Why safe spaces are so special

(Content warning for discussion of Orlando, homophobia, biphobia, transphobia, racism and ableism. If it's too difficult to read about these topics, I understand, and please don't trigger yourselves. However, if you feel able to, it would be much appreciated, as this was rather hard - both emotionally and physically - for me to write. Love and thanks.)

I have debated over the past near fortnight whether or not I should write this, and have still been debating today over whether to upload it. This doubt has stemmed from two sources:

1) So that I may write honestly, in the knowledge that this post is likely to be read mostly by people who have no idea about my sexuality (including family members and some long-term friends), I believe I have to come out as bisexual (which, for me, means that I am attracted to people of the same and different genders to myself) before going any further with this post. That act doesn’t feel too safe in the current climate, even if it’s ‘just online’, especially now that we’ve left the haven of equality that is the EU.

2) A huge part of me feels that the Latinx LGBTQUIA+ community don't need another white person sticking their oar in following the tragedy at Pulse if it won't make a real contribution to the discussion. Yes, it touches all of us who identify as anything other than heterosexual, but the voices of POC within the community are sidelined enough as it is, and I didn’t want to perpetuate that unnecessarily. I’m also extremely conscious that it is important to acknowledge that this is by no means an isolated incident, and in fact is merely the most widely reported example of attacks that happen worldwide every day. 

    

I mentioned these doubts to several LGBTQUIA+ friends (who I won’t name, out of respect for their own safety and comfort), though, and they have persuaded me to upload this, on the basis that, if I have found reading other people’s thoughts helpful at this time, then it is entirely conceivable that others would find some solace in reading mine. I obviously have no experience of being a person of colour (white privilege readily and firmly acknowledged) – yet I do understand what it feels like to be another ‘minority within a minority’. LGBTQUIA+ disabled people (or ‘queer crips’, as the more radical of us call ourselves in an effort to reclaim two of the slurs frequently levelled at our social group) are vastly underrepresented, both in the mainstream understanding of LGBTQUIA+ people and within the community itself. This is due in part to a combination of ‘compulsory heterosexuality’ and ‘compulsory able-bodiedness’ (cf. the work of McRuer and others for further information if interested – or just message me!), as well as to the perception of the disabled body as inherently asexual (and, by extension, undesirable) that is so prevalent within the general social consciousness. These phenomena made it incredibly tricky for me to navigate my sense of self growing up because, whilst I knew logically that there had to be others like me ‘out there’ (pun most definitely intended!), I had no clue where to find them. It is only in very recent years, and following a lot of research, that I have managed to unearth some semblance of a community, online but also (at last!) face to face. I know how hard it is to seek for safety, security and recognition – and I know the joy that is felt when it’s found. So if by publishing this post I can make that journey of discovery easier for even just one person, then it’ll be worth it, whatever the potential ramifications.

Now for the piece proper. I have never been to an LGBT club, mostly because the vast majority in London aren’t that accessible, and the price of a taxi to from campus to Coventry as an undergraduate was prohibitive. This may change now that I’m living in Leamington (if I manage to make it to one of the Zephyr Lounge nights) but at the moment, it’s true, so instead I’m going to write about another kind of safe space for which I am and will be forever grateful – Pride Parades.

I don’t really remember my first Pride – I was five, after all, and I think my biggest concern that day was how loudly I could blow my rainbow-striped whistle without hurting the ears of whoever happened to be carrying me on their shoulders at that particular moment. I was also very keen on the glitter. Even then, though, the sense of community and solidarity was palpable – and, whilst I definitely didn’t have the words to express it, I felt a huge amount of relief when I caught the eyes of other children, and I grinned at them, aware that we had a similar experience of family life. As I’ve got older, the glitter has remained important, but (now that I can readily articulate my emotions) it is secondary to the feeling of freedom and safety that comes from knowing I am not merely accepted but understood. This was most evident at London Pride last year, when I found out about the wheelchair safe space, where my (ambulant) friend and I could join the parade together. We ended up next to another wheelchair user and his two daughters, and the smiles on their faces reminded me of my own once upon a time. Moreover, even in previous years, when we’ve had to trundle and trudge around the same block of Soho several times because I couldn’t find anywhere to get off the pavement, we didn’t really mind, because it was a legitimate reason to stay longer in a place where no-one looked twice at a wheelchair user in a nearly see-through rainbow top and her friend wearing a ‘love your inner lesbian’ t-shirt.

This isn’t to say it is always entirely happy (one mustn’t forget that Pride is, at its essence, a protest) – and the atmosphere at all of the events across the world this year will be tinged with grief. I couldn’t be in London today, but I was there in spirit, and I was extremely grateful to be in Coventry last weekend for the second ever Pride, because it showed me that, despite our fear and sadness, we could still come together as a community and be strong. There’s great power in celebration amidst tears, and I’m so thankful to have helpers who were supportive enough to come along with me.

To my five-year-old self - I hope you’re proud of who I’ve grown into being today. To my fellow ‘queer crips’ – thank you for helping me to feel safe and valid. To all my friends (both LGBTQUIA+ and non), I love you and I’m grateful to have you in my lives. To anyone who might want advice on disability and sexuality, visit: http://www.regard.org.uk/

We must keep on loving, and laughing and living, because love wins overall. Happy Pride!

               

(Three)penny for your thoughts? - three reasons I love 'The Threepenny Opera'

Hello... It's me... I was wondering if after all these months you'd like to read a blog post I've written, about a show I'm in...? (Get me with all my pop culture references...!)


In all seriousness, it's been an absolute age since I last posted on here. This is mostly because I've been hectically busy with PhD work, shows and sometimes a (helpful) combination of both - and the latter is especially true this week, since we have been making final preparations for our collaborative production of Bertolt Brecht and Kurt Weill's The Threepenny Opera, which opens tonight. So, in a rare moment of downtime, I thought I should probably write about it - because it's a piece that is so relevant, not just to my personal thesis-related exploits, but to society as a whole. In the spirit of the trios in the play (because it's billed as 'a play with music'), therefore, I've compiled a list of three reasons why I love it so much.


1) It stretches the boundaries of what theatre is or 'should be', and of what theatre can do. Due to the fact that this is arguably Brecht's best-known work, this point is perhaps a tad obvious. Nevertheless, it is an important one, because people often forget that theatre is never 'just entertainment' (though of course entertainment is a perfectly valid and wonderful aspect of it). It can be a powerful tool for the political engagement of audiences, and the techniques used in the show actively foreground this possibility. In our version, the distance between the world of the characters and the world of the audience is both emphasised and bridged by the ever-present (and fabulous!) Movement Ensemble, who form props and set with their bodies, as well as acting out lines spoken by the Vocal Chorus (of which I am part).


2) It critiques the dominant narratives surrounding gender, disability and poverty. This is not to say it is an easy watch, by any means (Content Warning for copious usage of the words 'whore', 'slut' and 'cripple', along with questionable lyrics regarding race), but it broaches topics such as rape culture, prostitution, domestic violence and the ableist perception of disabled people as both objects of pity and 'scroungers', and explores the way that minority groups are exploited by, and co-opted into, the capitalist project. These discussions are just as pertinent today, perhaps even more so than in the original contexts, because society believes that we have moved past the need for them, but the testimony of the victim in the Stanford case, the current statistics around rape and sexual assault, and the year on year increase in disability hate crime would suggest otherwise.


3) The music is incredible. This last point might seem rather prosaic in comparison to the others, but actually it is integral to the success of both. Kurt Weill's catchy tunes (the most well-known of which is probably 'Mack the Knife') cleverly lull the audience into complicity - until you find yourself singing along and then actually listen to the lyrics. This, for me, is the key to all the most powerful art.

So that's my list - if it's sparked your interest and you're in the area, why not pick up a ticket (link below). Hopefully you'll end up loving it as much as I do!




http://www.warwickartscentre.co.uk/whats-on/2016/the-threepenny-opera/



On being 24 and eating doughnuts

You'll notice that this is the first post in 2016 following my resolutions. Part of me is sorry about that, because I don't like leaving this blog for too long, but there are plenty of good reasons for it - mostly involving Figaro, about which I'll write more tomorrow. 

Another part of me feels it's rather apt that I've held off (albeit unintentionally) from updating until now - as today brings yet another anniversary (the twenty-fourth one, in fact!) of when I should've been born. It's an odd thing, because I've written before about how the gap between my 'actual' birthday and this one strikes me every single year, but I'm never quite sure what to make of it. It feels significant, but I don't know if it should - after all, I'm not the Queen, so why would I want/need/deserve two birthdays?

We've never celebrated it, per se - aside from the very first, when my parents bought a circle of doughnuts to mark what they called my 'zero birthday', which I obviously don't remember - and I've never really thought it appropriate to do so, anyway, because I've had too many mixed and disparate emotions about the day.  Eleven (nearly twelve) weeks is a long time between expected and actual arrival of a baby; long enough to have had a crucial and lasting impact on the rest of my life. I guess I've always been a tad uncertain (or, perhaps, ambivalent) about that impact and how I feel about it or respond to it. When I was twenty-one, and documenting my journey to walk to collect my degree, I wrote that I thought I'd found a way to feel good about my body through all the training I was doing, and the joy of it being possible for me to take steps across the Butterworth Hall stage.

Whilst that was definitely true, and I was buoyed up by the excitement of managing to walk for graduation, I realise now that that was actually just the beginning. Both RADA and Balliol have also had huge effects on my sense of self, body, and mind. Mostly extremely positive, but sometimes rather the opposite, which made it hard to keep up my pledge of feeling good - even on this day, which is a reminder of how lucky I am to be alive. At least, it was hard in 2014 and 2015. This year, at last, seems  different somehow. Whether that's because of more general things (like being older and therefore more abstractly at peace with myself) or specifics such as finally feeling settled and independent in my flat, passionate about a PhD I wouldn't even have contemplated without the life experience my Cerebral Palsy has given me, and delighted by the things being back at Warwick has reminded me it's possible to do, I can't really tell.

What I do know, though, is that (somewhere in the time between turning twenty-four in November and thinking about being that age today), I've discovered that I'm actually pretty okay, even proud, about having been premature. Of course, it's caused hassles, but it's also made me who I am - and, in my efforts to keep my resolutions, I've been learning to like 'me'. That process, however slow, seems something worth celebrating. So, if you'll excuse me until tomorrow, I'm going to sign off now...and eat a doughnut! (Probably not the best idea before going out for a curry with the OpWa lot for a rather more important birthday, Mike Lyle's, but hey. Doughnut calls.)

Revolving and resolving - a Wheely 2016

I wrote a characteristically wordy post about 2015. Then I realised I'd probably be the only one bothered to read it.

So, instead, here are my resolutions for 2016:

Remember to put my body first - after all, if I didn't have my body, I wouldn't be writing this blog, let alone doing a PhD.

Be grateful to my body for what it has given me and taught me.

Put what I've been learning in psychotherapy in practice, and remember self-care for my mind, too.

Remember not to beat myself (metaphorically) if I sometimes forget to do any of the above sometimes.

Put my passion for my subject into every inch of my thesis as I build it.

Read at least one non-course related book a month.

Hug my family, friends and dogs and laugh as much as possible.

Live as Wordy and Wheely a life as I can.

Happy 2016 - I wish you all health, happiness and the best for whatever you have resolved!

A wordy birthday greeting

Today it is my dear Jane Austen's 240th birthday. (She happens to share it with one of my closest friends from first year at uni, Diviya, who then transferred to Nottingham - we've spent the last five years communicating via text and social media, trying to match schedules and meet up in person. Happy birthday, wifey! I miss you.) What these two wonderful women share is more than a birthday, though, because they've both inspired me to do things I never would've thought possible otherwise. 

Diviya and I met as cautious chorus members for Opera Warwick's January 2011 (English) production of Mozart's The Marriage of Figaro. She brought me out of my shell and taught me that my wheels had just as much of a place on the Arts Centre stage as her (appropriate to the style of the show) garishly coloured skirt and high heels. In fact, I believe our multicultural and multi-ability chorus grouping led directly to my current PhD study, because Diviya and my other friends instilled in me further the joy and importance of diverse casting. She also gave me the confidence to put myself forward as a candidate for the exec committee the following year, as Productions Manager - a role I find myself lucky to be reprising now that I'm back at Warwick. We're putting on Figaro again - coincidence? I think not! Trips to the Dirty Duck after rehearsals gave me some of my favourite memories of Freshers and are never to be forgotten, either, since they forged friendships which I hope will last a lifetime.

Similarly, thanks to Austen, I discovered that literature and the arts are the ultimate tools for accessibility - if they are taught in an engaging manner. Through her, I learnt that I too could jump over stiles (first in my dreams, and then in reality, with help from my determined mother) and share in the satisfaction of muddy jeans, if not quite petticoats...! I also found that, if you search hard enough, the touch of disability can be discerned in almost any individual's experience - Miss Austen's being a case in point. I've probably mentioned this before, if not here then on another of my blogs, but it is believed that she and her brother George communicated with some form of sign language, he having a hearing impairment and apparent learning difficulties. Yay canonical representation (albeit covert)! Thanks for furthering our cause, Jane, and continuing a tradition started by Homer and Milton but which hardly anyone mentions!

So, yes, that's my wordy birthday greeting for two of my favourites. It couldn't be more perfect that you share a day. I love you both and am so grateful for the impact that you have had on my life - in very different but also strikingly similar ways.

Thank you!

Thoughts on Jane Eyre at the National in collaboration with Bristol Old Vic

(In memory of Gemma Watson, 26th Sept 1990 - 9th December 2001)

Ever since I first read (and loved) Charlotte Brontë's Jane Eyre, aged ten, I've been aware that it's a highly awkward book - or, as we say on tumblr, 'a problematic fave'. The positioning of Bertha Mason as the mentally unstable, hypersexualised racial 'Other' disturbed me even then, although I didn't quite have those words to describe my feelings. So much so, in fact, that, when I finally got to study it at school in Year Eight, my English teacher gave me her copy of Jean Rhys' Wide Sargasso Sea to read alongside the original novel, since it went some way to addressing these issues. Once I got to uni, I discovered the critical work (in every sense) of Gayatri Spivak, and was delighted. Through her writing, and that of others, I found the vocabulary for which I had so longed - in terms of disability as well as race, because David Mitchell and Sharon Snyder's concept of 'narrative prosthesis' so perfectly encapsulated the function of Rochester's blindness and eventual cure. It exists for no other purpose than to make a moral point, and to provide the catalyst for Jane's final transformation into an independent adult, since it is through his dependence on her (coupled with sudden and convenient financial good fortune) that she is able to achieve as close to liberty as was possible for a woman of her station at the time.

Nevertheless, having established all my difficulties with the text, I must now return to the bracketed part of my first sentence - because I did, and do, love it, though not for the reasons you might think. I'd take Fitzwilliam Darcy or Edmund Bertram (I mean, let's face it, I'm really such a Francis Price!) over Edward Rochester any day. No - I love Jane Eyre because in it (and her) my ten-year-old heart found what I still think is the most accurate depiction of how it feels to be a young girl desperate with grief over the loss of the dearest of friends. It therefore seems doubly apt that I'm writing this 'review-of-sorts' today, as it is the fourteenth anniversary of when the first of my own darling girls died, and the restaging at the National Theatre of the Bristol Old Vic company's devised production (which I watched as an NT Live screening last night) seemed to understand the ramifications that the death of Helen Burns had on Jane's development far more than any other adaptation I have witnessed.

Actually, I'd say that's true of most aspects of the plot - including the issues of race and disability mentioned earlier. Perhaps this was just a bonus of it being theatre, not film, and the extra minutes this allows for events to unfold. I think, however, that it was more due to the company's conscious decision to divest themselves (though not entirely, because the clothes were still period appropriate) of the conventions of costume drama and director Sally Cookson's desire that nothing be subsumed into the love story.

The subtitle of the novel, after all, is 'An Autobiography', and the story is that of an orphaned girl growing up in Yorkshire. The show's Jane, played with a determinedly regional accent, couldn't have been prouder of that heritage. (Interestingly, the one significant part of the book that the company chose to omit was her acquisition of wealth - a subtle suggestion that she and Rochester are essential equals, money or no money?) This, allied to the constantly resurfacing refrains of folk songs, grounded her in a sense of community and shared experience that no amount of ostracism and cruelty was able to destroy - which brings me to another important facet of the production.

The majority of the folk songs began as solos for the character of Bertha, before being taken up and harmonised by the rest of the company. Such a decision meant that she was extremely present from the very start of the piece, instead of just appearing at Thornfield, and was an important reflection of the novel's narrative as told by an older Jane who is reminiscing. It also set up a deliberately prominent parallel between Jane and Bertha, both the characters and their actors, because they were only ever themselves. All other members of the multicultural company (even the actor eventually playing Rochester) undertook multiple roles at various points, often as aspects of Jane's psyche. This made one wonder who precisely was the person with mental health issues, and provided a stark commentary on the ravaging potential of grief, which was underscored by a haunting folk-style rendition of the pop anthem 'Crazy' against the backdrop of the Thornfield fire - after which a drenched and lost Jane called out for her beloved friend Helen across the moors.

It was theatrical adaptation exactly as it should be - irreverent, yet infinitely attentive to, and enthralled by, its source material. It was also precisely what I needed to prepare me for the feelings I have felt today - grief in all its myriad manifestations and the mixed up muddle of joy and sadness. So thanks, NT and Bristol Old Vic. Thanks, Brontë. Thanks, Jane and Helen, and thanks Gemma - you were there with me last night, as you are always. Thank you for shaping who I am.

A return for #IDoPWD

Hello!

I have a flat, a suitable bed (more on that another time), and reliable internet, which means I'm back in the blogosphere. At last - and I could not have found a happier or more significant day to return, because December 3rd is the UN's International Day of People [or Persons, depending on which version you read] with Disabilities. It also marks the fact that we are pretty much halfway through UK Disability History Month, or UKDHM, which proceeds from 22nd November-22nd December, and has as its theme for this year 'Portrayals of Disability in Mainstream Media'. All very relevant to my thesis, my life, and, consequently, this blog. After all, I am a Person with a Disability (albeit one who is unsure about excessive use of capitalisation), writing my PhD on disability, and using this corner of the internet to document the intersection of these two things.

So I think today provides me with the perfect opportunity to update you, my loyal readers who are still here after nearly a month of silence, on what I've been doing in that time. It also allows me to express my gratitude for my wheels - because, without them, I really don't think I'd have my words. Sure, it's difficult (especially when it comes to access), but my experience has shaped who I am - much like it has Noujain Mustaffa, the teenager with cerebral palsy who made the journey from Syria with her wheelchair. If she can cross continents, I can definitely cross campuses. (I tried to find the most impartial report of her story to share here. Quite a number of articles deal with it in the highly-emotive language that many in the disability community, myself included, find simplistic and offensive - but that is a topic for another post.)

For now, I'll just leave Noujain's journey there as a reminder of what is possible - but, also, of how much still needs to change in our world when it comes to disability. (Change which, as a brief aside in relation to recent parliamentary decisions, is not to be achieved by using money and resources which could rebuild our infrastructure to systematically destroy that of another country - an act with the potential to create many more disabilities on an international scale through both physical and psychological injury of civilians.)

This is why I have undertaken my PhD - and it brings me back to what I have been doing over the last month. The aim of the day conference which launched UKDHM for 2015 was to investigate the sociocultural representations of disability of the past and present and, in so doing, to attempt to map a way forward and to inspire further campaigns. This is the power of the arts, but it is also the power of social media, and the two came together nicely in the fact that the event was live streamed to engage a wider audience. They also met helpfully in a presentation I was lucky enough to attend, given by the actress, disability activist and face equality campaigner Victoria Wright, who has a condition called cherubism, and who is working to emphasise the importance of an online (web-wide) community for those impacted by, and interested in, disability - especially parents and young people. She has her own blog, which I'll add a link to very soon.

She has inspired me to be more active on mine, both personally and academically, which provides me with a neat segue into my final point. Only last night, I went to a presentation given by Dr Jack Newsinger on disability arts and austerity policy. What became very clear to me is that if we, the international people with disabilities who are today being lauded by the United Nations, desire a full and worthy role (or roll teehee) in the development of our countries and our world, we have to take it - whether those who 'run' those countries and the world want us to or not.

And, with a little help from our friends (since we are all only temporarily able-bodied and a more accessible world has benefits for everyone), we might just do it - I know that's my plan.

Happy IDOPWD!