Los Angeles Police officers shot and killed a man in Koreatown early Saturday morning after he reached into his waistband for what officers believed was a weapon, authorities said.

The man was twenty-seven year old Steven Eugene Washington, and he died after a single shot to the head. The officers are Allan Corrales and George Diego; both fired and it’s not known as yet whose bullet hit Mr Washington. Both officers have been reassigned until the investigation is over.

The article goes on to say that ‘Washington’s relatives criticized police and said the dead man had suffered from a learning disability and was generally afraid of strangers. They insisted that he was not violent and that he probably was walking home after visiting a friend.’

One has to wonder how, in such a situation as officers deemed it necessary to shoot, the bullet hit such a vulnerable mark as a head, given that police are trained to not shoot fatally where possible. (Edit: It seems that this is not so universal as I’d thought; Lauredhel’s understanding is that police are trained to not shoot unless they have to shoot someone at once, in which case the only reliable way is a kill shot.) One has to wonder about how and why police shootings of innocent people are as common as they are. But that’s not what I want to focus on today.

I want to point to how dangerous assumptions about normative behaviour are to PWD. There’s a great deal of potential for acts that are quite in line with harmless behaviour for the way one’s brain works to be read by others as scary, threatening, dangerous. All too often, though, it’s those abled folk who feel threatened who end up doing the harm.

The police officers were expecting one thing, but the reality was quite another. And they were the ones with the power.

And a man has died for it.

©2010 FWD/Forward. All Rights Reserved.

The Music in Me (2007) is a documentary following a Sydney, Australia-based dance group called the Merry Makers, which is made up of about 50 intellectually and physically disabled dancers as well as 15 helpers. They’re pretty well known around these parts. The group meets every Saturday and has been running for about 30 years as I’m writing this. The documentary, a winner of multiple international awards including Best Documentary at the 2007 Avignon Film Festival, follows the group leading up to a performance at the Sydney Entertainment Centre (and as anyone from Sydney reading will know, that’s a really, really big deal).

We’re first introduced to Lucinda Bryant, the group’s present artistic director and choreographer. ‘They are probably the most amazing group of people I have ever come across. They break down all boundaries placed in front of them,’ she tells us. There’s a great deal of focus on Bryant’s role, as you might have predicted, and what she thinks and says, but she consistently redirects attention to what the Merry Makers themselves do rather than her role, which is refreshing considering that these sorts of documentaries – and sometimes abled people who work with disabled people! – tend in quite the opposite direction.

The structure of the film is such that, within the framework of leading up to the Sydney Entertainment Centre concert and dance rehearsals, there are also a number of interviews incorporated. These are with members of the Merry Makers as well as their families (and Bryant, of course). There were many interviews that must have been recorded that didn’t make it into the film; there are some included in the DVD’s extras. It was saddening that they evidently didn’t have enough time to fit them all in, because I would have so liked to have learned more about everyone.

That both dancers and their families are interviewed produces some interesting dynamics. We get to delve into people’s home and family lives more, and so there’s a more holistic picture of how Merry Makers fits into each person’s life than we might otherwise have had. We learn about the lives of Sam and his mother Maria; about how Sabina came to care for her granddaughter Samantha; about the relationships between Jenny, Alana and Aida. That’s because Merry Makers draws in a community wider than the dancers themselves. As Lea says of her daughter Rebecca’s participation in Merry Makers, ‘I didn’t realise when I joined Merry Makers that it was gonna be about me, too.’ There’s a very uncomfortable moment when Lea recalls her thinking about Rebecca’s being disabled as a tragedy, but then we come to her changed thinking, that the tragedy framework needn’t apply: Rebecca ‘can be what she wants to be, do what she wants to do’. It becomes more about everyone’s relationships than the dancing, and the interviews are really humanising. All too often disabled people are portrayed as a disability with a person attached, but these interviews really serve to show that the people concerned are in fact people.

The thing that bothered me the most about The Music in Me was that there were times when interviewing people’s relatives (most of the featured dancers were minors) took the place of the dancers speaking for themselves, when it moved from being about the community to parents speaking for their children. And at times, it didn’t fit in very well either, for instance, there wasn’t really a call for adult dancer Beaver’s parent to speak for him. Perhaps some dancers preferred their parents/carers to speak for them, perhaps communication styles were such as this was preferable, but nevertheless that overall dynamic remains, and I would like to have had more on the dancers’ perspectives. Something that did a little bit to mitigate my discomfort was that Lucinda’s mother Janet was interviewed, too, and there are some amusing tiffs between them over the administration of Merry Makers. I guess in this respect the documentary reflects the structure of the organization, it seems to be run by abled people. Overall, there’s a really high ratio of abled perspectives to disabled ones featured. As I’ve mentioned, this leads to some very distressing moments; it’s particularly stark when there’s talk about life expectancy and some of the talk from parents/carers about the dancers’ futures was upsetting to me.

And of course there are large chunks of the documentary that are devoted to showing what they do, just dancing, without commentary, which is great. It’s about the love of dance! It was pretty lovely to see how close everyone was, and the lack of the sort of contempt you often encounter from abled people who work with disabled people. There’s a great deal of emphasis on catering to every single person as individuals rather then expecting them all to fit into a particular frameworks of what people with their disabilities are like as is all too common.

The film runs at about an hour. And guess what, everyone? It’s subtitled all the way through and properly at that! This is something I oughtn’t to be surprised at, but proper subtitling is all too rare, even sometimes in disability-focussed media.

©2010 FWD/Forward. All Rights Reserved.

Are there any disability rights activists of whose work you are a particular fan? They can be prominent or someone you know if your personal life, anyone whose activism you admire.

©2010 FWD/Forward. All Rights Reserved.

Contains minor spoilers for Doctor Who from “Voyage of the Damned” through to “The Next Doctor”.

I’ve been compiling a list of all the characters who are wheelchair users in New Who. For everyone who has no earthly idea what I’m talking about, I’m referring to British television show Doctor Who (which is well worth watching by the way) specifically the episodes airing since 2005 after a long hiatus. The show had, shall we say, not the world’s greatest history of representing disability up until that point. I’d noticed a trend of characters who are wheelchair users (or users of SF-ish devices meant to echo wheelchairs) in recent years, and some rather sinister commonalities. Here they are (though if I’ve forgotten any, do add them in comments):

• Davros: The creator of the Doctor’s enemies, the Daleks. Evil as they come, wanting to destroy reality itself at the end of series 4!
• Max Capricorn: The villain of “Voyage of the Damned,” who wanted to crash a ship into Earth and frame his former cruiseliner company for mass murder.
• Mercy Hartigan: I can’t remember “The Next Doctor” so well, but seem to recall her being wired in a chair in the CyberKing towards the end, shortly before her death.
• John Lumic from “Rise of the Cybermen” and “The Age of Steel”. Dying and desperate to stay alive, he invents the parallel universe version of Cybermen, kidnapping homeless people to experiment on and seeking to “upgrade” all of humanity. Cybermen convert him into one of them against his will.
• Timothy Latimer: From “Human Nature” and “The Family of Blood”. A noble and brave young man who saves the day, we see him as a old man in a wheelchair towards the end of TFoB.
• Colonel Hugh Eddison: From “The Unicorn and the Wasp”. He reveals himself to have been faking needing a wheelchair for many years in order to keep his wife at his side (presuming she’d do so out of obligation or pity, I guess).

As we can see, the trend with wheelchair-using characters in this show is that they’re evil and must die at the hands of our charming able-bodied hero. Of the two exceptions, one is a Faker™. The other is only shown in his wheelchair right at the end; he’s allowed no dialogue.

Doctor Who makes me sad because, as much as I love it, those running the show clearly have a fair bit of contempt (or contemptous indifference) regarding PWD. We’re represented very narrowly: when real, when having agency, wheelchair users (because disabled characters are always wheelchair users) are bitter villains. The very few disabled characters aren’t allowed to be anything other than caricatures. There’s nothing grand or beautiful or important or good about them, they just exist as plot points to help the story along or to be obstacles for the Doctor to overcome.

©2010 FWD/Forward. All Rights Reserved.

I thought about needing a seat, needing to preserve some energy to get through the day. I thought about how my knees had started paining on Monday night as I’d settled down to sleep, and how very hard Tuesday had been on them. I thought about being perfectly within my rights to ask someone for a seat.

And then I thought about how I looked, healthy and really young and dressed in a cheerful t-shirt. And how there were other similar-looking people standing around, so how impertinent I would appear if I asked someone to stand up for me. And how I’d never worked up the courage to ask anyone for a seat before.

In the past I’ve rehearsed what to say in my head, ‘Excuse me, I’ve got leg problems/crook knees [or whatever inaccuracy I've decided is most likely to work, because 'I'm fatigued' or 'I'm chronically ill' would cause delays and doubting looks and questioning]. Would someone mind giving me a seat?’ But then the words have never left my mouth. Because… what if they refuse? What if they resent me? But worse than that, of course, is the thought that I might be asking someone who really needs that seat who I’ve misidentified as someone who doesn’t, just as I’m expecting people to misidentify me. And I can’t get the words out.

I stood on the train, trying not to fall over, shifting my weight so my knees both got a turn at breaks, waiting for someone nearby to get off the train, get off the train, why is no one getting off the train, please get off the train. I wished I’d brought some music to distract me. I wished I could overcome the social conditioning and the fear and the shame and just ask someone. I wished I could stop being so silly. And, as ever, remained as I was.

Eventually, a lot of people wanted to leave the carriage, and the only way to clear the way for them was for me to get into a seat someone had just vacated. I sat down at last and settled my legs at a carefully chosen angle. I felt guilty for the couple of minutes before I had to get up for my stop because there was a young man just near me who didn’t have a seat. I hoped I wouldn’t go through the same thing on the bus, and wondered what I was going to do the next time this happened.

Cross-posted at Zero at the Bone.

©2010 FWD/Forward. All Rights Reserved.

What does accessibility mean to you? That is, how do you define it and what does it mean in your life?

©2010 FWD/Forward. All Rights Reserved.

From the program website:

The system of assistance for people with a disability in Australia is broken. Carers know it, charitable organisations know it and so do the governments. Now the federal government says something must be done. It’s holding an Inquiry, with the intention of creating a new and fairer system. It’s even considering a national disability insurance scheme. But will the system be reformed in time to save the families now at breaking point?

Here’s a transcript of the program.

You can access the program itself here as well as extended interviews, further reading and news highlights here.

Do check it out!

©2010 FWD/Forward. All Rights Reserved.

The first element in the staring process is for the staree to develop a keen sense of being scrutinized. This anticipation and preparedness arms the staree with the proper relational tools to manage expected staring encounters with great effectiveness. The second element in this process is to decide how to oversee the dynamics of the stare itself when it inevitably comes one’s way. If one looks directly at starers, it will only confuse or embarrass them. The staree must assess the precise attitude of the starer, measuring intentions and attitudes so as to respond in the most effective way. Facilitating your starers’ maintenance of face means relieving them of anxiety, understanding their motivations, and working with them to overcome their limited understanding of human variation and their social awkwardness at facing it. The third element is literally manipulating the eyes of the starer. One evaluates when to turn away, stare back, or further extend the stare. Sometimes it is best to allow the staring to go on in order for the starer to get a good look. Another procedure is to use eye contact and body language to terminate the stare as soon as possible, although this risks being interpreted as hostile. Another option is to redirect the stare. For example, some starees report using their own eyes to guide the starer’s immobilized eyes away from the part of their body that has captured the gaze, subtly rescuing the hapless viewer from the embarrassment of the stuck stare and restoring the ritual of casual face-to-face encounters. Finally, the staree can and often must enlist conversation to direct the staring process. Staring has an inherent narrative component that the staree must always address in some way.

Rosemarie Garland-Thomson on page 180 of “Ways of Staring” Journal of Visual Culture 5.2 (2006): 173-192.

I so like this redirecting of power in the staring relationship. Do go read the whole article if you can. Also, some of you might be interested in a video I posted on Feministe recently in which Garland-Thomson (a feminist disability scholar!) talks about her work around staring.

©2010 FWD/Forward. All Rights Reserved.

a) Wondering what on earth that is, it is New South Wales, a state in eastern Australia.
b) Aware of what I am talking about but are not from NSW, hello there!
c) From NSW, greetings fellow New South Welsh creature! We’re pretty great, aren’t we?

Well, we are, but, in an incredibly subtle segue, I must tell you that the NSW education system does not exactly treat all of us as though we are. And a good bit of that flows down from the Federal government – I still have rage over the Howard government’s cuts to literacy program funding, SO much rage – but, of course, education is run on a state level. And let me tell you something, going through the NSW education system as a disabled student was a collection of some of the most rage-inducing, frustrating, difficult experiences of my life. For portions of high school, campus was inaccessible to me and I was self-taught. And other people had it so much worse than I did, not being given appropriate literacy and numeracy support, or having the system used switched around on them. Having, and/or their parents/carers having, to search around until they could find a high school that could or would take them. Endless funding cuts. Shaming and poor accessibility and a lack of respect for these fine young people. It’s appalling and thinking about it can send me into hot teary fury. I could fill a book with my rage over the treatment of PWD in my fair state’s education system, but I have a suggestion that is much more practical.

The NSW Parliament is conducting an inquiry into the provision of education to students with a disability or special needs. The focus is on students attending primary or secondary schools. According to their media release (PDF format):

A number of other important issues are also covered by the terms of reference, including:
• Level and adequacy of current special education places
• Adequacy of support services for children with a disability in mainstream school classes
• Provision of a suitable curriculum for intellectually disabled and conduct disordered
students
• Access to professional support services, such as speech therapy, occupational therapy,
physiotherapy and school counsellors
• Adequacy of pre-service and post-service teacher training.

I’d tell you what they said in their two public hearings thus far but, ah, there are no transcripts available.

Moving right along to what you can do! The general public can make suggestions through email, fax or post (they’d like written and electronic format best, but you can use other formats such as voice recordings or video if that would be preferable for you). You can write as much or as little as you like, it can be your opinions about how things stand, recommendations for action, that sort of thing. The kicker is that submissions close by 19 February (sorry, I would have told you sooner but I just found out about this!) Submission extension requests are possible; click through to find out more.

So, NSWites, please consider making a submission, and I suppose non-NSWites who have been watching us in horror can submit too if they have suggestions. Please please please, because no one should have to go through what thousands of NSW students are going through.

>>>All the contact information you need to submit is right here.<<<

If you are in need of assistance or suggestions in putting together your submission, please leave a comment. Alternatively, I may be able to help out if you'd prefer to email me at chally [at] disabledfeminists [dot] com.

Very warm thanks to Mindy from Hoyden About Town for raising this. Feel free to use comments to rant about your experiences as a disabled student if you’re so inclined.

©2010 FWD/Forward. All Rights Reserved.

Sometimes people are asking as they genuinely care how one is. Frequently, however, enquiring after someone is merely a social nicety. And you can’t always tell the difference! That something so nice and positive and supportive has become a formality is pretty sad. And there are added layers of meaning for disabled people.

This question, concerned with health as it is, can be a point of tension for PWD. Because we’re often not fine, and that’s generally not something abled people want to hear about. Not that many people want to know what’s really going on in other people’s lives anyway, all that is deep and dark and personal, but this is particularly true for disability. Disability is held to be unpleasant, not something you want to hear about, and also it’s considered kinder to avoid the subject for fear of distressing the poor disabled person.

I was having a chat about this recently with the lovely Dorian of Dorianisms. He pointed out that ‘how are you’ as polite and meaningless is particularly baffling to his non-neurotypical self. ‘I respect the value of polite, ritualized words. But that one in particular is odd, b/c it takes the same form as an honest inquiry after well-being could. And I don’t know how to tell the difference.’ It’s a matter of having to have learned this social script and then finding out that it doesn’t always mean what one has been told. That’s confusing, and it’s more unnecessary work the neurotypical world requires of non-neurotypical people.

I’m not saying that being asked how one is can’t be a nice experience, or be conducted with nice intent. I can really appreciate my friends asking about what’s going on for me, it’s lovely to be thought of. It’s just that there are so many things going on here.

A couple of years ago, when it got too much, I was in the habit of just talking at people who asked me how I was. I just threw lots of words at them so that they wouldn’t realise I wasn’t answering their question. At present, a favourite response of mine to ‘how are you?’ is ‘because I was born, and I continue to be alive. What kind of a question is that?’ Yes, I know, I have an odd sense of humor. Sometimes when I’m feeling poorly I answer properly, but then I get the looks of disconnection or pity; I’m not sure which is worse. And if I respond with a chirpy ‘fine and you?’ it sounds odd if my health issues come up later in the conversation. I worry that the incongruence might make some think I’m faking, and there are enough people who think that of chronically ill people already! I don’t like to lie, and I really don’t like being expected to lie in order to keep things smooth and social. Alternatively, I frequently wonder if some people aren’t asking me out of concern or even habit, but for gossip fodder. I don’t like my personal experiences to be open to that sort of thing. And sometimes I just don’t want to talk about how I am. I have so much to deal with that I’d rather not think about it while I’m trying to be social, even as ‘how I am’ is making me struggle to be social.

I was in the habit some months ago of not asking PWD ‘how are you’ lest they think I was being intrusive about their health, and now I am thinking of moving back to that. In any case, I am trying to remember to be conscious about how I say it: to mean it when I do, using appropriate phrasing for that particular person, and to refrain where it’s not welcome.

The prevalence of this social custom is simply another nod to abled preferences at the expense of our own. I’ve got a lot more reason to keep my mouth shut about my private medical concerns than an abled person who has just had the flu. If we don’t participate satisfactorily in this seemingly (to abled people!) perfectly innocent and polite cultural norm, it’s another manifestation of our being difficult; we’re bad cripples. All in all, this trifling pleasantry can be pretty loaded. And we’re often expected to share, and only the right about, on abled terms.

Related: Ask Me No Questions and I’ll Tell You No Lies and the comments of Some snappy answers for your stockpile.

[Cross-posted at ZatB]

©2010 FWD/Forward. All Rights Reserved.