BADD: Personal reflections
When I think about prejudice and ableism, a few moments always come back to me.
I will not forget the first time someone looked at me and said, "That's ugly. You don't want people to think you're ugly, do you?" That gem came from a physical therapist; I was five, and had just gotten my first chair. Before that, I was essentially immobile, unless there happened to be parallel bars around. I was pushing around the room instead of trying to walk, because it didn't hurt and I could move.
I'll can't forget the first time someone told me, "Your parents should have killed you when they saw you were malformed." I was thirteen, in seventh grade at the international school, and it came from the parents of a classmate. The woman in question had been raised in Iran, and several of the children in my grade had mounted a campaign of vicious tricks and barely covert violence. Shoving me on the stairs--guaranteed to send me tumbling down half a story of concrete and metal--was the least of it. At the time, I was still trying to walk at school, so I was physically helpless against violence. I didn't learn to defend myself until eighth grade, after I had been forced into a different school in self-defense, after I had been forced to use my chair because I couldn't walk between buildings, and I discovered what a wonderful weapon my chair could be when someone was trying to tip me over.
I wish I could forget the first time I despaired. I was sixteen, and it was Thanksgiving. My aunt, in referring to my autistic cousin--her son--said, "It's not like he really has emotions." If my own family--who you would think of all people might know--was so ignorant, why was I trying so hard to educate other people? I ran from the house crying.
I'd just as soon forget the first time someone said, "But you aren't really disabled." I was nineteen, having a discussion with friends from Tech, and leaning back a little in my basketball chair because Delta had just dropped my everyday chair and damaged it. I had made some comment about my most recent trip to DC and my frustration as an advocate. I will allow that it hurt more the first time I heard it from someone with a disability, six months later.
I'll never forget the first time someone looked me in the eyes and said, "You don't deserve to live." I was twenty, in a permaculture certification course--the first Earth Activist Training. It was the first time I'd had extensive conversations with non-disability-rights activists who weren't my teachers or friends. A member of my design group was from the far left and fresh from the streets of Quebec, and was strident about his perception of the need to eliminate all "resource-wasting" technology, including computers, hospitals, planes, large-scale electricity...well, you get the idea. I pointed out in a design meeting that I wouldn't be alive without extensive medical technology, and that was his response.
Sometimes I despair. Sometimes, I burn out. Sometimes, I'm so frustrated I could scream. Ableism is insidiously invisible, dismissed as oversensitivity, accepted as the status quo; even my best friends don't always realize when they engage in it, and some of the most prejudiced people I know are ABs who work in disability-related fields. But I look back on these moments, and I remember. I remember that the world is not safe, so long as prejudice and disconnection exist. I remember that I could have died, every year of my life, because of one person's prejudice. I remember that I'm here because of equal parts of strength, luck, and love. I remember how fortunate I am. And I remember that not everyone may be so fortunate, and I grieve, and I return to the battle.
The complete list of bloggers participating in Blogging Against Disablism Day can be found here.
I will not forget the first time someone looked at me and said, "That's ugly. You don't want people to think you're ugly, do you?" That gem came from a physical therapist; I was five, and had just gotten my first chair. Before that, I was essentially immobile, unless there happened to be parallel bars around. I was pushing around the room instead of trying to walk, because it didn't hurt and I could move.
I'll can't forget the first time someone told me, "Your parents should have killed you when they saw you were malformed." I was thirteen, in seventh grade at the international school, and it came from the parents of a classmate. The woman in question had been raised in Iran, and several of the children in my grade had mounted a campaign of vicious tricks and barely covert violence. Shoving me on the stairs--guaranteed to send me tumbling down half a story of concrete and metal--was the least of it. At the time, I was still trying to walk at school, so I was physically helpless against violence. I didn't learn to defend myself until eighth grade, after I had been forced into a different school in self-defense, after I had been forced to use my chair because I couldn't walk between buildings, and I discovered what a wonderful weapon my chair could be when someone was trying to tip me over.
I wish I could forget the first time I despaired. I was sixteen, and it was Thanksgiving. My aunt, in referring to my autistic cousin--her son--said, "It's not like he really has emotions." If my own family--who you would think of all people might know--was so ignorant, why was I trying so hard to educate other people? I ran from the house crying.
I'd just as soon forget the first time someone said, "But you aren't really disabled." I was nineteen, having a discussion with friends from Tech, and leaning back a little in my basketball chair because Delta had just dropped my everyday chair and damaged it. I had made some comment about my most recent trip to DC and my frustration as an advocate. I will allow that it hurt more the first time I heard it from someone with a disability, six months later.
I'll never forget the first time someone looked me in the eyes and said, "You don't deserve to live." I was twenty, in a permaculture certification course--the first Earth Activist Training. It was the first time I'd had extensive conversations with non-disability-rights activists who weren't my teachers or friends. A member of my design group was from the far left and fresh from the streets of Quebec, and was strident about his perception of the need to eliminate all "resource-wasting" technology, including computers, hospitals, planes, large-scale electricity...well, you get the idea. I pointed out in a design meeting that I wouldn't be alive without extensive medical technology, and that was his response.
Sometimes I despair. Sometimes, I burn out. Sometimes, I'm so frustrated I could scream. Ableism is insidiously invisible, dismissed as oversensitivity, accepted as the status quo; even my best friends don't always realize when they engage in it, and some of the most prejudiced people I know are ABs who work in disability-related fields. But I look back on these moments, and I remember. I remember that the world is not safe, so long as prejudice and disconnection exist. I remember that I could have died, every year of my life, because of one person's prejudice. I remember that I'm here because of equal parts of strength, luck, and love. I remember how fortunate I am. And I remember that not everyone may be so fortunate, and I grieve, and I return to the battle.
The complete list of bloggers participating in Blogging Against Disablism Day can be found here.