Be Flexible
Ashlyn C. Walden
Keywords: disabled child; access; ableism; neurodiversity
Categories: Parenting and Possibility in Impossible Times; Sick/Disabled Bodyminds during Sick/Disabling Times; Teaching as Carework, Teaching as Dangerous Work
Content warning: ableism
Transcript
August 30th, 2019: Newborn baby. Little sleep, managing an older brother, trying to find a new normal, and did I mention tired?
September 18th, 2019: Newborn son chokes, I intervened, potential seizure, hospital stay, then chalked up to indigestion.
Nothing is ever perfect. Be flexible.
October 1st, 2019: Fighting to find a psychologist to observe my oldest son for a potential autism diagnosis. An office assistant calls me and kindly lets me know my son can be seen in November for testing. It’s taken since June to get this call. Nice.
November 4th, 2019: The day after my anniversary, it’s official—autism level two—requiring substantial support. The cold clinical tone of the diagnostician is still ringing in my ears. I live in an ableist world. My son will have to confront this ableist world. How have I been an unknowing part of this ableist world by making assumptions about who people are? I found myself in despair, not because of who my son is, but because of what this world is. The list of therapies and “treatments” quote-unquote the doctor provided was legion. My son, according to behavioralist’s writ needed to be fixed, supported, changed so that he could learn to “read or invest in others’ emotion or interests.” Damn that.
Nothing is ever perfect. This world should be flexible.
On the way home, I looked away from my son, desperately trying to contain my anxiety and fear about the world we live in—I didn’t want my son to think it had anything to do with who he is and who he will be. And it was in this moment, he fought to grab my hand, patted it within his, and said “It’ll be okay, mommy.”
Nothing is ever perfect. My son was teaching me to be flexible.
December 1, 2019: Preparing for return from FMLA, structuring my coursework to deal with new demands of needed therapies, and a growing infant.
Parallel to these events and while on leave as a non-tenure-track faculty member, I conducted a primary research study on student perceptions of accessibility in s tech-mediated classroom. It was hard to do the work, but despite all the other areas competing for my attention, I thought I wanted (and needed) to continue work in my career. Because frankly, what’s one more item on the to-do list?
Nothing is ever perfect. Be flexible.
January 31st, 2020: Back to teaching—my entire schedule is fully dictated by my children’s needs; my husband’s job just doesn’t allow as much flexibility. I think I’m losing it. Breaking news report about a virus—I text my mother, my children’s primary caregiver while I teach, “I can’t do this much longer—now some new virus?”
March 5th, 2020: Spring break—the earliest in our university system. That virus was closer now. But maybe it wouldn’t be in our state. Paralyzed by my fear, and while one son napped and the other was at preschool, I binge-watch a new season of Castlevania. I’m afraid.
Nothing is ever perfect. Be flexible.
Now ask me to tell you about the last 18 months in snippets. I can’t. One minute, one hour, one day, one week, one month looked like the next. Everything I know and practice as a teacher in terms of accessibility and design meant something very different. It wasn’t a matter of design as “bells and whistles” or accessibility for a specific student need; it was an immediate need because at least for the time being, we all were going to have to hop online and try to have meaningful course experiences.
Meaningful as in helping students to feel a sense of community, being mindful of their mental/physical health needs, being flexible with deadlines, communicating with students in multiple ways and often, responding to student work, meeting with colleagues scrabbling their way through the new demands of online instruction, and find time for our own research and professional development.
Nothing is ever perfect. Be flexible.
Each week was a rush to screencast assignment instructions, meet with students via Zoom, produce animated videos to support online instruction, checking and rechecking that course elements could be easily accessible to any student—oh and yeah don’t forget to advocate for your son’s special needs. Because he is more than a label. He’s a human. Worried about his increased stimming? Well, he’s stressed.
That moment where your routine was just pulled out from under you and life can’t go on like you want it to? Welcome to my son’s world. Wait. Am I talking about myself or my son? Where does one role begin and the other end?
Nothing is ever perfect. Be flexible.
The cacophony of background noise which scored this laundry list became all too familiar: a screaming toddler, a kindergartener sensory meltdown, technology glitches, caregivers, therapists, and teachers unsure of school expectations meeting online, and the student comment about you hadn’t answered them within a 24-hour period. Be a college teacher, occupational therapist, speech therapist, physical therapist, counselor, faculty mentor, a listening ear, mother, wife, housekeeper, caregiver, chef, kindergarten teacher, nurse...how about just be?
Nothing is ever perfect. Be flexible.
August 2, 2021: New-born struggles emerging daily—because we ain’t outta this mess yet. Little sleep, managing children who have been mostly isolated, trying to find a new normal, sending my oldest son to first grade in person despite a persistent fear of this virus, and did I mention tired?
August 15, 2021: I stare at a set of guidelines asking me to reflect on my last five years of work for contract renewal. What? I know what these questions are asking. I know that I was asked to support faculty in my department time and again throughout workshops, course models, and individual meetings before the pandemic—but even more so during—five years it seems was crammed into 18 months. And now I have to reflect on my last five years? In my current state, I can’t even reflect on my last five minutes.
I know nothing is ever perfect. I was flexible. Now, I’m stiff.
Bio
Ashlyn C Walden is a mother of two beautiful boys, editor of Research in Online Literacy Education (ROLE), and a Senior Lecturer in the Writing, Rhetoric, and Digital Studies Department at the University of North Carolina at Charlotte. She teaches a combination of hybrid and online courses in composition and advanced writing and research. Research interests primarily include: accessibility, digital composition and design, participatory course design, and user-centered design. And as if being a caregiver, editor, and teacher weren’t enough to fill her time, Ashlyn will be joining Clemson’s Rhetorics, Communication, and Information Design PhD program in Fall 2022 to continue her pursuit as a scholar and advocate of accessibility and inclusivity.
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