The new issue of Service, Support and Success: the direct care professional newsletter has been sent out via email. We do not have a mailing list programme so it's pretty antiquated. If you did not get it, even if you've subscribed before, let me know at dhingsburger@vitacls.org and I'll try again. The official mailing on the Ontario mailing lists will be done tomorrow. Colleen, a frequent comment maker here on Rolling Around in My Head is the author of this months issue. Congratulations to her!
Today's post follows.
Tomorrow's is yet to post.
Sunday, September 30, 2012
A Teacher Teaches
I received an email yesterday and waited til this morning hoping for permission. It's from a teacher who was responding to my blog post a few days ago about the behaviour of the students and the teacher in the gallery that Joe and I were visiting. The letter has only been edited in so far as identifying information has been taken out. I am not going to comment at the end, I'm just going to reprint the letter. I was moved and excited by what this teacher did. Let me know what you think of her response to Both and Either
Dear Mr. Hingsburger,
I read your blog quite regularly and enjoy the opportunity it give me to be challenged. I found Rolling Around In My Head when a parent of one of the special needs kids in my classroom suggested I read it. At the time I think she was a much bigger fan of yours than mine! Your blog Both and Either about the inaction of the teachers in the gallery at the behavior of their students struck me pretty hard. After thinking about it for awhile and after finding the Creative Commons agreement on the sidebar of your blog, I decided I wanted to use that particular piece as an discussion exercise in my classroom.
I ran out the blog and made it look like a quiz with your article on the top and then several questions on the bottom. The questions were: Do you think that staring at someone or laughing at someone is bullying? Why do you think these students left the tour to stare that this man? The man says that these students terrorized him, do you think what the students did deserves to be categorized as a form of social terrorism? What should the teachers have done, if anything?
Usually these kinds of discussion in my classroom are tepid at best. All my students are just in their early teen years and struggle mostly to be coolly indifferent to their world. Well, this one caught their attention. I want to tell you what happened. I'm sorry that this letter is so long.
Many of the students were really outraged at the term terrorism and suggested what happened wasn't even bullying. The man in the story wasn't hit or struck in any way. I discovered that they all had a very narrow definition about bullying. I realized that some of the anger that was being expressed came because if they accepted your terms, they would have to redefine themselves as bullies. Beyond that the word "terrorist" here in the United States is a strong word and they were furious that it was used towards a student. In a way they were suggesting that you were a bully for using that word!
What I noticed though, and you are right I must admit to being willfully blind to what goes on in front of me, was that the unpopular kids were silent during this discussion. They looked actually frightened. I had noticed that most of them spend a lot of time trying not to be seen or noticed by the more popular students and they seemed afraid that the kids would take their anger at you for writing this and then turn it on them.
I have two special needs students in my classroom both who were paying a lot of attention to the discussion. They didn't contribute to the discussion but they were in their own way quite involved. When we got near the end talking about what should have been done. One of my students, who had Down Syndrome, put her hand up. I was pleased because the discussion had involved only those kids who would have done the kinds of things that were described in your article. The other kids, less popular or more different, had listened but not said anything. The room was silent went I called on her for her opinion.
"They should have done it and the teacher should have stopped it," her answer was short and to the point. One of the students most active in the discussion challenged her saying, "They just stared at him, what's the big deal." Before I could say anything, the response came, "It is a big deal and you know it. I get stared at all the time. It hurts."
The discussion changed it's tone and now more kids joined in. At one point I just sat back and let what was happening happen. It has been a long time since I felt the power of being a teacher. I believe that what happened will change my students. Some for a short while, but some for the rest of their lives.
I wanted you to know that I thought what you wrote was brave. I also wanted you to know that you moved me to action. Thank you so much for the courage you show in telling the truth. I am a better more informed teacher. I am going to take what I did to our next staff meeting and do the same exercise with the teachers as with the students. I'll let you know what happens.
Dear Mr. Hingsburger,
I read your blog quite regularly and enjoy the opportunity it give me to be challenged. I found Rolling Around In My Head when a parent of one of the special needs kids in my classroom suggested I read it. At the time I think she was a much bigger fan of yours than mine! Your blog Both and Either about the inaction of the teachers in the gallery at the behavior of their students struck me pretty hard. After thinking about it for awhile and after finding the Creative Commons agreement on the sidebar of your blog, I decided I wanted to use that particular piece as an discussion exercise in my classroom.
I ran out the blog and made it look like a quiz with your article on the top and then several questions on the bottom. The questions were: Do you think that staring at someone or laughing at someone is bullying? Why do you think these students left the tour to stare that this man? The man says that these students terrorized him, do you think what the students did deserves to be categorized as a form of social terrorism? What should the teachers have done, if anything?
Usually these kinds of discussion in my classroom are tepid at best. All my students are just in their early teen years and struggle mostly to be coolly indifferent to their world. Well, this one caught their attention. I want to tell you what happened. I'm sorry that this letter is so long.
Many of the students were really outraged at the term terrorism and suggested what happened wasn't even bullying. The man in the story wasn't hit or struck in any way. I discovered that they all had a very narrow definition about bullying. I realized that some of the anger that was being expressed came because if they accepted your terms, they would have to redefine themselves as bullies. Beyond that the word "terrorist" here in the United States is a strong word and they were furious that it was used towards a student. In a way they were suggesting that you were a bully for using that word!
What I noticed though, and you are right I must admit to being willfully blind to what goes on in front of me, was that the unpopular kids were silent during this discussion. They looked actually frightened. I had noticed that most of them spend a lot of time trying not to be seen or noticed by the more popular students and they seemed afraid that the kids would take their anger at you for writing this and then turn it on them.
I have two special needs students in my classroom both who were paying a lot of attention to the discussion. They didn't contribute to the discussion but they were in their own way quite involved. When we got near the end talking about what should have been done. One of my students, who had Down Syndrome, put her hand up. I was pleased because the discussion had involved only those kids who would have done the kinds of things that were described in your article. The other kids, less popular or more different, had listened but not said anything. The room was silent went I called on her for her opinion.
"They should have done it and the teacher should have stopped it," her answer was short and to the point. One of the students most active in the discussion challenged her saying, "They just stared at him, what's the big deal." Before I could say anything, the response came, "It is a big deal and you know it. I get stared at all the time. It hurts."
The discussion changed it's tone and now more kids joined in. At one point I just sat back and let what was happening happen. It has been a long time since I felt the power of being a teacher. I believe that what happened will change my students. Some for a short while, but some for the rest of their lives.
I wanted you to know that I thought what you wrote was brave. I also wanted you to know that you moved me to action. Thank you so much for the courage you show in telling the truth. I am a better more informed teacher. I am going to take what I did to our next staff meeting and do the same exercise with the teachers as with the students. I'll let you know what happens.
Saturday, September 29, 2012
Simply Floored
We sat in the car for almost ten hours, crossing state border after state border. We had an audio book which kept us entertained and distracted for a fair bit of time. I had several work calls and even more emails, all of which kept me busy for a good portion of the time. But, being read a book and being called on for work aside, ten hours is still a very long drive.
We are staying for the weekend at a hotel directly across from a Whole Foods Market with a wonderful buffet of vegetarian items. It was raining, just slightly, when we pulled in so we braved it and rushed into the store. First stop, as would be obvious, was the washroom. Then, oh and then ...
THE FLOOR!!!
It was a floor that deserved ... I don't know ... poetry.
It was a floor that deserved ... I don't know ... flowers and candy.
It was a floor that deserved ... I don't know ... L<3ve ve--="ve--">
I never understood floors, until I became a wheelchair user. I didn't notice the plush of a carpet, the difference between tile and wood, painted or bare concrete. I do now. Some floors are just made to roll on. Some floors seem to make me stronger, make my push firmer, allow my turns to pivot professionally. Some floors are made for wheelchairs.
This was one of those floors.
We went from one side of the store to another. We went from produce, to dairy, to kitchenwares, to grocery, to the frozen aisle. Everywhere I turned, I turned with ease. The floor invited me to explore.
After hours of sitting, driving, listening, answering emails, I got a floor completely worth the trip. Sometimes having a disability means experiencing things that others simply don't notice ...
... like floors that deserve ... I don't know ... a blog post.
We are staying for the weekend at a hotel directly across from a Whole Foods Market with a wonderful buffet of vegetarian items. It was raining, just slightly, when we pulled in so we braved it and rushed into the store. First stop, as would be obvious, was the washroom. Then, oh and then ...
THE FLOOR!!!
It was a floor that deserved ... I don't know ... poetry.
It was a floor that deserved ... I don't know ... flowers and candy.
It was a floor that deserved ... I don't know ... L<3ve ve--="ve--">
I never understood floors, until I became a wheelchair user. I didn't notice the plush of a carpet, the difference between tile and wood, painted or bare concrete. I do now. Some floors are just made to roll on. Some floors seem to make me stronger, make my push firmer, allow my turns to pivot professionally. Some floors are made for wheelchairs.
This was one of those floors.
We went from one side of the store to another. We went from produce, to dairy, to kitchenwares, to grocery, to the frozen aisle. Everywhere I turned, I turned with ease. The floor invited me to explore.
After hours of sitting, driving, listening, answering emails, I got a floor completely worth the trip. Sometimes having a disability means experiencing things that others simply don't notice ...
... like floors that deserve ... I don't know ... a blog post.
Friday, September 28, 2012
Seriously? SERIOUSLY!!
They didn't realize their window was down!
Joe and I had parked in the disabled parking spot at a big grocery store. We were about to check into the hotel and wanted to pick up some pop, some beer, and some other sundry things for the room. We were lucky because there were four blue badge spots, clustered together, two on each side, at the end of a row right near the front door of the store. All were taken except for the one directly in front of us, we could drive in. We parked.
Joe pulled the chair out of the back seat, I affixed the footrests, and while Joe was arranging things in the back seat I called to him, "You want me to come round behind the car or go ahead between these two cars here." He looked and saw that there was plenty of space between the cars in front of us and going between them was an easier and shorter trip to the store, "Go on ahead," he called.
I did.
I rolled up between the two cars and then noticed that it was a fair rise on the turn towards the store, I would need Joe's help to hold me so I didn't roll back. I decided to stop and wait. I didn't realize that there were people in the car beside me on my right. I just thought it was parked and the people would have been in shopping. Movement caught my eye though, so I glanced over.
There were two people in the car, both much younger than I, they were sitting motionless, staring straight ahead. "Don't look, don't look, don't look," whispered one, "Maybe he won't see us."
I was confused about who they were talking about. I noticed then someone coming out of the store, running towards that car. I then noticed that there was no blue badge anywhere to be seen.
The other fellow got in, the driver said, "Don't look over, he might not see us."
I thought this all outrageously funny and must have sat there grinning. I said, "I can hear you."
"Shit, the window's down!"
Without looking over, the window slowly rolled up, then the car started and drove away.
You can't make this shit up.
Joe and I had parked in the disabled parking spot at a big grocery store. We were about to check into the hotel and wanted to pick up some pop, some beer, and some other sundry things for the room. We were lucky because there were four blue badge spots, clustered together, two on each side, at the end of a row right near the front door of the store. All were taken except for the one directly in front of us, we could drive in. We parked.
Joe pulled the chair out of the back seat, I affixed the footrests, and while Joe was arranging things in the back seat I called to him, "You want me to come round behind the car or go ahead between these two cars here." He looked and saw that there was plenty of space between the cars in front of us and going between them was an easier and shorter trip to the store, "Go on ahead," he called.
I did.
I rolled up between the two cars and then noticed that it was a fair rise on the turn towards the store, I would need Joe's help to hold me so I didn't roll back. I decided to stop and wait. I didn't realize that there were people in the car beside me on my right. I just thought it was parked and the people would have been in shopping. Movement caught my eye though, so I glanced over.
There were two people in the car, both much younger than I, they were sitting motionless, staring straight ahead. "Don't look, don't look, don't look," whispered one, "Maybe he won't see us."
I was confused about who they were talking about. I noticed then someone coming out of the store, running towards that car. I then noticed that there was no blue badge anywhere to be seen.
The other fellow got in, the driver said, "Don't look over, he might not see us."
I thought this all outrageously funny and must have sat there grinning. I said, "I can hear you."
"Shit, the window's down!"
Without looking over, the window slowly rolled up, then the car started and drove away.
You can't make this shit up.
Thursday, September 27, 2012
Falling Into A Fresh Start
Fall is my favourite time of the year. So it was awesome to drive west from Toronto and then continue into the wilds of Michigan. The colour is just coming into the trees and Joe and I pointed out first this tree, then that burst of colour. It's early in the fall, trees sometimes are just beginning to blush at the realisation that they will soon stand stark naked for all the world to see. I love too the scent of fall. It's different than any time of the year.
Fall is the season of new beginnings. New notebooks, empty with promise, new pens - unchewed - wait to rush words over the page. For me the idea of new year is more powerfully felt in September than at any other time of the month. This, in my heart, is the yearly fresh start.
I remember being in my wheelchair that first year. Long before got the power wheelchair, Joe and I were cautious about how far we could go, with me as first gear and him as second gear, in the manual chair. As we drove through on our trip yesterday, I saw the colours and remembered us getting out of the car and in an instant our 'inner children' burst forth and Joe pushed me pell mell through a big pile of leaves. We stopped with Joe panting from the run with leaves scattered and floating down on just, gently thanking us for one more ride.
I think that moment might have been the moment where I saw not only fall, but my use of the wheelchair as simply another fresh start.
Fall is the season of new beginnings. New notebooks, empty with promise, new pens - unchewed - wait to rush words over the page. For me the idea of new year is more powerfully felt in September than at any other time of the month. This, in my heart, is the yearly fresh start.
I remember being in my wheelchair that first year. Long before got the power wheelchair, Joe and I were cautious about how far we could go, with me as first gear and him as second gear, in the manual chair. As we drove through on our trip yesterday, I saw the colours and remembered us getting out of the car and in an instant our 'inner children' burst forth and Joe pushed me pell mell through a big pile of leaves. We stopped with Joe panting from the run with leaves scattered and floating down on just, gently thanking us for one more ride.
I think that moment might have been the moment where I saw not only fall, but my use of the wheelchair as simply another fresh start.
Wednesday, September 26, 2012
Both and Either
I know both who I am and who I appear to be. I know that I am a person of worth and value - as I know all people to be people of worth and value. I know, too, that I am a person often seen as being of little worth and no value because of my weight and my disability - both and either. I attract attention. Every time I go out I know I will face either social intrusion or social violence. From staring and gawking to pointing, laughing and name calling, I experience them as a daily phenomenon. Daily. I'm not sure that those who fit in ever really understand or believe the constant experience of social discrimination of those of us who do not.
Recently I went to a gallery, Joe and I both regularly trek off to these kind of public spaces. We like the experience that looking at art gives - it's such an intimate connection between viewer and artist. It may be the function of art and literature to make it possible to see what someone else sees, or feel what someone else feels, enter into a moment experienced by another. In an odd kind of way its a bit of sacred communing. But being in a public space of any kind comes with certain dangers. This day we were at the gallery when it was being toured by several classes of students, maybe Grade 4 or 5. They came through, in small groups, accompanied by their teachers.
I tense up when around large groups of children. I immediately lose any sense of safety. The world's most incredible painting, the world's rarest artifact, the world's most unique thing cannot draw children in as much as the opportunity they then have to mock and make fun of me, my weight, my wheelchair, my very being. So, Joe and I experienced looking at a painting while small groups of children broke away from their group and came to terrorize me.
I use the word 'terrorize' carefully.
It may be seen by some, anyone who hasn't had the experience particularly, to be too strong of a word. It is not. Sitting looking at a painting while three girls stand barely four feet away, covering their mouths and laughing while their eyes, sparkling bright in the light, roam over every inch of my difference is a kind of intrusion that so difficult to bear that I begin to breathe like one in deep pain. Having two boys stand and puff out their cheeks and ape what they think being fat looks like might strike some as funny. It isn't.
It was hard to see the pictures.
It was hard to experience the connection.
But I'm not writing about the children here. They are, after all, children. I do not excuse them their behaviour because of that - they know what they are doing and they know that it is wrong. What they may lack, though, it that thing that governs behaviour. That is, after all, why we have teachers, and chaperones, and minders. What disturbed me was that in this public space these children engaged in very public acts of social violence against another person and not one teacher, not one, intervened. It would have been impossible for the teachers not to see what was happening. Impossible for them not to notice. The teachers there, and there were several, had groups of no more than ten or twelve children. To have your group suddenly reduce by a quarter is, if anything, noticeable.
We live in an era where people are talking about bullying and teasing. Talking. About. It. Schools trumpet that they have 'zero tolerance' for bullying. They say this as if it's a new concept. Schools have always said that they discourage bullying, there has never been a time were schools proudly proclaimed to be pro-bullying. They just keep changing what they call the claim.
It is easy to have 'zero tolerance' if you also have 'zero acknowledgement.'
I remember seeing a young boy, referred for problem behaviour, being teased relentlessly by kids at recess. His disability made him the target of choice. Teachers and Teachers Assistants stood on the playground and simply didn't see what was happening. Not seeing meant not intervening. It's easier that way. I spoke with the teachers on duty that day and all of them claimed to have been oblivious to the name calling, the brutal behaviour of the students. I had observed this for only a few minutes and was headed out to the playground to do something, I didn't know what, when the bell rang and the torture was over. The teachers, who I spoke to as they came in, saw me as more problematic, with my concerns and criticisms, than they did the behaviour of the children. One uttered the tired refrain, "They don't mean anything by it."
I simply don't understand why a teacher, or any adult, would be so negligent in their duty as to allow children to engage in hurtful behaviour without comment or without action. It's like they believe that their job is to keep children safe from traffic but don't care that the children traffic in hate.
I know, cognitively, that I am not lessened by those unlessoned in kindness or tolerance. But I admit to feeling so. I know, cognitively, that I have a right to public spaces. But I admit to feeling unwelcome. I know, cognitively, that I am a person of worth and value. But I admit that's hard to feel sometimes. Especially when the one's who are supposed to know better, don't.
Recently I went to a gallery, Joe and I both regularly trek off to these kind of public spaces. We like the experience that looking at art gives - it's such an intimate connection between viewer and artist. It may be the function of art and literature to make it possible to see what someone else sees, or feel what someone else feels, enter into a moment experienced by another. In an odd kind of way its a bit of sacred communing. But being in a public space of any kind comes with certain dangers. This day we were at the gallery when it was being toured by several classes of students, maybe Grade 4 or 5. They came through, in small groups, accompanied by their teachers.
I tense up when around large groups of children. I immediately lose any sense of safety. The world's most incredible painting, the world's rarest artifact, the world's most unique thing cannot draw children in as much as the opportunity they then have to mock and make fun of me, my weight, my wheelchair, my very being. So, Joe and I experienced looking at a painting while small groups of children broke away from their group and came to terrorize me.
I use the word 'terrorize' carefully.
It may be seen by some, anyone who hasn't had the experience particularly, to be too strong of a word. It is not. Sitting looking at a painting while three girls stand barely four feet away, covering their mouths and laughing while their eyes, sparkling bright in the light, roam over every inch of my difference is a kind of intrusion that so difficult to bear that I begin to breathe like one in deep pain. Having two boys stand and puff out their cheeks and ape what they think being fat looks like might strike some as funny. It isn't.
It was hard to see the pictures.
It was hard to experience the connection.
But I'm not writing about the children here. They are, after all, children. I do not excuse them their behaviour because of that - they know what they are doing and they know that it is wrong. What they may lack, though, it that thing that governs behaviour. That is, after all, why we have teachers, and chaperones, and minders. What disturbed me was that in this public space these children engaged in very public acts of social violence against another person and not one teacher, not one, intervened. It would have been impossible for the teachers not to see what was happening. Impossible for them not to notice. The teachers there, and there were several, had groups of no more than ten or twelve children. To have your group suddenly reduce by a quarter is, if anything, noticeable.
We live in an era where people are talking about bullying and teasing. Talking. About. It. Schools trumpet that they have 'zero tolerance' for bullying. They say this as if it's a new concept. Schools have always said that they discourage bullying, there has never been a time were schools proudly proclaimed to be pro-bullying. They just keep changing what they call the claim.
It is easy to have 'zero tolerance' if you also have 'zero acknowledgement.'
I remember seeing a young boy, referred for problem behaviour, being teased relentlessly by kids at recess. His disability made him the target of choice. Teachers and Teachers Assistants stood on the playground and simply didn't see what was happening. Not seeing meant not intervening. It's easier that way. I spoke with the teachers on duty that day and all of them claimed to have been oblivious to the name calling, the brutal behaviour of the students. I had observed this for only a few minutes and was headed out to the playground to do something, I didn't know what, when the bell rang and the torture was over. The teachers, who I spoke to as they came in, saw me as more problematic, with my concerns and criticisms, than they did the behaviour of the children. One uttered the tired refrain, "They don't mean anything by it."
I simply don't understand why a teacher, or any adult, would be so negligent in their duty as to allow children to engage in hurtful behaviour without comment or without action. It's like they believe that their job is to keep children safe from traffic but don't care that the children traffic in hate.
I know, cognitively, that I am not lessened by those unlessoned in kindness or tolerance. But I admit to feeling so. I know, cognitively, that I have a right to public spaces. But I admit to feeling unwelcome. I know, cognitively, that I am a person of worth and value. But I admit that's hard to feel sometimes. Especially when the one's who are supposed to know better, don't.
Tuesday, September 25, 2012
Update and Announcement
Very brief update.
Survived yesterday.
Not feeling well today.
Back tomorrow.
A very brief announcement.
Rolling Around in My Head will be hosting October's Disability Blog Carnival - the subject is 'Birthdays, Anniversaries or other days of Remembering or Celebration.' The Carnival will be held on October 23rd. I will be posting a post about this soon and you will be able to leave your submissions there.
Survived yesterday.
Not feeling well today.
Back tomorrow.
A very brief announcement.
Rolling Around in My Head will be hosting October's Disability Blog Carnival - the subject is 'Birthdays, Anniversaries or other days of Remembering or Celebration.' The Carnival will be held on October 23rd. I will be posting a post about this soon and you will be able to leave your submissions there.
Monday, September 24, 2012
Get Thee Behind Me Future
Time is a funny thing. The future becomes the present faster than ever expected and the past hangs around way too long. Because of the past, I've been afraid of something coming in the future, and that's OK because things can safely be tucked away up there in the future. But, someone hit the accelerator and the future is here. It's today. It's PRESENT.
At about two yesterday afternoon, I started figuring.
Figuring a way to move fear back up into the future.
Figuring a way to get to the past without going through the present.
Figuring a way to make it all just go away.
Funny how prayer becomes a constant companion at times in one's life. In the last few day's I have prayed so much that I'm sure God is call screening. I looked up the top ten prayers and was shocked to see the list. Shocked. Cause I would have thought that my own prayer, the famous 'I'll do this if you do that' prayer or it's cousin, 'I'll never do this again if you just do this one thing for me' prayer would right up at the top. I figure there's a lot of us who go to the swap meet hoping God shows up, is in a good mood, and hasn't given out all the good dispensations to the other schmucks in line ahead of you.
If you took away the bargaining.
If you took away the whining.
If you took away the obsequiousness.
I figure we, God and I, don't talk as much as I'd like.
Anyways, prayers or not, figuring or not, it's here - today. And there's no putting it off. I'm simply going to have to endure fear, maybe humiliation, perhaps even pain.
But Tuesday is on the horizon and it can't come fast enough.
At about two yesterday afternoon, I started figuring.
Figuring a way to move fear back up into the future.
Figuring a way to get to the past without going through the present.
Figuring a way to make it all just go away.
Funny how prayer becomes a constant companion at times in one's life. In the last few day's I have prayed so much that I'm sure God is call screening. I looked up the top ten prayers and was shocked to see the list. Shocked. Cause I would have thought that my own prayer, the famous 'I'll do this if you do that' prayer or it's cousin, 'I'll never do this again if you just do this one thing for me' prayer would right up at the top. I figure there's a lot of us who go to the swap meet hoping God shows up, is in a good mood, and hasn't given out all the good dispensations to the other schmucks in line ahead of you.
If you took away the bargaining.
If you took away the whining.
If you took away the obsequiousness.
I figure we, God and I, don't talk as much as I'd like.
Anyways, prayers or not, figuring or not, it's here - today. And there's no putting it off. I'm simply going to have to endure fear, maybe humiliation, perhaps even pain.
But Tuesday is on the horizon and it can't come fast enough.
Sunday, September 23, 2012
Art and Artists
With my post yesterday about making a design with wet wheels on dry pavement came an email from a blog reader named Kristine. She wrote me a letter and sent two photographs. I've asked for and been granted permission to reproduce both the letter and the photos. First the letter:
Hi Dave,
After reading your blog today, I had to share the attached photos! A couple years ago, I got inspired to do some wheelchair art, and on the last day of school that year, my ESL students (the beginning level) helped me make it happen. They painted and repainted my tires, and I rolled around the canvass. After we were satisfied with the tire designs, they painted the bottoms of their shoes, and walked around the canvass. It was so much fun!!
We managed to get a lot of paint off my tires after ward, but they definitely had some color for a long time. (Which, in my opinion, isn't a bad thing!) I'm still in love with the finished product. The crazy colours and designs somehow look exactly like my kids and I together in the classroom every day. :)
As we were finishing up, a 6th grader in a wheelchair came by, and we invited him in to take a look. His eyes lit up, and he also gasped, "My mom would KILL me if I did that!!" I told him, "So would mine...." :)
Just thought you'd enjoy!
Kristine
Now take a look at the art. Enjoy:
Hi Dave,
After reading your blog today, I had to share the attached photos! A couple years ago, I got inspired to do some wheelchair art, and on the last day of school that year, my ESL students (the beginning level) helped me make it happen. They painted and repainted my tires, and I rolled around the canvass. After we were satisfied with the tire designs, they painted the bottoms of their shoes, and walked around the canvass. It was so much fun!!
We managed to get a lot of paint off my tires after ward, but they definitely had some color for a long time. (Which, in my opinion, isn't a bad thing!) I'm still in love with the finished product. The crazy colours and designs somehow look exactly like my kids and I together in the classroom every day. :)
As we were finishing up, a 6th grader in a wheelchair came by, and we invited him in to take a look. His eyes lit up, and he also gasped, "My mom would KILL me if I did that!!" I told him, "So would mine...." :)
Just thought you'd enjoy!
Kristine
Now take a look at the art. Enjoy:
Saturday, September 22, 2012
Hallmark vs Watermark
On our way out yesterday we left the building and Joe, who was wrestling the bundle buggy, stopped or organise himself for a moment or two. I went ahead and, like a kid excited by the opportunity, ran the chair through a fairly deep puddle of water and listened, satisfied to the splash. Joe was taking longer than I expected so I turned to see what he was up to. Just as I turned he was on his was again so I kept turning and he joined me as I straightened the chair out. Joe noticed, and pointed out to me, that my wet tires had made a lovely and quite graceful circle on the dry pavement.
We went shopping because this morning we are going to make a great cauldron of soup. The grocery store was a ballet of cooperation. Joe got the turnip, I got the parsnips, he sought the potatoes, I selected the carrots. The bag grew in size as he picked up this and I picked up that. We found some cereal that we thought the kids would like and as we are seeing them on Sunday, in the bag it went. Soon the bundle buggy was full, the bag on the back of my chair could hold no more, so we headed to the checkout counter. The line up was long so I went scooted round to the other side and sat waiting for Joe and watching people in the food court.
The way home was made difficult by the surprising number of people out on the street. Joe with his buggy and me on my buggy made for a lot of negotiation but everyone seemed in good humour. A fellow, drunk to the point of foaming at the corners of his mouth, approached me to tell me how pleased he was to see that I was out and about, I couldn't return the compliment and the red light I was waiting at seemed to stop and stare at our odd interaction. Finally it changed and we were on our way again. Joe reminded me of a fellow wheelchair user who said that a wheelchair was a magnet for social inappropriateness. We laughed.
There is construction on our street so I zipped head on the road, the sidewalk being completely blocked. Joe, pushing the cart, laden with beans and bananas, was a little slower. I had an inspiration. I rushed ahead and parked my chair dead centre in the puddle. I looked at the lay of the land and knew it could be done. I went back and forth slowly in the water making sure that my tires were completely coated with water. Then, I began.
I drove up, made a turn, made another turn, and headed straight back to the puddle. I turned around to see and sure enough I'd traced out a wheelchair heart on the dry pavement. I didn't say a word as Joe approached, but when he saw it his eyes lit up and he said, simply, "A heart!"
Who said romance was dead?
We went shopping because this morning we are going to make a great cauldron of soup. The grocery store was a ballet of cooperation. Joe got the turnip, I got the parsnips, he sought the potatoes, I selected the carrots. The bag grew in size as he picked up this and I picked up that. We found some cereal that we thought the kids would like and as we are seeing them on Sunday, in the bag it went. Soon the bundle buggy was full, the bag on the back of my chair could hold no more, so we headed to the checkout counter. The line up was long so I went scooted round to the other side and sat waiting for Joe and watching people in the food court.
The way home was made difficult by the surprising number of people out on the street. Joe with his buggy and me on my buggy made for a lot of negotiation but everyone seemed in good humour. A fellow, drunk to the point of foaming at the corners of his mouth, approached me to tell me how pleased he was to see that I was out and about, I couldn't return the compliment and the red light I was waiting at seemed to stop and stare at our odd interaction. Finally it changed and we were on our way again. Joe reminded me of a fellow wheelchair user who said that a wheelchair was a magnet for social inappropriateness. We laughed.
There is construction on our street so I zipped head on the road, the sidewalk being completely blocked. Joe, pushing the cart, laden with beans and bananas, was a little slower. I had an inspiration. I rushed ahead and parked my chair dead centre in the puddle. I looked at the lay of the land and knew it could be done. I went back and forth slowly in the water making sure that my tires were completely coated with water. Then, I began.
I drove up, made a turn, made another turn, and headed straight back to the puddle. I turned around to see and sure enough I'd traced out a wheelchair heart on the dry pavement. I didn't say a word as Joe approached, but when he saw it his eyes lit up and he said, simply, "A heart!"
Who said romance was dead?
Friday, September 21, 2012
Today's post is dedicated to Winnifred Kempton:
Some times a small thing can be an indicator of something huge, something marvellous. For me, yesterday, it was an email. It was a simple typical email. Like any other office, probably anywhere in the world, emails get sent around for people to throw money in a pot to purchase gifts for people who are celebrating big life events: marriages, baby showers, engagement parties. I am away a bit from the office but want to contribute so I have an envelope with money there so for each one I can participate by donating some money. Well, one of those went around wanting to raise some money for an engagement gift for two people at the office.
***
When my first book on sexuality and developmental disability was printed I was astonished at the reaction and uproar over it's printing and sale. "I Contact: Sexuality and People With Intellectual Disabilities," was a modest little book printed by a small company in Pennsylvania. It received mixed reaction, many loving the simple storytelling way of making points, others thinking the book was vile and that I was a "pornographer." I will never forget the day I opened an envelope to find a letter, blacked with ash, that told me that my book had been burned and that similarly I would burn in hell for sexualizing innocent people with the minds of children. That day was the day I destroyed all of my business cards with my home address on it. I was frightened by the anger and the hate behind the letter.
I remember, too, when I wrote what I believe was the first journal article about supporting people who are LGBT in residential services. I lost contracts for training to agencies who were horrified and who told me that I'd gone "too far." Further, I remember giving my first talk on the same topic at a conference in Ottawa. I was terrified of the reception and the anger that was inevitable so I asked some friends, all closeted, to come to the talk for moral support - all said they would, none came. I didn't blame them, they were terrified that their attendance would give them away, they lived in fear of firing. I gave the talk. I learned then that most people were moderate but that those that weren't really, really, weren't.
Working in sexuality I heard story after story after story from those who live at the blunt end of other's attitudes. Relationships broken up. Love destroyed. Angry parents forcing agencies to forbid relationship. Disapproving agencies using the spectre of angry parents to hide their own prejudice behind. These were dark times where people with disabilities were punished for even the idea of sexuality. Electric shock. Contingent lemon juice shot in the mouth. Facial screening. Boxing gloves on hands, wrists tied to the side of the bed. All punishers for masturbation. Dark times. Dark times indeed.
Sitting beside Winnifred Kempton I was surprised at how small this woman was. I remembered hearing her name in conjunction with what was always called "the Kempton Slides." Hers was the first in depth, fully explicit sex education curriculum ever created for people with disabilities. I should pause here, there were probably others, brave people creating forbidden materials to give forbidden information to those whose sexuality was forbidden. But Winnifred's curriculum had become well known. Somewhere early in my career I ended up at a table, sitting to her right, chatting with a woman who had faced threats and anger and vitriol simply because she believed in the rights of people with disabilities to have information about their bodies and to be treated as adults. I sat in awe of her and could hardly believe that my journey had given me the opportunity to dine with a revolutionary.
***
Opening an email and reading that someone was gathering some money for an engagement gift is an ordinary thing in an ordinary day. But I stopped, looked at the names of the two engaged. I was sure that they were people with disabilities who worked downstairs in the day programme. I sent an email to confirm that fact. I was right. I realised at that moment that I'd never, ever, been asked to contribute to the gift celebrating the engagement or marriage of someone with a disability in such a casual way. As it would be done for staff, it was simply done for those we serve. No muss. No fanfare. Just an email asking for a couple of bucks to buy a gift to celebrate lives lived.
That email probably means very little to the young staff who would just pull out a fiver and hand it over. But that email, and its simple, casual nature, indicates something absolutely huge. A small thing. An enormous change.
I never thought I'd see it.
And I have.
Some times a small thing can be an indicator of something huge, something marvellous. For me, yesterday, it was an email. It was a simple typical email. Like any other office, probably anywhere in the world, emails get sent around for people to throw money in a pot to purchase gifts for people who are celebrating big life events: marriages, baby showers, engagement parties. I am away a bit from the office but want to contribute so I have an envelope with money there so for each one I can participate by donating some money. Well, one of those went around wanting to raise some money for an engagement gift for two people at the office.
***
When my first book on sexuality and developmental disability was printed I was astonished at the reaction and uproar over it's printing and sale. "I Contact: Sexuality and People With Intellectual Disabilities," was a modest little book printed by a small company in Pennsylvania. It received mixed reaction, many loving the simple storytelling way of making points, others thinking the book was vile and that I was a "pornographer." I will never forget the day I opened an envelope to find a letter, blacked with ash, that told me that my book had been burned and that similarly I would burn in hell for sexualizing innocent people with the minds of children. That day was the day I destroyed all of my business cards with my home address on it. I was frightened by the anger and the hate behind the letter.
I remember, too, when I wrote what I believe was the first journal article about supporting people who are LGBT in residential services. I lost contracts for training to agencies who were horrified and who told me that I'd gone "too far." Further, I remember giving my first talk on the same topic at a conference in Ottawa. I was terrified of the reception and the anger that was inevitable so I asked some friends, all closeted, to come to the talk for moral support - all said they would, none came. I didn't blame them, they were terrified that their attendance would give them away, they lived in fear of firing. I gave the talk. I learned then that most people were moderate but that those that weren't really, really, weren't.
Working in sexuality I heard story after story after story from those who live at the blunt end of other's attitudes. Relationships broken up. Love destroyed. Angry parents forcing agencies to forbid relationship. Disapproving agencies using the spectre of angry parents to hide their own prejudice behind. These were dark times where people with disabilities were punished for even the idea of sexuality. Electric shock. Contingent lemon juice shot in the mouth. Facial screening. Boxing gloves on hands, wrists tied to the side of the bed. All punishers for masturbation. Dark times. Dark times indeed.
Sitting beside Winnifred Kempton I was surprised at how small this woman was. I remembered hearing her name in conjunction with what was always called "the Kempton Slides." Hers was the first in depth, fully explicit sex education curriculum ever created for people with disabilities. I should pause here, there were probably others, brave people creating forbidden materials to give forbidden information to those whose sexuality was forbidden. But Winnifred's curriculum had become well known. Somewhere early in my career I ended up at a table, sitting to her right, chatting with a woman who had faced threats and anger and vitriol simply because she believed in the rights of people with disabilities to have information about their bodies and to be treated as adults. I sat in awe of her and could hardly believe that my journey had given me the opportunity to dine with a revolutionary.
***
Opening an email and reading that someone was gathering some money for an engagement gift is an ordinary thing in an ordinary day. But I stopped, looked at the names of the two engaged. I was sure that they were people with disabilities who worked downstairs in the day programme. I sent an email to confirm that fact. I was right. I realised at that moment that I'd never, ever, been asked to contribute to the gift celebrating the engagement or marriage of someone with a disability in such a casual way. As it would be done for staff, it was simply done for those we serve. No muss. No fanfare. Just an email asking for a couple of bucks to buy a gift to celebrate lives lived.
That email probably means very little to the young staff who would just pull out a fiver and hand it over. But that email, and its simple, casual nature, indicates something absolutely huge. A small thing. An enormous change.
I never thought I'd see it.
And I have.
Thursday, September 20, 2012
Brief Encounter
He shot, too fast, out of the elevator. He saw me, then panicked. With a jerk he shot right, stopped as I backed up, then he almost impaled himself on the water fountain. With the way our two chairs had moved around each other I reached out to him with a joke. "It's almost like wheelchair ballet isn't it?" The response was a big grin.
He opened up immediately.
He was just learning to use the chair.
He said with excitement: I get out on my own now.
He said with pride: I go faster than people who walk.
He said with surprise: It doesn't matter so much that I can't walk any more.
I saw a man with a world newly opened to him. I waved to him as the door of the elevator closed shut. I was going up, he was going somewhere - how right is the world today.
He opened up immediately.
He was just learning to use the chair.
He said with excitement: I get out on my own now.
He said with pride: I go faster than people who walk.
He said with surprise: It doesn't matter so much that I can't walk any more.
I saw a man with a world newly opened to him. I waved to him as the door of the elevator closed shut. I was going up, he was going somewhere - how right is the world today.
Wednesday, September 19, 2012
Sounds That Cause Fury (Edit)
I am learning something about words. Something that, as someone who uses a lot of words, didn't know. This fact has been bubbling around just below consciousness for a long time but finally came to light over the controversy over Yunel Escobar a Toronto Blue Jays baseball player who wrote, in Spanish, "You are a f*ggot" in white on the eyeblack on his face. Until this happened I didn't know that that swatch of black that players put on their faces underneath their eyes was called "eyeblack" and was used to help stop the sun's glare. But the existence of a word for what that was didnt' surprise me, because up until now I thought there was a word for everything that was and anything that isn't now but will be soon will have a word assigned to it. I thought that was kind of how language worked.
But the apology, or really non apology, by Yunel Escobar taught me something else. (I say non-apology because he essentially said it didn't mean anything and he was apologising only because he had to not because what he did had meaning.) In hearing the story and hearing Mr. Escobar say that f*ggot is just a word ... and not only that a word that didn't mean anything ... I realised that this is exactly the argument that people who use words like the 'r' word and other similar words use.
"It doesn't mean anything."
Ah ha! I realised. Here's my problem. I think that words have meanings. But apparently I am wrong. There are words that have no meaning at all! Who knew? What an odd concept a word that's a word but isn't a word at all! So that would mean that Mr. Escobar, when he chose to write those words ON HIS FACE, thought that it would be fun to write a bunch of nonsense syllables as a kind of manly make-up.
In reading about this kerfuffle I did have a laugh out loud moment. Mr. Escobar stated that he had gay friends who weren't offended and mentioned specifically the guy who decorated his house and the guy who cuts his hair. Talk about playing into stereotypes! Talk about not acknowledging power, people employed by those with power are NEVER offended by what their employer does because offence would mean firing or punishment. So I guess 'POWER' and 'PRIVELEGE' and 'STEREOTYPES' are words that have no meaning in Mr. Escobar's vocabulary. With a vocabulary of sounds, not words, I wonder how this guy orders a burger.
In case I was wrong, I did do some research before writing this blog today and I looked up the term "f*ggot" in my dictionary and was surprised that it didn't say: a two syllable nonsense word having no meaning. In fact it stated clearly that it was a word with meaning but also with intent: hurt.
As a gay man I react almost viscerally to that word. It is a word that has the stench of blood attached to it. It's a word that has killed and maimed. Dead teens tie a rope to the word and hang dead dangling from it. It's a word that bruised me in spots still tender from the damage.
Mr. Escobar, I, for one, do not accept your apology. I, for one, call you on your lie. You did what you did with intent. You used a word with the intention of hurt. You refused to apologise for what you did. What you wrote had meaning, what you said after in apology did not.
Here's a word.
"Bigot."
Look it up.
It has meaning.
And to the Toronto Blue Jays. I am deeply ashamed of having the name of my city attached to your team. Deeply. Ashamed.
But the apology, or really non apology, by Yunel Escobar taught me something else. (I say non-apology because he essentially said it didn't mean anything and he was apologising only because he had to not because what he did had meaning.) In hearing the story and hearing Mr. Escobar say that f*ggot is just a word ... and not only that a word that didn't mean anything ... I realised that this is exactly the argument that people who use words like the 'r' word and other similar words use.
"It doesn't mean anything."
Ah ha! I realised. Here's my problem. I think that words have meanings. But apparently I am wrong. There are words that have no meaning at all! Who knew? What an odd concept a word that's a word but isn't a word at all! So that would mean that Mr. Escobar, when he chose to write those words ON HIS FACE, thought that it would be fun to write a bunch of nonsense syllables as a kind of manly make-up.
In reading about this kerfuffle I did have a laugh out loud moment. Mr. Escobar stated that he had gay friends who weren't offended and mentioned specifically the guy who decorated his house and the guy who cuts his hair. Talk about playing into stereotypes! Talk about not acknowledging power, people employed by those with power are NEVER offended by what their employer does because offence would mean firing or punishment. So I guess 'POWER' and 'PRIVELEGE' and 'STEREOTYPES' are words that have no meaning in Mr. Escobar's vocabulary. With a vocabulary of sounds, not words, I wonder how this guy orders a burger.
In case I was wrong, I did do some research before writing this blog today and I looked up the term "f*ggot" in my dictionary and was surprised that it didn't say: a two syllable nonsense word having no meaning. In fact it stated clearly that it was a word with meaning but also with intent: hurt.
As a gay man I react almost viscerally to that word. It is a word that has the stench of blood attached to it. It's a word that has killed and maimed. Dead teens tie a rope to the word and hang dead dangling from it. It's a word that bruised me in spots still tender from the damage.
Mr. Escobar, I, for one, do not accept your apology. I, for one, call you on your lie. You did what you did with intent. You used a word with the intention of hurt. You refused to apologise for what you did. What you wrote had meaning, what you said after in apology did not.
Here's a word.
"Bigot."
Look it up.
It has meaning.
And to the Toronto Blue Jays. I am deeply ashamed of having the name of my city attached to your team. Deeply. Ashamed.
Tuesday, September 18, 2012
Oh. Well. What. Can. You. Do?
Typically, I like new hotels. They, typically, get accessibility and, typically, there are fewer worries. Older hotels tend to bend the definition of accessibility to the breaking point. Once at an older hotel in Hull, England, a hotel said it was accessible but when we got there there were several steps up the the front door, the parking was blocks away and our room was on the second floor. When challenged about the accessibility of the room the clerk said simply, "Most of our guests can get there just fine." Oh. Accessible for the majority.
New hotels though, especially those built in the last few years tend to be much more cognisant of the needs of those with atypical needs. And as such we checked into our hotel with a sense of optimism, which was richly rewarded. The hallways are wide, the doors are wide, the room is large, the bathroom beautiful. Awesome.
But.
(You knew there was a 'but' coming didn't you?)
The parking lot, brand new, smelling of paint and empty space, held not a single accessible parking space. Yesterday we were rushing to get me in and up to the lobby as I was busting for 'relief' ... so we didn't look hard, we just took the closest we could find. There was no problem because when we arrived there were few cars there. Today, though, there were more cars so we drove around and looked for the blue badge space and ... couldn't find it at all.
We were sure it had to be there.
I noticed a hotel clerk leaving her shift so I called to her to ask where the accessible parking spaces were. She said, "Oh, there over here." She walked away and came back a couple of seconds and said, "I can't find them, they are always near the elevator." She had just assumed that the spaces would be where the spaces should be. But they weren't there. She suggested we speak to the manager.
We spoke to the manager who was aware there weren't any parking spaces and said, in explanation, "They didn't figure them in when it was done. It was an oversight."
Um. OK.
He looked at me as if he'd answered. It was an oversight. An "Oh, well, what can you do"
I suggested he fix the oversight by having accessible parking bays put in. I knew it could be done, we did it in the parking area of where I work. It took time and effort but it was done. It's really not hard.
I get that people make mistakes.
I don't get that people don't care to fix the mistakes.
Really.
Don't.
Get.
New hotels though, especially those built in the last few years tend to be much more cognisant of the needs of those with atypical needs. And as such we checked into our hotel with a sense of optimism, which was richly rewarded. The hallways are wide, the doors are wide, the room is large, the bathroom beautiful. Awesome.
But.
(You knew there was a 'but' coming didn't you?)
The parking lot, brand new, smelling of paint and empty space, held not a single accessible parking space. Yesterday we were rushing to get me in and up to the lobby as I was busting for 'relief' ... so we didn't look hard, we just took the closest we could find. There was no problem because when we arrived there were few cars there. Today, though, there were more cars so we drove around and looked for the blue badge space and ... couldn't find it at all.
We were sure it had to be there.
I noticed a hotel clerk leaving her shift so I called to her to ask where the accessible parking spaces were. She said, "Oh, there over here." She walked away and came back a couple of seconds and said, "I can't find them, they are always near the elevator." She had just assumed that the spaces would be where the spaces should be. But they weren't there. She suggested we speak to the manager.
We spoke to the manager who was aware there weren't any parking spaces and said, in explanation, "They didn't figure them in when it was done. It was an oversight."
Um. OK.
He looked at me as if he'd answered. It was an oversight. An "Oh, well, what can you do"
I suggested he fix the oversight by having accessible parking bays put in. I knew it could be done, we did it in the parking area of where I work. It took time and effort but it was done. It's really not hard.
I get that people make mistakes.
I don't get that people don't care to fix the mistakes.
Really.
Don't.
Get.
Monday, September 17, 2012
A Drive Through The Country
Today we drove to Our Nation's Capital and decided to pop up Peterborough way and drive Highway 7, through the country, to Ottawa. We both had the 401 and consider it to be one of the world's most boring drives, The Big Apple excepted of course. So, as we had a bit extra time and a bit less pressure, we decided on the country route. As it happened the day was spectacular. We had bright blue skies, brilliant sunshine and there was a hint of colour coming in the trees. Lovely.
The thing that I noticed this time, maybe four or five times on the drive, was the number of houses that had had ramps built on them. One, in particular, was very long and had a gentle slope. It, unlike many, rose from the driveway to the front door and rose maybe three feet. I felt like I could have easily pushed myself up the slope. I wondered, to myself as Joe was basking in the fact that the car had satellite radio and he was streaming classical music into the car, flipping through the classical stations with the ease of a practised hand, what the story was behind each of the ramps.
While I don't know the story of the individuals who live in those houses. I do know the 'back story.' The story of builders who think that people don't change, young couples, don't become parents, don't age, don't have accidents or hospitalisations. Builders who build for people who buy the houses but not the people who live in the houses. People who will never have a child with a disability, people who will never have elderly parents who want, but can't have, the ability to visit, people who will never have friends who use wheelchairs, or walkers, or scooters. Builders who build houses that will one day purposely exclude someone - but who cares ... homes are for real people and there are homes for other people.
As the music swirled around me, the image of that long, long, ramp up to the front door stayed with me. I kind of wanted to meet the person who insisted on entering the front door of the house they lived in. I'd like to know if they sat and watched the builders build what should have been built in the first place - access. I wondered if they insisted on the gentle rise. I wondered if they fought off someone talking about property value when they suggested a long ramp up to the front door. I wondered who they were.
All I know is that they go in the front door of a house that I could visit.
And that's enough reason to get off the freeway and drive through the country.
The thing that I noticed this time, maybe four or five times on the drive, was the number of houses that had had ramps built on them. One, in particular, was very long and had a gentle slope. It, unlike many, rose from the driveway to the front door and rose maybe three feet. I felt like I could have easily pushed myself up the slope. I wondered, to myself as Joe was basking in the fact that the car had satellite radio and he was streaming classical music into the car, flipping through the classical stations with the ease of a practised hand, what the story was behind each of the ramps.
While I don't know the story of the individuals who live in those houses. I do know the 'back story.' The story of builders who think that people don't change, young couples, don't become parents, don't age, don't have accidents or hospitalisations. Builders who build for people who buy the houses but not the people who live in the houses. People who will never have a child with a disability, people who will never have elderly parents who want, but can't have, the ability to visit, people who will never have friends who use wheelchairs, or walkers, or scooters. Builders who build houses that will one day purposely exclude someone - but who cares ... homes are for real people and there are homes for other people.
As the music swirled around me, the image of that long, long, ramp up to the front door stayed with me. I kind of wanted to meet the person who insisted on entering the front door of the house they lived in. I'd like to know if they sat and watched the builders build what should have been built in the first place - access. I wondered if they insisted on the gentle rise. I wondered if they fought off someone talking about property value when they suggested a long ramp up to the front door. I wondered who they were.
All I know is that they go in the front door of a house that I could visit.
And that's enough reason to get off the freeway and drive through the country.
Sunday, September 16, 2012
The F Word (No, Not That One)
Sometimes I just don't know how to think of things. I've just recently learned that a new word is on the horizon and growing in its usage. I'm wondering how many of you are aware of the alternate, slang meaning now attributed to the word frittata. As you will have seen if you clicked on the word, it's now being used as kind of a sly reference to the 'r' word - making it such that someone can be slurred by it without suffering the consequences of using the word it's meant to replace. Part of me senses a bit of victory here, simply in the fact that there must be kind of a growing realisation that the 'r' word is unacceptable. Part of me feels frustrated that people are still wanting to 'hang' a negative connotation on intellectual disability and are desperately trying to figure out how to do it - without getting caught.
So, I don't know what to think or how to think about it.
I will admit if I had heard someone using it I would not have noticed nor cared. I didn't know what it meant and I wouldn't have reacted. Someone, however, just the other day, asked me what I thought of "frittata" and I, for a moment, thought they were talking about eggs. They explained. And waited for me to think and respond. But. I didn't know how.
I, partly, thought that every time someone uses 'frittata' it means they aren't using the 'r' word. That's a good thing.
I, partly, thought that every time someone said it they were thinking the 'r' word. That's not such a good thing.
I, partly, thought that perhaps most people who heard it wouldn't understand the link with the 'r' word. That's a good thing.
I, partly, thought that this demonstrates the deep need some have to pursue bigotry at any cost in any way. That's not such a good thing.
So.
I'm lost.
I'm wondering how you all feel. I'd love it if you weighed in on this one.
So, I don't know what to think or how to think about it.
I will admit if I had heard someone using it I would not have noticed nor cared. I didn't know what it meant and I wouldn't have reacted. Someone, however, just the other day, asked me what I thought of "frittata" and I, for a moment, thought they were talking about eggs. They explained. And waited for me to think and respond. But. I didn't know how.
I, partly, thought that every time someone uses 'frittata' it means they aren't using the 'r' word. That's a good thing.
I, partly, thought that every time someone said it they were thinking the 'r' word. That's not such a good thing.
I, partly, thought that perhaps most people who heard it wouldn't understand the link with the 'r' word. That's a good thing.
I, partly, thought that this demonstrates the deep need some have to pursue bigotry at any cost in any way. That's not such a good thing.
So.
I'm lost.
I'm wondering how you all feel. I'd love it if you weighed in on this one.
Saturday, September 15, 2012
L#rdass Thinking
I made an enemy.
And probably did something mean.
I'll let you be the judge.
I got on the bus this morning greeting, as I do, the other occupant who was a very large woman sitting on a four wheeled scooter. The driver chatted with us both while strapping me in. Once on our way my fellow passenger was startled by the movement of the bus and laughed and said, "I should be used the bus by now, sometimes I'm just so ret#rded." I immediately said, "Please don't use words like that, I find hate speech upsetting and I work with people who are very hurt by that word."
Predict what happened next.
She acted like I victimised her!
In all of what she said, including that it didn't mean anything, it's just an expression, she mentioned that she had a 15 year old boy with, and this is a direct quote, "the mind of a six year old." She went on about how she makes sure no one calls him names. She wasn't using the word as a name so it was OK.
I asked her if she spoke like that in front of her boy and she said that she did. Her answer was defiant. She was angry.
I was angry too.
I said, "That's just really lardass thinking."
She said loudly, "What did you say to me?"
I said, "I said, that I thought that it was so lardass that you think that it's OK to use words like that in front of your son."
"Don't you call me names, you are really fat yourself."
"I'm fat but I don't have lardass thinking, thank God."
"I am going to report you for being offensive."
"Why, I'm not calling you a name. I'm just using a word, it doesn't mean anything." My point was made.
She got off the bus, stopping the scooter on her way down the ramp and said, "I really hate you." There was such anger in her voice.
I don't get how people don't get that words hurt. I didn't really mean to upset her to the degree that I did. I just thought that if she heard a hurtful word used in the same way that she used the 'r' word, she might think twice.
It didn't work.
Or maybe it did.
All I can say is that if I see her again on the bus, I'm going to be very, very quiet.
And probably did something mean.
I'll let you be the judge.
I got on the bus this morning greeting, as I do, the other occupant who was a very large woman sitting on a four wheeled scooter. The driver chatted with us both while strapping me in. Once on our way my fellow passenger was startled by the movement of the bus and laughed and said, "I should be used the bus by now, sometimes I'm just so ret#rded." I immediately said, "Please don't use words like that, I find hate speech upsetting and I work with people who are very hurt by that word."
Predict what happened next.
She acted like I victimised her!
In all of what she said, including that it didn't mean anything, it's just an expression, she mentioned that she had a 15 year old boy with, and this is a direct quote, "the mind of a six year old." She went on about how she makes sure no one calls him names. She wasn't using the word as a name so it was OK.
I asked her if she spoke like that in front of her boy and she said that she did. Her answer was defiant. She was angry.
I was angry too.
I said, "That's just really lardass thinking."
She said loudly, "What did you say to me?"
I said, "I said, that I thought that it was so lardass that you think that it's OK to use words like that in front of your son."
"Don't you call me names, you are really fat yourself."
"I'm fat but I don't have lardass thinking, thank God."
"I am going to report you for being offensive."
"Why, I'm not calling you a name. I'm just using a word, it doesn't mean anything." My point was made.
She got off the bus, stopping the scooter on her way down the ramp and said, "I really hate you." There was such anger in her voice.
I don't get how people don't get that words hurt. I didn't really mean to upset her to the degree that I did. I just thought that if she heard a hurtful word used in the same way that she used the 'r' word, she might think twice.
It didn't work.
Or maybe it did.
All I can say is that if I see her again on the bus, I'm going to be very, very quiet.
Friday, September 14, 2012
What Were We Thinking?
I received an odd gift in the mail yesterday. It came in a brown envelope with my address written in firm hand in blue ink, there was no return address. I opened it with great curiosity, I have liked getting mail all of my life but in the last few years have had to settle for the thin gruel of bulk mailing and catalogues. Inside the envelope I found a letter and a picture. The letter was from someone I worked with years and years ago, when I was very young, in an institution for people with intellectual disabilities (although those weren't the words used back then) here in Ontario.
Reading I discovered that I was being gifted with a photograph, which I found tucked at the bottom of the envelope, because my old colleague was downsizing. She told me that she was moving from a house to an assisted care apartment, and she had come across a bunch of old photos from all those years ago. One of the pictures she thought would be of interest to me. She was surprised to find this blog and then when she googled me, even more surprised to find where my career path had taken me. So, she tracked down my address and popped the picture in the mail. She wished me well in my career, said that she had confused memories about those days of working in the institution. Believing she was doing good then, wondering if she contributed to a culture of captivity now.
The photograph showed me on the ward laughing with one of the people who lived there. There is brightness in our faces. It looked like simply an ordinary moment between two people. However, when my eyes left the laughter and looked anywhere else in the picture, the desolation and isolation of the drab background is startling. Life. Death. Inclusion. Exclusion. Freedom. Captivity. How could this moment of laughter have happened in this place where even the harshest disinfectant couldn't erase the smell of disrespect.
The fellow in the picture with me wore clothes that didn't quite fit, a shirt too loose, pants too short, socks that no one noticed were mismatched. I have no memory of the moment. I don't know what we were laughing about, but the laughter, and I looked hard to see, looked genuine. I'm glad of that at least.
I did see him again. I lasted in the institution for less than a year. But maybe ten years ago I was teaching a class in eastern Ontario on abuse prevention. I was sitting at the desk getting ready. I wasn't yet a wheelchair user but the ritual I have of going over everything before I started has never changed. He came and stood beside me, quietly, not interrupting. I looked up and saw him. He smiled a 'hello'. It took me several moments to recognise him. He had aged. He wore clothing that he had chosen and that he wore well. When I recognised him, finally, I asked him to sit with me for a moment. He told me of his life, now. I told him of my life since. He was happy.
The picture in my head of that moment stands in stark contrast to the picture that sits by my keyboard now. In both pictures are two people talking. But in the new picture both men are free. In the new picture the background and the foreground fit together well - laughter in a place of laughter.
His journey and mine have been different. He walked as captive to freedom. I walked as captor to apology. Like the woman who sent me the picture, it is hard to know how to think about those days. She and I worked where people worked who wanted to work with people who had disabilities. She said in her letter that sometimes, when she dreams, she doesn't dream pictures, but she dreams of the smell of that place. The smell creeping into everything, her clothes, her skin, her soul. She wakes from those dreams full of panic.
"I came to know that, no matter how hard we tried to make it better, the place just should never have been built. I just hope that all the people who have gone home remember some of us with kindness."
I want to write her back.
And tell her that that too is my fervent wish.
Reading I discovered that I was being gifted with a photograph, which I found tucked at the bottom of the envelope, because my old colleague was downsizing. She told me that she was moving from a house to an assisted care apartment, and she had come across a bunch of old photos from all those years ago. One of the pictures she thought would be of interest to me. She was surprised to find this blog and then when she googled me, even more surprised to find where my career path had taken me. So, she tracked down my address and popped the picture in the mail. She wished me well in my career, said that she had confused memories about those days of working in the institution. Believing she was doing good then, wondering if she contributed to a culture of captivity now.
The photograph showed me on the ward laughing with one of the people who lived there. There is brightness in our faces. It looked like simply an ordinary moment between two people. However, when my eyes left the laughter and looked anywhere else in the picture, the desolation and isolation of the drab background is startling. Life. Death. Inclusion. Exclusion. Freedom. Captivity. How could this moment of laughter have happened in this place where even the harshest disinfectant couldn't erase the smell of disrespect.
The fellow in the picture with me wore clothes that didn't quite fit, a shirt too loose, pants too short, socks that no one noticed were mismatched. I have no memory of the moment. I don't know what we were laughing about, but the laughter, and I looked hard to see, looked genuine. I'm glad of that at least.
I did see him again. I lasted in the institution for less than a year. But maybe ten years ago I was teaching a class in eastern Ontario on abuse prevention. I was sitting at the desk getting ready. I wasn't yet a wheelchair user but the ritual I have of going over everything before I started has never changed. He came and stood beside me, quietly, not interrupting. I looked up and saw him. He smiled a 'hello'. It took me several moments to recognise him. He had aged. He wore clothing that he had chosen and that he wore well. When I recognised him, finally, I asked him to sit with me for a moment. He told me of his life, now. I told him of my life since. He was happy.
The picture in my head of that moment stands in stark contrast to the picture that sits by my keyboard now. In both pictures are two people talking. But in the new picture both men are free. In the new picture the background and the foreground fit together well - laughter in a place of laughter.
His journey and mine have been different. He walked as captive to freedom. I walked as captor to apology. Like the woman who sent me the picture, it is hard to know how to think about those days. She and I worked where people worked who wanted to work with people who had disabilities. She said in her letter that sometimes, when she dreams, she doesn't dream pictures, but she dreams of the smell of that place. The smell creeping into everything, her clothes, her skin, her soul. She wakes from those dreams full of panic.
"I came to know that, no matter how hard we tried to make it better, the place just should never have been built. I just hope that all the people who have gone home remember some of us with kindness."
I want to write her back.
And tell her that that too is my fervent wish.
Thursday, September 13, 2012
Scissors
I say "Hello" or "Good Morning" to everyone who gets on the bus with me in the morning, or to those who are already on the bus when I get on. I don't say this to alert you to the fact that I am an extraordinarily warm and welcoming person - I'm more shy than welcoming by far. But, I believe in a certain kind of civility and have signed the social contract that asks all of us to behave as if we were part of a community that cares. This makes Joe, who is also a signatory, and I seem very odd to some of the people in the apartment building we live in, some who actively avoid riding in the elevator with us because they hate being in a small room with two people who say "Hello" or "How are you?" We are socially outcast for being socially ept.
But onwards to the story.
I greet people on the bus. Most often people greet me back and we ride in silence. Sometimes people take the greeting as an invitation to talk and we chat a bit. Nothing extraordinary comes of civility other than a continuance of civility but that's enough for me. Some, like my elevator riding fellow cave dwellers, seem to fear that saying hello back would the the first step towards sex, or dinner out, or, god forbid, friendship and look pointedly away. I'm good with that, I've done my duty and I'm equally good at sitting silently looking out the window or playing 'Word Mole' on my phone. But most, smile, or nod, or say hello back and that's the end of that.
But some mornings, others are on the bus or are brought on the bus, people with more significant disabilities who don't communicate in the traditional way. I greet them too. Sometimes I'm greeted back with a look, with a smile or with a little tiny wave. Sometimes, maybe even most times, there is no observable response. Most often if a response comes its from a staff or someone assisting the person greeted. "She can't talk." "He can't hear you." "She's too low functioning to understand." "He's noncommunitive." Most often I'm told, "You don't have to do that, she doesn't understand (he can't answer back)." I imagine that the support worker feels like they are doing a favour, explaining away the silence that greets my "Good Morning."
But I wonder why they feel the need to speak at all. I greeted them too, usually acknowledge, and now they are trying to brush away my greeting to the person they support. I wonder what I am being told. Firstly, I can see that the individuals have complex disabilities. I wonder how the individual feels being summed up to a stranger with words that limit. I wonder if anyone ever thinks that maybe even if the person can't do what is said they can't do that maybe they can be socially more than someone who "doesn't." The existence of a disability, even a significant one doesn't make one disappear off a bus, doesn't cut one out of a social fabric. The expectation of welcome that comes with humanity still exists. Staff taking scissors and attempting to cut the meagre strings of a greeting by a stranger might leave the person completely socially adrift. I mean, it's just "Hello."
So.
I say "Hello" or "Good Morning" to everyone on the bus.
Everyone.
Because in my world. All means all.
But onwards to the story.
I greet people on the bus. Most often people greet me back and we ride in silence. Sometimes people take the greeting as an invitation to talk and we chat a bit. Nothing extraordinary comes of civility other than a continuance of civility but that's enough for me. Some, like my elevator riding fellow cave dwellers, seem to fear that saying hello back would the the first step towards sex, or dinner out, or, god forbid, friendship and look pointedly away. I'm good with that, I've done my duty and I'm equally good at sitting silently looking out the window or playing 'Word Mole' on my phone. But most, smile, or nod, or say hello back and that's the end of that.
But some mornings, others are on the bus or are brought on the bus, people with more significant disabilities who don't communicate in the traditional way. I greet them too. Sometimes I'm greeted back with a look, with a smile or with a little tiny wave. Sometimes, maybe even most times, there is no observable response. Most often if a response comes its from a staff or someone assisting the person greeted. "She can't talk." "He can't hear you." "She's too low functioning to understand." "He's noncommunitive." Most often I'm told, "You don't have to do that, she doesn't understand (he can't answer back)." I imagine that the support worker feels like they are doing a favour, explaining away the silence that greets my "Good Morning."
But I wonder why they feel the need to speak at all. I greeted them too, usually acknowledge, and now they are trying to brush away my greeting to the person they support. I wonder what I am being told. Firstly, I can see that the individuals have complex disabilities. I wonder how the individual feels being summed up to a stranger with words that limit. I wonder if anyone ever thinks that maybe even if the person can't do what is said they can't do that maybe they can be socially more than someone who "doesn't." The existence of a disability, even a significant one doesn't make one disappear off a bus, doesn't cut one out of a social fabric. The expectation of welcome that comes with humanity still exists. Staff taking scissors and attempting to cut the meagre strings of a greeting by a stranger might leave the person completely socially adrift. I mean, it's just "Hello."
So.
I say "Hello" or "Good Morning" to everyone on the bus.
Everyone.
Because in my world. All means all.
Wednesday, September 12, 2012
Bear Facts
I had a conversation with a gummy bear.
There are probably few who can say that.
Ruby and I were talking on the phone, the subject primarily being her birthday in a couple of days, when suddenly she ran out of things to say or talk about. This isn't a problem for Ruby, she asked me if I wanted to talk to her gummy bear and then switched into this little girl pretend voice that sometimes was so high that only sparrows could hear, so suddenly I was speaking to a gummy bear.
What do you say to a gummy bear?
As a vegetarian do I apologise for having munched down so many of her tribe?
As an art lover do I compliment on the diversity and intensity of the colours that typify a conglomeration of gummies?
I don't know.
I managed a slightly stiff and uncomfortable conversation with Madame Ours (French for "bear" for those not familiar with that romantic tongue) ... I mean isn't everyone uncomfortable when chatting with the famous?
I hung up the phone after bidding adieu to both bear and girl and realised that, somehow, my day was a little bit different. Adult cares had magically disappeared in the struggle to speak 'bear' to a little girl with a squeaky voice.
So, my advice to those of you suffering through another work day or who want to jazz up an ordinary day - get a gummy bear, and have a chat.
It works.
There are probably few who can say that.
Ruby and I were talking on the phone, the subject primarily being her birthday in a couple of days, when suddenly she ran out of things to say or talk about. This isn't a problem for Ruby, she asked me if I wanted to talk to her gummy bear and then switched into this little girl pretend voice that sometimes was so high that only sparrows could hear, so suddenly I was speaking to a gummy bear.
What do you say to a gummy bear?
As a vegetarian do I apologise for having munched down so many of her tribe?
As an art lover do I compliment on the diversity and intensity of the colours that typify a conglomeration of gummies?
I don't know.
I managed a slightly stiff and uncomfortable conversation with Madame Ours (French for "bear" for those not familiar with that romantic tongue) ... I mean isn't everyone uncomfortable when chatting with the famous?
I hung up the phone after bidding adieu to both bear and girl and realised that, somehow, my day was a little bit different. Adult cares had magically disappeared in the struggle to speak 'bear' to a little girl with a squeaky voice.
So, my advice to those of you suffering through another work day or who want to jazz up an ordinary day - get a gummy bear, and have a chat.
It works.
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