Disaster Academia

As I prepared a lesson based on Disaster Capitalism (that is, conveniently profiting off of states of emergency when no other option seems viable), I inadvertently went on an introspective conversation with myself about what else can thrive in the middle of chaos. I’m looking at the literature for this lesson, realizing that the person who documented the disaster (in this case, the humanitarian crisis in Puerto Rico post-Hurricane María) would eventually present their findings and become a “knowledgeable person” or an “expert” on the topic, and not necessarily the survivors. What happens here is a kind of translation from what the researchers view and interpret, to the target audience that will ultimately recognize this person’s expertise in this field. My immediate question was: “Are people allowed to have a voice of their own and become the experts of their personal experience, or are they only good enough to be a research sample, padded on the shoulder, and left with a ‘GRAS-ee-ahs’ that no one really cares if it was properly pronounced or not?” I mean, if you can’t pronounce my full name correctly, what makes you think you can pronounce my personal disaster?

And so on and so forth, I continuously observe how Academia thrives when disaster is at the door. My linguistics professor used to say: “Everyone is a part-time linguist,” and in Academia, it seems like everyone really, really knows how to present disasters. Not only that, but they also know how to magically turn something into a problem so they can write about it, making it look like the population in question isn’t aware of a different disaster. A quick example of this is when, years ago, someone I knew was collecting gloves to help children from X Caribbean Island. Back home, they picked up garbage with their bare hands. Let’s be real: the least they’re worrying about is why they have to deal with garbage without gloves. So many questions came up when I heard about this: Did you ask yourself why they collect garbage? Do they go to school? Do they work like this to bring home extra money? Where are their parents? And the list goes on.

I will say: if it weren’t for disaster, marginalization, oppression, and loss, Academia, as it is today, wouldn’t have a place in the world. As I learned earlier in my graduate studies career, one of the many purposes of Academia is to document current issues and present them theoretically. They always tell you that, in a way, you’re contributing. However, I’ll always remember the day we discussed underage prostitution in the Caribbean. We had to read an article about a researcher's eye witnessing a prostitution exchange between a tourist and an underage female. The “researcher” provided details on the approach, courtship and the narration ends when both tourist and teenager leave to have sex. The article goes on to theorize and detail on related issues. But I remember asking the professor what happened with the girl and if the researcher had done anything about it. As you already know, the answer was no. So I continued: “Why would someone witness something that they obviously know is illegal and become complicit by going on with their lives?” Mind you, I’m over here thinking if the person is already in Academia, they must have some sort of power… But my professor’s response was that the researcher had contributed to the academic field and now people knew about it thanks to this person’s documenting of it.  

If you’re reading this, you know me. By now, you should know that I cannot be a part of something so dehumanizing. But time after time, Academia keeps giving me reasons to not see each other eye to eye. I have a legitimate problem with being accepted as a study subject, but not as a researcher. In the past, I’ve had to challenge some of my academic authorities on this. Mostly, because in any field that is related to any population deemed as non-white, it is the white academic who becomes prestigious for reporting it. I did, and will, continue to use the word “reporting” because, in the end, most of these people don’t do anything about the subject’s problems. It can only make you feel like you’re watching a wildlife documentary that includes images of animals being preyed upon, and they always explain how they refrain from intervening because “that’s how nature works.” It would happen if they weren’t documenting it, so what difference does it make? My best guess here is that, as research subjects, we’re deemed to eat shit because “it would happen anyways, documented or not.”  

One of those instances I became defiant was when one of my professors asked if the academic field of Latino Studies had achieved its goals. And I said no. No, because it seems to me that Latinos still don’t have enough access to Higher Education, they still have to make up for their social inequalities, and once in Academia, they’re not considered seriously to do research on their own background, like if they’re only talking about their problems. And I continued by saying that, on the other hand, when a person who clearly isn’t part of their community decides to use them as study subjects, they can’t get enough praise and attention for going through the trouble of “noticing” us. The instructor asked: “Do we really do that?” One of my former students who was in the same class jumped immediately to say: “You guys do that all the time.” Just to be clear, I have no issues with someone outside of our communities doing some research on our issues; I do have an issue with their process being called “research” and mine being called “a problem.”

Another instance I became a “loudmouth” was during a meeting in which our feedback was requested to improve our field. So I asked why weren’t we more socially involved. Why did we feel entitled to discuss social issues surrounding us, but also feel entitled to not do anything about them. I said this because so many things have happened where I now live, and not once have I seen our group participate as a collective effort. I can’t get over the fact that we needed so many interpreters for the detained asylum seekers, and not even a single email was circulated about this. Honestly, I felt ashamed. In the meeting, my last nail on that coffin was: “If these populations are great for research and discussion, but not good enough to help them out, we’re no different from any Orientalist.” Why then bother translating underprivileged communities’ problems into articles and conference presentations, when the only thing that receives more entries is your CV? Because Academia thrives on disaster.

This discussion puts me in a very difficult position because I’m also building my thesis and will potentially “contribute” to a bunch of literature that will only see my dissertation as a great piece to review, deconstruct, and toss away. There was a time when I was heavily passionate about my research: I could visualize the entire project, knowing my audience wasn’t only my peers, but also my community, a groundbreaking piece of educational material ready to be transformative and motivating. And then Academia came around and told me that’s not what they wanted. Academia wants me to do more of the same: research a population, find the issues, write about the issues and how to work around them, name-drop a few theorists, and we’re good to go. My grandfather was, by far, one of the best theorists I met, and he taught me things I later heard again in graduate school. I always thought the reason why my grandfather never became as renowned as these theorists was because he was “ at the wrong place, at the wrong time.” Poor people don’t know anything because they didn’t go to school, or so they think. My grandfather knew about fragmented identities, transnational migration, colonialism, racism; you name it. But, as you all know by now, peasants that travel to the US as seasonal harvesters make great research subjects; theorists and researchers, not so much (again, according to whom...)

I’ve witnessed some awful things during my time in Academia. For instance, some of my colleagues have proceeded in very unethical ways that weren’t challenged because they were already burdened by “noticing” us, non-whites. I’ve seen people become more Latin American than me for a few months, and then come home with a couple of academic scars that pronounce them “white saviors.” I’ve cried because a professor “forgot” about former agreements regarding my academic progress. I’ve also been told: “I don’t know what you’re proposing,” “who are you trying to convince?,” and “I didn’t think you’d last this long here.” The only reason why I’m still here, chiseling a thesis, is because I’m not part of the Disaster Academia. As a matter of fact, I’m not part of Academia at all; I’m an educator. In Academia, you’re trained to create and identify problems. As early as 5, I’ve been solving them. Because of this, I know I won’t become a renowned researcher, analyst, or an “expert” in any social issue. I’m still seen as a research subject for being a bilingual, unmarried, educated, and heterosexual Latina (how dare I?) There’s no anger in this essay, even if there are some undertones of resentment. If anything, I’m grateful for this wake-up call, for knowing ahead of time where I’m welcomed and where I fit. One of my personal goals has always been to be remembered by my students as the instructor who presented something different: an identity outside of Disaster Academia.

P.S.: I’m still going for this Ph.D., which is the least this field owes me.