The Chapman Family and Some Thoughts on Our Conditions

I woke in the small hours of the morning and felt the blue planet working in the first light. Felt my heart beating with its Zen obedience. Felt sand in my eyes. Thought about the moment in Huckleberry Finn where Jim tells Huck about what its like to be ridden by a witch all night like a horse. It was 4 a.m..

I turned on my computer and went to the blog of William Peace, one of our best disability rights bloggers in my humble opinion. Over at Bad Cripple I read before dawn about the plight of the Paul and Barbara-Anne Chapman family. Bill Peace has written about their experience of discrimination at the hands of Canadian immigration authorities and I urge you to read what he has to say.

Briefly: the Chapman family has twice been denied entry into Canada because they have a disabled child.

Remember that it was before dawn when I read about this matter. I recall that I was looking for something like confirmation. That is, I’d hoped that by reading Bill’s blog I might find some pre-sunrise lift. And that’s exactly what I found though not in the way I’d imagined.

People with disabilities are routinely denied rights of access; rights of inclusion to be more precise about the matter.

Just last evening I was talking with a friend who knows a doctor who is trying to build an eye clinic in Tanzania because (as I currently understand the matter) women with cataracts are perceived by some to be "possessed" or to be witches as it were, and apparently, so I’m told, its considered to be an appropriate measure to murder these blind women.

I sat at my computer in the pre-dawn roseate light and I found myself grieving for the human race.

Yes, like a Jim in Twain’s novel, we are ridden by the forces of enslavement. Oh I do not say this lightly.

Canada’s argument for keeping the Chapman’s out of the country is that their daughter might well require medical and social resources.

If you parse that argument to its core, what it means is that they don’t accept the Chapman’s daughter who has a disabling condition to be eligible for citizenship.

Ergo: she is the equivalent of the enslaved person who is at best a kind of property.

The "broken body" lacks true economic utility. It should be kept in a warehouse.

I’m sure that Canadian immigration officials would recognize Adolf Hitler’s assertion that the disabled are just "useless eaters."

I was fully awake after reading Blind Cripple. By God I was talking to myself before the sun was up.

S.K.

Your Blind Reporter

Once, in

London

I found myself at Westminster Abbey and standing by the gates as the Queen was going in.

As I walked through the crowd people stepped out of my way because of my white cane—and so of course I kept walking toward the sound of bells.

Here is the truth of the matter: the queen of

England

has flat feet. I heard how she walks.

The bells of the abbey and the stubborn feet of royalty make a strange syncopation I tell you.

The queen’s feet were like wet bread and the bells made a music of stars laughing because stars over London can laugh sometimes.

S.K.

Hanging with Dignity

Alright, I’m in the woods and my "dial-up" connection is tenuous at best. "What," you might ask, "Have I been doing?" In the spirit of full disclosure I have been kissing my rock and working on an odd little book for the AARP–a "how to have fun" kind of book that is designed to promote the art of conversation. Asking me to write a book about conversation is a silly thing since I’m able to talk to a pine stump with mutualism intact. I am sufficiently self-delusional enough to believe the stump is correspondingly gratified. One lives by the myths that get the job done. Last night I talked to a water spider down on the dock. He was about the size of a hockey puck and he had variegated and complex gray hairs. How do I know that? Oh don’t ask.

Just FYI the water spider doesn’t believe that the movie "Tropic Thunder" is worth two flies since it demeans consciousness in all its forms. My spider also said that he once went on a vacation with Robert Downey Jr. and although he’s sworn to secrecy about the matter he can report that Mr. Downey can really hang from a web. Oh don’t ask.

I don’t like the pejoratibve use of the "r" word any more than I like the ugly employment of other slurs and I freely admit that in a free society one must be allowed to create drivel since this is the admission price for free expression. See Plato. But I don’t have to like it. And in case anybody wonders if I’ve changed my tune over the years all I can say is that when I was a college sophomore and first saw Mel Brooks’ "Blazing Saddles" I was pretty darned uncomfortable with his use of the "n" word throughout that flick–even as I understood that satirical comedy aims to make a democratic hash out of every form of imbecility.

I don’t like the "n" word and I don’t like the "r" word though I will defend the right of imbeciles to say what they want. The larger trouble is that Hollywood has such a miserable track record when it comes to depicting people with disabilities and so the further imposition of demeaning language into an already impoverished cultural misapprehension of cognitive disabilities is unfortunate.

If you protest Dreamworks use of the "r" word you will look thin skinned and humorless. If you don’t protest it you are in essence lying down under a heavy blanket of cultural abjection–a matter made all the worse by the erosion nation wide of public school programs for kids with learning disabilities.

So while I have a spider to talk to, and a rock, and even a beloved yellow Labrador for Heaven’s sake, I’m not a "happy camper" when I think of Mr. Downey Jr. or the pettifogging cold blooded roaylty at Dreamworks.

I say this as a person who in public school was freely called "retarded" because I couldn’t see.

Once, about twenty five years ago, and for no obvious reason, I was invited to dinner with a famous Irish classical musician. We somehow got onto the topic of "the Kennedys" and this world renowned performer said that he’d once shaken the hand of one of the Kennedy brothers–though I don’t remember now which one–and he said that he felt a "large, soft, pillow-y hand that had never pulled a potato!"

Well that’s esentially what I think of Robert Downey Jr. Save that I’m thinking of his head. There’s a head that’s never been troubled by Donizetti’s "Requiem" or Boolian algebra, or much else that stands beyond the vodka shelf over at aisle B.

As for Dreamworks, am I the only one who thinks their pixelated dopey cloying sub-Cartesian two dimensional cartoon allegories for grownups are the epitaphs for critical thinking? Okay. I do sound like Neil Postman. Yes. And I never liked Disney either. I do however like Kate Smith. I love it when she sings "the oceans flecked with foam" and I guess I better stop there.

S.K.

Down Syndrome Association of Los Angeles Update

Tropic Thunder: What you can do now.
August 12, 2008

Dear Family and Friends of the DSALA:

There has been a tremendous outpour of support for the DSALA’s efforts in regards to concerns over the DreamWorks film "Tropic Thunder" and the affects the language in the film will have now, and in the future, on individuals with Down syndrome and other intellectual and developmental disabilities.

Twenty DSALA members joined a group of 200 in a protest Monday night inWestwood, CA across the street from the Gala Premiere of the film.  We were joined by Special Olympics, The Arc, TASH and more.
·    Thank you to all who came out.
·    Thank you for the volunteer support in our office during this time.

Many of you who were not able to attend the protest or assist in the office have asked what else you can do.  Here you go!

Go to a new website set up by Special Olympics and sign up on their site to pledge your support to eliminate the demeaning use of the "r-word."  The more who sign up the better, this site will assist us in putting pressure on decision makers in the media and elsewhere.  Please forward to all you friends and family and have them support the cause as well.

Take advantage of The Arc website addressing "Tropic Thunder."  You can catch up on all the articles and download their chapter "Action Kit" if you are planning a protest event of your own.  You can also check their list of upcoming protests to join.  Their calendar is being updated by the minute so keep checking back.

LINKS:

Disability News: Boycott Expected,    Roundup of "Tropic Thunder" media protest coveredGroups Weigh Boycott of "Tropic Thunder"

       
    

Rock Kissing and Other Stories

I am, among other things, a pagan-Episcopalian which means I’m really Lutheran and of Finnish heritage–so I like my religious life to be polite and yet, in secret I have these rituals that I can’t disclose in general company but heck, this is a blog and hardly anyone reads it anyway so here goes:

Every year I return to a lake in New Hampshire and kiss a certain rock that lives under water. I swear there’s nothing lurid about this. The rock and I are composed of the same things and we are stolid in our affection for this lake, this sky, planet, universe–and my rock and I find each other though I can’t really see because my skin and bones know how to find the place.

& I dive down and kiss the rock, my legs kicking madly to hold me at depth.

The lake is nowadays being "taken over" by the wealthy. My little cabin is a hold out among the neuveau trophy lodges of the Marriottsand the Romneys and the like.

"Well," I tell myself, "MItt Romney doesn’t have a rock like this. My rock speaks old Finnish and knows the sorcerer poet Vainamoinen personally."

There are, after all, other kinds of wealth.

Hei, Kivi! Sinut poika tulee!

(Hey Rock! Your boy is coming!)

S.K.

Thinking of Atticus Finch

Samuel Taylor Coleridge wrote that: "many a man, who has contrived to hide his ruling passion or predominant defect from himself, will betray the same to dispassionate observers, bu his proneness on all occasions to suspect or accuse

others of it. …"

Lately the air waves in America have been echoing Senator McCain’s assertion that Senator Obama has injected race into the presidential campaign. Enter Coleridge: you don’t have to look too deeply at McCain’s protestations to see a latent and pejorative utilization of racial figuration. The image of Paris Hilton and Britney Spears, two young white women, presaging the appearance of a larger than life black man is a carefully constructed semiotic reenforcement of old fashioned white fear. Has anyone forgotten Harper Lee’s novel To Kill a Mockingbird for god’s sake?

By pretending that the Hilton-Spears ad is just a simple "celebrity" alarm about Obama the McCain campaign can divert attention from the haunting and racially motivated visual symbolism in their phony commercial.

I hope that Senator Obama can survive this ugly Karl Rove sponsored attack and that the American people will listen to what he has to say with keen attention.

But in a nation where some 40 million people can’t read I imagine that visual literacy—the ability to analyze imagery—is even less in evidence. Karl Rove and company know this full well.

Obama’s best strategy is to use his warmth and his sense of humor whenever possible. Ronald Reagan and JFK were witty in the face of adversarial attacks.

No one will sensibly suggest that John McCain is witty.

S.K.

Angel Revised in Workshop

"I think her wings should come off," says a student, and so her wings come off. They fall like dirty bandages. "There’s something about the light in her eyes, it doesn’t seem earned," (the voice, impatient, feminine, too quick for "jaded".) Immediately her eyes, Byzantine almonds—they are wiped away, replaced by the eyes of a soldier. "All this self-awareness in the features, it makes me queasy," says a boy (who swears he has instincts—it’s in his nature to know when a face is two-faced…) "So what happens next?" (Another boy, the one with the serial killer trading cards) says (after a semester of silence): "I mean the afterlife, nothing happens, there’s no smell of blood or whiskey." He says it, and although no one knows what he means everyone agrees the halo has to go."Now she looks like one of Brancusi’s eggs," the last student says. "She’s perfect, featureless, and derivative."

S.K.

The Perils of Reading E-Mail

I was imagining what it would be like to have entirely new teeth because I received an e-mail from the local dental school announcing free dentistry if you’re willing to let dental students work on you. I have crooked teeth because when I was 11 or 12 years old I pitched a fit and refused to return to the orthodontist who was essentially preparing me for braces. I suffered from excruciating headaches owing to my blindness and nervous tension and my mother, sensing that I was already feeling overwhelmed by life decided that I should have my wish and live with crooked teeth.

So I was pondering what it would be like to have a Hollywood, big league American smile and then I started to think about all the other middle aged miseries: the tennis elbow; the gravitational effects of aging flesh; flat feet; creeping double chin; hammer toes; cholesterol; evident hearing loss; political cynicism; nostalgia for nickel candy—I was suddenly awash in the physical and psychological spindrift of middle age and there wasn’t any Diet Coke in the refrigerator.

I was right to choose crooked teeth. I will not invest a dime in the Normalcy Industrial Complex.

Man, am I glad I got that out of the way.

It’s good to be restored to a semblance of sanity. I think that instead of getting my teeth fixed I will go inside a stone like the poet Charles Simic. I will admire the Brailled star charts on the stone’s inner walls.

S.K.

Eggs for Ted Berrigan

Who once in Iowa City

Told my friend Marvin

That taken

Together

As poets

They

Were

"Steak and eggs"

& then Ted

Sd

Marvin

Was "the steak"

Which was

Fair enough

I too

Want to be

An egg poet—

Once

In upstate

New York

I saw

The composer

Aaron Copeland

Eating

Steak and eggs

In a diner

& nowadays

Who

Would know

That old man

Eating alone

Just off

Route 20

& who drops

Ted’s poems

In bus stations?

I’m still

Leaving the eggs…

S.K.

Clouds Over the Shopping Mall

Have you forgotten the reason you came?

Are you lost like the prodigal son?

Do you tell fortunes there

Above the sad automobiles

& the single mothers

who are walking in a loneliness

Too steep for bare nature?

How I wish I could be like you:

Imperial, slow, half alive

Like the priests of empire,

Talking to yourselves only

In the language

Of minerals

& the unborn.

Let commerce

Appeal to the poor!

Let them

With their broken carts

Believe in magic!

Yes! You! Bombard!

I’m talking to you!

S.K.