Disability Pride

It's Disability Pride Month. What’s that?

In honor of the passage of the Americans with Disabilities Act (ADA) in July of 1990, Disability Pride Month is celebrated each July to highlight disabled ways of being, knowing, and thriving in the past, present, and future. Disability Pride Month serves as an opportunity for organizations to celebrate disability culture, draw attention to the expertise and lived experience of disabled individuals, raise awareness around ableism – intentional or unintentional discrimination or prejudice against disabled people - and engage non-disabled individuals in thoughtful and meaningful dialogue around disability and ableism. (source)

Also, disability pride is about promoting and fostering allyship, accepting and honoring each individual’s uniqueness—seeing us for the beautiful motherfuckers that we are.

I’m finally admitting it—I’m disabled.

Why has it taken me so long to acknowledge this pretty damn obvious fact? I mean, normally I’m reasonably self aware, (tending to fall into the too self-critical end of the pool though). I don’t normally shy away from staring uncomfortable and/or painful realities in the face (ignoring them, sadly, does NOT make them go away. For that matter, looking the other way is Problem Miracle Grow). Troubles and botheration are challenges and puzzles to be met, mitigated and, if possible, solved.

Partly, my reluctance to claim the disabled label is that, for the longest time I was simply hard of hearing and then deaf. People who are deaf are NOT automatically disabled—not by a long shot. Remember my Big D, Little d post from a thousand (okay, 11) years ago?

…just because a person is deaf (audiologically speaking), does not automatically make her Deaf (culturally speaking). A capital “D” is used to indicate that a person is part of the Deaf community and has grown up in that culture. It tells people that you’re fine with and happy to be audiologically deaf and you are also involved in the Deaf Community. (source)

I’m deaf, not Deaf. Not only did I not grow up in a Deaf community, I was raised with music being an integral part of my existence. Conversations (specifically with my father) were creative, free-form, organic compositions—like poetry slams but over the dinner table or during a long car ride to Whereverville. Daddy was a teacher—a college math prof. Teaching is/can be a form of performance art. Yes, this can be done in any language—in American Sign Language or spoken English, Tagalog, Sicilian, etc. In our house it was spoken word with hearing.

The point here—one of the ingredients in my disabled stew is that I’m deaf. Two of my ASL instructors were Deaf. They are not disabled.

Added into the disability pot, over the last six years, are all my nasty-ass surgeries and their aftereffects. I’ve lost a lot of my ability to balance. My ability to walk without tipping over like a haphazardly stacked tower of paperbacks has been wickedly compromised. I’m a vestibular shitshow. That and I have facial nerve damage (damn brain surgeries) which fuck with my vision and mouth functions.

So yeah, I’m disabled.

Face the facts of being what you are, for that is what changes what you are.
~ Søren Kierkegaard

I’d like to create more awareness about simple ways to communicate with me, a late deafened, not ASL fluent adult. Also, have a fall-risk friend like me? Do they need assistance navigating? How can you best help?

It’s mondo important to know, to thoroughly grok, that each disabled person has a unique set of challenges. You may/probably have never encountered someone with my laundry list of challenges before—I’m all individually peculiar and shit. Your lack of familiarity with the hurdles I face is totally understandable.

Two things:

Before fast reacting to the chance that I might stumble and fall, ASK me in what way you might be able to assist in preventing disaster. Nine times out of ten I’m gonna tell you not to crowd me. Do NOT hold onto me. That’s only going to throw me off. I’m having to work hard (and every second) against your touch (no matter how light you think you think your hand on my hip/waist is) in order to re-find my balance point and stay upright. Spot me like a gymnast—be nearby, have your hands out to catch me or break my fall. Unless I'm actively struggling though, HANDS OFF.


In communication—do NOT assume that I can read your lips. MAYBE I can catch a word here and there but, odds are (especially if I don’t speak with you every day IN PERSON) I won’t. Always remember that my ability to read your lips is NOT your ticket out of communication challenge hell. At best (IF you supplement with some ASL and writing shit down) I MAY get the drift of what you’re saying.

Instead, open up a text doc on your telefonino, turn on the mic and speak slowly and clearly into the damn tiny phone. Show me the text. Eight more handy dandy communicating with your deafie tips here.

Final thoughts on me and my disability stew—this month isn’t the Adversity Olympics. Disability Pride Month isn’t a poor, pitiful, pathetic me competition. It’s largely, to my mind, about spreading awareness. It's about not being invisible and ignored anymore.  

*** What do the colors and shapes on the Disability Pride flag mean?

• The Black Field: Mourning for those who’ve suffered and died from Ableist violence, and also rebellion.

• The Zigzag Band: How disabled people must move around and past barriers, and our creativity in doing so.

• The Five Colors: the variety of Disability, our needs and experiences (Mental Illness, Neurodiversity, Invisible and Undiagnosed Disabilities, Physical Disability, and Sensory Disabilities).

• The Parallel Stripes: Solidarity within the Disability Community, despite our differences.