Nice People, Disability, and the Neoliberal Campus

“Nice people made the best Nazis. My mom grew up next to them. They got along, refused to make waves, looked the other way when things got ugly and focused on happier things than “politics.” They were lovely people who turned their heads as their neighbors were dragged away. You know who weren’t nice people? Resisters.”

― Naomi Shulman

As a disabled person I’ve never had luck with “nice people” since they tend to employ saccharine batting—their spun candy—as a shield of manners the aim of which is suffocation of cripples. One knows the type: a school administrator who, seeing a child with a wheelchair says: “We’re so lucky to have you here,” and then, two weeks later, tries to prevent that child from bringing her service dog to school.

You learn to get around it, fashioning your own brand of insistence, arguing for the rights of the blind, deaf, non-speaking, mobility challenged, neurodiversity inclusion—yes, though you despise the word “inclusion” since you know it comes from the 17th century by way of Latin inclusio(n-), from includere ‘shut in.’ In general one distrusts nouns  descending from verbs. Meanwhile “inclusion” is a choice word for neoliberals as it advertises “a place at the table” while it reinforces the system of separations embedded in the old verb. The “nice people” continue chattering. The university adopts inaccessible software for all it’s employees. Refuses to admit it. Gets pushed and pushed to fix the problem. Fixes the problem and publishes a news story about how they were interested in full inclusivity from the very start. Everyone is so nice nice. BTW: if there’s a word I dislike more than “includere” it’s “inclusivity” which has about it the whiff of the country club. ‘Inclusivity” means, “we’ve let you in, an we deserve some damn good press for having done it grudgingly.”

As I say, I’ve not had much luck with the nice folks. They reveal themselves. They flat out don’t like disability, the disabled, the lame and halt, and in their tricked out neoliberal meeting they’ll use disability as metaphor just as quickly as a vicious shop owner who doesn’t want your business because you have one of those damned disability dogs.

In university circles the myth is that the disabled are “complicated” or expensive. Forget the cripples pay as much for college as the apparently unencumbered. Forget that the disabled and their families have been estimated to have over 70 billion in discretionary income. (Oh dear, am I slipping from nice? I swear I’m trying to use the language of neoliberalism…) The cripples are complicated because they won’t stay “includere” and while we talk of inclusion we don’t want to make a habit of it.

And that’s the thing: neoliberal administrators at America’s colleges and universities think the world will “go back” to a former time if they just strangle the people and resources of the agora. We will “nice them to death” and get rid of faculty, problematic students, the humanities, the arts, oh, and disability services. We’ll do it by degrees. Because we’re nice. We’re incredibly nice.

 

I know a thing or two about loss…

I know a thing or two about loss:

In a room of happy men and women

I’m the interloper, a caste thing

Like a button on a drowned man’s coat

So that you must look away—

Americans like a healthy difference

Not a febrile haunted body

With static of blind

Or hands flapping.

My tribe…

How many times

Have I left a party

To stand among crickets?

 

The Argument

 

—“I do not know which of us has written this page.”

—Jorge Luis Borges, “Borges and I”

 

Hands that rock the cradle

Or sweep a white cane

Know who’s writing—

Words appear and startle

In the air above

Sleeping children

& a blind woman

Parts vast lexicons

As she makes her way

Down broadway

Tap tapping.

 

In his blindness

Borges

Was never alone.

So he didn’t

Rehearse

His fate

Reaching

Or walking—

Friends

Told him

What to see.

I say

In the sloping dark

The blind move fast

Their own words

On their tongues.

 

Bo Diddley, Joe McCarthy, The Donald, and Yes, Lying all the Time

“Who do you love?” I sing whenever I hear a burst of vitriol from Donald Trump. It’s not altogether bad to think of Bo Diddley several times a day.

The Donald is a man so devoid of love (or anything like it) he’s become a hot coil of resentments. One can think of him as a clock on fire.

Aaron Barlow has now written an extraordinary essay for Political Research Associates entitled “The Triumph of the Lie: How Honesty and Morality Died in Right Wing Politics”—an incisive roundup of McCarthyite history and the carpet bombings of facts now being carried out by the GOP.

Barlow’s essay addresses our eroding moral climate and it’s incitements and it’s excellent reading.

Back to Mr. Diddley.

Lying has everything to do with lovelessness. No love, no truth. No love, no courage.

All of which begs the question: “When did the GOP fall out of love with America?”

I know. First he talks about love like The Beatles or Marvin Gaye, then he imagines foolishly there was a time when Republicans loved their country, loved it’s people, and more than just a few.

OK. Forget the particular day. It’s silly. As hopeless as “the day the music died.”

I’m trying hard to not lie. I love this country. But what I’ve always loved about America is our ability to tackle hard issues however uncomfortable the process may be. Air and water pollution. Energy shortages. Inequality. Hunger. Oh Christ, we’ve a long history of standing up for little people, the folks who most need need help.

This of course is love of country. This is the truth.

One may say, cynically perhaps, “it’s easy to love when you’re warm and comfy” and the argument goes this way: when the ruling class began to understand the limitations of natural resources it turned greed into public policy—neoliberalism etc.

Even during the Great Depression Americans still thought their best years lay ahead.

The GOP fell out of love with the American people around the time of the Arab Oil Embargo.

Yes, in the future there’d be only so much good stuff to go around. To paraphrase Pokemon: “better get it all.”

Hey, if I’m no longer obligated to love you, you stranger, you “other” why then I can argue that the poem on the statue of liberty is merely a decoration, added later.

We all know “things added later” are frivolous.

We all know the truth is featherbrained. Snowflakey.

“C’mon Little Cupcake! These lies are delicious!”

 

History is a Child Building a Sandcastle by the Sea

There are weeks, whole months, when I read only the ancients.

There’s a cut off: Paracelsus is modern—he believes in the future.

I mean the dark one, the river compulsive,

A man who made clocks from string…

Time is a game played beautifully by children.

Lately this is all I can think of.

When I was very small I lived by the sea.

Nobody loved me and I wasn’t confused.