Jaxen Dutta

Being queer fundamentally shapes how I approach user research and design. I understand what it's like when systems aren't built with you in mind, when you have to navigate interfaces, forms, and spaces that assume a default that isn't you. This drives my commitment to inclusive design and accessibility. In my research, I prioritize listening to marginalized voices and understanding the barriers people face. My lived experience helps me build trust with participants from underrepresented communities and ask questions that go beyond surface-level usability to examine how technology can either reinforce or challenge systems of exclusion. My queer identity is inseparable from my commitment to accessibility and inclusive design. I've experienced firsthand how even small design choices, like a binary gender dropdown or an assumed name format, can exclude people. This awareness drives my research approach: I center the experiences of marginalized communities, advocate for flexibility in systems, and challenge assumptions about "default users." Being queer means understanding that good design requires listening to people whose needs are often overlooked.

1. Zanele Muholi's photography: Their work documenting Black queer and trans lives in South Africa is stunning and revolutionary. It's a reminder that queer visual culture must be intersectional, centering voices that face multiple forms of marginalization. This deeply influences my research approach of working with communities at the intersections of identity. 2. The SILENCE=DEATH posters from ACT UP: They're a powerful reminder that design can be urgent, political, and life-saving. The bold typography and shocking pink triangle turned grief into action. As a researcher, they remind me that our work isn't neutral, we have a responsibility to speak up and advocate for change.

Dr. Sasha Costanza-Chock, whose work on Design Justice fundamentally shaped how I think about technology and power. And the countless queer activists and organizers I've worked alongside who do the unglamorous, daily work of making spaces more inclusive: training volunteers, advocating for policy changes, showing up for their communities. They remind me that real change happens through sustained, collective effort. But also, the everyday queer people who speak up when systems fail us, whether that's challenging a harmful policy, advocating for inclusive design, or simply existing loudly in spaces that would prefer our silence. I'm especially inspired by queer people working at intersections of identity (queer POC, disabled queer folks, trans elders) who push our community to be more inclusive and accountable. Their courage reminds me why accessibility and representation in my research work matters.