The Cliche of Anger

I am tired, in massive pain, and yet I still am riding on the waves of fulfillment. I worked an entire week straight. I am taking a few more days to get back to my standard however, and reminded myself why I do not work in a traditional manner. I would have been fired today for being unable to wear standard clothing for one, and my attitude for another. Every action I take, every interaction I am bogged down by references to the past, lessons, and reminders. I hear my mother’s voice most clearly, and that is not something I welcome. I want to be an individual not the product of my family.

I wasn’t going to post until tomorrow but I was reading a few pages over at Womanist Musings. The proprietor of Womanist Musings has recently outed herself as being amid the disabled. She is beginning to run into the challenges of being suddenly unwelcome, invisible, and at times hated for merely existing. Today one of the commenters told her that she should start a civil rights movement, ignoring the fact that the disabled community has been pulling for equal rights for as long as other civil rights movements have been in effect. Before we go on, I want to remind you my dear reader that every single civil rights movement hasn’t ended, and that the fight for equality is on going no matter what your ism is. This reader seemed to think that a few protests fix everything.

This ignores the protests in New York, the individuals who do sacrifice their energy and at times sanity to try and force businesses to comply with the laws, and it ignores the fact that there are those who came before you and I. This is an erasure of our history. I responded with snideness and sarcasm, ignoring for the few moments it took to suggest a hacksaw so she could remove her legs as “easily” as I can get off of my scooter, the voice of my mother. “All disabled people are angry, they think they have rights.” I am aware that it is the events of today that shape the memories that seem to nitpick at us. Before I was disabled my sexuality was most often the harbinger of a Mommy Memory. “Bisexuals are selfish, they just want to have sex with as many people as possible.” Every time I went to flirt with a woman or a man, I heard something like that.

The myth of anger is just that, a myth. It erases the happy moments with friends and family, it erases the moments where competent and open minded people realize that everyone has rights. The myth of anger is often used to subjugate. Stop being angry, so that I can continue to oppress you. That is what I hear. The expectation that an entire group of people must never feel one emotion is ridiculous yet this is foisted on women of color, the disabled, homosexuals, and countless other oppressed groups, all to control us. Anger is forbidden.

Many times when I am smiling, I am told, “This inaccessible area will be fixed soon, we swear!” The tone is always frantic, that hint of “Oh god she will be mad that we haven’t done this yet.” It doesn’t matter that I am smiling and just nod and say, “Great, thanks for letting me know.” The fear of my anger, which is some how more toxic than their anger or fear is there. I still don’t understand it, but, I see this often. The times when I am angry, I am also not heard. It’s enough for me to want to go back to trying to be Super Cripple, but, I won’t do that.

My anger is valid. Your anger is valid. Anger is not a reason to oppress, discriminate, or subjugate. Anger is not an excuse to not build the ramp in an accessible manner, and anger is not an excuse to try to “just get rid of” someone. I am tired today, and I am trying to seem reasonable. My mind is far from reasonable. I am in truth alone, and am having a small tantrum every time I need to get up to move. My fiance forgot to feed the cats, which merited an hour of sitting there whining about how I wasn’t sure if I could do it, I can’t bend, and their bowls are on the floor.

It wasn’t anger that had me make a really big mess trying to feed them either. That was love. They were hungry so I fed them, without bending. (Sorry honey, but the kitties have to eat too!) It won’t be anger that I let him know he forgot either, but amusement. Every emotion that I have is not anger. The lessons that our parents teach us, may shape what we see but it is the choice that I made in my first experience with disability as an adult that showed me otherwise. I chose to not see anger.

It’s really that simple. Demeaning an entire group of people does cause anger. If you fear our anger so much, stop discriminating. If you come near me right this second and discriminate I will show you anger, but I won’t run you down with my scooter. That’d hurt me too, and you just aren’t worth my time or pain.

To my friends, allies, and fellow disabled persons, don’t forget that every moment that we are alive is the revolution for our people. Every time we are seen out of our homes, with our assistance equipment, service animals, and even having issues, this is our revolution. VIVA LA REVOLUCION! Free my people!

Saturday Silence

I locked the cats out of my room. It was a moment of great opportunity. One was in the litter box, the other was chasing a lazer beam up the wall. The door was shut and with that I curled up, letting myself drift out on waves of exhausted sleep. I crashed early. Due to years of insomnia six hours is good, but, the peace of living in safety, with someone I love, and knowing I can shower whenever I want? I haven’t had any trouble getting to sleep here by four AM. It still bothers me when I have to be up at eight and I am staring down the clock but I can function for three days on four hours. It is nice to not have to.

I dreamed some really interesting stuff last night. I had a giant pink robot a bit like Voltron but, this one had Catnip Canons and Anti Allergy Grenades. In my dream I could destroy everything I was allergic to. I did, and became the greatest super villain ever! I kept giggling in my dream because it was just too fun to blow up cucumbers, though, eventually everyone else was just as hungry and bored with my diet as I am. That is how bored with my food I got. I dreamed of destroying your food, so you could share my boredom. In the end I re-engineered foods that we could all eat, though most of them tasted like tea and pomegranates. The Pomegranate is the one food I have no issues with.

I could live on pomegranates alone, if they were a year round fruit and not so expensive. Their rich flavour, followed by an improvement in pain level, a need to not take pain meds for two days if I eat a half, a week if I eat the entire thing, and the grand finale? No allergic reactions what so ever. This is the fruit of my dreams in my reality. I want to visit them in their native territory someday, gently petting the tree trunks, talking to my future dinners. Celebrating them in their nascent state.

It is quiet this morning. My neighbor is not vacuuming, though that is actually cause for alarm due to her constant need for clean. There are no screaming children. There are no car alarms. I did not wake up with random Batsignals on my forehead, and locking the two cats out only made them super snuggly. I like quiet. Apartments are rarely quiet. Upstairs neighbors walking, the floor/roof creaking as they do. It always sounds like they will fall through squashing me into oblivion.

I didn’t hear the whirl of technology either, just this pleasing idle. Despite the upheaval of yesterday, there is peace to be found. I also do not have to deal with any doctors or idiots today. Tomorrow I visit my mother, and although that will be exhausting, it is a day of peace. We’re eating at her house, I am picking up some gear for a speech, and I get to see my beautiful siblings. I ask permission before posting people’s faces on the net, but if I can get it I wish to show you my gorgeous sister and my super tall military minded brother.

B, my sister, is tall and graceful. She has the body for modeling, and not the plus size modeling that I did. She is the epitome of desire set by the media at this time. She is not trying and often is embarrassed and teased because she looks like a barbie doll or a porcelain doll, depending on her outfit. She has long platinum blonde hair, big hazel eyes, and will do greater things than modeling for her career. She chooses her brain over her body. “Kat, I am pretty now but what if I fall off Dixie,” Her horse,”and wind up in a wheelchair like you? They don’t want wheelchair models.”

She desires security over fame and fortune. I wish I could tell her that it could never happen to her but our mother almost broke her back falling off of a horse, and B knows all about Christopher Reeve. My grandmother screams it at her every time she finds out B has a horse. She might actually be forgetting, but with her it is hard to tell if it is just a desire to scream at B.

A is my dreamer. I am a bit possessive. They are my A and B, and I do not share well. He is nearly seven feet tall, and has recently begun to pursue his dreams by joining the ROTC. He looks good in uniform, but, for some reason when he wears the uniform he actually looks his age. He just turned 16 and has his license. Be afraid. He is prone to day dreaming and with undiagnosed medical issues, there are consequences. His father forbade diagnosis when he was younger, trapping him with a future that is bleaker than he realizes.

In my Saturday Silence, as the world drifts on, sleeping late today, I have a clear view of the future, of the past, and of the moment. I meditate on things, and I know that yesterday merely gave me something else to fix. I am no longer angry about losing out on my dancing, teaching, and other physical careers. I have something more powerful than what I would have had if I continued on the path of physicality.

Dancing makes a difference for some, I could someday dance in a movie or a music video, I could have a great career. Advocacy gives me time to breathe. Even when the pressure is on and there is fear fueling my fight more than strength, when I advocate I know exactly how much power I have. All of it. I do not feel weak when I advocate, no matter how tired I get. I have a sense of purpose that is hard to match with other goals I have had. When I advocate it is with the knowledge that I am changing the world. One tip of my hip, a slight twist of my leg, a rolling display of muscles and the freedom to shake and move, that held personal power. It felt beautiful. I felt deliciously free.

One phone call to the Governor. One conversation with a reporter. One word of support offered. One person made aware. A life of passion. This too holds power but it is the power of change, the power of equality. After sleep, after finding that I am not as alone as I felt, I am empowered in my moment of silence. I play out the moments when I nearly failed out of fear, the errors others made and that I made in this fight. These are armor.

If I recollect and prepare the times when I have been threatened, I am prepared. It is oil on my armor. When I remember what words worked, that is sharpening my sword. Saturdays of silence are not silent. They are just times to reflect and prepare for the next battle in this war. I hear the birds singing, and I know that the fight will be long and hard. I also know I will win. I may cry, I may bleed, I may wish to flea, but in these moments of solitude with my peace held in my heart I know too that nothing can stop me. I am changing the world with every word, every breath, and it is too late to go back now. The world is already different because of actions that I have taken, that you have taken, and the actions of the future will just give us more strength.

Sharpen your swords, care for your armor, feed your companions. Feast and Celebrate. Enjoy the moments of peace and silence. We are at war. We are an army, an international one at that, and nothing can stop us for we have nothing to lose and only the world to gain. Lets rule the world!

Beauty

I am tired of the stereotype of beauty. I grew up being told that a girl should like men who look like Brad Pitt. I like women with soft lush curves, big and strong ones too. Many would consider my past conquests masculine, or overly thin, or fat. No one type fits what I like. I too have “strange” preferences for the men I have dated and these too tend towards those with meat on their bones, they have body hair, they are dark skinned, fair skinned, or really just alive.

Most of them, but not all, are tall. With either sex I tend to reach out for the taller people, though tall has changed in meaning since the wheelchair entered my life. I can’t look up at my baby brother without hurting my neck. He sits down for me, and still towers above. He is about seven feet tall. I love height because my family is full of tall people, except my own biological father. I associate height with safety. What does this mean about the other standards of beauty? Are we all programmed to like certain things?

Yes!

A huge part of my persecution in this life has been based on facets of my physical appearance. I have red hair, very pale skin that burns the instant sun touches it, soft full lips, and I have always had curves. My smallest size is a fourteen. I was barely eating to maintain that. My body needs meat on it. I am simply a curvaceous woman. I do have an ample bosom as well, and all of these things have been picked at.

I grew up being told I should be blonde. Blonde meant perfection. I hardly find blondes attractive as a result. I am aware that most of my siblings and my own mother are all blonde, and this factors in too. I think Blue Eyes are the best, though any shade is lovely to me. Blue eyes were mocked, because they are pale. Being a minority as a white person is very rare in any part of the world, the patriarchal structure still dominates and is usually white, even in countries where white is the minority. I have always been told my pale skin makes me wealthy. Whiteness in my state is a status symbol.

In India women who are by nature in the darker end of the spectrum are considered harder to marry off, they have less value based on something as simple as their genetic make up. The lighter you are, the more respect you can gain. This is White Privilege. It has defaced an entire culture, this love of all things white has poisoned us. You see whiteness in media, dominantly with able bodied super muscular WHITE men. You see their blonde perfection everywhere. I think back to the Nazi Propaganda studies group I was a member of in High School, and that is what I see. Reflections of past propaganda, continued, accepted, and fully realized.

Curly hair is considered disheveled. Girls with curly hair wake up at odd hours to iron their hair out. I think it is lovely, and my standard of beauty includes the use of a curling iron to add curls to my hair. This is rare, the era of the Super Perm died out at the end of the Eighties, except for a few hold outs.

I am told I must wear make up to seem presentable. I do, at times like to wear make up but I do it when it feels good. Usually I will also hide some of my facial scars under make up, if I cannot shake my feelings of Paranoia. I do not allow myself to wear make up on days when my self worth is being questioned, or when my confidence would hinge only on sultry red lips.

As I write this I am watching a movie that has what I consider the equivalent of Black Face. Sophia Loren is the Millionairess, Peter Sellers is the Indian Doctor who teaches her how to be more than a spoiled snob. This movie is full of propaganda that is anti woman, anti persons of color. I was enjoying it until I realized the fallacy that a white man is playing an Indian, with hardly any alteration of skin color and a very cliched accent.

I also note that the famed figure of Sophia Lauren seems to be aided via a corset. I might be wrong, but the extremes to her figure seem to need assistance. It doesn’t feel natural to me, though it does fit the “standard of beauty”. Her hair is lightened a bit, and of course she is always shown in posh and polished appeal during this film.

I do not think Brad Pitt is handsome. I think he is mediocre. This is all about looks, not his acting. I will not malign someone for having a career. I will however state that I do not understand the requirement to find him attractive. If you want to know who I find attractive in Hollywood, you will have to dig deep. There are few people that strike me as gorgeous or stunning, especially since we have entered the Anorexia Age of Hollyweird. Health is beautiful. That inner glow of self acceptance can make anyone gorgeous.

Since my blossoming into awareness about privilege I have seen more beauty in the world. This side effect shocked me. I like to compliment people when I find them attractive, and I have had the urge to tell the entire world how beautiful it is. The beauty I see is nothing like what is in the Movies or on Television. I live in a world of diversity. The people I see daily are of mixed race, from other countries, and their voices alone are a rhythmic song.

I am not beautiful by the overly BMI oriented modern sensibilities. I never will be. I’d have to break my bones, cut my body apart, inject myself with dye, and lose my sense of self. (This statement does not mean that those who naturally fit this standard are not beautiful, it is merely a rejection of the expectation to alter myself to be just like them) I reject the need to starve myself to fit a rare body type. I reject the fashion industry’s expectation that “fat” women do not like Fashion. I LOVE clothes shopping, and am discovering that I could easily spend a million dollars on cute shoes. These are cliches about womanhood, and yet you will find I only have four pairs of shoes, two for winter, two for summer. My clothing is all rather sensible, black, and boring.

I am pigeon holed by my lack of thinness. I am trapped by the need for others to stigmatize those who are not identical to them. I am not a Stepford Cripple, I am not anything but a person. I am flesh, I am bone, and I have soul. You are beautiful. My friend who is an immigrant is beautiful. I love listening to her voice, the way that she sings while she speaks entrances me. My friend who is the son of immigrants is beautiful. He cannot see that because his world is full of hatred, hatred of the Other.

I discuss privilege with my friends. It is an unavoidable conversation now. Eventually it is addressed either by discussion of politics, feminism, or simply the venting of frustration. I no longer hide my beliefs, to survive until the next day. I am free to speak them. Most of the time these conversations hold a similar impact, someone learns something. We all do really. My friends are all shapes and sizes. I have friends who are thin, blonde, and blue eyed. I have friends who are extraordinarily fat, but give hugs that are so soft. I have friends of every shape, size, mental capacity, and ability. My friends are all beautiful. You are beautiful.

Stop stigmatizing people for not being clones. Clones are scary, according to the media pundits and science fiction. Every time the word cloning is mentioned on TV it is with the hush of fear. Disability also has that hush of fear. Stop being afraid. Fear stops you from living life. This doesn’t mean you should ignore some fears, such as the fear of hunger or the fear of a snake bite. Stop fearing things that are different. If you do not understand something, educate yourself. Don’t fear it. Don’t shun it.

This includes fine art, not so fine art, but most especially people. Children are people. Women are people. I see often abuse launched at those who are different. I experience it every time I go out. I was reminded however, of the power of kindness and decorum.

I write often about the importance of gentle resistance, passive resistance, and not striking back. I admit I fail this way at times but, every so often I am given the reminder I need, the proof that I am right. I had transferred out of my chair at Sam’s Club, into the van and rolled down the window. Beside me a harried mother of two beautiful children, her disabled mother, and a cart of groceries struggled. I watched in silence, until they were about to leave, calling out to the woman that her mother had forgotten her cane.

Her son looked up as she thanked me, glad to not have to spend another twenty five dollars on a cane, and said, “Mommy, that’s the lady from the Walmart with the kitty!” His mother paused and said, “She was on TV too.” We talked then, and I complimented her for handling the stress. I could see she was frazzled, and I let her kids talk to Sprite while she settled them in. No petting of course, but, I told her how beautiful her family is. Three words. “You have a beautiful family.” Okay, five. I never was good with numbers.

She froze, looked at her kids, and then smiled. “I wish everyone could see that.” The thing I have not mentioned is this. Her children are Triracial. They are of Asian, African, and Caucasian Descent. I wanted to take them home with me, their sweetness gave me a rare pang of desire for Motherhood. It went away before we were out of the parking lot, but not the reminder that everything you do has a lasting impression. Every word, Every laugh, Every shout, every time you teach someone something. There is impact.

What draws me to people is never what they look like. It is instead their personality, the joy they have for life, and sometimes the hope that I can grow up to be like them. I may never grow up. I am always surprised when I realize for a moment I am not a child anymore. It fades, but, that too reminds me to be innocent.

Beauty is not in the eye of the beholder. It is not what media tells us it should be. Beauty is merely in the existence of life. Flowers, Puppies, kittens, children, lovers. All beautiful. Be you a Homosexual, Transgendered, A person of non Caucasian ethnicity, red haired, blonde haired, black haired, green haired, or even a strange shade of orange. You are beautiful.

Do You Want Something From Your Father? (Trigger Warning)

The title of this blog is a question I was asked by my mother. Do I want anything from my father’s estate? I am not sure what is left, and if I take something is it really going to make me feel good? I am not certain yet. I am debating in my soul. Not just my head or heart, but this goes soul deep.

At times people ask for more information on what it is to be a Person with Disabilities, and I will give it. A request came my way for more information on abuse for women with disabilities, they wanted a personal story. I probably should have linked them to this blog, citing it as a resource chock full of detail. Instead, I posted an account of abuse, spanning my birth on through the beginning of this year.

I began to cry afterwards. I am having one of those days. I couldn’t sleep, I woke once an hour, and not always because of my own pain. I forgot that I could take pain medicine, the cost of the fight to obtain them, and had to give myself permission. So, I sat here sobbing away while sharing, for the greater good, a chunk of my soul. An injured bit.

William was destructive last night too, triggering more of my emotional response. He broke the mini blinds that the apartment complex requires via the lease, he then came over and tried to claw off a chunk of my breast. It turned out he hit my nipple but I couldn’t tell. It hurts badly, and yet this time I did not smack him. I instead hissed like an angry cat and he fled.

My person is also frustrated with me. I cannot stop snarling today. I just want to shrivel up and not exist. There is too much pain. It is too big and I refuse to subject myself to it, yet I cannot escape it without death and that means of course that I must endure. When I read novels they rarely mention the challenge of endurance when in pain.

I know too few authors are subject to disability to understand the complexities. Still, sometimes they get it right, and not always through the understanding that comes with experience. Sometimes, they may be empathic, or just those with massive amounts of commonsense.

I will likely write more later, but, I feel my father’s hands stroking my hair, fondling my body. I can hear his voice telling me how no one else gets to touch me but him or I will go to hell. I can feel the bile in my throat as he degrades me, breaks me, and I do not know how to st it.

This is a side effect of the PTSD, but I can see the reality this time. Still, the sensation is painful, my body is in agony already, why does my mind follow? Why am I haunted? Will it get worse if I do accept something from his estate? What if that something could help me with my own disability?

I am still not sure I have accepted that I had an effect on his last years of life even if neither of us knew it. I hate him, at times. Not just a minor loathing but a secret hope that he goes and burns in his own hell. Then again, it is possible that he did live in hell for a long time. A slow burning death, a bad heart.

Do I have a bad heart? No, but I work at it. I work at having a pure mind and soul, things he put into my head still mocking me when I fail. I work too to keep my body healthy. He took so much from me. Can I take from him? I really do not know.

The Doom Ship

Not everyone gets to ride the Doomship. I ride, others ride, and yet I often take it for granted. What is the Doomship you ask? The Doomship is the Ship of Life, riding towards the birthday of Death. It sounds horribly dramatic and is.

Children born with serious illness are often told, “You won’t live to be 21,” Or something similar. I have a list of birthdays that have passed, my next is another Doom Birthday. When I broke my back, and it was first diagnosed I had a series of doctors tell me that my organs would fail by 25. My birthday isn’t for a few months, I was reading blogs off of the Disabled Blog Carnival and started reading Temporarily Disabled. Not only is this a great read, though with each post I tend to cry just a little for the child who was aching and the pain she has been through. She turned 26 and posted about the Doomship, sailing past into the great unknown.

With Doomship Birthdays past, it is like looking at a precipice of great unknown. I know I am going to live past 25. I am confident only due to surviving so long. These waters are familiar. I am pensive too, due to my Annual Cancer Scare. I get one a year. This time it is my reproductive system. I had my annual blood work done and my white count is high. My pap came back with abnormal cells. We’re redoing them both to verify before any panicking is done.

I waited three years before getting a pap, because no doctor would accommodate my need to not be in their perfect position, or to even help me balance on the table. I can’t do it myself. I need someone else to help heft my carcass around. I know if I do have cancer I won’t die. I will just get over it. My doctor is more worried than I am.

Right now I am surrounded by everything I have ever wanted. Not the things like the toys I never had, but the love I most desired. On my right I have Sprite, the service cat, curled up and purring against my back. She is helping me to not spasm so I can type the words out. My body is rebelling. I have on my left William drooling into my shirt, and every so often poking the keyboard with a paw to see what is so fascinating. He sleeps, then paws then sleeps a bit more.

In the other room my Person is puttering around, doing the dishes after making a meal of my choice. I had spaghetti with sausage meatballs. I haven’t had meatballs in a long time, but he made them for me, tolerating my lewd jokes. My home is clean, my bed is comfortable. My friends and family are far enough away and close enough at the same time. I even have high speed internet to keep me amused on those days when movement is unacceptable.

The Doomship sails on, the waves splash, the thunder crashes, and my life flashes before my eyes, but, it is the life I am living that I am proud of. Not the memories, not the past. It is my future that holds me in it’s sway. I reach for it, sitting in the prow, praying to my gods, listening to the world, and taking part in changing it.

I write something every day, and each time it is self discovery. I discovered I can write non fiction. I never knew I could. I know the mechanics of writing are sound, as I sell fiction periodically, and write it almost daily. It is merely the fear of my life that has held me back. I feared upsetting those with the power over my life and death. I am now the Captain of my Doomship. I mutinied.

So, as I rest, my ship swaying, I look out and see that everyone else is in a Doomship too, they just do not know it. They do not prepare, they do not adapt. They aren’t aware that they have to. Red sky in morning sailor take warning, the storm is coming and the night is humming… wait not for the red sky at night, for on the Doomship there is no Sailor’s Delight.

When Advocacy is like an Onion

Advocacy is like an onion. It has many layers, and each layer is not quite the same as the outside layer. Starting from the inside you have a core of people, the advocates for each organization that are well known on a National and International level. Each layer is a ring of less active people, less aware people.

Each layer going out has less moisture and vitality. When you cook an onion you usually peel off a few layers and discard them. This is where Advocacy is not like an onion. You cannot discard the outer layer. The outer layer consists of the people who have no information access. They are the people who advocates need to help the most. They are the most likely to be abused, they are the most likely to suffer, and they are the most likely to desire death out of neglect.

I have been in many layers of our Advocacy onion, and I know those layers very well. I work each day to try and help every layer I can access, and this includes looking for people in need. This sounds paranoid to some when I explain it to them but it is an essential part of advocacy. One example comes from a blog called Chewing the fat. You can read the entire story there, but the author was first abused by a stranger, and then took note that the stranger was a care giver. They then made a choice and reached out. The second part of that story is linked here, I won’t spoil the ending for you, you can read it on their site but know as you do, the victim in the story was the outermost layer of the onion. Now she has found herself on a new level.

The other way that advocacy is like an onion is it can make you cry. I myself am challenged with showing my emotions, even alone crying is a struggle. I have never cried so much in my life as when fighting for the rights of myself and others. Cutting into an onion triggers a chemical reaction, just as at times the tears are triggered by of all things endorphins. Sometimes I cry when advocacy goes so well that the joy in my heart overflows. It can be boundless. Other times my frustration and anger bring me to tears. Any emotion that can be felt can be magnified by the act of Advocacy.

Another way that advocacy is like an Onion is simply this. I hate onions. I really hate having to constantly advocate. I do not just dislike it, I hate the pain. Advocating hurts me, it burns up my stomach at times, it leaves me exposed to the sun, it cuts my soul open and lets even strangers poke at it with their sharp sticks of injustice. I am allergic to onions, they burn my flesh when I touch them, they split my skin, and my eyes like to swell shut after, blinding me.Sometimes people who ignore the truth, wasting my energy and causing pain blind me to the happy moments I can have.

The last way that I will share, but far from the last way that sets out truth, is this. Onions and advocacy can add spice. Isn’t variety the spice of life? My advocacy takes me on a strange and varied journey. I never know what each moment will bring, there is no predictability. This causes me to thrive. Onions add flavour to flavourless dishes, they change things, and they can make a good meal better, barring allergies.

For every layer of the world’s largest onion, there are more analogies. You likely have thought of some of your own while reading this.I cannot ever give up advocacy, for myself mostly, but for every single person that I have helped.

Do you like onions?

The Cripocalypse (Trigger Warning)

I just woke up, two hours earlier than normal and I have had a vision. A vision of what the privileged folk who refuse to see me as human might see. In truth I was thinking about my father, and how he died. I then realized he suffered for over a year with a bad heart, which means I really need to be careful and have mine checked. I will. My doctor,w hen I tell her how he died will step right up and lob referrals out into space if necessary. My father was one of the most evil persons I ever met. His level of hatred wasn’t just his children or wife, but every man, woman, and child of color, or who was independent, but especially those that over lapped. He told me often about how disabilities worked. None of it was true, and thankfully I discarded his notions before my own disabilities began to force their way to discovery.

The Cripocalypse:
It begins with one, one gimp who refuses to walk. They are just lazy you see but laziness catches like disease. Soon his children refuse to walk. Then they begin to use wheelchairs. Sure some folk might actually need them, like the veterans who let the enemy blow off their legs. After that, come the walkers, they will walk but not if they can’t lean on something. Can these people be more lazy? Not only are they lazy but all of the cripples are mexican or black. You don’t see many white cripples, and if you do they had sex with a (insert racial expletive) cripple and caught it. That’s right, wheelchairs are contagious. Someday, every man will be in a wheelchair, unable to move his body because we didn’t kill the damned cripples.

Yes, he was a bastard. I once made friends with a girl in his apartment, after he and my mother split but before the divorce. He lived there a year before he decided to see who I was playing with when I should have been cleaning and making his dinner. I was only five, but, I was a woman and therefore I was to stay in the house like his personal slave. This girl, I think her name was Jasmin, to me was absolutely wonderful. We played with her dolls, her parents did not approve of Barbie and her stereotypes. In fact her father was the person who defined that word for me. I thought it meant something as innocent as having a newer stereo and an older one.

They even fed me most of the time, for when it was Visitation Time my father made sure to either not show up, or to use my body as he wished, then discard me like trash for the rest of the time. Jasmin didn’t mind that I was afraid of her father at first, she thought it was funny until he explained it was sad. These people were the most accepting people I had ever met. The only truely accepting people. Jasmin and I were playing in the stairwell one day when he woke up, dkscovered I had made pancakes that had gone cold and were slightly burned, and came out to punish me for being five and not being able to cook the food he liked.

I will not describe his physical assault, but I was not his only victim. This was the first time I ran from him. I ran to protect my friend, as he screamed racial slurs. You see Jasmin is black. I have no idea where she is now, that was the last time I saw her, due to my father’s violence against her family. I thought she was beautiful, and I wished my skin was dark. I am as pale as she was dark. She had the darkest skin I have ever seen, it was also luminescent, like looking at a person made of obsidian. She gave me my very first hug. That was how we met.

I was crying in the stairwell, and she and her father came home. She came up and just hugged me. Then we went to play. I do miss the innocence of youth. There was still innocence you see. There were stolen moments of absolute joy, before my father found out. When he attacked me and my friend, we escaped him. I knew I had to go back but I was willing to die for my friend. Her father wasn’t home, we were both alone but we dove through that apartment door, they were our neighbors, closed it, locked it and listened to him scream about how I was going to become a black woman.

Jasmin was also the first person to show concern over bruises. Despite my conditions I do not bruise easily, I never have. My father had also had enough other children to manage beating on us without bruising as much, and rarely where someone might see. He was calculating in his abuse, to make it harder for us to tell anyone. The worst abusers are the most talented at that. The last time I saw Jasmin, I was so afraid that my father would kill me. I even told her father that. I wish I had been smart enough to take his offer up. He offered to let me stay with him until my mother came.

We did try to call her, but, she was busy. My older siblings had refused to stay with Steve, my biological father’s first name, and I was alone except my friend. The police did come, yet they ignored the fact that even his daughter was telling them he’d tried to hurt her friend. This was a defining moment in my perceptions, when the police told Jasmin and her father, to send me back. They stated the Department of Child Services would be out to inspect his care of Jasmin, but surely my father was not really hurting me. They targeted them because of their color.

Often that is the day when I see my innocence starting to disappear. I had so little chance to be a child, but with great joy I remember every moment I had with Jasmin. I remember the utter innocence to be had, before I was taught to hate. It never took. Maybe it is living in New Mexico, where the Latin@ presence is so prevelant, maybe it is the fact that Jasmin and her father cared, or perhaps it is the effort I have put into bettering myself, rejecting the lessons of a false father.

The Cripocalypse is false. I know my disabilities are contagious via genetics. If I could have one last moment to look him in the eye again, I know what I would say. “Steve, I do not respect you. How can I respect someone so close minded as to abuse their children for existing? How can I want you to live, I really was hoping you would die sooner to better the world. You hurt me, and I know you will never care. You just feared being alone when you died, you feared it and none of your children will care when it happens. I am a cripple, who likes persons of color, who likes anyone she meets until they prove they are not worthy of it. You taught me horrible things, to steal, to lie, and to beat. I reject you en masse.”

He is not the only bigot who fears the Cripocalypse. So often people try to hide the disabled, the Persons of color, and yet, isn’t color the most important part of a painting? Art screams for diversity, and the privileged persons always claim to love it. I too wonder, how many more people who hate have died, or will die in a state they most fear?

Does Super cripple help forestall the Cripocalypse?

Z slashed through a shirt to reveal Superman or Supergirl's uniform

Z slashed through a shirt to reveal Superman or Supergirl's uniform

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