at this point I had had my first kid and often had to rush out of faculty meeting before the end in order to make it to daycare pickup; I couldn’t bring myself to subject others to my sometimes ad hoc schedule… so I muddled along and considered this round lost. New score: Faculty Meetings 3–Ana 1.

A Lego knight with shield, sword and helmet. It is pretty happy that no faculty meeting can hurt it now.

Fast forward a few years—the department kept growing. We were now meeting in a large room that combined my two meeting nightmares: square table arrangements with a central hole AND faculty sitting in rows (we no longer all fit around the square). Even worse… recall that faculty are just like undergrads….most actively choose to sit as far away from the center/front of the room if given an option. So much for our “round table.” 

I started to cultivate the attitude recommended by some of my hearing colleagues… faculty meeting, bah, waste of time, place where people go to hear themselves talk, nothing happens there that couldn’t be solved more quickly through email….bah! OK, so attitude was my new weapon armor. By my calculations we were now at this score: Faculty Meetings 4–Ana 2. Ha! A comeback!

Schematic of a conference set up that involves chair lining up the perimeter of a room, as well as table set in a U-shape, with a peninsula in the center also lined with chairs.

A few years later, further department growth and another new chair. But I told this one about my difficulties following discussions whenever we sat in rows. Alas, we were now too many faculty to sit in any sort of rectangular format that would fit in a room. I had started in a department with around 20 people and we now had more than 50! To maximize my visual contact with faculty in a room, we came up with this pretty funky rectangle with peninsula shape. Ummm… perhaps we can call this score: Faculty Meetings 4–Ana 3? We would have patented this design, but there were two problems. The perimeter of the room (around the rectangle) still had to be lined with chairs in order to have enough seating should everybody decide to show up. And see observation #1 above: faculty are just like undergrads. This means that people prefer to take the perimeter spots before they take any rectangle spots. And it turns out that people prefer to STAND IN A CORNER of the room before taking ANY of the peninsula spots in the center. New score: Faculty Meetings 5–Ana 3.

So we get to where we are today. I catch myself wondering how traitorous it is for me to dream of a smaller department while also cultivating a blasé attitude towards faculty meetings so that I release myself from feeling obligated to try and follow the discussions. In a way, this outcome is an anthesis of what a blog post on thriving in academia with deafness should be. Over a decade of trying to find a solution for a way to participate effectively in what should be a routine part of faculty life has led instead to something that resembles an arms race and I have no solution to offer. At the same time, however, this post on getting by in academia with deafness portrays pretty effectively the reality of trying to adjust to shifting communication settings as a deaf/HoH academic. I hesitate to sound as if I’m advocating “managing” as opposed to “thriving” when it comes to facing the fluctuating demands of academic life, but sometimes, while we’re whacking those moles, “managing” is what we can do.

Pandemic addendum: I wrote this post before the Covid-19 pandemic struck, never imagining the ways in which my faculty meeting odyssey would be upended yet again. The thought of meeting in-person with 40-50 colleagues now seems so distant, and new “moles” have appeared in our now virtual faculty meetings (ahem…thinking here of all those who choose to speak with their zoom cameras OFF). Yet I’ve also picked up some new management strategies in the interim… For example, Michele’s recent post points out some of the silver linings for deaf/HoH academics in working from home. And from Paige Glotzer’s profile I’ve now learned of the existence of Catchbox throwable microphones; if when life returns to normal, could this be my new faculty meeting strategy? I can’t wait to see

Profile: Khadijat Rashid

  • Current title: Interim Dean of the Faculty
  • Location: Gallaudet University, Washington DC
  • Field of expertise: International Development, International Economic Policy
  • Years of experience (since start of PhD): 25
  • Website: https://my.gallaudet.edu/khadijat-rashid

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Background?

I’m deaf, as in profoundly, deeply deaf. I can’t even use hearing aids because they are worthless for me, though I do have an implant that I occasionally use to hear environmental sounds. I went to all kinds of schools: hearing schools for my early elementary education, an all deaf residential school for K-8, a deaf program within a hearing high school (not really mainstreaming since all the deaf students were together with teachers who signed). The journey continued in college, where I was initially the only deaf student at college, then I left in my sophomore year for Gallaudet University where I was finally in an all-deaf environment.  Graduate school was again “mainstreamed” as I was the only deaf student in my MBA program at the University of Maryland, and then the only deaf student in my PhD cohort at American University. So it’s been quite a journey! I studied International Relations for my PhD because I was not going to be limited by my deafness and I was determined to study in a field that had nothing to do with Deaf people or deaf culture, and so of course, I ended up as a faculty member and administrator at Gallaudet!

I am an American immigrant. I was born in Nigeria, West Africa, and emigrated to the USA as a teenager, so most of my life has been in the USA. I speak Yoruba (a Nigerian language), and can “pass” in Nigerian Sign Language, pidgin (a creole hybrid of Nigerian languages and English), and of course, English.

How did you get to where you are?

As mentioned earlier, I wanted to study in a field that wasn’t defined by my being deaf, and I was always fascinated with economics, politics, and different cultures. And I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do when I grew up, so I decided I would study in as many different fields as possible. So, my undergraduate degrees (accounting, general business and computer information systems) were in the business field, and I worked for a while in a large corporation. Then I went for my MBA in International Business and Marketing. But I got disillusioned with the materialism I saw everywhere in Business and decided to go back to study these areas I had always been fascinated by, international politics and political economy. I wanted to understand what differentiated us as human beings, and how our economic interactions worked. I loved my PhD studies at American University (AU), which were a blend of anthropology, critical theory, international relations, politics, and economics —just what the doctor ordered for my eclectic interests! I took the long and meandering route to that PhD, since I started it in 1995 and took several detours, including several moves and the birth of two kids, along the way to completion in 2004. I even got expelled from the program because I was taking so long to complete the degree, but managed to talk my way back in 2003, promising that if they only gave me a chance, I would complete my PhD in a year. They took a risk and let me back in, and once that fire was lit under me, even though I had two kids under 5 by then, I did finish on time.

When I started out, there were still relatively few deaf women with PhD’s, and none in my field that I was aware of. Moreover, I was a young, Black, Deaf immigrant juggling a full-time job (I was already teaching at Gallaudet by this point), kids, and full-time graduate studies, so it was not a piece of cake. It definitely wasn’t easy. Sometimes I was so tired, it felt impossible to go on. But somehow I found that impetus from within me, and at some point the goal felt attainable, especially as I’d already sunk so much into the PhD by then. I also had my job as a faculty member to consider – I had to have that PhD if I wanted to advance, and I felt I couldn’t let down all the people who had invested in me and who were counting on me to make it. My advisor and the program faculty at AU were all terrific people, and their faith in me when I didn’t have faith in myself spurred me on.

What is the biggest professional challenge you face (as educator or researcher)? How do you mitigate this challenge?

As an administrator now, I really don’t have as much time anymore for the fun aspects of the job, which include teaching and research. Instead, I spend more time in meetings and solving issues for our faculty and staff, so that they can then go on to serve our students. I loathe that I don’t see that many students anymore since my schedule is not consistent enough for me to teach regularly, so I get my “fix” by mentoring students, attending events, and having open office hours where they can come and talk with me.

This year, a huge challenge has been COVID and the pivot to remote learning. If anyone had told me in January 2020 that we would move an entire university from face to face teaching to remote in less than a month, I’d have asked them what they were smoking. But we did it and we continue to do it now. Keeping students and faculty engaged while we are all apart and isolated has been tough, but I’m proud to say that our community is resilient and we are making it work. We do so by having regular information sessions, hosting webinars, and sending out information blasts frequently. I’ve found that the greatest anxiety is in not knowing; sharing information, even the bad stuff, helps people understand what is happening, and many are relieved and appreciative to know what is going on.

What is an example of accommodation that you either use or would like to use in your current job?

Can’t think of any. Gallaudet is fully accessible to me as a Deaf woman.  

What advice would you give your former self?

Be braver and trust yourself! So often I didn’t speak up during my assistant professor days because I didn’t want to be that “angry Black woman,” or make people uncomfortable, or rock the boat. But sometimes that boat deserves to be rocked. I look back at all the grunt work I had to do, the committee assignments no one else wanted, the classes I had to teach even when I had a sick baby at home with no time off, the department meetings at odd hours that meant I wouldn’t see my kids awake at all that week… all the stuff that faculty today would and should protest. 

Now I make it a point to try and recognize when things like that are happening, and I’m actually in a position now to prevent them most of the time. And every time I have spoken up against an unfair situation, I have found that others often felt the same way, but perhaps were afraid or insecure or too junior, and were just waiting for someone to take the lead to change things. So now I try to be that person. I’m far enough along in my career that speaking out no longer carries the risk it did in my earlier days, and I use that superpower to hopefully smoothen the path for others coming after me.

Any funny stories you want to share?

Hmm… thinking… my kids are now 18 and 21 and they ask me all the time if I actually have a real job, because all they see is me at my computer typing away or signing during a meeting. They can’t believe I get paid to do that!

What is your typical day like?

Start at 8.30 am with a meeting over zoom. I’m quite the zoom expert now! More meetings until noon, get some work done, paperwork signed, attend a strategy session, feel hungry and wonder why, then realize it’s past 2pm and eat lunch at my desk while responding to emails. More meetings, and then finally call it a day around 8pm. Boring! But that’s a COVID day for you.

Accommodating a Pandemic

-Michele

We’ve all been adjusting to the ‘new normal’ of the Covid-19 pandemic. Working from home now means interacting with colleagues and students via our computers. Shopping means wearing masks and washing hands. In-person social interactions are laced with anxiety over potential Covid-19 exposure. Like me, you might have adjusted to changing conditions back in March and April with a hopeful eye towards summer—the anticipated ebb of flu season—and with it a hope for the ebb of Covid-19. But this virus has proved that it is not the flu. Covid-19 is going to be with us for a while in the United States.

So, we adjust to and accommodate this pandemic by adopting new ways to work and live. We academics are figuring out how to teach on-line, how to multitask through seminars, how to conduct meetings on-line, and how to connect with our colleagues through innovative on-line conferences. This is the new normal. We miss times past when we could stop in a colleague’s office to ask a question, interact with students after class, and walk with a friend across campus for coffee. All of those interactions are vital to building the strong connections that comprise our social network. I grieve for those lost, or temporarily misplaced, connections and feel their loss brutally. But I will tell you a secret. Something that seems preposterous in the face of our isolation and struggle to connect and support one another. My secret is that I am ambivalent about returning to in-person work on campus.

Accommodating a Pandemic over photo by Gabriel benois of a laptop with zoom meeting in progress. On the desk next to laptop are a tablet, a digital watch and a phone.

Working from home, I have far greater control over my communication environment than I do with in-person meetings/lectures/conferences. With this new normal, I don’t have to snap my head from one person to another during meetings to try and catch the fast interchange of conversation. The awkwardness of turn-taking within on-line meetings means folks don’t talk over one another. Now, I don’t have to strategize the placement of my FM system in order to best capture voices throughout the room (post about FM systems at conferences). As long as folks are using good external microphones, I can use the amplifier on my computer to boost voices. While it is still difficult to arrange for captionists or ASL interpreters for meetings during this pandemic (finding captionists has actually become much more difficult because of high demand!), I am able to use artificial intelligence-based transcription software (I like using otter.ai but there are several out there) to fill in gaps and provide some relief from listening fatigue. I don’t have to arrive to meetings early in order to grab a seat with my back to the windows so that speakers won’t be back lit. 

Which seat will allow me to speech read the most people? Or should I sit where I can speech read the people likely to talk the most?  

Now, as long as folks have their videos on and are well lit, I can usually speech read them OK within small to moderate sized meetings. Ryan noted in his post on sudden remote teaching that when meetings become large, you can’t see everyone well. Furthermore, Sarah Nović nicely points out the drawbacks of Zoom group meetings of both signed language users and hearing people in this BBC worklife article.

By the way, invest in a headset or external microphone and please don’t sit with your window behind you because it makes you backlit. Besides, won’t it be more pleasant for you to gaze past your computer to look out of your window during our boring Zoom meetings? If you can’t avoid being back-lit, adjust for low-light conditions (e.g., Zoom has a video settings for this).

The need to accommodate the schedules of colleagues around the globe means more recorded talks in my discipline, many of which offer some form of captions so that I can catch most of what the speakers say. With this new normal, I don’t have to sit through conference talks wondering if speaker said anything that wasn’t depicted on the slides text, graphs and figures.

Vigorous internal debate: 
Me: I don’t get it. Dare I ask a question?
Also me: No, the speaker probably addressed this issue and I/you just missed it. 
Me: What if other people missed it?
Also me: No silly, they are all hearing. It is just me/you.

The return to in-person work, whether it happens in January 2021 or January 2022, will undoubtedly require wearing masks. As Ana explained in her post on wearing masks, this appropriate safety precaution interferes with communication for deaf and hard of hearing folks. Recently, I went into the office to water my plants and ran into some students. We all sported masks to talk with one another. While it was lovely to see them in 3D and to have a less stilted conversation than possible on Zoom, the interaction was extremely tiring for me since I couldn’t speech read their faces. Could I do this all day? No. Absolutely not. While folks rightfully complain about Zoom fatigue, the weariness that accumulates with hours of Zoom meetings, I prefer Zoom fatigue than fatigue that comes from conversing in masks. 

In our accommodation of the pandemic, we are all changing the way that we work. These changes were not designed to be more inclusive and accessible to deaf/HoH academics but many of these changes have inadvertently made our participation easier and more equitable.  Consequently, I am reluctant to go back to less accessible work modes – especially those involving masks. Can we apply innovations in accommodating this pandemic to help us build a more inclusive long-term post pandemic academic workplace? I hope so. 

Let’s start with inclusive strategies, such as having captions for all meetings, lectures and conferences. While we are at it, let’s raise our hands in meetings and practice turn taking.

Profile: Jaipreet Virdi

Young woman with brown skin and long black hair smiles. She has dark brown eyes and wears a black shirt and jacket. The background is blurred.

Check out Dr. Virdi’s debut book, Hearing Happiness: Deafness Cures in History (link here)


Current Title: Assistant Professor
Location: University of Delaware (Newark, DE)
Field of expertise: History of medicine, technology, disability
Years of experience (since start of PhD): 12
 Website: http://www.jaivirdi.com
Twitter: @jaivirdi 

Background?
I was born in Kuwait to Sikh parents. At age four, I became ill with meningitis and was hospitalized for nearly six months. During the course of my recovery, we learned that I had lost my hearing and mobility and that my eyesight was severely weakened. Rehabilitation taught me how to walk again. Later, I got glasses and was fitted for hearing aids. In 1989, the year before the first Gulf War, my family went to Toronto for vacation and to learn about schooling for me. We ended up deciding to stay, which in hindsight was lucky, as the war destroyed our neighborhood back home. I ended up being sent to a school with a class for deaf and hard-of-hearing children and was educated in oralism and received speech therapy; when I was 13, in grade 7, I was mainstreamed into the school’s gifted program and later mainstreamed into high school classes. 

How did you get to there you are?
I consider myself to be blessed to have teachers who encouraged my inquisitive nature and taught me how to work independently. One year in my HOH class, for instance, I was the youngest student; my teacher crafted a special curriculum for me that required me to conduct a lot of independent research on varied topics, including Greek mythology, medieval astronomy, and even 1950s pop culture. After receiving my BA in philosophy of science, I was lost on what to do with my life. I had been working in fashion merchandising and marketing for several years and it seemed natural to turn it to an established career. I randomly decided one evening to investigate a PhD program at the University of Toronto and set up a meeting with the Graduate Chair. Honestly, I didn’t think I would get in or that graduate studies would be a good fit for me, but I applied because I wanted to see if I could. No one else in my family has a PhD and I had no guidance about navigating academia. Everything was a challenging learning experience. 

What is the biggest professional challenge (as educator or researcher)? How do you mitigate this challenge?
Right now, it is finding a work-life balance, especially because both work and life are occurring at home!

What is an example of accommodation that you either use or would like to use in your current job?
I’m a staunch advocate for captioning for all professional and educational meetings. In the pre-COVID-19 world, whenever I gave public talks, I ensured they were accessible in different ways—having closed-captioning/CART services or providing a printout of my talk for the audience. Now, I caption my recorded videos and insist on captioning whenever I do public events. This insistence isn’t just for me—the way I see it, if this access improves my ability to participate and communicate, then it must improve others’ experiences too. So I try to hold my own work at the accessibility standards I want to see for everyone. . 

What advice would you give your former self?
That intuitive gut feeling? Don’t doubt it. 

Any funny stories you want to share?
Once I was taking a flight and revealed to the airline that I was deaf, so I could receive support services if necessary. When I got to the gate, I identified myself and the attendants instructed me to take a seat where they could see me, so that they could get my attention when it was time to board. While waiting, I felt a tap on my shoulder. One of the attendants wanted to tell me that boarding would begin in five minutes and instead of saying so, he did this series of motions to communicate:

<points finger at me> 
<points to gate>
<makes exaggerated flying movement with his arms>
<shows his hand to indicate 5 minutes>
<gives me a thumbs up>

What is your typical day like? 
On a good day?
Up at 7am, walk the dogs and feed them, have coffee and read a manuscript or article. By 9am, work on my own writing. Emails and lunch. More writing or editing in the afternoon. A hike in early evening with the dogs and my partner, followed by dinner at home and a movie or novel before bed. 

On a bad day?
Who knows, time has no meaning. Neither does sleep!

To Hear, or Not to Hear? The Mental Gymnastics of Hearing Device Use

A word cloud showing the most common appearing words in the post in different colors.
Alt text. A word cloud showing the most common appearing words in the post in different colors.

-Sarah Sparks

I had planned to write this post about listening fatigue, but as I began writing I realized that a related yet rarely discussed topic resonated more in the moment. This post is my attempt at addressing the complexity of that topic.

The mental gymnastics involved in deciding whether and/or when to use hearing devices is not discussed often—at least publicly. This can be an uncomfortable topic because the decisions about amplification use made by deaf and hard of hearing people have an impact on how we are viewed within our professions, the willingness of other people to take our accommodation needs seriously, and the assumptions made by others about our communication needs and preferences. Ideally, decisions about amplification use should be made freely. That doesn’t always happen in the context of an audist society. Some might argue that because of audism (the belief that hearing and speaking are superior to deafness and signing, and the consequent discrimination), none of these decisions are ever truly free.

I am against audism in all its forms, and I also believe it is possible to genuinely like and want amplified sound for its own sake, not because of attempts to assimilate to the hearing world. But perhaps more often than we would like to admit, deaf and hard of hearing (HoH) professionals who use hearing devices make decisions about device use based on what others expect rather than what feels best to us as individuals. 

I identify as deaf. I am a full-time, bilateral cochlear implant (CI) user who also communicates in and loves both American Sign Language (ASL) and English. In times past I would wear my CI processors from the moment I woke up in the morning until about an hour before going to bed at night, sometimes topping 18 hours of device use in a day. That was exhausting, and I’m glad that I have since found a CI use pattern more suited to my needs. These days I am still a full-time CI user in that my device use averages approximately 8 hours per day, but rarely do I use my processors outside of professional situations. I’m a pediatric audiologist, and I work with many hearing children and their parents as well as the hearing parents of deaf and hard of hearing children. I care about communicating with all of them in their native language whenever possible. Because of this, my processors go on as soon as I walk into clinic in the morning and they come off as soon as I’m on my way home in the evening. If I have class or a meeting in the evening, generally I will keep them on for that purpose. 

Mostly, I’m comfortable with my current CI usage. But my choices come with unique kinds of personal and professional costs that affect neither hearing professionals nor deaf professionals who don’t use devices. The decision to use my CIs as frequently (or infrequently) as I do has a downside that I don’t discuss often: the constant need to evaluate why I use them (or not). Every day, I notice how my decisions interact with others’ conscious and subconscious expectations for me not just as a deaf person, but also as a person with auditory access. Confident as I am in my decisions to switch up my communication—ASL, spoken English, or written English depending on the situation—often I find myself wondering about my CI use pattern and messages that others may infer, independent of anything I say directly.

Does using my CIs full time lead others to believe that I value spoken language over signed language? Maybe I need to clarify every other day that I love ASL and that spoken-language access isn’t the only reason I use my CIs…

Do my coworkers and other acquaintances see my CIs and assume that if my processors are on, they should always speak instead of sign? Maybe I should use my processors only when I want people to speak to me, but then I wouldn’t get to use them for many of the sounds I genuinely want to hear…

How does my CI use impact the willingness of employers and conference/event organizers to fulfill requests for accommodations? In the past, people have heard the clarity of my speech and thought I was exaggerating when I described the limits of my CI hearing. Maybe I’ll have to explain for the thousandth time that my speech is so clear because I wasn’t born deaf, lost my hearing progressively, and don’t hear nearly as well as I speak. Maybe this is why some deaf professionals who can hear and speak choose not to…

If I prefer to speechread my way through certain kinds of interactions, am I leading others to believe that I don’t need visual language? Maybe the access problems I experience are my own fault for opting to communicate in two languages…

If I remove my CI processors for a few hours while among colleagues in my profession, will they see me as irresponsible and make wrong assumptions about how I counsel my own CI patients? Maybe they’ll lose trust in me as a clinician or researcher and assume that I’m recommending lackadaisical or capricious device use…

My signing is clearly non-native: if I’m around other deaf professionals, is wearing my processors (even without batteries) necessary to remind them that I’m not a hearing person? Maybe they’ll see me as just another hearing audiologist if I’m not wearing them… or despite my wearing them…

Are my CIs sending the message that deaf/HoH people can be audiologists and hearing scientists only if we use CIs? Maybe I’m hurting someone else’s opportunities unintentionally just by trying to be deaf in the way that feels most okay for me…

What message does my observable CI use pattern send about deaf/HoH professionals who don’t use hearing devices at all or use their devices differently than I do? Maybe my own decisions affect whether they can get their access needs met…These are just a few of the questions that come to mind when I’m deciding whether to turn on my artificial, electronic auditory access. Needing to think through these and other costs of my CI use pattern is almost as exhausting as listening fatigue itself. Multiple times a day, I have to decide which is more important: using my CIs in the ways that feel best to me, or using them in ways that are least likely to result in negative consequences for me and other deaf/HoH professionals. Every day, I have to decide which battles I’m willing to fight and how my choices about CI use affect my ability to do so. I know that I can’t be the only deaf CI user who struggles with navigating these concerns both inside and outside of academia.

A dark haired woman, with hair pulled back and dark-framed glasses is smiling. She wears a dark colored blazer and has a cochlear implant.
Alt text. A dark haired woman, with hair pulled back and dark-framed glasses is smiling. She wears a dark colored blazer and has a cochlear implant.

Dr. Sarah Sparks: Dr. Sparks holds a clinical Doctorate in Audiology (Au.D.) from Gallaudet University. She has experience in a variety of clinical settings, including a university clinic, private practice, school for the deaf, and two pediatric hospitals. She completed her final year of clinical education at Boston Children’s Hospital where she also held a fellowship in the Leadership Education in Neurodevelopmental and Related Disabilities (LEND) program. She is currently studying at Gallaudet for a Ph.D. in Hearing, Speech, and Language Sciences. Her clinical and research interests include pediatrics, vestibular assessment and rehabilitation, cochlear implants, the audiologist’s role in counseling and self-advocacy skill development, and audiology services provided in American Sign Language. Her Ph.D. dissertation research will focus on vestibular dysfunction and its impact on deaf/HoH children.

Navigating a masked world when you are deaf/HoH

-Ana

While the pandemic rages around the world, I know I have been incredibly lucky. Like many, I have struggled to keep my kids busy and to some degree engaged with their education, struggled to keep any semblance of work productivity, and struggled to remain optimistic about a return to a post-pandemic life that resembles my pre-pandemic one. However, I have been healthy, and nobody close to me has fallen sick. And—through the accident of timing—I have also experienced the pandemic in two geographic areas, one of which has thus far managed the coronavirus quite well (Germany), and one where I arrived once it was under control (Massachusetts, USA).

Definitely lucky.

And yet… There is a part of me that very much wants to throw a tantrum and howl at the moon about the unfairness of it all. All because of the need for face masks, which have greatly reduced my ability to communicate. 

In the last 4 months, face masks have emerged as the cheapest, most reliable method to stop the spread of COVID-19. We all have to wear them. And while all the deaf/hard of hearing (HoH) people I know are 100% behind mask wearing, many of us have been put in a bind. Navigating effective communication when out and about is never effortless for us. Lip-reading does not capture all spoken sounds, and there is a great cognitive load involved in filling the gaps to understand what is being said. Add masks, and communication with others becomes nearly impossible. 

To begin with, face masks make it very hard for those of us relying on speech- and lip-reading and on signed languages to understand speech.

This has been documented very eloquently in this article by Sara Nović for the Washington Post; in this interview of Gallaudet professor Dr. Julie Hochgesang; in this article by Shari Eberts for the “Living with Hearing Loss” blog; and this post by Nehama Rogozen for Slate magazine.

And, despite the feel-good idea of face masks with clear “windows,” our communication travails aren’t likely to end any time soon, as explained by Katherine Woodcock (@safeandsilent) in this and this blog post. 

And, surprisingly, masks pose an unexpected hazard to our hearing devices.

Alt Text: A worried face trying alternative orders to putting on a behind-the-ear hearing aid, face mask, and glasses. Each time the objects end up in a tangled mess (many thanks to M. Cooke for help with animation).

As a wearer of behind the ear (BTE) hearing aids and glasses—and now masks—I find that there are just too many things hanging from my ears. Trying to adjust or remove any of them leads to a tragi-comic (yes, I am still capable of laughing at myself as I nurse my tantrum) Rube Goldberg machine chain reaction that inevitably ends badly for at least one of my accessories. I derive some solace (and humor) from knowing I’m not the only one facing these issues: 

In the first frame the face of a person wearing a behind-the-ear hearing aid, face mask, and glasses celebrates that everything is on correctly and they can go out. In the second frame the glasses have fogged up.
Alt text: In the first frame the face of a person wearing a behind-the-ear hearing aid, face mask, and glasses celebrates that everything is on correctly and they can go out. In the second frame the glasses have fogged up.

But it is a pyrrhic sort of consolation. Inevitably I find that the effort of trying to navigate a masked world becomes too laborious, leading to a temptation to disengage and isolate. I want the world to beat COVID-19; I also want to not be cut off from the world. On the worst days it seems neither is possible.

Many of us are struggling to come up with solutions for this conundrum wrapped in a mask. Suggestions of relying on pen and paper or speech-to-text apps are helpful for short interactions, but I see friends starting to cautiously socialize in masks, an activity I feel cut out of. While I know that there is likely not a one-size solution for all of us deaf/HoH, I would love to collect suggestions on how to be a part of the masked world.

I leave you with some parting words from Sara Nović to hearing people:

“The burden of communication has never been solely on deaf people. The pandemic has simply unmasked the fact that we usually do most of the work for you. Now that we physically can’t, we need you to do your part.”

Profile: Paige Glotzer

  • Current title: Assistant Professor and John W. and Jeanne M. Rowe Chair in the History of American Politics, Institutions, and Political Economy, Department of History, University of Wisconsin-Madison
  • Location: Madison, Wisconsin
  • Field of expertise: U.S. history
  • Years since PhD: 4
  • Twitter: @apaigeoutofhist; link to website 

Background

I was an only child in Brooklyn, NY, raised by supporting and loving parents. Neither is hard of hearing. Growing up, I never met other HoH/Deaf kids or got accommodations in school. We never watched things with captions or did anything that would help me gain the vocabulary to articulate my experiences. I was likely born HoH, but I finally got diagnosed at age seven and I didn’t get hearing aids until age 16. I got them when a noisy air conditioner in a classroom finally made it impossible for me to compensate with lip reading and context clues. I remember crying because at the time I thought getting hearing aids meant I had a deficit that I couldn’t overcome with effort. (To this day I sometimes don’t appreciate the extent to which I constantly work hard to hear, but I definitely don’t consider myself as having a loss or deficit). I somehow muddled through college with good grades, still unable and unwilling to communicate my needs. It really took graduate school for me to become empowered and proud of who I am. It’s there that I found allies and actually met other HoH and Deaf people. It was there that I first learned terms like “ableism.” I sometimes get frustrated thinking back on all the things that could have been. What if I had learned ASL when I was little? What if I had been exposed to Deaf culture growing up? I try to channel those feelings in productive ways. For example, over the last couple of years I have made a lot of progress with my parents on explaining to them why I need to see their lips when they talk. We already had a great relationship but it’s getting even better now.

How did you get to where you are?

Becoming a historian was a no-brainer for me. I’ve always been interested in history and I’ve always been interested in cities. Long before I formally pursued this career path, my favorite activity was walking through cities and wondering why they looked or functioned in certain ways. I have sharpened those questions over time to focus on the business of housing segregation. 

I have been reflecting on the past lately because my first book, How the Suburbs Were Segregated, was just published in April. It began as a paper I wrote my first year of graduate school in 2010. Graduate school got off to a rough start. It was the first day and I was excited to begin my path toward my dream job of historian. I walked into my first seminar, sat down, and realized with dawning horror that I couldn’t hear a single thing. The professor mumbled. The room echoed. We were seated in a formation where no one directly faced each other. I spent two silent hours trying to hold back tears. Later that day I finally realized: if I wanted to be a historian, I was going to have to do not just the work my peers did but also all the extra work of creating conditions where I could hear. I did that work, I am doing it now as a professor, and know I’ll always have to.

What is the biggest professional challenge (as educator or researcher)? How do you mitigate this challenge?

I face the challenge of teaching classes where some students have taken college-level U.S. history sitting next to others who have never had American history in their entire lives. Being a disabled educator has inspired me to meet this challenge by applying the principles of universal design to my teaching. I ask myself what decisions about pedagogy, content, and course design will create scaffolding and flexibility for everyone. Universal design has also allowed me to consider the intersections of disability with different experiences students face. For example, I make all my readings available digitally and for free. This makes the readings more accessible for students, but it also helps students who might not be able to afford to purchase books. I do not put the burden on the student to request an exception to some sort of “normal;” I teach for everyone.

What is an example of accommodation that you either use or would like to use in your current job?

Volume Amplification helps me do my job better. I have worked with my department to ensure that microphones will be used at all meetings and events with over ten people. For teaching, I use something called Catch Boxes, squishy cubes with microphones inside. My students can toss the Catch Boxes to each other and speak into them. It’s a form of amplification that’s scalable from my small classes, where I use one Catch Box, up through large lectures where I use two or more. The great thing about the Catch Boxes is that they open up new pedagogic possibilities—I can have free-flowing discussions even in a large lecture. My colleagues who are not hard of hearing generally write that off as impossible.

Any funny stories you want to share?

It’s difficult to think of a single story because sometimes my life feels like one long blooper reel. The way that I hear makes distinguishing certain sounds from one another very difficult. Unfortunately, that means I have a very hard time knowing whether someone has said ‘Paige’ or ‘Kate.’ This is a problem whenever I’m in the room with a Kate, which is weirdly often! I happened to sit behind a Kate for most of my senior year of high school. Those were fun times. 

Pale skinned woman with short wavy brown hair and plaid shirt laughs while looking downward

Advice to younger self

“You internalized a lot of shame and anxiety about your hearing because you thought your hearing was an inconvenience to others rather than an important part of who you are. It is okay to ask to turn on captions. It is okay to demand accommodations. And you are justified in feeling frustration or anger when people make ableist assumptions. You’ll learn to become a better advocate for yourself over time.


A brown-skinned woman wearing a blue patterned dress, a gray headwrap, and hearing aids sits on a bench looking to the right. To her right, a white cane stands upright.

“Moving Together”: Or Researching Health Care Access as a Disabled Academic

–Arrianna

This is a repost of post published on 11 March 2018 by Dr. Arrianna Planey on her blog. You can see the original post at this link and her gorgeous blog at this link.

As I work on my dissertation, one question arises over and over: whether my disability status as a researcher matters, and how much.

I vacillate between foregrounding my experience as someone with disabilities and downplaying my disability status. That choice depends on the context. If my credibility as a researcher is in question, I’d rather people not focus on my social status, because the “ideal” academic researcher is still white, non-disabled, and well-off. The “view from nowhere” is the “ideal” academic’s gaze.

A brown-skinned woman wearing a blue patterned dress, a gray headwrap, and hearing aids sits on a bench looking to the right. To her right, a white cane stands upright.

But I am compelled to foreground my experience as a Black woman who is also deafblind when I talk about why I choose to research health care accessibility and help-seeking among disabled adults in the U.S.- especially people with sensory and mobility-related disabilities. My interest in this research is driven by my own experience- the foregone care, the delayed diagnoses, and systemic barriers that undergird those outcomes.

Moreover, it is necessary to contextualize those systemic barriers with the fact that many disabled adults remain “dependents” due to a confluence of policies that simultaneously penalize benefits recipients for not having enough of a work history and penalize those who have too many assets. For further context, the recent push for Medicaid “work requirements” in states across the US (even states with Democrat governors), means that disabled people potentially face worsening access to health care- a particularly pernicious circumstance given that their access to Medicaid may be predicated on having a diagnosis that affirms their disabled status, which presumes access to health care. I mention this because disability status is not necessarily the same as one’s medical status- estimates of disability prevalence based on diagnosis by definition undercount by excluding people who do not have access or have not procured a diagnosis that corroborates their disability status.

For this reason, my project looks at both health care providers- their location decisions, their clinical practice- AND patients as I study health care access as a process. In the U.S. health care providers play a key gatekeeper role in the medico-legal complex that comprises the social safety net.

For this reason, my project looks at both health care providers- their location decisions, their clinical practice- AND patients as I study health care access as a process. In the U.S. health care providers play a key gatekeeper role in the medico-legal complex that comprises the social safety net.

More specifically to the field of Geography and the subfield of health geography, the question of the researcher’s subject and social position is important methodologically. Currently, much of the debate over emergent qualitative methodologies- e.g. ‘mobile methods’- presumes that the researcher is able-bodied. Within the ‘new mobilities paradigm’ (Sheller & Urry, 2006), the ‘walking interview’ is a popular method for capturing participants’ experiences of place. However, much of the literature on the ‘walking interview’ provides methodological guidelines and considerations that assume that (1) walking is the normative mode of mobility, (2) that the researcher can balance managing the recording equipment with conducting the interview (no fine motor skill constraints or no need to use a cane or operate their wheelchair), and (3) they assume a power imbalance between the researcher and participant on the basis of disability status (Sheller & Urry, 2006; Finlay & Bowman, 2016; Hein, Evans & Jones, 2008).

Parent (2016) makes an important intervention in this literature, providing her experience as a researcher who uses a wheelchair as she uses mobile methods in her work. She found that her status as a disabled person was overlooked by even disabled research participants, with whom she initially corresponded via email. One blind participant suggested meeting at a coffee shop, assuming that the researcher was able-bodied. The coffee shop was not wheelchair accessible, and the author’s disability status became the initial subject of conversation, rather than the respondent’s sense of place in their activity space. Later in that same interaction, the author made a comment to the tune of “This is going so smoothly!” to which the blind participant replied

“Yes, it’s true. It seems to be going well, but you know, I can never say that to myself. I always have to take one step at a time. Too often I thought it was going well, and then I hit my head on something. Even when you think it’s going well, you can go one step at the time and think ‘OK, this is good. My foot and my face didn’t hit anything. I am fine.”

(Parent 2016, 528)

This foregrounds the importance of intersubjectivity, a concept taken for granted in the broader literature on ‘mobile methods,’ which emphasizes “moving together” without considering that each person in an interaction may have a different form of mobility that structures the interaction itself (Novoa, 2015). For example, in the above example, the interview was punctuated with the researcher’s verbal descriptions of the path to enable the blind participant to navigate the space safely. They had to “move together” through spaces that were not designed with them in mind.

Moreover, a human geography tradition that centers disability as a variation in human experience is one that moves from thinking of space in  in terms of what is empirically measurable, or that which ‘contains’ the social toward a relational and dynamic understanding of space that is constituted by social relations (which are ever shifting). Casey (2001) sums it up nicely in the term ‘co-ingredience’- “There is no place without the self and there is no self without place” (pp 684). The social scientific methods that best apprehend these dynamics in space are what Sayer (1992) terms to be “intensive” methods, which tease out the working of processes among a small number of cases with greater attention to context and applicable social theories that may inform their interpretation. They must begin with an understanding of social structures as conditions of possibility (context-dependence). These methods may be coupled with quantitative data collection and analysis, such as qualitative GIS and travel diaries. However, we must return to “moving together” with a greater attentiveness to intersubjectivity- between disabled and non-disabled people, between disabled people (because disabilities are heterogeneous*), among networks of people within a neighborhood, and between caregivers and care recipients.

* Said heterogeneity among disabilities (lived experiences with disabilities, as well as comparative types and degrees of “limitations” across social spaces designed for and by non-disabled people) is overlooked or ignored in law and policy regarding “accessibility” for disabled people in public spaces.

References:

  1. Chouinard, V and Grant, A. (1995). On Being Not Even Anywhere Near ‘The Project’: Ways of Putting Ourselves in the Picture. Antipode. 27. 137-16
  2. Finlay, J.M. and Bowman, J.A. (2016). Geographies on the move: a practical and theoretical approach to the mobile interview. Professional Geographer 69(2), 263-274. 
  3. Hein, J.R., Evans, J. and Jones, P. (2008). Mobile methodologies: theory, technology and practice. Geography Compass 2(5): 1266-1285.
  4. Merriman, P. (2014). Rethinking mobile methods. Mobilities 9:2, 167-187. 
  5. Novoa, A. (2015). Mobile ethnography: emergence, techniques and its importance to geography. Human Geographies 9:1, DOI:10.5719/hgeo.2015.91.7
  6. Parent, L. (2016). The wheeling interview: mobile methods and disability. Mobilities 11(4), 521-532. 
  7. Sayer, A. (1992). Method in Social Science: A Realist Approach. 2nd ed. Routledge: London and New York
  8. Sheller, M. and Urry, J. (2006). The new mobilities paradigm. Environment and Planning A 38, 207-226
A dark skinned woman with glasses and head scarf smiles to the camera

Biography: My name is Arrianna Marie Planey, and I am an Assistant Professor in the Department of Health Policy and Management in the Gillings School of Global Public Health at University of North Carolina, Chapel Hill. I am a health/medical geographer with expertise in measuring and conceptualizing health care access, health and healthcare equity, and spatial epidemiology. My research and teaching focuses include the application of spatial analytic/statistical/epidemiologic methods to study interactions between health(care) policies, healthcare access and utilization and underlying, population-level health inequities, and identify points of intervention at structural- and system-levels. At the core of my research agenda is equity in access and outcomes, with attention to the intersections of race, class, gender, and disability status. I earned my PhD in Geography from the University of Illinois at Urbana Champaign, after earning my Master’s and Bachelor’s degrees at the University of Chicago and the University of California, Berkeley respectively

The Mind Hears affirms that Black Lives Matter

-Michele Cooke and Ana Caicedo

The murders of George Floyd, Breonna Taylor, Ahmaud Arbery, and too many others stem from historic and continued systemic oppression of Black Americans. The disabled and deaf communities are not without white privilege and we need to do the uncomfortable work of recognizing and dismantling these privileges. BarbaraSpiecker and Alicia Wooten express this beautifully in their Atomic Hands video (link here). We encourage you all to watch the video.

White privilege within the Deaf (signing deaf) community has been manifest as better education for white Deaf students and a greater proportion of whites in leadership positions within the Deaf community. Furthermore, a study of the Post-secondary achievement of Black Deaf People in the US by Garberoglio et al (2019)  reports that more Black deaf people are looking for work than white deaf people. David A. Player’s blog provides a summary of white deaf privilege. 

“White people with disabilities also have a white privilege because whiteness superseded all forms of identities that could be considered as deviance attributes. They will also get a form of assistance from a white able-bodied hearing dominate society” 

David A Player, Dear White Deaf People  (link here)

We deaf and hard of hearing academics know what it is like not to be heard. We know what it is like not to be included. But white deaf/HoH academics have the privilege of our whiteness as we interact within our communities and navigate our careers.

The Black community in the US has historically helped the deaf and disabled communities in their struggle to be heard and recognized. In 1977, disability activists led nationwide sit-ins to protest the lack of enforcement of Section 504 of the Rehabilitation Act of 1973. Section 504 prohibits institutions, such as universities, that receive federal funds from discriminating on the basis of disability; however, until 1977, there were no regulations to enforce the law. During the 26-day-long sit-in within the Federal Building at 50 United Nations Plaza in San Francisco, the Black Panthers fed, assisted and supported disabled protesters (read here or here or here about Bradley Lomax’s key role in the protests). The sit-in concluded with the signing of regulations that enforce Section 504. By the way, these regulations are why US universities have disability service centers for students. During the Deaf President Now protests in 1988, Gallaudet University students shut down campus to protest that the University had only had hearing presidents in its 124 year history. During that week-long protest, the local Black community supported Gallaudet student protesters. Both of these impactful protests as well as the 1990 Capital Crawl led the way towards the passing in 1991 of the comprehensive Americans with Disabilities Act, which prohibits discrimination on the basis of disability regardless of whether businesses receive federal funds.  

It is long past time for us to support our Black colleagues, friends, and neighbors. The Mind Hears commits to amplifying Black deaf/HoH voices and perspectives.

The murders of George Floyd, Breonna Taylor, Ahmaud Arbery, and too many others stem from racism and the systemic oppression of Black Americans. The disabled and deaf communities are not without white privilege and we need to recognize and dismantle these privileges. During the Section 504 sit-ins of 1977 and the 1988 Deaf President Now protests that contributed eventually to the 1991 Americans with Disabilities Act, the Black community aided and supported protesters. It is long past time for us to support our Black colleagues, friends, and neighbors.

The Best Laid Plans: A remote teaching journey

This is a repost of The best laid plans from Dr. Rachel Obbard’s blog Pandemic Pedagogy. The post is the first in a series that chronicle her adjustment to remote teaching after the coronavirus pandemic shut down face-to-face learning. Rachel still has a few more weeks of remote teaching this term, so stay tuned to her blog for more posts.

Drawing of a horse at the left it is realistic (semester begins) the middle is more cartoonish (told to plan for remote teaching) the right is stick figured (actual teaching)

The drawing above came across my Facebook feed. The artist’s comment was “We’re stick footing it now, people!” Indeed.

Last week I took my carefully crafted syllabus for Spring 2020 and tore it up. Then I sat down with a pad of paper and a pencil and worked out what my class this Spring will look like, taught remotely. I would like to think that Technology and Sport this spring will look more like the middle of the horse than the stick foot, but stay tuned. Both the students and I need to adjust to this new way of teaching, learning, and engaging.

How I Hope to Adjust – Fortunately I have been using the learning management platform Canvas for four years. It is fairly easy to upload reading assignments, either by downloading a PDF from our library or scanning a few pages from a book. I can also collect and grade student work through Canvas. Faculty who teach in the spring are still allowed into the office to use the scanner, and we even have one at home. I much prefer to mark up physical copies, and can do a better job that way, but it is possible electronically.

The hard part, I think, will be replicating or replacing the classroom discussions and in-person individual conferences with students. With video conferencing apps such as Zoom it is technically possible, but as with many things, the devil is in the details. One of the problems I’ve always had with Zoom meetings is that the dynamics of speaking in turn are pretty kludgy. It takes time to get everyone’s attention (and unmute yourself) when you have something to add, and this means missed opportunities, awkward pauses, and people accidentally talking over each other. Moreover, the latter is harder to sort out when all those voices are coming from the same direction.

Perhaps this is a good time to add that I’m hearing impaired. I have a congenital hearing loss in both ears, and grew up supplementing my hearing with lip-reading. As a result, I really need to read lips to hear people. This makes the challenges above even more difficult for me. Another problem arises when the audio and video aren’t synchronous. I note lags of even fractions of a second. As the lag gets larger, my difficulty with understanding increases. I hope that all my students have good internet bandwidth, and that the internet and Zoom don’t get bogged down by all the demand!

On the plus side, Zoom seems better than some other video conferencing applications I’ve used because in gallery view it puts a green frame around the person speaking, and in another mode it makes the speaker’s face larger. Also a tremendous help is that I have an ADA accommodation for remote captioning for our Zoom classes. Speech-to-text applications still don’t work great (as was the case when I worked at a firm in the 1980s who made one). Remote captioning means having a real human being listening to what is being said (using either a telephone or Zoom itself). They type what they hear and this text appears on my screen. It’s amazing!

What About the Students – Notwithstanding all of the challenges above, I know that many students this term will have an even more difficult time. Not everyone can return to a stable environment conducive to scholarly pursuits. I couldn’t have in my first year of college. Some of our students don’t have internet access at home or a quiet place to work. Some return to family responsibilities or will need to get jobs (having lost the ones they had at school). All will have to work harder to access the services and resources they had on campus. That’s on top of having to adjust to living at home again, and at the same time meeting our expectations of them. Here are some comments from my past students:

“The first thing that comes to mind is the mixed challenge and blessing of being at home with family. While school has its own (quite extensive at times) set of distractions, it is fundamentally a place of learning where most of your peers probably spend at least a few hours every day studying, there are many different places to go to study, and you can study whenever you’d like and really make your own schedule. In high school, I must have mastered the art of getting my work done in spite of my family, but it was a bit jarring to come back to it.”

This student and others talk about how even with supportive, understanding parents, it can be difficult as an adult to resume the ‘child’ role and live by someone else’s rules. Aside from general friction, it forces students to alter their work routines and creates new demands on their time – family dinners, babysitting, chores, and as one student puts it, to “generally be an active and contributing citizen of the family.”

For many students it can mean difficulty working at the times they find best and finding a quiet place to do work. Getting it right, if even completely possible, can take weeks.

Another past student writes, “I’ve had an idea of how disruptive this pandemic is, but as spring term gets closer, I’m realizing more and more how this really complicates and changes things for the worse.… I’m certainly anxious to see how this will all work out. I do have internet access at home, but my house has never been a great place to study (noise, commotion, etc.). I’m hoping I can find my way to the library or coffee shop, but I live pretty far away from both.”

And so … – We are encouraged to teach as much as possible asynchronously, which means in ways that don’t require the students to turn up at the same time via high-speed internet. I have decided to hold a short (~1 hour) Zoom meeting twice a week, attendance optional but encouraged, and to hold most ‘discussions’ on Canvas (i.e. students type their responses to a prompt into a text box, which other students can read and respond to). It is going to be super hard to have really complex discussions and build community this way, but we shall try (again, stay tuned).

I will have to replace one of their major projects, a group one. The project requires in- and out-of-class group work and culminates with a presentation to the whole class. If that isn’t bad enough (for asynchronous teaching in times of social distancing), the project requires that I work with one group at a time to help them understand a peer-reviewed engineering paper. Sooooo…… NO. I am replacing that with an independent assignment, and, hopefully, some great discussions as a class and in breakout groups. I think more than anything this term, I want to see if I can build the kind of community we do in on-campus classes. I don’t mind if my horse has a stick foot, as long as he has friends.

white woman with ombre green hair wearing maroon sweater in front of treesRachel Obbard: I am an Adjunct Associate Professor and Senior Lecturer in the Institute for Writing and Rhetoric at Dartmouth College (New Hampshire), and a Senior Scientist at the SETI Institute (Mountain View, CA). I teach writing in science and first-year college writing courses. The latter revolve around the intersection of technology, sport, and ethics. My SETI research involves exploration of planetary ice (Earth and Mars) and I am currently leading a project to develop instrumentation for a future mission to Mars’ north polar cap. I am congenitally hard of hearing (HoH) and lip reading accounts for at least 50% of my access to speech. While I wear hearing aids, I need to see a face and mouth, or captioning, to have full access and understanding.