Posts that are hearing-ish
My Purdue colleague Nicole Devlin started a YouTube channel called TL;DR engineering to explain first-year college engineering principles in concise but vivid ways. The videos are captioned! Here’s how she captioned them.
- Recorded high-quality audio.
- Used YouTube autocaptions (which are automatically generated).
- Then — and this is a crucial step, because the autocaptions were not accurate enough to learn from — she manually edited the captions for accuracy, using these instructions from Google.
…and that was it! The video is now more accessible to:
- International students and non-native English speakers
- Deaf and hard-of-hearing students and those with auditory processing disorders
- Students working in a library or other quiet place without headphones, or watching from their phones
- Students who want to scroll through the transcript to find a specific word or section
- Web search engines (making her videos more search-engine friendly)
- …and more.
If you want to go even further into caption ninjahood with very little effort, you can edit the caption breaks so they display sentence-by-sentence rather than 3-4 words at a time. This might seem trivial, but it means that you can read an entire thought at one time — which means you don’t need to hold the rest in memory. Imagine reading a book where each word was on a separate page. You’d turn the pages really, really fast (meaning you don’t get to see a word for very long), and you would have to hold each word in memory until the thought or sentence completed.
This is less complicated than it sounds. For instance, the current transcript of one video has…
1:00 Laminar flow is the opposite of turbulent flow,
1:03 it’s very smooth and regular like when honey flows…
1:07 every molecule has its place. If we look at the Reynolds number for honey,
1:11 the viscosity is very high and
1:15 velocity is very low, which leads to a low
1:18 Reynolds number and laminar flow.
With very little editing, this can become…
1:00 Laminar flow is the opposite of turbulent flow.
1:03 It’s very smooth and regular, like when honey flows. Eery molecule has its place.
1:08 If we look at the Reynolds number for honey, the viscosity is very high and velocity is very low,
1:15 which leads to a low Reynolds number and laminar flow.
And that’s it, folks. Caption your videos! It’s a small one-time job for you, and a long-term higher impact for everyone. Thanks to Nicole for being a great example and captioning hers!
One of those “dang, these fragments have been crying out to be patched into a writing-thing for a long time” blog posts. I don’t know how much sense it’ll make to anyone else, but I’ll at least get it out there so that my fingers can stop itching and my mind can clear.
Pentecost is one of my favorite stories.
You might know it: a small group of stunned and grieving friends huddled inside a room. A flaming wind descending upon them, sending them forth to teach — and an international crowd stunned to find themselves able to understand. “Aren’t all these who are speaking Galileans? Then how is it that each of us hears them in our native language?” (Acts 2:7)
To me, this a story and a celebration of communion — and of community, and of communication, intertwined. These are the things I thirst for, and can never get enough of — communion is my heaven, isolation is my hell. There are three stories that join into the way I understand the flames of Pentecost: Babel, the summer lake, and Cana.
The first is the story of Babel (Genesis 11:1-9), the story of the scattering and splitting of humanity due to their pride. I don’t know if the tower is historically accurate, and I don’t care — I’ve felt the splinter-shards of that shattering in my own life, because I stretch between dozens of worlds that don’t talk to each other easily: Asian/American, arts/technology, deaf/hearing, femininity/male-dominated-fields, the span of generations in my family, the gap of distance that is part and parcel of a heritage of immigration, and many others.
Humanity splits itself apart in millions and millions of ways, stretching and snarling. It’s part of how the world is broken. It’s part of our job to help repair it. Pentecost reverses Babel, restoring our ability to understand the mystery of others. The connection of those two stories is nothing new or unique; they’re read together every year at Mass.
The second story is from last summer, and probably won’t make much sense to anyone who wasn’t there. I was with church friends at the end of a long day, exhausted and unable to communicate. Too much lipreading for too long will burn the brightest brain out, and mine was fried. We were by a lake, in a large circle, chatting. Or rather, my friends were chatting. Ironically, they were chatting about the Holy Spirit — the same Spirit that descended at Pentecost, bridging and understanding — and the way that Spirit had recently acted in their lives. And all the while, I was struggling in my tiny hell of isolation, straining to catch the communications that were being flung across the space, failing again. And again. And again.
Until I wasn’t. Something shifted, and the understanding became effortless. I couldn’t hear the words any better than before, but they made sense. They slipped into my brain, instantly — and I could localize the speaker with pinpoint accuracy (an ability that wearing hearing aids is supposed to destroy, and usually does) — and I could recognize their voices individually, and I could understand them. I could understand them, I couldn’t hear them any better, but I could understand –
With a start, I realized that night had fallen. I couldn’t see who was next to me, let alone lipread them. This made no sense at all; exhausted deaf person loses the ability to see and gains effortless conversational comprehension? Everything was backwards! I began to laugh, and then I tried something I’d always wished for — I flopped backwards in the grass and watched the stars. And the effortlessness continued! I’ve never been able to look at something else while listening — my eyes and neck are always riveted to track the speaker’s lips, my concentration straining — and now I could watch stars, or stretch — or even close my eyes! — and still remain connected to the conversation, sweet and easy.
The spirit of Pentecost, the spirit of communion and of understanding, had descended upon me as well. I relished this for a long moment with a sense of growing awe.
Eventually, I piped up and somehow semi-coherently explained to my friends what was happening. Then I began to shake and weep into the grass in gratitude. We were all stunned. But we were also (mostly) science majors, so of course we tested out this strange ability with small experiments to check what I could do — and yep, I could understand them with my eyes closed, point to them, couldn’t hear any more sounds than I usually could (I was definitely still profoundly deaf). Some of them jumped into the lake, swam out — I could still hear them, pinpoint their location, understand them without strain.
The next morning, I woke up, and it was gone. But I’ve carried that tiny taste of heaven with me since — what it’s like, what it could be like, to touch that understanding and connection that goes deeper than our words. To have my gnawing hunger for connection lifted, for a moment, in one way.
The third story is Cana (John 2:1-11). The version in the Scriptures is short and sparse; Jesus turns water into wine at a wedding party when the couple (ok, mostly the groom) doesn’t even realize they’re about to run out. I didn’t think much of this story until my first Ignatian retreat, when I abruptly found myself caught in the middle of it, watching a scene unfold within my mind’s eye for over two weeks every time I sat down to pray.
The wedding I saw was not the sort of wedding that my family historically has had — two people from within the same community, already known and intertwined in the same social fabric long before their birth. My grandpa’s sister married my grandma’s brother. My two grandmothers were childhood playmates; years later, my mom’s mom recognized my teenage dad by family resemblance the first time he showed up at their house to see my mom. My parents’ older (and younger) siblings and the siblings of their friends were school classmates, and a collective set of older sisters set my mom up as the prom date for my dad’s friend since kindergarten. That friend later married my mom’s 7th sister. Another of my dad’s friends since kindergarten threw the college parties where my parents started dating, and later married my mom’s 8th sister… I could go on, but yes, this is normal. Filipino-Chinese society is small and deeply intertwined. (I’ve had relatives who married outside it, more recently — and that was weird.)
But the version of Cana I saw (in my prayer — your mileage may vary) was a patchwork of people who’d never met, and who you’d never expect to find all in one place. Apparently, the bride and groom were from — and/or had been — all over, so the people they had met along the way were a bizarre collection of “how in the world are you even in the same room?” People who’d journeyed from far-flung places, disparate social circles, mutually unintelligible languages, with clothes and foods and customs strange to one another. The groom’s schoolmates from one place, the bride’s cousins from another, the many circles of friends, family, and colleagues — wild diversity, something that should be shattered, fragmented, unable to connect –
And yet — instead, they danced their way into a mosaic. Connecting. Pointing, laughing, learning new words foreign on their tongues. Finding ways to patch themselves together. Sometimes with translation help from a few bilinguals, but often without words — children playing variants on universal games (tag!), cooks helping to prep and sample one another’s unfamiliar dishes (nom!), laughing, stretching, miming, scribbling, drawing — dancing, hugging, listening with bright, attentive eyes. Reaching out to share and thread together a great tapestry of stories from all over time and space and viewpoint — a polyphony of lives joined together by narratives that started with “so, how do you know the couple?”
This seemed to have nothing to do with anything, and I was terribly confused, and spent quite a few prayer periods going “uh, God, I… explanation, please?” Eventually, I grasped the point — or at least one of them, as best as I could. It wasn’t that this was a wedding — it could have been something else without a bride and groom. A classroom, a town hall, a cafeteria, a conference table. Ordinary human places, convened by ordinary human people.
The point was that this tapestry and this communion was knit around — and threaded through by — ordinary human people, doing ordinary human things. (Which also happen to be miracles. For instance, being born — a miracle we’ve each experienced.) And I looked upon the scene at Cana, and heard — or rather, felt — somebody tell me: hey, look! That’s your job, Small Human Mel. You’re made to weave impossible communities together.
That’s why, for me, Cana is also Pentecost.
At the end of the Pentecost story, some people make fun of the disciples. They see these ordinary people teaching a crowd they should not have been able to communicate with, and they snicker: “They have had too much wine.” (Acts 2:13)
Yep yep. They are. They’re absolutely sloshed on wedding wine — transfigured wine from Cana and the marriage supper of the Lamb. Inebriated with the spirit that has come to dwell and make a home within them (John 14:23), they embody the love that draws all people to itself (John 12:32). In other words — in software words — they merge and patch the world. Filled with fire, they patch the stories of the world together, bring people to listen to each other, teach them how to build communion and hold it together — both at the loud and joyful party full of fellowship, and within the privacy of a quiet tent. (“The second is way easier for lipreading,” my brain chimes automatically. I laugh and shake my head at deaf-environmental-scanning-habits.)
And this is why I love Pentecost. It’s communion. It’s my heaven. It’s my job. (Also, it’s fire. I like fire. Fire is shiny and fun.)
Ite, inflammate omnia.
Edited on May 17 to expand and clarify a few thoughts.
One of the first things a mainstreaming deaf kid learns is how to hide how much they’re missing. Facial expressions can give you away. If I looked confused every time I missed something someone said, I would look perpetually confused. And frustrated, and sometimes angry and heartbroken, left-out, lonely, helpless. Not the most fun emotions to have running across your face and body all the time. Not the greatest emotions to let others see, either — they overreact in entirely non-helpful ways.
Solution: don’t show (eventually, don’t even feel) those emotions. I ended up with a semi-permanent “paper face” in school — a blank sheet, carefully screened, regardless of the content or how much of it I was missing. (Curiosity and excitement were allowed through — hungry for knowledge, I smiled a lot when I got it.) If it was important, let’s just hope I could figure it out later somehow.
One side effect of “paper face” is that, to hearing people, I look like I understand a lot more than I do. The hearing world operates under the communication assumption that “if they’re not complaining about it, then they understand it.” You’re assumed to have accurately received a message by default. If you say something, and I want you to think I’ve understood you, I do… nothing.
And since we so often mistake understanding for competence and intelligence, rather than considering how lack of access can so easily mask the two — I do… nothing — so hearing people will (accurately) assume I’m competent and intelligent. In order to perform my identity as “intelligent” to the hearing, I fake understanding, ironically denying my intellect the data it thrives on. Run faster with a weighted vest, and don’t complain.
The Deaf world works differently. Instead of the hearing protocol of blithely proceeding until you get a NAK, the Deaf protocol is to constantly monitor for ACKs. The default is to assume people did not get the message unless they specifically indicate otherwise. Eye contact. Nodding. The linguistic equivalents of “Mm-hmm” and “uh huh, yeah, yeah, gotcha.” Constant mutual monitoring and affirming of connection. To Deaf people, my facial blankness makes it look like I understand a lot less than I do.
So far, in terms of cultural adjustment, this has been the biggest gut-punch. I don’t know if I want to adopt this aspect into what it means for me — Mel — to “be deaf.” I don’t know if I want to visibly show people, in realtime, when I do and don’t understand. I know that most of the time, I don’t understand — and I know that hurts. It hurts to realize it, and it hurts to show it.
So: do I work at showing that? Do I blip packets of “understanding status” back towards my interpreters, and risk them being intercepted and translated (and mistranslated) by the hearing folks around me? Do I let all that frustration seep into my face, my body, my thoughts and feelings — is that something I want to admit into my way of being? Will that take away from my ability to think? Communicate? Or will it strengthen and empower it, ground it in presence and reality?
This is not a matter of how much grit I have, or how much hurt I can tolerate. This is also about very real tradeoffs regarding what impact I want my effort and my suffering to have. My suffering will exist regardless, in a world not made for people like me. My choice is how to use my rare ability to pass for hearing — how to voice my experiences to hearing people as a deaf person who plays their game and speaks their language better than most of them do.
Do I clip a huge part of my heart and soul out in order to stay inside the dialogue — because even half of my voice is half a voice that wouldn’t be inside the dialogue otherwise? Or do I speak from all of who I am, and risk being kicked out of it? Risk ruining my ability to be accepted as “one of them,” risk being dismissable as one of “those disability activists,” just like we dismiss “those feminists” as an excuse to stop trying to understand them? Every time I use my voice, I risk diminishing its power. Or perhaps it’s not a risk; perhaps in some ways, that’s always the tradeoff, as if I had a finite store of voice-power to use in changing the world. That, too, is lack of privilege.
On the one hand, this is small. Eye contact, nodding. What’s the big deal? On the other hand, the personal becomes political becomes philosophical, without my desire or intent to do so. Because for me, that eye contact means “Help me. We have created a world in which I am insufficient. Will you come back to get me, and others like me, so we can all fix it together?”
I’m the kind of person who realizes what she’s thinking when the words come out of her mouth. My insights surprise me as much as they surprise my listeners.
Today I said: “I’ve usually had to choose between having emotions and being able to communicate them.”
This comes from the middle of a chat between myself and Sara about communication mediums — text chat, ASL, and spoken conversations. Of the three, text chat takes the least effort for me to engage in… but it’s not my preference. Spoken conversation seems much more “alive” to me than text chat; when the dialogue is accessible, I feel much more connected to the other person. Conversations have things like emotions, pauses, timing, excitement, energy… things I can respond to.
That’s a lot harder to get across in text. Text is… bad at feelings.
I also grew up… bad at feelings, relatively unskilled at allowing myself to have them and express them. I grew up getting most of my input from text — written English, because spoken English was so inaccessible to me. I don’t think these are unrelated.
With spoken language, I can also connect even if my thoughts are incoherent. I’m able to express the state I’m in by flailing around, making noises (“wheeeeeeee!”), facial expressions, body language… I can just be. I can become verbally incoherent, and it translates as “Mel is excited! This is huge! She hasn’t figured it out yet, but it’s awesome!” (Or “Mel is tired.” Or “Mel is sad.” Or “Mel is in a complex emotional state, but you can kinda get the gist of it because she’s moving around in a particular evocative way.”)
In contrast, when I write, I have to at least make sentence clauses and find words for things. I have to pull back far enough to type sentences like “I am excited,” which means I have to make myself less-excited. I have to step away from my feelings long enough to find words and structures for them. So I’ve usually had to choose between having emotions, and being able to communicate them.
One of the exciting things about learning ASL is that I might no longer need to. It’s the strangest feeling to be able to get both the affect and the content of a communications medium without having to laser-focus all the time. I recently had my first extended voice-off conversation with a native signer. We went on for nearly 5 hours, constantly communicating, and my brain was not tired at all; I wanted to keep socializing, even with my language-learning awkwardness. I didn’t want to go home and lie on the couch with my eyes closed. I wanted more people. More. People.
This… this doesn’t happen. I don’t like meeting new people and talking with them for extended periods of time. I just… I’m not supposed to do that. But I did. And it felt fantastic. Weirdly awesome. I was later introduced to the phrase “Met Deaf Wow,” which is an appropriate description.
This doesn’t mean I’m going to switch to signing all the time. I still live and work and socialize in the hearing world, and I probably always will. But the more I can take a break from the cognitive load — the more relief I get — the more wherewithal I have to be Mel (rather than exhausted-Mel) in the hearing world. I can use my energy wisely, where it matters, instead of having to expend max effort all the time.
It’s something that’s helping me learn how to be here. And I like… being here, and I like being Mel. (It’s so much better than being exhausted-Mel. Exhausted-Mel is not a great default state to be in, but for the longest time, I didn’t have another.)
Since I am deaf, most of my native-language (English) vocabulary comes from books. Consequently, I can walk around pronouncing words incorrectly for years before someone says something. A small selection, in chronological order.
- Vegetable, elementary school. (“veg-eh-tay-bull,” as if I were pronouncing “table” like the piece of furniture.)
- Pythagorean, 6th grade. (To be fair, my Filipino-born parents also pronounce it “PITH-a-GORE-ee-yan theorem.”)
- Supremacist(s), 8th grade. (I gave a history presentation that mentioned the “Nazi Super-masses.”)
- Chef, Champagne, and all other French words beginning in ‘ch’, age 26. (“The Sheff chose a great shampain to pair with this food.”)
- Scheme, last week (one of my favorite CS textbooks is “The Little Sheemer.” Sadly, this means I have been butchering the title since age 19 when I first encountered it.)
- Aggrandizing, yesterday (this was pronounced correctly, but with the wrong syllabic stress: I guessed “aggranDIzing,” but it’s “agGRANDizing.”)
Friends, if you remember other amusing “Mel mangles her native language!” moments, let me know. I’m collecting these.
Part of an email conversation, reworked for sharing.
“Welcome to Holland” is an essay for parents of disabled kids. (And here’s an alternative and critical interpretation of that essay.) It makes the analogy of preparing for a trip to Italy — expecting a normal child — and then suddenly getting off the plane and finding you’re in Holland instead. “Italy” is a metaphor for “normal” childhood, whereas “Holland” is a metaphor for disability.
To extend the metaphor (in a way that would have been entirely true 5 years ago, although I’m less sure now): I’m an illegal immigrant. I snuck out of the Holland border as a toddler — crawled on my own, nobody carried me. Now I’m working and living in Italy, but always with a constant sense of fear. At any time, someone could check my papers and discover that my passport’s fake. They could deport me. Any time. (Ok, in real-life immigration law, Holland residents don’t need visas to enter Italy, but roll with me here.)
I make repeated dashes back and forth across that border. And none of my neighbors are allowed to know — the trips I take at night, the money I send back, all the exhaustion and the stress that comes with wrangling my life so I won’t be found out — in order to stay in Italy, I need to sweep that all under a rug of excuses and can’t come clean with them on why I’m just so tired all the time.
My family doesn’t entirely know that I’m an illegal alien either — they think I’ve long since traded my citizenship in for an Italian one. My parents live in Italy — not just in Italy, but in a really nice flat there; two brilliant kids with engineering degrees, a hard-working family success story. They got brochures about Holland, once upon a time, when I was small. But it’s a distant memory now, and thank goodness that their daughter ended up being Italian after all. Holland is that “other place” where “other people” go, the poor and pitiful ones. But not us, not me. Clearly, I’m not one of them.
But I am.
I still have my Holland passport. I will always have this passport. And I hate it, and resent it, and deny it. And I have carefully forged an Italian one that’s so good that even experts can’t tell it’s fake. But I know it isn’t real, no matter how hard I pretend.
The original email conversation ends here. I’ve added the rest since then.
If I don’t forge my Italian citizenship papers, I can’t go to school or get a job. I mean, kind of. But it would take a lot more effort to apply to a much smaller, crappier selection of them. And I have no route for naturalization. No matter how brave I am, how many useful things I do, how smart I am, who I marry, or how long I’m here, I’ll never magically become a citizen.
My deafness is not heritable, so my kids will probably be born Italian. I grew up seeing that you could only look at a Holland passport with pity — and I could never truly compensate for that, regardless of how hard I worked in Italy. So I used to honestly believe I ought never to put anyone in the terrible position of having me as a wife or mother — that it would be selfish and unfair of me to even open up the option. My kids will grow up with an illegal-immigrant mother — and being a first-generation child is hard, because your parents can’t coach you through early life experiences they haven’t had. Or if I choose to move to Holland, then my kids will have to go there if they want to visit me. Or if I choose to be a legal resident of Italy, I’ll have to walk around wearing a giant orange hat to visibly mark that I am from Holland — because that’s how Dutch people get “legal” status in Italy. And what kid wants to walk next to their mom when she’s wearing a weird giant orange hat?
And yet. There is a flaming hope there now, somewhere. That weird blended Dutch-Italian families with ordinary lives are possible. And that those ordinary lives would change the boundaries of what sorts of “ordinary lives” are possible. I know that other people do this, and I know it’s hard. But… I can do hard. I’ve done hard my entire life.
Hi, Italy. I’m an illegal immigrant from Holland.
It’s been a few years now since I realized I was an extrovert. This came as a surprise; my Myers-Briggs tests have always scored me as an extreme introvert, and I leak energy — not just leak, hemorrhage – in a majority of social situations, as an introvert does.
For instance, I recoil from statements such as:
- You spend your leisure time actively socializing with a group of people, attending parties, shopping, etc.
- The more people with whom you speak, the better you feel.
And nod vigorously when I read things like:
- After prolonged socializing, you feel you need to get away and be alone.
- You often prefer to read a book than go to a party.
But nope. I’m not an introvert. I’m just deaf. People energize me. But lipreading and the other things I need to do in order to communicate… they pulverize me. It’s like having to make a blood donation every time you go out to get food; you often end up spiraling onto the floor, dizzy and starving. Grumpy. And lonely. And bewildered. Or at least I was for many years — because I didn’t understand why.
I didn’t understand my reactions, didn’t understand how to recharge — didn’t understand why my recharging strategies (be alone! do things without people!) weren’t working. I thought all introverts were like me, so I’d constantly push through my own exhaustion to draw quiet friends into constant interaction, because I thought they wanted that — even if I didn’t.
A hearing introvert will tire early in a party, walk outside, and go “phew — now I can go home and recharge.” A deaf extrovert will tire early in a party, walk outside, and go “hurrah, now that the background noise is gone, I can talk to people!” It’s been a long hard haul to recognize more and more things I didn’t know I didn’t know.
The learning continues. Deaf extrovert friends are teaching me to be okay with taking internet-socializing breaks (chat, Twitter, Facebook, etc.) to recharge during work hours — I get a little energy from the real-time text-based communication, but without the lipreading burnout. And I have been learning how to savor solitude, to differentiate communion from communication, and to learn the shape and heft of my great hunger for community. It’s a hunger I’ve long ignored and matted down.
I love walking into a room of people I know, and sitting and simply being in company, in silence, maybe with occasional nods and waves. Places where I don’t need to constantly reach out to prove and/or reestablish the connection, because I trust it. Being able to relax into that sharedness of understanding. This makes me happy, and I want to find and nurture spaces like this everywhere I go. Places I can recharge.
I think these are my thoughts for now. I will post them and go to lunch.
Working with audio engineers is a ton of fun. Davin Huston and I were just discussing the Fletcher-Munson curve, which describes how (objectively) loud certain frequencies need to be in order for a normal-hearing person to perceive them as being at the same volume. The normal hearing human ear is more sensitive to some frequencies than others.
Turns out that 3kHz is one of those frequencies. I’d never heard of this before. It’s something that all (normal) hearing adults are more sensitive to than other frequencies — soft 3kHz noises sound particularly loud and annoying to us. Only that frequency.
“It’s the frequency that babies cry at,” Davin (who has a newborn) said.
I blinked. “And everyone with normal hearing has this bump, this sensitivity to 3kHz.”
“Do all babies cry at this frequency?”
Yeah, said Davin. Doesn’t matter if they can hear or not. It’s a matter of the air being forced from tiny lungs through a tiny vocal tract. Babies are tiny didgeridoos.
This explains a lot. I know screaming babies actually make sounds — they don’t just lie there with their mouths open, which is what it looks like to me. (3kHz is so hilariously outside my hearing range that we’ve never even tried to amplify it — my cochlea is so completely damaged there that you’d just be throwing data into a void.)
But I’ve never understood why screaming babies seemed to be so particularly annoying, gauged by the frequency and intensity of complaints I’d get from hearing travelling companions when we passed by a vocalizing infant. I used to wonder if it was just because it was a kid, and some sort of psychological “humans, take care of our species!” thing kicked in.Was a screaming baby more annoying than, say, a vuvuzela at the same amplitude?
Turns out the answer is yes. A screaming baby is physiologically more annoying than a vuvuzela played at the same amplitude, because it’s something our species came up with in order to ensure we would take care of screaming babies of our species. We want them to shut up.
It also now makes more sense to me how it’s technologically possible to have flashing alerts for crying babies (for Deaf parents). When I encountered the idea of “flashing alerts for crying babies” last summer (Lynn and Sharon were brainstorming on a hypothetical future-Mel-as-a-mom house — long story), my first thought was “oh my gosh, that must be a really complicated signal processing problem. All those babies, all those variants of voices, all those variants on crying — how can you train the dang thing to hear your baby?”
But nope. All they need to do is filter for a 3kHz sound. Easy.
I’m not sure why this never occurred to me before — that baby-output might be simple. I guess I have a default assumption that humans make really complicated sounds. Which is usually true. But sometimes… not true.
So! Babies are vuvuzelas. Who knew?
I’ve been asked how to succeed in engineering as a disabled person. This answer — which is sarcasm, by the way — came out during a recent long drive to Kentucky. It’s intended to be spoken-word poetry, and was inspired by an intersectionality conversation last month with Joi-Lynn Mondisa.
(Also, I want to point out that I had wonderful friends in engineering undergrad and grad school; I also wish I could have been in a state of less exhaustion and been able to better appreciate those friendships at that time.)
How to succeed in engineering as a disabled person
If something comes up, don’t get frustrated.
Work the system.
Don’t get angry.
Don’t have feelings.
Don’t realize how tired you are.
Don’t realize that what you’re doing is extra labor.
Stay oblivious. Focus on your classwork.
Don’t ask for help.
Don’t look dumb.
And never show signs that you’re struggling.
That any of this is any harder for you.
That any of this ever hard for you.
Don’t have friends.
Especially disabled friends. You might start comparing notes.
Besides, you’re too tired to hang out with them anyway.
Don’t try to find out what you don’t know.
There are a lot of things you don’t know that you don’t know.
That’s good. Keep it that way. That’ll let you keep working yourself to death.
Oh, and stay away from disability-related things.
Accessibility initiatives. Activism.
They might mess up that delicate balance of ignorance you’ve worked so hard to build.
You might get mad at how unfair it is.
Or how much life is stacked against you.
Or how much you have to fight.
And how little anybody recognizes it.
And that would be distracting from your work.
And besides, you don’t need any of that help, do you?
That’s just for people who aren’t good enough to make it on their own.
You’re good enough to do it, right?
You gotta prove that, you know.
You gotta prove you’re worth it.
Show you’re functional. Always. Constantly.
So don’t think too hard about it.
Just work. That’s what you’re worth as a human.
And that’s how you succeed in engineering as a disabled person.
Adapted slightly from an email to my Disability Resource Center counselor in the middle of Add/Drop week.
Instead of changing classes and accessibility requests left and right, I’m just going to change classes left and right, and say “don’t worry about doing accessibility stuff for me this week; I’ll mainstream myself for a little while.” I did it for 26 years; I still do it for most of my waking hours. I can add in a few more hours to the mix.
I know I could ask for support, but I’m prioritizing flexibility over accessibility right now. (I wish it weren’t a tradeoff, but the reality is that right now it is.) I’ll just power through. Since homework/etc hasn’t hit yet, I’ve got enough buffer time to do the self-care/rest I need to expend energy on that front, and the upcoming 3-day weekend helps too.
For future reference: In hindsight — and if this weren’t my final semester — what I might do for add/drop period next time around is just ask for a full-time ASL interpreter or CART provider for the first week to pop in and out of classes with me so I can see the prof, syllabus, etc. for all the courses I’m considering. As a side bonus, I get to see how the instructor reacts to accessibility stuff. Basically, I’d treat the first week of classes like as if it were a conference. (All this assumes infinite resources, of course. Which I realize isn’t the case.)
I’d do this — and I’m doing this weird run-around-and-shuffle-my-schedule thing right now — because visiting the class is the best way to gauge the quality of the learning experience I’m likely to have. Is the professor good? Is the course interesting? Are the assignments educational? Will my classmates be awesome to hang out with? There’s no substitute for firsthand experience in the classroom, and abled students shop around during add/drop for precisely this reason.
I don’t see any reason that advice wouldn’t apply to disabled students. It’s just that the workload of accessibility setup for individual courses makes the opportunity cost of add/drop significantly higher, so I’m guessing most don’t do it (I’m curious whether add/drop statistics confirm my hypothesis). However, since I’ve presented as “nondisabled” for most of my life, it’s never occurred to me not to “shop around” too. It’s just that my criteria also includes things like “can I lipread this professor?”
Anyway. Good luck on the continuing flood — I’ll suss out my options and handle the adds/drops/comms with profs, so don’t worry about me until late this week or early next week when I’ll email again with that status update.