Opinion: Academic accommodations are disabling success, not leveling the playing field

In the 2018–2019 academic year, nearly 5,000 students at U of T were registered with Accessibility Services (AS) for having a disability. I can only imagine this number has grown with increased awareness and through breaking down social stigma in recent years.

AS supports students experiencing disability-related challenges with their learning by providing different kinds of academic accommodations. These accommodations can include note-taking services, alternate formats for textbooks and course material, a reduced course load, ergonomic furniture in classrooms, and disability-related extensions for assignments. 

Accessibility is a matter of utmost importance at U of T — or so our course syllabi tell us. But just how accessible is U of T in reality? 

Educational institutions often see academic accommodations as evening out the academic playing field by offering students with disabilities the same opportunities to thrive as students without disabilities or abled students. 

However, I believe that the barriers to receiving accommodations from AS, as well as the costs that come with using them, harm students in the long run and that this reflects an inherently ableist education system. I think academic accommodations work as band-aid solutions: they patch the symptoms that stem from systemic issues but fail to address the deeply-rooted ableist attitudes that characterize academic ‘success’ and limit the potential of U of T students.

Uncovering the hidden costs of academic accommodations

U of T claims to offer equal education, yet subjects students with disabilities to the same standards as abled students through the normalization of academic timelines and strict expectations. Academic accommodations have given students like myself some flexibility to succeed in school, but they often come at a cost that ultimately perpetuates inequalities between abled and disabled students.

The process of receiving accommodations from AS is a lengthy one. Long waiting times and hefty amounts of paperwork have impeded my process of acquiring accommodations. Beyond a cost of time, there are a host of other barriers that students with disabilities face at U of T. 

Barriers that I’ve faced range from peer discrimination, unsolicited advice from faculty, and exclusion from valuable opportunities due to preconceptions of my inability to keep up with the academic rigor that U of T is notorious for. Academic institutions see students with disabilities as physically unable to keep up with the demands of academia and therefore exclude them from more rigorous opportunities like independent research, fieldwork, and internships. 

Studying on “crip time”

Alison Kafer is the author of the 2013 novel Feminist, Queer, Crip and an associate professor of feminist studies at the University of Texas at Austin. Her novel coined the term ‘crip time’ to describe a flexible and accommodating approach to life and academia for those with disabilities. 

Studying on crip time means defying expectations of what a ‘typical’ education looks like — taking the necessary time to complete academic tasks rather than conforming to standards that are exclusively designed for abled individuals. This approach to education might look like being granted extra time on assessments, taking fewer courses per term than the ‘typical’ course load entails, or taking on extra years of study. 

Yet, when students with disabilities fail to satisfy the expectations of these typical academic expectations and instead choose to study on crip time, we are often met with harsh social repercussions.

As a disabled student taking a crip time approach to my education, I’m aiming to complete my studies within five to six years on a reduced course load. I can attest to the fact that taking longer than four years to earn a bachelor’s degree still raises eyebrows. 

I have received, and still receive, many confused looks from family, classmates, and professors. They routinely ask why I’m taking so long to complete my studies, especially when nothing ‘looks’ wrong with me. I am not necessarily a person with visible, physical disabilities. Similarly, nearly 90 per cent of students registered with AS have non-visible or non-evident disabilities.

I am not so bothered by this social judgment or questions of the legitimacy of my learning choices. What I am bothered by are the tangible costs of taking longer to earn my degree, which abled students are not often subject to.

 The double-edged sword of flexibility

I will spend an extra $40,000 on residence fees for the two extra years I’ll spend living on campus. On top of that, my reduced course load means I won’t have a sufficient number of credits by the end of the term to apply for my program of study (PoST) despite completing the necessary prerequisite courses. My first-year status may extend to the following academic year until I earn the additional credit that is required to move forward, while my peers are able to gain admission to their specific PoST.  

As a result, I’ve already been denied admission for several PoST, including the international relations, political science, and criminology and sociolegal programs — key fields through which access to academic, professional, and employment opportunities would likely be obtained. 

While academic accommodations are meant to facilitate equal academic participation, I will still be labeled as ‘behind’ my peers at the end of the year — when in reality, I am studying at my own sustainable pace. This is a key example of the repercussions that I and countless others face for studying on crip time.

The irony of ableist educational systems is that their efforts to level the playing field for disabled students merely offer surface-level relief to the greater underlying problem. The normalization of expecting students to earn their bachelor’s degree within a four-year period — and the social and monetary costs that arise when students deviate from this path — is a prime example of how ableist ideals are deeply and detrimentally ingrained in educational systems.

Bandaids for the symptoms, not the cause

I’ve truly enjoyed my time at U of T, so while I’d like to envision myself pursuing graduate-level studies here, I cannot ignore the emotional toll of navigating an exclusionary system that I am sure will continue beyond my undergraduate years. 

While a university education should open doors for future academic and professional opportunities, ableist practices upheld by ableist systems result in a paradox where disabled students are robbed of their time, money, and consideration for those future opportunities that accommodations seek to equalize in the first place. 

Despite my rejections from programs of study — that I am certain would have helped me advocate for other marginalized groups — it remains my hope to bring disability awareness to the forefront of educational institutions and to create room at the table for students like me at U of T and beyond. 

Annette Kim is a first-year student at Trinity College studying humanities. She is a member of the Accessibility Services Student Advisory Committee and an executive member of the Trinity College Dramatic Society.