Not Female. disabled.

Last June, I started a co-ed discussion group on bisexuality in part because the only venue of that type was male-dominated in a way that made women uncomfortable and had proven to be unfixable. Unfortunately, the new group is not attracting women, so I finally took three deep breaths and began organizing a female-only version.
Women-only spaces make me ill at ease in the same way I feel slightly weird when I realize everyone in a room is white or heterosexual or LGBT or from a middle class background or whatever. Forming a group that is explicitly homogeneous on a particular dimension has forced me to examine my discomfort and shockingly the explanation involves disability.
When women speak about the importance of gender specific spaces, they reference times in their lives when they felt limited by a patriarchal system, silenced by men, or stripped of their personhood reduced to an object. Women-only groups allow females to express themselves freely without the constraints male-dominated society imposes. It is about breathing a sigh of relief because all the "crap" is suddenly able to be set aside and the business of being oneself embarked upon without the usual fetters.
All my life, disability has been the single factor most likely to shape my experiences. It is the thing people react to, the trait by which others define me, and by necessity mentioned often. My female gender, on the other hand, is not something people discern nor is it a regular topic of conversation. Its significance is limited to the bathroom I am directed to or the gender specific moniker used.
I have experienced a myriad of limitations placed upon me by others, from expectations of achievement to opportunities offered. At every turn, the judgments of others have been barriers between me and what I want. They have almost entirely been a factor of my disability not my gender. It's been "Blind people can't do physics" not "Women can't do physics."
People do not attempt to silence me. Instead, there seems to be this assumption that I lack a voice as if I have no thoughts or words to be expressed. Rather than devaluing my perspective, I am presumed without opinion.
My very personhood has been stripped away not because I am female and therefore an object of sexual desire but because I am perceived as my disability. I am blindness with legs and feet.
The bottom line is that I don't experience the world as a woman, which means I have trouble identifying with the reasons women want spaces to themselves. It would seem reasonable that I could at least identify with the desire to have a space free of oppressive forces, but even the idea of a disabled-only space makes me twitch.
I believe this inability to even empathize comes from the fact that I have assimilated into able-bodied culture to such an extreme that I taken it on as my own. It might be flawed, oppressive, and negatively impact my life, but for better or worse, it is the world I inhabit. Instead of creating spaces where I can escape its oppressive forces, I want to transform the bigotry.
Furthermore, I have found a way to construct a life that rejects the limitations, denial of personhood, and lack of a voice able bodied culture would impose upon me. For example, while strangers may assume I do not engage in independent thought, this blog allows me to use my words to articulate my experiences in the hopes of redefining how people perceive disability.
Eleanor Roosevelt once said, "No one can make you feel inferior without your consent." I guess the totality of my life experiences have brought me to a place where oppressive forces can do their worst truly impacting my life in negative ways, but I refuse to give them the power to limit anything within my control such as my self-image and ability to express myself.

Left Out

This is becoming ridiculous. Utterly. Ridiculous. I just read an email promoting a concert that should have filled me with longing to attend. Instead, when I saw the "no electronics and no talking" venue rule, I immediately thought, "Excuse me? Blind people might need talking to describe visual aspects of the show and we might need our electronics to get there or to read while we wait. Are you planning on banning books and newspapers too?"
It would seem that I cannot avoid noticing policies, procedures, and language that excludes disabled people. Everywhere I turn, everything I hear, the ways disabled people are excluded have suddenly become impossible to ignore.
Here are some that happened in less than 48 hours:
1. Everyone in the world is posting photos to Facebook without any descriptive tags. The latest craze is to "repost" those you like, again without descriptive tags..
2. My local radio station of choice is giving away Hawaiian vacations. To enter, you must input words into an inaccessible form on their website.
3. A musician who had to have seen me enter the tiny room as well as get up and use the restroom didn't provide context for visual gestures etc in his patter.
4. A list of the "civil rights movements" of the recent past included everything except the disability rights and immigrant rights movements..
There has never been a time when I did not see such practices, but suddenly they have become commonplace. While it is conceivable that there has recently been an exponential increase, it seems more likely that I have somehow changed. Honestly, it would be great to change *me* back.
Noticing exclusionary practices when you are a part of the excluded group is upsetting. The most benign interpretation is that you never entered the mind or minds of those shaping the procedures. For a while, it is possible to believe that is exactly the situation. Over time, faith erodes and you begin to wonder how anyone can not consider disability with such persistence. The question running through your mind becomes, "Is this willful ignorance?" At your most skeptical, you contemplate global conspiracies to eliminate people like you from the human consciousness. After all, out of sight is typically out of mind and what can't be seen can't be disturbing.
When your perception of such circumstances increases, it is akin to constantly bumping your injured thumb on EVERYTHING. Metal ease is no longer possible.
This is in fact impacting my quality of life. Literally. I am trying to make peace with the continual bombardment. Perhaps if I assume I'm going to be left out I can find some sense of belonging. I am, at least, in good company.

Grey's Anatomy of Appearance

With a plastic surgeon as one of the regular characters, Grey's Anatomy has more than the average dose of appearance-related storylines. There was the woman whose face was entirely rebuilt so she didn't recognize herself. There was the husband who had become a recluse because of chronic growths. There was even a man having a face transplant. And now they've done multiple storylines involving children with facial birth defects.
This passed Thursday, I was struck by the way one doctor articulated why an infant needed surgery. In arguing for who she considered the "best" surgeon for the job, she gave a long list of all the ways the boy's appearance would impact his life from social isolation to who he took as a prom date to the job he landed to who he married. To me, it felt like a laundry list of how I know social standards of beauty have, well, messed with my life. Social isolation as a child? Check. Prom? Never went. Spouse? Still single at age thirty nine. Job? The jury is out on that one because I don't have the energy for employment.
I was struck by the difference between how people talk to me about appearance versus the way this show did. When I get frustrated by the negative consequences of the societal evaluation of how I look, people often very gently tell me I'm wrong. I get lectures on how complicated relationships are or explanations about how nobody at my age has an easy time making friends. My expectations are too high. My devaluation has nothing to do with how I look.
In less than sixty seconds of dialog, a television show pretty much substantiated every feeling I've had about how my appearance – or rather how society perceives it–has impacted my life. While painful to hear, it was also liberating because unlike what people say to me, this was akin to an uncensored opinion that nobody thought you'd overhear.
My question is this: why do people who love me show such, excuse the term, blindness when it comes to this? Is it harder for them to accept the reality I inhabit than it is for me? Perhaps it's a sort of empathy gone awry. Nobody likes to think their friend will have a hard life where people will judge them harshly and they especially do not want to share such a negative prognosis with the person who will have to experience it.
I liked the clean, clear perspective shown in Grey's Anatomy because it described reality. In denying this reality, as a society we actually further perpetuate the problem for you cannot address what you are not willing to acknowledge. Far better to find a solution than to engage in further burying our heads in the sand.
and in terms of solving the problem, there are really two choices. We either change people to fit the definition of acceptable appearance or we alter the definition itself. Clearly, I have a strong preference as to which path we take.
I find it fascinating that we teach our children to not judge based on appearance and yet we somehow do not actually change anything because those kids grow up to have the same, in my opinion warped, beliefs about our outer shells. It is one of those cases where actions don't simply speak louder than words, they in fact drown out the words.
One part of the storyline made me extremely happy. A doctor told the mother, "We're going to make this handsome felllow even more handsome." That's the kind of thinking that might have an effect.

Living with Lines

In the last entry, I wrote of my frustration with people who want to tear down arbitrary borders yet have some very arbitrary definitions of what constitutes a differentiation worth eradicating. Today I want to talk about life with all those boundaries.
Whether it be about sexual orientation, disability, gender, chronic illness, or class, my life has a plethora of delineations. Trying to find my place within that complexity is difficult. Can I stand in both the disability and bisexuality areas simultaneously? Do I need to abandon my gender to stand in the area set aside for my sexual orientation? Can I balance on the toes of one foot to be in the place delineated by all my boundaries? At best, it is a complicated prospect and at worst a failing endeavor.
More and more, I find myself faced with the question of what identity is most important at that moment in time. While working to create a new discussion group on bisexuality at my local LGBT Center, I kept encountering disablist attitudes ranging from people not thinking alternative formats were important to constant underestimation of my abilities. Each time I had to take a deep breath and remind myself that my current goal had nothing to do with disability and that pushing such an agenda in the midst of trying to gain cooperation on another project would not achieve my goal.
Then there are the times when adding together two identities has an exponential result. Disabled people are helpless. Women, especially those of us who look small, are fragile. This makes me a fragile, helpless being.
There are also cases when one identity overpowers the other. Bisexual people are promiscuous, but disabled people aren't sexual. If you've been reading this blog for any period of time, you know the misconception of hypersexuality cannot overpower the desexuality disability status imparts.
Years ago, when disability was the sole focus of my existence, it was easier to negotiate all this. I simply went around being disabled and that was that. Now, as I have somehow managed to amerce myself in the bisexual community, I have far more complexity. Not only do I feel the conflict between the two, but it also highlights my other memberships. For example, I have become aware that being a woman does matter if someone hasn't figured out I'm disabled.
My mind contains a map of all these memberships delineated by a network of lines and I have instinctively learned to negotiate it. Some days it is about deciding what space I wish to inhabit that particular day. Some days it is about stretching myself between two spaces so a foot can be planted in both. Some days I attempt to balance on the very lines that define all the areas.
Alone I can often ignore this map. When others are around I am forever aware of where I place my feet and the consequences of a misstep. If I had been the cartographer, I would have no objections, nut I did not decide that my disability made me asexual, that bisexuals were hypersexualized, women are fragile, or chronic illness is a fate worse than death. Society as a whole has imposed these ideas upon me.
I am, however, responsible for bowing to them without question. The choice, between treading carefully or ignoring the consequences of walking wherever I wish, is a choice even if the options aren't particularly good.
This is where courage comes into play. Moving forward knowing you are going to encounter unpleasantness and doing it anyway takes serious ovarian fortitude (female balls).

Passin'

Recently I read the novel "Passin'" by Karen Quinones Miller. It's the story of an African American woman who looks white and because of that, is not hired for a job designated for a "black" person. Under another name and without mention of race, she applies for a similar job, is hired, and continues to "pass."
While about race, it touched upon many issues I find interesting and relevant to disability such as what constitutes passing, the tangled relationship it creates with ones group status and personal identity, and the emotional consequences of actively hiding an aspect of oneself.
First, we need some clarification of terms. Passing involves not just actively concealing identifiers of group status but intentionally taking on characteristics of the majority group in order to appear to be a member of that group. While many people might cover up telling traits, concealment is not sufficient to constitute passing. The person must actively try to be perceived as a member of the majority culture.
These days being mistaken for sighted is a common experience for me. Though I do nothing to cause it, I unintentionally pass all the time, which boils down to normative bias. People presume I'm like everyone else, thus sighted. Unless I actively indicate my status by word, deed, or use of a cane, visual impairment does not enter the realm of possibility for consideration.
While I abhor normative bias in part because it strips away my identity, I sometimes actually benefit from the assumption, especially socially. On an airplane, a fellow child traveler was friendly up until she showed me a picture I had to explain I couldn't see. Like with adults who suddenly figure it out, her manner morphed into awkwardness. Nothing about me changed, yet everything changed reinforcing the fact that disability has significant social impact. Each time this happens, it is disheartening.
Unlike my discomfort with even unintentional passing, the novel's main character went to great lengths in order to hide her race. She wore nothing "ethnic," did not cook or eat "soul" food, did not express musical preferences, and eschewed "black" neighborhoods. Taking it further, she adopted the preferences and styles of "white" culture. She even refused to recognize a black relative when approached in public.
The author made it clear that passing is frowned upon within the African American community akin to lying. The dominant white culture was portrayed with more ambiguity, but I had the sense that the behavior was not encouraged.
In start contrast, the way mainstream society thinks about passing in relation to disability is far different. In fact, it's encouraged. "You move so naturally that I couldn't tell you were blind" is meant as a compliment. The more I look like the majority culture, behave like them, and keep quiet about my disability-related needs, the more TABsseem to like it. Even when my disability status is known, I am praised for how much I do not behave like a blind person, offering more proof that passing as non-disabled is admirable.
The discomfort shown when my disability status becomes a known issue goes beyond what the female protagonist encountered. While people get "weird" in both cases, I often sense something deeper than unconscious prejudice. I hypothesize it is about existential fear – TABs worried about becoming me. There is also an element of concern over being burdened with helpless me. I represent people's worst fear and sucking demand on their precious time, neither of which racial difference represents. Furthermore, while racial or ethnic difference is considered human variation, disability is considered human defect.
So why don't I pass and enjoy the perks that can come with it? My mommy taught me not to lie was the answer when I was a kid. Now it's more about a refusal to deny who and what I am. I am thinking about trying to pass, though, just to see what happens and to test my ability to do it. How long can I go without mentioning disability? I'll let you know.

When Crip and Queer Collide

I have a question I'd like all of you to consider. When you first saw me and realized I was disabled, were you scratching your heads trying to figure out what I could possibly have to say about being LBGTQ? If that was the case, you are definitely not the first and will certainly not be the last.

Let's consider why this is the case. Rarely are disabled people seen as sexual beings and often we are perceived as genderless. It's not so much that people consciously consider the issue and decide I, and people like me, aren't sexual and do not have a gender. It is more that the thought never occurs to them.

There are many reasons offered as explanation. Some think it has to do with the fact that disabled people are forever perceived as children. Others believe it is because we are never viewed as potential dates or mates. Still others hypothesize that our physical forms that can often show signs of our difference with scars, twisted limbs, disfigured eyes, or even simply leg braces, are just not a turn on.

Whatever the reason, disabled people are often desexualized. Since an LBGTQ identity is perceived as largely sexual, it cannot have anything to do with desexualized beings and thus disabled people.

Today I want to talk about how a disability and LBGTQ identity interact when they meet inside one person. While I will present concepts and theories, at it's core this is a highly personal discourse because I am disabled and I am bisexual.

Let me offer you some context, especially because some of my disabilities are not obvious when looking at me. I was born with midline facial birth defects: no nose, nasal airway, and the eye structure abnormalities that resulted in my blindness. The doctors said and my parents believed that I was broken and needed to be fixed, so I had lots of reconstructive surgery, some successful and some failing. When I was 19, even though the doctors wanted to keep going, I put a stop to it. My only regret is that I didn't do it sooner.
It's thought that all the physical trauma of the surgeries damaged my immune system and I've been living with Chronic Fatigue Syndrome for about twenty years, which is sort of like pulling an all nighter when you have the flu.

When people think about disability, it is usually in relation to impairment. This body cannot perform that act leading to disablement. I cannot perceive with my eyes, so I cannot interpret visual information and that makes me disabled. In Disability Studies, we call this the medical model of disability.

I far prefer what's known as the social model of disability. It holds that the way society works creates the disablement rather than the actual physical difference. In other words, my eyes cannot perceive visual information and because we live in a world where vital information is communicated in this way, I am disabled.

History provides an excellent example of the social model in action. In the 19th century, Martha's Vineyard – a small island off the upper eastern coastline of the U.S. -- had a substantial Deaf population with something like 1 in every 155 people being Deaf. For perspective, in the general U.S. population at that time, 1 in every 6,000 people was Deaf. The Martha's Vineyard community developed in such a way that Deafness was not a disability because everyone signed. In other words, though people had a physical difference typically considered a disability, it was not in fact disabling because of the way the society was structured.

disability is the only marginalized group you can join at any time, whether you like it or not, whether you choose it or not. For this reason, non-disabled people are often referred to as temporarily able bodied -- TAB. Each one of you could join the ranks of people like me, so pay attention because the way disability and an LBGTQ identity interact may one day become extremely relevant in your life.

There are a multitude of societal beliefs about disability that are problematic. Today I will limit myself to those aspects that directly impact having an LBGTQ and disability identity. The first is the tendency to see disabled adults as child-like – unable to make decisions, not able to control one's destiny, and in need of others to Sheppard us through life. The language of disability reflects this. Those who help us are "caregivers," we sometimes live in "long term care facilities," and the places we go during the day are referred to as "daycare." And, as with children, we are not considered capable of making decisions about sex or enter into consenting sexual relationships. People worry about us being "taken advantage of" because we are seen as vulnerable. If we are unable to sort out sexual feelings and enter into sexual relationships, then we definitely aren't capable of knowing that we are LBGTQ. In other words, my blindness etc makes me a perpetual child so I'm not capable of knowing I'm bisexual. My attraction to women must be a figment of my child-like imagination.

One aspect of the reality of disability is that we need help which makes us reliant upon others. Consider this example. A quadriplegic man needs help getting dressed. What if he in fact feels like a she? It is hard to find helpers willing to dress a man as a woman. If the people who provide us with support to live don't agree with our sexual orientation or gender identity, then we have few options other than not exploring or expressing it.

A large proportion of the disabled population receives their needed help directly from family. What if the quadriplegic man lives with and primarily receives help from his parents? Imagine asking your Mom to help you into bra falsies, and panties. Parents often struggle to accept their LBGTQ children and it is not uncommon for families to disown them. That trans quadriplegic kicked out of his parent's house would have to find wheelchair-accessible housing, helpers who not only bath and feed him but support his trans lifestyle, and money to pay for it all when most disabled people are unemployed and government subsidies do not even provide enough to keep someone above the poverty level.

The societal perception of the "caregiver" as a person doing a good deed and the individual needing the help as a burden further complicates having dual identities of disabled and LBGTQ. Recipients of help are expected to be appreciative and not demanding. Should a "caregiver" be prudish or reluctant about their "burden's" LBGTQ identity, it is hard for the individual needing help to speak up. How do you express the required gratitude while insisting someone do what makes them uncomfortable? Pushing too hard could result in help being withdrawn while not trying means denying one's needs as an LBGTQ person.

Then there are more overt acts of prejudice or hate crimes. Typically, prevention efforts are focused on schools, the work place, and our streets. Such labors do not reach the places where disabled people often live, such as long term care facilities or private homes.

The LBGTQ community has not help the situation. We have fought long and hard against the idea that being LBGTQ is a mental illness or defect. WE want to be seen as like everyone else except we happen to love in our own way. In divorcing ourselves from the idea of defect, we have re-enforced the concept that being defective is bad. Guess who society views as defective? Disabled people. So, not only are disabled people defective, which is a bad thing, but defective things can also not be LBGTQ.

A while back there were a rash of LBGTQ teen suicides in the U.S. and the "It Gets Better" Project came into being. LBGTQ adults recorded messages telling LBGTQ youth to hang on until adulthood when they could move out on their own, be autonomous and thus masters of their own destiny. Then, it would get better. This is simply not the case for LBGTQ disabled teens or adults. The perception that they will always be dependent children, the reality that they need help to live with families often the source of that support, and the fact that public awareness campaigns aren't designed to combat homophobia in the places where disabled people live add up to it sometimes never getting better. Far too often, people who are both disabled and LBGTQ are inexorably stuck.


In my own life, I have seen the complexities my disability identity adds to my bisexual identity. From connecting with my community to simply getting people to understand it is possible to be both, I deal with it every day. Fortunately, I have also found common ground.

Bisexuality carries the stigma of a person being indecisive, promiscuous, disloyal, and philandering. Not compliments. Being disabled also comes with negative stereotypes such as child-like, dependent, helpless, asexual, and my personal "favorite, incompetent. While the specific labels differ, the result is the same. I must cope with negative attitudes and find ways to get people to see past their assumptions.

These two identities also share the phenomenon of others not believing they are true. "You can't have a chronic illness because you don't look sick." "You can't be blind because you can match your own clothes." "You can't be bisexual because you're monogamous. "Bisexuals are philanderers and you aren't, so you're not bisexual." It's all the same – I don't live down to the low expectations so I can't possibly be a part of the group. It never enters people's minds to reconsider their assumptions and expand their understanding of what it means to be bisexual or disabled.

And If I dare actually live down to one of the negative stereotypes, it only acts to re-enforce people's belief that blind people are helpless or bisexual people are disloyal. In other words, neither disabled people nor bisexuals can win. If we exceed expectations, we are not a part of that group and if we meet them, then the negative belief grows stronger.

This begs the question: if disability as viewed through the social model is not a matter of impairment or defect but one of how society functions, then can bisexual oppression be separated from the specific sexual behaviors of a bisexual and blamed on society? In fact, that is exactly what Queer Theory argues. Our society is designed for heterosexuals and bisexuals do not fit, so rather than broadening social beliefs and expectations to encompass other behavioral patterns, it oppresses us.

Bisexuality, and indeed sexual orientation in general, is not typically obvious when looking at a person. There are some disabilities, such as my chronic illness, dyslexia, epilepsy, and depression, that are equally not visually obvious. We call them invisible disabilities and as with sexual orientation, the individual faces the constant dilemma of when to tell someone about it. . Should you mention it too soon to a potential friend, they will just walk away and seek companionship elsewhere. If you keep it to yourself until the friendship is establish, then the person might get angry. Telling a potential employer during the job interview risk not getting hired. Waiting until you have the job risks working at a place that doesn't accept you. Notice I never actually specified bisexuality or disability.

It's no wonder that some LBGTQ people choose to "be in the closet," meaning they don't tell anyone about their LBGTQ identity, sometimes not even themselves. The emotional trauma of not being honest about one's sexual identity is well documented. From personal experience, I can tell you that closets exist for disabled people as well. We experience the same mental distress and emotional trauma when we systematically keep our disability identity to ourselves. Furthermore, we don't get what we need to function in the world if we keep silent.

Unlike staying in the closet, passing involves actively trying to hide one's identity. While you might admit your identity to some people, at other times you conceal it by masking physical signs and altering behavioral patterns. These days, if I want to pass as sighted, I often just need to hide my cane. To be perceived as heterosexual, it's even easier because I'm already seen as asexual. I'll only blow my cover if I happen to mention I find a woman attractive. Passing seems like a good idea because it avoids all that nasty stereotyping, people don't treat you oddly, and you can just slide through the world with ease. Unfortunately, you must constantly monitor your behavior so as not to reveal yourself as well as settling for a life that's not honest or true to yourself. For me, sometimes for short periods, it's worth the effort, but then I start forgetting what I am trying to pass as and mess it up. am I trying to be sighted? Heterosexual? Both?

It is also true that both bisexuality and disability are facts the world would like to erase. Many people literally believe bisexuality doesn't exist claiming we are all just making it up or refusing to choose. With disability, people would rather we didn't exist because we need things in order to function in the world like ramps, Braille, closed captions, and accessible housing which cost money and are inconvenient. Really, if disabled people and bisexuals vanished from the planet, it would make a lot of people more comfortable.

When I began to go through the process of coming out as bisexual, I discovered an interesting fact. The TABs around me were going through a great deal of emotional angst trying to reconcile themselves to a lifetime of negative stereotypes and bigotry. I, on the other hand, wasn't phased in the slightest because I was already used to discrimination and stigmatization. I also noticed that most of my disabled friends had an equally easy time "coming to terms" with their sexual identity. Heck, the mistaken notion that bisexuals are promiscuous is a stigma I'd love to have because at least I'd be perceived as sexual.

I have spent a great deal of time giving you a laundry list of all the negative ways the world views disability and bisexuality. I have even said that the LBGTQ community has done things making it harder to be both disabled and LBGTQ. Now I would like to give you a few ideas as to how the LBGTQ community can positively impact the situation.

First, stop believing the negative stereotypes about disability that society teaches. Take the time to route them out of your thinking so that when you encounter a disabled person you do it with an open mind. Believe it or not, that will probably make the biggest difference.

Second, in planning group activities, consider things like whether the venue is wheelchair accessible and when it is, note that in promotional materials. Simply adding a line to a flyer that says, "If you need an accommodation, contact" shows that you are considering the needs of disabled LBGTQ people.

If you, a TAB, is going to an event and you know there's someone in the group who needs a ride, don't wait to be asked, but offer. "Do you need a ride?" is not a hard question. Even if the person makes you uncomfortable and you have no idea what to do, do it anyway.

When trying to combat homophobia, biphobia, and transphobia, consider targeting not just the places where LBGTQ TABs experience it but also where disabled LBGTQ folks encounter it.

Earlier I spoke about the "It Gets Better" Project and said for disabled LBGTQ youth who become adults, this is often not the case because they lack the resources to be autonomous. To turn this situation around, money is needed. If a disabled LBGTQ person can pay the higher rent often associated with accessible housing, if they can afford higher hourly rates that attract paid help that can provide the assistance they needs to live as an LBGTQ individual, and if they can pay for accessible transportation, then they do not need to rely upon aid from people who do not support their LBGTQ lifestyle.

In describing what it's like to have the dual identities of bisexuality and disability, I might have given you the impression that it is a lousy situation full of lousy things. In fact, that is not the case. I am clear deep down into my bones that society has a problem with my identities but I do not need to share that opinion. Bisexuality and disability teach me something new each and every day. They are aspects of my life I would not change if given a choice. I cannot imagine what life would be like if I were just a heterosexual TAB woman. Actually, I think it would be rather boring.

Fixing It?

If authenticity represents a greater risk for disabled people, then how do you claim the joy Dr. Brene Brown contends comes from feeling connected which can only be achieved with authenticity and vulnerability? If societal expectations and perceptions of disability foster a disconnect how do you establish connection?

I have been struggling to answer these questions explicitly over the past week, but on some level my entire life. I know being authentic and vulnerable is not easy for anyone, disabled or not. My intuition says disability is a complicating factor like other marginalized group affiliations, but probably represents a dynamic with more impact than most. It is unique because society defines group membership by something the individual cannot "do", pigeonholes members into a tragic but brave category, and yet somehow ignores the fact that membership is a constant possibility. What my intuition refuses to cough up is the way to deal with disability so that it does not decrease one's chance to create connections.

I have some pieces of the answer, like shame. Dr. Brown defines it as the fear of not being worthy of connection – is there something about me that if others knew would make me unworthy in their eyes? Disability is in fact such a stigmatizing trait that we attempt to conceal, divorce ourselves from, and distract so others do not notice. Blind people wear dark glasses, learn to mimic sighted mannerisms, and my personal failing – become paranoid about clothes matching. People with scars cover them up. Deaf people sometimes hide their hearing aids. People with prosthetic legs avoid shorts. The list goes on.

I know and have sometimes parroted the rationalization behind concealment. We live in a world that perceives disability and the "defects" that define it as negatives. Hiding those traits facilitates social interaction. In other words, we do it to maybe avoid some of the crap dished out to us every day.

Yet in order to be authentic and vulnerable, disabled people need to stop hiding "flaws." This will in theory lead to a greater feeling of connectedness. My question, still unanswered, is whether the gain in authenticity can overcome the disconnect inherent in being disabled.

Long ago I stopped concealing my physical manifestations of disability, but I still experience shame. If people find out how much help I need, will they think I'm worthy of knowing? What if I seem incapable? Believe it or not, I experience shame simply by running into something while using my cane. Though I joke around about "sucking as a blind person," it's just a way of trying to coat my shortcomings in a layer of humor that might make them more palatable.

Maybe my problems finding connection are because I don't show my weaknesses. I equally know it is true that societal perceptions and expectations surrounding disability make connection more difficult. I am an imperfect being. The world is an imperfect thing. Guess we could all stand for some improvement.

Creating Disconnect

I am dissecting Dr. Brown's ideas about vulnerability and connection in relation to disability. She argues that feeling connected to other people makes life worth living and in order to achieve this, people need to be authentic and thus vulnerable. While I completely agree with her overall point, my immediate reaction was to wonder how disability fit into the picture. In my last entry Authenticity's Risk, I examined how the vulnerability is made more complex by disability. Even if it were possible to erase all those implications, societal expectations and perceptions of disability would still foster a disconnect between disabled people and our TAB counterparts. Obviously I have examined this issue before, but not specifically as it relates to connection/disconnection.

The first element is the "us/them" mentality. The physical or behavioral differences between disabled and TABs have been given a vast amount of significance that creates the two distinct groups. The artificial boundary promotes disconnect.

Then society fleshes out the us and them distinction with perceived implications such as abilities, limitations, potential accomplishments, and estimations of worth. No longer is it simply people who can see and people who cannot see. It is people who are independent and people who need help. More disconnect.

Societal structure and function also plays a role. With stair-dominate architecture, wheelchair users cannot easily access buildings and you literally have the physical separation of those who can get inside and those left on the sidewalk. Disconnect.

What about amazing? Even viewing a disabled person in a favorable light because of how they cope with their "situation" fosters lack of connection. It puts the disabled person up on a pedestal to be admired like a Chinese vase or rare bird. Disconnect.

I could probably go on for quite some time about how societal expectations and perceptions of disability foster disconnect, but I shall leave that as an exercise for the student. Rather, I want to think about this from a more positive perspective. Is connection across the us/them gulf possible?

Aside from the obvious solution of ridding ourselves of societal expectations and perceptions of disability – filling in the gulf -- I believe there have to be more feasible strategies.

Maybe my pessimistic nature is showing because I can only come up with methods requiring TABs to take action. Unfortunately, history has proven that TABs do not go out of their way not as a conscious choice so much as a factor of priorities and scarce resources like time. Still, what happens if the TAB hangs out on the sidewalk with the wheelchair users who cannot enter a building? Connection.

There have to be ways to erase the disconnect society has created around issues of disability. If you can pull it apart, you can put it back together, right?

Flavors of Desperation

Saturday I joined a gathering of people with chronic illnesses. While not my first time doing so, the group has only met thrice – I am a novice when it comes to such situations. Historically I tend to do badly when I attempt to join a group based on one of my identities: The blind people don't get the sick people, the sick people don't get the blind people, and the bisexuals understand nobody and are understood by nobody. Let's not even throw facial differences into the mix. The proposed topic of how your illness positively impacted your life journey seemed to fit my overall philosophy, so I went.

Desperation. That room was full of desperation. People were so focused on getting better that they weren't remembering to live in the interim. From my perspective, I wasn't the healthiest person in that room, but I was probably the happiest with my current life.

It's not that I have some magical ability or special power that keeps me happy in the face of the complexities of illness. I think it's that somewhere along the way, long before chronic illness was a part of my reality, I stopped totally listening to what the world was teaching. A partial education in how people "should be," the benchmarks of success, what's appropriate, and what you need to be happy has actually been a benefit when it comes to living a reality outside the norm.

Even I struggle with issues of success, happiness, and feeling like a valuable member of the human race. I just have distance allowing me to see that what makes me feel bad is not within myself but coming from the larger world. Knowing that makes it not just easier to dismiss, but less miserable to feel.

By the end of Saturday's meeting, my contentment was shattered. Something about watching people dedicated to fixing themselves in order to be happy wore at me. Instead of also wishing for health, I became despondent over being single because after realizing I was probably the happiest person in the room, it dawned upon me that I was the least likely to find a life partner. Ridiculous, full of self-pity, and some would say patently untrue, but I felt it. Strongly.

Over the past few days, I have come to know this is my weak area. I might not feel broken, I may not need health to find happiness, and I feel no need to fit any traditional roles, but I am firmly and unwaveringly convinced my chances of finding a life partner are lower than the average person. Moreover, lower far too often translates into not going to happen. Friends have tried to use logic and reason, pep talks, contradicting examples, and every other method under the sun to get me to see it otherwise, but I'm stuck. Totally stuck. I'm so stuck that I'm starting to annoy even myself.

I did have one useful realization: If I think it's most likely that I'll partner with a man, then maybe I should hang around heterosexuals more and queer folk less. At the moment, I'm eating, breathing and dreaming bisexuality as I put together a panel workshop. Perhaps my next endeavor should be more heterosexual. Then again, of my last three crushes, two came from the bi community, so maybe the focus should be on men who actually date women. Anyone know where to find those? So far they haven't created a guide dog command, "Find a man."

Own Your TAB Privilege

Lately I have been struggling with the fact that people I otherwise like and respect are driving me to the brink of sanity by just not getting it. By "it," I mean understanding the power dynamics of a situation involving them – a member of a majority group – and those with marginalized group status. Finally, the word privilege emerged from my subconscious. Now I am obsessed with the concept because it made insanity into sense.

Privilege is unearned power or advantage bestowed upon a member of the majority. It exists because of the systematic disadvantages the societal structure imposes upon members of a marginalize group. Rather than being about one instance or even type of prejudice, privilege is related to how the world tends to work. Whether earned or not, whether wanted or not, privilege is a de facto power granted solely because of majority group membership.

Thus, male privilege exists because of insidious aspects of our society that disadvantage women thereby bestowing advantages upon men. For example, when I become emotional, I am in danger of being considered a "hysterical female" whereas men can display the same emotionality without risking stigmatization. They have the "privilege" of showing whatever emotions they experience and in fact, are often lauded for "being in touch with their feelings."

No matter the privilege – white, male, TAB, heterosexual, sisgendered, class, religious, economic, and the list goes on – the crucial element involves a majority group having advantages denied the members of a marginalized group. In this way, though I might be disabled, bisexual, female, and poor, I still enjoy white privilege on a daily basis. (Nobody walks quickly past me standing on a deserted street because they fear being mugged.)

Hand in hand with the concept of privilege is the idea of "othering." Characterized by using a system of social markers to segregate people into neat categories, it results in "us" and "them." The methodology highlights difference and assigns meaning to that distinction. To use a favorite example, "Wow, I'm amazed you could do that well especially since you're blind." My difference (blindness) was highlighted separating me from the group and then that category was evaluated by a separate set of standards. I became the "other" who can't do as well at a given task.

Using the tool of othering, it is possible to secure and perpetuate privilege. Because people expect less from me, they also assess me as less capable. Clearly, I am at a disadvantage saddled with such assumptions, but it also means another group (sighted people) are seen as more capable, which is advantageous. Over time, lower expectations shape educational opportunities and job options so that a blind person in fact attains less, reinforcing the devaluation. Expect less. Achieve less. Be perceived as less. Vicious cycle.

The problem with privilege and othering is that they are so entrenched in our social structure that we don't even perceive their existence. How can you fight against a form of oppression that nobody can perceive?

The first step is to identify your personal privilege, which is known as "owning your privilege." I shall leave you with some forms of TAB privilege to ponder.

*In day to day life, a TAB knows they can meet their own needs and handle most emerging eventualities.
*A TAB knows the preponderance of strangers encountered will treat them as a competent adult.
*A TAB will be able to avail themselves of whatever facilities needed such as bathrooms, busses, post office, courthouse, and hotels.
*Should a TAB appear in public disheveled, unkempt, or badly dressed, nobody will assume it's because they lack the ability to do better.
*Nobody will assume a person with a TAB is their caregiver.
*A TAB will not be called inspirational for accomplishing a typical daily activity.
*If a TAB is in a building that catches fire, they have the same chances as every other person to get out unscathed.
*If a TAB needs emergency medical care, they can trust nobody will assess their life to determine if it's worthwhile enough to save.
*A TAB will not be subjected to questions about how they accomplish tasks such as bathing, eating, using the bathroom, or dressing and be expected to answer in detail.
*A TAB is not expected to thank people who offend them.
*When a TAB does not get what they want or need, they can express displeasure without risking being called ungrateful, overly demanding, or too sensitive.
*A TAB can walk into a yoga studio and take a class without relinquishing independence or being obligated to do more than anyone else to get the same things out of class. More about this last one next week!

It's in the Eyes

[This is a follow-up to Eyes and I.]

Having matching prosthetic eyes has been both what I expected and anything but what I predicted. Though I know I made the right decision for me, I have yet to feel comfortable with this new version of myself. And there's absolutely no forgetting they are there because they make themselves known in countless ways. For example, over the holidays I discovered that your eye lids don't like touching the freezing surface of acrylic. It's like touching any mucus membrane to cold plastic. Ugh.

There are moments when I forget they exist and go through my life pretty much as I did prior to all this eye craziness. It's peaceful to just be the me I've always known. Then some physical reminder will transpire and I'm back to consciously knowing I'm different from before. I pause during the day and take deep breaths trying to inhale a new self-concept that includes these eyes that I try to not view as other. They might come out, but they are me. Trying to wrap your mind around that is not exactly easy.

The other mind-bending aspect of this is other's reactions. Actually, it's the lack of reaction. Friends who have known me for years have literally not been aware of the change. Apparently the ocularist made eyes that so fit me that they look like they've been there my entire life. Since I'm not sighted, I can't exactly judge what superficially seems to be a deficiency in observational skills. Not noticing? It blows my mind each and every time it happens.

Based on who has and has not noticed, I have come up with a determining factor – how the person felt about my appearance before. I suspect those actively disturbed by it are aware of the change because they are aware of how I look in general.

Part of me worries that those who do not see changes in how I look may have gotten to a point where they don't really see me anymore. Did that "not seeing me" happen as a coping mechanism for being around me? The idea that people must not truly see me to be comfortable around me is upsetting and all too familiar.

Then we have changes in behavior. One man who I know in a wait staff capacity suddenly became much friendlier, making certain I knew his name, tossing off "good night" or "take care" when I walked past him out the door, and trying to strike up conversations. I'll admit it freely. My response has been polite indifference. Personally, I think he's lucky I haven't given him a lecture on not treating people differently based on how they look.

And of course there was the "beautiful" incident. I encountered an acquaintance who hadn't seen me in months. While it took a minute for the difference to register, when it did her reaction was the most intense thus far. She said, "Oh, wow, your new eyes. They look great." Then her voice changed as she cupped my cheek in her hand and said, "You look beautiful." I held back, "I looked beautiful before, too. Glad you finally noticed."

Finally, the other day I am pretty sure my request for the Cheese Man to go above and beyond was met because I asked in a funny way, tossed my hair, and smiled. Never has that happened to me before. There's a certain heady power in it that I hope I never exploit.

So has this changed my thinking about anything? Yes. It dawned upon me recently that I am walking around with less about me that gives people pause. I have long posited that physical differences such as scars, abnormal features, or deformed eyes loom so large in other's perceptions that they are unable to see the individual. Not only are my physical charms beyond their ken, but they don't really notice my intelligence, sense of humor, or quirky personality. My physical difference blinds them to who I am.

Now with my "normalized" appearance, there is less to kidnap other's awareness. This will shape my interactions in ways I cannot ever know for such a thing is impossible to assess. Its impact on dating does seem clear to me. With less obscuring me, people will have a better chance to know me which I find disturbingly wrong, but nonetheless my new reality. On one hand, I will never know if a person would have found me attractive before. On the other hand, I won't object to an increased chance of romantic entanglements.

I mourn the loss of my old appearance. It taught me so much about society and human nature. With my new eyes, I am now experiencing the world in a different way. Much of it makes me even more convinced that societal standards of appearance are wrong and need to change. If anything, I am more motivated to change the world.

I Have A Dream -- For Help

This entry is a companion piece to The Privilege of Preference.

As complicated as help is in the big, wide world, it is even more convoluted in my own mind. In my childhood, I somehow absorbed the notion that people would not like me if they had to routinely help me. I bought into the idea that asking for another's aid is inconveniencing.

In addition, I feel a strong compulsion to be grateful for whatever – and I do mean whatever – help I receive, regardless of whether it's useful or detrimental. Expressing preferences becomes a tangle for who gets to want when someone is helping them get what they need? While I rationally know all this is absurd, still it lingers for things learned over time and reinforced by experience are hard to alter with logic.

Consider some of my routine experiences: I have been walked to the wrong place and left there not knowing it. I have been given inaccurate information because the person thought they could get away with not looking since I can't see them. I have been treated badly because I expressed a preference in a seat at the airport. I was flatly ignored when I told a restaurant their Braille menu was unusable. I was the recipient of annoyance because I wanted something to match a specific color.

What I have learned from experience is in constant conflict with my belief that I should be treated with respect. A strong sense of fairness grapples with the undeniable reality that I need help and getting it must come first. Whenever I need to ask for assistance, all this comes into play.

The stronger my sense of self-worth becomes the angrier I find myself. Disrespect of my needs makes me dig in my heals about respect for my wants. It would be easy to dismiss my conflict, anger, and obstinacy by declaring me emotionally messed up. While that might be the case, I challenge any TAB to experience what I do on a regular basis and not have similar baggage.

Before I even consider asking for help, I run through a mental list: Can I do this myself? Can I find somebody who will barter favors? Who should I ask this time around? How do I ask so that I know they will refuse if it's a hardship? How do I arrange things to minimize the effort someone has to invest? Only after I have waded through all these questions and struggled with my own issues do I seek aid. Even after all these years, it still stresses me out. Heaven help me if it is somebody I've never asked before.

I don't think people realize the thought and preparation that goes into me requesting assistance. Or, well, I like to think they do not comprehend any of it given some of the ways they behave. If people acted as they sometimes do knowing all my prior groundwork, it would say things about humanity I simply refuse to believe.

In my dream world, help is offered willingly with no expectation of gratitude and a commitment to the helpee receiving aid that is what they want and need. In return, helpees would express appreciation and make clear what helping means in terms of time and effort. Assistance would not be offered out of obligation or when resentment is present. A "thank you" would end each interaction.

Help is an opportunity to do something good. Why can't it be that simple? A chance to be kind. A chance to show you care. A chance to be a positive force in another's life. A chance to live up to human potential.

I Wish Happiness

When I find out somebody is pregnant and want to wish them luck, I say, "I hope you have a happy baby." Though the typical blessing is "healthy," I refuse to say that because I firmly believe after years of experience that health is not a guarantee of or required to achieve happiness. Helpful? Yes. Necessary? No.
Happiness is one of those nebulous concepts that we know when we feel it, but cannot define in concrete words. Moreover, it is not restricted to one specific feeling rather a term that covers multiple distinctive emotional states. Between the different kinds, comparisons can be made. Euphoric joy is better than satisfaction, both superior to contentment, yet all encompassed by the word happiness.
For a long time, happiness wasn't even a state on my radar. I was too busy being miserable about my chronic illness, wishing it would go away, and planning for the great life I would have when. Constant yearning unfulfilled is pretty much happiness toxin.
Finally, it dawned upon me that healthiness was a part of able bodied culture that I had swallowed as essential to my happiness. It took time, but eventually accepting my health status allowed me to be happy. For me, it was about taking what I had and making that into a happy life. Very pioneer spirit in a weird sort of way. Don't have a pen and paper to draw a map? Use a stick on the dirt or charcoal on birch bark. It's about using what's at hand to get where you are going.
And then I unthinkingly fell into the decision to work on getting healthier. It proved to be the hardest thing I have ever done in my life taxing every emotional resource I possessed. When you are focused on your health in such a single-minded way, every sign of progress or regression is noted. Each symptom is cataloged and analyzed. Did eating that food make my pain worse? Was I too drained after that hike? Did a particular supplement improve the situation? A step forward was success and a step back was failure. Given the nature of my chronic illness, I often felt failure. Life was a constant emotional rollercoaster with my health the driver.
Even though my health was a slowly rising spiral, eventually I realized I was cracking under the pressure. Multiple times I tried to shift my thinking without success. Finally, it came to me that I needed to return to making the most out of what I had fashioning it into a happy life.
So, with an improved health situation giving me more resources, I did just that. In the process, I realized something very important: health while not crucial to happiness did make it easier.
Over the past year, my health has been all over the map, yet I would not hesitate in saying this has been the happiest year of my life. I haven't completely sorted this all out, but I have become more convinced than ever that our cultural emphasis on health being key to happiness is total crap.
To me, the essential part of happiness is maximizing what you currently have and shaping it into something you want. Waiting for some distant day when you might feel better in order to be happy seems rather pointless to me. Then again, I do have a weird way of looking at the world.

Eyes and I

I am now the (proud? confused? overwhelmed?)owner of two prosthetic eyes and for the first time in my life, my eyes not only look normal but also match. Very intense experience.

Choices had to be made about the way my new eyes would look. I could have instructed the artist to copy pictures of my old eyes. I could have instructed him to do just about anything. Instead I chose to have "normal" eyes in my face. It was a terrifying thing to choose because I knew it could change absolutely everything.

For quite some time, I have believed that plastic surgery has risks that at least for me far outweigh any potential benefit. In my own life, I have paid dearly for my "normalized" appearance. In fact, I pay a price every day because of chronic pain etc. More reconstructive surgery to "improve" my face seems like a worse idea than jumping off a five story building.

I know I have given people the impression that I don't care about how I look, but that's not quite the truth. In actuality, I care about the impression I create, but not in the typical way. I want my outside to feel like my inside. While I have rejected traditional standards of beauty, I do have my own desires that boil down to me visually embodying the sassy, witty, animated, quirky woman I know myself to be. Freed from societal beliefs about what beauty should be, I have been able to be how I want to be and pay only the price I deem reasonable.

Deciding to have "normal" eyes was a tough decision, but I came to realize that intentionally looking different was a deliberate choice to violate appearance norms. It felt like being different not because different happened to coincide with what I wanted but merely for the sake of being different. That's not the type of person I want to be. As you know, having an abnormal appearance does have costs especially in terms of how others treat me. Any decision to continue looking "abnormal" would be the equivalent of choosing those bad annoying behaviors. It would bring a degree of negativity into my life that I do not want and would feel responsible for its continuation.
Total honesty dictates I also admit to wanting to have "pretty" eyes. Maybe it's internalized social norms. After all, my eyes were the most "abnormal" part of my appearance. Maybe that type of eyes fits my internal image of myself. Maybe I'm a complete hypocrite. You decide. All I know is that deep inside I wanted them.

My reasons here seem very clear and logical. There's a cleanness to the whole process that, trust me, wasn't present while I was working through it. Even now I have a sense of betraying my own beliefs with this choice.
No matter the decision I made, I knew I would never feel quite the same. Yet again, I would be faced with adjusting to another version of myself. As a child, surgery after surgery, I wrapped my mind around the new face molded from flesh and bone. Now I must expand my reality to encompass this new version. Can't quite count it, but I think maybe Jen version 5.2.

[A follow-up to this entry can be found at
It's in the Eyes.]

My Brain Hurts

With age is suppose to come wisdom, but as I grow older the human race becomes more baffling. In fact, the deeper my understanding of human motivation the less certainty I possess. And while I suspect this is not unique to the disability experience, I do think my membership in that group adds a layer of complexity to an already jumbled muddle.

Meeting a new person and having a great conversation cannot be taken at face value. We all have to ask ourselves if the friendliness was genuine. Should the answer be yes, most folks move on to determining their next step. I, on the other hand, must then field a second question: Was the friendliness based on a perceived obligation to be nice to a disabled person or on feeling sorry for me? Unfortunately, authentic warmth and that based upon obligation or pity look remarkably similar because the sentiment is genuine and the variation is only that of motive.

I don't think people realize that affability based on duty or sympathy is actually harmful because it sets up an expectation that will not be met. Everyone has mistaken another's actions as an overture of friendship and felt the resulting sting. Now imagine being told that person thought they were doing a "good" thing. It tends to make my brain hurt.

Another case of "The older I get the harder it becomes" revolves around people's "bad" behavior. Take my favorite situation of sitting alone at a party. I find it harder and harder to feel simple anger at such a state of affairs. Instead, my head starts to analyze the situation. What did I do wrong? What dynamics contributed to what occurred? Besides, being angry at behavior based on ignorance or not knowing what to do seems unmerited. More brain pain.

Then you have the truly obnoxious behavior. Perfect real life case in point. Recently, someone I have been acquainted with for years told me how great it was that with both eyes removed I had a chance to look normal. This came on the heels of a prior conversation in which he told me how off-putting my appearance is and how I should hide my eyes behind glasses to make others comfortable. Believe it or not, he's still walking this earth with all his "equipment" in tact.

Did I get angry? Definitely. However, about five seconds later my brain started explaining to me why what he said reflected his generational background, that maybe he mistook my dark glasses as concealing behavior, and I probably misunderstood anyway.

This all happens because I am constantly seeking understanding of why TABs react to disabled people in particular ways. My knowledge base grows almost daily and I can call upon it to interpret actions directed at me. It's like having the traditional angel and devil perched on either shoulder. My angel is a compilation of everyone who tells me to "See it from the other person's perspective" while my devil is the amalgamation of every disabled activist I've ever admired.

Often a blog entry emerges from whatever issue I am currently trying to understand. Prior to sitting down at the computer, I talk – some probably think endlessly – about whatever I am wrestling. This week I have discovered that I feel responsible for how people feel about their less than stellar behavior. Example: I'm with another person and the cashier interacts with my companion while processing what is clearly my stuff. If I were to say, "Umm, that's my stuff so maybe you should talk to me" and the cashier became upset about their own actions, I would feel like I caused their upset.

Fortunately a new perspective has emerged. When a person does something, they are responsible for how they feel about it. My role is to request a change in behavior and be responsible for how I feel about it. In other words, I didn't do anything so how can I be to blame?

Is There Disablism in Dating?

Some women like to date effeminate men, other females are attracted to butch women, and everyone knows about tall males who gravitate toward tiny women. Preferences based on hair color, body shape, and personality type are the nuts and bolts of individual attraction and romantic partnering. Can anything based on such subjectivity involve discrimination? Do societal beliefs about disability impact the most personal of choices? Based on my personal experience, definitely.

My evidence comes in the form of the commonalities shared by all those I have known to be attracted to me throughout my lifetime. In each instance, the individual had reached maturity without acquiring all the beliefs mainstream society attempts to instill in us. Details illustrate my point best: the first two were both blind, the next string were all raised by single mothers who tended toward the unconventional, a few were raised in an atmosphere of abuse or mental illness, a couple didn't fit into accepted standards of beauty, and several had learned to reject societal beliefs as they worked through their own sexual identity issues. Male or female, each lacked the subconscious tendency to place me in the same 'don't date' category occupied by their siblings, parents, cousins, and anyone of a gender they do not find desirable.

There is no simple phrase to describe this propensity, but as they say "I know it when I see it." It isn't that these individuals missed the class about how one should view disabled people for a majority of them had other disablist attitudes when we first met. Neither did they consciously decide to see those with disabilities as potential dates. Something in the way they were socialized made their subconscious consider me in a different way.

There are a few ways this lack of acculturation manifests itself. Most people lump someone like me into the same category as small children and little old ladies -- those for whom sexual attraction is not even considered. This is not the case for those possessing the Unnamable Trait.

Such people have also avoided internalizing societal standards of beauty as their criteria to judge attraction. In this way, my scars, asymmetrical face, and odd eyes are not necessarily detractors from my other charms.

A person must also be missing another piece of socialization that relates to seeing me as a potential date or mate. Society seems to believe that I will be dependent on any future partner in a way that is both onerous and unfair. I am a black hole of neediness with no valuable contributions of my own. Anyone who would consider me in a romantic role must either not have this perception of disability or not care in the first place.

Because the application of all these standards and beliefs happens in the cobwebby back of our minds that our consciousness does not monitor, I am out of the category of datable before the individual even considers the issue. It is not a deliberate decision which makes it the most insidious and destructive kind of discrimination.

Over the years, I have been told that not dating a disabled person is a matter of personal preference which supposedly removes any blame from the equation for nobody can reasonably argue individual tastes should be this or that. To me, it is a more fundamental issue about what we are taught to like and want. the demarcation between personal preference and socially instilled standard is more an vague concept than concrete juncture, but that does not negate the existence of the distinction.

Don't find my curly hair and small frame attractive? Fine by me. Don't even consider me as a person to date? That's a problem with its routes firmly embedded in disablism.

For my emotional reaction to this reality, read Rest of the Story.


This entry was written for Blogging Against Disablism Day May 1st 2010

Celibate or Disabled?

Continually and consistently people tell me they would rather be than disabled. Then they often list a hierarchy of disabilities where x limitation would be preferred over y and z the least desirable. Personally, I find this to be worthy of eye rolling, but I resist the urge. To TABS this is a serious business, for they do not want to find themselves in a fate "worse than death." And, yes, people do say they'd rather be dead than disabled. Frequently.
Recently pondering my involuntary celibacy and seeking perspective, I realized acquiring yet another disability would be preferable to continuing in this sexless state. It dawned on me that I may have a circumstance so horrific that people would actually pick disability over it: "Would you rather be disabled and have a fulfilling sex life or be non-disabled but celibate?" Finally some common ground.
Why, though, is disability considered such a horrid fate less desirable than, say, the ending of life? Perceived limitations that disability would impose. The socially constructed image most hold of our lives is that of tragic, pitiable, and devoid of happiness. That image is perpetuated by causes that focus on the negative aspects of being disabled in order to raise money by gaining sympathy: each time Jerry Lewis describes a child's tragic struggle to walk, he adds another dark brush stroke to the picture of our lives. Every time somebody asks, "Wouldn't you like to know there is help out there should you be stricken by this terrible plight?" the concept of disability as tragedy is burned deeper into the psyche.
Ironically, all the images of disability as merely a different state of being do not have the power to alter social perceptions. A man without legs climbed a mountain? Well, he must be an exceptional person. Not even a moment of thought is given to the concept that having no legs is possibly not the end of the world. The negative images have a persistence and strength that goes beyond what can be explained rationally.
Given these strong negative impressions, it is not surprising people only consider what their lives would lack if they acquire a disability. Even I would rather die than sit in a dark closet devoid of joy and human contact. The real tragedy in all of this is that being disabled is not that dark, empty closet, but simply a different way of living. Our biggest challenge is often these self-same negative images that make up the bariers we crash into when interacting with TABs. The true tragedy is that if people feared becoming disabled a little less it would actually be easier to be disabled.
Back to my involuntary celibacy. What's a woman to do when she cannot attract romantic attention because everybody thinks she isn't sexually active and she isn't sexually active because nobody thinks of her in that way? Screaming loudly comes to mind.