Comic

One of my long-time readers sometimes comes across comics with a disability theme. He then types up a description for me. As soon as I read this one, I knew it had to immediately go up here. among other things, it is an awesome example of "You may think I'm drowning, but this is the way I swim." The artist is Fábio Coala and I think more of his work can be found at The actual comic is at The description is as follows: In the first panel, a boy with brownish skin and spiky brown hair under a green ball cap is holding a large cardboard box with air holes. He asks "What is it mom?" From off panel a voice says: "Open it!" In the second panel, the box is open. A yellow puppy is emerging. It's right front leg is missing. From off panel the boy says "A puppy!" In the third panel the boy is holding the puppy looking dismayed. He says: "Wait... What kind of a puppy doesn't have a leg?!" The puppy is gleefully wagging it's tail. In the fourth panel the boy is storming off with a tear in his eye. He shouts "What's the point of a sick dog? This sucks! I don't want no puppy. I don't want anything. I hate you!" The puppy looks at him confused. There's a pink ball next to it. In the fifth panel, the puppy looks at the ball and wags his tail. In the sixth panel, the puppy takes the ball in its mouth. In the seventh panel, the puppy is running with the ball in its mouth. In the eighth panel, the puppy falls over with a "pof!". The ball slips out. In the ninth panel, the puppy has retrieved the ball and is running again. In the tenth panel, the puppy approaches the boy who's playing a video game. In the eleventh panel, the puppy is looking at the boy while holding the ball and wagging its tail. The boy turns and says "You're not like the other dogs... You can't play. You're only there for people to feel sorry for you. Don't pretend you're happy." In the twelfth panel, the boy takes the ball and says "Gimmie that. Now catch... and get out of here." The puppy looks elated. In the thirteenth panel he throws the ball. In the fourteenth panel the puppy is running. In the fifteenth it falls over again with another "Pof". In the sixteenth, the boy says sadly, tears in his eyes, "See, you're not like the others." In the seventeenth, the dog regains its footing. In the eighteenth, it lunges and latches onto the ball, happy again. In the nineteenth, the boy smiles, tears still in his eyes. In the twentieth, he wipes away a tear and smiling says "It's no use, right? You don't care about your leg... You're happy anyway..." In the twenty first, the puppy looks at its missing leg and raises an ear in confusion. In the twenty second, it returns to looking at the boy with absolute joy. In the twenty third, we finally see the boy's full body. His own right leg is amputated above the knee. He walks on crutches saying "OK, let's play outside." The puppy runs ahead of him barking.

Running With Scissors

When I throw my yoga bag over my shoulder, my guide dog, Camille, runs over and assumes harness position. Knowing we are headed to a place of endless pets and belly rubs, her tail wags with greater than average enthusiasm. We call this a learned behavior, concluding Camille is smart for predicting what will happen. A child carefully walks across their kindergarten classroom carrying a pair of scissors in the prescribed way. They have learned – probably because numerous adults have repeatedly scolded, coached and cajoled – that it is unsafe to run with scissors or to hold them the wrong way. We also consider this admirable behavior. I walk into my local grocery store betting myself how long it will take to find someone to assist me. Through experience, I have learned that help will not materialize quickly or easily. When a child learns safety procedures or a dog begins to accurately predict a routine, we call that good. When I anticipate an activity usually difficult will probably again be hard, I am making assumptions, thinking negatively and not giving people a chance. Is there truly a difference between the three things? When adult humans take the totality of their experience and apply it to a new similar event to forecast what will happen, we call it optimism if the predictions are good, and carrying around baggage when they are negative. If the prophecies are routinely downbeat, we are further labeled pessimists. Because we are creatures capable of reason, we try to overcome our negativity – to set down the baggage or remember that a familiar situation might turn out differently. In other words, set aside the statistically significant in favor of believing things will be better this time around. (This more positive attitude has been proven over and over to be healthier for us on a multitude of psychological and physical levels.) At Rolling Around In My Head, Dave Hingsburger wrote an entry about his own personal baggage. He articulates the fine line between the benefit of predicting based on past events and the ways baggage can interfere with our experience of a situation. To summarize, just because 95% of the time a situation unfolds in a specific way it does not mean you aren't currently in the 5% of the time version. Behaving like it is the 95% of the time event when it is the 5% occurrence is suboptimal. I began thinking about how the copious amounts of baggage people with disabilities carry is often used against us becoming a tool to minimize, silence and dismiss. People with disabilities acquire their baggage by living. One morning, I did not impetuously decide knitting in public would elicit excessive praise. Instead, it happened repeatedly, creating my voluminous luggage over time as I interacted with the world. Based on that, I might leave the knitting at home to avoid unwanted attention. Suddenly, I'm judged to be carrying unreasonable and unnecessary baggage, impacting my decisions negatively. (To be clear, even I think leaving the knitting at home is absurd, but not because of the reasons given. I think letting other's ignorance limit my actions is just that.... limiting.) This baggage can in fact provide a benefit in the form of lessons about how to approach a situation. Last time I asked a bus driver to drop me off at a particular stop and didn't pay close attention, problems developed. That part of my baggage helps me remember to remind drivers, even if I might be perceived as annoying. The label "nice" is not worth it if I end up in an unsafe situation. Sharing this acquired knowledge with others often backfires. I'm not seen as learning through experience and being prudent; I am perceived as holding one person responsible for another's actions. "How do you know this driver will forget about your stop?" In fact, I don't know. I just know that if they do forget, it will suck to be me. I do agree with Dave that determining if you are in the 95% situation or the 5% one and not treating one like the other is key. Therefore, if a driver is announcing each and every stop, I don't offer any reminders of my request. The thing that bothers me the most, and the thing I cannot prove through logic or reason, is the fact that my same actions done by a non-disabled person would be perceived differently. I have baggage. They're being smart. Leveling such value judgments at the same behavior done by different people is the first step in employing social control. It isn't far from "Why are you behaving in such a negative manner?" to "Nobody likes a negative person," to "Your bad attitude is why nobody will be friends with you." Do I sometimes behave badly? Of course. Is it sometimes because I used my experience as a person with a disability (baggage) and judge things badly? Definitely. How does this make me any different from a person without a disability who uses their experience gained over time? It doesn't. Why, then, is mine baggage and theirs learning? I'm just running with scissors, cutting myself and using more care the next time around.

The Culture of Silence

A friend used the phrase 'a culture of silence' to refer to the normative standards of behavior, cultural beliefs, individual attitudes, social structures, and societal barriers that dissuade marginalized people from sharing their experience. Women keep quiet about sexual assault to avoid the blame and shame attached to speaking up. Transgendered people don't discuss their gender identity out of fear, at best, of being labeled "freaks." Poor people stay silent about their impoverished state so as to not be labeled a slacker, told they should just go find a job, or be pitied. In contemplating all the times I swallow my words, I have begun to wonder what part of my silence is tact and what part subtle duress? Then I came across a news clip about a student with developmental disabilities who was bullied by her teacher. What shocked me was not that such events transpired for I know such situations are common. I was surprised that the parents went to such great lengths to prove their child was not lying. Educators relied upon the

Are Labels Bad?

More and more I hear about children who have diagnosed conditions such as Autism, Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder, or learning disabilities who have been placed in the educational system without the diagnosis being known to teachers or administration. Parents feel that assumptions made about the label will harm their child far more than keeping the condition unknown. Bet you figured out that I find this approach to be problematic.

My label of blind is obvious to most upon meeting me and is no more escapable than others noting my gender. The assumptions people make about my visual status are often frustrating, insulting, or downright harmful. Still, even if it were possible, I would not have my visual status unknown to those who meet me. In fact, those times when my label eludes another's awareness often involve the most basic of problems, like being able to get my attention.

The word blind means that I am not able to perceive my surroundings with my eyes – a statement of fact. From this truth people attach significance and deduce implications beyond the literal. "If she can't see, then she can't use a computer." Not being able to see is a mere nuisance, whereas other's conclusions plague me endlessly. Rather than avoiding the descriptive label, I focus on stripping away the limitations people associate with it. Given that it's impossible for me to evade my blindness being known, my stance is not exactly all that principled.

Other labels that describe me, such as chronically ill, are not discernible by visual assessment. To be honest, I do not always bring them up upon first meeting another. While it would be awkward – "Hi, I'm Jen and I have Chronic Fatigue Syndrome" – that is not my primary reason for keeping the condition to myself. Rather, I hate the hassle that often results from people knowing of my health situation. "Wow, you don't look sick" or "I get tired, too" are just some of the possible responses I field. When it matters, such as with medical professionals or those who are relying upon me, I make my condition known because I find it inconceivable that I would deny others necessary information.

Moreover, I find it philosophically wrong to avoid a pragmatic descriptive label because others attach meaning to it. If I truly believe blindness is not a negative or positive state but simply a fact, then I need to live accordingly. Hiding my labels implies there is something about them requiring concealment – something bad. I cannot and will not substantiate others' negative perceptions of my labels.

In my non-parent opinion, I believe divorcing a child from their condition does the child a disservice. Yes, teachers will have some wrong-headed beliefs, but they may also have a better idea of how to teach the child. Rather than avoiding a statement of fact, parents have an opportunity to debunk assumptions by insisting their child not be pigeonholed by preconceived notions. And, when another student comes along with the same condition, that teacher will be better able to handle it with an open mind.

I also wonder what it teaches a child when their condition is concealed. One possible message is that when others react badly to a presented fact, the proper course of action is to hide the fact. Another possible lesson is that the label is something shameful. Even if a parent can avoid conveying both those ideas, the child could still learn that they should not openly address their diagnosis. How could any of these be in the long term best interests of a child?

I realize making labels known and then dealing with the consequences is difficult, but so too is keeping labels hidden. What must you do to keep a condition hidden, especially if teachers are actively suggesting the possibility? Also, while benefits of concealment are limited to an individual, debunking misconceptions helps others. I want the world experienced by future blind, chronically ill, facially different children to be better than the one I now inhabit, so I cope with the detrimental aspects whenever possible. It does make my life harder, but it also means I'm living what I believe rather than allowing others to shape my actions.