#WordyandWheelyWednesdays: Fever Pitch

Hello, my lovely readers.

Just a quick note today to say that, as I have a fever, this week's post is postponed...hopefully just until tomorrow. I'm sorry about that, and I didn't want to miss an upload, so I thought I should write this before snuggling up again.

Much love

Jx

#WordyandWheelyWednesdays: On the importance of community

Hello, my dear readers, and welcome to the second instalment of #WordyandWheelyWednesdays! (I must confess that, in the absence of regular internet access, this one has been sneakily written as a Word document over Monday and Tuesday evenings and just scheduled to upload today – but that’s how I’m making the weekly posting work well, so hopefully you’ll forgive me!)

Following last week’s post for World Cerebral Palsy Day 2016, which I wrote as a sort of bullet-pointed ode to my disability and some of the many things I’ve learnt from it, I’ve been thinking a lot about that teaching – particularly in relation to my point on the importance of friendship. More broadly, now that I’m not trying to fit it into a concise bullet point, that can be expanded to a sense of belonging and community. So, for this week’s post, I thought I’d write about something I’m involved in at the moment that epitomises their importance – Warwick Enable.

Warwick Enable is the Students’ Union disability liberation society. It brings together disabled students/students with disabilities (more on terminology in another post), our friends, carers, PAs, enablers and allies to socialise and to work towards making campus more inclusive and accessible. We are open to everyone who cares about disability as a social justice issue. I say ‘we’, here, because I’ve been given the great honour of being President for this academic year – which brings me back to the ideas of community and belonging. On Thursday last week, I returned to the Societies Fair, this time to promote Enable to the new cohort of Freshers (of which I knew there would be a fair few, thanks to social media). I was joined by the wonderful people who make up the rest of the Exec – Katie, the Campaigns Officer; Sara, the Social Secretary and current Marketing whizz; and Rob, the Treasurer. They are excellent humans, all very lovely and just as passionate about Enable being considered on an equal level with the other liberation societies who (this year) we were granted a stall beside. We are still fairly small in comparison, so the aim is very much to grow, in order to create a stable base from which to offer a safe space for support and a forum for advocacy and change. We have lots of plans for campaigns! As a result, if anyone showed interest, we were delighted – and we have some wonderful new members from across the university (both with and without disabilities) who are raring to go.

Often, however, the interest came by way of the following question: ‘So, you’re a charity project fundraising to help disabled people, right?’, and then, when we gently said ‘We actually campaign about disability issues on campus, so if that’s something you’d be keen on –’, they left before we could finish the sentence. Now, fundraising is extremely important, and it’s something I myself have benefitted from through a number of different (and fabulous!) organisations. What struck us, though, was the assumption that that is what Warwick Enable does. People noticed that we were about disability and immediately equated that with ‘charity’ and ‘needing help’. It really brought home to us that (even in the twenty-first century, even among our generation) disability isn’t usually interpreted as relating to human rights, social justice issues and equal permission to belong, but rather as something ‘lacking’, requiring ‘help’, ‘pity’ and even cure. I am very much aware of this trend through all of the reading I do for my thesis (more on the various ‘models of disability’ in a future post), and from personal experiences with random strangers on the street, but to have it repeatedly displayed within the context of a Societies Fair during which we were very much linked to the other liberation groups was both intriguing and actually rather horrifying.

I guess it showed us just how much work we and Warwick Enable have to do to educate and mobilise the student body – every body. On that note, I’d better sign off and get back to it, because that’s essentially the point of my thesis!

Until next week, then, with much Wordy and Wheely love x

#WordyandWheelyWednesdays: World Cerebral Palsy Day 2016

Hello my dear readers! Yes, I am still here. I realise it's been an extremely long time since I last posted (for a combination of work- and life-related reasons, some of which will become clear at a later point.) I'm very pleased to tell you, however, that these long breaks are a thing of the past - mostly due to my desire, and practical need, to have a regular documentation of my PhD process that is slightly more in depth than the few words I scribble in my journal or save as draft texts on my phone.

Welcome, therefore, to the first of what I'll be calling #WordyandWheelyWednesday posts, a weekly write-up of my thoughts on anything I have found particularly striking or useful with regards to my body, the copious amounts of books I read, and the thing that brings them both together, my thesis on disability casting. I hope you'll read and enjoy these - I'd very much welcome suggestions on anything you think I should cover.

It was always my plan to start this project this week, because it's the beginning of the academic year, but today has turned out to be even more apt than I could have wished. Not only was it my first day back on campus, a chance to be reunited with friends whilst helping out with the Opera Warwick stall at Societies Fair and promoting our new community outreach programme (more on that later, probably next week), but it is also World Cerebral Palsy Day 2016! I knew it was soon, as it's always the first Wednesday in October, but I didn't click that it was today until my fabulous mother mentioned it and I had a chance to check Twitter this evening.

So, for the first post in this series, I'd like to pay homage to my CP. It might seem strange that I would use those words of reverence about a condition to which I have been known variously to refer to as my 'Terrible Palsy', 'Lousy Palsy', 'Chronic Partner' (and other things that perhaps aren't appropriate for this blog). Nevertheless, most of these are actually terms of endearment, and, for all the frustrations, my life wouldn't be what it is - I wouldn't be who I am! - if I didn't have my bodily (and brain-ly) buddy. Whilst it's part of my plan in the future to use these entries to discuss the difficulties with honesty, because I'm realising as I write my thesis that this is one of the gaps in theory, I have the rest of the year to fill with that. It seems only fitting to try and express my gratitude today, on the day designated for my disability, since I've been doing things I would never have dreamed of without it.

Thanks to my CP, then, for: 

• Showing me that there is more than one way (literally!) to navigate this world
• Teaching me (sometimes through tears) about the transience of life, and how important it is to laugh in the face of it and embrace every moment
• Educating me early on the vital value of fast friendship - you know someone's worth hanging onto if they put a colander on your head and jump on the back of your chair because they've 'always wanted to ride a Dalek'
• Proving that a wheelchair makes a perfect poster prop and provides a very adequate alternative to a sandwich board
• Coaxing me to be comfortable with (non-)conformity 
• Bullying me (often beligerently) into believing that my body is worth taking care of and nurturing

On that note, I need to listen to that bully and go to bed, because I have another busy day tomorrow. So thanks, body, for that reminder - I love you, even when you're lousy.

Thanks and love to all of you, too, for reading this - but, more than that, for being next to me in my novel navigation when I have needed you most. It means more than I think you know. 

Until next week and another #WordyandWheelyWednesday - happy World Cerebral Palsy Day!

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!