Final Frustrations and Thank Yous

Alessandra Necamp

On the top of a hill, behind the white buildings and Green that define Dartmouth so well, are an old tree stump and a statue of Robert Frost. Dartmouth students know the tradition and meaning of these relics well. These days, we take pictures in front of them as part of scavenger hunts and sorority pledge missions. Robert Frost, whose statue I’ve spent time studying by on sunny afternoons, once famously wrote that “Two roads diverged in a wood, and I, / I took the one less traveled by, / And that has made all the difference.” Ok, but Led Zeppelin also famously sang, “Yes there are two paths you can go by / But in the long run / There’s still time to change the road you’re on.” Forgive me Mr. Frost, but Led Zeppelin has provided me with the mantra these days that I repeat frequently when gazing into the unknown and the terrifying future.

I lived the words of Led Zeppelin three years ago when I transferred to Dartmouth. I made my decision in the middle of the summer of 2006 after touring Baker Tower and seeing mountains roll on forever —it felt like home. These days, I think transferring was both the dumbest and the smartest thing I have ever done. I missed out on freshman year here, and because of that, I was not on campus-wide e-mail lists, I never got an academic advisor, and I didn’t learn what an NRO was until after it would have been helpful. I feel that another year here would have given me time to actually effect change on campus. I also know that if I hadn’t transferred, I would have missed out on an experience that challenged me in ways I did not think were possible. I would not have met the people I now call my best friends. I would not have found out how exhilarating it was to run 109 laps around a bonfire.

So right now, I’m caught looking down two roads. Either I use this space to rightfully rip Dartmouth to shreds for its failures, or I write something mature and wise and dispense some advice to those coming back to campus in the fall. I hope that other senior writers choose to point out some of Dartmouth’s greatest flaws. Permit me, though, an abbreviated critique: Dear Old Dartmouth, you are resting far too heavily on your laurels. If I could alter this place in one way, I would take away its Ivy League status and prestigious name so as to make the institution rise up out of its complacency, and do more to actually make this one of the best schools in the world. Yes, there are indeed great things about this school, but Dartmouth largely remains stuck in a lackluster funk whereby students wrestle with a bureaucratic administration that makes change impossible. Change: it’s the phrase of the day, yet almost impossible at Dartmouth. I know this because I have tried for three years now to change the way Dartmouth thinks about, accommodates, and educates students with disabilities. And still, Dartmouth remains inaccessible as ever.

What? I’ll make this short. I said…I’ll make this short. Can you hear me? I’ve had to repeat this story so many times that my activism and rage have given way to exhaustion. Or perhaps to bigger and better things. What I’m saying is this: I suffer from hearing loss, and my Dartmouth experience has been so negatively impacted by it that I have often thought of transferring. I’m sorry, I still can’t hear you $mdash; can you speak up? I said, Dartmouth, that you have made me feel victimized by my hearing loss. You made me feel powerless when you said you would listen but didn’t. Dartmouth, you have made me do more work to guarantee my day-to-day accommodations than any student should ever have to. Wait, did I hear you right? Yes… remember the time I told you about a professor who said she would “think about” providing me with essential accommodations and later refused? And of course I told you about the time a professor asked me to leave his class because my needs were taking too much time away from other students. Wait, did you say something about the law? Let me clarify: gross incompetency, ignorance, and blatant discrimination have often made me feel like my only option was a lawsuit. But let’s get beyond the law, because its adherence should be the bare minimum. As an institution that claims to be among the “best of the best,” Dartmouth should strive for universal design —that is, it should ensure accommodation for all, including those with disabilities.

What, are you stupid or something? That’s what she, a fellow student, said to me when I asked the same question she had 5 minutes ago. I guess I didn’t hear it the first time.

Humiliation, anger, frustration, and shock. Thank you, Dear Old Dartmouth, for these challenges. I mean it. They gave me the opportunity to push back at you and challenge your foundations. When Dartmouth could not rise to the occasion, I did. It’s funny: Dartmouth’s failures became my greatest learning opportunities. I would not call them successes (remember, I did not change anything), but still I am thankful for the opportunities provided in the places I never thought I’d find them.

Which brings me back to Led Zeppelin. I would like to change this road that I’m on right now. Anger and frustration, I have given you the voices you deserve. But something bigger deserves this space, too.

Dartmouth is not without its shortcomings, but there are those who love it. I love it. I love the way the air smells like wood-smoke on fall evenings and I love it when the snow is light and makes everything sparkle. I love the town, I love the mountains and most of all, I love the people here. So here is my advice for you ’10s, ’11s, and ’12s: give thanks. For all the fun we have, for all the complaints we register, and for all the abuses of the fraternities and the late nights in the library, we forget how good we really have it. And forgetting the good makes me the bitter old senior I swore I would never become. So here’s the best part of this piece, and the most important:

To St. Lawrence University, where I spent my freshman year: thank you for propelling me to Dartmouth.

Thank you to the Moosilauke Ravine Lodge, the place where I found home and community. Thank you to the Baker-Berry Library, both a prison and a sanctuary. Thank you to the Dartmouth Skiway for powder, ice, rain and snow, for fast runs and rolling groomers. To EBA’s, for gooey goodness and an appreciation of 2:10 am: thank you.

Thank you to the performance groups—singers, dancers, musicians, actors, comedians and to the sports teams and artists— you continually amaze me and have been great entertainment.

To the Government department and its international relations professors: you helped me find my passion and challenged my thinking. Thank you. To the Tucker Foundation: you have given me so much opportunity, fulfillment and purpose. Thank you. To Ray, Nancy, Eleanor and all my favorites at DDS: you made having food allergies more bearable and my mornings brighter. Thank you. To the alums who made it possible for me to go here and to the financial aid office for all of your help, thank you.

To Deans Crady, Burke, Gomez, Liscinsky and Krusi: you’ve been great listeners and have provided good advice. Thank you. To Kenya, Kibera, Stacia and Daniel: you inspire me and give me hope. Asante-sana.

To EKT: you have been a space where I have been able to express myself freely. To my sisters: you are always my safety net. Thank you. To Palaeopitus: you helped me appreciate and understand Dartmouth. Thank you. To those I call my friends: there are too many of you to name, but you changed the way I see the world, you challenged me, and you kept me sane. I have enjoyed being here with you. Thank you. To my friends who are pre-med: thank you for slaving away with me these last few years. I have learned empathy and pity and am now guaranteed a good facelift for my 50
th birthday. Thank you.

And to the illustrious Greek scene, and to the fraternities in particular: thanks for all the free beer!

To flair and snow sculptures, to Michael Jackson and the Salty Dog, to the River, the ledges, the formals, the streaking, the first snows and mud season, the Green, tennis balls and bonfires, blitz, Occom and Eleazor, Lou’s and Fort Lou’s, block parties and room parties, the Tower Room and the Stacks: you have given me something to call uniquely my own: Dartmouth. Thank you.

I am not done here, but space and time are running out. I think, now that it is time to embark on a new adventure, James Wright would say, “We have work to do, you and I.” Thank you, Dartmouth, for helping me find courage and conviction, thank you for bringing together the most inspiring, funniest people in the world, and thank you for being my home for the last three years. There are many roads to go by, but in the long run there’s still time to change the road you’re on; just don’t forget to say thanks.

Thank You.

’m never quite sure how to explain my experience at Dartmouth as someone with a hearing loss. On one hand, I love Dartmouth just as much as the next person and have made the choice not to allow a few negatives to determine the quality of my time here. I have very real fears about sharing my experience with you, but I feel that the benefits of doing so far outweigh the costs. I don’t want to become a victim of my disability, and I don’t want to be defined by it. I also don’t want to become just another person who is offended. And this is not just about me, it’s about all of us.

I have a moderate-to-severe sensori-neural hearing loss, which means that if a personal with normal hearing can hear 100% of a normal conversation, I hear only 40-50%. It was diagnosed in kindergarten and my life related to it has been a whirl wind of trips to Denver to see the audiologist, MRIs, CT scans, raise your hand at the beep tests, blood drawing and doctors sticking all sorts of things in my ears. Yes, it was traumatic, and yes, I am a bit dramatic. But I still hate going to the ear doctor. Because of my hearing loss, I also have difficulty discerning what people say, though I can hear them talking. Additionally, loud noises are physically painful and cause migraine headaches.

Because of my disability, I receive special accommodations in my classes. Through the Student Accessibilities Service, I am provided a volunteer note taker in each class, as well as a front row seat. I also use remote captioning, which allows someone from across the country to hear the lecture and type it up as it’s happening. I see this transcript live in class on my laptop.

Having a hearing loss can be such a small issue, and I hesitate to make a big deal out of it, but things happen every day that do not allow me to ignore it. For example, in one of my classes, the professor always forgot to wear the microphone and I would have to interrupt his lecture to get him to wear it—he would often roll his eyes or drop the mic, making it clear to me that it annoyed him. The other day, I asked someone what I missed in a lecture, and he said, “Oh, nothing worth hearing anyways.” He doesn’t realize that he is making that choice for me. Even going out can be a challenge not worth dealing with—I can’t hear anyone over all of the noise in the frat basements, and at dance parties, the music is so loud that staying for even 15 minutes can give me a migraine.

To this end, not only have I not been able to ignore my hearing loss, but I’ve been forced to identify as someone who is disabled. It’s not about being a victim, but rather about navigating every day life here with that label.

If this is the first time you’ve heard about these issues, it’s not a surprise. People with disabilities, whether learning, physical, or otherwise, comprise one of the most invisible and marginalized groups on campus. But our “differences” affect the quality of our daily lives the most—some of us cannot even function in academics or beyond without our accommodations. The services we do have available specifically to us consist of the Student Accessibilities Office—so there’s someone to try to make sure we are provided all of the necessary technological accommodations, but nobody to counsel us outside of that.

The Student Accessibilities office is very limited in their capacity to provide support for students. They are great about making sure technological aspects are working, but in terms of the legwork of notifying professors, of policing them to make sure they’re accommodating me, this is something I do. Beyond this, it’s located within the Academic Skills Center. When disabled students need to talk to someone about their accommodations, they walk into an office with tutoring posters all over. They can ignore it, of course, but there are two messages being sent: first, that disabled students must be doing poorly in class and need help; and second, that the College simply didn’t care to add a separate office just for disabled students. In contrast, the office at my previous school was physically separate and a space just for students with disabilities. That office was designated to send notices to all of my professors, thus legitimizing my needs. Additionally, if and when students had a problem with a professor accommodating them, the office was always open and they could simply walk in and talk about how it made them feel; but also, and most importantly, what could happen from then on. The office here tries$mdash;$mdash;and let me give credit where it is due$mdash;$mdash;but in general, it seems to echo the consensus of the entire campus: figure it out on your own, only the strongest survive. Beyond this, there is absolutely no guidance or support outside of providing accommodations.

For example, just this week, the 9th of the term, a video wasn’t closed captioned despite the ample time given to do so. There was to be an entire class discussion on it and I was the only person in the class who didn’t have access to the video—I was made to be at a disadvantage because of my hearing loss. This, by definition, is discrimination. I cannot describe adequately the amount of frustration I felt, and also the pain over having to deal with this, of feeling completely excluded from a class because of a disability I have no control over and wish constantly to be able to ignore. Most frustrating during these times is the feeling of being all alone in this experience and of not having anybody to talk to who can offer not just basic support, but also to help me find a solution. This is a common problem. Naturally, those of us with disabilities can reach out to deans, to professors, to counseling services and the like, but in terms of an office or OPAL dean or someone intimately familiar with the challenges of having a disability, there is not one. Even last term, in a politically charged climate filled with rallies and speeches of tolerance and acceptance, somehow disability was left off of the list frequently.

It’s easy to think that discrimination and marginalization doesn’t happen to the disabled. However, in a competitive academic atmosphere, many people see my accommodations as giving me an unfair advantage over them, and my experiences with having a hearing loss are those of discrimination. In fact, my disability is constantly called into question because it might give me an advantage over those with “normal” hearing. But accommodations help to put us on equal footing with “abled” people—they are in no way giving us an advantage.

Unfortunately, the Dartmouth community includes people who are willing to question the validity of someone’s experiences as a member of a minority group, or willing to question the qualifications of those financially unable to pay for college, or willing to question the validity of someone’s disability and the accommodations they receive. It seems to me that there is a deep-seated fear within our community that someone is getting an advantage over you, that someone is getting something you’re not, or that you might have to share some of what you have. We have allowed our fear of other people’s advantages propel us to ripping our community and each other down instead of building each other up. This fear is unfounded and irrational. This fear, this extreme awareness of self-interest in competition, is what has lead to discrimination and marginalization, and to hurt and pain. It has to stop.

In writing this, my fear has been that you will ignore it as just another person complaining. But the point I really want to make is that in the end, we all have our own disabilities, our own uniqueness, our own difficulties and challenges. To extrapolate this clichÉ—we’re all different, we come from different backgrounds, and we experience life in totally different ways. Dartmouth
is a school that encourages these differences. But before we start looking at how we can avoid offending people or deciding who is more of a victim, let’s consider one thing: respect. All I want as a student with a disability, and all you want, is respect—for who we are, for our different experiences, for the challenges we face. From the stereotypes of the rich white frat boy to the black girl from the inner city, to the flamboyant gay man, to the kid with ADHD, to the girl with the hearing loss, we all want respect. Yes, this is horribly preachy, but really, how much does it take to think about what we say before we say it, to be willing to listen to others, to walk a yard in their shoes, to have genuine respect for each other and for ourselves?