Lately, I feel my mother’s confusion almost palpably; her brow furrows and she grows quiet, like: is this MY daughter, that once-sweet, smiling princess? Sometimes, I can’t understand the anger from myself, a white, middle-class kid who hasn’t experienced real discrimination in her life.
Then, an advertisement flashes across the television, or I hear the word “bitch” and I remember. I know why, if my breasts didn’t hang uncomfortably, I would burn my bra, or, at least, a pair of stilettos (the accoutrement of feminine torture). If the cops wouldn’t be called, I would furnish my backyard with a lovely little Twilight saga bonfire.
What I can’t figure out is what bothers me more, the ableism or the sexism. In my own history, they merge so seamlessly I feel as if I’m playing with a double-sided coin. In both, there is a distinct sense of “difference”, of being the “other.”
I first felt their influence in early childhood, with a proliferation of images. Mostly, of Disney princesses: Snow White being rescued by the handsome prince, Tigerlily being saved from the water by Peter Pan (never mind the problematic depiction of Indigenous American people here!), Sleeping Beauty’s life redeemed by a kiss, Belle loving the beastliness out of the beast. These women were my role models, those who I longed to emulate. Once, my parents even found me, a la Snow White, in a heap on the kitchen floor, an apple in hand, waiting to be picked up.
Later, it was reading tween-geared romance novels like innocuous titles like “Kissed by an Angel”, or “Rescue by A Sexy, Supernatural Man.” If only, I thought, some beautiful boy (preferably, sensitive, sophisticated, and foreign, or better yet, one with wings!) would emerge from the shadows to fall madly in love with me, life would be perfect. Soon, I was hanging out with other several squealing girls (even while our menstrual cycles were still on order) talking about “boys” and “relationships.” By 1996, I memorized most of the balcony scene from Shakespeare’s Romeo + Juliet. Likewise, most of my mother’s Christian literature informed me that God would provide a handsome, rescuing husband--- a godly lord to whom I would one day “submit”; a priest, prophet, and king in whose life I would lose mine forever. At twelve years old, I believed that a boy would give my life meaning and purpose. Not being a good person or doing something meaningful, or self-actualizing, mind you but, instead, finding Romeo.
Girls were not complete unto ourselves.
The Bible told us so. The television joined in the chorus. We even told each other variations on the story of happily-ever-after.
Of course, concurrently, I was dealing with the (psychological) logistics of wheelchair use. For much of my childhood, the nut-and-bolt differences between myself and the walking world were lost on me. Ramps, walkers, braces and blue-squared buses were one thing. Getting around was challenging sometimes, sure, but hardly a Sisphyian task. Doable.
What was untenable, however, was always being perceived as “different.”
From as far back as I remember being self-aware, I have been aware of people’s reactions to me because of disability. Some stared. Some averted their gaze in obvious terror. Some baby-talked at ear splitting decibels as if I were hearing impaired, in addition to being “crippled.” Others, still, congratulated me for such simple things as, “being out.” As if going to the mall was some laudable, heroic feat. Often, people would insert mention of their two-week-stint-with-a-broken-leg into conversation, in an attempt to empathize. “I know how,” they invariably said, “you feel.” At recess in elementary school, I parked near the play ground and watched the other kids run past. This was no big deal, until middle school when kids began to intentionally self-segregate from the class “oddity.” Boys didn’t like me. Girls didn’t understand me.
Not to mention that this little wheelchair detail was completely curtailing my (non-existent) love life (and all-consuming plan to be blissfully married). By high school, I remember feeling like a pariah; alone, no dashing, male teenaged savior in sight. Somehow, I equated transcending disability with cashing in on the ubiquitous sexual objectification of women. One morning, I grabbed my skimpiest spaghetti strap top and decided to start dressing “like a slut.” To distract the other kids from the wheelchair, to direct the attention back where belonged.
On my tits.
The twisted equation for happiness went as follows:
Being a girl = having love of boy = not being disabled = so, therefore
Being sexy = snagging a boy = transcending disability =being a “real” girl
In the subsequent years, I consented to various sexual activities that I was neither ready for nor comfortable with, under the guise of “becoming a woman” or being “just like everybody else.” It is painful to realize that my high school career, and some of my college career, was not about getting an education, bettering society, or developing my talents. It was about getting to square one, feeling like a human being in the (fe)male gaze(s).
In addition to being dehumanizing (to both my partners and I), it didn’t work. “Lennon”, a hippie who did eventually fall in love with me definitely lacked the capacity for “transcendent celestial beingness”, no matter how intellectual he was. And so, a little disillusioned and a little bitter, one day, I found myself blinking open my eyes like Snow White for the first time in years. Reality was a painfully bright space.
And, I was pissed.
That god was dead. There was no other choice but to trek back down the holy mountain, through the empty parking lot, past the Dove Real Beauty Campaign billboard and head back home.
