Communicating with Students about Faculty Chronic Illness

Being a faculty member with a chronic illness is a mixed blessing. On one hand, like with any job, the anxiety of never knowing whether my body will show up on time and ready to go, is not necessarily the stuff capitalist dreams are made of. On the other hand, second to a job where I could work from home, the flexibility of being a faculty member is often ideal for a body that won’t consistently cooperate with a 9-5 schedule. Graduate school is the first time that I remember becoming aware of the fact that most of my black faculty mentors [particularly the one’s who identify as femme of center] had some form of chronic illness. Today I’m not quite sure why so many suffer from a variety of different chronic illnesses, but I suspect that a lot of it has to do with the unique abuses and trauma’s afflicted upon black bodies within the ivory tower.

Living in NYC, on the Tenure Track, with a Disability

Regardless, experiencing chronic pain as a full time faculty member on the tenure track, has resulted in a near constant set of challenges. When I went on the job market, some of the most intense [and worrisome] conversations I had with my mentors, were about whether or not being “out” online as a person living with lupus/chronic illness/disability would hurt my job prospects. When I started working in NYC, friends and family were distraught over how I would get to my third floor walk up apartment after hospitalizations. To this day I consider myself lucky that my department was open and flexible about providing me with accommodations. As you might imagine, I was terrified of the prospect of having to tell my new boss every excruciating detail of the myriad of ways lupus was attacking my body. Four years later, I am lucky to have a relationship with him that now makes such discussions easy.

One of the most challenging aspects of figuring out how to navigate my disability within academic spaces, is when it comes to chronic illness disclosure and students. Approximately once or twice a year I experience a hospital admission. Sometimes I am lucky and these 4-5 day admissions happen while our students are on their summer or winter break(s). But unfortunately, sometimes these admissions happen in the midst of the semester. The question I am routinely confronted with is whether or not I should tell students why I was absent from class.

Why I Don’t Require My Students to Disclose Their Medical Challenges

For context, I should tell you that I don’t have excused or unexcused absences in my classes. You have four absences to use however you want over the course of the sixteen week semester, and you are not required to tell me why you need to use them. I tell my students that they are adults, and that particularly when it comes to family emergencies or medical emergencies, I don’t believe in compulsory disclosure. If they want my support, they are welcome to ask for it, but politically and pedagogically, I believe that students’ have just as much of a right to their privacy as any other adult.

You can imagine then, why this leaves me in a state of flux when it comes to disclosing any level of detail when it comes to my disability.

Why I Disclose My Chronic Illness to My Students

Over time however, I’ve found that the political and pedagogical power of sharing my disability story matters more to me than whatever small amount of privacy I gain by keeping my chronic illness a secret from my students.

Every semester, on the first day of class, I stand up [or sit, depending on the day] in front of my students and I identify myself as a person living with a disability. This provides an opportunity for me to explain what invisible disabilities are, what a chronic illness is, and what it means to have lupus. Whenever I am hospitalized, have a bad reaction to my monthly chemo treatment, or suddenly show up in class using a cane, I use it as an opportunity to discuss the myriad of ways that chronic illness can upend a individual life. I’ve learned that by modeling the process of disclosure, and more importantly, by showing in real time what it can look like to live a disabled life without shame, I’ve enabled my students to begin doing the same. Over the years I’ve had students who’ve struggled with heart disease, learning disabilities, depression, and anxiety, just to name a few… To often, they’ve hidden these challenges because capitalism has taught them that anything outside of a white-cis-able-body is a thing to be hidden or ignored. By telling my story, my pedagogical goal is to show students how to advocate for themselves at work and in the classroom via disclosure. After all, it’s hard to ask for accommodations if no one knows you need them.

Disclosing to Students Has Some Risks

I would be lying if I didn’t admit that these type of disclosures can come with repercussions. I’ve had students use my disability as a means for critique on my student evaluations. I’ve also had students use my hospital admissions as grounds to challenge their grades. Since those complaints have never had any merit, I haven’t had to worry about them. My department has been clear about having my back, disabled body and all. I am privileged because I work in a department, within a college, that has publicly and resoundingly articulated it’s support for me. Many young, black, queer, femme of center, disabled, tenure track faculty do not have this privilege. As a result, you will need to consider carefully the potential risks that come with public disclosure, as well as disclosure in the classroom. But I think that for those of us who can, disclosure of disability, both publicly, and to our students, serves as a pedagogical and political set of behaviors that has deep meaning and power behind them.

Living with a disability isn’t easy. But on the days when I can use my experience to help others, it makes my reality a bit easier to bear.

peace

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