Uncategorized – Page 90 – Planet of the Blind

Giving Up on Poetry

I promise to change my habits

To read medicine jars, the prose of Yeats,

Sincere things without assurances.

I want only the galvanized electrolysis

Of commercials and politics.

Who needs all this camphor smelling

19^th century loneliness?

Goodbye Keats.

Goodbye Fingal and Armand Schwerner.

Goodbye Walt.

I don’t need a brother.

I’ll go alone into the mineral dark.

I carry armloads of books to the trash.

I can’t see poisoning someone else with the stuff.

Goodbye Robert Frost

(The loneliest poet

Who ever lived, though there’s Lorca …)

For kicks I say good riddance to Gustav Mahler

Who was as friendless and musical as rain…

“A dear child has many names.”

Finnish proverb. Dear child. Iris.

Buttercup. Mockingbird.

Mouse behind the chanterelle.

So what the clouds are low?

See how the grass waves?

Throw open all the doors.

The ADA @ 30: “The Happenstance Blues”

So forgive me for starting with a grayness but as I recently joked with a paralyzed friend, “I feel like a battered old fish with many dents in his flesh”—the context—that it’s not probable I’ll see the advances I’d hoped for when the Americans with Disabilities Act was enacted over a quarter century ago. I’m old enough to be feeling what academics call accidie, a weariness, and if I’m not defeated I’m suspicious.

Shorthand: we haven’t gotten far enough, and daily the news is incontestable. The “fish conceit” is what can happen to believers and how not to become the fish is the story (mine and yours) since disability bias surrounds us. (Bias is a story with many chapters like Bocaccio and knowing it never renders comfort, though if you’re a bigot you may enjoy schadenfreude. I once had an “iffy” friend who practiced “vengeance fantasy”—as he said, seeing his enemies staked out in the Colosseum with lions chewing at their entrails, etc. He’d rub his hands and imitate Charles Laughton: “how do you like your God now, Christian?”)

Bias is a variorum edition. My spotty pal really meant what he said—if he’d had his way he’d have fried you in oil. Everyone has his own grayness. Discrimination, personified, wants us to join the Centurions, at least inside, and its first sign is indifference. In my experience street theater is one way to resist it.

Thirty years ago when I was a Fulbright Scholar in Helsinki, Finland I went one night to a gritty, working class bar where I was accosted by a wildly drunken laborer. Everyone was painfully drunk–that manly near death atavistic Viking berserk hallucination of everything, and I thought: “all these years, so many wounds, so few praises.” That was when a man I did not know turned to me and said: “You are a Jew!” “You’re right,” I said, since I was young and in love with poetry, “I am a Jew!” It was the first time I’d ever felt the pins of anti-Semitism, I, a Lutheran with a long beard. He reached for me then but missed and grabbed another man. “You are a Jew!” he shouted. “No, it is I,” I said, “I am the Jew!” But it was too late. They were on the floor and cursing, two men who had forgotten the oldest notion of them all: in Jewish history there are no coincidences.

Kurt Vonnegut would say, “bias is a clunker” and though it must be taken seriously, if you’re one of its chapter headings having a shield of irony becomes essential. You’re a cripple. You don’t belong in here. Don’t belong on this website, on this campus, don’t belong in a customary place of business. For years I used to carry custom made stickers depicting the universal disability access symbol inside a red circle with a line through it. I’d paste them on the doors of inaccessible restaurants and academic buildings and the like. I really need to get more of them but I can’t remember where I they came from, and as I say, I’m in danger of weariness. Dear young Cripples, I’ve been fighting a long time. Thank God for ADAPT. And don’t stop fighting. But don’t stop laughing either. As the great disability writer and activist Neil Marcus says: “Disability is not a ‘brave struggle’ or ‘courage in the face of adversity’…Disability is an art. it’s an ingenious way to live.”

Once while I was teaching at The Ohio State University I was invited to a meeting with a dozen faculty and former astronaut and Senator John Glenn. We discussed the future of digital teaching. Afterwards I boarded a Columbus City bus only to face a woman who loudly asked if she “could pray for me”. She assumed blindness was a sad matter—or worse—a sign I needed spiritual rescue. My guide dog shook his collar. Suddenly I felt wickedly improvisational. I stood up, grabbed the overhead pedestrian bar, and announced loudly so every passenger could hear: “Certainly Madame you may pray for me, but only if I can pray for you, and in turn pray for all the sad souls on this bus—souls buttressed on all sides by tragedies and losses, by DNA and misadventures in capitalism, for we’re all sorrowing Madame, we’re all chaff blown by the cruel winds of post-modernism. Let us pray, now, together; let’s all hold hands!” She fled the bus at the next stop. Strangers applauded.

Improvisation allows us to force the speed of associational changes, transforming the customs of disability life. Disability Studies scholar Petra Kuppers writes: If the relations between embodiment and meaning become unstable, the unknown can emerge not as site of negativity but as the launch pad for new explorations. By exciting curiosities, by destabilizing the visual as conventionalized primary access to knowledge, and by creating desires for new constellations of body practice, these disability performances can attempt to move beyond the known into the realm of bodies as generators of positive difference.

The polarizations, magnetic fields of crippledness are generators. It is not true that rebellion simply makes us old. We’re old when we give up.

And yet…the fights before us are promising to be both rewarding and very hard.

I have the happenstance blues. They’re both accidental (aleatoric) and whatever is the opposite of accident, which, depending on your point of view might have something to do with the means of production, racial determinism from same, or all the other annotated bigotries of the culture club. As a disabled writer I know a good deal about the culture club.

Now back to my happenstance blues…

I’m right here. I’m terribly inconvenient. Blind man at conference. Blind man in the lingerie shop. All built environments are structured and designed strategically to keep my kind out. My kind includes those people who direct their wheelchairs with breathing tubes, amble with crutches, speak with signs, type to speak, roll oxygen tanks, ask for large print menus or descriptive assistance. I’m here standing against the built geographical concentrations of capital development. I’m here. I’m the penny no one wants anymore. My placement is insufficiently circulatory in the public spaces of capital. Which came first, the blues or the architectural determinism that keeps me always an inconvenience?

Capital creates landscapes and determines how the gates will function. Of course there was a time before capital accumulation. It’s no coincidence the disabled were useful before capitalism. The blind were vessels of memory. The blind recited books. Disability is a strategic decision. Every disabled person either knows this or comes a cropper against the gates when they least expect it.

What interests me is how my happenstance-disability-blues are exacerbated by neoliberal capital accumulation. For accumulation one must thing of withholding money from the public good or dispossession, which is of course how neoliberal capital works.

Here is geographer David Harvey in an interview, talking about just this:

Accumulation by dispossession is about dispossessing somebody of their assets or their rights. Traditionally there have been rights which have common property, and one of the ways in which you take these away is by privatizing them. We’ve seen moves in recent years to privatize water. Traditionally, everybody had had access to water, and [when] it gets privatized, you have to pay for it. We’ve seen the privatization of a lot of education by the defunding of the public sector, and so more and more people have to turn to the private sector. We’ve seen the same thing in health care.What we’re talking about here is the taking away of universal rights, and the privatization of them, so it [becomes] your particular responsibility, rather than the responsibility of the state. One of the proposals which we now have is the privatization of Social Security. Social Security may not be that generous, but it’s universal and everybody has part of it. What we are now saying is, “That shouldn’t be; it should be privatized,” which, of course, means that people will then have to invest in their own pension funds, which means more money goes to Wall Street. So this is what I call privatization by dispossession in our particular circumstance.

At the neoliberal university and all its concomitant conferences, workshops, and “terms abroad” (just to name some features of higher ed where my own disability has been problematized) the provision of what we call “reasonable accommodations” under the Americans with Disabilities Act is often considered to be in opposition to accumulation. For instance: I was asked to teach a term abroad in Istanbul. When I pointed out that Istanbul isn’t a guide dog friendly city and that I’d have trouble with the traffic and requested a sighted guide accompany me there, I was told this was too expensive. Think about it! One additional human being to keep me from getting run over was too expensive! The “term abroad” was actually designed to accumulate capital, right down to the lint in each student’s and instructor’s pockets. I decided to avoid getting run over and didn’t go.

Privatized culture means everything, including your safety is your own responsibility. I’m in mind of this. I’m not fooled.

When Trayvon Martin was murdered I wrote about gated communities and the intersection between a black teen’s death and disability exclusion. I opened my piece this way:

I know something about being “marked” as disability is always a performance. I am on the street in a conditional way: allowed or not allowed, accepted or not accepted according to the prejudices and educational attainments of others. And because I’ve been disabled since childhood I’ve lived with this dance of provisional life ever since I was small. In effect, if you have a disability, every neighborhood is a gated community.

I also wrote:

…as a person who travels everywhere accompanied by a guide dog I know something about the architectures and the cultural languages of “the gate” –doormen, security officers, functionaries of all kinds have sized me up in the new “quasi public” spaces that constitute our contemporary town square. I too have been observed, followed, pointed at, and ultimately told I don’t belong by people who are ill informed and marginally empowered. Like Trayvon I am seldom in the right place. Where precisely would that place be? Would it be back in the institution for the blind, circa 1900? Would it be staying at home always?

I concluded:

There’s a war against black men and boys in this country. There’s also a backlash against women and people with disabilities and the elderly. The forces in all these outrages are the same. The aim is to make all of the United States into a gated community. On the one side are the prisons and warehousing institutions; on the other side, the sanitized neighborhood resorts. I hear the voice: “Sorry, Sir, you can’t come in here.” In my case it’s always a security guard who doesn’t know a guide dog from an elephant. In Trayvon’s case it was a souped up self important member of a neighborhood watch who had no idea what a neighborhood really means. I think all people with disabilites know a great deal about this. I grieve for Trayvon’s family. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about him and will never forget.

I have the happenstance blues and they’re a function of design. Differences, and the welcoming of differences require architectures and expenditures of inclusion. It costs money to include the outsiders. You might have to train security guards, authentic ones to protect Trayvon and Stephen. Imagine if they were able to live in peace, share their stories, and spend their money in your neighborhood. (One can’t forget Trayvon was found dead with skittles and a can of soda, the smallest reckonings of teenage happiness…)

Just as accumulation by dispossession involves the creation of labor-free territories, local dispossession requires the devaluation of the individual.

If nothing else, the ADA @ 30 says the cripples have value.

The ADA @ 30: “Lock ‘Em Up!”

When talking about disability let’s acknowledge how wide the subject is. Celebrating the ADA @ 30 let’s reflect on the carceral states of America where jails are the largest psychiatric facilities in the nation.

Two new books highlight this crisis. I recommend “Waiting for an Echo” by Christine Montross and “Decarcerating Disability” by Liat Ben-Moshe.

“Intentionality” is the word of choice when talking about writing—what does the writer want to instill in us? I can’t speak for Montross or Ben-Moshe but their books prove the “school to prison pipeline” is a crisis for Black people and people of color, many of whom are disabled—and yes also for disabled whites. The mentally ill, people with learning disabilities, autists, people struggling with addiction, all are frequently imprisoned rather than being given reasonable treatment and a chance at life.

Ben-Moshe writes: “disability and madness are largely missing from analysis of incarceration and its resistance” which means in turn:

“When disability or madness is present, it is conceived of as a deficit, something in need of correction, medically/psychiatrically or by the correction industry, but not as a nuanced identity from which to understand how to live differently, including reevaluating responses to harm and difference. This is not only a scholarly omission but also a real danger to the lives of those most marginalized, especially when many proposals for reform risk increasing surveillance over those already heavily impacted by carceral sites and logics in the United States.”

One may think of the prison complex in the United States as a collective “unreasonable accommodation” a matter that undermines the broader health of the body politic, for no one gets well in prison. In fact people get worse. Ben-Moshe writes:

“The Bureau of Justice Statistics reports that in 2005, more than half of all prison and jail inmates had a mental health problem. The reported prevalence of “mental health problems” among the imprisoned seems to vary by race and gender. White inmates appear to have higher rates of reported “mental health problems” than African Americans or Hispanics; 26 however, African Americans, especially men, seem to be labeled “seriously mentally ill” more often than their white counterparts. It is also reported that, in general, incarcerated women have higher rates of “mental health problems” than men. 27 Gender expression that does not match people’s genitals (as this is the main criterion for the sex-based separation that is the prison system) compounds these factors and leads to a psychiatric diagnosis and/or placement in solitary confinement in the name of protection.”

Excerpt From: Liat Ben-Moshe. “Decarcerating Disability.” Apple Books.

Christine Montross, writes of a psychotic patient named Henry who is left untreated and is eventually extracted from his cell and placed in solitary confinement, then adds: “In our nation’s correctional facilities, detainees who become assaultive are typically sent to administrative segregation—a punitive form of solitary confinement known to exacerbate symptoms of mental illness”

We take the sick to jail and make them worse. Thinking of the ADA @ 30 is not, should not be, a matter of fireworks and glib speeches.

Montross: “If these mentally ill detainees become assaultive or are unable to follow police instructions or jail rules, the manifestations of their symptoms lead to harsher punishment, longer periods of incarceration, and lost years of their lives. In precisely this way, our overcrowded correctional facilities become inundated with the psychiatrically ill, straining our prison system and draining money from state coffers.”

It’s hard to celebrate the ADA when our disabled fellow citizens are in the gulags.

It’s almost impossible to celebrate while we imprison adolescents with disabilities and then dehumanize them. Montross describes a meeting with prison administrators:

“We attend a meeting with psychologists, teachers, social workers, correctional officers. We’re given a chance to ask questions.

“What’s the most severe punishment that can be leveraged against a boy held in this facility?” I ask a psychologist.

“He can be sent to segregation,” she says, noting that the practice of solitary confinement exists for incarcerated children just as it does for adults.

“For how long?” I ask.

“Up to a year,” she says.

Take the developing brain of an adolescent. Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen years old. Put him in seclusion for a year. He touches no one. Is touched by no one. He yells out, perhaps, or he stays silent, but he interacts with no one. His meals are pushed at him through a slot. We know that isolation changes and damages the adult brain. What about the effects of segregation on the still-developing brain of a child? And a child who presumably has already lacked the foundation for good decision making, has acted with extraordinary impulsivity, has perhaps enacted terrible trauma and perhaps also endured terrible trauma? What then?”

What then, indeed?

Ben-Moshe underscores the prisons are in fact disabling mechanisms: “the prison environment itself is disabling so that even if an individual enters prison without a disability or mental health diagnosis, she is likely to get one—from the sheer trauma of incarceration in enclosed, tight spaces with poor air quality and circulation; to hard labor with toxic conditions and materials; to circulation of drugs and unsanitary needles as well as the spread of infectious diseases, some of which result from environmental toxins related to the sites on which prisons are built; to lack of medical equipment and medication, or at times overmedication. Add to these factors placements in inhumane conditions, such as solitary confinement (which are especially pervasive for gender-nonconforming, trans, and queer or gay incarcerated people, supposedly for their own protection), and the various impairments that come with aging in prison as a result of prolonged sentencing policies, and the debilitating nature of imprisonment cannot be denied. Trauma is incredibly pervasive in carceral settings, and the trigger and disabling cumulative effects of strip searches (especially on those who experienced sexual violence previously, which is the majority of those held in women’s prisoners) leads feminist abolitionists to understand them as state-sponsored violence against women.”

We are a nation that practices severe institutional violence and concerted disablement as matters of policy.

The ADA @ 30: “Limerick”

I wrote a terrible limerick last night. It was disgusting. Needless to say it can’t be shared. It didn’t have race or women or disabilities in it; just a man with his nether parts. The point is, when you’re disabled you need humor to get by. Yes Lou Reed was right, you need a bus load of faith; but a snarky joke, even when unshared does wonders.

Mel Brooks said something like “tragedy is when I cut my finger; comedy is when you fall in an open sewer and die.” That’s how my private cripple comedy works. The shop owner who refuses to admit me and my guide dog falls into a man hole but in my version he doesn’t die—he lives for all eternity with Richard Nixon who wears Bermuda shorts and black phlebitis compression socks and pushes a beach comber’s metal detector muttering, “Jesus, Spiro, I know it’s here somewhere, we’ve got to find it before Ted Kennedy shows up!”

I’m not talking about disability standup or performativity. This is the inner life; the engine room. Disabled we face micro aggressions; macro; put downs; eye rolling; outright contempt from the abled. Or worse, we get their treacle: the “you’re so inspirational” pity party shit. And if that’s not bad enough, we get the disabled themselves who make a big deal out of running the marathon because after all they’re super cripples. The media buys it every time. Meantime the ordinary disabled are unemployed. Behind every story about the long distance runner with his guide dog are 100 blind people without work.

Down in the stifling engine room of self survivorship it’s always like those submarine movies where pipes are bursting because a depth charge has gone off and gritty sailors are smacking everything in sight with wrenches. This is one of the reasons I love submarine flicks: they’re about the inner lives of the disabled. We get it together under pressure. The other reason I love those movies is because the sailors almost always get revenge.

Years ago I worked at a famous guide dog school. I discovered that one of the most influential members of the board of trustees, a blind man, actually hated the blind and he was loud about it. He called them “mooches and leeches” meaning the clients who received guide dogs free of charge (a necessity since 80 per cent of the blind remain unemployed even today) were just “takers” and therefore were unworthy of respect. The man is dead now. He was briefly famous. He became a federal judge. He absolutely hated the disabled. My engine room was flooded every time he opened his mouth. One day I imagined him tied to a stake in the Roman Coliseum, lions circling. This helped some. But when I pictured him as the emperor Augustus things were funnier. Augustus spoke disparagingly to common men who were dressed in cloaks and ruled that only toga clad men could enter the forum. He said, pointing to the elect: “Behold them, conquerors of the world, the toga-clad race of Romans!”

So I pictured old “mooches and leeches” in hell sporting a toga, waving a white cane and shouting at winged rats.

The cripple comedy engine room is a tough place. The disabled experience a lot of put downs. When they come from another disabled person—one who’s done well in life—it’s just intolerable. Alas there are bullies everywhere.

I tend to consign people to imaginary hells. It’s the oldest literary trick in the book. Every year I reread a little Dante. You can’t read a lot of Dante because then you’re stuck down there.

I like it when the submarine surfaces.

“What” you may ask “does this have to do with the thirtieth anniversary of the ADA?” Plenty. A free people are able to embrace their culture and that means craft. Synonyms of craft include flair, gift, genius, cunning.

When you laugh at oppression you’re no longer the court jester, the funny cripple who pleases the king. You’re tough, shrewd, and you know how to employ your wrench. Another word for this is comfort, as in self acceptance. I’ll close with a quote from comedian Josh Blue who has cerebral palsy: “The thing about my comedy is that I’m so comfortable with my disability that you don’t have a right to be uncomfortable, if I say something that’s hard in my life but put it in a way that maybe you have not thought of, and I’m laughing at it, it gives you the ability to laugh at the same thing within yourself. I feel like every person has a disability in some way. Whether you’re dyslexic or Republican or whatever.”

The ADA @ 30: “Superego Freedom”

My mother was an alcoholic and not a functional one. Her life was marked by drawn curtains, broken fingers, phantom pains and prescription drugs which, mixed with scotch tended to make her psychotic. When I was a college freshman and no longer living at home she stalked my younger sister around the house clutching a knife. My sister took refuge in a locked bathroom and waited it out. By dawn our mother was asleep on the living room floor in a tangle of shoes and bottles. This story is in no way singular—my sister and I are just tiny dots in the ocean of abused children. The story of my adult life has been the relentless pursuit of self-acceptance, forgiveness, emotional intelligence, and compassion. I think forgiveness and compassion are different as forgiveness can be merely political and compassion is more concerned with lovingkindness.

I work with people who don’t necessarily like me. Chances are good you do too. You may be tougher than I. You might not care about the ghosting malevolence of the workplace, the soiled superegos of competitively unhappy souls who turn up in every meeting, warehouse, classroom—or for that matter even in leisure spaces. Me? I tend to care too much about the opinions of others. This is because the long emotional after effects of my upbringing make me prone to a knee jerk impulse to fix things. If people are ugly I think it’s my job to improve them.

That’s of course its own addiction. I’ll solve your problem. Get you another drink so you won’t hit me. Disguise the damage to the best of my ability. I’ll make excuses for you. I’ll imagine your unhappiness is my fault.

Until one day I don’t. One day after attending Al Anon and undergoing some excellent therapy I decided my mother was on her own.

Nowadays I attend to my own esteem though not without set backs. There’s a senior professor at the university where I work who went out of his way to sabotage me behind my back—an ableist, smug, privileged “shyte” as the Irish would say. I don’t think I can forgive him and I certainly can’t imagine offering lovingkindness.

I know this is what I should do.

I’m a lefty Episcopalian.

Then it dawns on me: I can let him go like a pigeon one has restored to health. Out the window he goes with a sparkle of feathers. He soars through tangled clothes lines. I shut the window. Turn up Mozart on the radio.

Lovingkindness is letting the bird who once shat on you find his own way.

What does this have to do with the Americans with Disabilities Act @ 30? This is for all us cripples: your civil rights are not subject to the whims of others. What you think of yourself should never be influenced by the unhappy souls who turn up all around us.

All Used Up

“Well,” said Uncle History, “you can’t go back to the woods,” by which he meant the forest of the imagination. “We’ve been ruined,” he added. Then he got specific: “the Troubadour poets; castle walls, mechanical nightingales…all that la di da!” He meant it too. “The cafes, the wounded-ness songs; paving stones under your feet, walking home from dances.” Then he took a swig of clear liquor and you could see sunlight through his bottle—the label read, “no purpose for a poem, no purpose for words….”