Showing posts with label language. Show all posts
Showing posts with label language. Show all posts
Tuesday, July 23, 2013
Misconceiving
Transgender(ed) people have an expression used to describe the way another person looks at them, sees certain identifiers they link to a particular gender and then assigns them that gender. Misreading.
An androgynous person with a prominent Adam's apple is read as male. If they instead had long nails and heavy eye makeup, they would probably be read as female. In our heads, we all have traits we consider "male" and traits we consider "female." Based on their presence or absence, we assign gender. a collection of traits goes into someone's head and out pops a gender label.
This drives some trans people nuts. So what if you can see their Adam's apple? If they call themselves female, then they are female. Period.
People with disabilities are misread in an entirely different way. For us, it starts with a single entity – white cane, dog guide, wheelchair, prosthetic, support cane, hearing aid, use of ASL or informational disclosed – that identifies us as disabled. From there, we are assigned traits and entire lives are created for us in the mind of another. We are a word that leads to an entire story.
Maybe the word "misreading," already claimed by another group to mean something specific, is the wrong term to use. Maybe it should be "misconceiving," which has the element of *creating* in its crafting.
To the stranger who has decided they know what my life must be like, I can say, "You are misconceiving me." They might not know what I mean, but the explanation "You see my disability and then create this concept of what you think my life must be like which is inaccurate," is far easier to give than debunking each false belief, one after the other.
A broad term to convey a cognitive tendency. Works for me.
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
Why Not Saucer?
If you are familiar with The Spoon Theory of Chronic Illness, then you probably already see where I'm headed.
A few days ago, a new friend was trying to be supportive of me and my forgetfulness. Unaware of my chronic illness and the role it plays in my life, she said, "You just have a lot on your plate."
I thought, "Plate? It's more like a saucer."
I am currently quite taken with this concept. Plate has been used for quite some time to describe an imaginary space that encompasses everything going on in an individual's life. Of late this colloquialism is growing in popularity and I believe my saucer variation can accomplish much.
A change from plate to saucer will not be particularly confusing as the two are so clearly related. There is a comprehensible implication that something is smaller and unlike with The Spoon Theory, requires little explanation. In fact, I can foresee using it without anyone even realizing I've done something unusual.
While a subtle change, I anticipate great impact. With the substitution of one word, I am saying I have less resources available to handle whatever is happening in my life. It acts as a reminder of my chronic illnesses existence and its effect. People might just hear a word, but it has much meaning attached.
Part of the appeal is an economy of effort for I will use less energy to convey a complicated concept that often requires significant explanation. I can even shift the meaning easily by saying sandwich plate. I'm loving it. Besides, given the culinary theme, it fits right in with The Spoon Theory.
A few days ago, a new friend was trying to be supportive of me and my forgetfulness. Unaware of my chronic illness and the role it plays in my life, she said, "You just have a lot on your plate."
I thought, "Plate? It's more like a saucer."
I am currently quite taken with this concept. Plate has been used for quite some time to describe an imaginary space that encompasses everything going on in an individual's life. Of late this colloquialism is growing in popularity and I believe my saucer variation can accomplish much.
A change from plate to saucer will not be particularly confusing as the two are so clearly related. There is a comprehensible implication that something is smaller and unlike with The Spoon Theory, requires little explanation. In fact, I can foresee using it without anyone even realizing I've done something unusual.
While a subtle change, I anticipate great impact. With the substitution of one word, I am saying I have less resources available to handle whatever is happening in my life. It acts as a reminder of my chronic illnesses existence and its effect. People might just hear a word, but it has much meaning attached.
Part of the appeal is an economy of effort for I will use less energy to convey a complicated concept that often requires significant explanation. I can even shift the meaning easily by saying sandwich plate. I'm loving it. Besides, given the culinary theme, it fits right in with The Spoon Theory.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
The Power of She
Ever been talked about as if you weren't standing right there? Disabled people are more than familiar with this experience. Our companions are directed where to take us, given things intended for us, and asked what we want as if they have a direct line to our brains. It's annoying. In the extreme.
The word "she" has the power to totally alter reality. "She needs to go over there." "What does she want?" I become a body that is unable to interact with the world. I become unnecessary in the conversation. Three letters – one syllable – and I vanish.
Lately, this has happened so much that I have wanted to wear a sign that says, "She Can TALK!" Instead, I keep saying, "Where do I need to go?" or "I want..." You would think this might clue the person "she"ing me into nonexistence that I possess the ability to communicate, but no such luck.
When the "she"ing happens, some of my friends play dumb, others pointedly look at me, and every so often one will say, "I don't know what she wants. Maybe you should ask her?" Often this has more corrective power reinforcing the fact that my presence is irrelevant.
I am most likely to be "she"ed in medical settings where disability is constructed around the physical limitations of the body and corrective intervention. This focus on what cannot be done probably causes medical professionals to have a keen awareness of my deficits as opposed to either my strengths or ways to work around my limitations.
Right now, as I deal with the medical establishment seemingly constantly, I lack the patience to understand the factors that contribute to this "she"ing behavior. I care not a wit as to what socially-perpetuated beliefs about disability have shaped individual behavior. I have no compassion for ignorance. I just want to be treated like a person not disappeared by simple word choice. Because, well, it isn't simple word choice. It's an indication of a pervasive, flawed perception of me.
ADMINSTRATIVE NOTE:
I am having yet more surgery. It seems my right eye socket is jealous of the left and has decided to evict it's occupying eye. The blog will be dark until the first week of August. All positive thoughts are welcome and appreciated.
The word "she" has the power to totally alter reality. "She needs to go over there." "What does she want?" I become a body that is unable to interact with the world. I become unnecessary in the conversation. Three letters – one syllable – and I vanish.
Lately, this has happened so much that I have wanted to wear a sign that says, "She Can TALK!" Instead, I keep saying, "Where do I need to go?" or "I want..." You would think this might clue the person "she"ing me into nonexistence that I possess the ability to communicate, but no such luck.
When the "she"ing happens, some of my friends play dumb, others pointedly look at me, and every so often one will say, "I don't know what she wants. Maybe you should ask her?" Often this has more corrective power reinforcing the fact that my presence is irrelevant.
I am most likely to be "she"ed in medical settings where disability is constructed around the physical limitations of the body and corrective intervention. This focus on what cannot be done probably causes medical professionals to have a keen awareness of my deficits as opposed to either my strengths or ways to work around my limitations.
Right now, as I deal with the medical establishment seemingly constantly, I lack the patience to understand the factors that contribute to this "she"ing behavior. I care not a wit as to what socially-perpetuated beliefs about disability have shaped individual behavior. I have no compassion for ignorance. I just want to be treated like a person not disappeared by simple word choice. Because, well, it isn't simple word choice. It's an indication of a pervasive, flawed perception of me.
ADMINSTRATIVE NOTE:
I am having yet more surgery. It seems my right eye socket is jealous of the left and has decided to evict it's occupying eye. The blog will be dark until the first week of August. All positive thoughts are welcome and appreciated.
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
Invalid or Invalid
Before you read any further, make sure to look at the title of this entry. The word could be invalid as in bedridden or it could be invalid as in unfounded, worthless, or null. I shudder whenever I hear the term used in the former denotation of a person who is weak or ill because it so easily could mean the other as well. Is the term on some level a denial of personhood? While I suspect the answer is yes, I have no logical argument to prove it.
Now how about another favorite of mine: wheelchair bound. Users of wheelchairs are typically unable to get themselves from point a to point b solely under their own power, so they plop themselves into this device and suddenly can move about with freedom. Does that experience fit with the word bound? Replace it with the grammatically appropriate version of the word use, as in wheelchair user or person who uses a wheelchair and suddenly something more reflective of reality.
There is a place between saying anything and scrutinizing each word endlessly. I wish people would strive for that place. To most achieving it feels daunting, so they give up and stop referring to things forthrightly. In my opinion, it is far more doable than you think.
Start with the premise that the person you are referring to is simply different from you. This means you acknowledge human variation and the atypical way the person interacts with the world but you do not judge or rank it. Next determine the concept you wish to articulate and attempt to find an equivalent in your life. For example, you move from point a to point b by use of your feet, a car, bike or bus. How would you describe that? Hoofing it, riding in a car, riding a bike, or bus rider would work. None of those terms imply you are glued to your method of locomotion so why would you describe a wheelchair user in those terms?
The term bound is one that probably can be traced back to somebody thinking about how they, a TAB, would feel if they needed to use a wheelchair and could only come up with the feeling of trapped. Don't try to put yourself in the shoes of a disabled person when it comes to judging their life or how they feel about it. Simply put, it cannot be done in a neutral way free of societal beliefs about ability and physical difference. As a TAB you are also unaware of the techniques we are taught to accomplish tasks, emotional changes our disability has facilitated, and what windows might have opened when doors closed. In other words, you lack basic information necessary to occupy our footwear.
It is far better to seek an equivalent concept in your able-bodied life and find a way to describe it that would work for you. Here's a great example. From time to time, friends of mine find themselves in the position of wanting to know if a person they've met is acquainted with me. Usually, if this happened with a non-disabled person, a description of the individual would be given. To me that makes it completely reasonable and efficient to say, "Do you know Jen? She's blind, has curly hair, and her face is pretty unusual." It's the equivalent of saying, "He's tall, really skinny, and has long hair."
Back to invalid. Usually that word refers to a person who cannot get out of bed or leave the house. If you treat that as a fact that has no inherent implications about the person's quality of life, then I imagine you can come up with a better term than one which means null with a change in emphasis. It is probably going to take a few more words, but I think it might be worth the effort.
Now how about another favorite of mine: wheelchair bound. Users of wheelchairs are typically unable to get themselves from point a to point b solely under their own power, so they plop themselves into this device and suddenly can move about with freedom. Does that experience fit with the word bound? Replace it with the grammatically appropriate version of the word use, as in wheelchair user or person who uses a wheelchair and suddenly something more reflective of reality.
There is a place between saying anything and scrutinizing each word endlessly. I wish people would strive for that place. To most achieving it feels daunting, so they give up and stop referring to things forthrightly. In my opinion, it is far more doable than you think.
Start with the premise that the person you are referring to is simply different from you. This means you acknowledge human variation and the atypical way the person interacts with the world but you do not judge or rank it. Next determine the concept you wish to articulate and attempt to find an equivalent in your life. For example, you move from point a to point b by use of your feet, a car, bike or bus. How would you describe that? Hoofing it, riding in a car, riding a bike, or bus rider would work. None of those terms imply you are glued to your method of locomotion so why would you describe a wheelchair user in those terms?
The term bound is one that probably can be traced back to somebody thinking about how they, a TAB, would feel if they needed to use a wheelchair and could only come up with the feeling of trapped. Don't try to put yourself in the shoes of a disabled person when it comes to judging their life or how they feel about it. Simply put, it cannot be done in a neutral way free of societal beliefs about ability and physical difference. As a TAB you are also unaware of the techniques we are taught to accomplish tasks, emotional changes our disability has facilitated, and what windows might have opened when doors closed. In other words, you lack basic information necessary to occupy our footwear.
It is far better to seek an equivalent concept in your able-bodied life and find a way to describe it that would work for you. Here's a great example. From time to time, friends of mine find themselves in the position of wanting to know if a person they've met is acquainted with me. Usually, if this happened with a non-disabled person, a description of the individual would be given. To me that makes it completely reasonable and efficient to say, "Do you know Jen? She's blind, has curly hair, and her face is pretty unusual." It's the equivalent of saying, "He's tall, really skinny, and has long hair."
Back to invalid. Usually that word refers to a person who cannot get out of bed or leave the house. If you treat that as a fact that has no inherent implications about the person's quality of life, then I imagine you can come up with a better term than one which means null with a change in emphasis. It is probably going to take a few more words, but I think it might be worth the effort.
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Blind to the Meaning
I have a reflexive, visceral aversion to the word blind being used to describe anything other than the inability to see the world using eyeballs. And, if you happen to be acquainted with me, then right about now you are thinking, "Um, Jen, you use the word all the time in that way." Yup, sure do. Still loathe it.
I realize it is a proper usage of the word conveying significant meaning concisely. Besides referencing window coverings and a myriad of other things, blind is used to describe an inability to perceive or understand truth or reality. Think about the line in Amazing Grace "I was blind but now I see." Who, exactly, wants to be blind in that sense? Can humans separate the two meanings?
I am doubtful we can keep one meaning from flavoring the other and down the street from my home there is a pizza placed that illustrates my point. Most people assume "The Blind Lady Ale House" refers to a female who cannot see with her eyes. In actuality, the name relates to the last person to occupy that retail space – a woman who sold window blinds.
I used to think pride was responsible for my feelings because I value my ability to perceive and understand the world around me. With justification, I want nothing to do with those traits being stripped away from me. Then I read Wheelie Catholic's entry.
http://wheeliecatholic.blogspot.com/2010/03/its-not-cool-to-use-r-word-spread-word.html
While about a different word entirely, it helped me clarify my own thoughts. When a word is used to describe a disabling condition, it should not also be used in ways that convey a pejorative meaning. For example, do we shower a friend with, "Wow, how blind! That's just so cool."? Definitely not.
I am not the language police by any stretch believing the intent behind words is far more important than the exactly perfect phrasing of something. However, I do believe language has power and those with good intentions should endeavor to use verbiage that conveys it. Accusing someone of being 'blind' in one sentence and then referring to me as blind in another blurs meaning. Far better, from my perspective, to use a different word when describing an inability to perceive or understand something. Adequate words such as unperceptive, obtuse, ignorant, unaware, and inattentive will suffice.
And what about Venetian blinds, blind alleys, hunting blinds and the compliment of color blind? Nobody will mistake me for a window dressing or other inanimate thing. While it is confusing, I have no objections to blind being misconstrued as a compliment. My sole concern is the use of the word as a negative. Eliminating the word from the English language except when it describes ocular issues is insane. Finding synonymous terms to hurl as insults seems far more doable.
I realize it is a proper usage of the word conveying significant meaning concisely. Besides referencing window coverings and a myriad of other things, blind is used to describe an inability to perceive or understand truth or reality. Think about the line in Amazing Grace "I was blind but now I see." Who, exactly, wants to be blind in that sense? Can humans separate the two meanings?
I am doubtful we can keep one meaning from flavoring the other and down the street from my home there is a pizza placed that illustrates my point. Most people assume "The Blind Lady Ale House" refers to a female who cannot see with her eyes. In actuality, the name relates to the last person to occupy that retail space – a woman who sold window blinds.
I used to think pride was responsible for my feelings because I value my ability to perceive and understand the world around me. With justification, I want nothing to do with those traits being stripped away from me. Then I read Wheelie Catholic's entry.
http://wheeliecatholic.blogspot.com/2010/03/its-not-cool-to-use-r-word-spread-word.html
While about a different word entirely, it helped me clarify my own thoughts. When a word is used to describe a disabling condition, it should not also be used in ways that convey a pejorative meaning. For example, do we shower a friend with, "Wow, how blind! That's just so cool."? Definitely not.
I am not the language police by any stretch believing the intent behind words is far more important than the exactly perfect phrasing of something. However, I do believe language has power and those with good intentions should endeavor to use verbiage that conveys it. Accusing someone of being 'blind' in one sentence and then referring to me as blind in another blurs meaning. Far better, from my perspective, to use a different word when describing an inability to perceive or understand something. Adequate words such as unperceptive, obtuse, ignorant, unaware, and inattentive will suffice.
And what about Venetian blinds, blind alleys, hunting blinds and the compliment of color blind? Nobody will mistake me for a window dressing or other inanimate thing. While it is confusing, I have no objections to blind being misconstrued as a compliment. My sole concern is the use of the word as a negative. Eliminating the word from the English language except when it describes ocular issues is insane. Finding synonymous terms to hurl as insults seems far more doable.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
The UU Experience
Sometimes it seems like everything that leaves my mouth is about disability, more than half of it critical. Sunday, with my maiden voyage into San Diego's First Unitarian Universalist Church, I again felt obsessed.
In the beginning, I kept the words from passing my lips as we walked down stairs that led to a ramp. I suspect there is some form of wheelchair access, but all I could think was, "Great, stairs to ramp. How... aware."
Next, my friend read me the service topic "Broken Open: How Difficult Times Help Us Grow." I was intrigued, but "broken"? A mental roll of my eyes.
Further pamphlet exploration revealed we would sing "Amazing Grace". This finally ended my silence. I explained the line "Was blind but now I see" is inherently ablist whereas "Was bound but now I'm free" avoids that yet maintains the overall message.
The service began with "Rise if you are able." Knowing my energy limitations, my friend offered to stay seated with me, but I said standing was fine even though the whole thing was ablist.
The sermon peaked my curiosity. How would he go about addressing something I know on a bone-deep level? He opened with the line, "Life is not a problem to be solved but a gift to be opened." His main point was that fixating on and identifying with the traumas of our past keep us mired in the pain unable to experience what life has to offer. While wounds need tending and the pain cannot be pushed into a corner, there can be a place where you recognize the suffering, learn from it, and then live life.
There was so much emphasis on not identifying with one's pain that I began to question myself. Do I cling to disability as some sort of wound and therefore miss out on life? Is my tendency to be disability obsessed a symptom of not letting go? Have I made an avocation out of poking at my wounds?
Lunch proved an excellent place to lay out these doubts. Then, I explained that I see my disabilities as positives that shape my life and inform who I am as a person. I asked if I was deluding myself with pretty rationalizations.
While I was unable to differentiate between clinging to past difficulties versus the way I live, my friends found it easy. I guess it's not about where you invest your time or what occupies your mind. Instead, it is about the spirit in which you go forth and live. Do you pick up your difficulties and shoulder them as a burden? Are you pulling the misery out for public display? Those would be a kind of holding on that keeps the wound fresh. According to my friends, I mention my disability in a matter-of-fact way when relevant, do not have a rain cloud of suffering that lurks over me, and contrary to my perceptions, I do not talk about disability incessantly.
Embarrassed though I am to admit it, I equated disability with a negative assuming that when the minister mentioned physical difficulties he meant someone like me. Hello? He can mean whatever he wants. I do not have to swallow the assumption of disability as trauma. While he may have given me a nibble, I ate the entire cookie. Whole. And enjoyed it.
Language was mentioned in our lunchtime discussion, specifically the use of "my" as opposed to "the." There is a line of thinking that says placing my before a word like depression makes it central to your own self-identity granting it undue influence so that you are less likely to recognize or bask in other emotional states. Consider these two sentences. My depression sucks. The depression I experience sucks. While they convey the same concept, the latter offers a degree of distance. I can see the merit in maintaining perspective and balance through word choice.
My point of view is slightly different. Is it words or is it attitude? I can talk about my PTSD without ever once thinking it is a significant defining force in my life, or even particularly relevant most of the time. I'm not so much claiming it as referring to it as I would my eyes or my legs. Never have I alleged, "The legs on my body are long," but I have said, "My legs are long." Perhaps when you perceive something as trauma, language keeping it distinct from yourself is necessary. When the topic in question is a fact, then more personal language is less problematic.
A poem by Wislava Szymborska was read during service conveying the idea that taking away one aspect of a person, like their amazement with life, would transform them into another human being altogether. Because my disabilities come with me wherever I go, necessarily impact my actions, and effect how others interact with me, they are an unavoidable fact woven through my life. Taking them away would make me unrecognizable as myself. We talk about "my race," my gender, and "my religion" making these facts part of our identity. Why can't disability be a similar fact that enriches my life and grants my character complexity?
In the beginning, I kept the words from passing my lips as we walked down stairs that led to a ramp. I suspect there is some form of wheelchair access, but all I could think was, "Great, stairs to ramp. How... aware."
Next, my friend read me the service topic "Broken Open: How Difficult Times Help Us Grow." I was intrigued, but "broken"? A mental roll of my eyes.
Further pamphlet exploration revealed we would sing "Amazing Grace". This finally ended my silence. I explained the line "Was blind but now I see" is inherently ablist whereas "Was bound but now I'm free" avoids that yet maintains the overall message.
The service began with "Rise if you are able." Knowing my energy limitations, my friend offered to stay seated with me, but I said standing was fine even though the whole thing was ablist.
The sermon peaked my curiosity. How would he go about addressing something I know on a bone-deep level? He opened with the line, "Life is not a problem to be solved but a gift to be opened." His main point was that fixating on and identifying with the traumas of our past keep us mired in the pain unable to experience what life has to offer. While wounds need tending and the pain cannot be pushed into a corner, there can be a place where you recognize the suffering, learn from it, and then live life.
There was so much emphasis on not identifying with one's pain that I began to question myself. Do I cling to disability as some sort of wound and therefore miss out on life? Is my tendency to be disability obsessed a symptom of not letting go? Have I made an avocation out of poking at my wounds?
Lunch proved an excellent place to lay out these doubts. Then, I explained that I see my disabilities as positives that shape my life and inform who I am as a person. I asked if I was deluding myself with pretty rationalizations.
While I was unable to differentiate between clinging to past difficulties versus the way I live, my friends found it easy. I guess it's not about where you invest your time or what occupies your mind. Instead, it is about the spirit in which you go forth and live. Do you pick up your difficulties and shoulder them as a burden? Are you pulling the misery out for public display? Those would be a kind of holding on that keeps the wound fresh. According to my friends, I mention my disability in a matter-of-fact way when relevant, do not have a rain cloud of suffering that lurks over me, and contrary to my perceptions, I do not talk about disability incessantly.
Embarrassed though I am to admit it, I equated disability with a negative assuming that when the minister mentioned physical difficulties he meant someone like me. Hello? He can mean whatever he wants. I do not have to swallow the assumption of disability as trauma. While he may have given me a nibble, I ate the entire cookie. Whole. And enjoyed it.
Language was mentioned in our lunchtime discussion, specifically the use of "my" as opposed to "the." There is a line of thinking that says placing my before a word like depression makes it central to your own self-identity granting it undue influence so that you are less likely to recognize or bask in other emotional states. Consider these two sentences. My depression sucks. The depression I experience sucks. While they convey the same concept, the latter offers a degree of distance. I can see the merit in maintaining perspective and balance through word choice.
My point of view is slightly different. Is it words or is it attitude? I can talk about my PTSD without ever once thinking it is a significant defining force in my life, or even particularly relevant most of the time. I'm not so much claiming it as referring to it as I would my eyes or my legs. Never have I alleged, "The legs on my body are long," but I have said, "My legs are long." Perhaps when you perceive something as trauma, language keeping it distinct from yourself is necessary. When the topic in question is a fact, then more personal language is less problematic.
A poem by Wislava Szymborska was read during service conveying the idea that taking away one aspect of a person, like their amazement with life, would transform them into another human being altogether. Because my disabilities come with me wherever I go, necessarily impact my actions, and effect how others interact with me, they are an unavoidable fact woven through my life. Taking them away would make me unrecognizable as myself. We talk about "my race," my gender, and "my religion" making these facts part of our identity. Why can't disability be a similar fact that enriches my life and grants my character complexity?
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
What's the problem with the word broken?
For my inaugural post, an explanation of the blog’s title seems fitting.
I have heard the word broken used to describe people’s hearts, minds, bodies, and spirits, each time evoking a cringe from me. When this label is leveled in my direction, I am filled with indignation. Cars, china plates, and even bones are broken, but never human beings.
I object most strongly when broken is used to describe disabled people, either by others or the disabled person themselves. Once an instinctive response it has now become fleshed out with theory and meaning. The central problem is not solely in and of itself the word broken, but the inherent implication that the described thing is in need of fixing. A secondary connotation is that the item is no longer of use. Broken plates are either glued together or thrown away. Broken cars go off to the mechanic or junk yard. Broken bones are set so they can mend. So, if a person is broken, does that mean they need to be fixed or discarded?
The things that we fix are things that are considered to be wrong in their current state. While wrong has become synonymous with different in many cases, it actually only means one entity is not like another entity. Nobody can argue we are not different from the group known as nondisabled for there are things we cannot do, bodies unlike most, or behaviors that are out of the ordinary. Broken, though, adds the implication that the difference is wrong.
My face looks like that of no other human definitely fitting the criteria of different. Does this mean my face is wrong? Can a face even be wrong? I am blind and interact with my world differently from sighted people. Does this somehow make me wrong? Unlike answers on a test, there is no ultimate truth about how human beings must be, look, or behave. WE accept variations in dress, cultural habits, hair color, social customs, and language. While we recognize them as different, we do not consider them wrong. How then can there be other variations considered unacceptable? Who decides where to draw that line?
If a broken thing cannot be fixed, we do one of two things: throw it away or store it in some dark corner in case circumstances somehow transform it into a useful resource. (My grandfather with broken appliances shoved into every cobwebbed corner of the basement comes to mind. He never knew when a part of one of those appliances might fix another.) The idea of discarding human beings is so abhorrent to me that the reasoning against it seems obvious. Yet, when I try to articulate it, I cannot quite find the words. It seems to boil down to human value: I believe every person has some value – some use. To me broken strips any value away implying usefulness will occur if the person can be fixed enough or circumstances change.
I am usually not the language police. Phrases like physically challenged or differently abled make me roll my eyes. My atoms are not in danger of disintegrating into their component protons, neutrons and electrons. Neither do I have antennae protruding from the top of my head endowing me with some unusual ability. Disabled works fine for me since I am not able to see. Broken, however, assigns some value to my disabled state. AS I object to being thought of as child-like, incompetent, or needy, I object to being thought of as broken. I am not a car, plate, or bone.
I have heard the word broken used to describe people’s hearts, minds, bodies, and spirits, each time evoking a cringe from me. When this label is leveled in my direction, I am filled with indignation. Cars, china plates, and even bones are broken, but never human beings.
I object most strongly when broken is used to describe disabled people, either by others or the disabled person themselves. Once an instinctive response it has now become fleshed out with theory and meaning. The central problem is not solely in and of itself the word broken, but the inherent implication that the described thing is in need of fixing. A secondary connotation is that the item is no longer of use. Broken plates are either glued together or thrown away. Broken cars go off to the mechanic or junk yard. Broken bones are set so they can mend. So, if a person is broken, does that mean they need to be fixed or discarded?
The things that we fix are things that are considered to be wrong in their current state. While wrong has become synonymous with different in many cases, it actually only means one entity is not like another entity. Nobody can argue we are not different from the group known as nondisabled for there are things we cannot do, bodies unlike most, or behaviors that are out of the ordinary. Broken, though, adds the implication that the difference is wrong.
My face looks like that of no other human definitely fitting the criteria of different. Does this mean my face is wrong? Can a face even be wrong? I am blind and interact with my world differently from sighted people. Does this somehow make me wrong? Unlike answers on a test, there is no ultimate truth about how human beings must be, look, or behave. WE accept variations in dress, cultural habits, hair color, social customs, and language. While we recognize them as different, we do not consider them wrong. How then can there be other variations considered unacceptable? Who decides where to draw that line?
If a broken thing cannot be fixed, we do one of two things: throw it away or store it in some dark corner in case circumstances somehow transform it into a useful resource. (My grandfather with broken appliances shoved into every cobwebbed corner of the basement comes to mind. He never knew when a part of one of those appliances might fix another.) The idea of discarding human beings is so abhorrent to me that the reasoning against it seems obvious. Yet, when I try to articulate it, I cannot quite find the words. It seems to boil down to human value: I believe every person has some value – some use. To me broken strips any value away implying usefulness will occur if the person can be fixed enough or circumstances change.
I am usually not the language police. Phrases like physically challenged or differently abled make me roll my eyes. My atoms are not in danger of disintegrating into their component protons, neutrons and electrons. Neither do I have antennae protruding from the top of my head endowing me with some unusual ability. Disabled works fine for me since I am not able to see. Broken, however, assigns some value to my disabled state. AS I object to being thought of as child-like, incompetent, or needy, I object to being thought of as broken. I am not a car, plate, or bone.
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