Sunday, December 12, 2010
New rule: If horror zombies really want to scare me, they have to walk faster. I don't even have to run from zombies. I can saunter, amble, stroll, promenade, stop for coffee at Pete's. Zombies, you may be a disgusting, barely ambulatory member of the undead, but so is this guy-[picture of a fat man riding a power chair]-and he can (or can't - impossible to distinguish) catch me.
Open Letter to Mr. Bill Maher,
I'm sure you don't remember me, Mr. Maher, but I have written to you before. I didn't hear back. Surprise. I had written to you regarding your use of the word 'r@tard' in one of your commentaries. At the time I was shocked because I didn't think you were that kind of guy. Turns out, I was wrong. You are 'that guy'. You are who you appear to be. A bigot who loves to take shots at the disabled community.
I'm glad you take delight in the fact that you 'can saunter, amble, stroll, promenade' your way through life. I can't. Nor can many others who have disabilities. I need a mobility devise. I need the world to be slightly adapted to my needs. Yeah, I know, big inconvenience you to you and yours.
As a proud member of TAODBAU The Association Of Disgusting, Barely Ambulatory Undead as you have dubbed me, I'd like to first remind you that you wishing me dead is not the same as me actually being 'undead'. I imagine that you figure that those of us, members of TAODBAU, simply cannot feel. What with being zombie-like and all, it's simply fun to smash us about. Smash us, slash us, stab us, set us on fire - yep, go ahead - it's funny. It may surprise you that I can give you names of people with disabilities that all these things have happened to ... many names actually. Others agree with you, laugh with you ... we can't feel, so crimes against us, crimes of physical violence, crimes of social violence, crimes of verbal violence don't matter much. We can't feel so who the hell cares.
Words hurt, Mr. Maher. Not that you much care. A four year old would know that taking a picture of a fellow human being and then holding it up to ridicule is cruel. I don't believe you will ever read this letter, that if you did you would care about it's content, or that you would ever have the ability to commit to personal change. But I write this anyways.
I write this, to you but not for you. I write this to alert the disability community to who you are, to warn them of your prejudices, to signal others of the presence in our midst of toxic attitudes and corrosive words.
You hurt us, Mr. Maher, purposely and without care.
I may be disgusting. I may be barely ambulatory. But I have the wonderful capacity to be able to give thanks that I sit here, comfortably in my wheelchair rather than where ever you are, in your skin.