You Tell Me

Lucas Steuber, MA Applied Linguistics, MS CCC-SLP

“Life can only be understood backwards, but it must be lived forwards.” ~ Soren Kierkegaaard

1. 2021

Time (n.) From Old English tima meaning “limited space.” Originated from Proto Indo-European *di-mon; suffix *mon meaning “man”(Old English mann, then Middle English mon, to Modern English man); affix *di- meaning “to divide.”

Time (n.) That which divides us.

It’s eleven at night on a Saturday and I’m staring at a blank page. Anyone who knows me will agree that’s unusual. Words are not something that typically come slowly to me; in fact, I’ve landed myself in trouble more often than I’d like to admit by letting my words outpace my thoughts. I’d like to be able to say that I’m preoccupied, or I can’t think of any interesting stories to share, but in reality I know the truth: It’s because for this book I’ve been asked to write about myself in the context of my career, and my career isn’t about me. It’s about the people I serve and their lived experiences, and those moments of joy at every minor stage of growth. It’s about the beautiful infinite generability of language and the right they have to it and everything it can unlock. It’s about seeing a need — a gap in training and technology and understanding that’s marginalizing what is arguably the world’s most underserved minority group — and knowing that in some small way I can grab the world and push it closer to justice. I don’t think about me. I rarely even match my socks.

But that’s a cop out, and the reality is we do need to tell our stories as professionals; I have the best job in the world, and this industry — this clinical space — is in desperate need of more people willing to put their souls into it. There was a time when I didn’t even know this field existed, and a time after when I needed to be convinced it was the right fit. Now, if you’ll allow me, let me convince you; let’s take the return journey and see what we uncover. Let’s start like all good stories do: At the beginning.

2. 2003

Widdershins (adv.) Archaic Scottish, 16th century, meaning to charge a course where you “sail against the wind” or to move counterclockwise, considered unlucky. From Middle Low german weddersinnes, “against the way;” from Old High German weder- “against” and sinnen “journey.”

Widdershins (adv.) The taking of the more difficult road.

Growing up, my family always expected me to go into business. “Expect” is actually a generous term; an MBA was practically a prerequisite for membership (although a J.D. or M.D. would be reluctantly accepted). I wasn’t really into business, though —an irony that is not lost on me given that for years now I’ve been working in industry, which is the colloquial term for “clinician who now makes stuff to sell.” My rebellion played out in short, tentative baby steps. I liked computers, and my family thought computers were the business of the future; it was the perfect cover. On top of that, I was playing a deeper game; what I really liked was math. There is something so elegantly beautiful about pure fact; about an equation or a theorem that lines up just perfectly and resolves itself like a game of Tetris. Order and structure from chaos; the very definition of the universe wrought whole by logic alone.

So there I was at the University of Oregon happily studying my math and smiling my way through my coding courses (or completely butchering my way through, as I discovered when I started to work with real programmers later on) — and suddenly, outrageously, I was told that I needed to take courses in an “unrelated topic area” to fulfill some requirement for whatever who cares. The nerve of those people; I’d done all this work out-maneuvering my family — you know, those people paying my tuition — and here I was scuttled regardless. Anyway, I decided to knock a few out in a term, found the few that fit my schedule, and enrolled in a course in Etymology — the history and evolution of language — and Syntax. Syntax I recognized from computer science terminology and the Etymology course, if I recall correctly, I chose because it was timed so that I could sleep in.

Listen, I’m not sure what a spiritual experience is — again, as mentioned above, I’m not a particularly introspective guy. My working hypothesis, however, is that I pretty much had one. Language was — is — beautiful. It’s math played by a symphony, every note you hear structured and rule-bound yet unique. Sentences can be short. Snappy. You can catch someone’s attention, draw them in. Then, when you’re ready, you can unleash a long sentence — structured, engaging, informative — and feel truly heard, truly understood; math is a means by which we can understand the universe, but language is the means by which the universe expresses itself.

I was hooked.

3. 2009

Change (v.) From Old French changier meaning “alter”or “switch;” in mid-13th century English defined as “to be other than what one was, to pass from one state to another.” Of Celtic origin, from Proto Indo-European *kemb-, “to bend.”

Change (v.) That which makes us bend.

Five years later my course was well and thoroughly set. My family still (mostly) talked to me, I’d finished my BA in Applied Linguistics, and found my niche in a Masters program. I had found the union of my two loves in the form of Corpus and Computational Linguistics, and was writing my Thesis on disordered language structures among individuals diagnosed with Schizophrenia using a massive database of transcripts. I had great relationships with the faculty, a fantastic Thesis advisor — which I’m able to say in retrospect, my sentiments were slightly different immediately after my defense — and I was doing what I loved. I met my now wife, also in the Masters program, and made all kinds of friends among exactly the kind of wacky and bizarre people who get Masters degrees in Linguistics.

When assembling my Thesis committee, University rules required that in addition to my advisor I choose one member of faculty from within the Linguistics department and one member of faculty from a different field. I asked around, wondering who I should ask to join, and I was told I should get a Speech-Language Pathologist.

“A what?”

From the Communication Sciences and Disorders program.

“The what?”

I made it through a Bachelors and almost all the way through a Masters degree in Linguistics without knowing Speech-Language Pathology existed. My immediate assumption was that Communication Science had something to do with journalism or giving speeches or something. I made an appointment with the recommended faculty member, an expert in neurogenic language disorders, and showed him a draft of my findings. He told me it reminded him a bit of Broca’s Aphasia.

“Who’s what?”

I started to do some research and — well, here we go again.

4. 2014

Opportunity (n.) In late 14th century English, a “fit or seasonable time.” From Old French opportunite meaning “fitness” or “suitableness.” Originally from the Latin phrase ob portum veniens, ob “toward” and portus “harbor.”

Opportunity (n.) When the wind blows you into port.

Some of you might know the feeling of a hard IEP meeting. On this day I had just come out of a hard IEP meeting; lawyers on both sides, a mediator in between, a large interdisciplinary team, and … me. Me, in my second year working in what was an absolutely fantastic school district in Oregon; I’d been sure that I was going to be working in the hospitals until a fateful practicum assignment in graduate school where I met a clinician who remains my mentor to this day. I worked with Sonja, a young girl with Rett syndrome, for whom I built my first homemade eye gaze system to replace the hulking beast that insurance wouldn’t replace. I worked with Jeff, selectively mute and unwilling to come to school for three years until I mailed him a letter from Hogwarts inviting him to join (we’re still in touch). I made a ton of mistakes, but I learned a lot and I did my best and most of the time, my best worked.

But I was frustrated by the bureaucracy, by the caseload — which I came to learn was actually relatively low at this district; I met an AAC specialist later who was on the IEPs of 182 different students — but I felt like I never had enough time. More than anything, though, I was frustrated by something systemic; I worried then, and I worry now, that we’re creating an alternative system when we should be creating a system of alternatives. I mean that in two senses: Both the structure and logistics of special education (and education generally), but also in terms of the AAC systems we design and implement. If gradual conformance to typical social and developmental standards is the ostensible goal of individualized education, then we are already hobbled by the fact that we are attempting to achieve that while offering radically different tools and experiences to the students we seek to serve. If a square peg doesn’t fit in a round hole, who’s fault is that? The peg, the hole, or the person trying to jam it in?

So I worked with many students and had many rewarding experiences, including the son of the parents in the room. I’ll never forget when his mother turned to me, looked me in the eye, and said:

You told me this system would bring some light into my child’s life, but all you people do is help him come to grips with the dark.

I sat in the parking lot for a long time after that — long enough that it was now morning in India, where the app he was using was designed. I did some smartphone sleuthing and found a phone number with at least four more digits than I was used to seeing, dialed, and just let loose. I talked about language systems; I talked about access; I talked about symbols, and colors, and funding, and even the placement of little bits in their menu options that I didn’t think were right. The person on the other end of the line, who is now a close friend, patiently took notes; eventually I hung up. Ten minutes later the CEO called me, told me nobody’s ever done that before, and offered me a job.

A year later I’d helped boost the strengths and whittle down the weaknesses of their namesake application (Avaz) and had launched another one, a collaboration from scratch called FreeSpeech. It was the perfect opportunity; all that work with computers, math, and language coming together into a beautiful whole with an amazing team. We were the first application for special education to ever be featured in the #1 slot by Apple in the iOS App Store and won the CES Best of Show award in the category of Technology for a Better World. Meanwhile, I felt like four children in a trenchcoat trying to buy tickets to an R rated movie. An imposter. There was no way that we’d done that, right? I hadn’t helped with that.

That feeling doesn’t go away. But you learn to harness it; if you don’t feel adequate, then go prove yourself. If you don’t think you know about something, go learn it. I guarantee if everyone reading this set aside six months or so of their evenings, they could read every single piece of literature ever published on AAC. It’s a young field with an impossible mandate: To tackle defining and facilitating the infinite, beautiful fractal that is human language, which is poorly understood even among neurotypical learners. Meanwhile, we get to work through all of the developmental and cultural complexities of vocabulary choice, developmental literacy, and pragmatics. All of this is of course done on bleeding edge technology that accommodates access methods largely unknown to the consumer public, like eye tracking and brain-computer interfaces. Oh, and I almost forgot: You also get to make sure it works across the entire continuum of human development, aging, motor, and cognitive ability, often in multiple languages, while lives are literally at stake. Easy.

I may still feel like an imposter, but I’m not sure anyone wouldn’t with that set of expectations. My motto now: “One impossible problem at a time.”

5. 2019

Clock (n.) From Medieval Latin clocca meaning “bell;” through Old French cloke (“a bell”) and Middle Dutch clocke (“bell”). In English in the late 14th century it came to mean “machine to measure time mechanically.” Replaced Old English dægmæl, from daeg- “day” and mael (“mark,” also the origin of modern “meal”). In Greece at that time water clocks were used; klepsydra, meaning “water thief.”

Clock (n.) The thief that marks our days.

My professional goal as both a clinician and a developer has always been to have the largest possible “footprint” that I can in terms of positively impacting the AAC community. By 2019, I’d had at least a hand in many of the most disruptive and innovative developments of the past several years: The spread of Avaz throughout India, China, and the developing world. The increasing popularity of voice banking and custom-made synthesized voices. Launching the first AAC-specific telepractice platform. Localization of Snap Core First into thirteen different languages and waging internal warfare — with a fantastic boss as my ally — to drop the price by 75%. Lots of new hardware development across touch, switch, and eye tracking access methods.

Meanwhile I’d founded and grown a private practice (LanguageCraft) across three locations with seven SLPs and a BCBA — and then sold it because I couldn’t handle being back in the world of paperwork. Started a website promoting evidence-based practice called SpeechScience, along with a podcast called Talking With Tech that had (still has) thousands of weekly listeners — and then sold that too. Launched a male recruitment program for the American Speech-Language Hearing Association (only 3% of SLPs are men). Joined a couple nonprofit boards, including one where I sat next to Temple Grandin.

I built and sold AAC hardware and software for a man in Slovenia who kept them in a shed with his goats. Sold eye tracking devices in cash to Qatar, UAE, and Saudi, and spoke at the first ever assistive technology conference in Pakistan. I had a running email thread with Noam Chomsky arguing about syntax. I became the kind of person who turns down media inquiries because I can’t be bothered and complains when they don’t get an automatic upgrade because of their frequent flyer miles.

Of course I was also the guy who had fallen into an open manhole in Nairobi because I wasn’t paying attention. Who put his car into “airplane mode” while driving to a home health appointment in private practice (translation: the car flew, briefly, then drove no more). Flipped the switch to turn off Compass and infuriated thousands; helped to facilitate Tobii’s acquisition of Smartbox and then watched it fall into regulatory shambles. Like I said at the beginning — I don’t even match my socks.

The point is: I had reached that footprint. I was Director of Product at the largest company in the industry, selling into 57 countries with eight very talented people answering to me — and many others answering to them. Incredible software development and clinical content teams with really big hearts. And on December 5th, I walked away. I felt like I could look back in that moment and visualize my life as a canyon — all of my actions and experiences carving it deeper and deeper — and faintly in the distance I could see the high-water mark, like the watershed had broken and I would never get back. I wasn’t going to get anything more accomplished without making a change.

It was time to tack widdershins again.

6. 2021

Meridian (n.) Meaning “noon” or “midday” in English since the 14th century; figuratively used to suggest a “point of highest development.” From Old French meridien and earlier Latin meridianus, “to the south.” Originally from the Proto Indo-European *medhyo “middle” and dies “day,” a form of the root *dyeu- “to shine.”

Meridian (n.) Time to shine.

It’s three o’clock on a Sunday and the page is no longer blank. I feel like I’m shining; perhaps that high water mark wasn’t there after all. We’ve just announced the Cognixion ONE — a wearable Brain-Computer Interface paired Augmented Reality, definitely the world’s most advanced speech generating device — which has been my secret project with some very talented people for the past year. As I type these words, a neural network is training the predictive language model in another tab; that takes time, but I still have plenty. Let’s face forward again.

I’ll let you in on a secret: At the very beginning, I lied. It’s always been about me too. I love this work. Yes, I am passionate about serving the population, and building better tools, and banging away at the walls of the cognitive and bureocratic jail we’ve placed ourselves in as related health professionals. I do all of that for the greater good — but also because it’s better than coffee for getting me out of bed in the morning. Every day is a new adventure — a new development, a new skill mastered, a new person met, a new life changed. By my best calculation, only about 11% of the people in the United States who could benefit from AAC are even aware that it exists. Who could pass up an opportunity to explore language and technology — while serving the common good — especially in light of the incredible opportunity for growth that lies ahead?

I’m often surprised when I see or hear negative attitudes in our field; don’t people understand what we’re up against? All the reasons that I love this field are the same the reasons why awareness is so low and device abandonment is so high. It’s complicated, it’s ill-understood, it’s paperwork-intensive and costly, and more than anything it’s intimidating — due at least in part to the rancor between professionals defending their different brands or language system tribes, which becomes almost comical to watch when you get deep enough in to realize that yes, some people are approaching AAC wrong, but it’s abundantly clear that nobody is approaching AAC perfectly right.

The truth is that the only competition in this field is awareness; people think we’re fighting for a “slice of the pie” when the reality is I’m not baking a pie to sell to you, I’m building a kitchen. Bake your own pie, or come build with me; believe me, there’s no poverty of people in need. We just need to reach them, and be sure they understand that we know they are whole, we’re not trying to “fix” them; we’re offering a tool to more safely and capably interact with their lived environment — no different from shoes, or glasses, or a warm winter coat. And then, more than anything else: We need to listen.

The other day I had a video call with a friend with Cerebral Palsy. He’s using an eye gaze system I helped build, with software made by a team I managed, and above enjoying his friendship I also like to check in and see what feedback he might have. Now he’s considering trying our new wearable, which has been my secret project for the past year. When the call started, we said our respective greetings and then he said “What do you want to talk about?” I was honored to be able to say the three words the define who I want to be as an SLP, as an AAC specialist, as a human:

“You tell me.”

Note: Etymological definitions were drawn from multiple sources, with Proto Indo-European (PIE) roots primarily sourced from historical linguistics professional communication forums. Where affixes or suffixes are annotated with an asterisk (*), that means the phonetic pronunciation — and of course spelling — are estimated based on evidence of a vowel shift between 4500 and 2500 BCE.

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