In this interconnected world we live in, we’re always trying to reduce the distance between people, by devising interactive learning environments, creating online communities and replicating classroom interactions in a virtual setting.
But does everyone really want to become more closely connected? That question niggled at me from the very beginning of my career as a teacher, and it took me a long time to understand why.
Finding a quiet corner
I’ve worked in distance learning (in the field of Classics, teaching ancient history and languages) for 20 years, and one thing I’ve noticed in that time is that some students are drawn to distance learning because they like the distance. They don’t want collaborative assignments, chat sessions, group activities and breakout rooms. These students just want to study quietly, learn some things, and test their understanding through assessed work.
I tend to notice students like that, even though they’re often the least visible in the group, because my own instincts pull me in that direction too. When I was a student I hated the idea of presenting my work to the class or doing a group project, and the word ‘icebreaker’ used to send chills down my spine (it still does, if I’m honest!). I needed a quiet corner, a pile of books, and time to make sense of things in my own way.
The sensory and social demands of in-person university attendance were far harder for me to cope with than the work ever was. I went to great lengths to find a quiet hiding place. One year I discovered how to open the door to the university roof, and I spent the time between classes precariously perched on a solitary chimney pot with my notebook. If someone had told me that distance learning would allow me to study on my sofa with a cat and a fleecy blanket, it would have changed my life – and I would have been much less chilly too!
Finding the words
Back then I had no way of explaining my need for distance, and so I exhausted myself trying to hide it. I couldn’t tell people what the problem was, because I didn’t have the words for it. It wasn’t until much later that I was diagnosed with autism. Then the pieces started to fall into place, for me and for the people around me.
A lot of neurodivergent people out there still don’t have the words for the difficulties they experience or the help they need. Some do have the words but don’t want to say them, perhaps because they don’t want to claim them without a formal diagnosis, or because they don’t want their peers or supervisors to think of them in terms of a disability or deficit.
My late diagnosis has shaped my scholarship and practice, because it’s led me to believe that the best solutions are the ones that don’t depend on people actually using the words. If we wait for students to declare a disability or report a problem before we offer them access adjustments, we’ll be missing all the people who need our help but will never ask for it.
Finding a safe space
In my work at The Open University I’ve focused on creating safe and comfortable spaces for all students online, without necessarily trying to bring them closer together. A few years ago I designed the Relaxed Tutorial Project, which investigated whether a low-pressure, low-interactivity approach to online synchronous tutorials would be helpful to distance learners. The ‘relaxed’ format turned out to be very popular, and was welcomed in particular by students with anxiety, because it respected their need to step away from other people in order to learn.
Since then I’ve been investigating the benefits of designing for autism. If we think in the first instance not about ‘the student experience’ but about ‘the autistic student experience’, how does that affect what we do and how we do it – and who else might it benefit?
Disability advocates refer to this as the ‘curb-cut effect’: adjustments made with a disabled community in mind which benefit a lot of people beyond the target group (as in the case of dropped curbs on pavements, which were designed for wheelchair users but are also appreciated by people with prams, suitcases and skateboards). Designing for autism requires us to pay close attention to the social and sensory components of the learning environment – and that kind of awareness has the potential to benefit everyone.
Finding Fellowship
Becoming a National Teaching Fellow means a great deal to me because it signifies acceptance into a community – and autistic people don’t take either acceptance or community for granted.
Even the process of applying was positive and affirming, although it was scary to step out of my comfort zone! My university selected me and assigned me a mentor, and I was supported and encouraged by other National Teaching Fellows. Our conversations about teaching and learning helped me to see my work not just as a series of initiatives I’d devised to help my students, but as the development of a teaching philosophy spanning two decades of university teaching, two master’s degrees in Education, multiple action research projects and a diagnosis that tied them all together.
It might seem like a contradiction that by defending the need for distance I’ve made connections with other teaching professionals and become part of a community myself. But when that community values diversity and promotes inclusion, there’s room for everyone – even people who hide in corners!
Cora Beth Fraser is a multi-award-winning classicist and Associate Lecturer at The Open University. She pioneers creative, inclusive teaching methods, particularly for neurodivergent distance learners. Cora Beth also co-directs Asterion, a hub for neurodivergent staff and students in Classics. You can find out more about Cora Beth’s work through her personal website.