Here is part 3 of the text of a presentation Amy gave at the National Federation of the Blind Annual Convention in Orlando, Florida (#NFB24) on July 6, 2024
As a scientist with first low, and then almost no vision, I’ve had to navigate a sea of obstacles to be the oceanographer I wanted to be. The single most daunting obstacle probably being my own self-doubt. In the early days, not only was I a super-minority in my professional community as an oceanographer with low vision. But I was also a woman in a very male-dominated field, with just a handful of female peers. I sometimes felt like I didn’t belong in physical oceanography. I was afraid I wasn’t good enough, that I couldn’t be successful with low vision, and any day my colleagues would figure this all out. Some call this the imposter syndrome, but others have recently argued that these feelings, experienced by many, are more a sign of an unwelcoming or unaccommodating community, and not an indication of some failing or inadequacy on my part.
Anyway, from my female colleagues, I had learned that having a network of peers and mentors with similar lived experiences was just as important to a successful career as being able to write a good grant proposal. Luckily, this was just when the world wide web was taking off, so I could search beyond my immediate circle of colleagues for other blind scientists. Indeed, I was able to find and contact a few; all in other fields; but it was a start.
Around the same time, I searched for support groups for blind professionals closer to home on Cape Cod. I finally found a group in Boston, 2 hours away by bus; the closest one I could get to by public transportation. This was my first significant connection with peers facing some of the same challenges. I made more connections attending many International Ski for Light cross-country skiing events, where I met other blind and low vision outdoor enthusiasts, many of whom were also successful professionals. I started to have more hope that maybe I could not only survive but thrive in my chosen career. Others seemed to be doing it in their chosen fields, so why not me!
My network and my confidence grew even as my vision declined. But I still had to contend with the ticking tenure clock. Academics usually have only a limited number of years to build an independent research program and demonstrate that they have made a significant impact on their discipline. At the end of that time window, it’s up or out. Even with video magnifiers and screen readers, many research tasks took me longer than my sighted colleagues. Plus I had to constantly research new access technologies, and learn to use them, as my vision deteriorated. With all the extra time and energy spent adapting to ever-changing vision, I wasn’t sure I could make tenure. At that time, academic institutions were beginning to implement “slow the clock” policies, mainly as an accommodation for expecting mothers who were pursuing academic careers. It occurred to me that such an accommodation would be appropriate for someone in my situation as well. I too was experiencing a life event that impacted how quickly I could get my research program up and running, just like parents with small children. But I had to request this accommodation, and I was hesitant! As far as I knew, no one at WHOI had requested slow the clock for disability reasons.
With the encouragement of my institution’s ombudsperson, I did make this request, and to my relief, it was granted without hesitation. I earned tenure in 1999. And a few years later, I was promoted to the top rung of our promotion ladder, Senior Scientist, the first woman to achieve that rank in my department.
Over the next 20 years, I continued to grow my research program. Then in 2018, I was selected by my colleagues to be the next department chair, The first woman ever to serve in this position, and the first blind person to hold any leadership rank at WHOI. This meant I would be responsible for the professional well-being of over 100 researchers, students and administrative staff in the Physical Oceanography Department. I would also join the other department chairs, vice-presidents, and the president of WHOI to lead our world-renowned research institution of over 1000 employees.
Before I became chair, I was constantly running to keep up with my workload. Now I had to sprint to manage the huge increase in the volume of emails, reports, memos, spreadsheets, personnel concerns, budgets, and oh, by the way, WHOI’s response to a global pandemic! Many documents I had to read and digest as a department chair were not accessible, and decisions based on them sometimes had to be made quickly, often at the same time the PowerPoint or spreadsheet was being shared with me and the rest of the leadership team for the first time. Screen reader accessibility was unfamiliar to the team, so it was a big challenge for them to make their documents accessible. They were as busy and pressed for time as I was, making it challenging to find the time to improve accessibility of their documents. I had to start pushing, publicly and repeatedly, for accessible documents to be provided with time to review them, which, by the way, would be better for the whole team! This constant reminding was not comfortable, but I kept asking. After all, my department had chosen me to be their representative at the highest administrative level. I didn’t want to let them down!
In spite of my persistence, I didn’t always get access to documents at the same time as everyone else. In those cases, I had to ask a lot more questions. It wasn’t always an ideal situation by any stretch, but nonetheless, I successfully completed my 4-year term as chair two years ago.
