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Viewing entries tagged
non-apparent differences
The desire to pass increases the more others rank impairments according to a preconceived idea that some impairments decrease quality of life more than others. People with disabilities can speak out against this hierarchy and support each other without trying to one-up another's impairment.
I’ve never been a fan of stereotypes. The stereotypical woman has a wardrobe full of handbags. Not me. No siree. Mine’s full of stoma bags. Not quite as fashionable but arguably far more useful. Life with a stoma alongside multiple chronic illnesses has been a rocky ride, but this Gucci bag stuck to my tummy has taught me a few priceless lessons along the way.
Two of my ex-boyfriends from my college days, both brilliant engineers with incredibly broken spirits, loved labeling me as ‘weird’ and would call me that when they were irritated with me. I dated one right after the other, and both could not stand how non-verbal learning disability (NVLD) and major depressive disorder (MDD) had shaped me, snapping ‘Stop acting weird!’ more times than I can remember, so much so that being called ‘weird’ now causes me to physically flinch.
I was born a stutterer, from a long line of family with a variety of speech “impediments”. Talk to a group of us at a family reunion and you too, will leave as a stutterer. My father, who stutters, had the foresight to insist that I attend speech therapy sessions. Twice a week, for nine years, I slipped out of class to sit for 30 minutes in a room a little larger than a broom closet, and practiced phonetic sounds in front of a mirror.
School was a horrendous experience. Teachers were hesitant to call on me, kids would constantly laugh and tease me. My parents, as parents were back then, were very practical. They had little patience for you feeling “sorry” for yourself. My dad often told me that life was seldom fair- in fact, fair has no real definition. And my mom, always to the point, told me to learn to deal with the cards I was dealt.
I try to keep company with people that are aware that they are crazy, because I don’t have qualms with admitting that I am, too. But more importantly than self-awareness, I look for the person that cares how their crazy effects the people around them, and persistently ventures to build a healthier way of being.
I thought about all the different people I learned about growing up and the differently able community was the only group left out. Growing up black, I know what it's like to be different. I know what it's like for people to look at you weird on public transportation or for people to talk to you like they’ve never been around “your type” before. That happens when a person really isn’t educated about a certain community. As a kid I was never really taught about blindness and how it affects a person.
I try to control or at least anticipate the environments I'm in because it keeps me feeling safe. I’m like the world’s most annoying tourist: I want to know where we are going, with whom, for how long, and what it will be like when we get there. People will ask what kind of restaurant we should go to and instead of naming types of food, I’ll specify the atmosphere. Even my taste in museums has evolved as my SPD has gotten more pronounced. As much as I talk about filling museums with vigor, I’m guaranteed to visit on a slow day and avoid blockbuster exhibitions.
