“What’s your specialty?”

That’s the one question I have been asked consistently since immigrating to Academia. It’s really an unexpected question unless you’re from the land of Academia. The first time I heard that question, it was…well…interesting…and surprising. There was no, “Where are you from?” “Any kids?” “Where do you live?” – the kinds of questions you might typically ask when you meet someone new, the basic societal conventions we have come to expect. That first exchange and every one of its kind since continues to be bewildering to me having just recently changed my resident status. Academia is an enclave that embodies a very distinct culture, economy, even language, really. This common greeting is spoken in Mainstream American English as one long phrase – “Nicetomeetyouwhat’syourspecialty.” Though the words are seemingly benign, hashtag pragmatics, hashtag SLPeeps. Communication goes beyond just words…this greeting can hold a wide range of meanings from friendly acknowledgement to marking of academic territory, warm welcome to pulling out a ruler to size up one’s, um, cognitive worth. This reception can be quite heavy. As heavy as the number of syllables it holds. And as I should have expected, it has become a thorn in my professional experience. How is it that I went from one land where I wished people would pay enough attention to ask more questions and entered into a land where they ask the one question I don’t want to answer.

It’s not that I don’t have an answer but I am always caught off guard by this foreign social norm. Sputtering, mumbling, I try not to blink too much. “My specialty? Well, I guess you could say it’s school-aged kids.” “Oh, so you’re a generalist.” There’s no way that “generalist” can feel like a compliment here. Sometimes, if I quiet my own inner voices enough, I can almost hear the echoes of relief commanding inner egos, “Stand down. I repeat, stand down. No imminent threat here.” Nope. No imminent threat from me. I’m harmless, unless you’re a speech sound error. Then you should be very scared. Or a contracted uncontractible copula. I’m coming for YOU. But what is it about hearing someone call you a generalist that can feel like a comple-burn? Maybe it’s all the awards and recognitions that come with specialties. Have we ever seen recognition for generalists? E. Debbie Lee CCC-SLP, GEN. I think it’s important to insert here that having specialties is important. I appreciate the brilliance of my friends and colleagues who do have specializations. But I also believe in elevating those SLPs who, on any given day, go from 13yo /ɹ/ client to 8yo fluency client to 10yo expressive syntax to 4yo CAS to 5yo AAC to 7 yo lateralized /s/. CCC-SLP, BADASS.

Now, I can’t allow Academia to bear the entire burden of this high regard we hold for specialization. This economy pervades our entire society – YouTube stars, TikTok celebrities, America’s Best Fill-in-the-blank shows, the list goes on. The field of speech language pathology is not exempt from this. Our field’s infrastructure perpetuates specializations. Clinical specialty certifications, SLP influencers, continuing ed tracks, etc., offer to increase status and send the message that becoming a specialist should be our goal. I understand why there are specialities, but why are those expectations cast broadly throughout our field? I mean, the irony.

Is it just me? Admittedly, I have often felt like a foreigner in this field. A perpetual tourist needing the extra few seconds to calculate the ever-changing currency exchange rates. “Ah, today it looks like the Debbie dollar will only buy $.80 of the Academia/SLP dollar.” Or, “Oh! The Debbie dollar is having a good day today!” In a society that elevates assertiveness, loudness, and first-ness and in a subdivision of that society that takes all of that to the next level, it’s hard not to make your accomplishments your identity and your worth about how “special” you are. It’s hard to start a new position in a university and feel like you don’t have to constantly prove yourself to keep up with the Dr. Joneses.

In special education, school districts are often pressured to abandon functionality for the sake of the hard line of eligibility – a “numbers game”. Sometimes, I wonder if SLPs, in some similar ways, are pressured to abandon broad clinical experience for the sake of academic gravitas – a prestige game. Are those expansive clinical street smarts only valued in the wilderness of public schools? Who started this presupposed stipulation that specialization automatically gains you membership to the hottest club in town – CLOUT?

I would be lying if I said that I don’t feel the urge to buy in. But wow is it uncomfortable and disorienting. Like, being-in-a-different-country-driving-on-the-other-side-of-the-road kind of discomfort. The constant fight against that instinct is exhausting. Perhaps my fight is misplaced. I mean, I do struggle with the fact that I don’t have one specialty. On bad days, I feel really small in this field and especially in Academia. I feel like I don’t belong here. But on my better days, I realize that the wonderful thing about being a generalist is that your specialty is defined by who you are as an individual. That wonderful unicorn who sits on the other side of the table of that kid/grown-up who integrates theory into practice in the singular way that only you can. We take large, general principles and wield them in our special and unique ways. The fact is that I seem to feel the need to specialize more than my clients and students need me to specialize. They need me to support them in many different ways. I spend a lot of time refreshing my memory about vocal hygiene and principles of motor learning, reverse swallows and MLUs. I also spend a lot of time researching what works, what doesn’t, what’s current, and what needs to be extinguished from our practice. Then we try it together.

Clinical work may not always be elegant, but it certainly is rigorous. Being characterized as generalists in our clinical practice doesn’t mean we are cutting corners in our work. Our goal as SLPs is basically to work ourselves out of a job – you’ve heard the expression “the proof is in the pudding.” But I love the origin of that statement which says, “The proof of the pudding is in the eating.” That’s how I like to think of my work as a generalist. I’ve got food to give to a lot of different kinds of people.

I’m sure I’ll continue to struggle with this. Maybe some of you struggle with this too. You’re in good company. There are so many influences and pressures coming from our professional surroundings and the larger society. As for me and my practice, I’m committed to being a damn good unicorn clinician serving my general population of people.