“[D]isability is a situation, caused by social conditions, which requires for its elimination, (a) that no one aspect such as incomes, mobility or institutions is treated in isolation, (b) that disabled people should, with the advice and help of others, assume control over their own lives, and (c) that professionals, experts and others who seek to help must be committed to promoting such control by disabled people.”
Union of the Physically Impaired Against Segregation (1976)
The spirit of science is one of deep collaboration. We are encouraged to share and question our knowledge, our methods, our clever lab hacks, and even our failures. Unfortunately, access to the spaces where this collaboration takes place isn’t always available for people who don’t fit the tight mold that academia has chiseled out over decades. Of the many identities that academia seems to not represent, disabled people are often overlooked, even in discussions of diversity and inclusion. When the COVID-19 pandemic forced most of us from our labs and into our homes we quickly settled into what we imagined were temporary fixes. Seemingly overnight, accommodations that disabled people had been told were impossible to implement were available for everyone. Conferences were online, captioned, and free. Taking a class didn’t require navigating notoriously inaccessible campuses, and, in many cases, assessments could be done in the student’s preferred environment and time. At the time of writing we are coming off the Omicron wave, and institutions seem to be eager to get back to in-person activities. As we take these steps we should consider, respect, and maintain the way these “temporary” fixes have improved the lives of disabled scientists.
It wasn’t until the pandemic started that I started recognizing gaps in my understanding about disability and ableism. Following disability advocates like Imani Barbarin (@Imani_Barbarin) and accounts like Disabled In STEM (@DisabledStem) that represent disabled scientists has opened me up to new ideas and literature regarding the way we conceptualize and understand disability. I’ve learned that disability can be thought of as less of a physical reality, but more of a societal condition. For example, when you see someone walking down the street wearing glasses, you usually wouldn’t think of them as disabled, at least according to the social model of disability. This framework, elaborated on in the Union of the Physically Impaired Against Segregation’s “Fundamentals of Disability”, examines disability as “caused by a contemporary social [organization] which takes no or little account of people who have physical impairments and thus excludes them from participation in the mainstream of social activities.” We as a society have put systems in place where most people (the healthcare access discussion could be another article in and of itself) with visual impairments have access to glasses. But beyond the physical infrastructure, it is socially acceptable to wear glasses; they don’t elicit the same reactions as a wheelchair, a guide dog, or a hearing aid. Our actions and how we structure our world and our society directly influence the inclusion of disabled people in the mainstream.
It’s important that we examine the inaccessibility of our scientific community specifically in the time before COVID. At most universities, where most people actively engage with science for the first time, disabled students struggle to receive accommodations. Students with limited mobility, neurodivergence, or dynamic disabilities (those that oscillate in intensity) have been requesting asynchronous or online options for years to no avail. When you consider poorly maintained ramps, lack of interpreters, and inflexibility with class and assignment times, it comes at no surprise that, according to the NSF, only 10% of employed scientists and engineers identify as having at least one disability. For undergraduates that number is 20%. Through ableism, institutions stop scientific careers before they even start. Even beyond the classroom, scientific conferences are important gathering places for the scientific community that are notoriously inaccessible. Just getting there can be physically and financially difficult. Poster sessions are visually and audibly inaccessible, and loud crowded spaces are hard to maneuver with mobility aids and can be overstimulating. Not to mention the long days that are practically impossible for those with chronic conditions or fatigue. Part of ableism is considering people without impairments the “standard” and catering our physical, social, and professional environments to them. Only when COVID hit did accommodations that many disabled scientists had long been asking for become the standard.
The first few weeks of the pandemic introduced many of us to the now-commonplace Zoom call. Online classes allowed for asynchronous learning, offering greater flexibility and increasing the digital availability of material. It also allowed for more access to the instructor beyond in-person office hours that again are not accessible on many campuses. Video conference-based classes and conferences also allowed for real-time captioning of instructional time. These captions, though admittedly buggy at times, help for everyone, not just those who are deaf or hard of hearing. The move to online conferences knocked down the physical and financial barriers to scientific discourse and sharing of new and exciting advancements across all disciplines. Conferences were now a few feet away on the computer rather than miles and miles away. No car, airplane, hotel, or food expenses necessary. The financial component, though it affects us all, is especially important for disabled people that are subject to asset limits. These limits keep them in poverty by threatening to stop supplying government aid once their total assets reach an insultingly low threshold.
These changes, which disabled scientists have been consistently suggesting, were beneficial for all scientists; an example of the curb cut effect. Curb cuts are the small ramps you see at crosswalks allowing for a smooth transition between the street and the sidewalk. Their explicit purpose is to allow wheelchair users to be able to transition easily between surfaces, but all pedestrians, cyclists, and people with strollers, suitcases, or carts benefit from it. The same can be said for closed captioning, remote and hybrid conferences, or asynchronous instruction. An investment in equity for one group benefits us all; although the gain of abled people shouldn’t be the sole reason driving our efforts to achieve equality.
It is easy to sit at the keyboard and write all the things we should be doing. They’re just words on the page. But who does it fall on to implement these changes? Professors and conference organizers are understandably busy people, and hybrid instruction may prove to be more work. I argue that institutions should put their money where their PR-focused mouths are and invest in more robust disability resource centers and professionals who can assist and train instructors and event organizers in creating sustainable frameworks for hybrid participation. Individually, we’ve learned how to share our screens and use virtual whiteboards, but now that we’re heading towards a more hybrid structure there are new challenges. Where should the camera be pointed in hybrid group meetings? How excluded do the people attending virtually feel from the in-person banter? How can we think about virtual meetings differently and see them as less of a chore? I ask these questions without having the answers, but I hope that by raising them and starting to work on shifting my colleagues’ and my own attitude towards hybrid formats we can begin to normalize and standardize inclusive meetings. Sometimes the things that are a slight inconvenience for some can make a world of difference for others.
Moving forward it is critical we not only include but allow disabled people to lead in discussions of diversity and inclusion as well as the organization of scientific conferences. The disabled community knows what steps need to be taken to achieve equitable scientific spaces. They were right about hybrid classes, captioning, and remote conferences. We just weren’t listening. As we come off the latest COVID peak and towards the maskless, in-person fantasy of “normal,” at least until the next peak, we should remember that these actions are only extending the isolation and life-threatening risk of disabled people. The least we can do as a scientific community is take special care to maintain and expand the accommodations that allow the inclusion of those whose safety and careers we are sacrificing for our Post-Covid Fantasy.
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