Me and The Gaze
There’s a quality of stare that lies upon me, that clings to me like malleable but ever-present plastic wrap. It’s a gossamer gaze, one which flits away if it is perceived. Yet it’s practically universal-inescapable.
This sounds like so much paranoia, doesn’t it?
I may not be able to see,, but I know the gaze is there. It’s not always a typical stare, not always the predatory eyes of a lecherous passer-by, or the drilling eyes of one who would pass judgment, or the goggle-eyed stare of one who is surprised by what they see.
There are stares of pity, of admiration. There are confounded stares (“”how can she do that when she can’t see?”), happy (“I feel so inspired by her!”) stares, morbidly fascinated (“What’s wrong with her?”) stares.
They stare, and I cannot stare back. In the nomenclature of the gaze this gives them power over me, and a silent permission to continue staring. They don’t know I have this collective consciousness, this knowledge of what so many of we who have disabilities experience, that tells me what they’re doing.
They stare because they are sure I am so much not like them, as different as a lion, or an elephant, or a skyscraper. They stare because they are afraid of blindness themselves, so they want very desperately for me to be the “other.” They stare at me because they do not know me.
No, that is not right. They think they know me. They gaze upon me as a person with a visible disability--period, not as a writer, a dog-mother, someone’s partner, a lover of well-written, complex books, flavourful food, and beautiful music.
They stare in so many ways, for so many reasons, yet the sum of that gaze doesn’t reach the core of me.
My womanhood, part of which is my sexuality, is erased in those staring eyes, those inquisitive looks, that fascinated gaze.
Yes, I’m saying that the gaze doesn’t seem to see me as woman at all. I am, as I said, object, or genderless child-woman; clearly grown-up enough to go out shopping for my own groceries, but not grown-up enough to do so without other people’s input or careful watching. If they do see me as woman, they see the contrived feminine traits of helplessness, vulnerability, softness, sensitivity, smallness. While my voice is soft, and my body is small, while I am sensitive and emotional, and while yes, sometimes, I am vulnerable, all of these things are part of my power as a human being. They’re all balanced by eagerness, enthusiasm, a raging intellectual need to know and to learn. My mind revels when my soft voice articulates words poetic in their power. My vulnerability encourages me to reach beyond myself, to gently understand the vulnerabilities of others. My enthusiasm for lovely, hidden, delicious, beautiful things stokes my passion.
The gazes don’t see this passion, this passion that comes from my softness, yes, but also from my toughness, the toughness that comes from being what they see, a disabled woman in our society. And yes, being someone with a disability in this society does breed toughness. It takes a force of will to go out and face people who may or may not treat you like an adult, who may or may not treat you like a child in need of help to meet basic needs (something to drink, something to eat, a place to sit) rather than as an equal who gets respect, courtesy, or, if the situation dictates, a platform on which to potentially build friendship.
The gazes also don’t see my sexuality. No, not my sexual self; the public doesn’t, shouldn’t, get to see or take part in that-but my sexuality, the passionate part of me that revels in sensations, in beautiful music, delicious food, sensual words. Yes, those words that stimulate my intellect also stimulate my sensual self; sometimes I taste satisfying words on my lips, like the tingle of a thousand flavours mingling. They pop like bright flavours of lemon, sink in like rich flavours of dark chocolate, light fires like the perfect combination of fresh herbs and the essence of chili peppers.
The collective consciousness, embodied by those who gaze, has a whole bunch of beliefs about people with disabilities and our sexualities. Most of them are incorrect. Usually, when I talk about these myths, I talk about how they affect other people, or how they affect people with disabilities in general. I wonder what happens if I look inward, and see how they affect me.
If the gazers think that blindness is such a challenge, if they cannot conceive of how one can be blind and still function, yes, they will see sex as an impossibility, or a rarity. They will wonder how I can find a partner, or assume that my partner is there to care for me only in nonsexual ways. The cultural consciousness sees sex as a luxury, as something so much less important, for those of “my kind.” In this, they do not know that my sensual and sexual self has been a source of healing from their gaze.
They presume that people with disabilities are not sexually adventurous, yet we’re no different from them-some adventurous, some not. The flipside of that argument is that, in resisting the gaze, some of us are adventurous partly because of our disabilities, or rather because of reactions to them. When there are beliefs about the way sex is and isn’t done, and you don’t, can’t, or choose not to do sex that way, certainly what you do choose is going to be seen as adventurous. That may be your adventure, or it may just be your normal.
Or, if you, as I have, seek healing from all of those belittling gazes, you might pursue adventure. This is, I think, part of why I became Sleeping Beauty for an evening.
Yes, I sought out a different kind of gaze. The gaze I sought out wasn’t simply one that would recognize my sexuality, but one that would look on me with desire, and perhaps even act upon that desire. This was a frightening thing to do. What if the universal gaze (the gaze of many, the gaze of those who do not know me) couldn’t summon up that desire? What if the desire could only be there if the signs of my disability were cloaked (eyes closed in bliss so returning a gaze was not expected) or out of sight completely (cane tucked in my tote bag)? I went, they saw, I conquered. I likely will not go again.
There is a part of me that has, over the years, craved this desirous, sexual gaze. There has been a bigger part of me that has rejected my own craving, even been disgusted by it.
I’m all too aware that too many women with disabilities have been or will be sexually abused and I’m all too aware that, whether disability is visibly present or not, gendered, sexualized harassment in public spaces is a thing, a pervasive thing. So, that myth that says that people with disabilities aren’t and can’t be sexually assaulted? INCORRECT.
Instead of not understanding the experience of disability, that myth grows out of a misunderstanding of sexual assault; sexual assault isn’t about sexual desire or desirability, but about the use of sex to have power over, exercise control, and inflict harm.
That longing I’ve had for the gaze of desire refutes the myth that is perhaps the root behind them all, that people with disabilities aren’t sexual. We all are, to the same degrees and with the same variability as any other population.
We all are. I am.
faerie_spark would encourage those therealljidol readers who wonder what this has to do with this week’s prompt to think about homophones.
faerie_spark is shamelessly emulating whipchick’s habit of including notes written in the third person.
This sounds like so much paranoia, doesn’t it?
I may not be able to see,, but I know the gaze is there. It’s not always a typical stare, not always the predatory eyes of a lecherous passer-by, or the drilling eyes of one who would pass judgment, or the goggle-eyed stare of one who is surprised by what they see.
There are stares of pity, of admiration. There are confounded stares (“”how can she do that when she can’t see?”), happy (“I feel so inspired by her!”) stares, morbidly fascinated (“What’s wrong with her?”) stares.
They stare, and I cannot stare back. In the nomenclature of the gaze this gives them power over me, and a silent permission to continue staring. They don’t know I have this collective consciousness, this knowledge of what so many of we who have disabilities experience, that tells me what they’re doing.
They stare because they are sure I am so much not like them, as different as a lion, or an elephant, or a skyscraper. They stare because they are afraid of blindness themselves, so they want very desperately for me to be the “other.” They stare at me because they do not know me.
No, that is not right. They think they know me. They gaze upon me as a person with a visible disability--period, not as a writer, a dog-mother, someone’s partner, a lover of well-written, complex books, flavourful food, and beautiful music.
They stare in so many ways, for so many reasons, yet the sum of that gaze doesn’t reach the core of me.
My womanhood, part of which is my sexuality, is erased in those staring eyes, those inquisitive looks, that fascinated gaze.
Yes, I’m saying that the gaze doesn’t seem to see me as woman at all. I am, as I said, object, or genderless child-woman; clearly grown-up enough to go out shopping for my own groceries, but not grown-up enough to do so without other people’s input or careful watching. If they do see me as woman, they see the contrived feminine traits of helplessness, vulnerability, softness, sensitivity, smallness. While my voice is soft, and my body is small, while I am sensitive and emotional, and while yes, sometimes, I am vulnerable, all of these things are part of my power as a human being. They’re all balanced by eagerness, enthusiasm, a raging intellectual need to know and to learn. My mind revels when my soft voice articulates words poetic in their power. My vulnerability encourages me to reach beyond myself, to gently understand the vulnerabilities of others. My enthusiasm for lovely, hidden, delicious, beautiful things stokes my passion.
The gazes don’t see this passion, this passion that comes from my softness, yes, but also from my toughness, the toughness that comes from being what they see, a disabled woman in our society. And yes, being someone with a disability in this society does breed toughness. It takes a force of will to go out and face people who may or may not treat you like an adult, who may or may not treat you like a child in need of help to meet basic needs (something to drink, something to eat, a place to sit) rather than as an equal who gets respect, courtesy, or, if the situation dictates, a platform on which to potentially build friendship.
The gazes also don’t see my sexuality. No, not my sexual self; the public doesn’t, shouldn’t, get to see or take part in that-but my sexuality, the passionate part of me that revels in sensations, in beautiful music, delicious food, sensual words. Yes, those words that stimulate my intellect also stimulate my sensual self; sometimes I taste satisfying words on my lips, like the tingle of a thousand flavours mingling. They pop like bright flavours of lemon, sink in like rich flavours of dark chocolate, light fires like the perfect combination of fresh herbs and the essence of chili peppers.
The collective consciousness, embodied by those who gaze, has a whole bunch of beliefs about people with disabilities and our sexualities. Most of them are incorrect. Usually, when I talk about these myths, I talk about how they affect other people, or how they affect people with disabilities in general. I wonder what happens if I look inward, and see how they affect me.
If the gazers think that blindness is such a challenge, if they cannot conceive of how one can be blind and still function, yes, they will see sex as an impossibility, or a rarity. They will wonder how I can find a partner, or assume that my partner is there to care for me only in nonsexual ways. The cultural consciousness sees sex as a luxury, as something so much less important, for those of “my kind.” In this, they do not know that my sensual and sexual self has been a source of healing from their gaze.
They presume that people with disabilities are not sexually adventurous, yet we’re no different from them-some adventurous, some not. The flipside of that argument is that, in resisting the gaze, some of us are adventurous partly because of our disabilities, or rather because of reactions to them. When there are beliefs about the way sex is and isn’t done, and you don’t, can’t, or choose not to do sex that way, certainly what you do choose is going to be seen as adventurous. That may be your adventure, or it may just be your normal.
Or, if you, as I have, seek healing from all of those belittling gazes, you might pursue adventure. This is, I think, part of why I became Sleeping Beauty for an evening.
Yes, I sought out a different kind of gaze. The gaze I sought out wasn’t simply one that would recognize my sexuality, but one that would look on me with desire, and perhaps even act upon that desire. This was a frightening thing to do. What if the universal gaze (the gaze of many, the gaze of those who do not know me) couldn’t summon up that desire? What if the desire could only be there if the signs of my disability were cloaked (eyes closed in bliss so returning a gaze was not expected) or out of sight completely (cane tucked in my tote bag)? I went, they saw, I conquered. I likely will not go again.
There is a part of me that has, over the years, craved this desirous, sexual gaze. There has been a bigger part of me that has rejected my own craving, even been disgusted by it.
I’m all too aware that too many women with disabilities have been or will be sexually abused and I’m all too aware that, whether disability is visibly present or not, gendered, sexualized harassment in public spaces is a thing, a pervasive thing. So, that myth that says that people with disabilities aren’t and can’t be sexually assaulted? INCORRECT.
Instead of not understanding the experience of disability, that myth grows out of a misunderstanding of sexual assault; sexual assault isn’t about sexual desire or desirability, but about the use of sex to have power over, exercise control, and inflict harm.
That longing I’ve had for the gaze of desire refutes the myth that is perhaps the root behind them all, that people with disabilities aren’t sexual. We all are, to the same degrees and with the same variability as any other population.
We all are. I am.
faerie_spark would encourage those therealljidol readers who wonder what this has to do with this week’s prompt to think about homophones.
faerie_spark is shamelessly emulating whipchick’s habit of including notes written in the third person.