Music and movement as a reboot/shuffle button for my atypical attention inertia (ADHD)


One of the ways in which I understand my ADHD is that my brain has an atypical, wildly varying, and unpredictable amount of attention inertia. It’s hard to get my brain to focus on command, both starting and stopping. It’ll focus on what it wants to focus on, when it wants to focus on it… it’s a tremendous charging boulder that I can’t steer directly — but I can carve the landscape around it to funnel it more towards the spaces I hope it’ll go.

One of the strategies I have for working with my ADHD is discovering the effect that music and movement — even in small doses — can have on my attention. They can jolt my attention inertia out of a stuck place. Movement and music are a partial reset/reboot button for me, brain-wise. They don’t magically make me able to focus on a specific target, but they can shake my attention out of where it’s currently stuck. It’s like a random shuffle button — maybe if I press it, the next thing will be what I wanted! Or maybe it’ll be a place where I can start and then go where I wanted! Or maybe it’ll be some totally unconnected place that won’t work, and I’ll have to press “shuffle” again!

So if I can dance and move while working, this is great. At any point in time, I can flip on music, I can do air squats or dance around the room or do a couple Turkish get-ups… I typically only need a couple minutes for that to start jiggling the massive boulder of my attention in a slightly different direction. And sometimes “slightly different” is enough. And sometimes “slightly different” sends the boulder careening down a hill towards a cliff-edge while I run behind it screaming “Noooooo!!!” — but if I remember, I can hit the music/movement/shuffle button again and throw myself into a different place, and hopefully a better one.

The challenge is that this is typically not… a socially acceptable thing to do. Offices where I can go barefoot and move around and not be seen as “unprofessional” are few and far between. This behavior looks odd/useless to people who don’t understand that it’s a coping mechanism for me, because… why can’t I just sit down and focus?

Because I can’t. That’s not the way my brain is built. I can’t sit down and simply decide to think about a thing any more than I (as a deaf person) can sit down and simply decide to understand a person talking to me. But if the end goal is for me to work on thing X, to sit down and think about thing X — that, I can do… but I will have to go about it differently.

Yeah, this is sometimes frustrating… for all the obvious reasons, typically the ones we think of ADHD as a disability. But this is also me, and I would not think in all the ways I love to think if I didn’t have ADHD, too. Atypical attention inertia and the ability to rapidly switch between seemingly unconnected things can be a powerful birthing place for… what the world might usually call “innovation,” but feels to me simply like play. It weaves into my enthusiasm and my offbeat creativity and my ability to pull a million things together and hold tremendously complex new worlds within myself for extended periods of time.

When people ask me “how did you think of that?” — my answer is often simply “I don’t know… I’m not sure how not to.” But the flip side of that is that when people ask me “why can’t you just do (or stop doing) X?” where X is something related to regulation of attention, emotion, etc. or any of the things that ADHD tends to affect, sometimes my answer is also “I don’t know… I’m not sure how (not) to.” It’s the flip side of being non-neurotypical. You don’t think like most people, and this is sometimes really cool! And you… don’t think like most people, and this is sometimes really hard.

So I keep on trying to build worlds for myself, and ways to work within the worlds I’m given, and looking for people who can understand, or at least want to try. It’s lonely sometimes, and I need spaces like this blog (and my text-based internet of friends in general) where I can be myself and rest and soak in easy understanding and expression, and play music and dance to my hearts’ content without people looking at me sternly. This is one of the worlds that helps me go back out to the big one.


Why Deafening Engineering? Because onto(ethico)epistemologies.


Continuing to write my way through things I’m finding/reading/sorting that help me think about some of the scholarship I want to do.

While we were roommates for the CUR Dialogues conference, Corrine Occhino introduced me to the work of Julie Hochgesang, who does sign language linguistics: phonology, documentation, etc. and tons of other things. I’d been trying to figure out analysis tools for video data, as opposed to making everything a text transcript and analyzing from that. Unsurprisingly, signed linguistics does that kind of thing, and Julie is the author of a guide for using ELAN – which itself is a FOSS (GPL2/GPL3) project for annotating audio and/or video data. Chaaaaaaamp.

And then there’s Georgetown’s recent EdX release of a course on sign language linguistics (structure, learning, and change).

And then there’s Allan Parsons’ notes on Karen Barad’s work on ontoepistemology. (Or onto-ethico-epistemology, I suppose, since the ethical dimension is inextricable, at least according to Barad.) And Annemarie Mol’s brief but reference-dense guide to the ontological turn.

“What the…” you say. “Mel, these have nothing to do with each other. I thought you were doing Deaf Engineering stuff, so what’s with all the weird philosophical…”

“On the contrary,” I say. “Deaf Engineering is a case study; it’s an example of the kind of work I want to do — not the end goal of all my research.”

I’m interested in engineering and computing education ontologies. (Okay, fine, ontoepistemologies.) (Okay, fine, onto-ethico-epistemologies. Happy now?)

See, the reason I’m interested in Deaf Engineering Education — or perhaps the more active verb form, “Deafening Engineering Education” — is because of what it can help us make visible about onto(ethico-epistemo)logies of engineering (education). The phrase “Deafening Engineering (Education),” by the way, takes after Rebecca Sanchez‘s book title, “Deafening Modernism,” where she does the same thing to modernist literature, exploring it “from the perspective of Deaf critical insight.”

It doesn’t have to be Deaf engineering (and computing) education. It could be FOSS/hacker/maker engineering and computer education, a space I’ve also published and worked in. It could be feminist engineering (and computing) education, as Smith College, SWE, Grace Hopper, Anita Borg, the Ada Initiave, and others have explored. It could be engineering education as a liberal (and fine!) arts approach, which is how I’d describe some (but not all!) of Olin College’s take on it. It could be Black engineering education, which I’m curious about as it’s brought forth in HBCUs as well as NSBE (but know very little about myself). It could be Native/indigenous engineering education, which Michele Yatchmeneff and others are exploring. It could be queering engineering education, cripping engineering education, Blinding engineering (and specifically computing) education; it could be…

Here’s the thing about all of these approaches, all of these worlds: by bringing to light other ways we could or might have conceived of engineering, brought it into being, engaged it as a practice — it makes us aware of all of the assumptions we’ve embedded in the discipline thus far. Why do we typically assume that engineers are White (or can act White)? Why do we (again, typically) assume that engineers are hearing (or can interface with the hearing world)? Why do we assume… what do we assume? What else might we assume?

I am so glad for the recent widespread success of the Black Panther film, because the wide-eyed audience reaction to Shuri’s lab and Wakanda’s technology is such a great example of what I’m aiming for. That look into a different world; that plunge into a universe of possibilities, that opening-up. I want to do… not quite science-fiction, but engineering fiction, or things that start as engineering fiction, so that we might make those into engineering not-fiction. To look at these worlds and learn from them and learn how it is that they understand and articulate themselves.

Ontologies. Plural. What is, what might have been, what might yet be. This is a pretty stark contrast to ontology engineering, which is a different (and more engineering/computing-native) approach to the notion of ontology. Ontology engineering is an attempt to document the singular, rather than embrace the tensions of the multiple. Both have their place, but one has been more dominant in engineering/computing thought than the other, and unconsciously so — the same way most STEM researchers are working within a post-positivist paradigm, but don’t (yet) know it.

So why all the Deaf/ASL resources?

Well… it’s a rethinking of the world, and one that’s taken place within a lot of living memory (and one that happens to be extraordinarily accessible to me). The past several decades have seen an explosion into the public sphere of a radical rethinking of what ASL is, what Deafness is, and what all these things could be. We’ve gone from “it’s not really a language, it’s a system of crude gestures” and “what a terrible disability” to… something that’s exploded our notions of what language is and how it works. And linguistics had to figure out and built analysis tools and systems that could work with signed languages. A rapid turn-about between “what would this even look like?” to “maybe it looks like this, or this, or…this?” because… people… made it.

And then came the (again, radical!) idea that ASL could be used as an academic language, just like one might use English (or earlier, French… or German… or Latin…) as an academic language of instruction — and then publication. What does it mean to publish in a signed language? Again, there was no existing answer. So people made one. And then things like: what would an ASL-based software interface look like? We didn’t know. And then ASLClear came out as one answer.

That’s why I’m looking at these resources. Because I see in them a making of a world; the figuring-out and birthing of things that have never existed before. They happen to be Deaf; it happens to be a very, very good example for me to look at right now — but it’s the process of the birth of worlds and universes that thrills me, and I want to look across worlds at the process of that birthing.

You see that? Do you see why I’m excited by this, why I love it, why I see it as so much bigger than just “Deaf Stuff In Engineering?” It’s what Deaf Engineering (and queer engineering, and Hispanic engineering, and…) points to. We don’t know, it doesn’t exist… (see the ontoepistemology in there? the knowing, and the being?) – and then we make it. And we find out what things might be possible. And the ethics inherent in that (re)creation of the world — what and who does our making and remaking let in, who does it keep out? — that’s where it gets ontoethicoepistemological. Nothing is value-neutral; nothing is apolitical. And nothing on this earth is going to be perfectly fair and universal and utopian; let’s not pretend it is; let’s be aware of our own footfalls in these spaces that we share.

I am so afraid of writing about this, thinking about it, letting it be known I’m interested in things that include the words “Deaf” and “ASL” and “engineering” in it, because — as I mentioned in a previous blog post — these kinds of things can be oversimplified and totalizing to one’s scholarly identity, to how others describe and understand one’s work. It’s really important to me that I not get pigeonholed into “just” doing Deaf Engineering Things. Because there’s so much more out there. There’s so much, and I want to see and play within it, too.

But this is where I want to play, and this is where I want to learn and create things and be challenged and in dialogue. And I need access to these first few worlds I play in, so that I can spend my energies on playing and figuring out the mechanics of how world-building works, rather than on hard labor trying to glimpse the snatches of it that I can. And so my first two are open source (since so much of that world takes place in text, where I am about as native as anyone can get) and then Deafness (since I can learn my way into a strange new world where things are visually accessible by default).

I’m hoping that those two will teach me enough between them (or across them) that I’ll be able to branch out to others, someday. Maybe years from now. Probably years. The other spaces will likely be less accessible to me in terms of communication, but I’ll have learned; just as I’m trailing open source practices and philosophies into Deaf Engineering (and computing) spaces with me (see: this blog post, wherein I think out loud / release earlier and more often), I will probably trail Deaf communication and accessibility practices into whatever world I go into after that.

But there will be worlds after that. This isn’t my final one.

Okay. Onwards. Again. Keep thinking and keep writing. I feel so hesitant doing this, but also brave in ways I haven’t felt in a long while.


APA style and qualitative research methods resources in ASL


My friend Anna Murphy recently sent me St. Catherine University’s library resources on APA style — and they have ASL versions! Actual ASL with nice translations, not ”we signed the English word for word” versions. I think these are a nice high school or early-college intro for ASL users, maybe good for a first-year college seminar course. (I’ll ask Corrine Occhino about using them for ours, since this is a lovely set of matched bilingual resources.)

Joan Naturale also pointed me to an ASL companion to an introductory qualitative research methods textbook (Research and Evaluation in Education and Psychology (REEP): Integrating diversity with quantitative, qualitative, and mixed methods). ”ASL Companion,” in this case, means there are well-done chapter summaries in ASL with the blessing of the original author (Dr. Donna Mertens). This is a nice textbook, in its 4th edition from Sage, not some hastily cobbled together thing for the sake of having something signed. Good scholarship in good ASL is, sadly, scarce stuff.

This stuff is important; not only does it make these materials more accessible to those who are native users of ASL, it gives us a glimpse towards what scholarship in ASL might look like. And yes, there have been Deaf (and hearing!) researchers working on “academic ASL” for a while (and what that means is still up for debate). I’m new to the conversation and feeling my way into a world that people far smarter and wiser (and familiar with ASL and Deaf culture!) have created before me, with the hopes of contributing to it as well.

My question is: what would it look like to do this in engineering, computing, and in engineering/computing education? I’ve seen scholarship in ASL, but only for clearly ASL/Deafness related fields… signed linguistics, Deaf education, Deaf history and rights, and so on. I’ve seen stuff about ASL in other fields, but it was written in English. What does it look like to do engineering and computing work in ASL and/or in a culturally Deaf manner? What would culturally Deaf engineering look like?

And I’m pretty sure that look is a key operative word here, but it’s also going to sound like something — Deafness doesn’t mean the absence of auditory information! — and it’s also going to be a host of other things, because Deafness isn’t just about visuals; consider the DeafBlind community, consider all the tactile/kinesthetic richness of the world, consider — but I digress.

But what will Deaf Engineering (and Computing) be like? I don’t know. I’m aware that I’m continuing to write these blog posts in English, and I’m okay with that right now, so long as my actual published/presented outcomes on this front come out bilingually. In part I’m writing in English because this is my scribble pad and I’m a native English writer, and it’s what my thoughts come out most fluidly in (if I thought best in Spanish, I’d be writing in Spanish). But these kinds of resources are not just examples and resources for my future students; they’re building blocks for me of what might be, what things might look like. And I can also tell from watching them that they took tremendous amounts of work to create, so…

..examples. I leave them here as exercises for the reader.


Thinkaloud: missing home and missing people, but where are the spaces in which I can actually live?


I often wonder how to discuss access within engineering in a way that jives with the way engineers already identify as a discipline… and yet doesn’t fall into the rhetoric of “fixing,” which can so easily frame atypical bodies and minds as problems in need of a solution. I am thankful for the work of Sara Hendren and others who show me how to live out this kind of work in dialogue with engineering, including the engineers who speak in public dialogues with her so that I can see that discourse from both sides. (That includes you, Deb Chachra. And you, Tess Edmonds. And you, Lynn Stein. I miss you all so tremendously.)

Working in a Deaf space, in a lab specifically focused on access technologies, I often think about how dangerous it is for me to discuss access within engineering, because it runs the risk of being totalizing with respect to all the rest of my work and myself. Access is not my primary focus, nor my first love. Once upon a time, I loved theoretical mathematics, and the cross-disciplinary complexity of robotics, and the mind-boggling scales of massive software engineering projects. I fell in love with educational philosophy, postmodern theories, the histories of higher education systems. I’m still in love with all those things. And it’s not that “access” is separate from or opposed to any of these things. But the way the world is right now, it’s hard to love the others well, because disability work — access-related work — is a jealous lover, and one that plays altogether far too well to the oversimplified narratives of the news, and the black-and-white of so much technical discourse. The things people say about the access space, and the things they say about you when you even touch the access space — they’re hard to live with, sometimes.

And yet. This space — the space of marginalization and intersectionality (and access and disability) — so often has the types of conversations that I need. You have no idea how hungry I am to overhear this kind of discourse, how much I do not know about how these conversations take place in casual spaces, before they are fully formed. How to think with others about things as they emerge. How fragile and hesitant I still so often feel about joining these kinds of conversations, but how impossible it is for me to grow as a scholar without them, because so much of scholarship is diving into this kind of discourse, being able to join the conversation.

And I have so few opportunities to actually join the conversation. And I mean join it directly, as myself — not mediated or transmuted in some way, no matter how much I enjoy working with skilled interpreters and captioners. My native modality of text is the one “mainstream” world that I can join seamlessly without an accent of some sort to mark me. (I have both a deaf spoken accent and the awkward movements of a non-native signer.) It’s my home, my first community, my comfort zone. It’s been feeling increasingly lost to me as I’ve continued my way through academia and all of its expectations about what writing is and who it’s for. I want to come home again; I want my language and my ways of being and thinking and expressing not to be alone.

This is the company I need; not only support, but support and conviviality with and from those who I can relax with, and who speak my language — not in terms of signing or speaking (and it’s an “or,” not a “versus”) — but in style of thought and willingness to try and hold the world in all its trembling, together. I am so thankful for friends and colleagues who live with me within a world we’re building — not as a separate one onto itself, but as one that intertwines with and permeates and creates itself within the world that we already live in. A grateful shout-out to Rebecca Sanchez for a long conversation on Sunday that helped me remember why scholarship kindled a fire in my soul in the first place, and to Holly Pearson and Todd Fernandez for being my pacing buddies these past few weeks, and the thousands who have been holding me up and helping me breathe.

I wonder if any of my students will see this. I wouldn’t mind if they do. I make no claim of having all (or any) of the answers. It’s always hard to figure out where to go and who we are and what we ought to do, but I know I’m better when I do those things more out in the open, in community, and that’s why I’m writing all these things down this morning. My blog has always been written for my future self, but right now it’s very much a place for my present self to be home, and think out loud, and be among friends as well.


I love the rhetoric in this guide to online conference accessibility.


Blogging things that have caught my attention, so I can close browser tabs.

This concise guide to online conference accessibility (from the Society for Cultural Anthropology) has such lovely prose. It links to a resource on in-person conference accessibility from the Society of Medical Anthropology, if you’re looking for that kind of thing as well. But — back to that prose…

In disability theory and activism… conversations about access seek to ensure that the widest swath of human variation can be a part of an activity, collectivity, or space. As a result, reflections on access bring into view unmarked forms of privilege that are built into material and technological forms.

Mmm. See that? Straightforward, incisive, and “this is what we do” rhetoric. Not wheedling, not othering those “poor disabled people” we should “help,” not painting it as some kind of charity cause or something that nice abled people do because they’re so nice. Just… okay, let’s be conscious, let’s bring the widest swath in from the start, and let’s attend to what doing so might make-visible to us. This is the rhetoric of a world where access is Already A Thing; this is the rhetoric of someone who doesn’t have to beg for a seat at the table; this is the way you speak when you are confident about how the world is, and who you are, and how we ought to be to others. let’s continue.

All speech should be at an easy-to-follow pace. No speed-reading! It’s not just inconsiderate when your remarks are too long and you rush through them; it actually excludes people from accessing what you are saying. Invite people in. Share your words and images in a way people can digest and enjoy them.

Notice the framing of “don’t you want people to understand, digest, and enjoy what you’re telling them about?” They’re framing access as something that also benefits the presenter (and it does). We don’t tell people to copyedit their writing because we assume a deficit on the part of readers; we tell people to do it because it makes their writing better and helps them communicate their idea more clearly. Of course readers would struggle to comprehend a page full of misspelled words and incomplete sentences; it’s not them, it’s the author. Of course attendees will struggle to understand rushed remarks; it’s not them, it’s the presenter. This is just… good communication practice.

The guide points at complexity without getting bogged down in discussing it (as I often do). For instance, while giving an example of how to make visual elements accessible to conference participants with non-normative vision, they discuss how “assumptions about race and ethnicity may come to the fore when you translate the visual into the verbal.” Do you describe people as “light-skinned” or “white”? What do these words mean? When do they make a difference?

Where and how do we become cautious of our desires to communicate in straightforward ways — “that’s a white woman” — and when does it become important to disrupt exactly that kind of straightforwardness? “Light-skinned, female-presenting… but we don’t know how this person identifies?” I appreciate the guide pointing at these kinds of questions, and then leaving us with this:

There is no simple answer that fits all cases, only important choices that demand reflection… The point here is to be conscious of ways that conference participants may or may not be able to access your presentation, and to create something that strives to include…

The final paragraph frames accessibility as an art of conviviality, and therefore as a way to follow the tenets of the anthropological disciplines themselves. This is a brilliant framing; “these practices are not other, they are inherent to being better at who we already are.”

Ultimately, accessibility is an art of conviviality, a means of acknowledging and incorporating disabled and nondisabled people alike. As an art of living together, it requires conscious reflection, creativity, and openness to difference. Thus, while practicing accessibility may be new to many anthropologists, its fundamental premises are at the heart of our discipline.


RIT FOSS projects: midterm praxis reflection assignment (feedback welcome!)


As part of the RIT FOSS Projects course this year, we are having students write a substantial mid-term reflection on praxis. Here’s the current version of the assignment – feedback welcome, of course! (For Spring 2018 students: both this version of the assignment and any edited/updated versions are acceptable for submission – you can choose which you’d prefer to do.)

Your praxis reflection consists of answers to the following questions, submitted to MyCourses in English and/or ASL in any format readable by your instructors (.txt, .odt, .pdf, .doc, and links to signed videos are all safe; ask about other options and we’re likely to say yes).

This reflection should be several pages long and reflect substantial amounts of thinking; it has the same point value as a two-week project sprint. Only you and your instructors will see your answers to these questions. Grading is 5% for each of the 18 mandatory questions, plus 10% for spelling, grammar, clarity of writing, etc.

You will be scored on the quality of your reflection, not the behavior you are reflecting on (i.e. a thoughtful analysis of “in hindsight, I really messed up” will get a high grade, whereas simply saying “I did well” without explaining what you did well and why will get a low grade).

  1. In 1-3 sentences, summarize your overall project, as you currently understand it. This summary should reflect your evolving understanding of your project, FOSS contributions, and feedback from classmates/instructors so far.

  2. How has the summary above changed from the summary in your initial/simple project proposal (or, if you switched projects, the first time you summarized/presented it to the class)? Why/why not? What feedback and/or learning experiences have informed your writing of the current version? (minimum 3 sentences)

  3. What have you learned about your FOSS community and its culture and health, and/or individual contributors you’ve been interacting with so far this semester, and how does that affect your project plans for the rest of the semester? (minimum 3 sentences)

  4. What have you learned about your intended end-users so far this semester, and how does that affect your project plans for the rest of the semester? (minimum 3 sentences)

  5. Are your goals clearly defined (is it unambiguous whether you’ve achieved them or not), do you regularly measure your progress against them, and do you recalibrate them as new situations come up? Why or why not? (minimum 3 sentences)

  6. Are you using existing tools, libraries, and knowledge from others whenever possible, instead of reinventing the wheel? Why or why not? (minimum 3 sentences)

  7. How are you choosing tools? If some of them are new to you, are you giving yourself adequate time to learn them? Are you investing in tools and practices up-front that will make your life easier later on (i.e. automation of test/build infra, documenting as you go, etc.) Why or why not? (minimum 3 sentences)

  8. How are you getting feedback on your community contributions and/or development products, and from whom? Are these the right people? Why or why not? (minimum 3 sentences)

  9. How are you planning for the future in terms of making it possible for you and/or others to continue using or building on your work? Why or why not? (minimum 3 sentences)

  10. Rate yourself 0-5 on the following (0 = whoops, 5 = amazing), and give a 1-3 sentence explanation for each rating. Ratings are about you individually, not your team as a whole.

    1. Clarity of goals

    2. Technical progress towards goals

    3. Leaving a trail (code commenting, documentation, blogging, issue tracker usage, etc.)

    4. Engaging your users

    5. Engaging your FOSS community

    6. Adapting as things change

    7. Other (optional, please specify)

  11. What qualities does a good FOSS contributor and/or teammate have? List at least 3, with rationale for each. (Ex: “A good FOSS contributor/teammate is X, because Y.”) there is not a canonical right/wrong list; we are interested in seeing how you are thinking, not whether you guess the “correct” list of qualities.

  12. If you have teammates: how do you feel about the way your current team is working together? If you are working alone: who have you engaged with regarding your project so far, both within class and outside of it, and how do you think these engagements have been going? Be specific and give examples (ex: “we can resolve disagreements quickly; for example, last Tuesday we were debating whether to do X or Y…”) (minimum 5 sentences regardless of which option you choose.)

  13. What qualities do good development and/or learning goals have? List at least 3, with rationale for each. (Ex: “A good development/learning goal is X, because Y.”) Again, there is not a canonical right/wrong list.

  14. We acknowledge your goals can and should keep changing as your project progresses, but what are your current development and learning goals for:

    1. Sprint 3? (minimum 5 sentences or bullet points)

    2. Sprint 4? (minimum 2 sentences or bullet points)

    3. Sprint 5? (minimum 2 sentences or bullet points)

  15. What is the most unexpected or surprising thing you’ve learned about contributing to FOSS projects so far this semester? (minimum 3 sentences)

  16. What is the most unexpected or surprising thing you’ve learned about yourself so far this semester? (minimum 3 sentences)

  17. What is the one thing you could do this semester that would have the biggest impact on your approach to this course / your ability to contribute to a FOSS community / your development as a professional? (minimum 3 sentences)

  18. How will you approach the remaining sprints this semester differently than the sprints you have done so far, and why? (minimum 3 sentences)

  19. (Optional.) Any notes for us on how to run this class next year? We’re interested both in things we should keep/do again, and things we should do differently.

  20. (Optional.) Anything else we should know?


Liveblogging RIT’s FOSS projects class: initial questions for community spelunking


Stephen Jacobs (SJ) and I are co-teaching “Project in FOSS Development” at RIT this semester, which basically means “hey students, want to get course credit for contributing to a FOSS project?” The class is centered around 5 project sprints of two weeks each. The first 3 weeks of class are preparing for the sprint periods; the week before spring break is a pause to reflect on how sprints are going. Otherwise, class efforts will be centered around executing project work… (aka “getting stuff done”).

From the syllabus (http://bit.ly/rit-foss-projects-syllabus-2018):

This course is a studio-centric experience designed to immerse students in the praxis of FOSS (Free and Open Source Software) communities. Notice that we focus on praxis, which is a conscious enactment of practice deeply informed by theory. In other words, it’s important to be practitioners who can think about their shared practice.

Notice also that we talk about the praxis of FOSS communities, which includes but is not limited to software development — ways of communicating, collaborating, designing, testing, marketing, budgeting, meeting, etc. are just as much a part of FOSS (and software engineering) praxis as writing code. You will be creating FOSS software, and you will be engaging with the rhythms, relationships, and routines of an established FOSS community with a complex set of sociotechnical dynamics that exist independently of yours. It is our hope that this course will help you navigate the kinds of delightfully messy, large-scale, long-term projects that you will encounter out in the real world.

I’ll be liveblogging the class, as one does. Right now, students are working on their project proposals, which is a big messy task that involves spelunking into existing FOSS communities, figuring out what’s up, and thinking about what’s possible to accomplish during the course of the semester. During our last class, we collaboratively brainstormed a list of starter questions we want to find out while doing that initial community spelunking. I was impressed by how much the students were already thinking about sociotechnical dynamics (instead of just starting to myopically look at the code in isolation), which makes me super happy.

Here’s what we came up with, in thematic clusters.  You can think of these as guiding questions for a spelunking quickstart such as http://blog.melchua.com/2010/10/08/possesa-fri-5-minutes-of-improvisation/ (basically, if you only had a few minutes to get a sense of whether you wanted to contribute to a FOSS project, what questions would be the highest-priority ones to ask)?

  1. What are we gathering around?
  2. What are the goals and the roadmap to get there?
  3. What’s the purpose of the project? Do they have use cases?
  4. Why should I want to contribute?
  5. How do I find people and information and ask for help?
  6. How do they communicate? Do they have forums, chatrooms, mailing lists, etc. and how can I start lurking?
  7. Who’s leading it and who’s working on it?
  8. What is the governance/leadership structure? How do decisions get made, and how fast?
  9. Do they have local meetups and/or online ones I could attend?
  10. How complete are the docs?  Where do I go and what do I Google if the thing I want isn’t in the docs?
  11. How thoughtful have people been about the contributor experience (and do I want to have that contributor experience?)
  12. Do they have a code of conduct? How good is it?
  13. Do they have contributor guidelines?
  14. How well do they Onboard?
  15. How can I help and what skills do I need? (Can these questions be answered easily?)
  16. What does the code activity look like?
  17. What’s the infrastructure?
  18. What is the license? (Make sure it’s actually a FOSS project.)
  19. What and when was the last commit to a core repo?
  20. What/when was the latest release and how is it working?

What goes through my mind on the first day of teaching as a faculty member


Today is my first day of teaching as a faculty member. I am nervous, woke up early (read: couldn’t sleep), and forgot to eat breakfast because I was so nervous I ran out the door without grabbing the food I’d planned. I spent way too much time stressing out about what I should wear so I would look not-like-a-student, but not like a boring professor (whatever that means), while still being comfortable, while… actually, I’ll just wear the same outfit I’ve worn for all my interviews in grad school ever and just leave off the jacket, because… I know it looks good, or at least the colors don’t clash. Okay.

I feel so very underqualified, and am constantly wondering “who thought it was a good idea to let me do this?” I know this is an emotional reaction and not a logical one because I’ve been teaching undergrads since 2004 and my rational brain is telling me that, by all signs (including lots of overwhelmingly positive student comments through the years), I’m pretty good at it. But. Still. Feelings.

I’m struggling with the feeling that I should redo all the course materials!!!! for the stuff that I’m inheriting, to… y’know, make it better! As if, somehow, revising my syllabus would change students’ lives!!!! Intellectually, I know that actual student gains from a last-minute couse overhaul would likely be minimal, and that the more likely outcome is that everyone would be confused, I would die of exhaustion, and zero other work would get done. I’m making peace with doing an okay-ish job of super-quick teaching prep that leans heavily on material I’ve inherited from the past, and then being really awesome and present in the classroom when I’m with my students. My teaching isn’t going to save the world. (At least not this semester.) And I’m learning (wrestling with) how to be okay with that.

Did I mention that I feel underqualified? And that I don’t want to mess it up? And that I’m worried — even if it’s a slight worry — that I’ll somehow fail students, and everything, and everybody, and… thereby demonstrate that I am Not Ready To Be A Grownup? I mean, I didn’t even take this class in undergrad! Again, not logical responses; rationally, I can teach this, but… my lizard brain is telling me to flee and stress-eat cookies and ice cream. Which I might do tonight regardless.

I have been told that all these feelings and thoughts are completely normal. And I think they are, and I’m not worried (I mean, okay, I am worried, but I’m not worried about being worried). But I wanted to write this down on my actual first day of teaching as a faculty member, so that (1) someday, when other new faculty look at me with the same kind of mild panic in their eyes as I have now, I can point them to this post and say totally normal, I felt this way too… and also (2) so that if I do end up going down in a fiery explosion and turn out to be the WORST TEACHER EVER, I can say “I told you so.”

I’m gonna hope for (1). We’ll see how this all goes.


Seeing myself in the (literal) mirror at NTID’s IT office


Some of you already know (and my previous blog post has hinted) that I’m working in a Deaf environment for the first time in my life — the Center on Access Technology (CAT, pronounced like the animal and signed as an acronym) in Rochester, NY. There’s far too much to say about this — I am glad to be here, it’s an incredible learning experience, and I often feel like a stranger in a strange land… but if there’s anything my training in writing and qualitative research has taught me, it’s the power of vignettes and thick descriptions of small moments. So that’s what I’ll start to share. This one is a very small moment, but it was one of the first things that struck me.

So I’m a new faculty member, trying to figure out how one connects to internet, printers, and so forth, as one does. I’m hitting snags, so I walk over to the IT office inside NTID (basically, the Deaf college within RIT). As I’m waiting for the IT staffer to fiddle with my laptop and fix my connectivity issues, I look around. It’s an IT office, full of familiar-looking cords and bins and tables of acronyms pinned to the walls. I see the student workers perched in front of monitors, typing into a ticketing system.

And then I notice that all of the desks facing the wall have mirrors on that wall, behind the monitors. And my first thought is “oh, that’s nice – I guess it makes the room look bigger.” And then one student walks up behind another and begins to sign, and the second student turns around to smoothly engage them. And I suddenly remember: they’re all Deaf, too.

Like me, they can’t hear footfalls from behind. Like me, they would startle from their monitors with a sudden touch on the shoulder. The mirrors let you see someone approaching from behind, a gentle nudge of motion in your periphery, the visual equivalent of footsteps walking up. And all of this is set up so matter-of-factly, just… how it is, of course we put mirrors behind our monitors! and not as some odd flustered accommodation that treats me as a conundrum in the hearing world (“well, Mel can’t hear footsteps, because she’s deaf, so what do we do?”).

I’m used to having my existence in hearing spaces not forethought (“it never occurred to us that a deaf person might be interested in this event, so we didn’t make it accessible”). I’m used to having laborious forethought be the best-case scenario, where I’m a solitary trailblazing oddity (“we’re open to setting up captions for this; can you do the setting-up in your copious amounts of free time?”). It is strange to be in a place where my individual existence doesn’t need to be forethought, because the space has already been created and inhabited by — and expects to see more of — people like me. It is strange to, at least in this one significant way, not be the Other.

Of course, it’s more complex than that. Even NTID is by no means fully accessible (likewise with Gallaudet). The Deaf (and hard-of-hearing) communities are not homogenous; not everything meets everybody’s needs. I’m not just Deaf, I’m lots of other things as well, and many of those things are still unexpected, unanticipated, not-forethought. There’s a lot of solitaire trailblazing work to do here still.

But dang. A world that is accessible to me regardless of whether I’m there or not? A space that stays Deaf-friendly without me, whose Deaf-friendliness is not dependent on my constant nudging and performance of my life as a reminder that people like me exist? Approaches and solutions that go beyond the things my friends and I can think of on our own?

Whoa.


Talk notes: “Technologies that wake you up” from a DHH perspective


Today’s accomplishment: giving part of a (group) talk in my 4th language, and making people laugh both directly and through an interpreter. Watching the audience grin and nod and crack up in two waves was just this… super-gratifying experience — first the audience members who knew ASL, then the ones who were listening to the interpreter translate my signing into English, and I could just… track that.

Sure, I know there are still all these dysfluencies in my sign production. I’m not fully fluent yet, and I’m incredibly aware of that, and working hard on it. But to know that my personality, my sense of humor, can come through in ASL even to people who don’t sign — that’s a tremendous milestone I was afraid that I might never actually reach. It’s difficult to understate how personally significant this accomplishment is for me — I’ve gone from “I will never learn sign language! I’m not one of those Deaf people!” to “I mean, okay, I guess I could learn it as… another language, because interpreting gives me so much that I just miss, but… I’m always going to speak for myself, especially in a work context with hearing people around,” to… well… this.

My talk notes follow. I wrote them, memorized them, and then deviated from them (as one does). The larger context is that my lab (which is basically a Deaf engineering design firm) is doing a series of consumer technology reviews. These aren’t technologies specifically designed for DHH people, but rather everyday technologies from a DHH perspective. For instance, other colleagues looked at various items from Nest, Alexa, etc. — and did you know lots of these devices, even if they are visual, feature an audio-only setup? Annoyance. Folks had to keep calling over their hearing spouses, ask their kids to come over and put on their CI, etc. in order to just get through installation.

Anyway, my segment was on “technologies that wake you up,” because… well, I don’t own a house. And a substantial portion of our community is made of students. And I sleep super deeply, and get uber-grumpy when I’m woken up against my will — just ask my parents; this is a lifelong known cause of Grouchy Mel.

  • most alarm systems are designed for hearing people and are based on sound
  • obviously doesn’t work so well for DHH
  • known problem: historically, all kinds of solutions – rube goldberg contraptions that drop heavy things, hearing humans (hi mom!) who will wake you up at the appointed time, praying that you’ll wake up before X and not be late
  • but now we have TECHNOLOGY!
  • I’ll examine several more modern systems for waking up DHH sleepers
  • First: Can I use “hearing” alarms and somehow make them better?
  • Residual hearing: amplify! plug into speaker system… okay, maybe this isn’t so great for hearing housemates, and it still doesn’t wake me up all the time.
  • Mechanical-only solutions: put phones inside convex objects to concentrate/amplify the sound. Definitely not loud enough for me.
  • Okay, another mechanical solution: set a phone alarm to vibration mode, put on a thin and hard-walled hollow clattery object and close to the edge of stuff that makes noise when other things fall on it. Yeah, terrible idea. Not the most reliable solution, good luck getting up in the middle of the night without wrecking everything, and an alarm that relies on literally dropping your multi-hundred-dollar phone on the floor every day is maybe not the wisest.
  • Enter: specific devices! This is an alarm designed for DHH folks… how many of you have the Sonic Alert alarm clock? (hands go up)
  • Wakes people up in three ways: audio, the sound is customizable (frequency-set knob, volume-set knob)
  • “light flasher” which is an on/off outlet flasher, could plug anything in there
  • “bed shaker” which is an off-center load on a motor in a case (like cell phone vibrators)
  • It’s definitely effective at waking you up. Abruptly. Might not be the best for your mood for the rest of the day, but it works. (Insert explanation of sleep cycles here, with a lot of hamming it up)
  • Okay, but how about stuff that isn’t DHH-specific? Sound aside and vibration/tactile aside, what’s left as a way to wake folks up?
  • Smell and taste might not be useful for alarms (although the smell of tea makes me super happy when I wake up)
  • What’s left is sight
  • Did you know: most deaf people can see
  • Did you know: most hearing people can also see
  • Did you know: although sound might not work for both hearing and DHH folks, light might work for both
  • This is the idea behind the Philips Wake-up Light
  • Idea: you know how the sonic alert wakes you up abruptly? this wakes you gently, like the sun coming through the windows
  • You set the time you want to be awake, and for a period of time before that, the lights will gradually turn on so that you’re sleeping more lightly and close to waking by the time the alarm rings (with the lamp at full brightness)
  • Gentle light wakeup is amazing (display, in contrast, the book cover of Alexander and the Terrible Horrible No Good Very Bad Day)
  • Except that it doesn’t always wake you up all the way, so you need a last-minute push-over into full consciousness
  • Alas, the pre-recorded audio settings on this alarm consist mostly of birdsong (from my perspective, “silence 1,” “silence 2,” “silence 3,” and “silence 4″)
  • I personally need a separate alarm to make the startle sound/vibration/light at the appointed time, but the wake-up light does get me to the point where being woken up by something else is pretty pleasant
  • Not a DHH-specific access issue, but the UI for button placement stinks
  • Alternative, if you already have Philips Hue lights: hack the Hue to be a wake-up light
  • Program the Hue! set something to turn on gradually at an appointed time
  • Not as smooth as the Wake-up light, which starts from zero and smoothly goes up; definitely turns on abruptly and is a more jarring wake-up
  • For me: solves the problem of “the Wake-up light needs a tip-over”
  • And then Sonic Alert for mega-uber backup.
  • End the talk somehow and turn the floor back over to Brian.