A tour group of prospective college students and their parents is being led around our newly built science building. The guide mentions that there are greenhouses, an observatory on the roof, and a planetarium on the lower level.

Parent: “How do you use the planetarium?”

Guide: “The Astronomy faculty has some of their classes in there, and there are programs open to the public some evenings. Some of the advanced students also learn how to run it themselves.”

Parent: “No, I mean, if it’s downstairs in this big building, how can anyone see the sky from there?”

My class is assigned a simple vocabulary project for homework. I read above my grade level, so I’m already familiar with all the words we’re supposed to define and complete the paper before class even lets out.

When they come back after handing them in the next day, I’m shocked to find all of my answers marked incorrect, and I raise my hand for the teacher’s attention.

Teacher: *Walking over.* “Yes?”

Me: “Why are these all marked wrong? I know that’s what they all mean…”

Teacher: “The assignment was to make sure you all know how to use a dictionary. You were supposed to look them up and write down the definition.”

Me: “But, the instructions didn’t say that.”

Teacher: “You should have known.”

Me: “How!?”

When I was in fifth grade, our teacher had to leave unexpectedly. She was already planning to go on maternity leave, but something happened, and we ended up with a long-term substitute sooner than expected.

On her first day, the substitute (a strict, no-nonsense woman, who, reflecting back on this, was probably in her sixties and on the way to full retirement) laid out her rules.

The substitute suddenly zeroed in on me, asking:

Sub: “Why are you hiding your arm in your shirt?”

I froze, confused. She asked again. Then, her tone grew sharper, and I started to cry. I was overwhelmed and didn’t know how to explain.

My classmates, even the ones who usually didn’t care about me when I was bullied, rallied around me, trying to explain to her what was going on as I sat there in the middle of the class crying. 

One of my friends whispered to me:

Friend: “Show her your leg.”

I hesitated but rolled up my pant leg to reveal my prosthetic leg. I was born without my right arm at the shoulder and with a birth defect in my right leg that meant it was amputated above the knee when I was two. 

She looked mortified. She apologized profusely, both to the class and to me. 

Later, she pulled me aside for a private conversation, where she apologized again and promised to be more understanding. Most of the class hated her, her strictness didn’t win her any fans. I actually liked her. Her rules meant fewer people bullied me, and that incident helped us form a connection.

I am Deaf with a capital D and have been since I was born. I can still hear a bit, but not much without help. 

At the time of this story, I had recently started wearing hearing aids as prior to that I had not known that I was eligible. I have industrial piercings (a bar across the tops of my ears) that I tuck the wire of my aids behind to prevent them from falling off. I also have hearing aid stickers and charms that I rotate depending on my mood. I am incredibly passionate about disability advocacy and disability rights, so I took several disability studies classes in undergrad.

During this story, I was in an entry-level disability studies class that was viewed as a relatively easy class, so there were a lot of frat bro type students in it. We were mid-discussion on accommodations and mobility/accessibility aids at the time of this story when one of said frat bros joined the conversation.

Me: “I’ve been using a hearing aid for a bit now, and I recently got an industrial piercing to help keep the wire tucked behind my ear. It keeps it in place, so it doesn’t fall off.”

Frat Guy #1: *Eyes full of joy and whimsy.* “Wait, hold up! That’s actually so cool! It’s like you’re a cyborg! Like, some steampunk, body-mod, half-human, half-machine hybrid!”

Frat Guy #2: *Nodding.* “Yeah, it’s like in those sci-fi movies where the tech is a part of who you are! That’s so sick!”

Me: *Laughing.* “Well, I wouldn’t necessarily call myself a cyborg, but that’s a really fun way to put it. I’m definitely not that cool.”

Frat Guy #1: “Nah, Cyborg Girl, that’s super cool. Can we see it?” 

After explaining how fragile it is and showing them what it looked like with the piercing, I let them pass it around their little group.

There were probably about five of these huge frat guys, passing around my hearing aid like it was some sort of precious gem, oohing and aahing at the sticker and charms. Eventually, it was passed back to me, and I put it back on.

From that point forward, my nickname to those guys was “Cyborg Girl,” and they were incredibly serious about accessibility for me. If people in discussions didn’t speak loudly enough, one of the guys would tell them off for it. I took a few other classes with them they would correct the professors as well.

In academia, which is full of structural and personal ableism, that interaction with them was such a breath of fresh air. In other situations, their comments might have been a bit mean, but their curiosity and awe were so genuine. I’ve dealt with a lot of academic ableism so whenever I feel beaten down by it, I just think about those guys and their allyship. It was just so sweet and definitely a faith in humanity restored situation.

In the early 1990s, I had a student job as a computer site monitor. This was in the days before ubiquitous student-owned computers, so the computer site was where people would go to type up their papers and print them out.

The process was simple. You handed your ID to the monitor on duty, and they would file it in a numbered wall niche and give you the card from that niche. You would use the computer whose number matched the card. When you were done, you’d return the card and get your ID back.

An important side note is that any computers that were out of order would have their number cards removed from their niche and also have notes taped to the front of the monitors so that they could be easily identified for later repair. This lab had a model of computer with power supplies that would sometimes overheat with heavy use. Fortunately, they would usually emit a faint, high-pitched whine when they started to go bad. Once that was heard, they got tagged and called in so that IT could add them to their repair queue.

One evening, things were very busy and there was confusion at the desk: students were showing up to return their number cards, but the ID in the niche wasn’t theirs. It turns out that a group of friends had decided to sit together and, rather than asking to be reassigned a different computer, had simply traded their number cards with people who came in and who were supposed to be using the stations that they had taken.

This took several minutes to sort out. Shortly after everyone’s IDs had been reshuffled, one guy from the group of friends came hurrying up to the desk.

Guy: “My computer screen just went black!”

Me: *Sigh* “Which computer are you sitting at?”

Guy: *Pointing back toward the group* “The one over there.”

Me: “The one with smoke coming out of it?!“

Guy: “Yeah! What do I do?”

Me: “Unplug it right now!“

It turned out that he had sat down next to a friend without even checking in at the desk, took the “Out Of Order” sign off the front of the machine, powered it up, and was happily hanging out with his friends, the noise of their chatter drowning out the faint whine until an overheated capacitor blew and let out the magic smoke.

After it was determined that there was no actual fire, the student got a sound scolding by Campus Safety — at the end of which, he had the audacity to ask if there was any way for me to recover the paper he had been working on because it was due the next day.