I cannot follow the path others took before me: How to be your whole self in the academy
Doctoral students and junior faculty are often inundated with advice. We are told not to ask questions about certain things until we get a job or tenure, to keep our head down, write for at least 30 minutes a day, not to spend too much time on our students or teaching, and to follow the same path that has succeeded for those before us.
While I genuinely believe some of this advice is incredibly helpful (publish publish publish, collaborate whenever you get the opportunity, and — as learned this past year — try to go somewhere warm during the break in order to survive the Michigan winter), I also believe that much of this advice comes from a White, cis-centric, heteronormative, patriarchal, and ableist mentality. It is advice that perhaps will work for White, cisgender, non-disabled, straight men, but for those of who hold identities outside of these privileged assumptions, this just doesn’t fit our needs.
As someone who hold a mix of privileged and marginalized identities, I have to ask questions. I need to know that even if the state doesn’t have non-discrimination laws, that the University and school will be supportive of me as a queer person, and that the faculty insurance will cover my trans partner’s medical needs. I cannot keep my head down when it is my community that is under discussion, whether with wrong language being used, being left out of the dialogue, or even being under attack. The idea of being always able to sit and write for 30 minutes every day is itself ableist; when someone’s pain levels or fatigue are so high that simply getting out of bed is a victory, trying to churn out a limitations section is low on their agenda. When I am one of only a few out queer faculty and fewer out disabled faculty, I cannot chose to ignore the trans student who comes to me for guidance about how to respond after being mis-gendered by his professor, or the student who wants to know how open to be about her disability at potential job interviews. As someone who has the privilege to even be in the space of the Academy, it is not an option to simply choose to spend less time ensuring diverse voices are represented in my syllabus and my classroom activities. I am compelled to support the needs of the marginalized students who come to me with questions that mirror my own issues and concerns, when I was in their place.
I cannot follow the path that those before me took, because I don’t know how many other “me”s there have been before. We don’t publish statistics of how many White, queer, Jewish, middle class, disabled, chronically ill, cisgender Femmes have made this path through to tenure, and there certainly isn’t another me ahead of me right now, whose clear path I can follow. I must make a path for myself, and that means being authentic and bringing my whole self to the Academy.
And so, I ask questions. I try to be open, to be compassionate, to be inquisitive, so that my colleagues and those in positions of power know I genuinely want to know the answers and to help with making the change. I triage concerns and issues before me, and I keep my head down when it feels innocuous (like the name change of a committee), so that I can raise my head up high when it comes to ensuring the language our school uses is as inclusive as possible of all communities. I write whenever I physically can, which means that some days I literally sit in a chair or on my couch for close to a dozen hours without moving, so that I can make up for the days on which I feel pain, isolation, and exhaustion. I make time whenever I can for all of the students who ask, because I know how valuable the ability to connect with someone with a shared identity or experience can be (as I was once there myself, and still seek this from those ahead of me).
And with the help and support of others who are not me but have felt just as confused and challenged by these experiences, I carve my own path. Sometimes the trail has been cleared before me by another, and sometimes, I must cut through to create my own way.
Thus, I publish and I collaborate and I go somewhere warm. And I create this space for myself.
What might this look like for you?
1) Use your new-ness as advocacy. Instead of asking “why don’t we have gender inclusive bathrooms,” you might consider “before I bring guest lecturers to this building, can someone tell me where the gender-inclusive bathrooms are?” Rather than asking if you can hang a rainbow flag, a Black Lives Matter sign, a Disability Justice poster, ask for help with putting them up. If you ask questions assuming that the spaces you are in are committed to supporting your identities, it puts the onus on others to tell you they aren’t, rather than you coming off as antagonistic (although there is definitely a time for that). This often allows for more open conversation, rather than the defensive response to why something doesn’t exist.
2) Pick your arguments. You shouldn’t have to keep your head down, but you also don’t have to be the one that is always raising your hand (and your voice). Figure out what your non-negotiables are, what your “this is important but I can keep silent” issues are, and what issues are lowest on the pecking order. Always engage when it comes to the first, weigh the context when it comes to the second, and try to let those in the third category go.
3) Figure out what works for you and your writing. While research indicates that for some people, writing 30 minutes a day is best, we as researchers should know there is no absolute. Just like some people learn best through lectures or watching a video, we definitely know that others do best through activities or discussions. If you cannot write every day because that causes anxiety, or because you have cog-fog from a medication or flare up, or because you just can’t — that is ok. Write what you can when you can how you can. You clearly have figured out some of what work to get to this point; start there and experiment.
4) Be the mentor you had (or wish that you had). Yes, it is important to learn to say no — you can’t do every independent study or panel that you are asked to be on. However, it is also important to show up for those who are coming behind us like those ahead of us did for us. When someone tells a student to meet with me, and they walk into my office, where they see trans liberation posters, and trans/pride/asexual/BDSM/polyamory flags sitting in a vase, and stuffed STIs from my time as a sexologist, and I ask them if they prefer full lights or if they are ok with natural lights and lamps, I literally see and feel them settle into themselves. This is not a space where they will be told they are too much, or that “they” isn’t a real pronoun, or that their sensory issues are going to hold them back in their profession. They may have never met me, but they see the signs in the space, and I hope that I have created even a small oasis where regardless of whatever else is happening, they too can show up as their authentic self. I had this in my doctoral program, and would never have made it to being faculty if it hadn’t been for offices with FIGHT AIDS posters and handmade rugs placed over industrial carpet. We may not be able to go to every event, or attend protests and marches, but we can show up for our students in the spaces we create in our offices and classrooms.
5) Create your path, and support others on theirs. Academia can feel so isolating and competitive at the same time. Often, no one else studies what you study, and yet we all feel as though we competing against one another (whether real or imagined) for grants, for our preferred classes, for recognition, for tenure. Just as there is likely not an established path to success that you can follow, there is also not only one path for you and your colleagues.
So, find your path and help your colleagues and your students on theirs. Collaborate where you can and offer support in the form of reading their work, bringing them a warm drink, or having a grading party. Push back against the idea of one way to get there and the “every person for themselves” mindset. Show up for others in the way you hope they will show up for you. Strength in numbers, and shifting from a culture of scarcity to a culture of generosity and prosperity, will help all of us move forward together as our whole, authentic selves.
Shanna Kattari is an assistant professor in the School of Social Work at the University of Michigan. Her work centers on disability and ableism, and transgender/non-binary (NB) identities and transphobia, using an intersectional lens. She is a member of the Diversity Scholars Network at the National Center for Institutional Diversity.
