Trigger Warning for discussions of suicide, self harm, bullying and depression.
I wanted to finish my post about euthanasia, but this became to great a weight on my soul. You may have heard about the recent epidemic of suicides; QuILTBAG youth taking their lives because of bullying.
I won't list them, because I can't. But Click Here for more information. Trigger warning for that link.
What that post reminded me of, what this epidemic reminds me of, is my own history with bullying.
When I was ten, I witnessed my older brother being taunted and shoved by bullies. He was a little guy back then, and very close friends with another boy. They accused him of being gay and made his life Hell. My parents heard about it, and had talked to the school. The principle assured them he would "keep an eye on it".
One afternoon, while waiting for our dad to pick us up, a bully shoved him down and started tormenting him. My father arrived in time to see this. He was furious. He grabbed the bully and took ohm to the principle's office, telling hm everything that happened. The principle said he would deal with it.
Both boys were taken out of class, and asked why they were "fighting". Nothing was done to stop future attacks.
When I was thirteen, my youngest brother was being bullied. I have written about this previously. After he was shoved into a urinal, I went to speak to his teacher. She told me that it was his fault for having an Autistic Spectrum Disorder. That he brought it on himself by being "weird".
I was bullied a lot growing up. Mostly it was just name and shunning, and I tell you it hurt. It hurts to be told day after day after day that you aren't worthy of love. And always the same old adage would be thrown at me, sticks and stones, sticks and stones, sticks and stones. It wasn't taken seriously by anyone, teachers, my parents, no one.
So after all this, when I started being beaten up by my "friends" at fourteen, what do you think i did? Did I tell people about it, or did I shut up and take it, thinking I deserved everything they were doing to me?
When you do nothing, when you know of violence and just stay silent, you perpetuate that violence. It's not enough to tell victims to speak up, you have to be willing to listen and to act.
This recent set of suicides is not the first; children have been taking their own lives, cutting themselves, hurting themselves, and it's about damn time that was recognised.
Showing posts with label ableism. Show all posts
Showing posts with label ableism. Show all posts
04 October, 2010
10 June, 2010
When she was twenty-two...
MASSIVE TRIGGER WARNINGS!! Warning for talk of abuse, self harm, sexual assault...
And this is just the stuff i can remember.
"You're too young to be depressed."
"Why are you so sad, you've got your whole life ahead if you?"
"What could have possibly happened to make you this way? You're only..."
"You're too young to know what real suffering is like."
"You're too young..."
I've heard it all before. Since I was a child, people were telling me that I had no right to feel bad, no right to be depressed. After all, what could have possibly happened to me? I was only 6, 10, 13, 15, 17, 18, 22...
The earliest I remember feeling depressed is when I was six. I tried to explain it not my mum. I didn't have the words. I told her I felt sad, listless, like I couldn't care about anything. She said "You mean you don't care about God or Jesus or your family? That's a horrible thing to say!". Not horrible that a six year old would feel like that... That I was a horrible person, as if my inability to care about things meant I didn't love my family. Because that's how she interpreted it.
How was she to know I was depressed? I was only six. How was I to know? I don't even know why I felt that way, my memories are far too fuzzy. I only remember guilt, and shame, a fear of my bath, a fear of rape.
When I was ten, I was sexually abused by someone I trusted, an adult who was so much a part of the family that we called him "Uncle". A good, upstanding Christian man. He groomed me first. He bought me treats, and sweets, was kind to me, did anything I wanted. When he touched me, he made me believe that it was an accident, that it was my imagination. When he rubbed my back, he said it was just friendly, he was just helping. My mother scolded me, telling me I was never to let a man touch me like that again.
When he pulled my pants down, he made it seem like an accident. He was just playing. When he put his hand down my nickers and grabbed me, he grinned and apologized for being so rude.
He left me feeling, to this day, that the assault was my fault. That I had caused it. Didn't my mother warn me? Why did I let him do that? Did I make him do that?
When I was in school, I was subject to a never ending tirade of abuse. From shunning to insults to people who pretended to be my friend just to see me cry when they insulted me. It got to the point where I would rather die than have to face school again.
When I had "friends" who beat me up at fourteen, I thought, at least they're paying attention to me.
When I had "friends" who made clear how much they hated me at fifteen, I though, at least they arrant beating me up.
I was thirteen when i started hurting myself. I would tear out chunks of skin with my fingernails. I would heat up a spoon with boiling water then hold it to my skin until it burned, leaving huge blisters on my hand. I would punch walls with bare fists as hard as I could, leaving my hands covered in scrapes and bruises. I would scratch at my ankles and thighs with sharp scissors, going over the same mark again and again and again. I would out peroxide and tea tree oil on my cuts just to feel the sting. I would snap rubber bandcs on my hands repetitively, hard enough to lessee welts. I would snap rubber bands on the burns I'd given myself, on the cuts I'd given myself.
I call myself a "former" self harmer, but I don't feel I can fully claim that title. The last time I hurt myself was last year, and I've thought about doing it a Hell of a lot since then.
When I was 15 I moved out of home. My parents tried to make me move back, and threatened to cut off all support, financial, emotional, unless I did what they asked. I won that battle, but at a terrible cost.
When I was sixteen, I was living with a friend of mine who emotionally abused me. She didn't mean to, and she did and does love me, but the scars she left still hurt. Still have me doubting myself and my feelings.
I've always had to tiptoe around my father. For as long as I can remember. I never knew when he would start to rant and rave, when he would throw things. One minute he was my father, the next he was a ball of barely contained fury. I would hide in my room until he stopped shouting. I would bring him a cup of coffee after he finished, hoping against hope that he didn't turn his rage on me. It was a nightmare. One minute I would be talking to him, the next it was as if something snapped, and all I can remember is the rage.
When I was 17, I had someone follow me home because they couldn't take no for an answer. He refused to leave until a friend of mine pulled a knife on him.
At 18 I had someone I didn't know follow me home. He asked for directions, I didn't know the way, he followed me home. This was ten at night, everything was closed, I was terrified and alone. When I got home, I thought I was safe, until he rapped on the window.
I was terrified growing up. Scared of my father and what he would do if I was bad. Scared of being raped. Scared of my mother blaming me for the sexual abuse. Scared of hell... Fuck, I'm a Pagan and I'm still terrified of Hell.
I'm still trying to stop myself from blaming myself for everything.
So tell me, at what age am I allowed to have experienced this shit. At what age am I allowed to be upset by it? When you tell me I'm only young, I've had a short life, yes. I am young. My lief has been short. But I was abused at ten. Young means diddly squat. Young doesn't protect you from harm. Young doesn't stop older men abusing you. Young doesn't stop you abusing yourself. Young doesn't mean that you haven't experienced some horrific fucking shit in your life.
And writing off my experiences because you think I'm too young to understand? Is a fucking shitty thing to do.
And this is just the stuff i can remember.
"You're too young to be depressed."
"Why are you so sad, you've got your whole life ahead if you?"
"What could have possibly happened to make you this way? You're only..."
"You're too young to know what real suffering is like."
"You're too young..."
I've heard it all before. Since I was a child, people were telling me that I had no right to feel bad, no right to be depressed. After all, what could have possibly happened to me? I was only 6, 10, 13, 15, 17, 18, 22...
The earliest I remember feeling depressed is when I was six. I tried to explain it not my mum. I didn't have the words. I told her I felt sad, listless, like I couldn't care about anything. She said "You mean you don't care about God or Jesus or your family? That's a horrible thing to say!". Not horrible that a six year old would feel like that... That I was a horrible person, as if my inability to care about things meant I didn't love my family. Because that's how she interpreted it.
How was she to know I was depressed? I was only six. How was I to know? I don't even know why I felt that way, my memories are far too fuzzy. I only remember guilt, and shame, a fear of my bath, a fear of rape.
When I was ten, I was sexually abused by someone I trusted, an adult who was so much a part of the family that we called him "Uncle". A good, upstanding Christian man. He groomed me first. He bought me treats, and sweets, was kind to me, did anything I wanted. When he touched me, he made me believe that it was an accident, that it was my imagination. When he rubbed my back, he said it was just friendly, he was just helping. My mother scolded me, telling me I was never to let a man touch me like that again.
When he pulled my pants down, he made it seem like an accident. He was just playing. When he put his hand down my nickers and grabbed me, he grinned and apologized for being so rude.
He left me feeling, to this day, that the assault was my fault. That I had caused it. Didn't my mother warn me? Why did I let him do that? Did I make him do that?
When I was in school, I was subject to a never ending tirade of abuse. From shunning to insults to people who pretended to be my friend just to see me cry when they insulted me. It got to the point where I would rather die than have to face school again.
When I had "friends" who beat me up at fourteen, I thought, at least they're paying attention to me.
When I had "friends" who made clear how much they hated me at fifteen, I though, at least they arrant beating me up.
I was thirteen when i started hurting myself. I would tear out chunks of skin with my fingernails. I would heat up a spoon with boiling water then hold it to my skin until it burned, leaving huge blisters on my hand. I would punch walls with bare fists as hard as I could, leaving my hands covered in scrapes and bruises. I would scratch at my ankles and thighs with sharp scissors, going over the same mark again and again and again. I would out peroxide and tea tree oil on my cuts just to feel the sting. I would snap rubber bandcs on my hands repetitively, hard enough to lessee welts. I would snap rubber bands on the burns I'd given myself, on the cuts I'd given myself.
I call myself a "former" self harmer, but I don't feel I can fully claim that title. The last time I hurt myself was last year, and I've thought about doing it a Hell of a lot since then.
When I was 15 I moved out of home. My parents tried to make me move back, and threatened to cut off all support, financial, emotional, unless I did what they asked. I won that battle, but at a terrible cost.
When I was sixteen, I was living with a friend of mine who emotionally abused me. She didn't mean to, and she did and does love me, but the scars she left still hurt. Still have me doubting myself and my feelings.
I've always had to tiptoe around my father. For as long as I can remember. I never knew when he would start to rant and rave, when he would throw things. One minute he was my father, the next he was a ball of barely contained fury. I would hide in my room until he stopped shouting. I would bring him a cup of coffee after he finished, hoping against hope that he didn't turn his rage on me. It was a nightmare. One minute I would be talking to him, the next it was as if something snapped, and all I can remember is the rage.
When I was 17, I had someone follow me home because they couldn't take no for an answer. He refused to leave until a friend of mine pulled a knife on him.
At 18 I had someone I didn't know follow me home. He asked for directions, I didn't know the way, he followed me home. This was ten at night, everything was closed, I was terrified and alone. When I got home, I thought I was safe, until he rapped on the window.
I was terrified growing up. Scared of my father and what he would do if I was bad. Scared of being raped. Scared of my mother blaming me for the sexual abuse. Scared of hell... Fuck, I'm a Pagan and I'm still terrified of Hell.
I'm still trying to stop myself from blaming myself for everything.
So tell me, at what age am I allowed to have experienced this shit. At what age am I allowed to be upset by it? When you tell me I'm only young, I've had a short life, yes. I am young. My lief has been short. But I was abused at ten. Young means diddly squat. Young doesn't protect you from harm. Young doesn't stop older men abusing you. Young doesn't stop you abusing yourself. Young doesn't mean that you haven't experienced some horrific fucking shit in your life.
And writing off my experiences because you think I'm too young to understand? Is a fucking shitty thing to do.
07 May, 2010
I Dreamed That I Was Normal
I dreamed that I was normal.
I dreamed that I was fine.
I dreamed that people asked me pointless questions like the time.
I dreamed the world made sense,
That people never tried
To delve into my psyche and redefine my mind.
I dreamed that I was normal.
I dreamed I didn't care.
I dreamed I could walk down the street without a single stare.
I dreamed that I was thirsty,
All I needed was a drink.
I dreamed that no one questioned me or how I know to think.
I dreamed that I was normal.
I dreamed that it was clear.
I dreamed that who I was was not a cause for peoples fear.
I dreamed that I was timid.
I dreamed that I was proud.
I dreamed that I was quiet and I dreamed that I was loud.
I dreamed that I was normal.
I dreamed that I knew best.
I dreamed that my emotions weren't the cause of my distress.
I dreamed that I was normal,
That nothing was amiss.
I dreamed that I was normal, and then woke up to this.
I dreamed that I was fine.
I dreamed that people asked me pointless questions like the time.
I dreamed the world made sense,
That people never tried
To delve into my psyche and redefine my mind.
I dreamed that I was normal.
I dreamed I didn't care.
I dreamed I could walk down the street without a single stare.
I dreamed that I was thirsty,
All I needed was a drink.
I dreamed that no one questioned me or how I know to think.
I dreamed that I was normal.
I dreamed that it was clear.
I dreamed that who I was was not a cause for peoples fear.
I dreamed that I was timid.
I dreamed that I was proud.
I dreamed that I was quiet and I dreamed that I was loud.
I dreamed that I was normal.
I dreamed that I knew best.
I dreamed that my emotions weren't the cause of my distress.
I dreamed that I was normal,
That nothing was amiss.
I dreamed that I was normal, and then woke up to this.
09 April, 2010
The Treatment of Women in the X-Men Films
I have tried to be inclusive of trans* men and women in this post. If anyone thinks I have failed in this endevour, or there is a way I could improve it, please let me know, either in comments or in an email.
Let me preface this by saying: I love Marvel. I am a comic-book geek, and Marvel is my playground. It is one of the only superhero worlds with kick-arse female characters and kick-arse teens. As far as non-white characters, trans* characters, disabled characters - sorry. There is a *lot* of fail.
But I cling to Marvel in the hope that it will get better, because I love superhero comics. I live in the hope that, as the slightly more progressive of the comic-giants, Marvel will one day stop fridging its women; will have a non-white character who doesn't turn out to be the villain; will have a disabled character that doesn't have their disability magicked away; will have a mentally ill character that isn't "cursed by maddness" and thus evil; include a fucking trans* character, period!
I know, I know, it's asking a lot. I might as well hope for Joss Whedon to knock on my door and say "I've treated the subject of rape horribly in the past; how can I do better?" But I refuse to believe that the world which brought us Kitty Pryde, Sue Storm, Jubilee, Emma Frost, Storm, Tamora Pierce's White Tiger and Jean Grey/Phoenix can't get better.
Which brings me to my anger. I was involved in a mock-Twitter argument which started as Marvel vs. DC, and ended up as Kitty Pryde vs. Batman. Not who would beat whom, but who is the coolest. Leaving asside the fact that Batman is a (very) rich, white, able-bodied, straight, cis-man and thus has every priviledge possible available to him, it was a fun argument. Until.
Until it was suggested that Batman was cooler because he had block-buster action flicks made about him and Kitty didn't. And suddenly I wasn't having fun anymore, I was angry. More than angry, I was furious. I still am furious. Because who does Hollywood make kick-arse action flicks about? Oh that's right, able-bodied cis-men. Kick-arse women? (cis or trans*, especially trans*) Not so much.
But there was an X-Men movie franchise, with actual cis-women in it! Rouge and Storm and Jean Grey and Phoenix! Oh, really? So I'm just supposed to jump for joy because there are women in these films? I don't think so! The treatment of the female X-Men (hah!) in these films.
Rouge:
In the comics she is down and dirty. She is powerful. She is poor. She isn't afraid to use foul tactics to win a fight. She wasn't afraid of using her powers, especially if it won her the battle.
In the film? Actually, in the film she's a mix of three characters: Jubilee, Rouge and, gasp, Kitty Pryde. In fact, the only thing film-Rouge had in common with comic-Rouge was her powers.
Film Rouge spends all three movies pining over various boys and men. In the first film, the only film she is prominent in, she is a fucking plot device to spur on Wolverine! She was used. The first film, the only one she's prominent in, she wasn't a character, she was something for the other characters to react to.
Storm:
Talk about a kick-arse super heroine! She can control the fucking weather! You'd think a weather-witch would come in mighty handy in a massive, drawn out battle of the mutants! And she does come in handy, those three times she actually used her powers.
That's right; three films, countless battles, and she only uses her powers three time. Um... yay? Not to mention the fact that you barely fucking see her! You see her eyes glow, and then she vanishes! You don't see half the fuckng cool stuff she does! You know, the stuff that saves the day? She ain't credited for that, either.
Jean Grey:
Oh Jean. She was horribly mistreated in these films. Her role? Be caught in a love triangle between Wolverine and Scott. Woo. She is a telepath, though! But, oh, she's punished for using her powers. That's right, she saves the fucking day, isn't seen doing it, and has a fucking off-screen death. Talk about being fridged!
But of course, she comes back as;
Phoenix:
Apparently Jean was more a more powerful telepath than even Professor X! For reasons not properly explained, this is considered a Bad Thing. We couldn't have a young cis-girl be stronger than an old man now, could we? So Prifessor X takes it upon himself to mess with her mind and supress her powers.
Stop. Let me talk about that for a second. Because sweet merciful darkness what a fucking horrible thing to do!! People being scared of powerful cis-women and thus supressing them? Mutilating them against their will? Gee, it's not like that happens every fucking day!
But back to Phoenix. And now we have some ableist-fail as well! You see, the act of supressing Jeans powers "drove her insane". It created a split personality, Dark Phoenix. A powerful cis-woman with a mental disorder? Let's make her evil! That's never been done before, right? Right...
And you know what? I'm sick of this! I'm sick of being tossed a bone, I'm sick of being expected to leap for joy every time a cis-woman is on the fucking screen! And heaven for fend I ask for actual fleshed-out characters; fleshed out characters who aren't thin, white, cis, currently abled men!
On the plus side, I have discovered an awesome new blog, Heroine Content. They published some commentary on the fourth X-Men film, which I decided not to mention at this point:
Let me preface this by saying: I love Marvel. I am a comic-book geek, and Marvel is my playground. It is one of the only superhero worlds with kick-arse female characters and kick-arse teens. As far as non-white characters, trans* characters, disabled characters - sorry. There is a *lot* of fail.
But I cling to Marvel in the hope that it will get better, because I love superhero comics. I live in the hope that, as the slightly more progressive of the comic-giants, Marvel will one day stop fridging its women; will have a non-white character who doesn't turn out to be the villain; will have a disabled character that doesn't have their disability magicked away; will have a mentally ill character that isn't "cursed by maddness" and thus evil; include a fucking trans* character, period!
I know, I know, it's asking a lot. I might as well hope for Joss Whedon to knock on my door and say "I've treated the subject of rape horribly in the past; how can I do better?" But I refuse to believe that the world which brought us Kitty Pryde, Sue Storm, Jubilee, Emma Frost, Storm, Tamora Pierce's White Tiger and Jean Grey/Phoenix can't get better.
Which brings me to my anger. I was involved in a mock-Twitter argument which started as Marvel vs. DC, and ended up as Kitty Pryde vs. Batman. Not who would beat whom, but who is the coolest. Leaving asside the fact that Batman is a (very) rich, white, able-bodied, straight, cis-man and thus has every priviledge possible available to him, it was a fun argument. Until.
Until it was suggested that Batman was cooler because he had block-buster action flicks made about him and Kitty didn't. And suddenly I wasn't having fun anymore, I was angry. More than angry, I was furious. I still am furious. Because who does Hollywood make kick-arse action flicks about? Oh that's right, able-bodied cis-men. Kick-arse women? (cis or trans*, especially trans*) Not so much.
But there was an X-Men movie franchise, with actual cis-women in it! Rouge and Storm and Jean Grey and Phoenix! Oh, really? So I'm just supposed to jump for joy because there are women in these films? I don't think so! The treatment of the female X-Men (hah!) in these films.
Rouge:
In the comics she is down and dirty. She is powerful. She is poor. She isn't afraid to use foul tactics to win a fight. She wasn't afraid of using her powers, especially if it won her the battle.
In the film? Actually, in the film she's a mix of three characters: Jubilee, Rouge and, gasp, Kitty Pryde. In fact, the only thing film-Rouge had in common with comic-Rouge was her powers.
Film Rouge spends all three movies pining over various boys and men. In the first film, the only film she is prominent in, she is a fucking plot device to spur on Wolverine! She was used. The first film, the only one she's prominent in, she wasn't a character, she was something for the other characters to react to.
Storm:
Talk about a kick-arse super heroine! She can control the fucking weather! You'd think a weather-witch would come in mighty handy in a massive, drawn out battle of the mutants! And she does come in handy, those three times she actually used her powers.
That's right; three films, countless battles, and she only uses her powers three time. Um... yay? Not to mention the fact that you barely fucking see her! You see her eyes glow, and then she vanishes! You don't see half the fuckng cool stuff she does! You know, the stuff that saves the day? She ain't credited for that, either.
Jean Grey:
Oh Jean. She was horribly mistreated in these films. Her role? Be caught in a love triangle between Wolverine and Scott. Woo. She is a telepath, though! But, oh, she's punished for using her powers. That's right, she saves the fucking day, isn't seen doing it, and has a fucking off-screen death. Talk about being fridged!
But of course, she comes back as;
Phoenix:
Apparently Jean was more a more powerful telepath than even Professor X! For reasons not properly explained, this is considered a Bad Thing. We couldn't have a young cis-girl be stronger than an old man now, could we? So Prifessor X takes it upon himself to mess with her mind and supress her powers.
Stop. Let me talk about that for a second. Because sweet merciful darkness what a fucking horrible thing to do!! People being scared of powerful cis-women and thus supressing them? Mutilating them against their will? Gee, it's not like that happens every fucking day!
But back to Phoenix. And now we have some ableist-fail as well! You see, the act of supressing Jeans powers "drove her insane". It created a split personality, Dark Phoenix. A powerful cis-woman with a mental disorder? Let's make her evil! That's never been done before, right? Right...
And you know what? I'm sick of this! I'm sick of being tossed a bone, I'm sick of being expected to leap for joy every time a cis-woman is on the fucking screen! And heaven for fend I ask for actual fleshed-out characters; fleshed out characters who aren't thin, white, cis, currently abled men!
On the plus side, I have discovered an awesome new blog, Heroine Content. They published some commentary on the fourth X-Men film, which I decided not to mention at this point:
07 March, 2010
How To Be An Ally: A Guide For The Currently Not-Disabled
Terminology:
CND: Currently Not-Disabled
PWD: Person With Disability
If you are a Currently Not-Disabled person interested in Disability Rights and fighting ableism, this is for you. It is in no way a comprehensive list, and things might be added, removed, changed in the future, but it is a start. I appreciate any help people are willing and able to give :)
And so, without further ado,
How To Be An Ally: A Guide For The Currently Not-Disabled
Do Not Police Disability
This is the first point because it is the most important. I've seen it happen before: a well-meaning CND is somewhere like... a train. They see someone in the priority seat who, in their mind, does not fit the definition of disabled. Well-meaning CND decides to scold said person, for using up a seat which someone "more needy" could be sitting in.
DO NOT do this! I cannot tress this enough. Just because you can't tell, doesn't mean a person is not disabled. Check out the wiki article on Invisible Disabilities.
It is not up to you to determine whether a person fits the definition of disabled. Not all PWDs fit the traditional image of a cane or wheelchair. Not every PWD has a physical disability. Just because you haven't heard about it, doesn't mean it's not real. It is not your job to decide. To sum up: A PWD does not have to justify themselves to a CND. A PWD does not need the approval of a CND to be disabled.
Watch Your Language
This one is hard, I know. Language is tricky. You might not know a word is hurtful. You might not agree with a PWD when they say a word is marginalising. But let me tell you: it's true. It hurts when you are the reason people do bad things (are you INSANE?!?!). It hurts when you are used to refer to bad things (that's so LAME). It hurts when you are the catch-all for things people don't like (that's RETARDED). Here's a tip: If a PWD tells you that a word you've used hurts them, stop using it. You can be a good ally and expand your vocabulary at the same time! For more information on language and how it can hurt, check out the Ableist Word Profile at Feminists With Disabilities: For A Way FWD
Do Not Offer Treatment Advice
While you think your advice might be helpful, chances are they've heard it all before. Believe it or not, PWD know a lot about their own lives and their own bodies! So "helpful advice" just comes across as annoying at best, condescending at worst.
Some examples:
* Why don't you just [Insert Advice]
* You should think positive!
* Have you tried [insert miracle cure]
* My friend/aunt/mother/person I know somehow was depressed, and they [insert miracle cure here]. Now they're all better!
For more information, read Disability 101: Treatment Suggestions and Why They Are Not a Good Idea
Consider Accessibility When Planning Events
This can be any sort of event, from a feminist gathering to a gathering of friends. If it's friends, this might be easier because you might already know what sort of accommodations are needed. When you're hosting an event or gathering, consider the following things:
* Are there any stairs? A single stair makes the event inaccessible.
* How wide are the doors? Do they open automatically, or are they manual?
* What is the atmosphere like? How bright are the lights? What is the ambient noise level?
* If there is literature, what sort of paper is it written on? What colour? How large is the font? What colour?
* Is there captioning or sign available?
This is just a small selection of things which need to be considered. For some more information, have a browse at various disability rights websites. To get you started: Question Time: Accessibility.
Website Accessibility Matters
It matters, just as much as event accessibility. Unfortunately, I'm not very knowledgeable about how to make websites accessible, so I'm going to leave you with some links: Question Time: Thinking About Website Accessibility Tools to Download to help make your website accessible (From Vision Australia) Web Accessibility Initiative
Stand When You Can
It might seem small, it might seem silly, but it might help. Stand on a crowded bus or train, if you can. There could be someone with an invisible disability who needs to sit, but doesn't want to go through the hassle of outing themselves to do so (especially since they might not be believed). So allowing that extra seat is good. But remember: do not police disability!
Speak Up
This is the hardest thing to do, because it not only challenges your own privileges, but those of the people around you. Speak up against Ableism. Call people out on ableist language, challenge stereotypes. Speak up, because a PWD might not always have the spoons to do so. Speak up, because it needs to be done. Speak up, because underlying assumptions hurt us even when we aren't around to hear them voiced.
Further Reading
* Feminists With Disabilities: For A Way Forward (Please read the Comments Policy before leaving comments)
* Disability Etiquette: Wiki Page
* The Spoon Theory (PDF)
* Teen Mental Health Blog
* Disability at Dreamwidth
* Ouch
* The Deal With Disability
Thank you for reading. If you have any advice or links, please feel free to leave them in the comments.
CND: Currently Not-Disabled
PWD: Person With Disability
If you are a Currently Not-Disabled person interested in Disability Rights and fighting ableism, this is for you. It is in no way a comprehensive list, and things might be added, removed, changed in the future, but it is a start. I appreciate any help people are willing and able to give :)
And so, without further ado,
How To Be An Ally: A Guide For The Currently Not-Disabled
- Do Not Police Disability
- Watch Your Language
- Do Not Offer Treatment Advice
- Consider Accessibility When Planning Events
- Website Accessibility Matters
- Stand When You Can
- Speak Up
- Further Reading
Do Not Police Disability
This is the first point because it is the most important. I've seen it happen before: a well-meaning CND is somewhere like... a train. They see someone in the priority seat who, in their mind, does not fit the definition of disabled. Well-meaning CND decides to scold said person, for using up a seat which someone "more needy" could be sitting in.
DO NOT do this! I cannot tress this enough. Just because you can't tell, doesn't mean a person is not disabled. Check out the wiki article on Invisible Disabilities.
It is not up to you to determine whether a person fits the definition of disabled. Not all PWDs fit the traditional image of a cane or wheelchair. Not every PWD has a physical disability. Just because you haven't heard about it, doesn't mean it's not real. It is not your job to decide. To sum up: A PWD does not have to justify themselves to a CND. A PWD does not need the approval of a CND to be disabled.
Watch Your Language
This one is hard, I know. Language is tricky. You might not know a word is hurtful. You might not agree with a PWD when they say a word is marginalising. But let me tell you: it's true. It hurts when you are the reason people do bad things (are you INSANE?!?!). It hurts when you are used to refer to bad things (that's so LAME). It hurts when you are the catch-all for things people don't like (that's RETARDED). Here's a tip: If a PWD tells you that a word you've used hurts them, stop using it. You can be a good ally and expand your vocabulary at the same time! For more information on language and how it can hurt, check out the Ableist Word Profile at Feminists With Disabilities: For A Way FWD
Do Not Offer Treatment Advice
While you think your advice might be helpful, chances are they've heard it all before. Believe it or not, PWD know a lot about their own lives and their own bodies! So "helpful advice" just comes across as annoying at best, condescending at worst.
Some examples:
* Why don't you just [Insert Advice]
* You should think positive!
* Have you tried [insert miracle cure]
* My friend/aunt/mother/person I know somehow was depressed, and they [insert miracle cure here]. Now they're all better!
For more information, read Disability 101: Treatment Suggestions and Why They Are Not a Good Idea
Consider Accessibility When Planning Events
This can be any sort of event, from a feminist gathering to a gathering of friends. If it's friends, this might be easier because you might already know what sort of accommodations are needed. When you're hosting an event or gathering, consider the following things:
* Are there any stairs? A single stair makes the event inaccessible.
* How wide are the doors? Do they open automatically, or are they manual?
* What is the atmosphere like? How bright are the lights? What is the ambient noise level?
* If there is literature, what sort of paper is it written on? What colour? How large is the font? What colour?
* Is there captioning or sign available?
This is just a small selection of things which need to be considered. For some more information, have a browse at various disability rights websites. To get you started: Question Time: Accessibility.
Website Accessibility Matters
It matters, just as much as event accessibility. Unfortunately, I'm not very knowledgeable about how to make websites accessible, so I'm going to leave you with some links: Question Time: Thinking About Website Accessibility Tools to Download to help make your website accessible (From Vision Australia) Web Accessibility Initiative
Stand When You Can
It might seem small, it might seem silly, but it might help. Stand on a crowded bus or train, if you can. There could be someone with an invisible disability who needs to sit, but doesn't want to go through the hassle of outing themselves to do so (especially since they might not be believed). So allowing that extra seat is good. But remember: do not police disability!
Speak Up
This is the hardest thing to do, because it not only challenges your own privileges, but those of the people around you. Speak up against Ableism. Call people out on ableist language, challenge stereotypes. Speak up, because a PWD might not always have the spoons to do so. Speak up, because it needs to be done. Speak up, because underlying assumptions hurt us even when we aren't around to hear them voiced.
Further Reading
* Feminists With Disabilities: For A Way Forward (Please read the Comments Policy before leaving comments)
* Disability Etiquette: Wiki Page
* The Spoon Theory (PDF)
* Teen Mental Health Blog
* Disability at Dreamwidth
* Ouch
* The Deal With Disability
Thank you for reading. If you have any advice or links, please feel free to leave them in the comments.
06 December, 2009
How I Discovered Ableism
This is the story of how I first became a disability rights activist, before I knew what those words meant. I can remember the story clearly, and even now thinking about it fills me with inconsolable rage.
As some of you know, my younger brother has Asperger's Syndrome, an Autistic Spectrum Disorder.
When Adam was in year three, he was dealing with some pretty intense bullying. He often came home upset, had no friends, and did all he could at lunch to escape the tormenting. At this point, my father was in intense pain from his car accident and also in the midst of deep depression, so he was rarely seen out of his room where he slept all day. My mother was working nights to make ends meet, and so also spent a lot of the time asleep. They tried their hardest, but did not have the energy to do more than have a few phone calls to the principle, who was "aware of the matter, and looking into it".
I was 13, and has taken over the role of parent to the younger children (because my older brother is irresponsible). I made sure the younger children did their homework, ate enough food (Mum did grocery shopping while I was at school, but I often cooked). I made sure the clothes were washed, the animals fed, the eggs collected, the children got to school on time. So it's not really all that surprising when Adam came to me for help with the bullying.
Despite my mother's phone calls, the situation had continued to escalate. A situation occurred when some tormentors had followed him into the bathrooms after he ignored them, and continued to torment him there. He got upset, and yelled and cried at them, and they pushed him into his own urine.
I decided at that point that enough was enough, and I was going to visit his teacher after school and discuss it. I gave Adam a not to give her, so she would be expecting me, and told him to wait for me to pick him up after class. The next afternoon, dressed in my private school uniform, I made my way to the school to talk with my little brother's year three teacher.
I sat in front of her, my heart pounding in my chest, describing the series of events and how they had escalated. I told her about my mother's calls to the principle and how they had been ignored. I asked her what she was going to do to make this school a safe place for my brother.
Her answer? Nothing. She gave me all the usual excuses; "boys will be boys", "you weren't there, how do you know he didn't cause it?", "It would be showing favouritism to take his side". I was shocked. I was angry. My heart pounded rapidly, my cheeks became red.
"Three boys, against my brother. They ganged up on him. They pushed him into his own urine. How can you say that it's his fault?"
She told me, with not hint of irony, that it was his fault because of his Asperger's. He provoked them, she said. And if he could just be more normal this wouldn't be happening.
She said this to me. She told me that my brother deserved the bullying because he wasn't normal, that it was his fault.
I can't remember if I replied. I remember my eyes were clouded with angry tears. I remember feeling betrayed. I remember taking my brother by the hand and leading him out of the room. I remember not saying a single thing on the walk home, waiting until I arrived to rant loudly and angrily at anyone who would listen.
I don't know if anything official came from my meeting. I know that my mother was just as pissed as me, but I don't know if she continued to pursue the matter. I know that my other younger brother, who was nine years old and in year four, took it upon himself to become Adam's protector. Because the teachers did nothing, Josh stayed with Adam at lunch and recess, and beat up anyone who dared to say anything against him. After he beat up a group of four year 7s, people got the message and left Adam alone.
This incident has stuck with me. My little brother could not speak for himself because of the power dynamic inherent in teacher-student relationships. He was completely at her mercy, and they both knew it. I came in because I knew it. I was an outside party, not part of that school, not bound by that dynamic. But this was not enough, because she knew she could disregard him and get away with it. She knew she could disregard the safety of one of her students with no ill effects because of his disability.
And she is STILL A TEACHER.
This is why disability activism is so important to me. Because people like her are out there, in positions of power, treating people like shit because of their disabilities. And they're doing so with impunity. This cannot continue, and I will do everything in my power to try and stop it.
As some of you know, my younger brother has Asperger's Syndrome, an Autistic Spectrum Disorder.
When Adam was in year three, he was dealing with some pretty intense bullying. He often came home upset, had no friends, and did all he could at lunch to escape the tormenting. At this point, my father was in intense pain from his car accident and also in the midst of deep depression, so he was rarely seen out of his room where he slept all day. My mother was working nights to make ends meet, and so also spent a lot of the time asleep. They tried their hardest, but did not have the energy to do more than have a few phone calls to the principle, who was "aware of the matter, and looking into it".
I was 13, and has taken over the role of parent to the younger children (because my older brother is irresponsible). I made sure the younger children did their homework, ate enough food (Mum did grocery shopping while I was at school, but I often cooked). I made sure the clothes were washed, the animals fed, the eggs collected, the children got to school on time. So it's not really all that surprising when Adam came to me for help with the bullying.
Despite my mother's phone calls, the situation had continued to escalate. A situation occurred when some tormentors had followed him into the bathrooms after he ignored them, and continued to torment him there. He got upset, and yelled and cried at them, and they pushed him into his own urine.
I decided at that point that enough was enough, and I was going to visit his teacher after school and discuss it. I gave Adam a not to give her, so she would be expecting me, and told him to wait for me to pick him up after class. The next afternoon, dressed in my private school uniform, I made my way to the school to talk with my little brother's year three teacher.
I sat in front of her, my heart pounding in my chest, describing the series of events and how they had escalated. I told her about my mother's calls to the principle and how they had been ignored. I asked her what she was going to do to make this school a safe place for my brother.
Her answer? Nothing. She gave me all the usual excuses; "boys will be boys", "you weren't there, how do you know he didn't cause it?", "It would be showing favouritism to take his side". I was shocked. I was angry. My heart pounded rapidly, my cheeks became red.
"Three boys, against my brother. They ganged up on him. They pushed him into his own urine. How can you say that it's his fault?"
She told me, with not hint of irony, that it was his fault because of his Asperger's. He provoked them, she said. And if he could just be more normal this wouldn't be happening.
She said this to me. She told me that my brother deserved the bullying because he wasn't normal, that it was his fault.
I can't remember if I replied. I remember my eyes were clouded with angry tears. I remember feeling betrayed. I remember taking my brother by the hand and leading him out of the room. I remember not saying a single thing on the walk home, waiting until I arrived to rant loudly and angrily at anyone who would listen.
I don't know if anything official came from my meeting. I know that my mother was just as pissed as me, but I don't know if she continued to pursue the matter. I know that my other younger brother, who was nine years old and in year four, took it upon himself to become Adam's protector. Because the teachers did nothing, Josh stayed with Adam at lunch and recess, and beat up anyone who dared to say anything against him. After he beat up a group of four year 7s, people got the message and left Adam alone.
This incident has stuck with me. My little brother could not speak for himself because of the power dynamic inherent in teacher-student relationships. He was completely at her mercy, and they both knew it. I came in because I knew it. I was an outside party, not part of that school, not bound by that dynamic. But this was not enough, because she knew she could disregard him and get away with it. She knew she could disregard the safety of one of her students with no ill effects because of his disability.
And she is STILL A TEACHER.
This is why disability activism is so important to me. Because people like her are out there, in positions of power, treating people like shit because of their disabilities. And they're doing so with impunity. This cannot continue, and I will do everything in my power to try and stop it.
04 November, 2009
Positive Experiences with Disability Activism
I had some really positive experiences today with some disability activism that I would really like to share. The first two were at work and the third at an after-work conference for language development in the Middle Swan area.
I was having a Kindy staff meeting with the kindy qualified and the director, who each work a half day in the kindy room.The Qualified has been working full time, but has had some back issues so has dropped to part time.
Anyway, the meeting was to discuss programming, jobs, and get me up to speed with the running of the room, 'cause I'm new there.
We have decided to split the group into two for certain activities, and were working on the split. We didn't want Group 1 and Group 2 or Group A and Group B, because we don't want the children thinking Group 1/A is the "better" group, so we've decided to call them colours.
Director said, "Let's make it Red and Green." and Qualified agreed.
I said, "That's a bad idea for accessibility, because people who are red green colourblind will have trouble telling the difference" (this is assuming the children have a red or green dot on their work or something like that)
Director said, "I never would have thought of that. That's why we need you here, to bring it up."
The colours are now Red and Blue.
The second happened in the same staff meeting. I said I wanted to start introducing the children to some sign language. Not only were the staff positive and receptive, but they encouraged it and gave me ideas on how we could implement it.
Finally, at the mini-conference.
We were watching a short film called Gus's Story about a child with some language developmental delays. I was listening to the mother talking about her fears, and her fear that her child would never speak but instead use sign language or message boards.
I had mixed feelings about this film. On the one hand, I understand that the mother is scared and feeling alone. Her husband had also just been diagnosed with terminal cancer.
On the other hand, the types of things she is worrying about bother me. She is worried that her son won't be "normal", and at the end relieved when he is.
I'm not bothered by her, per se, more about how society as a whole views disability as something broken, something needing to be fixed. And what the hell is wrong with sign language or message boards?
I wasn't going to say anything. I was already disturbed by the video, and it was a room full of people I don't know which can set off my anxiety. But then, in the comments and question session at the end, everyone kept talking about the mother. About her fear, about her openness to address the issue, about how to talk to her (and reassure her that it could be "fixed" :( )... No one had mentioned the child.
When she handed me the mike, I said something to the effect of (can't remember verbatim, I was a little emotional at the time): We need to realise that even if a child does have something like Autism or a language disorder, that they aren't less important, they are still whole children who need our love and support, they aren't something broken that needs to be fixed.
I was so close to tears by the end of that, less from the stress and more from just the emotion. Dealing with people who've held those attitudes, it really does affect me.
But after I said it? People clapped. The speaker thanked me for bringing it up and told everyone that it was vitally important that they all remember and act on that. After the talk, someone came up to me and thanked me again and said I was fantastic (no, I wasn't. I shouldn't have gotten that response). It makes me happy that something I've said might have some small effect on the people there, and hopefully on the children in their care.
What I want people to take away from this is not about me. Please do not thank me or congratulate me or anything like that, because honestly, that's not what this is about.
I want to stress that it is troublesome that I need to bring these things up. It shouldn't have to be done. But it does, and so long as I am in a position where I have the spoons to do it, I will, and I encourage people to do the same. Because there could be a person there who hasn't the spoons to deal with it.
The other thing I want you to take away from this is hope. Some things make a difference! Some things said in everyday interactions have an effect! And, for me today, that made all of the failed attempts just a little more bearable.
As I said to LM: I think I've thoroughly "outed" myself as a health-conscious disability activist greenie, how long before I "out" myself as a feminist too? :P
(Not too long, by the looks of things, but that's off topic)
The sign for today was Thank You.
I was having a Kindy staff meeting with the kindy qualified and the director, who each work a half day in the kindy room.The Qualified has been working full time, but has had some back issues so has dropped to part time.
Anyway, the meeting was to discuss programming, jobs, and get me up to speed with the running of the room, 'cause I'm new there.
We have decided to split the group into two for certain activities, and were working on the split. We didn't want Group 1 and Group 2 or Group A and Group B, because we don't want the children thinking Group 1/A is the "better" group, so we've decided to call them colours.
Director said, "Let's make it Red and Green." and Qualified agreed.
I said, "That's a bad idea for accessibility, because people who are red green colourblind will have trouble telling the difference" (this is assuming the children have a red or green dot on their work or something like that)
Director said, "I never would have thought of that. That's why we need you here, to bring it up."
The colours are now Red and Blue.
The second happened in the same staff meeting. I said I wanted to start introducing the children to some sign language. Not only were the staff positive and receptive, but they encouraged it and gave me ideas on how we could implement it.
Finally, at the mini-conference.
We were watching a short film called Gus's Story about a child with some language developmental delays. I was listening to the mother talking about her fears, and her fear that her child would never speak but instead use sign language or message boards.
I had mixed feelings about this film. On the one hand, I understand that the mother is scared and feeling alone. Her husband had also just been diagnosed with terminal cancer.
On the other hand, the types of things she is worrying about bother me. She is worried that her son won't be "normal", and at the end relieved when he is.
I'm not bothered by her, per se, more about how society as a whole views disability as something broken, something needing to be fixed. And what the hell is wrong with sign language or message boards?
I wasn't going to say anything. I was already disturbed by the video, and it was a room full of people I don't know which can set off my anxiety. But then, in the comments and question session at the end, everyone kept talking about the mother. About her fear, about her openness to address the issue, about how to talk to her (and reassure her that it could be "fixed" :( )... No one had mentioned the child.
When she handed me the mike, I said something to the effect of (can't remember verbatim, I was a little emotional at the time): We need to realise that even if a child does have something like Autism or a language disorder, that they aren't less important, they are still whole children who need our love and support, they aren't something broken that needs to be fixed.
I was so close to tears by the end of that, less from the stress and more from just the emotion. Dealing with people who've held those attitudes, it really does affect me.
But after I said it? People clapped. The speaker thanked me for bringing it up and told everyone that it was vitally important that they all remember and act on that. After the talk, someone came up to me and thanked me again and said I was fantastic (no, I wasn't. I shouldn't have gotten that response). It makes me happy that something I've said might have some small effect on the people there, and hopefully on the children in their care.
What I want people to take away from this is not about me. Please do not thank me or congratulate me or anything like that, because honestly, that's not what this is about.
I want to stress that it is troublesome that I need to bring these things up. It shouldn't have to be done. But it does, and so long as I am in a position where I have the spoons to do it, I will, and I encourage people to do the same. Because there could be a person there who hasn't the spoons to deal with it.
The other thing I want you to take away from this is hope. Some things make a difference! Some things said in everyday interactions have an effect! And, for me today, that made all of the failed attempts just a little more bearable.
As I said to LM: I think I've thoroughly "outed" myself as a health-conscious disability activist greenie, how long before I "out" myself as a feminist too? :P
(Not too long, by the looks of things, but that's off topic)
The sign for today was Thank You.
10 October, 2009
The Spoon Theory: How Does It Affect You?
The Spoon Theory is a theory used to explain life with a disability. In short: you have 12 spoons. Every activity uses up a number of spoons, some more than others, due to pain, emotional turmoil, and a host of other symptoms. Able-bodied (and neurotypical) persons have mostly unlimited spoons, and so don't have to worry about rationing their spoons out for fear they may need them more for another task.
While reading a post at Hoyden About Town about able-bodied people co opting the spoon theory, I began thinking about how spoons affect everybody differently.
For me, it's about mental illness, somethng which I still struggle to identify as a disability. There are three ways that this can hit me. They are all inextricably linked, but for the purpose of this exercise I will talk about them separately. These three things are: depression, anxiety and social anxiety.
Depression: this is probably the most constant thing I feel. It is slowly but surely taxing. Every day I experience depression it takes a little bit more out of me. Every day it gets a little bit harder to function until, before I realise it's happened, I've hit rock bottom and am no longer living. And suddenly I have no spoons. Without LM to prompt me I will not get out of bed, I will not eat, I will just lie in bed doing nothing all day. I wish I was exaggerating.
Anxiety: this comes in bouts. It's hard to tell whether it is a precursor for deprssion or occurs because of depression, but the two get worse at a similar level. When I am in an anxious period I have to ration all of my interactions, including those that take place online. Each time I venture from the house, a spoon is used. Each bus or train I get on uses a spoon. Online interactions use less, but it's often hard for me to tell until they've been used up. I am paranoid during this time. It feels like I am constantly being watched and judged. Every action feels forced and fake.
Social anxiety: this is similar but different to "normal" anxiety. It can and does strike at any time, regardless of previous mood. It is the anxiety I feel when seeing specific groups of people (my family, LM's family, northam, some others) and the anxiety I feel when I am around unfamiliar people. I need to ration carefully or I will start bawling in the middle of a social interaction. LM is my rock, and often I can cope by hiding behind Him, but spoons are limited.
I should note that although these are separate uses of spoons, they are not separate supplies. If all my spoons are drained when I am depressed, for example, that's it, they're done.
There's my story. How do your spoons affect you?
While reading a post at Hoyden About Town about able-bodied people co opting the spoon theory, I began thinking about how spoons affect everybody differently.
For me, it's about mental illness, somethng which I still struggle to identify as a disability. There are three ways that this can hit me. They are all inextricably linked, but for the purpose of this exercise I will talk about them separately. These three things are: depression, anxiety and social anxiety.
Depression: this is probably the most constant thing I feel. It is slowly but surely taxing. Every day I experience depression it takes a little bit more out of me. Every day it gets a little bit harder to function until, before I realise it's happened, I've hit rock bottom and am no longer living. And suddenly I have no spoons. Without LM to prompt me I will not get out of bed, I will not eat, I will just lie in bed doing nothing all day. I wish I was exaggerating.
Anxiety: this comes in bouts. It's hard to tell whether it is a precursor for deprssion or occurs because of depression, but the two get worse at a similar level. When I am in an anxious period I have to ration all of my interactions, including those that take place online. Each time I venture from the house, a spoon is used. Each bus or train I get on uses a spoon. Online interactions use less, but it's often hard for me to tell until they've been used up. I am paranoid during this time. It feels like I am constantly being watched and judged. Every action feels forced and fake.
Social anxiety: this is similar but different to "normal" anxiety. It can and does strike at any time, regardless of previous mood. It is the anxiety I feel when seeing specific groups of people (my family, LM's family, northam, some others) and the anxiety I feel when I am around unfamiliar people. I need to ration carefully or I will start bawling in the middle of a social interaction. LM is my rock, and often I can cope by hiding behind Him, but spoons are limited.
I should note that although these are separate uses of spoons, they are not separate supplies. If all my spoons are drained when I am depressed, for example, that's it, they're done.
There's my story. How do your spoons affect you?
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