I recently used a pretty weird metaphor in a community organizing meeting when I was explaining to a staunch advocate of law enforcement that we shouldn’t invite police officers to our community events since we want to be inclusive and welcoming to our immediate neighbors. I likened this concept to a dining scenario that we would similarly want to avoid, in order to be inclusive and welcoming: ordering a meatlovers pizza for a room full of mostly vegetarians.
I felt strange about making this connection between a longstanding history of brutality to something as seemingly benign as food – until a colleague better articulated than I could why the comparison works (at least fundamentally).*
My colleague said: The food we serve shows who we expect to be in the room. It’s an aspect of generosity and gifting. When serving as a host, you have an idea of the kind of people that are coming. If you serve a meatlovers pizza to a room of vegetarians, it demonstrates who you (wrongly) think your community is.
The lowest common denominator isn’t the meat lovers, it’s the vegetarians (because unless someone is allergic, mushrooms aren’t the locus of a major dietary identity). The presence of law enforcement doesn’t bring anything distinct to our community events, and their fans can choose to enjoy the event or not, but they aren’t being excluded by a choice we made to keep it cop-free. It’s not a safety and comfort issue for them; it’s a preference. In the case of our community, to invite law enforcement (i.e., as a draw or spectacle in this case), would only demonstrate how off base we are and how little in-tune with our community.
Why am I talking about pizza, community organizing, and police brutality? Well, it’s not all that uncommon for me on an average Friday night. But I’m bringing attention to it here in particular because I have used this pizza metaphor in conversations about accessibility, too.
When our university shifted to emergency remote instruction in March 2020, I transitioned my own language teaching methods course to an asynchronous format and advocated for that choice with my colleagues as well. I didn’t want my class to be the one that my students panicked over, period. In a global pandemic, I wanted to gear the comfort of my students to the lowest common denominator: the student who didn’t have reliable internet, the one who had to return to their parents home and share work space with siblings, the one with a home life of above average toxicity, the who didn’t have a home to go back to at all. It simply wasn’t necessary to cater to students who had a more ready supply of stability because, as the same unnaturally articulate colleague says, a course doesn’t need to be all things to all students.
Ideally, I suppose, each very unique student on their own unique trajectory would get exactly what they want and need out of every course at a given time. But I knew that the extroverts in my class could find other ways to socialize if I turned down the stress level of my class for those who most needed it. I knew that the folks who craved structure could still find some in my course, because my deadlines were explicit (but flexible), and my communication was as clear as I could make it (I know, I can be verbose). My course didn’t need to be all things to everyone all of the time. I adjusted to meet the immediate demands of my lowest common denominator.
Even as the pandemic wanes and the general populace is trying to forget it ever existed, I often advocate for remote learning, extreme flexibility, and options for the lowest common denominator. There are still medically vulnerable students. There are still disabled students. There are still students with more stress than most classes are worth.
I know who my community is, and I will try my best to order the right kind of pizza.
*I hope very much that the impact of this metaphor matches my simple intention of drawing parallels for folks who are less inclined toward fostering belonging for the lowest common denominator, but I recognize that isn’t always the case and I commit to accepting feedback on this example with grace and clarity sans fragility.
Caitlin Cornell 