Academia Won’t Change By Itself

Written by Manya Singh 

My first year of college was my first experience with using disability accommodations.

I didn't tell anyone I used these accommodations.

Luckily, the classes I shared with friends tended to be big lecture classes, and if anyone mentioned not seeing me in the lecture room, I'd make an excuse about wearing black, or sitting in the back... and then I'd change the subject. I was so embarrassed.

My university had a policy that you had to submit accommodation letters to faculty in person, and my anxiety would bubble just under the surface as I arrived at office hours, quickly shoved the letter towards the professor, and attempted a smile before leaving without making eye contact. I knew that these professors got these letters each year, and they had already received the electronic version of mine from the coordinator, and still, the experience of having to identify myself in that moment was awful.

And then, out of nowhere, I started falling asleep.

I can remember the first time very clearly. I was in an advanced math class, as I'd qualified to skip regular algebra, and I was the youngest in that class. The teacher was great, and a legend among the students. I had always done well, especially in math, but I really wanted to impress this teacher with my attentiveness and work ethic.

But one day, I woke up to someone shaking my shoulder, and as I jerked back into reality, I caught the disapproving glance my teacher sent my way. My peers around me tried to hide their chuckles, and the student behind me told me my teacher asked her to shake me awake. I was humiliated and shocked, and I'm sure I left without giving the teacher an explanation... because I didn't have one.

For the next seven years, I would try a million things: increasing/decreasing sleep, giving up coffee, different protein powders, yoga, CrossFit, various vitamin regimes, and lots and lots of medical testing. I probably got tested for anemia, thyroid problems and diabetes every three to five months. Nothing ever worked and testing was always negative. I fell asleep almost every day, in almost every class. I was so embarrassed, especially in college. I knew that professors were thinking that I had stayed up too late partying or cramming or watching TV, when really, I had been in bed by 10:30. I sat in the back of the classroom and rarely participated, because I felt terrible.

I felt like I was inhabiting the body of someone else, a body that would not cooperate with me.

At 19, I was tested for sleep apnea, and I started treatment for that. It had been ruled out initially because I tested negative as a kid. The sleep apnea treatment helped a little, but I still fell asleep in classes. For two years, I waited for my "sleep debt" to end, but it never did. There were some other big changes in my life around this time, including having committed to coming to graduate school. I was tired of being tired, of feeling like less than a whole person, always embarrassed and anxious and hating myself. I started treatment for more severe, clinical sleep disorders.

And it worked. It's not perfect, and the effectiveness of my treatment depends on me committing to my routine, and to maintaining my health more rigorously than the average able-bodied person. My body isn't like most people's bodies, and that's frustrating, but I'm grateful that I've found effective treatment, and I'm okay with this being my reality for the rest of my life.

(It takes an average of seven years to diagnose sleep disorders, since the symptoms overlap, and tend to be ignored or dismissed. sleepfoundation.org is a good place to start if this resonates.)

The experience of my disability contributed to me feeling embarrassed and ashamed of it, but the reality is that there are many disabled people and students, with all kinds of disabilities, who feel the same way. For large segments of society, disability is bad, and we are meant to be embarrassed for being bad. Disability is not bad, but this notion being false, does not lessen the impact.

In academia, this is best represented by the statement: "Well, nobody needed accommodations when I went to school." Impostor syndrome impacts everyone, but it is different for disabled students because it interacts with, and is intensified by, the history and continuation of ableism in academia.

In college, I was co-president of the disability club on campus, and I helped a lot of students navigate accommodations. I would often get a message like, "[Insert example of not complying with official accommodation letters here], is that legal?"

I feel disgusted that there is a need to talk to students about how to negotiate accommodations, as if they are being held hostage, when they've already jumped through administrative hoops to get official accommodations. Each time I've had to do that in my own life, I have felt smaller, and I hate watching others feel that way too.

You feel like you don't belong,

like academia would be happy if you just gave up and left,

like "accommodations didn't exist back in my day" because disabled people have never

and will never be welcome in academia.

An administrator once told me that academia would improve in the next ten to fifteen years, as the people within it filtered in and out. I remember thinking: Is all we can do wait? Did we say the same thing ten years ago?

Have we always been waiting for academia to change on its own, rather than actively trying to change it?

When do we accept that hasn’t worked?

About the Author

Portrait picture of
Manya facing the camera
and smiling.

Manya Singh is a doctoral student in botany studying how drought impacts plant-soil feedback in invasive grasses. She has been active in student advocacy, with a focus on disabled students, since 2017. Follow her at manyasingheco.wordpress.com.

Intersectional spaces of disabled people of colour in academia

Written by Karim Mitha

“Quite rightly”.

Two innocuous words that have embedded within them a summation, a decision, a judgement of finality, a presumption.

As I write this, on the heels of Mental Health Week at various educational institutions, I’m reflecting on the structures and cultures of workplace environments in terms of the accommodation of neurodiverse people and those with “hidden” disabilities. We live in a neurotypical world, where those who have different frameworks, experiences, patterns of thinking and ways of engaging are labelled as “deviant” or “problematic”. We’re told “it’s time to talk”- yet who is listening? We seek to normalise difference, by stating the importance of adjustments and accommodation; yet, it is often those who require these adjustments who are stonewalled or labelled as “problems”. Whilst there is substantial literature showcasing the underemployment of those with disabilities (Powell, 2018; Hendricks, 2010; Roux et al., 2013; Redman et al., 2009; NAS, 2016) it is particularly striking that this exclusionary environment is perpetuated within our institutions of higher education – where we ostensibly value the ability to challenge contemporary discourse, change assumptions, shatter barriers, and advance knowledge. However, evidence abounds that these same institutions replicate these exclusionary practices. For example, the work of Kalwant Bhopal (2015), Alexander and Arday (2015) and statistics from the ECE (2011) demonstrate that there are lower attainment and educational outcomes amongst BME individuals and poorer experiences of BME staff in UK higher education. Additionally, we increasingly hear stories of students and academics with disabilities fighting to get workplace adjustments, despite it being accorded to by law, due to the ignorance or otherwise of certain staff (Brown & Leigh, 2018).

The debate regarding hidden disabilities is highly problematized. Are diagnostic labels helpful? Do they risk “labelling” or pathologising non-culturally normative behaviours? Why do certain conditions appear to be patterned amongst certain demographic groups? Through Kimberlé Crenshaw’s (1989) work on intersectionality, we are now familiar with discussing intersectional spaces and the influence of multiple identities, positionalities, and subjectivities on an individual.

This can compound a negative experience on an individual who occupies multiple marginalised spaces and through efforts such as “mad pride” (Schrader, Jones, & Shattell, 2013) we can see that there are elements of label reclamation – in which disparaging and negative terms are reclaimed and incorporated as part of one’s identity. Alas, whilst there is movement “on-the-ground”, it pushes against a strong stonewall and intransigent culture in the ivory tower of academia. We’re told to disclose conditions to those more senior so that adjustments can be implemented, as per the Equalities Act and legislation that “reasonable adjustments” can be implemented. Imagine then, when disclosing a diagnosed condition, to be told “Now, did you know about this beforehand?” What is the implicit message being stated by this question – that supposedly if you had a diagnosis you should not be occupying that space? That you are not welcome? Or perhaps the unstated message that if you did know and had told us we would not have accepted you? As a personal tutor and research supervisor myself, I know that statements such as these are unacceptable, that my students come from different backgrounds, with different strengths, and whether they are abled or differently abled my job is to help them to reach their full potential and be supportive of whatever adjustments they require to perform to the best of their ability. Why then do we permit older (mostly white) academics to make comments such as the above with distinct able-ist undertones?

I love my work. I enjoy working in mental health research, engaging with vulnerable populations and communities, hearing personal insights and trying to make some addition to the evidence base through examining personal experience and encounters with distress. Nonetheless, I’ve also seen how this work can be politicised and how scholars with no training in social work, psychology, psychiatry and the like can feel they have the expertise to make judgements and pronouncements on matters outwith their area of expertise. When middle-class able-bodied (usually white, male) academics make pronouncements and decisions related to the BME experience it perpetuates the narrative and discourse of what is called “whiteness”, using the defence of “academic judgement”. Whilst this term appears to be the catch-all to justify questionable activity on the part of academics, it is concerning when this is used against those in more vulnerable and marginalised spaces. For example, issues of patient safeguarding in health research is not an “academic judgement”. Matters of research ethics, confidentiality, data protection, Caldicott principles, patient risk and benefits are not “academic judgements”. There are guidelines in human-based research, of working with clinical and vulnerable populations, of statutory frameworks and procedures which must be legally followed. It is not an “academic judgement” to ignore them, nor should the discourse be shifted to the disabled academic to be a “problem” for stating that these principles must be followed.

When considering the “social model of disability” we are now encouraged to employ an “asset-based” approach, of looking at how structural factors and adjustments can be made to work with the strengths of the individual, rather than a “deficit-based” approach, of looking at the student’s challenges. Instead, often times middle-aged, middle-class, able-bodied academics employ an “able-ist” mentality to try and portray a student’s/colleague’s disability as a “hindrance”. The notion of “academic judgement” applies to preserve and protect the egos, reputations, and culture of middle-class, able-bodied academes – this then serves to make matters of research methodology be construed as “academic judgement”. For example, it is seen to be okay for scholars with no subject-area background to negate methodologies in other disciplines due to “academic judgement” – so luck help you if, for example, you are a scientist trying to use a computer programming language to interpret old manuscripts and have a literary scholar claim the computer code is incorrect because it is an “academic judgement”. This is further compounded by the power dynamic from positionality and perceived authority which can occur when one considers issues of seniority and race.

Alas, whilst there may be a push towards “unconscious bias” training, which still is not mandatory, there is no requisite training for academics in working with students with diverse learning needs. There is no awareness as to why certain students may need things explained in a certain manner, or why some may need to take sick leave for disability reasons – instead, particularly in the humanities, there is a feeling that the academic knows all and can make judgements overruling clinical decisions, with the awkward experience of having to disclose in detail aspects of a particular condition to academics with no background or training in that condition who can then make pronouncements on what adjustments would be made, if any.

Along with the overt discrimination one can experience, there are the subtle, nuanced, approaches which can’t be quantified or measured directly. This is experienced through exclusionary practises, different standards and expectations, and often implicit academic politics – the not inviting someone on a grant, not co-authoring with the PhD student, not signposting to relevant career development/networks, not collaborating on pieces of work, not including one in conferences/workshop/symposia, etc. There is an irony when, for example, junior (often BME, often working class) academics are overruled in their subject area specialism by administrators or non-subject area experts with differences in approaches being framed as obstinate and difficulties due to the former’s disability, rather than the more reasonable recognition of it simply being outwith one’s speciality. It takes some degree of humility to know one isn’t an expert in all things yet institutional structures promote the concept of the “all-knowing” academic and power dynamics can result in those who can challenge remaining silent.

Part of being an academic is to develop skills in knowledge dissemination through conference attendances and academic publications. How is it then appropriate for able-bodied academics to tell a junior academic with a disability to “Prove you can write”? Should it not be, “how can I help/support you to produce this work?” “What would you need help with in this article/paper/etc”. Why is it okay to “victim-blame” or shift the onus on to the most marginalised? Moreover, how is it acceptable to tell a BME student that their religion/race/culture is a hindrance to their mental health – and then have a pithy apology “if the unfamiliar wording caused you anxiety”? That statement in and of itself is belittling of an individual with a hidden disability and makes judgements on capacity, resilience, and the real concerns of those who may have anxiety-based disorders.

For those who are new to academia, a quick learning curve is anticipated. Yet, for those with hidden disabilities, it is difficult to tease out the nuances, the social norms, and the intricacies of navigating a bureaucratic, idiosyncratic, exclusionary, able-ist environment. Networking and support are vital. For example, providing adjustments so that the individual can do the work and be supported to perform to his or her ability. Having support from the Disability Office or Occupational Health is essential in this matter. What is not okay is for academics to dismiss this by virtue of being an administrator and making a judgement that “quite rightly” support is not required in conducting work in which the administrator themselves have no prior expertise. To have questions asked of “how would this [adjustments] be funded” when actually it is not the student’s/ individual’s responsibility to fund required adjustments, particularly when subject-area experts have suggested multiple means of providing accommodation and adjustments. How interesting, then, it is that it is permitted for academics without the requisite subject-area knowledge to overrule input from subject area experts (often women) (often BME) and that of recommendations from those more clinically qualified. It would be unfathomable for an electrical engineer to advise a literary scholar on aspects of cultural and literary theory– yet it is seen to be okay for area studies academics to dictate empirical research methods and protocols outwith their methodological purview simply because they claim expertise in the area studies of that population. Thus, this is an area where “academic judgement” can be seen to override legal obligations under the Equalities Act.

I feel a sense of irony, that as an academic working/lecturing in mental health research, to have assessments made by those who are unqualified to do so on one’s capacity, research, capability, and research potential. Still, power dynamics abound where able-ism, classism, and racism overpower the voice of the marginalised.

In contemporary discourse, there is concern about the voices of the marginalised, the under-employed, those with differing equal opportunities characteristics. As an academic teaching on disabilities, I ask my students if the very spaces in which they are studying in are inclusive and accommodative for those with differing abilities and learning needs. Yet, whilst students readily take on board issues of diversity and inclusion, this same engagement is not felt at a managerial or administrative level where, despite legal obligations to Equalities, administrators can often act as autonomous agents hiding behind the framework of “academic judgement” to justify questionable actions and approaches.

I write this because as a medical school lecturer I teach the future generation of care providers. I am able to impart to them issues of equalities in their clinical practice and everyday environments, discuss aspects of stigma and discrimination, and outline concepts of intersectional spaces and microaggressions. I am quite humbled that the medical school in which I teach is supportive of this work and in promoting equality and diversity. However, it is a shame that oftentimes humanities departments, which seek to examine the human condition and experience, have yet to take this on board and instead promote hostile environments to neurodiverse peoples and are woefully under-represented by those who actually occupy marginalised spaces and backgrounds. I am in a position where I support students through difficult times and experiences, and work with them to get them to demonstrate their potential – yet this concomitant support is lacking from those more senior. When I hear of a mental health crisis amongst students I wonder if we are becoming so caught up in neo-liberal academia, of focusing on metrics, completions, graduations, retentions that we forget that in an era of equal opportunities not everyone comes from a cookie-cutter mould of middle class, white, privileged, able-bodied. Equalities and recognition on diversity is not a tick box exercise but necessitates a culture change where this is embedded into curricula and departmental culture and the behaviour of its staff. Unconscious bias training should be mandatory and people should not be belittled due to protected characteristics. Abuse is not a right of passage.

Quite rightly.

The summation, decision, judgement, and assumption regarding the support required by neurodiverse people; if departments permit these judgements being made, and reframing struggle as a student’s performative concern rather than due to a negative structural environment, they are complicit in creating exclusionary spaces and environments.

My writing this blog post is both cathartic and also an awareness that if departments and academics can bully and belittle junior scholars simply because matters are outwith their subject area expertise and then blame a student for falling ill, deny leave, and frame any struggle, which is normally part and parcel of the research process, as incapacity and incapability rather than the structural issues of supportive learning environments, then it shows that perhaps there is an uphill struggle for neurodiverse people to fit in exclusionary neurotypical spaces. I write this to show that this culture must change, that neurodiverse people have strengths, and that “quite rightly” I can “prove” I can write.

References:

Alexander, C., & Arday, J. (eds) (2015). Aiming higher: Race, inequality, and diversity in the academy. Runnymede Trust: London.

Bhopal, K. (2015). The experiences of black and minority ethnic academics: A comparative study of the unequal academy. Routledge: London.

Brown, N., & Leigh, J. (2018). Ableism in academia: where are the disabled and ill academics?. Disability & Society, 33(6): 985-989.

Crenshaw, Kimberlé (1989). "Demarginalizing the intersection of race and sex: a Black feminist critique of antidiscrimination doctrine, feminist theory and antiracist politics". University of Chicago Legal Forum: 139–168.

Equalities Challenge Unit (2011). The experiences of black and minority ethnic staff in higher education in England. Equalities Challenge Unit: London.

Hendricks, D. (2010). Employment and adults with autism spectrum disorders: Challenges and strategies for success. Journal of Vocational Rehabilitation, 32(2), 125-134.

National Autistic Society (2016b). The autism employment gap: Too much information in the workplace. Retrieved from: https://www.autism.org.uk/get-involved/tmi.aspx

Powell, A (16 August, 2018). People with disabilities in employment. House of Commons Briefing Paper, 7540.

Redman, S, Downie. M, Rennison, R and Batten, A (2009), Don't Write Me Off: Make the System Fair for People with Autism. The National Autistic Society: London.

Roux, A. M., Shattuck, P. T., Cooper, B. P., Anderson, K. A., Wagner, M., & Narendorf, S. C. (2013). Postsecondary employment experiences among young adults with an autism spectrum disorder. Journal of the American Academy of Child & Adolescent Psychiatry, 52(9), 931-939.

Schrader, S., Jones, N., & Shattell, M. (2013). Mad pride: Reflections on sociopolitical identity and mental diversity in the context of culturally competent psychiatric care. Issues in Mental Health Nursing, 34(1), 62-64.

About the Author

Karim Mitha teaches at the Edinburgh Medical School and supervises students on the MPH. With his interdisciplinary background in public health, psychology, and Islamic Studies he focuses on stigma and discrimination, cross cultural mental health, public health, health inequalities, identity and acculturation. Prior to Edinburgh, he was a lecturer in Public Health and Psychology at De Montfort University. He is a Fellow of the Royal Society of Arts, Royal Society of Public Health and is a member of the British Sociological Association and the British Psychological Society. He is also trained in mental health first aid and in counselling skills.

What neurodiverse, chronically ill and disabled academics do to manage life in academia

Written by Nicole Brown 

Being chronically ill, neurodiverse, and/or disabled means that adjustments have to be made in life. Quite naturally, the symptoms of illnesses, neurodiversities, and disabilities also affect one’s working life. This is, of course, equally true for academics, although they are often seen to be privileged. The digital health community and advocacy web site The Mighty has recently published a contribution on impolite behavioural strategies that those with chronic illness engage in to protect their health as much as possible.

Many of the behaviour patterns mentioned can be transferred directly or in some modified, translated form to serve as coping strategies for academics. This is exactly what I am doing in the following. Drawing on the original list from The Mighty and on conversations with disabled, ill, and neurodiverse academics, I provide a non-exhaustive list of coping behaviours in academia.

1. Saying "no"
Institutional citizenship requires academics to take on extra roles and responsibilities such as attending events, getting involved in planning and marking, and representing departments; the tasks are unlimited. Saying “no” is not an easy decision, but in order to protect body and mind “no” becomes an important word and therefore needs to be accepted and respected. Saying “no” does not make academics traitors to their institutions; it actually means the opposite: the academics are loyal to their students and workplace and are trying to make sure they are able to keep up with existing workloads and do not risk burnout.


2. Rescheduling


Many academics with disabilities, illnesses, or neurodiversities are overwhelmed with the tasks on hand, but they are still very keen to be fully involved in institutional life and decisions. They may just need some extra time or space for that. Rescheduling meetings and conversations is therefore particularly important, for the academics themselves but also for those involved in the decision-making meetings. After all, it is not in the interest of anyone to finalise decisions or documents under the influence of sensory overload, pain, fatigue, exhaustion, or any other symptoms. The flexibility of rescheduling means that the work the academics are contributing will be of a higher standard and the best possible quality. And sometimes, it may just be enough to allow for remote participation via email or video-calling facilities.


3. Secluding oneself


Many people with chronic illnesses, disabilities, and neurodiversities need their own space and time for themselves to which they can withdraw. For some, this may mean physically removing themselves into a quiet room where stimulants are limited. For others, this may mean resting or even taking a nap. For others still, it may just mean that they do not wish to network or engage in conversations. In a working context like academia, where networking and representation at events are everything, this is obviously very difficult to achieve. Therefore, the onus must be on all of us to create an environment where withdrawing from demanding situations is not seen as rude, but as a different way of working.


4. Being assertive about needs


This is in line with the previous points. All of us know for ourselves what makes us comfortable and productive and effective. So, therefore, any kind of workplace adjustment needs to be encouraged. This may mean offering a private office rather than an open-plan office – not because those with illnesses, disabilities and neurodiversities want to be treated differently, but because stimulants like noises, smells, lights or the flow of air (air-conditioning, heating, windows) cannot be suitably adjusted for each individual’s needs. Similarly, sunglasses, socks, blankets, pillows, backrests, and footstools are all items that can easily be provided. The message here needs to be that none of these items (or, indeed, any other support gadgets) should be ridiculed or envied. They are means to ensure productivity. Equally, being assertive about one’s needs includes strategies like staying away from work to avoid sick people during flu-season, asking not to be interrupted in order to maintain one’s stream of thoughts, not standing to greet someone, bringing one’s own food and drinks, and so on.


5. Leaving


Finally, and as important as the previous points, academics may need to leave. This may be leaving early to seclude themselves or to attend a doctor’s appointment, or this may be sick-leave. Many academics with chronic conditions feel under pressure to perform and produce so that they are pushing through acute flare-ups instead of allowing themselves a day or two to heal. In this sense, working models for flexible hours are probably the most feasible, sensible, and effective strategy for both academics and their employers.

For many, this list will include things they do to pace themselves and manage their needs. But for many other academics, this is a list of things they would like to do but feel they cannot. Academia is seen as an environment where there is no space for weakness, vulnerability, or anything less than being fully productive.

I am hoping that with the top-5 items highlighted, it may be possible to raise awareness of and increase empathy for the experiences of academics with illnesses, neurodiversities, and disabilities. Naturally, experiences of illnesses, neurodiversities, and disabilities need to be seen individually, but there are common traits affecting all non-neuro-typicals. And understanding and tolerance are what is needed most, after all.

Recent publications

Brown, N. & Leigh, J. S. (2018). Ableism in academia: Where are the disabled and ill academics? Disability and Society. DOI: 10.1080/09687599.2018.1455627

Brown, N. (2018). Exploring the lived experience of fibromyalgia using creative data collection methods. Cogent Social Sciences. DOI:10.1080/23311886.2018.1447759

Brown, N. (2018). Video-conference interviews: Ethical and methodological concerns in the context of health research. SAGE Research Methods Cases. DOI: 10.4135/9781526441812

Brown, N., Jafferani, A. & Pattharwala, V. (2018). Partnership in teacher education: developing creative methods to deepen students’ reflections. Journal of Educational Innovation, Partnership and Change, 4(1). DOI: 10.21100/jeipc.v4i1.747

Brown, N., & Janssen, R. (2017). Preventing plagiarism and fostering academic integrity: a practical approach. Journal of Perspectives in Applied Academic Practice, 5(3), 102-109. DOI: 10.14297/jpaap.v5i3.245

About the Author

Headshot of Nicole 
Brown in front of 
a plain background

Nicole Brown is a Lecturer in Education at UCL Institute of Education, and a doctoral researcher at the University of Kent. Her research interests relate to ableism, identity and body work, physical and material representations and metaphors, the generation of knowledge, and advancing learning and teaching within higher education. Contact details: nicole.brown@ucl.ac.uk Web site: www.nicole-brown.co.uk Twitter: @ncjbrown @FibroIdentity @AbleismAcademia

Access denied: the dark side of prestige

Written by Hannah Gibson 

‘In order for others to [be accommodated], who as beings have a different set of requirements, they would have to push for a modification of the environment. Some have to push to be accommodated. Given how able-bodied privilege comes to structure a world (both a physical and social world) then people will disabilities have to push to have their own requirements met.’ (Sara Ahmed)

Spaces. Each one requires a different physical and intellectual attentiveness. Perhaps you have never thought about how much energy it will take to get from one space to another, how your body responds when faced with slight inclines or uneven paths. The lighting of a space, whether there is a clear trajectory from the doorway to a seat. The space itself, how it seems inoffensive yet from the outside looking in, certain spaces are porous, where the walls, floor, ceiling have come to assume a certain type of body will fill that space.

Some weeks ago, there was a public engagement session that I wanted to attend in the Department of Sociology at The University of Cambridge. Around the same week, I was looking forward to a lecture on intersectionality by Sara Ahmed. Both events were scheduled to take place in the same seminar room, but I could not go because on those days, it was too difficult to walk up or down stairs. I live with complex and rare multi-system invisible illnesses, and the challenges I face, particularly within society and academia are what disable me (thus, I identify myself as a disabled person). Living with invisible conditions means that I look physically capable and ‘healthy.’ In this blog post, I want to create (or contribute to) a dialogue about the salient and ignored issues related to being disabled (both visibly and invisibly) within an academic institution, access (or lack of) to spaces, and what messages this reproduces.

I feel honoured to be a Visiting Scholar at Reprosoc* in the Sociology Department at The University of Cambridge. My family are proud. It is a privilege. Speaking out in any way that isn’t positive about a prestigious institution feels wrong – I should be thankful, right? A girl who didn’t attend high school and fought her way through her undergraduate and graduate school now sits at a desk at one of the world’s most renowned universities, and I am raising questions that may make people uncomfortable. But, as Sara Ahmed would say, you have to push against the tide and push against others walking in the opposite direction to be accommodated. As for the notion of privilege and prestige, they work to silence me, trying to erase my discomfort before I begin to give shape to the words and dare to speak them. However my positionality as a temporary visitor is perhaps what gives me the confidence to be honest. My goal is simple: to raise awareness so that long-term, disabled students, staff, and other visiting scholars have access to access any room or area that able-bodied people have.

Although there are archaic and small elevators (note the word ‘small’ as you read on) in some buildings, there are a number of areas that have none. The first time I was presented with stairs to the aforementioned seminar room, I walked up them. The next few times I couldn’t due to pain and fatigue. I do a lot physically with my limitations already, so forcing my body to ascend stairs and endure pain as I sit through a lecture or seminar is not productive. I have found that having incredibly supportive colleagues and mentors is not enough. They cannot erase the stairs that must be climbed or make the paved streets straighter. It is illogical that given how inaccessible rooms and buildings are in a country that has so many laws about being inclusive (see The Equality Act 2010).

At an individual level, not being able to participate fully in the both the academic and social aspects at an institution is isolating and pushes me, as a disabled person, further into the periphery of university life. This is not an unfamiliar feeling: to sit and give people my attention when the pain sears through my body, being too exhausted but wanting to attend something important, swallowing medicine to get through the day. The difference between this ‘normal’ and my current locale is that the physical barriers become much less about my in/abilities and more about the spaces that I am barred from, where the hurdles are concrete steps, uneven pavements and the way this has been allowed to continue into 2017. It is in the spaces found outside of the rooms beyond my physical reach that I stand (often alone) and feel defeated. It is infuriating but also incredibly sad. Why does an institution that has so much to offer is so exclusionary?

Without extra challenges, as a sick graduate student, it’s a David and Goliath battle, a weak body pitted against a myriad of challenges that form one giant monster. Pain, fatigue, deadlines, nausea, weak immune system, dysfunctional autonomic system, rest to fit in around all of this, and not forgetting to eat. It’s a constant roundabout of things to do, to cope with, and to juggle. Add on the normal pressures of completing a PhD (and particularly in anthropology where your body is your main tool as you undertake intense fieldwork – data collection – to understand the lives of your participants), I have a challenging schedule. Having environmental barriers further debilitates and narrows one’s options to participate in the very world in which one continually fights to carve out a space for oneself. Sadly, to be at Cambridge has meant more about adapting to an able-bodied world and less about engaging with my research.

Aptly put by this blogger, ‘when having to constantly seek out whether there is building access [to events], you’re having to foreground yourself as someone disabled before you get to present yourself as someone who is a badass researcher. Psychologically, achieving the inverse of this is hard enough with a temperamental body. Additional reasons to reinforce this lexical ordering of identity just aren’t welcome, especially when they’re avoidable if the access information was just made public.’ Indeed, this is a problem for many disabled people. We are in 2017, a time where one would hope accessibility issues would be minor. I could spend my time here unseen. If buildings were more accessible, I would not have to voice the concerns here. However, I know that if I were here full-time I would be reluctant to step forward. This makes it more of an imperative that I advocate and highlight the need for the university to be more inclusive.

The life of an academic (graduate, post-doc, research associate, lecturer) demands nothing but commitment and hours of input in order to survive within the academic setting. If healthy individuals feel the pressure, how are disabled people to speak of our struggles without inviting a spotlight that questions whether we deserve a place at the table to begin with? And why are people generally uneasy when the topic of disability is brought up? One thought: the systemic inequalities and oppression disabled people experience within institutions highlights how uncomfortable able-bodied people are with the concept of (any kind of) vulnerability. Disability studies have shown that one of the reasons able bodied people struggle to engage in dialogue about this topic is because anyone could become disabled and require help. Further, talk of limitations muddies the image of climbing the academic ladder or striving to be the best you. Thus invisible (and literal in the sense of lack of access) boundaries are created between the ‘able’ and the ‘dis-abled,’ and we become (alongside other oppressed minority groups) the Other (Ahmed, 2017 also writes to this).

At a wider level, a disabled person cannot study sociology at The University of Cambridge. There are specific spaces that it is not possible for disabled students to access. I’m here to ask, what message does this reproduce? In the first instance, certain bodies are more welcome than others. Yes there is a disability resource centre at the University, which I have no doubt provides help to those needing it, but I have to ask: where are all the disabled people? According to a study done in 2015, 1 in 10 students in tertiary education identify as disabled. Why am I seeing and feeling a disregard for those who inhabit this world differently to how able bodied persons might? Discarded before they are even acknowledged, the very smallness of the space that we are being given (if that) feels like a cursory attempt at inclusivity that fails. And the lack of access that I seek to this space but often cannot inhabit tells me something. To block, to restrict access, to continue to oppress, to ignore, speaks of what value is given to disabled people. And in turn it is reproducing the message that they are inferior to able-bodied individuals. To be a disabled person, it is always in proximity to the ‘abled’. Indeed, a disabled body creates the illusion that the able-bodied is the superior one.

Back to spaces. When I’m well enough, I walk around some of the streets close to my office. It is an incredibly beautiful town. Yet on bad health days, I have not felt like I belong. However, encouraged by my colleagues I have found space (for example in my office) that is inclusive, welcoming and non-judgemental. However beyond this, rooms can turn into spaces to fear, and ultimately avoid. Each space resides in beautiful buildings, but I have become smaller and voiceless. Until now. A colleague said something that struck a chord with me recently: don’t think you aren’t worthy of being here. Push the boundaries. Push to make them more flexible. And she is right. Waiting for others to realise anything can be futile. The best way I know how to push against the tide is through writing, experimenting and challenging inexcusable discrimination with the my own truth in order to challenge the norm so that those placed outside of it are not ignored.

*To note, this is not about my colleagues at Reprosoc, or anyone else that I have the pleasure to know in the Sociology Department. They make life a bit easier.

About the Author

Hannah is a PhD Candidate at Victoria University of Wellington and a Visiting Scholar at The University of Cambridge, UK.

Disability in the Graduate Assistant's Contract

Written by Alyssa Hillary

We have kindly been given permission to repost this from:

http://yesthattoo.blogspot.co.uk/2016/09/disability-in-graduate-assistants.html

Two years ago, I suggested to my graduate assistants union that disability and accommodations should be covered in our contracts.

I could understand why it hadn't been there before: 

1. It's not the sort of thing most people automatically think of unless they are themselves D/disabled or have a disability. 
2. The accommodations/access side is theoretically covered by laws like the Americans With Disabilities Act anyways.

But for a few reasons, I thought it needed to be there:

1. Enforcing the ADA is really hard for most people, because it involves filing a lawsuit with the department of justice. Yes, even the threat of a lawsuit can be effective at times, but it generally needs to be at least a semi-credible threat.
2. If it's in the contract, then violations can also be handled by having the union go to bat, such as by filing a grievance. That's got more force than showing up in an office and complaining alone, but is generally easier to accomplish than filing a lawsuit. This is important because many professors do refuse to ensure access for students, and many departments do actively exclude disabled faculty members.
3. Attitudes: If following relevant disability laws is explicitly stated in the contract, even if it is a bit redundant (and as an engineer, I like certain kinds of redundancy, including this particular kind) tells people that there's a group on campus that cares about the disability side of things, beyond just disability services (who don't negotiate the graduate assistant contracts). There being such a group is a whole lot more welcoming for folks who find disability issues relevant than there not being any groups like that is!

And one more reason that occurs to me now but I didn't think of at the time:

• Graduate assistants are both students and staff. Students handle accommodations through Disability Services for Students. Faculty and staff handle accommodations through Human Resources. Where do graduate assistants go, since we're both? That being unclear would be a barrier for anyone who has issues with bureaucracy. So would an answer of "Do both, haha," because that means dealing with two different offices for one issue.

Well. The executive board for the union agreed, and none of the union members objected. They pushed to get disability language into the contract, beyond the list of thing they're not supposed to discriminate against us for. (And disability definitely belongs on that list.)

Contract negotiations happened. While the university negotiators tend not to like adding information that's already in other places to the contract or even referencing those other places in the contract, they did add a line about disability accommodations.

4.5 Disability Accommodations– The Administration and GAU shall adhere to Federal and State laws and regulations as they apply to treatment and accommodation of persons with disabilities. Requests for accommodations shall be submitted to the Office of Disabilities for Students.

Am I totally satisfied with that? Not completely. I think it's progress, since there wasn't any information about accommodations before. I know that contracts are all about basic compliance and legal language. I've still got the same issue with "will follow Federal and State law" here that I do with it on syllabus statements and generally everywhere.

About the Author

Alyssa is a PhD student in neuroscience, an Autistic activist, and a disability studies scholar. They're interested in assistive technology that's not about imitating the standard ways of doing/being, and which addresses the mismatch between a person's abilities and environment rather than considering the problem to lie entirely within the person. Their art features on the covers of Typed Words, Loud Voices and The Real Experts: Readings for Parents of Autistic Children.

Disability Accommodations

Written by Jennifer Mankoff 

We have kindly been given permission to repost this from 

https://pghlyme.org/2012/12/03/disability-accommodations/

I have spent the past two weeks exploring what it means to work with Lyme disease from a new perspective. I’ve blogged before about why I think it’s valuable to view Lyme disease through the lense of disability. I’ve also blogged extensively about work and Lyme disease. However, I’ve never really put the two together. An important question, for those of us who work with Lyme disease is what accommodations, if any, are appropriate to ask for, and how one might go about doing that.

First, it is important to know about the Americans with Disabilities Act (ADA), which protects people with disabilities from discrimination. The ADA specifically prohibits discrimination by employers with 15 or more employees, public entities, public accommodations, telecommunications, and so on. It was passed in 1990 and progressively narrowed by the courts in terms of the situations to which it applied. Thanks to an amendment in 2008 it was broadened again to ensure that it focused on discrimination across a wide range of disabilities. Because of that change, Lyme disease is now covered by the ADA.

An important implication of the ADA is that employers need to make “reasonable accommodations” for their disabled employees. This specifically means (from the official ADA website): “Reasonable accommodation is any modification or adjustment to a job or the work environment that will enable a qualified applicant or employee with a disability to participate in the application process or to perform essential job functions. Reasonable accommodation also includes adjustments to assure that a qualified individual with a disability has rights and privileges in employment equal to those of employees without disabilities.” The key factor here is to define essential job functions and the accommodations needed to achieve them without causing undue burden to the employer.

But what does this mean for Lyme disease? To answer that question, I turned to the Job Accommodation Network (JAN), a nonprofit site that provides “free, expert, and confidential guidance on workplace accommodations and disability employment issues.” JAN has a Lyme disease information page, where they provide specific recommendations for accommodations such as a flexible work schedule, work at home options, periodic rest breaks, and reduced stress. There is also a great deal of useful ADA information on Anapsid’s site including a very practical list of ADA-related government organizations, what sort of help they might provide, and where to contact them.

I also turned to resources for other fatigue-related, often invisible illnesses. For example, there is a wonderful article on how several people successfully managed Lupus accommodations at www.lupus.org and JAN has a Chronic Fatigue article that includes several specific examples of situations and accommodations.

The question remains, then — what accommodations, if any are reasonable for me. However, in my job, the question is only partly what accommodations one should ask for. It seems to be equally about who pays for the accommodation. Within the university hierarchy, that could be the university, the department, or the faculty member him or herself — all three have “work” funds that they raise in various ways. The fund raising burden is highest for the smallest unit (the faculty member), but a faculty member has a great deal of freedom in deciding what accommodations to pay for if paying him or herself. In any case, it’s not clear that payment responsibility is specifically covered by the ADA, and I have been able to find nothing written about the topic so far.

That aside, the job I’m in is luckily very flexible. The thing that is least flexible is teaching, and the question of what support is appropriate or necessary for teaching is something I’ve been thinking a lot about. The other thing that is true of my job is that there are sometimes large spikes in work load (for a few weeks due to a conference deadline, for a whole semester given a very difficult teaching assignment, etc.). It seems to me that managing (or limiting) spikes in my workload load is something that would make things much easier. Another aspect of my illness that can be difficult is managing low energy points. If I limit my work to my normal capacity when feeling unwell, then I can provide steady but lower effort to my university. If I work to my normal capacity when feeling well, then I accomplish more but the weeks when I am feeling unwell become very difficult. The accommodations needed in either case shift as well — an overall lower workload vs a support structure that can fill in the gaps in the difficult weeks.

A last observation about this process: It may seem clean cut when I describe this in terms of the moral/legal world (human rights), but in reality the process is complex and messy just as any interpersonal negotiation may be, especially in an organization the size of my department. My university is large, but any changes I request in my job will most directly affect myself and the people around me. And the person-to-person side of this is complicated by the invisible and uneven nature of my illness.

About the Author

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Dr. Jennifer Mankoff is a Professor in the Human Computer Interaction Institute at Carnegie Mellon University. She earned her B.A. at Oberlin College and her Ph.D. in Computer Science at the Georgia Institute of Technology. Her research embodies a human-centered perspective on data-driven applications. Her goal is to combine empirical methods with technological innovation to construct middleware (tools and processes) that can enable the creation of impactful data-driven applications. Example application areas include sensing and influencing energy saving behavior, web interfaces for individuals with chronic illness, and assistive technologies for people with disabilities. She helped found the sustainable-chi group (sustainable-chi@googlegroups.com). Her research has been supported by Google Inc., the Intel Corporation, IBM, Hewlett-Packard, Microsoft Corporation, and the National Science Foundation. She was awarded the Sloan Fellowship and the IBM Faculty Fellowship.

Uncovering the Interpretation Process: Emphasizing Flexible Communicative Practises in Academia

Written by Rachel Kolb

“Let’s turn to talking about Derrida’s ideas about psychoanalytic temporality, and how this affects the construct of the signifier and the signified.”

This kind of sentence comes up on a regular basis in my graduate seminars, and immediately I see my American Sign Language interpreters’ faces contort and go, huh?

Granted, my interpreters are usually good at working through this, good at parsing through rapid-fire auditory information spoken in academese (truly more exotic of a language than ASL!) by a group of humanities scholars who do not need to access our institution, as I do, through real-time transliteration. Even while my professors and peers see me sitting beside them in class each week, as I attempt to be present and participate like they do, my guess is that only a few consider what this can be like. I don’t fault them this omission, not entirely. My experiences of being deaf in academia can be quite different than theirs as hearing people – although I would argue that these experiences are still adjacent, still interwoven with lessons about communication that resonate with us all.

So, Derrida. And something about signifiers. As I watch my interpreters listen to a sentence like this, then pause, then sign, the thought flashes across my mind; here we go again.

I have no choice but to jump in. I try to figure out, with interpreters, what my graduate seminar is currently discussing and how I can engage. We constantly deliberate (both on the fly in class and on a lengthier basis afterwards) how to sign certain words; are our signs nuanced and conceptually accurate? What if ASL has not developed a way to express that idea yet? How does one sign “signifier” and “signified”? We debate, come up with a new sign, try again the next time the word comes up in class. Throughout the process, remember that my interpreters, several of whom have been working as professionals for decades, are listening to our classroom discussion about Derrida without anything near a specialist background in the field. The concepts covered in my theory courses are difficult enough for specialist graduate students to listen to and understand; now imagine listening to and translating them on the fly for someone else, all without much (if any) conceptual exposure to what you are interpreting. Then, on top of that, imagine listening to the typically messy dynamics of human conversation: people speaking quickly, mumbling, sometimes interrupting each other, garbling their words, not considering how clear (or not) all this might sound to someone else. My interpreters flip through my class readings and try to prepare to interpret, but there are times when their ears and their brains can only do so much. There are times when, in the flurry of the moment, they show my hearing colleagues profound reservoirs of patience.

I admit, I sometimes like it when their patience fractures (or when mine does) and we need to stop and ask someone to repeat their words, but more clearly this time. These moments, even if they sometimes feel disruptive, can show how hard we both are working to occupy this space. These misunderstandings, these bits of missed information, can expose the bare bones of the interpreting process. For I am working hard, too: watching, thinking, correcting any mistakes, calculating what that utterance might really have meant, willing my retinal muscles to focus, converting sign language back into English in my head. I do this while sometimes feeling, I admit, envious of my hearing peers who can sit in class and just listen. The process of watching interpreters feels cognitively demanding, on top of the demands of the classroom material. Seeing ASL transliteration all day can consume all of my attention and all of my focus – something I used to shrug off as normal but something I now feel more pressed to acknowledge as unique. I often walk out of a challenging class and feel spent. I want to plop my brain into an ice bath.

The academic setting does not often acknowledge these kinds of hidden labors and hidden challenges for the deaf people in its midst. Even when access is presumably provided through a sign language interpreter, this does not mean the deaf person automatically will access the class, discussion, or conference setting the same way as a hearing person. Even if the deaf person chooses to use an alternative set of accommodations, such as Communication Access Real-time Translation (CART) or C-print captioning, many of the barriers I have described may still exist.

At the same time, I accept what I have decided to do in pursuing a PhD. I accept that, while working in academia, I will need to find a core group of skilled interpreters who will put effort into learning the specialist vocabulary for my field. I accept that I am among a generation of signing deaf individuals who now work and study in colleges and universities after living with the provisions of the Americans with Disabilities Act (ADA), and who are now helping develop the ASL lexicon to suit the academic work we do. I accept that watching ASL interpreters exposes me to a different kind of real-time cognitive load than my hearing colleagues may experience on a daily basis. All of these realities reemphasize the importance of developing new ways to pursue the same kind of excellence all my colleagues and mentors do, while acknowledging that my path might be a different one than theirs – as it has been all along. That path involves continuous advocacy and also attention to self-care, but it still can feel exciting. Along with other deaf and hard-of-hearing individuals, I am helping push forward a new frontier of language use and professional development. A few decades ago, aspiring deaf academics did not have these opportunities.

What I’d like to do is communicate the barriers that still are there, in situations where accessibility in name does not become full accessibility in practice. A sign language interpreter can become just a warm body in a room without adequate preparation or awareness. Using an interpreter can be an experience of making oneself extremely communication-savvy, of mastering good communication strategies that might not occur to some hearing colleagues but that can still help in expressing ideas more clearly. Among other pieces of savvy, I have learned these:

I recognize that information can be expressed visually and physically, not only auditorily – and that inclusion and comprehension will improve with more of these sensory channels, not fewer. I recognize that anyone can only take in so much information at a time, and that one cannot assume the knowledge base or background of one’s audience, even within a specialist field. I recognize the importance of being flexible, of repeating or rephrasing when needed, of altering my patterns of self-expression to connect with my audience. I have learned that I need to express my needs and recognize my limits in order to participate most fully in a conversation, and that other people do, too. Finally, I know that misunderstandings and needing to ask for clarifications are just part of life – and also good opportunities to deepen my knowledge, besides. Communication strategies that enable good sign-language interpretation are often good communication strategies, period.

It is not new to say that creating a culture of effective communication can benefit everyone, and not only a deaf academic and her interpreters, but it still bears repeating. Striving for a more open communicative culture requires advocacy and participation from everyone, not just anyone who is deaf. I have seen this before in academia: I have been in seminars where professors tactfully modulate the conversation for its rapidity and volume, write unfamiliar terms on the board or request that other students spell them out as they arise, include extensive written handouts to supplement oral discussion, or use a visual outline or live notes on a projected computer screen to help students follow what is being said. I have attended conferences and talks where the speaker regulates his or her own pace, includes a print-out of the presentation both on the spot and in advance, and provides a list of key terms (and their definitions) for interpreters and anyone else. Practices like these recognize that accessibility is not solely an institutional responsibility, in which formal accommodations are made, dispensed, used, end of story. Rather, they recognize that accessibility is also a collective, communal responsibility, in which all individuals can contribute toward a clear and inclusive communication environment.

Academia is not always the best at promoting clarity and accessibility, beyond formal accommodations. Discussions can be rapid-fire, solipsistic, full of jargon and assumptions that everyone receives information the same way. Creating better communication practices, both in the classroom and outside of it, will involve this kind of behavior shift. It will involve expressing individual needs and concerns, and also encouraging collective accountability – with the emphasis that good communicative practices can benefit everyone, not only those who identify as deaf or disabled.

About the Author

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Rachel Kolb is a Ph.D. student in the Department of English at Emory University, where she is also pursuing a graduate certificate in bioethics. She has prior master's degrees in literature and higher education from Stanford University and the University of Oxford, which she attended as a Rhodes scholar. Her research interests include 20th century American literature, disability and Deaf studies, science and literature, the health humanities, and how cultural ideas form about communication and embodiment. She is also committed to advancing public conversations about communication and accessibility, and her other written work includes publications in the New York Times and the Atlantic.

Ten Ways to Make Conferences Accessible to People with Disabilities

Written by Debra Guckenheimer 

Debra kindly gave us permission to re-post this article from medium.com.  The original can be found here:

ten-ways-to-making-conferences-more-accessible-to-people-with-disabilities

Attending workshops, lectures, symposium, conferences, and other events are difficult or even impossible for some people with disabilities. Rarely have I seen disability given much thought in conference planning, even when the topic is diversity and inclusion.

Here are ten ways to making your conferences more inclusive of people with disabilities. Many of them cost little to nothing other than a little forethought.

1. Accommodation Point Person:

   Assign a person to be responsible for providing accommodations when needed. This person ideally should have some training in disability inclusion and encouraged to think creatively about how to accommodate potential attendees and speakers. Publish a phone number available during the event so that someone is available to address issues as they arise.

2. Advertising and Publicity:

   Include a statement about your desire to be inclusive of people with disabilities. Provide contact information for your accommodation point person as well as information about all accommodations you have arranged. All photographs in publicity should include a caption describing the picture for the blind and visually impaired who use screen readers.

3. Interpreters:

   Provide an option of a deaf interpreter. If you have the funds, hire the interpreter for all events or at least the larger sessions. Having the interpreter allows for attendees to not have to make the request in advance as well as demonstrates your commitment to inclusion. If funds are tight, offer to provide an interpreter upon request.

4. Ushers:

   For the blind and visually impaired as well as for people with difficulty carrying materials around with them, have someone available to escort people around large conference spaces. If your event requires walking across long distances, have wheelchairs available for escorts to transport participants who need help getting across the space.

5. Parking:

   Does your space provide adequate parking spots for people with disabilities? If lack of parking is an issue, consider providing extra reserved spots for those with disabilities. Consider how people with wheelchairs as well as those without but who have limited mobility can maneuver the space. If a separate entrance is needed for those who cannot climb stairs, make sure the entrance is not locked. Allow people to independently be able to enter your venue. If it isn’t self-explanatory, have clear instructions for where ramps and reserved parking for those with disabilities are located.

6. Location and Set-Up:

   Be sure your venue is wheelchair accessible — both entrance and bathrooms. When planning the set-up of your room, ensure that isles are wide enough for wheelchairs. Leave space at the side and back of rooms so that people who need to stand can do so.

7. Inclusion Supplies and Supports:

   Want to go above and beyond? Provide a separate space where attendees can comfortably relax, especially for longer events and conferences. Have more comfortable chairs and foot stools in these spaces. Ensure space for attendees to stretch there if needed. Inside your event, provide back supports, cushions, and/or portable foot stools so that attendees can make the seating fit their bodies.

8. Food Allergies and Intolerances:

   If you are serving food at your event, consider taking a few steps to allow participants to keep themselves safe. Keep common allergens out of your menu, and announce menus ahead of time including if the menu is free of these. Keep your event space peanut/tree nut free since those allergies often respond to any exposure. Label foods being served (or if using wait staff, have them informed) including if they contain and/or are free of common allergens. If you are aware of an attendee having an allergy, do what you can to accommodate. Providing an alternative food is more inclusive than asking an attendee to bring their own.

9. Audio/Video Streaming and Conferencing:

   Being physically present is just not possible for all people. If you take advantage of one of the many technologies available to audio/video streaming or conferencing. At the most basic, you can allow people to hear and see speakers. With more investment, you can allow speakers to present and participations to ask questions without being in attendance.

10. Social Media Participation:

    With social media, we can rethink what participation looks like. Create a hashtag for your event so that participants can use it to follow each other’s posts. Create a Storify page to track postings and create a permanent website with tweets and streaming. Provide a listing of all speakers and participants that include social media used to encourage participants to connect. Virtual Connecting is an organization is rethinking academic conference participation. They have ideas about how to connect people physically present as well as those participating online.
Don’t stop with my ten tips. The best way to be inclusive of people with disabilities is to engage in conversation. Ask people with disabilities that you want to participate at your conference what they need. Be open and creative. Making your conferences and other events more inclusive for people with disabilities will also make them more inclusive for all people.

About the Author

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Debra Guckenheimer is a Research Associate at the Clayman Institute for Gender Research at Stanford University. Previously, she was a Research Associate at the Hadassah Brandeis Institute at Brandeis University, a Visiting Assistant Professor at Bowdoin College, and a Postdoctoral Research Associate with the NSF ADVANCE Institutional Transformation Program at Northeastern University. She is an expert on social change efforts to reduce inequalities based on race, class, gender, sexuality, and disability. She has appeared in USA Today and on public radio. Her work has appeared in the Women’s Studies: An Interdisciplinary Journal, The Feminist Wire, The Handbook of Positive Organizational Scholarship, and Doing Diversity in Higher Education. She has a Ph.D. in Sociology from the University of California, Santa Barbara and a B.A. in Politics from Oberlin College.