Hello, I’m Shelley Tremain and I would like to welcome you to the one hundred and fifth installment of Dialogues on Disability, the series of interviews that I am conducting with disabled philosophers and post to BIOPOLITICAL PHILOSOPHY on the third Wednesday of each month. The series is designed to provide a public venue for discussion with disabled philosophers about a range of topics, including their philosophical work on disability; the place of philosophy of disability vis-à-vis the discipline and profession; their experiences of institutional discrimination and exclusion, as well as personal and structural gaslighting in philosophy in particular and in academia more generally; resistance to ableism, racism, sexism, and other apparatuses of power; accessibility; and anti-oppressive pedagogy.

The land on which on which I sit to conduct these interviews is the traditional ancestral territory of the Haudenosaunee and Anishinaabeg nations. The territory was the subject of the Dish with One Spoon Wampum Belt Covenant, an agreement between the Iroquois Confederacy and the Ojibwe and allied nations around the Great Lakes. As a settler, I offer these interviews with respect for and in solidarity with Indigenous peoples of so-called Canada and other settler states who, for thousands of years, have held sacred the land, water, air, and sky, as well as their inhabitants, and who, for centuries, have struggled to protect them from the ravages and degradation of colonization and expropriation.

My guest today is John Henry Reilly. John Henry is a Ph.D. student and philosophy instructor at Duquesne University where he specializes in phenomenology, history of mathematics and science, history of philosophy, and ethics. Through Duquesne’s Scholarship Collection, John Henry recently published “Peripheral Minds: An Abridged Phenomenological Analysis of Dyslexia.” In his free time, John Henry loves spending time with his partner Kimi and cat Audre, making mazes, all things outdoors, and talking philosophy in dive bars with friends.

[Description of photo below:  John Henry, who is wearing glasses and has a full beard, sits for his Oral Comprehensive Exams (on Zoom) at a desk on which rests a large monitor. He is surrounded by books on shelves and on the desk. Three pens and a coffee mug sit nearby on the desk.]

Welcome to Dialogues on Disability, John Henry! You have taken an unusual path to a Ph.D. in philosophy. Please describe your personal and educational history to the present.

Thank you so much, Shelley! It’s a pleasure and an honor to be part of Dialogues on Disability.  

I grew up in the suburbs of Baltimore, Maryland, in an upper-middle class family. This upbringing was extremely fortunate because Baltimore is a hotbed of Dyslexic activism. My parents could afford testing as soon as it was possible; thus, I was diagnosed with Dyslexia around the age of six.

My parents had suspicions about my Dyslexia from the time I was three years old. My pre-school teacher—Dayla—is Dyslexic and suspected that I was too. So, there was no surprise when I was diagnosed. My time with Dayla also had a serendipitous effect. We adopted Dayla as my grandmother, and when she re-married, Poppy, her new husband, became my adopted grandfather. My dad had taken several mischievous boys under his wing in the 1980’s, who, as adults, regarded him as a surrogate father. Most of these guys were Dyslexic. So, I grew up surrounded by Dyslexics and with the belief that family and community are synonymous.

From grades one to four, I went to a private school exclusively for Dyslexics. The school, Jemicy, used Orton-Gillingham techniques to teach literacy. By the time that I was ten years old, this intensive training began to “click.” I was then able to read and write slowly and with considerable effort. I absolutely loved my time at Jemicy. In many ways, my attendance at Jemicy—along with the community of Dyslexics and allies that I knew at home—enabled me to understand and view my Dyslexia in a positive light. This perspective has allowed me to survive in academia.

Jemicy was extremely expensive and, by the end of fourth grade, it did not seem absolutely necessary. Yet my parents were not confident that in a public school I would receive the support that, at the time, I required. So, they opted to homeschool me. I was a year behind other students of my age. We worked through four grade levels in three years.

I in turn got a partial scholarship to a boarding school called Mercersburg Academy, which I attended for four years. I really thrived there. By graduation, I had certainly excelled academically and even won a few awards.

College was really interesting. I decided to go to St. John’s College in Annapolis. St. John’s is a “Great Books Program” and all classes—from math to language—are seminars. When a curricula is a “Great Books Program,” students read only primary documents for all classes, with the idea that they are reading “the Western canon.” At St. John’s, for example, we read Euclid’s Elements in freshman math class and Galileo’s Discourse on Two New Sciences in the beginning of junior lab. Almost all classes are predetermined: St. John’s students get only two electives over four years. The course work at St. John’s involved, and may still involve, the highest average reading load in the United States for a four-year undergraduate degree. I graduated with a double major in philosophy and history of mathematics/science, and a double minor in classics and literature.

By this point, I wanted to make a career as a teacher in Baltimore. Immediately after graduating, I started teaching seventh-grade math in Baltimore city public schools (BCPS). For many obvious reasons, I had a lot to learn. Ultimately, I would say that the students taught me much more than vice versa. The spring of my first year of teaching was 2015, when the Freddie Gray uprising occurred. This moment was pivotal for my students’ futures, for Baltimore’s future, and for my future.

The Freddie Gray uprising seemingly caused severe budget cuts for BCPS, with BCPS responding by cutting contracts for as many first-year teachers as possible, which meant that I could not teach in Baltimore the following year. My provisional teaching license would not apply anywhere else. By serendipity, I found out that my boarding school, Mercersburg, was desperately looking for a physics teacher; so, I jumped on the chance to work there. I ended up teaching physics, astronomy, and outdoor education at Mercersburg, as well living as a dorm parent in the same dorm in which I had lived as a student. I taught there for three years and really loved it.

In 2018, I got into Yale Divinity School’s M.A. program. While teaching physics, I got increasingly into philosophy of physics and the philosophy of time. I was really interested in the relationship between early modern physics and theology, the disconnect between our experience of time and special relativity, and (unrelatedly) ethics.

Perhaps strangely, Divinity School felt like a great place to explore these issues, particularly at Yale. I studied primarily under Michael Della Rocca, a Spinoza scholar; Martin Hagglund, a continental philosopher; Jennifer Herdt, a virtue ethicist; and John Pittard, a doxastic epistemologist. During my first year at Yale Divinity School, I began dating the love of my life, Kimi. We got married in August!

I graduated in 2020, with a few offers for Ph.D. programs. I opted to study continental philosophy at Duquesne University, where I am now teaching and writing. My advisor is Lanei Rodemeyer, a Husserlian phenomenologist.

As you indicated, John Henry, you had a segregated education, that is, you attended non-mainstream, segregated schools. Segregated education is an institutional apparatus that disabled activists and scholars have long sought to eliminate. Yet you firmly believe that you thrived in these educational contexts. Please explain your sentiments in this regard.

Yes, that’s a great question Shelley! I was, and am, incredibly privileged and lucky. Private school is not cheap: my parents spent a majority of their lifesavings on my education; it is doubtful that they will be able to retire. It’s a gift that I can never forget. Their conscious and weighty choice had warrant.

Especially in the 1970’s and 80’s, scholars and activists had very strong reasons for their beliefs about segregated education. Generally, I think the old-school move to get all disabled people learning in the “normal” classroom was a noble aspiration; but it also risks two problems:

First, guided by this move, we may potentially eradicate places for disabled children to find community, community through which they can acquire pride, solidarity, and awareness of their disability and the disability of another; second, the move may follow an assimilationist logic, namely, that “normal” pedagogies are best, that being with the “normal” populace is invariably best for us, etc. If the idea of “normal schooling” functions as a standard of which we–disabled people–aspire to be part, this may mean that we are trying to lose or ignore important parts of ourselves and to make our children lose or ignore important parts of themselves, parts of ourselves and themselves of which we and they should be proud, parts of ourselves and themselves that the world needs to recognize and acknowledge rather than ignore or eliminate.

Dyslexia serves as a helpful and concrete example in this regard. Our problem, that is, the problem for Dyslexic students, originates in the “normal classroom;” and this “normal classroom” has proven extraordinarily hostile to us. To learn to read, we need careful instruction with which to acquire phonological awareness. Most teachers are not trained for that. If you listen to the recent podcast “Sold a Story,” you will find out how Dyslexics are especially impacted by contemporary literacy pedagogies. We are theoretically erased by the predominant literacy experts. The curricula cannot work for us (and they don’t work especially well for the neurotypical either).

Beyond the nuts and bolts of Dyslexic “remediation,” there is a history of stigmatization and erasure in the “normal classroom.” Teachers often connect Dyslexia to laziness or “mental retardation.” A 2010 national poll by the Emily Hall Tremaine Foundation found that 70 percent of teachers, parents, and school administrators “incorrectly linked learning disabilities with mental retardation.” Part of my research investigates how this misunderstanding stretches back to the early American Eugenics movement. History shapes the present; and these current beliefs about Dyslexia have historical roots.

My Dyslexic father, growing up in the 1950’s, was diagnosed with low-grade mental retardation. The first child in North America to be diagnosed with Dyslexia was found from a pool of “feeble-minded” children in Iowa. In the DSM-II, the 315^th diagnosis was “Unspecified Mental Retardation;” for the purposes of the DSM-III, diagnosis no. 315 was changed to Dyslexia and related learning disabilities. So, at school, regardless of the institutional grade level, if you are Dyslexic, there is a constant perception and self-perception, a gnawing feeling, that you are “stupid.” You don’t need a poll to tell you; nor is this history a relic of the past. If you are Dyslexic, the “normal classroom” often supplies you with an inferior education and can instill in you a sense of inferiority.

Let me clarify this last point. I do not think there is anything at all wrong, problematic, or shameful about having “low intelligence.” In fact, I do not understand why we attach “intelligence” to a sense of human value. The issue at hand is two-fold: First, Dyslexics have historically been misunderstood and conflated with other neurodivergent groups. These conflations allow school systems to excuse themselves in failing to meet our distinct educational needs. Second, the construct of intelligence is not a value-neutral notion. If one is regarded as “stupid,” one is considered to be inferior. All neurodivergent groups are often considered sub-human. Until that socially acceptable and logically incoherent sentiment is addressed, it is unclear how a “normal classroom” would offer a good education for us.

So Jemicy allowed me to grow and flourish in an environment where I did not perceive myself as mentally inferior, aberrant, or inadequate. I understood that my brain worked differently from other people’s, but not worse than: my brain is predisposed to do certain things better than some people’s brains and struggles with activities that most people find easy (e.g., reading). This combination of benefits that Jemicy afforded me has meant that I was not too emotionally scarred to survive in higher levels of education.

I was given a community both at school and at home. That community gave me life and sustained me. I am beholden to that community (and many others); the people who constitute my communities are the people to whom I am answerable as a philosopher. If I had been absorbed into the “normal classroom” as a young child, that school-community would not have taken shape for me in the way that it did. The importance of community is easily overlooked if we (disabled people) fixate on accessing “normal classrooms”.

What sorts of ableism have you confronted at a mixed university, John Henry? What do you want readers and listeners of this interview to know about your university experience as a Dyslexic philosophy student?

It has taken awhile to find the vocabulary for an answer this question. Simply put, university humanities departments were not created with Dyslexics in mind; therefore, Dyslexic ableism results. In some ways, philosophy is more amenable to Dyslexics than other humanities fields; in other ways, it is more inimical to us.

The great author James Baldwin introduced the phrase, “a sense of reality,” which he defines as “assumptions we hold so deeply as to be scarcely aware of them.” Baldwin was concerned with white supremacy and the American sense of reality; and I do not appeal to his terminology because I wish to liken my experience with his experience. I do think, however, that this phrase is helpful for articulating a sense of reality inherent within academic humanities, one which produces ableism. This sense of reality manifests materially in how institutions operate; it manifests theoretically in how we find certain arguments and theories credible. These two aspects have trickle-down implications for daily life.

Materially speaking, one cannot work in the humanities without reading and writing a tremendous amount. By definition (and by virtue of our education system), this requirement means that most Dyslexics are excluded. Few can even attempt to work in it. For example, I doubt that I would have been able to earn an undergraduate degree if most classes gave exams, even if I had extra time. My college employed evaluation with no exams whatsoever and still provided an excellent education. Another example: an English class that I took in my M.A. program required that we read two entire books per week. This amount of required reading, on top of other readings, is physically impossible for most Dyslexics.

To a large extent, an immensity of reading and writing is inescapable for philosophy to function. But I do wonder how much academic philosophy could operate (as an industry) without the written word and with the use of other media: voice recording, film, etc. The fact that this question is never seriously considered and, furthermore, that the question may seem preposterous, reflects inherent assumptions and predispositions that overly privilege writing. This bias is a form of ableism that Dyslexics encounter.

Theoretically, there are certain predispositions that reveal a “sense of reality” inherent to the university broadly and to many philosophers specifically. Especially in the twentieth century to today, most major philosophers have explicitly stated that thinking requires language, i.e., one’s inner rational thinking can only be possible and intelligible if it is conducted through the medium of language. Russell, Wittgenstein, Heidegger, Gadamer, Saussure, Foucault, Derrida, Barthes, Kristeva, and Butler all claim this requirement in one place or another in their work. This philosophical assumption is explicitly ableist for several neurodivergent groups, notably Dyslexics, Autistic people, people with some forms of synesthesia and/or hyper-phantasia.

I often think using three-dimensional structures. Philosophical arguments take the form of buildings, rather than words, in my mind. I can think in words (and often do), but real thinking for me—thinking where I feel at home and alive and free—occurs outside of language entirely. Yet the brute facts of my neuro-cognitive makeup are considered out-right impossible and unintelligible by most philosophers today.

[Description of image below: A maze that John Henry has drawn that is part of a 3-D self-portrait made entirely of mazes. The self-portrait is designed to have four levels, of which this maze will be one of 36 panels on the second level. The maze consists of lines that lead into other lines, turn corners, or stop abruptly. At the bottom of the maze is a Start point and at the top of the maze is a Finish point.]

Many major figures in philosophy propound theories of cognition that require my erasure. If we believe that rational thought can only exist within the sphere of language, then we must believe that many neurodivergent groups do not exist. This erasure manifests in public dismissal. Specifically, it engenders what the epistemologist Kristie Dotson calls “contributory epistemic injustice.” I have been told that I am simply mistaken if I believe that I think without language. 

This admonition has occurred both in formal seminars and outside of class. On one occasion at a bar, a stranger with a graduate degree in philosophy who had overheard me discussing non-linguistic thought with a friend felt compelled to interrupt the conversation and explain how I was completely wrong and misunderstood my own inner experiences. The stranger’s rationale appealed to Wittgenstein’s private-language argument and the later works of Heidegger. I was not allowed the time it would have taken me to offer alternative interpretations of either of them. Other times, I am dismissed by a specific dodge: namely, that the term language is used broadly by all these philosophers who mean it to include my mode of cognition. There’s much to say in response to these claims, but, in short, they merely help obfuscate what is actually at play. The claims constitute a bad-faith argument.

So the ableism, an unintended (or at least ignored) by-product of the sense of reality for contemporary academic philosophy, manifests in how much we need to read and write, the importance that we attach to reading, writing, and language, as well as who we think is worth reading and writing about. It takes the form of arguments that we collectively find so convincing that they become ubiquitous and socially irrefutable. This fetishization of language in philosophy takes the form of verbal dismissal and theoretical erasure, which in turn silence alternative viewpoints and possibilities for philosophical exploration. In combination, this dismissal and erasure creates an atmosphere of ableism which is imperceptible by most neurotypical people and difficult to articulate by people in the groups impacted; in my case, my Dyslexia.

What do you think an epistemology of dyslexia would look like?

That’s a really important question, Shelley. Firstly, an epistemology of Dyslexia clearly begins by centering Dyslexics and Dyslexic experience. I have my own answers to this—it’s the central question of my dissertation. But there are multiple ways in which one could approach the question, so I will describe what is needed in general.

Dyslexia is defined by The Handbook of Clinical Neurology as: “a specific and persistent learning disability affecting the acquisition and development of the written language code (reading and spelling) and causing significant handicap to academic achievement and/or activities of daily life”. Dyslexia is not merely a “handicap.” Other definitions can be less demeaning, but nearly all of them define Dyslexia solely as a difficulty with reading and writing.

Yet, with this definition, Dyslexics face terrifying statistics. We make up 6-17 percent of the population (the range emerges from where one cuts-off Dyslexia as a pathological disorder). Studies have shown that we make up approximately 48 percent of incarcerated people. A study of over 21,000 participants indicated that Dyslexics are 46 percent more likely to attempt suicide that non-Dyslexics. Numerous studies show that Dyslexics are more likely to be diagnosed with depression or anxiety. At least one study indicates that we are over-represented in the homeless population and addict population.

Any good-faith, intellectually honest, attempt to generate an epistemology of Dyslexia must look these issues in the face. These statistics are always overlooked by dominant modes of discourse because they do not necessarily fit into the only widely recognizable aspect of Dyslexia: namely, literacy problems. Obviously, literacy is the fundamental point of access for almost anything in modern society, so accessibility issues certainly contribute to these statistics. But beyond that, there is a profound societal obsession with the importance of written language—a worship of writing. This deep-seated obsession with writing makes society unable to see Dyslexia in any reliable way.

These observations divulge two issues that require more analysis. The first issue is that Dyslexia needs to be re-imagined in order to propel new directions of research. We need to use “strengths-based” models that define Dyslexia holistically—and acknowledge the many neurological strengths that we, Dyslexics, offer in addition to the skills with which we struggle. Dr. Brock Eide and Dr. Fernette Eide have been on the cutting edge of this sort of research. Secondly, we need to begin to change the public perception of Dyslexia and begin telling Dyslexics that their condition should not be a source of deep shame, nor a marker of inferiority.

To properly change how we conceive and discuss Dyslexia, we need to move Dyslexia from the medical model of disability to the social model of disability. Dyslexia vividly illustrates how the medical model can be self-undermining and self-defeating. By casting Dyslexia as a literacy disorder which must be “remediated,” Dyslexics are told that their condition is a problem, their problem, and provides nothing of which one can be proud. This construal of our condition means that we become deeply ashamed of ourselves by virtue of the way that the diagnosis is communicated.

Alternatively, if one is not diagnosed, one inexplicably cannot access something to which immeasurable importance is socially ascribed—this exclusion makes one feel “stupid,” inferior, and ashamed; such feelings arise from the value that we socially ascribe to the written word—not an inability to access it. The medical diagnosis echoes and reflects this social value. Therefore, a deep sense of shame and inferiority arises not from the etiology of the condition, but rather from the presentation of the diagnosis itself. If the diagnosis itself creates problems for the patient and the diagnosis endeavors to “fix” the patient, then it seems to be a self-defeating approach. Furthermore, instilling this deep sense of shame and inferiority may cause the aforementioned statistics as much as accessibility issues do.

So, in sum, an epistemology of Dyslexia must provide resources with which to understand Dyslexia as a neuro-difference rather than as a problem that requires remediation. An epistemology of Dyslexia would require us to question our social values, specifically our reverence for writing.

Tell us about your Ph.D. research. What projects are you currently working on? What projects do you have planned for the future?

Much of my dissertation emerges out of the themes that we have discussed. I use Husserl’s phenomenology to help clarify aspects of Dyslexia. Husserl sometimes gets a bad rep in continental philosophy, but I find him exceptionally promising as a source for new projects. I mainly use his genetic and generative-historicist methods rather than the static-transcendental method for which he is best known.

Without devolving into technicalities, I follow my advisor who differentiates five levels of experience in Husserl’s analyses. The five levels are: raw sensory experience (“hyletic flow”), passive syntheses, active syntheses (our conscious thoughts and experiences), intersubjectivity, and the Lifeworld. Although these five levels are distinct from each other, they intimately influence one another within an individual’s experience.

My dissertation is divided into two parts. The first part considers the first three levels. The overall goal is to show how psychosomatic differences–between the “neurotypical” and a neurodivergent group–will result in a multiplicity of experiential differences between these groups with respect to perception, cognitive style, interests, and hermeneutic predispositions. Visual-thinking, compared to linguistic-thinking, is a good example here.

Linguistic-thought can be characterized by its linear thinking through time, step-by-step subject-predicate relations, and atomic units (words); yet spatial-visual thinking privileges space and simultaneity, associative relations, and whole-part mereological relations. Each of these two distinct cognitive styles offers distinct strengths and weaknesses. Ideally, the first section of the dissertation will show that the differences that Dyslexia involves are far more complex than suggested by the understanding according to which these differences are mere difficulties with reading and, thus, that Dyslexia should be seen holistically as a neuro-difference rather than as a disorder.

The dissertation’s second part examines Dyslexia at the levels of intersubjectivity and the Lifeworld and is designed to show how Dyslexia, as a disability, is socially constituted. This examination begins with an investigation into the history of the IQ test, first developed (1905) to detect ambiguously “mentally defective children” in the French public school system. Although developed in France, the Binet-Simon IQ test was quickly adopted in the United States and propounded by eugenicists like H.H. Goddard and Lewis Terman.

Dyslexia, as a category, emerged out the overall “feeble-minded” populace created from these scientific and social movements. This origin constitutes one reason why seven out of ten people polled think learning differences link to “mental retardation” and, furthermore, why so-called mental retardation implicitly signifies inferiority. This derivation, in turn, effects how scientists, teachers, and activists understand Dyslexia as they interact with it. It also constricts their ability to see Dyslexia in new ways.

Thus, Dyslexia exists as a set of characteristics that are experienced by Dyslexics and condition how Dyslexics experience; Dyslexia is also an intersubjectively constituted concept that emerged out of specific historical conditions. Our specific Lifeworld shapes how we understand Dyslexia; however we can change this understanding and there are better and worse ways to conceive of it.

Beyond Husserl, I also use theories and claims articulated in disability studies, Dyslexia Studies, Black feminist epistemology, Merleau-Ponty, and media studies. The dissertation also argues for why Foucault, who may seem excellent for these analyses, is unable to account for Dyslexic strengths because he privileges language too much. (Disclaimer: I do love Foucault. So please don’t take me to be an anti-Foucauldian!)

In addition to my dissertation, I have two future projects on the docket. The first will analyze how theories of (1) language, (2) intelligence, and (3) hierarchies of inferiority/superiority were triangulated and weaponized to create multiple modes of oppression. The effects for non-linguistic thinkers (such as Dyslexics or Autistic people) should be clear from this interview. But the etymology of the word dumb also shows how this derogation develops for other disabled groups, including the non-speaking community. Frantz Fanon’s first chapter of Black Skin, White Masks ingeniously shows how this triangulation reinforces racialized hierarchies in colonialist projects. Other examples abound, but the nascent idea here is to look at how this triangulation is used to re-enforce oppressive systems of race, class, and multiple forms of disability.

The second project will interrogate several canonical philosophers who explicitly argue that cognition requires language. I want to look at their arguments, which are frequently taken as irrefutable, and examine the internal inconsistencies of them. I am most interested in Saussure, Gadamer, and some interpretations of Wittgenstein. The issue is not only the status of these arguments, but also how these arguments effect the overall philosophical projects. For instance, Saussure’s structuralism deeply relies on yoking thought with language. If that argument is undermined, then his theory of the sign, the syntagm, the negativity of the sign, the langue/parole distinction, and his arguments against “Nomenclaturism” become profoundly unstable. What, then, do we make of Saussure’s structuralism and its influence on twentieth-century philosophy? I am very interested in pursuing these sorts of questions in this project.

John Henry, how would you like to end this interview? Is there anything that we discussed that you would like to say more about? Are there things that we haven’t touched on that you would like to mention? Would you like to make some recommendations of relevant books, articles, websites, or any other resources?

If any readers would like to learn more about Dyslexia studies, here are some books and articles worth reading:

• The Dyslexic Advantage, by Dr. Brock Eide and Dr. Fernette Eide;
• Inside the Mind’s Eye: Creative Visual Thinkers, Gifted Dyslexics and the Rise of Visual Technologies, by Thomas West;
• Dyslexia: The Government of Reading, by Tom Campbell;
• Helen Taylor’s work on “Complimentary Cognition;”
• My recently published article on Husserlian Phenomenology and Dyslexia.

I am rarely interviewed, so I would like to take this opportunity to publicly thank my parents and family for all their support over the course of my lifetime. I am also incredibly grateful to all my teachers, and all the families and communities of which I have been a part over the years. They give me life and sustain me.

[Description of photo below: John Henry and Kimi, their heads together, both smile widely for this selfie. John Henry is wearing glasses and a woolen toque. Kimi is wearing glasses, a black turtleneck sweater, and a silver necklace. Behind John Henry and Kimi, a piece of art hangs on a brick wall.]

Finally, I would like to thank you, Shelley, for this excellent series and for this interview! Dialogues on Disability is truly an incredible blog event.

If anyone would like to contact me at any time, I am always excited to talk shop or hear new perspectives! I can be reached at reillyj6@duq.edu.

John Henry, thank you so much for your kind remarks about the Dialogues on Disability series and for your tremendously edifying insights throughout this interview. This interview makes a fantastic addition to the series archive.

Readers/listeners are invited to use the Comments section below to respond to John Henry Reilly’s remarks, ask questions, and so on. Comments will be moderated. As always, although signed comments are preferred, anonymous comments may be permitted.

The entire Dialogues on Disability series is archived on BIOPOLITICAL PHILOSOPHY here.

From April 2015 to May 2021, I coordinated, edited, and produced the Dialogues on Disability series without any institutional or other financial support. A Patreon account now supports the series, enabling me to continue to create it. You can add your support for these vital interviews with disabled philosophers at the Dialogues on Disability Patreon account page here.

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Please join me here again on Wednesday, January 17, 2024, for the 106th installment of the Dialogues on Disability series and, indeed, on every third Wednesday of the months ahead. I have a fabulous line-up of interviews planned. If you would like to nominate someone to be interviewed (self-nominations are welcomed), please feel free to write me at s.tremain@yahoo.ca. I prioritize diversity with respect to disability, class, race, gender, institutional status, nationality, culture, age, and sexuality in my selection of interviewees and my scheduling of interviews.