A Little Tip of the Hat to Voltaire While Thinking About Ableism

I work at a university which makes me lucky I guess. One wonders how much longer there will be any universities. I also wonder if in the future there will be any jobs for disabled faculty. I’m a rarity–a blind professor.

As a blind professor I’m like a lost glove–it’s been located but no one knows what to do with it. In other words, being disabled in a normative environment is problematic. Moreover the disabled person becomes the problem rather than the situational dynamics of ableism. You know, ableism, the inherent notion that the disabled are a problem.

The way this unfolds in the workplace–at least from my blind perspective–is a threefold process. You ask for an accessible powerpoint presentation “before” the meeting when it will be displayed so you can read it with your screen reading app. This bothers people. It’s inconvenient. Ableism runs on inconvenience just as America runs on Dunkin’ Donuts coffee. There’s delay. When you complain, well, you’re not a team player.

During my nine years at my present university I’ve never gotten a power point in advance of a meeting. Nor have I ever gotten accessible documents, agendas, pdfs in advance of a meeting. Not once. Moreover my near decade of calling this out has earned me the reputation of being, you guessed it, problematic.

Another microagrression that’s familiar to the disabled is the “non-response” –notably not replying to emails or phone calls that the disabled person has made.

Lately I’ve been writing about the fact that there are almost no disabled faculty in higher ed here in the US and that the field of disability studies has very few disabled faculty in its ranks.

These things astonish me.

It is reputed that on his deathbed Voltaire said, “now is not the time to make enemies” when a priest asked him to renounce Satan.

I can get along with anyone. But don’t deny me my agency. Especially if you purport to care about equal rights for all.

Half Aloud

This is when I’m a better man—
My tongue taps so gently
Behind the crooked teeth
Though a syllable escapes
“O” (let’s say) so the wind
Has to listen a crow
Has to turn up high
On his sycamore
A lost dog arrives.
You have to laugh
At the better man:
He’s all spit and furtive sound.
He’s unworkable,
Almost meaningless
Like a barnacle
On the true cross.
“O” he says.

Raise the Roof

I have these blues but I’ve got a roof over my head.
I’ve got a roof.
(If I was sufficiently “academic” I’d sit around “critiquing” my roof. You know, the roof is a westernized colonial entrapment. Shingles are manufactured by “the oppressor” and the only proper material for building a roof is straw. People were better and more magical when they had straw roofs.)
There’s some truth to this roof-oppression theme. Thomas Jefferson’s slaves ran a nail factory. Slaves built Monticello’s roof.
The roof in history is not an innocent topic.
I don’t know who built my roof.
I can easily imagine the roofers were underpaid and didn’t have medical insurance.
I am right to critique the roof.
I have these blues but I’ve got a roof over my head.

**

Someone comes along who you’ve never seen before. When I was a kid we were visited regularly by traveling salesmen. Many of them had disabilities of one sort or another. This was the late fifties in rural New Hampshire. It’s likely they were war veterans. One thinks of the lines from the old song about the “blind fiddler”–“I have a wife and two little ones/depending now on me/awaiting on my fortunes/ whatever they may be/I hope that they’ll be safe and well/as I’m compelled to roam./I am a blind fiddler and far from my home…”

Someone comes along who you’ve never seen before.

**

My mother used to invite the salesmen to come in and have some coffee. She’s listen to their pitches. She never bought anything but she was kind.

“I grew up poor,” she said. “It wasn’t hard to be kind. But I didn’t need a pig bristle brush.”

The blues are everywhere. In the roof, the brush, the sofa springs.

Leadbelly: “I see my coffin comin’ Lordy Lord in my back door…”

In Dutch “roof” can also mean coffin lid.

**

You can of course “raise the roof” with the blues sung loud. The term comes from old southern road houses.

The Ableism Machine in HIgher Ed

Yesterday I wrote on this blog that there are tons of non-disabled faculty teaching in disability related fields in higher education. I don’t have statistics. But I know from my own travels over the course of the past twenty years that the able bodied are largely the owners of the disability studies shops.
Neo-liberalism has lead to faculty freezes and in turn the once projected advent of vigorous Disability Studies programs at American Universities hasn’t happened. Where programs have materialized the majority of faculty are the non-disabled and the cripples aren’t hired.

I’m “on” about this because as G. K. Chesterton once remarked: “A good novel tells us the truth about its hero; but a bad novel tells us the truth about its author.” Where Disability Studies is concerned we may call it a bad novel whose author is ableism mixed with cost cutting.

I should add there are very few disabled faculty teaching across the curriculum.

One may make a useful analogy as prospectus: if Women’s Studies was largely taught by old men; if African-American Studies was taught by old white men; etc.

Now truth be told, I never thought (even twenty years ago) that Dis-Studies would become a big boom. But neither did I think it would become a minor cottage industry within higher ed. Nor did I imagine that by this time we’d have so few disabled faculty in the “ranks” as they like to call it.

I wrote the following over a year ago:

I submit it’s hard to avoid growing bitter. It’s hard to feel the very apparent lack of interest in disability discrimination even from faculty who hail from other marginalized positions. No one wants to imagine disability as being intersectional. Diversity and inclusion generally doesn’t include the cripples. Because this is so, the loneliness of being disabled in the faculty ranks is considerable. Ableism is a machine for isolation and deprivation. When you say, well people of color also have disabilities people look at their watches. The great liberal fiction is that universities are welcoming. All of this came to the surface for me this morning when I read about two black professors at the University of Virginia who were denied tenure. The academy does not welcome bodies of difference and while I’m not a person of color I can say I’ve seen the discriminatory daily routines “up close and personal” and I’m getting pretty close to being worn out.

Not so long ago I was called an “ignoramus” by a fellow faculty member who was snotty to me and my white cane. I know, it’s hard to believe. Of course It is never appropriate to call anyone an ignoramus in an educational setting for the term’s antonym s are “brain “ and “genius” and its synonyms include: airhead, birdbrain, blockhead, bonehead, bubblehead, chowderhead, chucklehead, clodpoll (or clodpole), clot [British], cluck, clunk, cretin, cuddy (or cuddie) [British dialect], deadhead, dim bulb [slang], dimwit, dip, dodo, dolt, donkey, doofus [slang], dope, dork [slang], dullard, dum-dum, dumbbell, dumbhead, dummkopf, dummy, dunce, dunderhead, fathead, gander, golem, goof, goon, half-wit, hammerhead, hardhead, idiot, imbecile, jackass, know-nothing, knucklehead, lamebrain, loggerhead [chiefly dialect], loon, lump, lunkhead, meathead, mome [archaic], moron, mug [chiefly British], mutt, natural, nimrod [slang], nincompoop, ninny, ninnyhammer, nit [chiefly British], nitwit, noddy, noodle, numskull (or numbskull), oaf, pinhead, prat [British], ratbag [chiefly Australian], saphead, schlub (also shlub) [slang], schnook [slang], simpleton, stock, stupe, stupid, thickhead, turkey, woodenhead, yahoo, yo-yo…

As a disabled person I know full well what the delegitimizing effects of language can do to anyone who hails from a historically marginalized background but where disability is concerned the labeling I’ve described has a particularly specious and ugly history. Idiot, moron, half-wit, dolt, cretin are all familiar to the disabled. One would expect relief from these terms at a university. What’s particularly galling is that the subject I was discussing with the professor in question was ableism—namely that I’d said hello to him on an elevator, I, a blind man with a white cane, and he simply stared at me. No acknowledgement. When two students got on the elevator he lit up and talked breezily about how he hates snow. I followed him to his office and said that by not acknowledging a blind person he creates a social dynamic that feels off-putting and I wanted to discuss the matter. He became instantly contemptuous.

Now of course that’s because of the synonyms above. In this man’s antediluvian world view the disabled really shouldn’t be in the academy. Ableism is not only more pervasive than people generally understand its also more consistent at universities than is commonly recognized.

The Day After Disability Day

Today is the day after the international day of the disabled. This is the real day, one with sequestration, fear, insufficient access to jobs and health care, police violence, poor educational opportunities, inaccessible transportation, ableism in the customary business of business.

Yesterday I saw a slew of articles, several of them by non-disabled people talking about the “conditions’ of disablement. They were terrific. But in at least one instance I saw something from a professor who has no track record of actually helping to hire the disabled–the person in question “dines out” on disability as the British would say when someone has a good story to tell and gets invited to high table just to tell it.

In fact, thinking of professors, there are too few disabled faculty in the ranks in higher education. If you look at the scattering of disability studies programs around the United States you won’t see many disabled faculty on staff. That’s because within the Ivory Tower it remains convenient to talk about us but not include us.

This is the day after the day.

Are you a non-disabled person who dines out on disability?

Do you teach about disability but don’t push for the hiring of disabled faculty and staff?

This is the day after the day.

What will you be doing today?

Oh I know the cemetery willow…

Oh I know the cemetery willow
Kind regards friend

**

As a young man
I collected watches

**

The pocket kind
With photos inside

**

Sweet upright strangers
Long dead

**

Willow shakes her hair

**

Willow shakes her hair
The radio comes on as if by magic

**

My step son fears spiders so I wonder what ancient village he comes from

**

Don’t be sentimental
But sing each morning

**

Great grandfather
His wife sobbing behind a tree

He was a wheelwright
He made coffins for children

Rain this morning
I walk among apple trees

I want to kneel down

Disability and the Samaritans….

Once when I was walking in Manhattan with my first guide dog (a big yellow Labrador named “Corky”) a stranger grabbed me while we were crossing Fifth Avenue. No one likes to be seized and blind people especially dislike it. I required no help but there it was—we got to the far side and the man apparently bowed and ran away. “He thought he was saving your life,” said a woman who happened to see the incident.

I’ve thought about this for years. On the one hand it was invasive and frightening. But I realize my silent sentinel was sincere even if he’d no idea about how to engage with blind people.

Sincerity might not be a wholesale excuse but one shouldn’t underestimate good deed doing.

Blind folks dislike unsolicited help—at least generally. If they have guide dogs they certainly don’t want you talking to the dog or petting it. But let’s take blindness out of the situation. Do you like strangers walking up to you and patting your dog without an invitation? Do you like being manhandled? Do you like unsought help from strangers? Of course you don’t.

Back to my earlier point. We shouldn’t underestimate good deed doing.

I’ve come to this because (as we all know) civic life has been eroding. The man or woman who wants to help but doesn’t understand what’s called “disability etiquette” is at least trying to walk in my shoes. Right now Americans in their partisan divides are not imagining the shoes of strangers.

If you’re not familiar with the term disability etiquette it simply means having some common sense when interacting with the disabled. Don’t walk up to a wheelchair user and say “what happened to you?” (I remember vividly a classical composer at a famous arts colony who asked me first thing: “How did you go blind?”) The question is always reductive and irrelevant. That composer didn’t ask me, “what art do you practice?” In his mind I was just my disability.
BTW: I’ve a friend who’s a renowned physician. He’s very tall. Strangers ask him straight off if he played basketball. He hates this.

Don’t do what a college administrator I know once did to a student with a disability. She leaned over the woman’s wheelchair and said loudly: “Oh we’re sooooo glad you’re here with us!”

Don’t yell at disabled people. We’ve had plenty of this in our lives.

When a disabled person says something is inaccessible don’t label them a malcontent.

I’m just like you except I can’t see. She’s just like you but she is a wheelchair user. Note: stop saying “confined” to a wheelchair, for the love of God!

Stop acting so damned superior because “today” you appear to be “normal.” Get over your fealty to a narrow way of living. I promise you it won’t end well.

Quit acting so put out because you have a disabled student in your classroom.

Talk to me and not the apparently non-disabled person next to me.

Please keep your hands off me.

Oh, and for the love of God, stop referring to us as sufferers.

And for good measure: quit trying to take our limited health care away.

Memoir on a Thumbnail

Upriver

It was Herakleitos put string in my wrist
(What a trickster)
Bozo the clown
Sent me a love note
In 1963

**

In the Woods 1960

For the merchant god
Knew me
As I bartered soul
For shy, unexpected
Living things
To come my way

**

Accidie

The old men and women of the universities grow tendrils and the students don’t see

**

Naval History

Dead men in a rowboat
Take away the corpses
Dead men in a rowboat

**

Monument

Patroclus I think was eulegized
In bronze
Because his dignity didn’t survive
To the age of gold

**

Local News

“To play a wrong note is insignificant; to play without passion is inexcusable!”

—Beethoven

Meanwhile, in Syracuse, NY, pianos are being offered free of charge to anyone who will haul them away

Inventions for our political moment…

Inventions for our political moment:

  1. “The Trump Pump”–just like dynamite in the out house it blows shit everywhere. Lots of noise. Gentle folk become confused. There’s a toilet seat up in a tree.
  2. The “Spox Box”–picture a tiny rectangular lava lamp with Rachel Maddow or that tight whitey from Fox inside. Bubbles going up and down.
  3. “Live Free or Die, Right Now”–a New Hampshire inspired crowdsourcing game. You show up waving two boiled lobster claws, wearing no mask, with an automatic rifle strapped to your back. You get COVID and die in a substandard hospital in Portsmouth.
  4. The Hangdog White Apology mask for old liberals: sounds eerily like post-war Nazis–“I swear we didn’t know what was really going on.”
  5. The “Bezos Box”–straight from Amazon to your door. Looks like a coffee table but you can use it as a casket.

Autumn Mirror

After summer came and went and some were ill
And some were in love—many traveled—
The world was unsafe or generous
I wept as men do
Choking in my white room
As the spread out
Abstract gas of war
Suffused every inch of me
So that my obedient hands
Become war hands
My neck a battle neck
My tongue dipped
To atrocities
Like a bee ignorant
Of its flower
Unable to distinguish
Where it’s been or what lies ahead
Do you see, it said, my tongue
How the body, even in repose,
Even with this poetry
Is just a war lord’s gavel?