I often think about who I am and how people perceive me. Maybe we all do. 

 I do this more now that I find myself back on campus, and teaching face-to-face after just over a year working strictly from home during the heat of the COVID-19 pandemic. I objected to teaching online for a long time. I thought the classroom was irreplaceable, the student-teacher connections impossible to replicate. But when I moved online and began hosting live, synchronous Zoom classes, I was surprised at how easy it was to adapt.  What surprised me most was how seamlessly my classroom was integrated into my private life.

 Class starts in 5, 4, 3, 2, 1. Get ready for the camera. Quiet down. Back to the wall. Deep breath. Tuck in the shirt. Fix the hair. Done. Start meeting.

 In the Zoom classroom, technology makes everything seem so simple: our faces are fixed on the screen with our names underneath—creating what looks to be an equal playing field, where each participant is able to access resources and class materials in a way very different from the on campus classroom, very efficient, well thought out.  As host, I too quickly found myself in control.  I eagerly invited my students to attend, alertly letting them into the room, and giving them permission to speak when they requested.   However, it was also easy to recognize online platforms magnified the diverse situations of my students. Not everyone had a work space, not everyone had a computer, many did not have a solid internet connection.  Access to technology does highlight the inequities of systemic racism and gender and sexuality-based discrimination, that is true.  But as a person with low vision, who identifies as blind, I welcomed the chance to have control over my classroom, to use my adaptive technology at will in order to see who was present, and engage fully with the same multimedia presentations I am hesitant to use while in person. I had everything I needed to teach at a high level. I quickly realized how online instruction could become a necessary and acceptable accommodation for many disabled folks, while at the same time representing a limit that perpetuates inequity and injustice for our students.  

 Returning to campus has been difficult. As I prepare for my classes, I no longer feel the same level of comfort as I did when I readied myself for the camera at home. Instead, I walk across campus and through hallways and I think about whether I belong, how people see me--while I do not see them, and what level of anxiety is acceptable. When is it time to ask for an accommodation? I don’t know.  How do we support students in a socially just and equitable manner and at the same time allow for faculty and staff to be sick, and identify as disabled? In a profession that is defined by the services it (we) provide, and by its staff’s ability to support others, how can we create an environment that allows for the disabled?

The global pandemic has heightened awareness around social inequalities.  It has brought to the fore conversations about how we react to sickness, to mental health, and to other illnesses and disabilities. COVID-19 has forced both innovation, and difficult discussions. Yet, as we return to classes, normal remains a marker of stability, good health, productivity, and ablebodiedness. Normalcy has no place for sickness, for society's ills.

 Now that I am back on campus and when my classes are over, I do return to my office, just as I once did. Now, however, I leave my door open, whenever possible. Maybe we all do. And I do this more than ever before because I want to welcome people, students, colleagues and friends into my space—much in the same way I did online. Maybe this is the new normal.