In conversation with someone who reads my blog I was told that I tend to write fairly heavy blogs and that I should maybe 'lighten up' every now and then. I looked over my posts and agreed that the advice was solid. So today, I'm doing that.
I was on YouTube the other day and one of the suggested videos which popped up was a song done in sign by and man named Mister Chase. He's a singer-signer-songwriter. He has two different pages, one for his own music and one for signed covers of songs. I really liked his approach to signing music as I thought he brought the joy of the music to life. I was unsure if the signing was functional with all the other stuff going on so I asked Andrea for her opinion. Andrea will be known to those who comment or read comments from her insightful input to discussions that happen here on the blog. She assured me that the videos did what they intended to do. So I'm putting up three different video's with different kinds of music. The last one is one of his own songs, performed live, that he sings and signs.
I don't know who this guy is or how he got into sign language - there is nothing I could find on the web about his connection to ASL and the deaf community. But that doesn't matter, what matters is that he does something to make music more accessible - how cool is that?
Enjoy a 'lighter' blog post!
Update: This morning I received an email from Purpletta and she had discovered two articles about Mister Chase and his sign language videos. Thank's for the info - you Google better than I do!
Tuesday, June 18, 2013
Monday, June 17, 2013
Handbook Rule A37R2
I broke disability rule A37R2.
There is a restaurant that I've wanted to go to for a long time. I discovered it, accidentally, while browsing on the net. The web page showed pictures of a small, cosy and funky place. The menu - awesome. Then I noticed that it wasn't accessible. There's one step up into the place. Shit! As A37R2 clearly states: "Patronage will not be given to businesses which are not accessible." Personally I think this rule was made up to make it appear that we were boycotting places that we couldn't get into anyways. "I'll show you, I won't shop at your store which I can't get into."
But, I can do one step. If there are hand rails on both sides I can do a few more. I know, I know, I shouldn't patronise these places, rule A37R2 or not. As I was wrestling with the dilemma I showed Joe the website, the menu and the stair. We decided, what the heck, we'd give it a go and if I couldn't, in the end, get in. Then, we'd boycott the hell out of it.
It was a sunny day and Joe dropped me off just outside the restaurant and then he parked the car in a lot across the street. I looked at the stair. Oh my. It's higher than typical. As the day was hot, the door to the restaurant was propped open and the push bar on the door would give me something to grab onto on my way up, and, more importantly, on the way down. I decided to give it a go.
I was in, the chair was in, we were at a table. The place is very small so we had a bit of trouble making room for the chair. There was a bit of a flurry of activity for a few minutes as the staff of the restaurant who clearly, and for obvious reasons, were flustered at the presence of a wheelchair in their place of business. The chair I removed became a bit of an issue - not that anyone was hostile - as they tried to figure out what to do with it. Eventually common sense won out and they set it at another table.
For the first few minutes being in there the staff did all the things that you'd expect them too. They spoke to Joe, not me. That ended quicker than you might imagine. After about fifteen minutes, I morphed from 'the wheelchair' to 'the customer' and we were good to go.
We had a great meal.
It would have been a fabulous meal but, after Joe checked out the bathrooms, he came back and said, "Just slowly sip your tea because there's no way you can pee here." Oh. OK. Good to know. (There is a reason why men don't wear beige pants after the age of 50.)
Getting out just meant waiting until there was no movement towards the door because, for me, stepping down is way more dangerous than stepping up. I got to the edge of the step, turned round, took gripped the door handle and stepped way down. The chair quickly followed and within moments we were in the car and on the way home.
I understand the reason behind rule A37R2 and, in truth, feel a little guilty that I put disabled money into an inaccessible business. I won't go back. The step was very high. The place was very small. Getting out scared me a bit. I didn't we myself but I was well positioned to do so.
There were two good things I think that came out of our little adventure though ...
1) We had a great meal.
2) 3 of their staff learned that someone in a wheelchair is just someone in a wheelchair.
However I learned something, sometimes there is a reason for a rule. Neither of those two things justifies what I did. I've always believed in A37R2 ... and, it's in breaking the rule, that I realise that I never should have.
And won't again.
There is a restaurant that I've wanted to go to for a long time. I discovered it, accidentally, while browsing on the net. The web page showed pictures of a small, cosy and funky place. The menu - awesome. Then I noticed that it wasn't accessible. There's one step up into the place. Shit! As A37R2 clearly states: "Patronage will not be given to businesses which are not accessible." Personally I think this rule was made up to make it appear that we were boycotting places that we couldn't get into anyways. "I'll show you, I won't shop at your store which I can't get into."
But, I can do one step. If there are hand rails on both sides I can do a few more. I know, I know, I shouldn't patronise these places, rule A37R2 or not. As I was wrestling with the dilemma I showed Joe the website, the menu and the stair. We decided, what the heck, we'd give it a go and if I couldn't, in the end, get in. Then, we'd boycott the hell out of it.
It was a sunny day and Joe dropped me off just outside the restaurant and then he parked the car in a lot across the street. I looked at the stair. Oh my. It's higher than typical. As the day was hot, the door to the restaurant was propped open and the push bar on the door would give me something to grab onto on my way up, and, more importantly, on the way down. I decided to give it a go.
I was in, the chair was in, we were at a table. The place is very small so we had a bit of trouble making room for the chair. There was a bit of a flurry of activity for a few minutes as the staff of the restaurant who clearly, and for obvious reasons, were flustered at the presence of a wheelchair in their place of business. The chair I removed became a bit of an issue - not that anyone was hostile - as they tried to figure out what to do with it. Eventually common sense won out and they set it at another table.
For the first few minutes being in there the staff did all the things that you'd expect them too. They spoke to Joe, not me. That ended quicker than you might imagine. After about fifteen minutes, I morphed from 'the wheelchair' to 'the customer' and we were good to go.
We had a great meal.
It would have been a fabulous meal but, after Joe checked out the bathrooms, he came back and said, "Just slowly sip your tea because there's no way you can pee here." Oh. OK. Good to know. (There is a reason why men don't wear beige pants after the age of 50.)
Getting out just meant waiting until there was no movement towards the door because, for me, stepping down is way more dangerous than stepping up. I got to the edge of the step, turned round, took gripped the door handle and stepped way down. The chair quickly followed and within moments we were in the car and on the way home.
I understand the reason behind rule A37R2 and, in truth, feel a little guilty that I put disabled money into an inaccessible business. I won't go back. The step was very high. The place was very small. Getting out scared me a bit. I didn't we myself but I was well positioned to do so.
There were two good things I think that came out of our little adventure though ...
1) We had a great meal.
2) 3 of their staff learned that someone in a wheelchair is just someone in a wheelchair.
However I learned something, sometimes there is a reason for a rule. Neither of those two things justifies what I did. I've always believed in A37R2 ... and, it's in breaking the rule, that I realise that I never should have.
And won't again.
Sunday, June 16, 2013
Red and White
I want to write of strawberries.
I saw a box sitting, in the sun, on a shelf, beside broccoli. The greengrocer must have been in a rush this morning. Maybe he'd slept in. Maybe he'd had one too many. Or maybe, this morning, he was just being careless, placing pears beside the cabbage, plums by corn and leaving zucchini looking lonely set off to one side. But it was the strawberries that caught my eye. A memory came bringing along with it, for the first time, a smile.
Perhaps every Canadian has an attachment to strawberries. The hard cold winters, the long dark nights, the frozen fingertips that even mittens can't keep warm, the breaths taken carefully through a damp woollen scarf - all together might have imagined strawberries into being. A fruit that drinks the sun and turns it sweet. A fruit as red in summer as snow is white in winter. Strawberries and snow, our two primary seasons. The colours of our flag.
I remember strawberries as a child. Before they got dressed up into shortcake or baked into muffins or whirred into smoothies - just strawberries plucked warm on a summer's afternoon. My brother and I with a bowl filling and emptying at the same time as we picked row after row. What wasn't jammed in our mouth would be, in winter, jammed on toast. Strawberries.
That's what I could have remembered when I saw them today, on the greengrocers shelf sitting in the shade of a broccoli tree. But I didn't.
I thought of Ron.
I thought of the last time we spoke.
Ron is someone who I think about on both Father's Day and Mother's Day. He is someone Joe and I remember and bring to life in little jokes or little stories with little gestures. There is a lot of Ron left in our lives. He loved George and the two of them, in their own way, were famous. They were the 'first couple' of the gay community here in Toronto. I saw them, first, when I was a frightened boy, in a magazine, on a Saturday morning, hidden in my bedroom, in Campbell River. I was sixteen years old. They stood, together, proudly as a couple. They were the love that dare not speak it's name. They were present in that picture and, even then, when I looked in Ron's eyes, I saw kindness there.
I would come to know Ron's expressions well. His eyes could flash and his smile could silence. He was a complex man. He and George became friends and mentors. We ate together, we drank together, we laughed together and, of course, we cried together. Our lives, we both knew, from the instant we'd met, had been changed.
And then suddenly, Ron became very, very, sick. We visited him in the hospital, almost daily, even after he'd gone into a coma. Then one day, we walked into his room, and Ron was back. Sitting up in bed, grinning at us. It seemed as if God did hear the prayers of two young gay men. We chatted and laughed. Just before we left we asked him what he'd like us to bring the next day. He hugged himself and said, "Strawberries, bring me strawberries!"
How perfect! The winter was over and there would be strawberries.
On the way home we both cried. Ron was back. We'd hoped without expecting. We'd prayed without believing. We'd expected everything but strawberries.
The next day we shopped for a basket of the reddest, ripest, strawberries we could find. We took a couple of our fancy plates, the one's we'd never found an occasion special enough to use. It was dark when we entered the hospital doors and we rushed down to his room. He was there. But he was gone. I sat down hard in the visitor's chair. "But we brought you strawberries," I said, and then began to cry.
It wasn't long afterwards that Ron Shearer died.
It was longer still before I could look at a strawberry and not be a little angry, a little grief struck. At their fragrance I would be pulled back to the memory of Ron, on his bed, hugging himself, proclaiming that he wanted, more than anything else ... strawberries.
The memory filled me with sadness.
Until today.
Seeing the strawberries red and warm in the sun. Sitting on the shelf. Quietly whispering, "If it is as it is and we are all called to utter a final word, there may not be a better word to say, than 'strawberries.'" Ron had left us the memory of one dark miraculous night, with three friends huddled together under the soft light of a nightlight. One friend in bed, two on chairs pulled up close. A memory of chatter. A memory of his hands holding first Joe's and then mine, as he told us he loved us. A memory of a final wish - for strawberries.
Strawberries.
Winter is over.
And now, hallelujah, summer comes.
I saw a box sitting, in the sun, on a shelf, beside broccoli. The greengrocer must have been in a rush this morning. Maybe he'd slept in. Maybe he'd had one too many. Or maybe, this morning, he was just being careless, placing pears beside the cabbage, plums by corn and leaving zucchini looking lonely set off to one side. But it was the strawberries that caught my eye. A memory came bringing along with it, for the first time, a smile.
Perhaps every Canadian has an attachment to strawberries. The hard cold winters, the long dark nights, the frozen fingertips that even mittens can't keep warm, the breaths taken carefully through a damp woollen scarf - all together might have imagined strawberries into being. A fruit that drinks the sun and turns it sweet. A fruit as red in summer as snow is white in winter. Strawberries and snow, our two primary seasons. The colours of our flag.
I remember strawberries as a child. Before they got dressed up into shortcake or baked into muffins or whirred into smoothies - just strawberries plucked warm on a summer's afternoon. My brother and I with a bowl filling and emptying at the same time as we picked row after row. What wasn't jammed in our mouth would be, in winter, jammed on toast. Strawberries.
That's what I could have remembered when I saw them today, on the greengrocers shelf sitting in the shade of a broccoli tree. But I didn't.
I thought of Ron.
I thought of the last time we spoke.
Ron is someone who I think about on both Father's Day and Mother's Day. He is someone Joe and I remember and bring to life in little jokes or little stories with little gestures. There is a lot of Ron left in our lives. He loved George and the two of them, in their own way, were famous. They were the 'first couple' of the gay community here in Toronto. I saw them, first, when I was a frightened boy, in a magazine, on a Saturday morning, hidden in my bedroom, in Campbell River. I was sixteen years old. They stood, together, proudly as a couple. They were the love that dare not speak it's name. They were present in that picture and, even then, when I looked in Ron's eyes, I saw kindness there.
I would come to know Ron's expressions well. His eyes could flash and his smile could silence. He was a complex man. He and George became friends and mentors. We ate together, we drank together, we laughed together and, of course, we cried together. Our lives, we both knew, from the instant we'd met, had been changed.
And then suddenly, Ron became very, very, sick. We visited him in the hospital, almost daily, even after he'd gone into a coma. Then one day, we walked into his room, and Ron was back. Sitting up in bed, grinning at us. It seemed as if God did hear the prayers of two young gay men. We chatted and laughed. Just before we left we asked him what he'd like us to bring the next day. He hugged himself and said, "Strawberries, bring me strawberries!"
How perfect! The winter was over and there would be strawberries.
On the way home we both cried. Ron was back. We'd hoped without expecting. We'd prayed without believing. We'd expected everything but strawberries.
The next day we shopped for a basket of the reddest, ripest, strawberries we could find. We took a couple of our fancy plates, the one's we'd never found an occasion special enough to use. It was dark when we entered the hospital doors and we rushed down to his room. He was there. But he was gone. I sat down hard in the visitor's chair. "But we brought you strawberries," I said, and then began to cry.
It wasn't long afterwards that Ron Shearer died.
It was longer still before I could look at a strawberry and not be a little angry, a little grief struck. At their fragrance I would be pulled back to the memory of Ron, on his bed, hugging himself, proclaiming that he wanted, more than anything else ... strawberries.
The memory filled me with sadness.
Until today.
Seeing the strawberries red and warm in the sun. Sitting on the shelf. Quietly whispering, "If it is as it is and we are all called to utter a final word, there may not be a better word to say, than 'strawberries.'" Ron had left us the memory of one dark miraculous night, with three friends huddled together under the soft light of a nightlight. One friend in bed, two on chairs pulled up close. A memory of chatter. A memory of his hands holding first Joe's and then mine, as he told us he loved us. A memory of a final wish - for strawberries.
Strawberries.
Winter is over.
And now, hallelujah, summer comes.
Saturday, June 15, 2013
By George
I follow George Stroumboulopoulos' Facebook page as I think he posts some of the most interestingly 'talkable' stuff. He recently posted about 'right to die' legislation in Quebec. He has an active group of followers and the discussion is quite lively. I wanted to add in so I wrote:
People need to learn the difference between disease and disability. The disability movement is VERY concerned about this. I am a wheelchair user. I work. I love. I have sex. I enjoy my life. Yet people say to me that 'they'd rather be dead than in a wheelchair' ... that translates almost literally into 'you'd be better off dead than in your wheelchair.' A mother of a happy child with Down Syndrome was told by a passerby that the child should be 'put down'. Organisations within the disability community like 'Not Dead Yet' are actively fighting to ensure that the right to die does not become the obligation to die and the prejudices that lead people to believe that we, as disabled people, do not have a high quality of life.
Then I followed up with:
For those of you confident that people understand the difference between disease and disability, right now ethicists are writing that parents should have the right to 'after birth abortions' so they can kill disabled babies that slipped through the genetic testing net. They state, speaking about about people with disabilities:" Merely being human is not in itself a reason for ascribing someone a right to life."
Then a guy named Adam said:
Dave Hingsburger - certain ancient cultures killed deformed babies on sight. You may not think its "ethical," but it did contribute to the strength of their society. Myself, while I understand those families who choose to be responsible for rearing strongly disabled children, I'm not opposed to after birth euthanasia for those children who would not be capable of living a full and independent life.
Then I said:
Adam ... so you think that Hitler was right to engage in the mass slaughter of disabled people, who were called useless eaters, in an effort to clean up the gene pool ... wow.
There were no follow up comments to that. I heard about Godwin's Law several years ago and many of my friends use it to mean 'as soon as you make a comparison to Hitler, you've lost the argument.' So, why did I make the comparison to Hitler? Well, in this case it's apt and a logical follow up to what Adam had said. Ancient cultures contributed 'to the strength of their society' by the death of disabled children. Um, isn't that pretty much the Nazi philosophy regarding that lovely 'master race' stuff.
What astonishes me is that no one. That's NO one, except me, took him up on what he said. It just sat there, reeking of hate, and wasn't worthy of comment.
And that's comment enough for me to leave the discussion frightened.
People need to learn the difference between disease and disability. The disability movement is VERY concerned about this. I am a wheelchair user. I work. I love. I have sex. I enjoy my life. Yet people say to me that 'they'd rather be dead than in a wheelchair' ... that translates almost literally into 'you'd be better off dead than in your wheelchair.' A mother of a happy child with Down Syndrome was told by a passerby that the child should be 'put down'. Organisations within the disability community like 'Not Dead Yet' are actively fighting to ensure that the right to die does not become the obligation to die and the prejudices that lead people to believe that we, as disabled people, do not have a high quality of life.
Then I followed up with:
For those of you confident that people understand the difference between disease and disability, right now ethicists are writing that parents should have the right to 'after birth abortions' so they can kill disabled babies that slipped through the genetic testing net. They state, speaking about about people with disabilities:" Merely being human is not in itself a reason for ascribing someone a right to life."
Then a guy named Adam said:
Dave Hingsburger - certain ancient cultures killed deformed babies on sight. You may not think its "ethical," but it did contribute to the strength of their society. Myself, while I understand those families who choose to be responsible for rearing strongly disabled children, I'm not opposed to after birth euthanasia for those children who would not be capable of living a full and independent life.
Then I said:
Adam ... so you think that Hitler was right to engage in the mass slaughter of disabled people, who were called useless eaters, in an effort to clean up the gene pool ... wow.
There were no follow up comments to that. I heard about Godwin's Law several years ago and many of my friends use it to mean 'as soon as you make a comparison to Hitler, you've lost the argument.' So, why did I make the comparison to Hitler? Well, in this case it's apt and a logical follow up to what Adam had said. Ancient cultures contributed 'to the strength of their society' by the death of disabled children. Um, isn't that pretty much the Nazi philosophy regarding that lovely 'master race' stuff.
What astonishes me is that no one. That's NO one, except me, took him up on what he said. It just sat there, reeking of hate, and wasn't worthy of comment.
And that's comment enough for me to leave the discussion frightened.
Friday, June 14, 2013
Granola
Perhaps it was because I was feeling tired.
Perhaps it was because I was feeling a bit defeated.
But perhaps I found it awesome because it truly was.
Our morning had been horrible. I woke up to Joe panic screaming that the bus was coming in 20 minutes. I had to get up, get showered, get dressed ... and Joe had to get my breakfast made and packed for me to have at the office, had to get dressed to help me go down to the lobby ... it was a mad rush. I made the bus with both of us panting. I'm not sure what the driver thought we'd been up to in those moments before we arrived in the lobby. But I was on the bus.
Later on in the day I got a phone call that had me feeling like life was just unfair and that trust is just another word for 'stupid'. The phone call was long and the conversation painful, I hung up just before heading out. I almost decided to stay home and mope. But, I wanted to feel fresh air on my skin and agreed to go along with Joe to pick up a new alarm clock.
On the way home I saw something that made me stop.
There is a fellow who often asks passers-by for money. We give to him when we have change. We sometimes exchange a few pleasantries with him. He frightens a lot of people because his movements are a bit unpredictable and his hands are very, very, dirty. However I have never seen him be less than pleasant, offering a 'have a blessed day' to everyone, even those who refuse him money and those who treat him with disdain.
I saw, from a distance, that he was lying down, asleep, with his coat pulled over his face. I'd never seen him do that before and suddenly a man that frightened people while awake looked so incredibly vulnerable. Really, deeply, vulnerable. I noticed something else too but I had to get closer to see what it was.
And I found tears rolling down my face.
Maybe because I had been feeling tired.
Maybe because I was feeling defeated.
But maybe because was I saw was wonderfully beautiful.
Someone had tucked, in the crook of his arm, a big bottle of cool, clear water and a box of granola bars. Some stranger had seen him sleeping and decided that this man, who slept in vulnerability would wake to a world where kindness was yet possible.
I almost took a picture to post on this blog and on Facebook. But I didn't. I felt that would be an intrusion into his privacy. A man who sleeps in full view of others needs, I believe, at least some privacy.
To the person in the city of Toronto who bought this man food and water - know that your gift was bigger, way bigger, than you could possibly imagine.
Perhaps it was because I was feeling a bit defeated.
But perhaps I found it awesome because it truly was.
Our morning had been horrible. I woke up to Joe panic screaming that the bus was coming in 20 minutes. I had to get up, get showered, get dressed ... and Joe had to get my breakfast made and packed for me to have at the office, had to get dressed to help me go down to the lobby ... it was a mad rush. I made the bus with both of us panting. I'm not sure what the driver thought we'd been up to in those moments before we arrived in the lobby. But I was on the bus.
Later on in the day I got a phone call that had me feeling like life was just unfair and that trust is just another word for 'stupid'. The phone call was long and the conversation painful, I hung up just before heading out. I almost decided to stay home and mope. But, I wanted to feel fresh air on my skin and agreed to go along with Joe to pick up a new alarm clock.
On the way home I saw something that made me stop.
There is a fellow who often asks passers-by for money. We give to him when we have change. We sometimes exchange a few pleasantries with him. He frightens a lot of people because his movements are a bit unpredictable and his hands are very, very, dirty. However I have never seen him be less than pleasant, offering a 'have a blessed day' to everyone, even those who refuse him money and those who treat him with disdain.
I saw, from a distance, that he was lying down, asleep, with his coat pulled over his face. I'd never seen him do that before and suddenly a man that frightened people while awake looked so incredibly vulnerable. Really, deeply, vulnerable. I noticed something else too but I had to get closer to see what it was.
And I found tears rolling down my face.
Maybe because I had been feeling tired.
Maybe because I was feeling defeated.
But maybe because was I saw was wonderfully beautiful.
Someone had tucked, in the crook of his arm, a big bottle of cool, clear water and a box of granola bars. Some stranger had seen him sleeping and decided that this man, who slept in vulnerability would wake to a world where kindness was yet possible.
I almost took a picture to post on this blog and on Facebook. But I didn't. I felt that would be an intrusion into his privacy. A man who sleeps in full view of others needs, I believe, at least some privacy.
To the person in the city of Toronto who bought this man food and water - know that your gift was bigger, way bigger, than you could possibly imagine.
Thursday, June 13, 2013
Finding Me
(This posted when it wasn't supposed to ... it was to be scheduled for this morning. So it came on and then disappeared for awhile) I wrote this because I had trouble finding avatars who had disabilities or differences. Here in this animated film, the little bald guy says 'character' because he can't say 'avatar' ... isn't that weird. Hope you enjoy. The close captioning is horrible so the script is below.
Finding Me
Hello
Before we begin, I should tell you that I'm just an animated character. But you knew that already didn't you? I am here to speak the words written down on a script that's been written just over there
I was chosen to read the script after all the characters were looked through.
Every single one.
But none seemed to use wheelchairs.
Or walkers.
Or canes.
None, not one, were fat.
Or even modestly plump.
So, I got picked to be here because I'm bald.
That makes me a little bit, a very little bit like the character who is missing. The one that uses a wheelchair. The one who is fat. The one who is gay around the edges.
This has happened before.
The other day I stopped at a store that sold those family decals that people have on the back of their car window
You know the ones. You can tell how many kids a couple has, or what kind of pets they have.
I think they are lovely. I wanted to get a set a set as a gift.
I have a friend who has a daughter, she’s six, who uses a wheelchair.
I looked through every decal in the store. There were lots, they had soccer kids and surfing kids, but they didn't have one, not even one, rolling kid.
It doesn't make sense to me. A wheel is so easy to draw. It would just be my face with spokes.
But I'm guessing that it isn't about how to draw a wheelchair, or a walker, or a guide dog. I guess it's about understanding why one should be drawn in the first place.
I had a friend who told me about a man she knew.
They met in a place called, “Second Life.”
“Second Life” is a virtual world where you can live another, better, life on line.
She told me that this man had cerebral palsy and he chose a character that was big, and strong, and handsome
She said that his choice proved that disability pride was a sham. That disabled people all long to be like everyone else.
I asked her if he could have picked a character that had cerebral palsy and who used a wheelchair.
And if he had chosen a character that was more like himself how much of 'second life' would be accessible to him. Are there cut curbs and grab bars in "second life"?
Or maybe was second life a bit too much like real life for people with disabilities. Maybe it was full of barriers and prejudices.
She said that I didn’t get her point.
I think she said that because she didn’t want to get mine.
I wonder if there is a big virtual institution where characters who are drawn a little different are sent.
The one’s where the pencil slipped.
Or the one’s the eraser refused to erase.
I wonder if they live in lead pencil wards.
I wonder other things too.
I wonder if the pencil that will one day draw difference has not yet been made.
I wonder if the artist with courageous hands has yet to be born.
Diversity is an idea.
It is more than a work that a keyboard types.
It is an action, not a slogan.
Diversity is the idea that will make the wheelchair that will allow me to sit, here, without my heart beating rapidly at the fear that at any moment I may lose my balance and fall.
I have no idea how long it will be before someone draws me the wheelchair that will make going home possible. Make my life accessible.
Until then I am confined to two to feet.
And two legs.
And they’ve given me running shoes.
Running shoes!
What the hell am I supposed to do with those?
Wednesday, June 12, 2013
Um, Could We Talk About Something?
There is a little girl with a wild temper. She has an intellectual disability and she rages, not against her disability but against anything that she considers unfair. And a lot is unfair. So, there are a lot of rages. She had burned through support worker after support worker. She'd struck many and injured some. It was finally decided, because she had no need of personal support in bathrooms or bedrooms, to hire a male staff. She had not shown anything that indicated that she was better behaved in the presence of male authority, the decision was made that maybe men wouldn't mind being hit so much.
A man was hired. He was a big man with strong shoulders and huge hands. In was with his support that she grew into a young woman who could express her rage in ways that left cups and bones unbroken. She learned to use words. She went from throwing fists in fury to flinging words into the air. From there she learned to direct her anger at an unfair situation and utilize the tools of advocacy.
The man, the very big man, who was hired to be her support was key to all of this. It was he who refused to do compliance training, who refused to work at 'eliminating outbursts'. He felt that she had a right to her anger, that she was skilled a recognizing when she was being treated with less respect or given fewer opportunities because of her disability. He thought this was a good skill. He fought those, mostly, but not always, women, who wanted her to be calm and compliant, so that she would fit better into the system.
The reason he succeeded was not because he was a big man with strong shoulders and huge hands. It was not because he was unfazed by being hit. It was because he had a gentle approach, a strong sense of values, and the ability to teach what needed to be taught.
He was a good man.
I say this because I tire of hearing that 'men are pigs.' This man is one of thousands of men I know that are good and kind and thoughtful. We should know that when one person of colour commits a crime, all shouldn't be blamed for it. When one gay man does something sexually inappropriate, all shouldn't be tagged with the crime. It seems to me that we all understand that - don't we.
I believe that behaviour should be confronted.
I believe that sexist, racist, homophobic, disphobic behaviour is unacceptable no matter who does it or where it happens.
But the behaviour of one does not represent the behaviour of all.
I am a man.
I believe in treating all with respect.
Those two things are not mutually exclusive.
I was called a pig as a boy because I was fat, I learned to hate that name. Now I get called a pig because I'm a man. I find that equally repugnant.
Call out wrong - speak out against discrimination - but in doing so, don't wrongly discriminate.
A man was hired. He was a big man with strong shoulders and huge hands. In was with his support that she grew into a young woman who could express her rage in ways that left cups and bones unbroken. She learned to use words. She went from throwing fists in fury to flinging words into the air. From there she learned to direct her anger at an unfair situation and utilize the tools of advocacy.
The man, the very big man, who was hired to be her support was key to all of this. It was he who refused to do compliance training, who refused to work at 'eliminating outbursts'. He felt that she had a right to her anger, that she was skilled a recognizing when she was being treated with less respect or given fewer opportunities because of her disability. He thought this was a good skill. He fought those, mostly, but not always, women, who wanted her to be calm and compliant, so that she would fit better into the system.
The reason he succeeded was not because he was a big man with strong shoulders and huge hands. It was not because he was unfazed by being hit. It was because he had a gentle approach, a strong sense of values, and the ability to teach what needed to be taught.
He was a good man.
I say this because I tire of hearing that 'men are pigs.' This man is one of thousands of men I know that are good and kind and thoughtful. We should know that when one person of colour commits a crime, all shouldn't be blamed for it. When one gay man does something sexually inappropriate, all shouldn't be tagged with the crime. It seems to me that we all understand that - don't we.
I believe that behaviour should be confronted.
I believe that sexist, racist, homophobic, disphobic behaviour is unacceptable no matter who does it or where it happens.
But the behaviour of one does not represent the behaviour of all.
I am a man.
I believe in treating all with respect.
Those two things are not mutually exclusive.
I was called a pig as a boy because I was fat, I learned to hate that name. Now I get called a pig because I'm a man. I find that equally repugnant.
Call out wrong - speak out against discrimination - but in doing so, don't wrongly discriminate.
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