Margaret Price This paper includes unpublished data,Associate Professor as well as research conducted by a collaborativeDepartment of English team (Margaret Price, Mark Salzer, StephanieThe Ohio State University Kerschbaum, and Amber O’Shea). You areprice.1225@osu.edu welcome to cite or share this paper, but ifhttp://margaretprice.wordpress.com you want to relate specific data or findings, please

contact me so I can provide you with the most stable / easily located source. Thanks!

[cover slide]

On Inclusivity and Mental Health: Reconsidering Space and Time in Higher Education1

Today, I’ll be talking about my experiences as a disabled faculty member, and also

sharing some of the research I’ve done with disabled students, faculty and staff. Overall, I hope

to explore what we mean when we talk about “inclusivity” in higher education—in particular,

what it means to take our ideals of inclusion and actually enact them. This audience knows

better than most that when it comes to disability inclusion, the devil is in the details—and about a

million other locations. Before I get to my stories and research, though, I want to go over a few

introductory things.

First, I’ll describe the image on the cover slide. It’s a photograph taken looking

downward at a below-ground set of doors. The doors, painted black with heavy-duty silver

handles and locks, are located at the bottom of a deep concrete well. A set of concrete stairs can

1 The contents of this presentation were developed under grants from the U.S. Department of Education, National Institute on Disability and Rehabilitation Research (NIDRR) grant H133B100037 (Salzer, Principal Investigator) and the Conference on College Composition and Communication (Price and Kerschbaum, Principal Investigators). However, these contents do not necessarily represent the policy of the U.S. Department of Education, and endorsement by the federal government should not be assumed, nor do these contents represent the policy or views of the Conference on College Composition and Communication. Parts of this paper have been published or are forthcoming in Mad at School (Margaret Price; University of Michigan Press, 2011); Disability Space Architecture: A Reader (edited by Jos Boys; Routledge, 2017); and Precarious Rhetorics (edited by Wendy Hesford, Adela Licona, and Christa Teston; OSU Press, forthcoming 2019).

be glimpsed at the edge of the photograph, leading from ground level down to the doors. The

well is surrounded by heavy iron railings. Each door bears a white graffiti tag as well as a small

red sign. It is not possible to read the red signs without actually descending into the well and

getting close to the doors. If you do—as I did after taking this photograph—each sign reads,

“Not an entrance.” [Pause]

[IF necessary to explain … I’ve been taking pictures of doors for a different research

project I’m doing, and this set of doors is one of my favorites, in the sense that one’s favorite

Harry Potter house might be Slytherin.]

Next, I want to check in about how we are accessing this space together. In the interest of

making this space as accessible as we can together, I want to invite you to use it in whatever way

is most comfortable for you. [Slide.] This is an image of me at a conference at George

Washington University. I am lying on my back on the floor with arms outstretched and my feet

propped up on a suitcase. Parked next to me is a yellow Segway scooter, as well as a blue chair

with a jacket on it. You might imagine that I’m sleeping, but in fact I’m paying close attention to

the person presenting. Due to my own physical fatigue and joint pain, that position was—at that

time—the best way for me to stay mentally engaged and pay attention to the speakers.

Unfortunately, we’re not usually encouraged to assume comfortable positions while doing

academic work. So I want to invite all of us to use this space in the most comfortable and

accessible way possible. For instance, you might wish to sit or lie on the floor rather than remain

in a chair. You might want to take an extra chair and put your feet up. You might want to stand

up, move around, stretch, or go out and come back in. You might wish to engage in an activity

such as stimming, typing, knitting, or drawing. All these forms of engagement are welcome.

Margaret Price / AHEAD 2018 / 2

[Slide.] And finally, before I get into the main part of this talk, I want to offer a quick

note on vocabulary. In my book Mad at School, I use mental disability as an umbrella term to

mark a coalition between mental illnesses, cognitive disabilities, and intellectual disabilities, as

well as the mental conditions that may accompany other kinds of illness—for example, brain fog.

To be clear, I don’t mean that these are all the same thing, or cause us to experience the same

kinds of stigma or discrimination. However, I perceived the need for an umbrella term because

there is a unified experience that all these disabilities involve, and that is that they are imagined

to be located in the mind. The mind, in Western culture, is imagined as the seat of rationality,

intelligence, and agency—indeed, the location where the value of the person themselves resides

(see Lewiecki-Wilson). This bias has persisted even in disability culture; [SLIDE] for example,

the Rolling Quads, a group at Berkeley who were among the first recognized disability activists

in the U.S., used to use the informal slogan, “We’re paralyzed from the neck down, not the neck

up” (Shapiro). [pause]

And that brings me to my main topic today, which is inclusion.

[Don’t read the subhead aloud. Just PAUSE. / Part 1: Excludable types]

It would be hard to find a word of more interest on college campuses today than

“inclusivity,” unless it was “diversity,” or possibly, “budget cuts.” Of course, there’s been a great

deal of work on what it means to “include” people in academic life—and yet, enacting this

principle has turned out to be one of the most difficult challenges facing education at all levels.

Why?

Sarah Ahmed’s book On Being Included, a study of racism and diversity in higher

education, says this about inclusion: [Slide.] “To be welcomed is to be positioned as the one who

is not at home” (43). A similar concern is voiced by Tanya Titchkosky, a philosopher who

Margaret Price / AHEAD 2018 / 3

studies inclusivity from the point of view of disability studies. Having observed several instances

in which discussions at her school focus on spatial issues such as ramps, doorways, and

bathrooms, Titchkosky draws these conclusions from the justifications made during these

conversations: [slide]

Wheelchair users are depicted as “never showing up,” as an “expense.” … Disability, in this instance, can be characterized as the abject underside of legitimated existence, included as an excludable type by signifying it as an always-absent-presence. (80; 90)

To put this quote in simpler terms, we might think about the familiar refrain about accessibility

that we are so often told: when the person with the disability shows up, then we will do

something about it—ask everyone to wear fragrance-free products, for instance, or use the

microphone, or put a ramp next to the raised platform. This works like a logic problem: if x, then

y. Unfortunately, the terms of this logic problem don’t take into account the affective reaction

that might cause the equation to disappear altogether. If I arrive at a venue that assumes I don’t

exist, or don’t matter, I am more likely to remove myself from the situation than to announce to

those already present that I have shown up.

[Slide] What this tells me is that trying to make inclusion happen—moving beyond good

wishes and enacting it—often doesn’t work, for the very reasons that Ahmed and Titchkosky

explain. Regardless of how well-meant the efforts are, the very fact that gestures of inclusion are

being made means that the distinction between those “in” and those “out” is not broken down—

it’s actually strengthened.

I’ve spent most of my life experiencing firsthand what it is like to try to operate from the

position of the excludable type. When I was teenager, I was told that I might not “live very

long,” although no one was particularly specific about what “not very long” might be. In

subsequent years, my bodymind developed and reacted through a whole series of events, some

Margaret Price / AHEAD 2018 / 4

medical and some not, so that I am now a 48-year-old person with an entertaining array of

diagnoses, including autoimmune disease, borderline personality disorder, brittle bones, fatigue,

periodic flare-ups such as shingles and psoriasis, post-traumatic stress disorder, and—one my

favorites—“hyper-mobile eardrums.” These facts of my lived experience, and how long it took

me to understand them in terms of disability, have always been intertwined with my life in

higher education.

Despite the fact that disability in higher education is my area of study, I struggled terribly

when I started a new job at Ohio State almost three years ago. I talked candidly about my

disabilities during the hiring process, and then more after I arrived on campus. Yet I never

received information about how I might find accommodations. The atmosphere wasn’t at all

unwelcoming or hostile—rather, I was often told, “Just let us know if you need anything.” I felt

generally deeply welcome, and specifically deeply unclear on exactly what form this welcoming

might take, especially if I were in need of something more specific than highly targeted advice or

general goodwill.

Scott Lissner is a kind and skillful ADA Coordinator, and by sheer luck, I happened to

find myself in his office on a day that I desperately needed help and was able to admit that. (The

truth is, I burst into tears and said something like, “I don’t know what to do, I am failing at my

job.”) Scott helped me figure out what accommodations I needed, and began putting them in

place right then and there.

What’s most striking to me about this story is not that, as a disabled person, I fell through

the cracks of the many services available at my school. That happens all the time. What really

strikes me is that that a person could hardly have been better resourced, or more knowledgeable,

about disability in higher education, than I was. (I literally wrote the book on it.) Moreover, I’ve

Margaret Price / AHEAD 2018 / 5

been teaching in higher ed for over twenty years, I’m tenured, and at the time I went to see Scott,

had just been recruited into the job of Director of Disability Studies at a school where that

position is long-standing and well-respected. And yet, there I was, trying to soldier through, not

really believing that my specific configuration of illness and mental illness was anything that

could be reasonably accommodated. Returning to Titchkosky’s concept of the “unimagined

type,” the failure of imagination here was not perpetrated by some identifiable evildoer. It was

systemic; it was all around me; it was part of me. [SLIDE] A powerful feat of imagination is

required to go beyond passively “welcoming” disability, and instead actively expecting it.

I’m going to shift gears now and talk about some of my research in disability and higher education. I’ll start with one of the concepts I developed in my book Mad at School , then move on to the survey and interview study I’m working on now. [Part 2: Kairotic space]

[Slide.] The term inclusivity operates like the terms engagement, critical thinking,

productivity, or excellence. We want them, yet we can’t agree on what they are. And as common

topics, they tend to cause debates, because they invoke values that we seem to hold in common,

but which may turn out to mean very different things when actually applied and circulated in

specific situations.

When we observe the workings of these topics in the everyday life of higher education,

their exclusive function becomes apparent. “Engagement” is one example of how this works.

Let’s think about a college classroom, in which students study material and then are asked to

discuss it together during class. We’re accustomed to thinking of accommodations in terms of

measurable steps aimed at equalizing: for example, note-takers, sign interpreters, or providing

materials in alternative formats are often said to “level the playing field.” But what

accommodations might be offered for the student who is engaged, but in ways that are not

legible to the instructor or the rest of the class? For example, what about the student who is not

Margaret Price / AHEAD 2018 / 6

able to break into the discussion, or who unintentionally speaks out of turn, or who has difficulty

following the free-flowing conversation, or who needs to engage in activities that might be

considered “distracting,” such as stimming or rocking?

The term discussion implies that the space is open to all comers, but this setting is in fact

controlled by rigid, unspoken expectations: students taking part in a “discussion” are expected to

demonstrate their knowledge of the topic at hand, raise relevant questions, and establish

themselves as significant, but not overly dominant, voices in a crowd. Further complicating the

transaction is the fact that different instructors have different expectations for the “script” of a

classroom discussion. And these expectations may or may not be communicated directly.

Classroom discussions fall into a category that I call kairotic space. [Slide.] This term

draws upon the classical Greek kairos, which is usually translated as the good or opportune time

to do something. Kairotic spaces are the less formal, often unnoticed, areas of academe where

knowledge is produced and power is exchanged. A classroom discussion is a kairotic space, as is

an individual conference with one’s professor. Academic conferences are rife with kairotic

spaces, including the question-and-answer sessions after panels, impromptu “elevator meetings,”

and gatherings at restaurants and bars on the periphery of formal conference events. Other

examples from students’ experiences might include peer-response workshops, study groups, or

interviews for on-campus jobs.

[Slide.] I define a kairotic space as one characterized by all or most of these criteria:

1. Events are synchronous; that is, they unfold in “real time.”2. Impromptu communication is required or encouraged.3. Participants are tele/present. That is, they may be present in person, through a digital

interface such as a video chat, or in hybrid form.4. The situation involves a strong social element.5. Stakes are high.

Margaret Price / AHEAD 2018 / 7

[Slide.] The defining element of kairotic space is the pairing of spontaneity with high levels

of professional or academic impact. Attention to relations of power is of great importance in

understanding kairotic space, as is recognition that different participants will perceive those

relations differently. I don’t claim the ability to define what is and is not a kairotic space if I am

not directly involved; in fact, that’s part of my point, that one person in a space may feel that it’s

entirely low-stakes and friendly, while another may perceive a significant sense of risk.

Despite their importance, kairotic spaces in academia tend to be under-studied. One

reason is that their impact tends to be underestimated by those who move through them with

relative ease. The importance of kairotic space will be more obvious to a person who—for

example—can hear only scraps of a conversation held among a group sitting at a table, or who

needs more than a few seconds to process a question asked during a one-on-one conference. We

are used to thinking of disability as something that we can accommodate through a series of

known moves. But instead, disability—maybe especially the less-understood and less-well-

recognized conditions such as mental disabilities and chronic illnesses—often must be

accommodated as it unfolds through interactive spaces like classrooms and offices. [Pause] This

is why I turned to my current research, which combines a large-scale survey with detailed

interviews. I wanted to learn more about exactly how disability actually unfolds in the specific

situations of academic life.

[Slide.] My current research focuses on faculty, and includes a survey and interviews

with faculty who have a wide range of disabilities. The survey had 267 responses in the final

sample that was analyzed, and so far 34 interviews have been conducted. I’m working on this

project in collaboration with Stephanie Kerschbaum of the University of Delaware, and Mark

Salzer and Amber O’Shea of Temple University. If you’d like to learn more about this study, you

Margaret Price / AHEAD 2018 / 8

can go to the page on my website that outlines it and reports on our published research. [Read

URL aloud.]

Analyzing these data led me to another concept, which builds on kairotic space—a

concept I’ve come to call crip spacetime. [SLIDE] Crip spacetime turns its focus away from the

individual to focus on the spatial, the relational, the non-human animal or object, and the group.

It draws upon material feminism, crip theory, and cultural rhetorics, which includes feminist

ontology. To put it a bit more simply, I realized that I needed to focus not on individual

disabled bodies, but rather on situations and relations. Thus, the primary object of study is

not the faculty members themselves; rather, they are the chief storytellers, the expert informants

about the real object of the study, which is the spacetime of academe.

Part of what led me to this theory was my realization that accommodation itself does a

strange thing with space and time. As I continued to interview faculty members, I noticed a gap

between what I came to call “the accommodatable” and “the unaccommodatable.” [SLIDE]

Accommodatable disabilities are noticeably present in university spaces, though embattled. But

unaccommodatable disabilities inhabit a queerly abject kind of space, one which is usually not

noticed. Essentially, an accommodatable disability can be predicted whereas an

unaccommodatable disability cannot.

Now, as anyone with a passing understanding of disability knows, no manifestation of

disability is truly “predictable.” All disabilities fluctuate, and so do social contexts. Thus, these

are not fixed positions.

But here’s the rub. [SLIDE] Some disabilities can be made to appear predictable enough

to specify “needs.” Indeed, the structure and governance of academic access, which is predicated

Margaret Price / AHEAD 2018 / 9

upon identification of needs, almost always mandates this sort of passing by requiring that our

material forms of access be figured out and arranged ahead of time.

I should back up for a moment and emphasize that I’m not against accommodation. As I

mentioned, I receive accommodations myself, and I also routinely offer them in the classroom

and argue for them on behalf of students and my colleagues. But the further I got into this study,

the more I realized I couldn’t avoid the fact that accommodations encourage a deeply

problematic logic. [SLIDE] The imaginative logic of using accommodation as a means toward

access relies on the assumption that disability is stable and knowable, not only in moments—for

example, when confronting a step or a time limit or an uncaptioned video—but in predictive

ways. It implies (and, in everyday academic life, almost always requires) the ability to say “I can

tell you what I’m going to need—in an hour, in a week, next semester.”

So, unsurprisingly, those of us who try to gain access in various environments, including

higher education, have historically tended to trade upon whatever predictability we can muster—

or masquerade. (On masquerade, see Siebers.) [SLIDE] Unfortunately, in doing so, we have

enabled the creation of a dividing line: those whose disabilities are stable enough, predictable

enough, to benefit from the protections of rights-based accommodation—and those whose are

not.

This is why I developed the theory of crip spacetime—or rather, why it presented itself to

me with such force. I’m not just saying that we are all moving through an entangled matrix of

space and time. Albert Einstein beat me to that insight. Rather, I mean that the spacetime we

move through and which constitutes us is composed not only of geometric space and linear time,

but also of the affective impact and intangible knowledges that manifest these radical inequities.

Margaret Price / AHEAD 2018 / 10

To put this more simply, even when we are side by side, we are not inhabiting the same

spacetime.

[Slide.] And finally, to add one more depressing thought to a rather depressing line of

argument, I must also point out that the inclusivity gap is sustained by a loop of effects. Those

with less privilege tend to be in ever more marginal, ever more energy-sapping positions, while

those with more privilege become less and less aware of the harmful effects of their actions, or

non-actions. So the question then becomes, how do we intervene in this process?

[Slide.] After completing our survey of faculty with mental disabilities, Stephanie and I

worked with the Temple University Collaborative on Community Inclusion to create a resource

guide designed to help higher-education institutions become more inclusive. I’m now showing

an image of the guide’s cover, which is red and shows the edge of a stack of books on its right-

hand side. The title is “Promoting Supportive Academic Environments for Faculty with Mental

Illnesses.” It can be downloaded for free from the TU Collaborative’s website. [READ URL.]

Although our task was to write for faculty, much of the advice in this guide can apply to anyone

in a university environment—undergraduates, graduate students, and staff as well as faculty. It’s

not a guide for universal design per se, but it does apply many of UD’s principles, especially

those that bring together the difficult concepts of being proactive but also responsive, providing a

clear structure but also being flexible. As scholar Aimi Hamraie has written in their history of

universal design, UD was not originally meant to be a plan for access that’s carried out ahead of

time. Rather, it was meant to be a site of activism, one that achieves its goal of equity in use

through radical inclusion of diverse perspectives.

To be honest, this resource guide was a struggle to write, because my job was to try to

offer suggestions for general policy, which meant doing a certain amount of prognostication. But

Margaret Price / AHEAD 2018 / 11

I also know—viscerally and personally as well as through my research—that every local

situation, every school, every student and employee, is in a different situation. As a result, we

had a strike a balance between leaving room for local context and specific situations while also

trying to offer general suggestions for things that universities often don’t address proactively.

Overall, we tried to suggest sustainable moves that can help create a culture of access (on

“culture of access,” see Brewer, Selfe & Yergeau) rather than continue to feed the habit of

thinking about disability in terms of individual bodies and singular interventions.

Creating a culture of access requires slow conversations, reflection, and sitting together

with questions that may seem unanswerable. So today, I want to conclude with some questions,

ones that I often suggest as ways of starting conversations at the universities I visit.

[3 SLIDES] What opportunities have been opened for discussion of mental disability on our campus?

Are those opportunities easy to find, even for newcomers or those who might feel vulnerable about speaking up? How do these conversations frame the concept of “mental health” or “disability”?

Where are the kairotic spaces in our program, department or school? How can we adjust these spaces so that expectations are clearer and alternative ways of communicating are expected (not “accepted” or “tolerated”)?

How do we find a balance between the need to set clear policies and the need to respond individually to access needs—in other words, to practice access at both the structural and individual levels?

These questions are just examples, and there are many more to ask. I hope you will suggest your

own during our Q&A.

In closing, I don’t have a set design for mental-health access in academia. What I do have

is assurance that our goal—the goal of inclusivity itself—should be worked toward in situations

that emerge through the interactions of humans, spaces, structures, and policies. In other words,

this is an ongoing project, and it is all our work.

Margaret Price / AHEAD 2018 / 12

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