Bums & Bellybuttons: The View From Here

gLeek pt. 2

2009-11-12T15:41:00.004-05:00

I had some people wondering how I would react to this week's episode of Glee, given my revelation of being a gLeek. So here's what I thought:

It brought me to tears.

And that is a great thing! I love that the show focused on characters who are different in "Wheels." So often, those characters get tossed aside as being "token," and no effort is really made to understand the characters, their backstories, their emotions. It would have been so easy for Glee to do the same thing. After all, by virtue of being in glee club, the characters are already outcasts. What need was there to examine the outcasts within the outcasts?

On a personal level, I feel a connection with Kevin McHale's character, Artie. Knowing that McHale isn't actually paralyzed has the potential of taking away from the show and the character itself. Somehow, however, that isn't the case. McHale manages to embody Artie fully, embracing Artie's struggles and pains as his own. That's a mark of a great actor.

Ryan Murphy, Brad Falchuk and Ian Brennan outdid themselves with this episode in my opinion. "Dancing With Myself" was the perfect song choice for Artie's first solo. It completely encapsulates the isolation kids with disabilities so often feel in the high school setting. I remember long years ago, when I was in high school, realizing that the people who called themselves my friends simply didn't "get" it. They wouldn't have understood how they were being insensitive by expecting me to find my own ride to a field trip and assuming that I was "okay with it," like Artie's fellow glee-ers in the episode.

And let's not forget Tina's betrayal of Artie. And, yes, it is betrayal. Oftentimes, people connect due to shared experiences. Artie feel perpetually outcast and has found in Tina someone, he thinks, can finally understand his unique perspective only to discover her side of their shared experience was faked. Heart breaking.

If you're looking for a way to make people understand what it's like to be different, have them watch "Wheels." If they get it, great. If they don't...they never will.

PS. If only more people were like Mr. Schu!
PPS. Sue has a heart! OMG!

E Disharmony

2009-10-12T15:59:00.004-05:00

I've known a few people who have filled out eharmony.com's personality test and are considered to be one of the minuscule percent the web site cannot match. Sure, that's frustrating, but at least they aren't being repeatedly rejected - like me.

I know I'm running the risk of sounding bitter and desperate (and a few other choice adjectives) but it is upsetting to be rejected by no fewer than 10 different men a day. Most of them choose the same reason, too: "Other."

When a person chooses to "close" a match on eharmony, he is given a list of reasons as to why the match doesn't work. These range from "I don't feel the chemistry is there" to "The physical distance between us is too great" to the infamous "Other." I get an inordinate amount of matches that choose "Other."

I don't lie or omit facts when I fill out these profiles, which means I always come out and 'fess up to the fact that I use a wheelchair. I don't make a big deal of it, because it isn't a big deal. I just state the simple fact and expect a certain amount of guys to be immediately turned off by the fact. But, the number is staggering.

I've used eharmony before, with similar results. I waffle back and forth as to whether or not finding "love" online is the path for me. I give it a shot, because, really, have I got anything to lose? Maybe I don't put enough faith in the process because I don't truly feel like the man of my dreams is waiting behind a computer screen. But I'd like to at least be given a chance.

Every time I click "Read Closed message" and see "Other," a little part of me withers. I know that the "Other" means one of two things: One is that I'm not sexy/cute/hot/thin/whatever enough. The second is that a guy got scared off by the chair.

At least I'm trying. I've tried to start communication with men that I wasn't especially attracted to because something in their profile interested me. In the online dating world, "Why not?" maybe our saving grace.

I've ended my subscription to eharmony, because I'm tired of being rejected on such a regular basis. It's hard enough going out in the world and have guys stare at you for the wrong reason. Why compound the difficulty by seeking it out? If eharmony and its ilk work for you, great!

Then again, maybe honesty has no place on the Internet.

gLeek

2009-10-06T22:30:00.004-05:00

Based on the evidence, I should probably hate Fox's new show Glee. In the first handful of episodes, Artie, the paralyzed character played by Kevin McHale, has been subjected to torture and innumerable insults. He was locked in a porta-john by jocks who then were on the brink of tipping said john over before Artie was rescued by fellow jock (and new show choir find) Finn. In subsequent episodes, he is referred to as crippled, half a person (as in 5 and a half people), and is generally treated as "less than".

Contrary to all that, I LOVE Glee! It's a great mix of comedy and absurd soap-opera-like drama, with a lovely dash of musical theatre. What isn't to like?

Of course, I get angry when Artie suffers such abuses. But my anger isn't directed at the show; my anger is directed at the real people who inspire these insufferable characters. Because, we all know, they are out there.

As cheerleading Nazi Sue Sylvester, Jane Lynch has the distinct honor of playing the most prejudiced character on the show. It was she who referred to Artie as "and a half" in counting the number of show choir kids. Some critics might find her blunt honesty and political incorrectness refreshing, and, in its own way, it is. I'm sure we've all seen a few Nazi-like cheerleading coaches in our day; Sue revels in that distinction. Let's face it, though: The thoughts she voices about Artie and the glee kids in general are downright disgusting.

But, there are people who think like that. If we're lucky, they are aware enough of how unpleasant their behavior is to be ashamed and therefore keep their attitudes hidden. We aren't always lucky.

If anything, I think the ruder characters of Glee are a great mirror of society. If a watcher gets incensed by Sue's description of Artie as half a person, maybe that will open his eyes to the issues of the disabled community at large.

Frankly, I think it's about time a wheelchair user is a major part of an ensemble like Glee. The fact that he's a high school student is even better! Anyone who used a wheelchair during their high school years knows what a tough road that can be. Not only that, but he's in show choir, universally acknowledged as not exactly "cool."

Artie, as a person, could choose to fade into the woodwork. He could choose to avoid drawing extra attention to himself. After all, chair users get enough unwanted attention as it is. But, he doesn't; Artie does what he loves, the mire of high school hierarchy be damned!

I hope we see some Artie-centric story lines soon. We've seen how tough high school can be for the closeted gay kid. It's time to unearth some of those speed bumps Artie hits.

Scorin' Brownie Points

2009-08-15T14:45:00.002-05:00

Brad Paisley's new video Welcome to the Future is scorin' some serious points here at B&B. Check it out below.

Stupid Should Hurt

2009-08-09T23:12:00.003-05:00

This picture was attached in an email I received - one of those Pray for our Troops type email. I'm all for the troops, but I am so against the people in this photograph.

Does anyone realize that this kind of thinking is exactly why our world is in the state it's in? Honestly, the entire country was being punished by God for homosexuality? Somehow, I don't think so.

That's not the God I believe in. In fact, I'd wager that's not the God most people believe in. He isn't going to mete out disaster to the entire population for the wrongdoing of one. That's like casting us all into Hell, when every Christian will tell you that's not what's going to happen. And, for the record, 9/11 was not an action of God; it was an action of MAN.

It makes me beyond angry to know that there are people in the world like these women pictured. Recently, at Concord Mills Mall in North Carolina, a kiosk owner lost his lease, ostensibly for selling offensive conservative materials. What sticks in my mind is a news image of a protester screaming that the mall found opinions "offensive."

I just wanted to shake her and say, "Guess what, lady! Some opinions are offensive." It's why the general population of the world eschews racism and misogyny, hate speech and the burning of crosses on front lawns.

We've all probably heard the idiom, "I don't agree with what you say, but I'll defend your right to say it." Actually, um, no, I won't. I will not defend your right to label people. I will not defend your right to provoke intolerance. I will not defend your right to verbally attack individuals who do not proscribe to your way of thinking. Why? Because these are not rights. None of the above is outlined in the Constitution or the Bill of Rights. The idea of Free Speech has been perverted into an idea that the world is a free-for-all, where any idiot can spout off at the mouth without consequence!

Don't believe me? Just look at the picture again.

Take a Second "Look"

2009-06-27T10:38:00.003-05:00

Did you hear about this one? Evidently, a London employee of Abercrombie & Fitch was demoted once her bosses discovered she had a prosthetic arm. Apparently, this violates AF's "look" policy.

The employee is suing, thankfully, and she'll likely get whatever it is she asks for. This is discrimination in its most disgusting form. She doesn't look as someone else thinks she should, therefore she is relegated - Quasimodo style - to the stockroom, away from the prying eyes of the so-called beautiful people who frequent the store.

I don't shop AF. I'm not stick thin enough to squeeze into their clothes. But if you do, I hope this makes you want to stop shopping there. Full out boycott! Imagine if you wanted a job with AF but you use a chair or have a noticeable limp or some other visible disability. Do you think you would be hired?

This article lays out the terms of AF's "look" policy. Disabilities and prosthetic arms are not explicitly mentioned, but they clearly would violate the policy's lily-white terms. I find it ironic that the policy wants staff to express individuality, but that the other terms make that virtually impossible.

The doorway to the world of Abercrombie & Fitch is less admitting than the gates of Heaven to a rich man. It is beyond pathetic in this day and age that working retail comes with the same set of visual standards as being a movie star. Of course, an actress with a prosthetic arm probably wouldn't be shunted behind the scenes.

Fragile

2009-06-03T20:48:00.004-05:00

I knew that reading Jodi Picoult's new novel, Handle With Care, would be a rough ride for me, but I didn't expect to begin shedding tears from practically the first page.

Handle With Care focuses on a family whose youngest daughter, Willow, is born with osteogenesis imperfecta (brittle bone disease). Picoult writes from the point of view of several of the main characters, but only from Willow's at the novel's end. While I understand the purpose of this technique - after all, this book is not really about Willow but about the lives she touches - I feel that Picoult missed out on dealing with what could have been a very interesting and complex character.

The book mainly focuses on a lawsuit that is central to the story and the disintegration of the central family from the points of view of the mother, father, elder daughter, mother's best friend and a lawyer. Readers must handle the emotions of these characters - especially the O'Keefe family - as they suffer with Willow through the course of over 70 broken bones in the course of her short life (she is 6 in the book).

What affected me most in reading this book is acutely recognizing the situations that Willow was in. The slightest twitch, an incident that wouldn't faze a "normal" child, is a devastation for her. I've been there. I've broken bones without even moving. I have spent months in body casts, propped up on pillows, desperate to be comfortable. I have watched my friends and family do things I could never even dream of attempting.

I have also gone beyond what anyone ever expected of me. I have not just broken but shattered barriers trying to keep me from having a normal life. I have proved myself intelligent, compassionate, loving and lovable, just as Willow does.

Picoult did an excellent job in expressing the emotions of Amelia, Willow's sister, who feels pushed by the wayside by her sister's disability. I most often cried when reading Amelia's perspective, because she put voice to the way I have often feared my younger sister felt about me. Yes, there is love, but there is also anger, resentment, a feeling of mattering less. Amelia's spiral into depression is a poignant look at what it means to be sibling to a child with a severe impairment.

What Picoult does masterfully in Handle With Care is raise questions that are difficult for us to face: What constitutes a life worth living? What does it mean to a family to have a member with a disability? How does it affect us? The worst - or perhaps best - thing is that these questions cannot really be answered. The definition of a worthy life is different in everyone's dictionary. Families are built differently, some able to handle more than others and more successfully.

It also made me look at my parents differently. If they had had the opportunity to know before my birth about my OI, would they have acted differently? My fear has always been that the answer would be "yes," but really I have no idea. By not writing from Willow's perspective, Picoult missed the opportunity to explore the psyche of the disabled child. I can only speak for myself, from my own experiences, but disabled children carry a lot of guilt. We wonder how our loved ones' lives would be different if we were different. Or, more specifically, not different.

We are well aware of the struggles our families face that they might not if we were "normal." Medical bills, mobility and adaptive equipment. And, non-monetarily, the stress of dealing with a child who has severe medical problems. The fissures that can appear in a marriage. No matter how young, children with disabilities are cognizant when that stress takes a toll. When the fights not about "you" are about "you." We know.

On the whole, Handle With Care is an intimate portrait of a family simultaneously drawn together and pulled asunder by having a member with a disability. It adeptly deals with emotions ranging from unconditional love to blinding anger to the sense of loss when life doesn't happen quite the way we plan.

Personally, I was disappointed by the ending, but can't argue that it was unrealistic. I recommend it, but if you are a parent of a child with a disability, have OI or have been close to anyone who does, I suggest reading with a box of tissues by your side.

Stand Up? Damn Strait!

2009-05-23T13:51:00.002-05:00

I submitted this for publication in my local newspaper, but seeing as how I've received no response, here it is!

You know that saying, “The more people I meet, the more I like my dog?” After the George Strait concert on May 15^th, I have never liked my dogs more!

My sister and I attend a lot of concerts, but this was our first opportunity to see King George in person. It was an event we had been anticipating for months. It was supposed to be an exciting way to start off our summer concert season.

Instead of a great experience to cap off our eager waiting, neither of us can remember more than a handful of songs from Strait’s set, because every few minutes, someone was harassing my sister for standing up at her seat.

We purchased accessible seating in advance and were happy with our spots, even though they weren’t the seats we were used to (down near the stage). My sister is, to say the least, enthusiastic about music; it is her passion. She enjoys her concerts standing up. It is exciting for her, and it is her way of showing respect to an artist, particularly a great like George Strait.

Did she need to stand during the show? No, but does anyone need to stand during a concert? Of course not, but it’s part of the experience. Should someone further away from the stage be expected to forgo a part of the experience because of their seating? No, but the people behind us apparently thought she should.

If these people had approached us nicely, one time, about the fact that their view was somewhat impeded, my sister would have sat down after a few songs. She had planned on doing so anyway, because she is a nice person. But, no one approached us nicely. Their first interaction with us was to throw garbage at my sister. Only after that failed did someone approach us and, not politely request that she sit, but demand it. After that, they complained to five different members of the staff who told us the same thing: My sister was in the right. She was staying within her two-foot-square area and, so long as she did so, she could stand all night if she wanted.

Setting five staff members on us was beyond unnecessary. It was enraging. We don’t respond well to intimidation, these people’s weapon of choice. At one point, a “gentleman” said threateningly, “You’d better not,” which she decided to stand back up after briefly sitting. At the end of the show this same “gentleman” approached my sister and told her she was a “rude bitch.” Another person shoved the chair into the back of my sister’s legs. Silly me; I thought I left high school 10 years ago.

With every fiber of my being I believe, if roles had been reversed and they had been blocking my view, they would have asserted their right to stand in their seats, my problem be damned. My sister is no stranger to the abuse that I am sometimes forced to suffer, so she does her best to be considerate while having fun. She does not bop around like a drunken fool; she does not throw her hands over her head and flail side to side. She compresses herself into as small a package as she is able, while still having her own fun. Had there been a legitimate reason that these people were forced to sit, she would have made a concession. But these people just wanted something to complain about and someone to blame for the fact that their night was ruined.

Their night was ruined because they sought out a way to ruin it. Rather than try and make do with the hand they had been dealt, they spent the night complaining about it. In similar situations, I have been informed that the staff could do nothing to help me and I just had to deal with it. So I did. Annoying, yes, but no reason to miss out on one of the greatest performers of our time.

Someone is bound to say, “She should have just sat down. There was no reason for her not to.” There was no reason to have things thrown at her, be threatened and called names either, but that’s what happened. I’m not sure where these people expected such abuse to get them, but it only made us more determined not to give in to their demands.

What can I say? We’re stubborn.

The Bucket List, Revisited

2009-05-12T22:07:00.001-05:00

As I'm a few weeks away from my 28th birthday, I thought it would be a good time to do some updating. Still lots to do. Check out the original here.

Be an inspiration.
Make a difference, an impact, change the world.
Get a tattoo.
Write a good book. (The quantifier is necessary, because, strictly speaking, I've written a book, meaning a book-length story with a beginning, middle and end, but it is not good.)
Publish a book.
Make someone's day.
Visit London.
Visit Paris.
Fall in love and be loved in return.
Visit Australia.
Figure out what makes someone a true friend.
Be a true friend.
Know my own worth.
Learn to play guitar. (Really. I know a handful of chords now and can totally rock Kumbaya.)
Rediscover what I am passionate about.
Be a good mother. (Maybe. I'm still uncertain on motherhood.)
Visit Amherst, home of Emily Dickinson.
Read as many good books as I possibly can.
Be spontaneous. (This is going to be a toughie.)
Learn patience.
Own a candy-apple red Mustang convertible.
Be kissed, and often, by someone who knows how. (Thank you, Rhett Butler.)

I'll probably add to this list and hopefully I'll be able to scratch stuff off. Some of these I may never accomplish. Some I may accomplish without knowing it. But I'm going to try them all.

What If I'm Not There?

2009-04-19T10:10:00.002-05:00

Here's a question: What do people lean on if I'm not there? Where do they rest their beers? What do they use to haul their drunk selves up from the floor? Do their beers just hang in midair? Maybe they just stay on the floor all night.

It is so frustrating in crowded situations to suddenly feel my chair lean to one side because someone has decided I'm there for his comfort. No person in his right mind would consider doing something similar to a person who wasn't using a chair. You never see anyone resting a beer on the shoulder of a stranger. No one props their weight on another person without being intimately connected in some way. Or, at the very least, totally wasted.

But, if I'm there, it's like everyone has his or her own personal handrail/table/leverage system. I have even had another chair user use my chair to haul himself to his feet. That is, in my opinion, the height of bad etiquette. I can't be the only one this strikes as completely wrong. Surely this guy doesn't enjoy when others use his chair for their own reasons, so why on earth would he do the same to a fellow chair user?

Oh, and I once had someone ask if she could hang her cane on my handlebars. So, apparently, I'm also a coat rack.

I've often compared my chair to essentially being a piece of furniture to emphasize how unimportant it is when getting to know me, the person. However, it is still my furniture. My occupied furniture. The only person's comfort I'm concerned with is my own.

The worst part is, there is almost nothing I can do about it. Sure, I can nonchalantly reach my arm back, to rest on the back of my chair, thereby knocking away the hand that is annoying me. But, I can't sit like that for hours on end. Lately, I've taken to discreetly disengaging my brakes and rolling in whichever direction is best suited to dislodging the offender. Unfortunately, nine times out of 10, the person is so oblivious to the fact that I'm a person, he doesn't even realize I've moved, let alone that he is the reason I've done so.

I have as little respect for these individuals as they have for me. So, if anyone knows how to rig a small electrical charge to wheelchair push handles, I'm all ears.

I Vote Yes

2009-03-26T19:56:00.003-05:00

President Obama has made a lot of news since his inauguration. He's pleased many people and pissed an equal number off. Due to the current state of the economy and the president's stimulus plan, his decision to revoke George W. Bush's ban on stem cell research kind of flew under the radar. It made the news, but I personally didn't see a whole lot of reaction, negative or other wise, aside from a handful of comments arguing over when a collection of cells becomes a person.

That's really not an argument for science to make. Religion can make the best guess, but it is still a guess. No one knows. For all we know a soul may not enter a body until the moment a child emerges from the womb or each individual egg and sperm may contain a different soul. So the arrival of a soul in a human body isn't worth arguing about. We simply don't know and likely never will.

I also find those who are against embryonic stem cell research to be hypocrites. If this kind of research could guarantee a cure for their families or friends, they would be all over it. It reminds me of anti-abortionists who blow up abortion clinics. They are against abortions because they consider abortions murder, but they are perfectly willing to kill doctors, patients and innocent bystanders? Is there any kind of logic in this? Because I don't see it.

I am all for stem cell research. The reality is that this research could potentially solve a lot of medical mysteries. AIDS, cancer, paralysis, and any number of other problems. I could possibly look forward to a future when children would not be born with OI. My life has been great, but I would not want this disease visited upon anyone. I am already afraid that when I fall in love and the time comes for children, the 50 percent chance of my passing on this gene will become 100 percent. I am not strong enough to bear watching a child go through some of what I did. I don't know how my parents managed.

Good call, President Obama. Stem cells could be a major breakthrough in the medical industry. It might even save a hypocrite's life.

QPQ P2

2009-03-07T11:23:00.002-05:00

I am back at last with the (not so) highly anticipated continuation of my "review" of Quid Pro Quo. See Part 1 here.

This time around I'll be dealing with Isaac's romantic situation, as it stands at the beginning of the film. Alas, he's single, but a female colleague is determined to set him up with one of her friends. Because she can see past Isaac's disability to the wonderful person he really is, she has no doubt that her friend will be able to do the same and continually brushes off Isaac's request that she fill her friend in on his situation.

Fast forward to the night of the blind date. Isaac sits at a table in a nice restaurant. In the foreground, an attractive woman stands at the bar, quite obviously his date. As Isaac informs the waiter that he is meeting someone and gives the woman's name, we see her eyes widen with surprise. She turns and...runs. She leaves the restaurant without so much as an introduction to Isaac. When he catches her eye through the window as she is about to get into a cab, she gives what Isaac terms a "someday I'll be a better person" shrug. Somehow, I doubt it.

Now, of course, Isaac takes all this in stride and has dinner solo. Personally, I would be devastated, practically ashamed to show my face in that establishment ever again. I would rush home, eat as much junk food as I could find, meanwhile berating said "date", said "friend" and myself, mostly for being pathetic enough to think that someone could sit down and have dinner with someone they don't know, and look past a difference that is quite obvious.

But, that's just me.

So, who's at fault here? Not Isaac. Not even the date, really, although we'll get to her in a moment. No, the problem started with the friend. Isaac repeatedly told her that she needed to inform her friend that he used a chair. Repeatedly. Obviously, this was something that Isaac wanted her to know, that he thought was important for her to know. And she refused to impart that bit of information.

So, I say this to all my friends: I would love to be set up. Seriously. But, TELL HIM about the chair. Preferably before you even mention him to me. It's one thing to be rejected; it's entirely another to be rejected by someone you've never even met. Why tell him about the chair? One, so I can avoid that tragic deer-in-the-headlights surprised look when we meet. Two, so I can really avoid being Isaac and forced to dine alone. Frankly, it's just good common sense. If there is something about the blind date you've set your friend up on that is going to take him/her aback, it's a good idea to tell them ahead of time. Give your friend time to marinate on it; digest it; deal with it; decide whether or not they are a big enough person to handle something like that (whether it be a disability or something else).

So, let's get to the blind date, shall we? How pathetic is she? She is set up on this date, goes to all the trouble of getting pretty and going to the restaurant, only to bail when she finds out her date uses a wheelchair. What does she think is going to happen if she just has dinner with him? Does she believe he is so pitiful that he will think that one dinner means they're engaged? Is he going to pop out a ring when dessert comes? Be serious: of course not. What does it hurt to have dinner with the guy? You're not leading him on. You're under no obligation to see him again. Hell, it's a free meal! But, no, this woman is so superficial, so lame that she can't even stomach the thought of being seen with someone who has a disability for a couple of hours. She can't bring herself to have a conversation with him because her own ideas about who or what he is get in her way. She gave up on meeting someone intelligent, kind and funny, sure, but there's another consideration here. What if she just walked away from her One True Love because he used a chair? What has she denied herself by turning tail and bolting?

I don't believe that the majority of people are like this woman. But, the fact that her character has a place in the film means that there are people like that in the world. We all know that already, because we've all had to deal with them at one time or another. Those people who are so afraid to open themselves up to a new experience that they deny themselves any experience at all.

I've taken a lot of emotional risks in my search for love. Many of them stupid, most of them caused me pain. Even though I may not look fondly back at those risks, at least I took a chance. Why? Because despite incontrovertible evidence to the lack of its existence, I believe in Love. I believe its out there. I just have to find it.

Jesus for President?

2009-02-24T21:20:00.004-05:00

Out and about today, I saw a van with a handmade sign in its back window reading: "Don't blame us. We vote pro-life, the Bible and Jesus."

That's weird. I didn't see Jesus on the ballot in November. What office is He running for? 'Cause I bet He'll win. Really, if you're betting, it's probably safe to lay your money on the Savior.

Don't get me wrong. I am not trouncing religion or mocking Jesus Christ. I just find it funny that people use religion, not as one source of decision-making, but as their only source of decision-making. In some situations, that's a great way to go. But, in situations like voting, it must be used in conjunction with logic and intellect.

This particular van was plastered with McCain/Palin, Dole and other GOP stickers. What book in the Bible says one must vote Republican? Or that a right-wing vote is a vote for Jesus? Or that by voting left, I'm voting anti-life?

See, here's my problem. People pick a few issues, a handful at most, and use them as a blanket decision-maker or a blanket defense. They vote Jesus so clearly they aren't to blame for the financial crisis or the energy debacle? So only devil-worshippers caused the crumbling economy? Good to know. I'm in the clear.

I know that's simplifying the argument this van was trying to put forth. I can't say I really know what that argument is. I don't understand using religion as a rationalization for the way one votes. There has to be more to a decision of that importance. I guess it just bugs me (ah, the irony) that people simplify arguments in that way.

Big & Filthy Rich

2009-01-31T11:58:00.004-05:00

I'm sure I'm not the first to ponder this, but where did the term "filthy rich" come from? Does it imply that a person has obtained so much money as to make him dirty just by possession? Because, I'll tell you, being filthy rich is the kind of dirt that doesn't wash off.

Yes, the current economic situation has got me down. After all, I don't have that much money to begin with and my interest rates on my meager high-yield savings keep going down. And finding an actual job? Ha!

But what really gets me is the number of filthy rich celebrities who keep speaking out on behalf of the "working man" all the while keeping their money to themselves. I speak particularly of country music performer/producer/songwriter John Rich. Why him? Because he won't shut up and it annoys me.

Now, John Rich may in fact be a very nice man. But his public persona is that of a dick. I'm just putting it out there. And he's a hypocrite, at least as far as I can tell. I recently saw him perform locally and found it ironic as he performed a song called Shuttin' Detroit Down, he was wearing a MONSTER bling of a wedding ring and puffing on a stogy. Oh, and if you know anything about John Rich, you'll know he has a penchant for wearing a pimp-daddy fur coat.

So there he was, complaining about the government sending all these jobs overseas, hurting the American worker. And then I remembered: He was supportive of John McCain in the election. And George W. Bush before him. Interesting, considering how these were two of the parties instrumental in sending said jobs overseas.

So, yeah, I'm thinking hypocrite. Actions speak louder than words, so they say. And I'm likely to take more seriously the fact that you are wearing a fur coat and bejeweled fingers than whatever it is you are blathering about regarding the American worker. Most of the country can't even afford health insurance when they are employed, but I have seen no evidence that John Rich or any other filthy rich celebrity is really doing anything other than talk. At least the ones who are keeping silent aren't being hypocrites. Just jerks.

Hey, John Rich. Put your money where your mouth is. You're so upset that Detroit is shutting down? Invest in a few car companies. Or maybe give some regular guy a job. Or make a donation to any of the many, many organizations that are being stretched even thinner than usual in helping those down on their luck. Don't just talk. And don't blame the current administration. They are just picking up the mess left behind by the man-child you helped put into office. Twice.

In the words of Red Forman, "Dumbass."

Update

2009-01-25T13:18:00.003-05:00

Yes, I know, I've been remiss in my blogging...again. I recently re-enrolled in school (going for an Associate's degree in Web Design & Interactive Media) and that is taking a lot of my time.

Never fear, though! I am getting my schedule in order and will be back soon with the continuation of my review of Quid Pro Quo as well as entries devoted to issues facing the disabled community and an analysis of the historical inauguration of President Barack Obama!

Rest assured, I'm here, just busy.

See you soon!

QPQ, P1

2008-12-16T00:42:00.003-05:00

I recently watched a film, Quid Pro Quo, that I would like to discuss. However, given the number of things about the film I want to discuss, in the interest of brevity, this will be a series of postings rather than a single long-winded one. Because I am not quite sure how to summarize this film, I'll offer this plot synopsis, taken from IMDB.com.

A paralyzed radio journalist, Issac (Nick Stahl), receives a lead into a secretive group whose undiagnosed condition leaves them malcontent with their functioning bodies and wanting to be disabled. One such wannabe, Fiona (Vera Farmiga), agrees to assist Issac with his story only to study him and his paralysis with equal intensity. Their relationship bolsters her determination to be like him, even through extreme measures. Conversely, a pair of wing tip shoes miraculously heals Issac, temporarily inverting their roles of abled/disabled.

Now, obviously, the most disturbing aspect of this film is its portrayal of this "Wannabe" subculture. However, I'm going to save that for later in the series, because I think there are other, perhaps less significant, issues to touch on.

Keep in mind, there are probably going to be spoilers. I'll try not to completely ruin the film, but I figure apologizing up front is the best course of action. So, sorry if I ruin it for you. My bad.

I'm going to start off with some of the syntax used in the film. Now, I know from reading about this movie before seeing it that the filmmakers did quite a bit of in-research in to the culture of disability, particularly spinal cord injuries, in order to be as true to their subject as possible. For this, I commend them.

However, some of the words and phrases coming out of the characters' mouth were things I have simply never heard. The one that really made me scratch my head and say, "Huh?" was the idea of someone being "on a wheelchair," as opposed to the more common "in a wheelchair." Maybe I'm sheltered, but if someone said I was on a chair, I might look at them askance. When I am in my chair, that is just as it is: I am in my chair. Of course, conversely, I don't describe myself as being in a wheelchair. In describing my disability, I say I use a wheelchair. Big difference. But, never have I even considered saying I am on a wheelchair.

It just doesn't make sense to me, grammatically speaking. You sit on a bike, but you sit in a chair. Technically, of course, you can sit on a chair (I am referring to the non-wheeled variety), but it is generally not phrased in that way. All I'm saying is, it confused me.

The other phraseology aspect that didn't sit well with me was the use of "PWD" or, "person with a disability." Now, I'm fairly used to the "AB/non-AB" frame of reference. It's usage is common. Personally, I don't see the need for the labels and acronyms at all! I don't consider myself a "PWD," just a "P". And, oh yeah, I use a chair. In actuality, I think a lot of labels are unnecessary. A label doesn't, or rather, shouldn't, describe a person.

What purpose do labels serve? Hasn't anyone noticed that labels are generally imposed by others? I once said that if I have to be labeled, I'll at least have the dignity of claiming my own. But the truth is, I don't really want any kind of label. I am tired of being referred to as a "wheelchair person" or a "handicapped person" or any of the other trite labels that have come about over the years. Labels reduce a person to a handful of words that may or may not be an accurate description. It completely overlooks that complexity of what it means to be human, to have a spirit and a brain, to have a heart. It reduces an intricate, interesting creation to practically nothing.

Baby, I'm Tired...

2008-11-05T09:07:00.004-05:00

I'm tired of being referred to as a "fire hazard." I'm especially tired of being referred to as a "wheelchair person." Mostly, I'm tired of being treated as less than what I am: an intelligent, competent human being.

As of right now, as far as I am concerned, America consists of only 49 states. Why? Because I hate South Carolina! Why? Because South Carolinians are the ones who have most recently and most blatantly treated me in the aforementioned manner.

On Nov. 1, my sister and I traveled to Ladson, SC, to attend the Coastal Carolina Fair because one of our favorite country music artists was performing. It was our first "destination concert," and we were both tremendously excited. We got up before the sun (literally) and reached the fair at exactly 12 p.m. when it was set to open. Good thing we did, judging by the number of people already there waiting for the gates to open.

Some other people we knew were also attending, so we met up with them and staked our claim in front of the Lakefront Stage. We were early enough to see sound check and chat up members of the band (who totally rock, by the way!). Now, among this group we knew was another wheelchair-user; her daughter had contacted the fair several times before attending to make sure that problems would be minimal regarding the chair situation: Would we be able to get as close to the stage as we could? (Yes, pending artist's approval. They approved; we asked them.) Would our view from the chairs be unimpeded? (They would do their best, which is really all we can expect.)

As I'm rehashing this "adventure," keep in mind that we arrived at the stage a little after 12 p.m. and the show did not begin until 8 p.m. Yes, we sat around for eight hours waiting for a concert, but the fair was not exactly exciting. We sat there for eight hours and dozens, if not hundreds, of fair staff passed us by numerous times.

A few hours into our waiting, we decided it might be best to move up to the stage to guarantee a decent spot there. After all, more and more people were beginning to arrive to wait out the afternoon. And then, it began. As we're sitting and chatting, a couple of state troopers show up to tie a tape barrier at the end of the stage's staircase. Why did it take two people to do this? Because it's South Carolina! The oh-so-charming lady trooper said in a tone so sweet that a few of my teeth rotted that we had better find some seats before it got too late. We politely informed her that we had already done so and she was looking at them. "You can't sit there." "The person in charge of the fair said we could as long as management said it was okay." "The management doesn't have a say in it." (Really? You get to boss around major musical acts? Wow.) "Now, you better find your seats before it's gets too late."

Fine, we moved. And we groused, because the woman was a bitch. Rather than just stating the fact, she had to condescend and patronize because evidently, in South Carolina, a gun and a badge makes you some sort of god. I would think that gods wouldn't wear those stupid ass hats.

Luckily, we hadn't lost the seats we initially claimed, so it's not like we had to move mountains. Then, 7 p.m. rolled around. Apparently, that's when the fair's head jackass makes his appearance because that was the first time Tom Bacchi showed up. Judging by the way he behaved, Tom Bacchi is God of the Lakefront Stage. "Have you arranged where you're going to sit during the show?" "Right here." "No ma'am. We need to keep this area clear for emergencies. You could be a fire hazard." Let me say, for the record, that there is no possible way I could be a fire hazard. If there's a fire, I'm gone. Not to mention there was a solid three feet between me and the stage that was plenty clear for "emergencies."

"The place for wheelchair people is that slab of concrete over there." You mean that slab that looks like nothing except a sewage plant drain? Yeah, that one. The one with absolutely no signage or indication that it's meant for us "wheelchair people?" Yep. You mean that one waaaay over there away from our friends and family, with whom we drove for three hours just to attend this show together? That's the one. Gee, thanks for letting us know.

The two "wheelchair people" among us moved, rather unhappily. After all, we had been sitting there for over seven hours (seven hours!) before Tom Bacchi bothered to mention to us that this was our little corral. We affectionately dubbed it the "leper colony," as that's exactly what we felt like, isolated as we were from the people we came with and singled out as we were in front of the entire amphitheatre to be made to move.

"We've been here for seven hours, Tom, and no one told us we would have to move." "Yeah, I saw you, but people come here and congregate to eat and rest during the fair. I would have had to talk to everyone." "No, only the people you would have shuffled along. IE, me!" "We offer you handicap accessible seating right in front of the stage. There's nothing more we can do!"

Oh, really? How about not talking to me like my IQ is lower than yours, since that is clearly not the case. How about painting that universal symbol of "wheelchair people land" on the drain that passes for accessible seating so that we can identify it? How about having the courtesy to not wait until the last possible minute to let us know you are going to force us to move? I mean, come on! Seven hours we sat there. We didn't leave. I was always in that spot for the entire seven hours. Who congregates for seven hours without some purpose? Buy a clue, they're cheap.

"If anyone gets in your way, you let me know." "Where are you going to be?" "...Over there at the end of the stage." Wait, what? At the end of the stage, about as far away as possible from where I'm sitting? That'll be a lot of help. "There will be troopers up here in front of the stage." Okay, at least someone will be right there for me to grab their attention. And then, God laughed uproariously.

Where were the troopers, you ask. At the end of the stage with Tom, evidently not giving a flying f**k about anyone in the audience. I was crowded immediately and it took a good thirty minutes before Trooper Bitch decided to do something about it. Disperse that crowd, return to chatting up the other idiots with guns. Surrounded again. Oh, almost knocked out of my chair once, which really wouldn't have surprised me given the way things were going. I also wouldn't have been surprised if the band jumped off stage to help me before anyone with the fair even noticed. Maybe I could have gone to the hospital on their bus.

At one point, Trooper Bitch came over to disperse another crowd of people and the woman with me decided to complain because, clearly, the job was not being done properly. To which Trooper Bitch replied: "Ma'am, you've been complaining a lot! I can't work miracles! I'm not God!" Wait, I'm confused. Because earlier you certainly acted like you thought you were God. Oh, and guess what. I'm allowed to complain when I'm being abused repeatedly. Honestly, I have never been treated so badly by so many different people in such a short span of time.

I have been in similar situations before. And I've found the best way to deal with them is to remain calm and use big words. If you get angry, it only gives the people treating you badly more ammunition with which to treat you badly. Because, if you're angry, yelling, flinging your arms around in protest you suddenly become "unstable." Someone who must be dealt with forcefully. If you're calm and use big words, they can't outsmart you. But, on this night, even I was bordering on Redneck. How exactly am I supposed to react when I'm being told one hundred different things by fifty different people? I got screwed so many times that night I'm amazed I'm still a virgin.

On the plus side, Jake Owen was awesome. He put on a great show and he was genuinely sorry for the way we were treated. It wasn't his fault and he had no need to apologize, but he did. As did his drummer, Myron, and his manager. So, thanks, Jake! Please don't go to South Carolina again. Because I sure as hell won't be there.

Reading is Sexy

2008-09-28T13:16:00.002-05:00

Every year, I attempt to address what has become my favorite week: Banned Books Week, this year running September 27 through October 4.

It amazes me that, in 2008, we still live in a society where some people think Fahrenheit 451 is a good plan. The only books that should be banned, in my opinion, are the bad ones. And by "bad" I mean poorly written, edited and/or executed. In fairness, books aren't technically banned; they're "challenged."

Here's what gets me: The currently most challenged book is "Tango Makes Three," a book about penguins! PENGUINS! Why? Because, apparently, it promotes homosexuality as the "parents" in this case are two male penguins. Again, PENGUINS!

I almost cannot express my frustration at parents and authority figures who challenge books. The most I seem able to do is throw my hands in the air and release an angst-laden groan. From the "opposition" to classics like I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings and To Kill a Mockingbird to more current classics such as the Harry Potter series, the reasons behind these challenges befuddles me. Instead of viewing Mockingbird as what it is, an accurate and painful portrayal of a dirty period of American history, challengers insist that it is promoting racism. And Harry Potter is actually an evil series recruiting children to the occult, rather than a fantasy world that allows children to explore the weighty issues of right/wrong and good/evil in an exciting way.

Here's my theory: The challenging of books makes lazy parents seem like good parents. I know, blasphemy! But, it's true. Rather than take the time to explore the issues raised by challenged books, let's just be rid of them altogether! Why not discuss why racism is bad? Why not discuss why real children aren't able to do what Harry Potter is? (Like, why doesn't Alohamora unlock my sister's room, huh?) For my thoughts on HP, click here.

If and when I become a parent, my children will be exposed to "challenged" books from the cradle. Bedtime stories will include, of course, HP, Lord of the Rings, and Wicked, along with more traditional fare such as The Berenstein Bears, precious Golden books and more: In short, all the books that made me the literary aficionado I am today.

And I will explain to these mythical children that, as much as we wish it, no, the world of Harry isn't real, but pretending he is doesn't make you evil. Acknowledging that people look different than you isn't racism, but by not looking at the past, you run the risk of becoming that which you hear people defame. No, I will not let you read certain books until you reach a certain age, but I will not condemn you for seeking out the knowledge they contain.

Do yourself a favor and let go of the stick up your butt. Use your hands to pick up a banned book. But, please, wash them first.

Eeny, Meeny, Miney...Crap!

2008-09-11T10:38:00.003-05:00

It's no secret that I haven't got a clue who to vote for come November. If Hillary Clinton had garnered the nomination, my decision would be easy. (Not because she's a woman, but because I honestly believe she would make an excellent president.) Now that my choices are McCain (or as I've heard him referred to, McSame) who voted over 90 percent of the time in favor of George Bush's decisions or Obama, who doesn't exactly thrill me, I'm at a loss. Of course, I could always vote for Ralph Nader because, really, when has he not run for President?

Frankly, the election process, or rather the campaigning process, in this country is all out of whack. McCain enlists Sarah Palin, self-proclaimed "hockey mom" as a way to win votes from Clinton supporters. The problem is, Palin tries way too hard to prove she is a "hockey mom." And, in all honesty, I could never vote for a woman who names two of her children after an Olympic event (Track) and a high school math class (Trig). That's just wrong.

Republicans and other conservatives celebrate that Palin's seventeen-year-old daughter is choosing to keep her baby, but everyone seems to gloss over the fact that her seventeen-year-old daughter is pregnant. This is a big hint, right-wingers, that the "abstinence only" sex-ed policy isn't working! Who cares that a child is having a child? Who cares that she was not responsible enough to ensure proper use of birth control? Who cares that she flouted your religious views by having sex outside of marriage? She didn't have an abortion! Score!

And then there's Obama; I can't tell if he is just charismatic or if he really means the things he says. I think the campaigning process should do away with speech writers altogether. Let the candidates fly or fail on their own merits. Put enough BS in someone's mouth and they can be elected president. Also, apparently, there was some documentary regarding Obama in which his mother and siblings all talked about what a great guy he is. I don't care if his momma likes him! How does that determine the kind of president he'll be? My mom sort of likes me, but that doesn't mean I should be elected. (Incidentally, I think I would be really good as president, I just don't want the job.)

Religion also plays way too big a role in the election process. I'm not saying it shouldn't play any role, but there was probably a reason why our forefathers instituted a separation of church and state. Religion is emotion- and faith-based. You cannot run a country on faith. You have to have facts. You have to be able to separate the emotional clutter from whatever problem you are facing. If you feel the need to pray to reach your decision, go for it, but don't rely only on that. God gave human beings intellect and free will for a reason, too.

So, I'm sort of flailing here. In the past two presidential elections, it was easy for me: Anybody But Bush. Now I'm thinking I'll go to the polls, close my eyes, point and hope for the best. But I'll state here and now that I support a Trace Adkins-Toby Keith ticket for 2012!

Then, What's the Point?

2008-08-29T22:36:00.002-05:00

I've been catching up on my Entertainment Weekly reading because I am woefully behind. I was flipping merrily along until I came to "The Ausiello Files," which discusses recent developments in the land of commercial television. There was an item in regards to Shane West returning for the final season of ER. As viewers know, season before last, West's Ray Barnett left a wedding drunk got pummelled by a bus and lost both legs, never to be heard from again...or so we thought.

I was already aware that West was returning. Yay! Much love to Shane West! And, admittedly, I was interested to see how they would handle the character's re-immersion in the hospital after his double amputation. According to executive producer Joe Sachs: "He will in no way appear disabled."

Then what was the point? Whatwasthepointwhatwasthepointwhatwasthepoint?! (Imagine me, jumping up and down and screaming, much like a two-year-old in a crying jag.) If the only reason for this little plot twist was so that West could go off and film a movie about psychotic rocker Darby Crash, then why not just put Ray in a coma and have done with it? Why put him through this trauma and then ignore it completely upon his return?

He will in no way appear disabled. Okay, we all know that below-the-knee amputations are probably the easiest disabilities to disguise. (Just ask Heather Mills.) But, really, the guy has been gone a year, he's going to come back with some "state of the art" prosthetics and that'll be that? No sense of the struggle he's gone through? No idea of what this situation would be like in reality? He can't at least trip and fall or SOMETHING? No, he will in no way appear disabled.

Of course, consider who we're dealing with here. This is the show where the idea of a realistic disabled character is Kerry Weaver: a bitchy lesbian who once dated a black man, fell in love with a Latina and then adopted a son. I mean, really, how many archetypes must one person bear?

He lost both legs but he will in no way appear disabled. Am I the only one who sees a problem with this sentence?

Wild Blue Yonder

2008-07-03T23:33:00.003-05:00

I'm doing something really scary in the next week. I, along with my sister, am picking up and moving 500 miles away from home, for no real reason other than it seems like the thing to do. Okay, that's not quite true. My sister wants to try country music, so we're heading to Nashville. But I'm going mostly because it seems like the thing to do.

Some people who love me have made it very clear that they are not happy with my decision. I have heard endlessly that my sister and I will not be able to make it on our own, that we will be unable to do the most rudimentary of tasks like laundry and grocery shopping. We are both educated young women; I think we can figure it out.

But the response that gets under my skin the most is this idea that we are "leaving" them or choosing this strange, new city over them. We all know this isn't true; it's simply a guilt trip made to make us feel like we're making the wrong choice. And maybe we are. Maybe we'll fail miserably in Nashville. But, truly, the wrong choice would be to choose not to try.

Here's the real reason I'm going: Because I must. Staying home would be easy, and I don't mean that in a good way. It would be a cop-out. I have never really lived on my own, other than my time in college, but even that was close enough to drive home every weekend. I've never really known if I could do anything myself because I've never tried. I've never really felt independent because someone was always there, worrying over me, fretting that I would get hurt. My disability never dictated that I live at home so long, not really. But, in a way, it made sense for me to do so. And it made it easy for me to choose to do so.

Staying where I am right now would be acquiescing to a life that doesn't make me happy. In a way, I guess, I'm drowning. And all the offers of help and worry are like bigger and bigger waves crashing down on me, making it impossible for me to reach shore. Staying home would be like giving up and letting myself sink beneath the waves.

I need the space to figure out who I am and what I want in my life. In college, I felt such a sense of myself, away from the oppression of trying to please everyone by being someone else. I've lost that in the years since, falling back into my old ways, not going with the flow but letting the flow drag me along.

I am going into this with my eyes wide open. I know that it's going to be hard, a litany of tedious tasks, a struggle to make ends meet. Initially, homesickness will drive me to physical illness. I'll be looking for a job, going to school, making friends and just trying make a place for myself in this world. I am more scared of this than I have been of anything in my life (and I scare easily). It is also one of the things I am most certain about. I'm not choosing to leave something; I'm choosing to seek something.

One of the things about seeking is that you can't always know what it is you're looking for; you can only be sure when you've found it. I don't know where this path will take me. It may bring me right back to Charlotte. This is what I do know about this particular path: Somewhere along the way I will find a previously undiscovered strength in myself. Somewhere, I will rediscover myself and the things that make me passionate. On this path, my sister and I will forge a bond deeper than blood. Somehow, somewhere, some way, it will be reaffirmed that what I am doing is the right thing.

I know there are people out there who simply don't want me to go. I know that and I understand it. But now, I need it to be understood why I must, for once in my life, choose adventure over safety, choose the unknown over certainty, choose depending on myself over depending on those around me, choose what is best over what is easy.

Believe me, none of this is easy. I will spend many nights looking over my shoulder, wondering if maybe, just maybe, I should give up and go home. Just cut my losses and return to the room I grew up in. I will wonder that and I will know that if I do, I'll never have grown up at all.

The Bucket List

2008-06-22T09:36:00.002-05:00

Coincidentally, I recently watched The Bucket List starred Morgan Freeman and Jack Nicholson. Also, I just had my 27th birthday. Now, while hopefully I'm a long, long, long way from any bucket kicking of my own (knock wood), it seemed as good a time as any to make my own list. I've actually done this several times for school projects and the sort, but nothing quite so public. Maybe the publicity of it all will make it more important for me to stick to my goals. So, here goes, in no particular order.

Be an inspiration.
Make a difference, an impact, change the world.
Get a tattoo.
Write a good book. (The quantifier is necessary, because, strictly speaking, I've written a book, meaning a book-length story with a beginning, middle and end, but it is not good.)
Publish a book.
Make someone's day.
Visit London.
Visit Paris.
Fall in love and be loved in return.
Sell at least one piece of artwork. (Sooner or later, my art will have a web site of its own.)
Visit Australia.
Figure out what makes someone a true friend.
Be a true friend.
Know my own worth.
Learn to play guitar.
Rediscover what I am passionate about.
Be a good mother. (Maybe. I'm still uncertain on motherhood.)
Visit Amherst, home of Emily Dickinson.
Read as many good books as I possibly can.
Be spontaneous. (This is going to be a toughie.)
Learn patience.
Own a candy-apple red Mustang convertible.
Be kissed, and often, by someone who knows how. (Thank you, Rhett Butler.)

I'll probably add to this list and hopefully I'll be able to scratch stuff off. Some of these I may never accomplish. Some I may accomplish without knowing it. But I'm going to try them all.

Apologies

2008-06-09T15:08:00.002-05:00

I know I have been lax in posting lately, but I've been working on a project to get B&B to a more varied audience: self-syndication! I'm in the process of sending proposals to newspaper editors to make B&B a regular column. If you think your paper might be interested, let me know and I'll see what I can do!

I'll be back with more posts soon!

Don't Ruin It for the Rest of Us

2008-05-13T13:09:00.003-05:00

I've been to probably 10 concerts in the last year or so. And, given that they are all in the same genre, it is unsurprising that I see some of the same people over and over...and over. However, there is one girl I see at a lot of shows that just makes me cringe any time she's there.

She has a disability and I am about 90 percent certain that it's the same genetic disability as I have. What bothers me is the milking. She and her parents (for at least one of them is always with her) are professional milkers. They use her disability as a tool for manipulation into getting pretty much whatever she wants.

For example, in the past week I and my sister, mother and a friend won tickets to Dierks Bentley's album release party here in town. This was an invite-only event. The doors weren't scheduled to open until 6:30 p.m. We arrived at 5:15 p.m., thus ensuring that we were the first in line. Because the party location's construction wasn't complete, we had to use a back service elevator which led directly into the venue, so we really were first in line (and inside).

However, an hour later, when this girl and her parents arrived, they gave no consideration to the fact that my group had been waiting around for an hour or better, or to the fact that another guy and his father, who used a wheelchair, had arrived shortly after we did. No, she moseyed her hot pink chair (btw, I don't really get why anyone over the age of 10 would have a candy-coated wheelchair) to where she was happiest and, consequently first in line to meet Dierks Bentley.

The fact that I was second rather than first to meet Dierks doesn't particularly bother me; I got to meet him and didn't have to spend an eternity in line while he met others. However, there is a principle involved here. And even the principle wouldn't get me if this same young lady and her parents hadn't done the same sort of thing previously, at other shows, with other artists.

I've been witness when she ran over everyone in line to get Pat Green to give her an autograph. I've been witness while she and her mother successfully convince event staff that, even though they purchased accessible seating, she really needed to be many, many rows nearer the stage, crowding those of us who paid the extra money to sit up front.

Okay, some concessions need to be made for us wheelchair-users. IE, please don't put your butt in my face if you can avoid it. But, I try not to play the "crip card" unless absolutely necessary. I just want to be treated equally, decently, with respect and dignity.

I don't mean to come across as haughty or holier-than-thou, a risk I realize I am running with this post, but it irks me to know that there are people who use their disability as a tool for manipulation. In using it thusly, these people invite the pity that most of the disabled community doesn't want. And, frankly, it makes the rest of us look bad. This world is already full of people who believe that when individuals with disabilities ask for necessary accommodation, we are really asking the world to bend over backwards to suit our whims. Why go out of your way to prove them right?

A Twist of Fate

2008-04-24T23:07:00.004-05:00

I am afflicted with a disease many of us have. That is, the disease of knowing exactly what we should say in a particular situation much too late to actually say it.

Tonight, for some reason, such a situation has reasserted itself in my mind. It certainly isn't an event I've forgotten, but I tend to go long periods without really thinking about it. You see, my senior year of college, I took an Advanced Composition class in which we read an essay by Nancy Mairs extolling the virtues of calling oneself "crippled." A girl in my class, Angela, took it upon herself to say that any person with a disability who finds offense in being termed a "cripple" simply hasn't accepted their situation. Needless to say, this punctured me to the core and a lot of things were said, none as eloquently as I would like. Neither did I answer some other oh-so-thoughtful comments brought up by other class members. However, in hindsight, as is nearly always the case, I know exactly what I should have said then. And I will say it now. With any luck, someday, Angela might actually read this, recognize herself and realize that, at the age of 20, she had not quite accepted her own ignorance.

Equating referring to yourself as a "cripple" does not make it more likely that you have accepted your situation. That is almost like saying that a black man not calling himself a "nigger" has not accepted the fact that he is black or a lesbian refusing to call herself a "dyke" has not reached full understanding that she is gay. It simply isn't true.
Do not call me bitter. What comes across as bitterness only comes across as such to the people/beliefs I am fighting against. To others, it is passion, forthrightness, a desire for justice. Speaking my mind about the inequalities so prevalent in this world does not make me a bitter person. It makes me an honest person, unafraid to speak her mind, unafraid of what people might think of me if I do so. And, if you continue to insist that I am bitter, at least acknowledge the fact that I have the right to be. The only difference between you and me is a simple twist of fate. It just so happened that, in my mother's uterus, sometime between my conception and birth, one of my genes decided to do a little breakdance and mutate all on its own. There was no reason for it. It cannot be explained. It could have easily happened to you instead of me, but it didn't. I'd like to think that God recognized my spirit for the stronger and therefore gave me this burden and the burden of bringing my message to people like you. In my opinion, bitterness is caused by a lack of reasons. I believe in reason, cause and effect. If you do X, then Y will probably happen. But, in my case, there is only Y.
Yes, I do think it is fishy that the long-running ER character Dr. Weaver just happened to be a tyrannical bitch and a lesbian and disabled by polio. It seems to be too many stereotypes heaped upon the shoulders of one character without it being commented upon. Also, it might be noted that (at least in my recollection) there have been no other homosexual characters on the show, despite the large number of cast changes that have taken place in its 15 years of existence. And, no more disabled characters, though there have been a fair share of tyrants.
Comparing a disability that requires near-permanent usage of a wheelchair to that of a below-the-knee amputee with a near-invisible prosthesis is like comparing apples to hand grenades. Unfortunately, a wheelchair cannot be camouflaged by a pair of jeans or a kicky skirt. I do not get to choose when or if I reveal my particular situation. That is a luxury afforded by the beautiful people like, as you so thoughtfully pointed out, Heather Mills. In fact, no one need ever know that Mills has a prosthetic leg except that she chose to make it known. And, really, the acclaim she got for Dancing with the Stars made it seem as though she had managed to train infant chimps to play all the music for that season on instruments she had fashioned herself. All she did was dance, people. Also, if you find her "hot" (though, God help me, I can't see why), do not find her hot in spite of her disability. Disregard it completely! Disability is not a factor in hotness, or shouldn't be, at the least. And, again, do not lump her invisible situation in with mine and others like mine when discussing attractiveness. If herpes were more visible, you wouldn't get laid either.

04.25.08

2008-04-17T09:28:00.003-05:00

If you are not aware, April 25 is the National Day of Silence, when students protest the bullying of homosexual peers by remaining silent, taping their mouths, wearing buttons or taking a number of other steps to show their support. Around here, in Charlotte, there has been a surprising amount of outcry over this practice, even though this will be the eighth year and such outcry has not been heard before (to my knowledge).

The worst and most absurd thing I have personally heard is an official telling a news reporter that the National Day of Silence is a method of indoctrination into homosexuality. Simply, this woman thinks that the gay community uses the National Day of Silence as a way of "recruiting" new "members." In fact, several people were seeking a way for students who do not "agree" with this protest to have an excused absence from school that day. To his credit, Dr. Peter Gorman, superintendent of Charlotte-Mecklenburg Schools denied this request. If you don't want to participate, fine, but don't take away from the students who choose to do so.

I have heard plenty of people claim that the gay community is constantly recruiting people to join their numbers, but, am I the only one who finds that...again, absurd? Despite arguments to the contrary, no one can force a person to be gay if they are not, or to be straight if they are not. Oh, sure, you can live it, but does anyone enjoy living a lie? And, really, what exactly can the gay community offer to someone who is not gay to make them "cross over"? Unending torment? Constant discrimination? The pleasure of being stigmatized? Oh, maybe it's the possibility of being murdered just for being yourself! Sign me up!

I find this an apt comparison: Choosing to be gay is akin to my choosing to have a disability. Why would I choose that? Life is plenty hard when everything is absolutely perfect. Why would anyone make a choice to make their lives infinitely more difficult? Why choose to be something or someone that puts you at the mercy of the abuse of others? What do you gain by being victimized in this way?

People will throw the few references in the Bible at me, but I simply shrug. I believe in God and my God is a God of love. Love is not a sin no matter what human beings decide. Because only human beings can tell you it is wrong to love someone because of their race or gender or age. (Excluding, of course, pedophilia and similar activities.) Only human beings will accuse others of "recruitment" as a way to hide their fear that their way may not be the only way. And only human beings would look at someone like me and see demonic possession.

So take a day and...shhh.

The Perils of Being a Bookworm

2008-03-31T23:28:00.005-05:00

Earlier tonight I started reading James Patterson's latest "Women's Murder Club" book, 7th Heaven. Being a quick reader and having some free time on my hands, I'm already about 150 pages in. So I'm reading happily along about gory murders and the women who solve them when one scene stops me in my tracks. Actually, it's too small to be considered a scene. Let's call it an incident. Which reads thusly:

...I said so to Claire as she pulled into the handicapped zone right in front of Susie's Cafe.
She looked at me and said, "I am handicapped, Linds. I'm carrying fifty pounds of baby fat, and I can't walk a block without huffing."
"I'm not going to write you up for this, Butterfly..."

For the record, the Claire character is pregnant and a medical examiner, and the Linds(ay) character is a cop. My first complaint: Seriously, JP, you've written, what, a zillion books and you couldn't come up with a less offensive synonym for "handicapped?" How many times am I going to have to beat people over the head with the idea that this terminology is not cool? BTW, neither is handi-capable. View my post on this topic for a more eloquent argument over terminology.

My second complaint: Pregnancy = disability? Since when? That has got to be like the best freakin' disability ever. You get to put on obscene amounts of weight, eat whatever the hell you want, have people fawn over you and tell you you're glowing, and, to top it off, it's temporary. And, in the end, you get to take home an (hopefully) adorable little baby that you (hopefully) were praying for all along. Sign me up. I'll take two.

Sure, pregnancy is hard and a lot of work, but disabling? Not hardly. This excludes, of course, those situations in which the pregnancy is unduly hard on a woman's health or the woman already has some sort of disabling condition made worse by pregnancy. But, an average pregnancy is not disabling. NOT.

I realize that this little gem is just supposed to be a funny moment between two characters. In fact, the majority of readers would skim right over it without a second thought, I imagine. It is offensive to me because it speaks directly to something I am intimately familiar with. I'm sure I've read plenty of books with similarly offensive tidbits that had nothing to do with me and my brain just washed right over them without a second thought. But, frankly, this is going to stick in my craw for some time.

For shame, James Patterson. As a writer, you don't have to save the world, but you could at least have a little respect for those of us who are trying.

Don't Think I Can't Love You

2008-02-08T11:37:00.000-05:00

In what will come as a surprise to absolutely no one: I hate Valentine's Day. And, yes, just because I'm single. But, I've been single for a long time. How long? Is forever long enough? (It is for me.)

Admittedly, I could be a bit more proactive in seeking out a few Mr. Right Nows. I could go to the places where single men in their mid-twenties congregate. But frankly I think I would seem out of place in a strip club, what with all my clothes on and everything. (Oops, brash generalization alert.)

Where does a nice, single, not-completely-disgusting, wheelchair-using girl meet a guy? By happenstance on the Internet? Been there, done that, regret it. Or, perhaps I could pay an exorbitant amount of money to one of several online dating sites to maybe, possibly, odds-are-doubtful meet Mr. Right. For the prices sites like EHarmony and Match.com and their offshoots charge, I want a guarantee and have Mr. Right delivered gift wrapped to my door.

For most of my life, I've thought that my inability to find a guy could be place squarely on the shoulders of said guys. After all, when guys fantasize, a girl-on-wheels is unlikely to pop into their heads. Now, saying that they can't "handle" dating a girl who uses a wheelchair was probably true for my many middle and high school crushes. But as I'm getting older and I'm seeing women in similar (or "worse") situations find love, I'm beginning to think...Maybe it's me.

Maybe I'm putting off a negative vibe. I don't know what it could be, other than shyness. The thing about having no experience is that you have no experience. Flirting is completely lost on me. No, I recognize it when I see it, I just don't know how to do it outside of the romances I create in stories. So, if I try to flirt, I (and possibly anyone within a 100 foot radius) is painfully aware that I'm trying to flirt. Awkward.

Or maybe my standards are too high. I don't think so. I have been told that I only want a guy who is "hot." That maybe I'm not giving other guys "a chance." I'm not superficial, but I'm not willing to settle. Telling me my standards are too high is basically saying, "Take what you can get and don't complain about it." I don't hear anyone telling my non-disabled counterparts that their standards are too high. Am I supposed to settle because I use a chair? Am I not supposed to expect to meet a guy I find attractive and who makes me happy because I can't walk? Do I not deserve what other women take for granted simply because I'm different? Life isn't fair, but give me a break.

Biology tells us that men seek out female partners based on their healthy appearance. IE, child-bearing hips, etc. For all intents and purposes, nature is working against me. (For the record, according to biology, women seek out male partners based on a perception of being able to provide security for them and future children.) The human race has been flouting biology for centuries. Our bodies tell us we're full, we slam down another burger. Our instincts tell us a situation is dangerous, we write it off as paranoia and get on with our lives.

Most of the time, I wish love was like Jack Black's "Shallow Hal." I'm sure I don't look like Gwyneth Paltrow on the inside, but I doubt I look like that bitchy crone character. All I'm saying is, flout biology. I have a lot to offer, as do the other unhappily single men and women in the world that feel they are being constantly overlooked. I may never make someone a trophy wife, but...don't think I can't love.

Heath

2008-01-22T17:58:00.000-05:00

As you may have heard, Heath Ledger died today in NYC. I just wanted to post a little note about it because it is quite sad. Heath is and has been one of my favorite actors for a long time. I hope that his last moments were peaceful and he was not in any pain, and I hope that his death was not related to his former substance abuse problems. (He was reportedly clean for the past year.)

Keep his young daughter in mind, as well as those millions who loved him.

Silence is NOT the Enemy

2008-01-19T21:47:00.000-05:00

This is directed to all those well-meaning yet naive individuals who feel the need to "praise" me on my dexterity in using a wheelchair.

Thank you, but really, stop.

Truly, telling me how well I steer my chair is like my telling you it's amazing you can walk and not fall down. I can tell by your face that you don't know what to say, but you feel like you must say something. Anything. And then, afterwards, you regret it, don't you? You can be honest, we're all friends here. It's that same look we all get when we realize we have said something embarrassing, for example, to a member of the opposite sex we find attractive.

From time to time we all get tongue-tied and aren't sure exactly what we should say in a given situation. But you don't always have to fill that quiet. It really is unnecessary.

It is perfectly fine to inquire if I can make it around a certain obstacle or if a fit is just too tight, but, once I succeed, leave it. I did not just finish a marathon in record time. I simply did what I do. Otherwise it will end up with me saying something like this one day: "Wow, that's a really big step you just took."

Conformity Be Damned

2008-01-16T11:30:00.000-05:00

Happy New Year to all! And on we go...

Conformity is a trap that everyone falls into at one time or another. Usually during those tedious adolescent years, when being accepted by your "friends" is important beyond even the need for oxygen. Being different is a curse, likely to send you to the ranks of wallflower, outcast or freak.

In that way, I guess, having a disability is somewhat of a blessing. From the very beginning, if you have a disability, you know that no matter how you try, you can never really be the ideal you aspire to be. It's impossible. It imposes a limitation of individuality upon you.

I know that I went through a time in my life when I wanted nothing more than to be accepted by the people I deemed worthy of being my friends. I wanted them to like me, to love me, to adore me. I don't know with certainty that they ever truly did. I struggled against my nature to be someone they might want to have around, while always knowing that I was inherently different.

Certainly I was different physically due to my disability, but my mindset, my priorities and my desires were also different. As much as we wish it, our disabilities are not limited to the physical realm. They do not define us, but they do shape us. Call it the Square Peg Round Hole phenomenon.

I tried to smooth my corners to fit into said round hole, but it was a painfully tight squeeze.Then, I thought something was wrong with me. Now, I am grateful that I could never be more or less than who I am. I don't love being obviously different, but I like being an individual. I enjoy not conforming to the standard of a genteel Southern belle. I enjoy the fact that not everyone agrees with me or my choices. I relish in knowing who I am and knowing people who appreciate me all the more for it.

Headfirst Down The Rabbit Hole

2007-12-10T12:57:00.000-05:00

I think it's a fairly common conversation/thought process that a person with a disability has. If a pill were available to suddenly make you "normal" (whatever that means to you), would you take it?

It seems that nine times out of 10, a person with a disability will say "No," along with some variation of, "Then I wouldn't be the person I am." When people ask me that question, I don't just say "Yes," I say "HELL YES!"

It's not that I think the non-takers are lying. It's just that I think they are...well, okay, I think they're lying. I guess if they admit that they would choose the pill that take them down that rabbit hole, they feel they are denying who they are and, also, an entire community of people.

I don't really understand that. After all, my disability doesn't define me, so how can wanting to not be disabled mean denying myself? I wouldn't expect not to change; after going from the life of a wheelchair-user to the life of a ambulatory person is a big difference. And vice versa. Even so, I think, at my core, I would remain who I have always been.

Let's carry this rabbit hole metaphor on in referencing The Matrix, which introduced the whole idea of a red pill/blue pill and going down said rabbit hole. Once Neo is extracted from the matrix and is introduced into the real world, he changes. Of course he changes. Everything he has ever known has been ripped out from under him. But does how much of that change is simply him being introduced to a different part of himself? A part that he has never known.

Frankly, I don't think of myself as being disabled. It's weird, but my mind just doesn't correlate with the truth of my body. There are times when I forget about my chair. For example, sometimes, I'll be getting out of my car, putting my chair together and there will be a moment when I think, "You know, if I just got out, I could totally walk." I know that that's a part of my consciousness trying to break through. It's a part of my mind that I don't have access to because my body can't work that way.

I read a quote from Pete Wentz of Fallout Boy the other day where he said something like there's a part of him that always wants to be the minority and always wants to be fighting back. Only someone so far removed from the minority would make such a statement. I have no problem fighting for my rights as a person with a disability. I have no problem taking people to task when the need arises. I have no problem making sure my voice is heard when I feel an injustice has been served or a change needs to be made.

Still, I wish it were different. I wish I were different. My life hasn't been so bad, especially compared with others. That doesn't mean it couldn't be better. So you can take as many blue pills as you want and go back to the way things always were. As for me, I'd cannonball into that rabbit hole.

Just a brief post

2007-12-10T01:36:00.000-05:00

Click the new link, "Moto-Z" under Check This Out to see an awesomely inventive new way to get around. If you see the potential like I do, pass it on!

What game is REALLY being played?

2007-11-22T00:17:00.000-05:00

I've been somewhat remiss in posting and for that, I apologize. It isn't that I didn't have anything to write about. It is that I had so much I wanted to say, it all got jumbled in my head. Hopefully, I'm finally making sense of it now.

Question: How many out there really care about high school football? I, for one, don't. Unless it involves the Dillon Panthers, because Friday Night Lights is an excellent show.

That being said, I care enough about high school football to want my alma mater (Butler High School of Matthews, NC) to kick serious butt during the season, especially against our arch rival, Independence High School a.k.a. the Big I, or, as I oh-so-lovingly refer to it, the Big Idiots.

For me, this issue isn't just about football. I attended Independence in my sophomore year. Butler opened when I was a junior; I'm a member of the first graduating class from Butler. My sophomore year was HELL. I don't know how I can more clearly emphasize the word "hell." The then-principal, Rick Hinson, and his staff didn't give a rat's ass about anyone not on the football team or in the International Baccalaureate program, of which I was neither. Independence is in my top 10 list of inaccessible places, which is saying a lot considering how many inaccessible locations I've been to. What made it worse was the fact that they didn't care.

To enter the front of the school, you must traverse a steeeep hill, which is impossible to do alone in a manual wheelchair. I'm not so sure I would have been able to get an electric one up it on my own, either. We made that issue known to them in the summer before school started. Nothing was done until December. The school's elevator was often broken down and the lock to operate the elevator is inaccessible to anyone of wheelchair-height. (Short people are screwed too.) In addition, the path I had to take to the mobile classrooms was a prime flooding area. After a rain, there would be a mud hole an inch thick that made it ridiculous for me to even try to get through. (Oh, there was another way. Another steep hill, which caused my paraplegic friend to go ass over teakettle out of her chair on the first day of school.) So I missed a lot of classes simply because I couldn't get there. It's amazing I passed 10th grade.

The auditorium was completely inaccessible as it was in the basement. The school once held a dance for some British exchange students, which I was really excited to go to. My mom double-checked that the dance would NOT be in the auditorium. She and I arrived to the sound of crickets chirping. And music wafting from the auditorium. I was...I was going to say devastated, but pissed is more like it. Also, yearbooks photos were taken in the auditorium. This meant a photog had to set up in the "mall" area just for me. When a complaint was made about singling me out this way, a staff member said that it was just the same as driving my car with pedal extensions. Weird, I don't see the connection seeing as how when I'm driving no one sees my wheelchair or my pedals, but everyone knew that photog set up JUST FOR ME.

By the end of that school year, none of the administrative staff would speak to me. They would pass me in the hallways and give me the cold shoulder. I believe that if not forced to by law, my teachers wouldn't have acknowledged me either. Same goes for my "friends." When Butler was first proposed, I was adamant about not wanting to leave the people I had gone to school with since 7th grade. But, Butler is one level. Completely accessible. It allowed me to be completely independent. I didn't have to have someone with me at all times to make sure I could get on the elevator. There was no need for me to worry about an elevator working, because there was no elevator. By the summer before my junior year, I was ecstatic to get out from under some Big Idiots.

Unfortunately, my "friends" thought I was abandoning them. They didn't care that the staff treated me horribly, while the principal and staff at Butler were eager to do anything to make my transition easier and my independence (irony noted) readily available to me. They did not care about the emotional upheaval I went through in deciding to transfer. I guess I shouldn't be surprised; that's how it is for all 15- and 16-year-olds: "Me, me, me." Even so, I was surprised to learn, a few years later, that they had decided to drop me as their friend because I transferred. What saved me? Flipping my chair my senior year and being bedridden for six months.

Transferring high schools was the best decision I think I have made thus far. Or at least top 3. The best education I got came in transferring schools. I learned what it means to have real friends. I learned what it means to not have to cling to someone for every little thing and how great it feels to know that you can depend on yourself. I learned that there are a lot of Big Idiots in this world who really don't care about anyone or anything that doesn't cater to their own personal interests (I'm looking at you, Hinson.). I also learned that there are just as many people as Joel Ritchie and his staff who really want to try and do the best for students. My sister attends Butler now. All I have to say is...BULLDAWGS!

Wow, that's kind of a long tangent to get where I was going. Clearly, I hold a lot of personal animosity toward Independence High School. And it certainly isn't unearned. But, it has nothing to do with my annoyance at Big Idiots' football team and coach, Tom Knotts. We are smack dab in the middle of playoffs here and last week, my 'Dogs lost to the Patriots (no offense to New England fans, but what the heck kind of mascot is that?!). It doesn't hurt quite as much since two weeks before Butler defeated Big Idiots for the first time in 8 years. In the past few weeks a lot has come to light about CharMeck athletics. A South Mecklenburg High School student admitted that he did not technically live in the proper zoning area to attend South Meck and the school was forced to forfeit not just their spot in the playoffs, but their entire season.

Now, last week, just before the game against Butler, a major Idiots player was discovered to not only not be living in the proper zoning area, he wasn't living with a legal guardian or even a family member! In fact, the guy admitted that, not only had Independence football players lived with him in the past (illegal), but that he didn't even know the current student's family. That player sat out last week's game, which is why Independence did not have to forfeit against Butler. Interesting, since South Meck was forced to forfeit everything.

The CharMeck athletic director, Vicki Hamilton, defends Independence, stating, repeatedly, "It is not the same situation." Sounds like a mirror image to me! Until tonight, it was "questionable" whether Independence would be allowed to continue playing in the playoffs or would have to forfeit the season. As a surprise to ABSOLUTELY NO ONE, Independence was not penalized.

Does anyone know where I can buy Vicki Hamilton some cojones? She needs to grow a pair if she is going to direct the entire school system's athletic programs. Now that it has "come to light" that Big Idiots are not following the rules, it's time to "reconsider" the rules, according to the Vickster. Wow, I hope the next time I break some rule, they "reconsider" the rule for me. If they will, I'm about to go on a spree!

I say "come to light" in the mocking air-quotes manner I used because it has been widely known for years and years that Independence illegally recruits players for its football team. Big time player Chris Leak? They set his family up in a new apartment so he could attend the school. (Or that's the rumor perpetuated by reputable sources.) They have even tried to recruit Butler players (my sister is friends with the sibling of such a player), who refused. Showing both parties to have excellent taste.

Everyone knows and no one does anything. They let Independence continue to make a mockery of the school system. Why do we even have other schools in the system? Let's just let Independence be some kind of dictator over them all, because that is exactly what is happening. The school system is allowing ONE SCHOOL to dictate the procedures for the entire system. It's like those parents who let their bratty three-year-old rule the house. Eventually, it's going to come crashing down around their ears.

The best thing I can say about high school football and other sports is that it gives students an opportunity to attend high-end universities that they might not otherwise have to chance to attend. In Utopia, it would also give them a sense of what it means to be a graceful winner and loser, what it means to be a part of a team, the meaning of sportsmanship and the true value of games in the real world. But, we don't leave in Utopia. We live in Independence country, run by a bunch of Big Idiots.

I'm hoping for an uprising. Where my bulldogs at?

Holding Out For A Hero

2007-10-21T12:46:00.000-05:00

A couple of weeks ago, the local news feature a military vet who was injured in Iraq. He was in the midst of undergoing several operations and, as a "thank you" for his service, he was given the opportunity to attend a NASCAR race and meet his favorite driver. It completely slips my mind as to the vet's name or the driver he met. What sticks with me is that he considered this man his hero and compared driving in a NASCAR race to fighting a war in a foreign country.

Am I the only one who hears the sound of crickets chirping in stunned silence?

How is climbing into a car that goes nearly 200 miles per hour for millions of dollars even comparable to leaving one's family behind for months on end not knowing if you will ever see them again? Is the potential threat to one's life in a race car anywhere near equal the threat soldiers face on a daily basis?

When you're a little kid, it is perfectly fine to consider a race car driver or a football player as a "hero." When you're a grown man risking your life for the sake of your country, it is not. A role model, possibly, but certainly not for the act of driving a car around a track. It makes me wonder who made this man feel so lowly about his profession. It is different to be humble and modest. I don't believe it is modesty that made this man compare his favorite driver to being a solider.

Unfortunately, our idea of "hero" has become drastically convoluted. It has gone from meaning a person who does something considerably admirable to someone who makes a lot of money or owns a big house. I am not faulting that man for his choice in who to admire. After all, that's his prerogative. It does, however, pain me to know that this man does not value his own sacrifices above that of a NASCAR superstar.

Let's face it, it is this kind of thinking that allows actors to make millions while teachers are pulling money out of their own pockets in order to give their students what they need.

In response...

2007-10-11T16:10:00.000-05:00

On the message boards of country artist Jake Owen was this message, referring, in part, to me. (Mistakes are not my own.)

I AGREE JAKE WAS ALITTLE TIPSY BUT HE HANDLE HIMSELF VERY WELL.AND TOO THE LADIES IN THE WHEEL CHAIRS. WE WERE STANDING AND STILL WEREN'T ABLE TO SEE THAT END OF THE STAGE.THEY SHOULD HAVE GOTTEN THE GUARD TO MOVE THEM TO THE MIDDLE SO SEE COULD SEE BETTER INSTEAD OF PUSHING PEOPLES ARMS AND TRYING TO RUN OVER THERE FEET. THEY WAS JUST DOWN RIGHT RUDE.
SO I HOPE THE NEXT TIME YOU GO THE CLUB YOU TAKE YOUR RULES WITH YOU AND MAKE SURE YOU ARE MOVED TO THE MIDDLE OF THE STAGE AREA SO YOU CAN SEE BOTH ENDS.LOVE Y JAKE,DM

And here is the response I posted. Enjoy!

Normally, I wouldn't even bother replying to certain posts, but frankly I just can't help myself. To CRRfan, who says I and the other disabled person near me were rude at the Coyote Joe's concert, um, what? Since when is it rude to want minimally decent treatment in a public venue? Since when is it considered rude to not want someone's butt in my face for three hours?

Also, I can't believe you would assert that someone was intentionally trying to injure you by rolling over your feet. With the way people were packed into Joe's, there was no room to intentionally run over anyone. If your feet were run over, then it was likely because you were standing improperly near the chair or, more likely, you were attempting to step over the chair to get nearer the stage.

I don't want "special" treatment because I use a wheelchair. I just want to be able to enjoy being at a concert without having to fight for a view because certain people (no one in particular, just a generalization) have no concept of propriety or civility. I realize that some people view my wheelchair as an obstacle to their lives and would rather I just not impose myself upon society by locking myself in my house and living like the Unabomber for the rest of my life. That is not going to happen. If fighting for fair treatment by whatever means get the message across means I will be identified as a b*tch, then so be it. Unfortunately, after using a wheelchair for 26 years (my entire life, by the way), I have learned that some people don't hear anything but "rude."

I know where you were at the concert and I also know that it was difficult for everyone on our end to see the end of the stage with Keith Anderson et al. However, does the fact that I use a wheelchair make it okay for someone to step or climb over me to improve their view? Does my using a wheelchair inhibit me from doing the same? Am I not allowed to gently push someone to the side after they impose themselves upon me? Because if you are and I'm not, that's a double standard of the worst kind.

Like I said, I have no real qualms about you thinking I'm rude because I don't fade into the woodwork and let the bipeds in the world climb all over me.

And, as an English major, message boards affect my sensibilities. Ack!

Regret...

2007-10-02T11:12:00.000-05:00

Anyone who really knows me knows that I have been dealing with clinical depression for nearly 10 years. For the first few years, it would definitely be considered "suffering." My depression didn't manifest itself in bouts of lethargy or long faces. My depression is characterized by extreme anger and furious crying. At its height, my wrath could be triggered by almost anything. Most of the times, by some perceived slight.

I admit all this to provide a framework for what I consider to be my biggest regret thus far in life. It lasted less than a minute, was more than a few years ago and yet it haunts me continuously. Rationally, I understand that what I did was a byproduct of a depressed and angry state of mind. It wasn't something I would normally even consider doing. Imagine, yes, consider, no. But, I enjoy being in control. The fact that I could not control my anger, my crying, my depression embarrassed me. I could break down any time, any where.

If you're expecting some titillating tale of a sex-capade, you're going to be sorely disappointed. If that was the case, I might not even regret it. At least then I would have gotten something out of the deal. (I hope.) But, alas, my life is not that exciting.

I was at the mall with my family and someone (I don't know who) did or said something (I don't know what) that sent me into a depressive spiral. And when I spiraled, I went down fast. I sped away from them, tears streaming down my face, my blood bubbling. In the midst of the clothing racks, I heard two little girls say something along the lines of, "She's so little." And I blew.

Like Mount Vesuvius.

I turned on them and bellowed, "You know it's not nice to talk about people when they're right there!" Or something equally heartless. My brain was screaming, "No, no, no!" but I couldn't stop myself, even if I had really wanted to.

The likelihood is that this has affected me somewhat more than it did those girls. They probably thought, "Hey, watch out for the crazy crip!" and moved on with their lives. But, I will never feel good about what I said and the way I behaved, even if the rational side of me says, "It's not entirely your fault." I regretted it almost as soon as I did it, but I didn't have the presence of mind to apologize. I was still too angry, too worked up over whatever it was that had set me off in the first place.

I'm probably giving myself too much credit in hoping that I didn't "scar" them for life. I doubt I had that much of an effect on them. In their place, I probably would have made fun of me for a few hours and then something else would have distracted me. Still, it hurts me to think that maybe, possibly, I screwed with their psyche and somehow gave them a complex regarding people with disabilities.

Like I said, I will never feel good about that particular incident. I will never be okay with the fact that I behaved the way I did. But, it's in the past. That's the problem with regrets. As many times as I relive it in my mind, speeding past those girls and their thoughtless comments, that will never be the way it happened.

Health-scare

2007-09-22T14:50:00.001-05:00

There are times when I want to blog about a particular subject, but I hold off because I'm concerned that I won't be able to make my point effectively. This is one of those posts.

With the presidential campaign in full swing, health care and the medical industry are topics beyond hot. Look no further than the spectrum of reaction to Michael Moore's Sicko to know exactly how serious citizens, politicians and medical professionals take the current state of affairs in the medical industry.

A lot of people advocate this idea of universal health care, like in Canada and Europe. In theory, this is a great idea. After all, millions of hard-working Americans are without health insurance because their employers do not provide it and they cannot afford an individual and/or family policy. Several critics lay the blame for this squarely upon doctors and the rest of the medical profession. Ill-placed, at best.

It is undeniable that medical procedures are ridiculously expensive and that costs are rising on an almost daily basis. However, in taking a good look at the entire medical industry and all the industries surrounding it, it seems clear to me that -- if someone must shoulder the blame -- the insurance industry is really at fault.

From the advent of PPOs and the dreaded HMO, insurance companies' number one concern has been how they can make the most amount of profit while expending the least amount of money and avoiding as many lawsuits as possible. Insurance companies (not doctors) decide if a procedure is "voluntary," even if said "voluntary" procedure could ultimately save a life. Because of limitations put in place by insurance companies, doctors' hands are tied in what they can offer there patients. And, because of the aforementioned PPO and HMO plans, patients may not actually be receiving the best care possible because they cannot find a doctor who meets their needs. At least, not without going "outside the network" and paying the substantial difference in cost.

Now that genetic testing has become so popular, insurance companies have further ammunition against patients in the form of "pre-existing conditions." Lucky for me, because I live with my parents, I am able to remain on my father's work insurance policy as a "disabled dependent." Should I move any time in the near future, I am screwed. I will likely be dependent on Medicare/Medicaid, which has its own set of problems. Why? Because I have a pre-existing condition, Osteogeneis Imperfecta, which means that at any given time in the future, I might need an expensive medical procedure. The operative term is, obviously, "might." With genetic testing, anyone who has the potential to develop a serious illness could be classified as having a pre-existing condition, making them essentially uninsurable.

In reality, the medical care available in American doctors' offices and hospitals is the best in the world. We have the best technology, the best schools, the best doctors and the best future doctors. Students come from around the world to study in our medical schools. Yet, the only people who truly benefit from these marvelous conditions are the ridiculously wealthy. Average people, like you and me, are relegated to taking what we can get from whomever we can get it from. If our doctors feels we should have one procedure or another, it must be okayed by the insurance company. The business of the insurance company is not medicine, it is money. They make their decisions based on the cost-effectiveness of a procedure, not its medical effectiveness.

The real problem is lack of monopoly. Insurance companies are not truly competing with one another because medical treatment and basic health care are non-negotiable human needs. As some time or another, everyone is going to need to visit a doctor. Whether they will or not depends on whether they can afford it.

By no means am I suggesting there are no problems with the medical profession. God knows I've dealt with far more than my fair share of idiot practitioners. But, if this country can get insurance companies to stop trying to police medical procedures, we would be healthier, happier and more whole.

Celeb-u-not

2007-09-11T12:40:00.001-05:00

Another tangent today: celebrities and how much they are getting on my very last and final nerve.

Whoopi. Hmmm, B. Walters thought she was getting a less confrontational co-host after Rosie O'Donnell left The View, but really, Whoopi Goldberg is just stirring up a whole mess of trouble. Not that it's made big news. Goldberg alleges that Michael Vick (football star and dog fighting aficionado) really didn't know that dog fighting was "wrong," per se, because it's part of his Southern culture. If by "Southern" she means "Hell," then, I'll buy that. Dog fighting has never been an acceptable part of Southern culture, at least not as long as I've been Southern. Which has been, like, forever. She compared it to cock fighting in Puerto Rico. I certainly hope some Puerto Ricans got annoyed by this, because I'm sure the number that do not find cock fighting entertaining outstrips the number of those who do. I hope. Dog fighting -- or the fighting of any animals -- is not an acceptable part of Southern culture. Here's what I think: If Vick was white, no one would have tried to defend his actions by claiming it to be part of his culture. But, because he's black, for some reason he needs a scapegoat. I don't consider myself a racist person, but this defense smacks of racial prejudice. Vick can't be responsible for his actions, so let's blame the culture he grew up in. Doesn't fly with me.

Kanye. Will someone please, please, please, please, PLEASE make Kanye West shut the hell up? The way this man talks, you don't know whether he's speaking from his mouth or his ass. One in the same, if you ask me. His latest tirade is against Britney Spears (more on her in a bit) and the MTV Video Music Awards. Apparently, West felt he "deserved" the opening slot on the VMAs and is more than a little perturbed that it went to Brit instead. Seriously, Kanye. Man up. Stop being a bitch and whining about it being because your "money ain't right" or your "skin ain't right." Here's the deal: Are the ratings going to be higher because Kanye West opened the VMAs or are the ratings going to be higher because people are tuning in to see Britney Spears crash and burn? If you answered "B," congratulations, you win! Spears' comeback has set tongues wagging for months. Any body with half a brain could see that it would be in MTV's best interest to start off the show with what was destined to be a water cooler-worthy performance. So, Kanye, I'm aware that you had some sort of accident that knocked all sense of inhibition and tact out of your head and also made me you think you are God's gift to the music industry. Gimme a sledgehammer and let me straighten that out for you.

Britney. Oh, Britney. Ooooooooooooh Britney! By now, everyone has at least heard about your fateful opening performance on the VMAs. If you haven't watched it, don't. It is so bad. Painful, even. Even if you never were a Britney fan (which I wasn't), this performance just makes your heart break. Amid the laughter, of course. Clearly, this girl has something very, very wrong going on inside her head. If she's taking drugs or drinking excessively, I don't know, but she's doing something that is screwing with her. I heard the founder of TMZ say something to the effect that Britney before was being controlled and manipulated and that her recent behavior is her way of "breaking out." Please, someone, put her back in before she seriously damages herself. Her career, it seems, is already gone. There was still hope before Sunday night, but her MTV set sealed her fate as far as the music biz is concerned. She was lip-syncing, of course (no one would expect anything more), but even she gave up before she was even halfway finished with the song. She barely tried to dance, by the end she couldn't even keep the beat. Clearly, someone convinced her that this would be a good idea. Even more clearly, she was not ready mentally or physically.

Sarah. Sarah Silverman, say what you want about Britney. But, leave the children alone. They are babies. You must be scraping the bottom on the comedy barrel.

What should we call condition of foot-in-mouth?

2007-08-27T13:18:00.000-05:00

On Friday, August 24, this lovely gem ran in my local newspaper's "Letters to the Editor" section:

`Retarded'? Yes, word communicates clearly
In response to " `Retarded'? Surely you mean `mentally disabled' " (Aug. 20 Forum):Once again someone wants to strip language of its purpose: communication.
When I need to accommodate a physically disabled person, it's useful to know whether that person is crippled, deaf or blind. Likewise a person who is retarded, schizophrenic or depressed needs tailored consideration.
Word huggers, unite! Save our language from being verbally disabled.
Ann Williams

Of course, as soon as I read this, I booted up my trusty laptop and fired off an eloquent response to the paper's editorial staff. While I wait to see my name in newsprint, let me tell you what I really think of Ms. Ann Williams.

What the hell is she thinking?

No, really. Okay, when you write a letter to the editorial forum of the newspaper, you can't put down on paper all the things you really think about the person or issue you're responding to, because that number of expletives generally won't be printed. I was seething after reading Williams' letter, so it took me a good three tries to get something acceptable on paper that also showcased my command of language as well as my indignation at her assertions. Because what I really wanted to say is unsuitable for printing.

First of all, I would really like to know how old Ann Williams is. (BTW, I hope she Googles herself regularly, because I intend on using her name often in this post. Ann Williams from Charlotte, NC.) Words such as "crippled" and "retarded" are antiquated at best. If you're in your mid-twenties, as I am, you probably remember a time when, in elementary school, you would use the word "retarded" in response to something stupid one of your friends did. Also, like me, you probably never considered using this word as a descriptor for someone with a mental disability. While once vogue for describing someone with diminished mental capacity or developmental delays, "retarded" as become an offensive term, not taking into account the variances among different levels of mental disability in the world. It is a blanket term now used almost exclusively in order to offend someone.

Same with "crippled." I've dealt with my detestation of this particular word in an earlier post, but let me reiterate: I HATE THIS WORD. I know a few (a VERY few) people who use this term to define themselves in the disabled community, but for the most part, its use by the non-disabled is not tolerated. Personally, I find "crippled" to be equivocable to the word "useless." Moi? Useless? Say it ain't so.

Okay, it ain't so.

Sure, I know of some who have limited use of an extremity and therefore refer to it as their "crippled limb." It's rare, however, to hear it. To denounce someone who is physically disabled as being "crippled" is practically akin to slapping a scarlet "U" to their chest: "You are crippled, therefore withered and totally without merit and are just taking up space."

My dear Ann Williams, neither of the terms "retarded" or "crippled" is an accurate description of the people you are trying to pigeonhole. Also, you are enormously mistaken in counting schizophrenia and depression as mental disabilities. These issues, and others like them, are classified as mental illness. They can be treated with medication whereas developmental delays, etc., cannot. Certainly, untreated depression can be disabling, but it is not a disability. It is a fine line between disease and disability, but if you are so concerned, Ann Williams, with the correct usage of language, you should check your own dictionary first.

The Only Thing Better Than Hairspray (Hairspray, wow!) That's Me

2007-08-14T23:04:00.000-05:00

The thing I love most about the latest incarnation of John Waters' Hairspray (aside from John Travolta playing a woman) is the film's theme: Diversity is beautiful.

Even though Hairspray (starring Travolta, Christopher Walken, Nikki Blonsky, etc.) is not an "emotional" film by any stretch of the imagination, there are certain moments watching it when I got a little teary. (Okay, maybe my meds were just wearing off, not the point.) Honestly, who can't relate to Tracy Turnblad? She has big dreams but is being held back by the judgments people put upon her. She knows she's beautiful and talented, so why can't anyone else see it? The cutest guy in school. The popular girls on The Corny Collins Show. Even her own mom has to be convinced of her daughter's potential.

Why? Because she's fat.

But she's not just fat. She's all those other things too: beautiful, funny, talented. Unfortunately, she gets shoved into a fat box. Just like I get shoved into a disabled box, even though that isn't my definition of myself. I don't deny it or ignore it. Nor does Tracy deny or ignore her heft. She accepts it, but doesn't allow it to hinder her in any way. She becomes famous and she lands the hottest guy in school, stealing him away from the oh-so-perfect Amber, causing all us "normal girls" to cheer our hearts out. (Inside, so as not to embarrass ourselves at the movie theatre.) And, really, when Link sings, "I love you, Tracy, no matter what you weigh," don't we all think, "Where the hell was that guy when I was in high school?" I know I do.

I know it's only a movie. And then a play. And now a movie again. Point is, it's fiction. People do not burst into song every five minutes in real life (although they should). But, in my opinion, this is what a good movie does. It causes you to expect more from real life. For heroes to be more heroic, lovers to be more loving, fantasy to be more fantastic. Because, if art imitates life, shouldn't life be...more artistic?

So, I'm thinking...Hairspray on wheels. I can't write music or lyrics, but I can put together a good story. I'll be the star, because I'm writing the damn thing, and my "Link" will be way hotter than Zac Efron (although he's pretty yummy, and I can say that because he's legal). He also won't be named Link, because, really, what were his parents smoking?

I digress. Instead of fat, "Tracy" (because, duh, names will be changed) uses a wheelchair, which, in case you haven't noticed, can get you a few cold shoulders and not nearly enough...never mind. It certainly wouldn't get you invited on any popular local cable daytime television shows, no matter how well you can bust a move. And there is a dearth of people with disabilities in popular television and film. Why can't the hot guy fall for the smart, funny girl who just happens to be sitting down? Why can't she dance on TV? Dancing isn't all about the feet.

Why is a wheelchair scarier than fat or black skin? Why is it worse? WHY HAS NO ONE WRITTEN A MUSICAL ABOUT IT????

Books, Books, Glorious Books!

2007-07-23T23:38:00.000-05:00

Hmmm...While I always have much to say about having a disability, today I want to focus on one of my other passions: BOOKS! I am a certified, card-carrying bookworm. I own more books than just about anything else, and have even been keeping track of all the books I have read since the summer of 2001. (That probably bumps me from mild-mannered bookworm to serious geek, but oh well.)

As I am sure everyone is aware, Harry Potter has just completed his last adventure in the popular series and those are the books I'm going to be talking about. So, caveat emptor: If you have not read through Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, stop reading this post immediately! I am not going to reveal any "major" plot points, but I will be discussing one particular twist that may, in fact, ruin the suspense for you. So scamper off, finish the book and come back and read me later.

In knowing how much I love books, it must also be made known that anyone who tries to censor certain books or certain authors rubs me about as well as fingernails rub a chalkboard. I hop aboard my soapbox every year when Banned Books Week comes around and encourage everyone to read these books deemed "inappropriate." In looking at the 100 most banned books, I would venture to guess that I have read approximately half of the list and a number of others that crop up on each year's top 10 banned books list. In my opinion, "banned" or "contested" books are the books to read. Because if a book is being contested, it generally means that this book is powerfully written and thought provoking. Exactly as books are meant to be.

Ever since Sorcerer's Stone debuted, JK Rowling's bespectacled hero has made the top 10 most banned books list nearly every year. What a feat. I hope to do half as well when I write and publish my books. And, if you haven't noticed, the Harry Potter series is most hotly contested by religious fanatics who see these stories as promoting occultism. Really? No, seriously, really? People honestly believe that Harry, Ron and Hermione are evil incarnate in literature.

In fact, they do. Sometimes when I hear complaints along these lines, I'm afraid my eyes will get stuck in my head as much as I roll them. For one, children realize that these books are fiction. They know the difference between reality and make-believe. How many of these zealots spent their childhoods jumping off garage roofs believing they could fly a la Superman? Yet they would begrudge their children the same joy of fantasy?

Here's what really gets me: Harry Potter is quite possibly the most Christ-like figure in contemporary fiction. I can hear the thumping of Bibles already as I am pointed to verse after verse denouncing "magic" and "the black arts." But, allow me to draw a few parallels:

Stigmata: Jesus has his crucifixion wounds, Harry has his scar.
The Chosen One: Just as Neo in the Matrix, just as Jesus in the Bible.
Disciples: Harry's friends and believers are not called "disciples;" they are called Dumbledore's Army. But, still they are a small group that follows Harry where others dare not go, meet those who others deign to speak to, defend him when he is unable to defend himself, and one member even betrays him (I'm looking at you, Cho Chang) however unwillingly. These young men and women take Harry's word as truth and will carry on his message throughout their lives.
Unbelievers: Harry is put on trial for stating the fact that Lord Voldemort has returned because the magical world's government believes that he is trying to usurp its power by making the wizarding world follow him, much like the Roman and Jewish governments believed of Jesus.
Epic Battle: The Bible teaches that one day Jesus will return to Earth and battle and defeat the Antichrist and that those souls who devoted their lives to His will shall ascend to a greater Heaven and Earth than imaginable. Harry Potter spends more than half his life preparing to do battle with Voldemort. The wizarding community is split into two factions: those who believe in Harry and those known as Death Eaters, the followers of Voldemort. One group shall live in the world they imagined; the other shall perish and be punished.
Resurrection: (I told you to stop reading if you haven't finished Deathly Hallows!) In a twist that I don't think even the most devoted Potterphiles could expect, Harry actually dies in the seventh book. He actually willingly dies. He knows he must lay down his life in order to save the world he cares so much for. (Jesus goes to the cross of His own accord.) There is no denying he is dead. He speaks to Dumbledore, also undeniably dead. He has the choice to "go on" or return. His followers, his enemies, everyone that matters sees his lifeless body, knows he is dead. And yet, he rises. And Voldemort fails.

Okay, it's not exactly scientific, but it's pretty hard to argue with these parallels. I don't compare Harry Potter to Jesus as a figure for worship or on whom to base one's faith. My only real point is that condemning these books for religious reasons is...silly. It is comparable to using religion as a justification for slavery and other degradations visited upon humans by one another over centuries.

And, don't these books actually teach their readers a thing or two about the "real" world? Such as the nature of good and evil. While good may win the war, as evidenced in book 7, it cannot win every battle. See books 5 and 6 for prime examples. Sometimes evil triumphs. But even a loss is not in vain if one can learn from it, progress and come out victorious. These books teach confidence, because, after all, what is more important to our success than believing in ourselves, in the gifts we were endowed with? Straight through to the end, Harry must learn to trust in himself, in his instincts, in the powers that everyone but he can see.

To some, Harry Potter is just a series of silly books for kids. To some, they are a weapon against religion. To me, they are a powerful manifestation and examination of our world. They are metaphorical, allegorical and all the other literary -als one can muster.

They are fun and fantasy...

...and so much more.

I mourn the end of this wonderful series, but know I will have many hours of enjoyment re-reading the books and re-watching the films. And mostly I celebrate what Rowling has done for the world of reading: Given it new life; introduced an entire generation to the joy of books. Words are powerful. Wield them well.

The Day I Became Different

2007-07-04T22:58:00.000-05:00

I don't have an actual memory of the day I realized I was different. It's more of a created memory, bred from hearing the story more than once and analyzing the event objectively. Up until this particular point, I lived in blissful ignorance. I can't say with any certainty that I even knew, at the time, what "different" meant.

Today, it's multi-zillion dollar affairs thrown by guilt-laden parents hoping to earn the affection of their entitled children. In the '90s, it was Chuck E. Cheese. But, in the '80s, the happenin' birthday party spot for the under-10 set was McDonald's. I know; I was there. I must have attended a large handful of these parties, always fearful that the clown mascot would suddenly appear. (Hey, clowns are scary. Deal with it.)

At one of these parties, when I was about 5, I learned that I was different. When I entered the restaurant with my parents, a young boy (about my age, I guess) stood up and repeatedly announced to the entire population, "She's in a wheelchair!" Needless to say, staring commenced. Pairs and pairs of eyes swiveling toward me, a little girl, cute in her party dress, suddenly not the girl she was five seconds before she came through the door. Even thinking about it 20 years later makes me want to claw my skin.

It had never occurred to me to realize that sitting down made me fundamentally different than just about everyone I encountered. No one else seemed to notice, so why should I? My parents didn't make a big deal out of it, unless it was for my own physical safety. It just was as it was.

I believe that boy, unknown to him the great power he wielded, changed my life. Sure, my perception would have altered sooner or later, but he happened to be the lucky one to draw that card from the deck of my life. His inexplicable and unexpected assertion that being a wheelchair user was somehow "wrong" robbed me of the innocent nature most children possess. The belief that everyone is just a good/bad/indifferent as everyone else.

I have done my best to re-instill that belief in my mind. For the most part, I do believe that, unless they prove otherwise, all people are just as worthy as all other people. And yet, there is this twinge from time to time at the back of my mind that says, "Except for you." Now, the part of my brain that doesn't listen to what other people say or pay attention to what other people do blows this off with a flip of the wrist. The rest of my brain dredges up 26 years worth of stares, name calling, rude questions and all-around "make you feel different" stuff.

I wonder from time to time if that boy, whomever he was, carries around any memory whatsoever of me. I doubt it, seeing as how I can't even recall the Day That Changed My Life. I wonder what he would think if he did remember. Would he feel guilty for stomping all over my rose-colored glasses? Would he blow it off with a flip of his wrist, rationalizing that it would have happened sooner or later? Would he care at all? Or, as I fear, is he one of those people who don't believe I'm as good as any girl on two legs?

MEMO: To ALL Concert Venue Personnel, Security & Attendees RE: MOVE

2007-06-24T22:48:00.000-05:00

Parental Advisory: Rated "R" for ranting and raving.

My sister and I do country's summer concert season up right. This year, in fact, we bought tickets to all five major country shows coming to our city at once. Yes, it cost a painful amount of money. So far, we've attended two and are eagerly anticipating the upcoming three. Which is why I have this to say:

GET THE HELL OUTTA MY WAY, JACKASS!

I suppose my Southern gentility has just flown out the window, but, oh well. It was bound to happen sooner or later.

I paid good money to sit near the stage. Not just good money. Great money. Fantastic money! Stupendous money!!! It was not a cheap investment. So then, explain to me O Great Usurper who seems to be at EVERY concert I EVER attend, you who did not, in fact, spend copious amounts of your savings in order to be near the stage, feel you have the privilege, nay, the right to usurp MY space and, by doing so, put your skanky ass in my face?

Yeah, I said it. And I'm talking to YOU.

I'm being utterly serious. Exactly what do you think I'm doing there, at a concert, boppin' along to the raucous rhythms of whoever I happen to be seeing, snapping pictures, etc? Waiting for a bus? Because, it clearly never crosses your oblivious mind that maybe - just possibly! - I might want to catch a glimpse of the celebrity on stage. Otherwise I wouldn't be staring at your Levis right now. For some reason, it is perfectly legitimate for you to block my view of the entire concert (skip a snack, fat ass) when you did not shell out for the seat up front.

Guess what? I don't care how far back your seats are. I don't give a damn that you only want to take "one picture." If you want to take a picture from my seat, then have the foresight to BUY my seat. Do not expect me to bend over and take it because you're up on two legs. You aren't messing with a child or a simpleton. You're messing with ME. And maybe, to you, I look like a pathetic "cripple" who doesn't know which way is up, let alone what the hell she's doing at this bright noisy event with all these screaming people, but looks are deceptive, my friend. I'm a Southern woman. And a Southern woman will rip out your heart, bake it in a pie and make you eat the whole damn thing. And you'll like it, too.

See, I've been doing this for a while. I've tried being nice. Polite. Civil. It hasn't been working too well for me. So I've given up on the nice, polite, civil approach. I'm ready to play dirty. I will not come to you with a girly plea to get you out of my way. I will go over your head and I will be angry about it. I refuse to sit back and let the bipeds walk all over me, no matter how good they are at it. Because, eventually, one of them will trip and I'll be the one on top. I've seen the looks. The looks that say: "Oh, she doesn't care" or "She doesn't know what's going on" or "What's she gonna do?" Just wait and see, lovelies.

Now, I'm sure the concert event staff employees think that they have no part in this, but they would be wrong, wouldn't they? You know what, guys? It's this simple: DO YOUR DAMN JOB. Don't stand there with your earplugs in acting like you don't see me shooting you the evil eye, trying to get your attention so you'll make the lazy bums blocking my line of vision move. Man up, grow a pair, and DO YOUR DAMN JOB. How hard is that? Oh, okay, maybe if I was a little thinner, a little blonder, a little hotter you might actually do what I ask? I have no clue what they're offering you when they whisper in your ear, but I can guess. I can also guess that your wife/girlfriend/boyfriend/boss wouldn't like it.

It is insulting to be treated thusly. It's why I'm so freakin' angry. So don't call me bitter and reply to this post talking about how I need to be "Zen" or something, because what I'm fighting here is injustice. Injustice that is a lack of respect for all people, no matter what their situation. I have a right to be angry and I plan to invoke that right whenever I deem it necessary. Sometimes I just need to let my Bitch Flag fly. Sometimes it's all people understand. So salute the Bitch Flag, people. It's been unfurled.

Peeling Back the Labels

2007-06-18T10:53:00.000-05:00

For some reason, people insist on referring to me as "handicapped." Or, God forbid, "handi-capable." I hate that word. And I don't hate many words. And then there are the uber-PC phrases like "physically challenged." I mean, really, aren't we all?

To me, words like "handicapped" and "crippled" are ultimate insults. Some people prefer those particular words, such as author Nancy Mairs, and I respect their decision. But far more individuals detest being called by such derogatory labels.

"Crippled" is so antiquated and insulting that no one really questions why its use has fallen out of practice. However, "handicapped" is still, unfortunately, prevalent. This particular word originated in times when people with disabilities were set on the streets by their families to beg from passersby. Therefore, they became handy with a cap.

Now, I don't know about anyone else, but the only people I have ever begged for anything are my parents when I was in want of a new toy. Hearing people refer to me and others with disabilities by this terminology sends a chill down my spine not unlike the feeling one gets hearing fingernails on a chalkboard. I have gotten into frequent arguments over this label, a particularly extreme one in my college Advanced Composition class. (That's a story for another day.) I refuse to recognize this word as relating to me in any way, if at all possible.

I know I'm not the only one this misuse of language offends. I also know that the "crippled" vs. "handicapped" vs. "disabled" debate is not the only discrepancy in what we (IE, the disabled community) are willing to be called and what they (IE, the non-disabled community) decide what we should be called. For example, the descriptions of "wheelchair-bound," "in a wheelchair," "confined to a wheelchair," etc. I am neither bound nor confined to my wheelchair. I come and go from it as needed and as I please. And, depending on time of day and particular activity, I may or may not be in my chair.

Personally, I prefer the term "wheelchair user." I use a wheelchair for mobility. We don't refer to individuals who walk as "foot-bound" or "confined to their feet." They walk, I roll. Maybe it's all semantics, but semantics can make a big difference.

Another one that bugs me is the term "birth defect." Osteogenesis imperfecta is a genetic disability but is often referred to as a birth defect. Personally, it makes me feel like an appliance: If product is defective, return to manufacturer. Personally, I'm not ready to meet my Manufacturer just yet.

Okay, so what have we learned today? Yes, sticks and stones break my bones, but words have power, too. Once the people to whom these words apply make the effort to change their language, others will follow suit. After all, a good trend always becomes a fad.

Kicking Tires

2007-06-13T13:39:00.000-05:00

Here's a question: Is it harder to purchase a new car or a new wheelchair?

Answer: The chair.

I can hear the protests of the non-wheelchair-users already. "Have you ever tried to buy a car with sales people hounding you?" "Do you know how much it costs?" So forth and so on. As matter a fact, yes.

But anyone who has ever found themselves purchasing a new wheelchair would gladly trade that experience to go new-car shopping. Most times, a person can buy a car and drive it off the lot that same day. A few hours might be lost, but it's only one day. Plus, a car can be test driven!

Switching out cars is not like switching out wheelchairs. Switching out wheelchairs is like...Well, let's see. Imagine, if you will, that for 5 years, you wore the same pair of shoes every day. It doesn't matter what kind of shoes, just that you wear them everyday. And you can only take them off when you're in bed or in the shower. So, optimistically, you're wearing said shoes for at least 18 hours per day. Eighteen hours per day for 5 years. That's...hold on, I majored in English not math...32,850 hours. More than 30 thousand hours in the same pair of shoes. (Suspend, for a moment, the disbelief that shoes can last through that kind of wear and tear.)

What happens when you wear a pair of shoes for 30 thousand hours? Your foot conforms to the shoe. The shoe conforms to your foot. The way you walk changes based on the shoe. The way your muscles flex and contract changes based on the shoe. And, after 30 thousand hours, your feet, your walk and your muscles become pretty set in their ways, like an old man who MUST have dinner on the table at PRECISELY 5:30. There is no bargaining. Day in and day out, your body knows exactly what to expect from these particular shoes and knows exactly how to behave in relation to them.

But, then, one morning, you wake up and someone has taken your favorite 30-thousand-hour shoes to GoodWill and left in their place a brand new pair of shoes that haven't seen a mile let alone an hour. These aren't your shoes! Your feet know it, your legs know it, the shoes themselves know it! You're afraid to take even one step for fear of falling flat on your face (or worse).

I know it's a hard thing to imagine, but that's just what it's like when you trade in a wheelchair after 5 (or in my case, 10) years. Something that has so nearly become a part of your body is being shucked away to be replaced by something else. Everything feels different. You don't feel like you can do any of the things you were just doing yesterday. You are teetering on the edge of a cliff, just waiting for a strong wind to come and finish the job.

None of that takes into account the ordering and purchasing of a wheelchair. To order a wheelchair, one must find someone who is well-versed in world of wheelchair mechanics. Then, measurements. Then, decisions. Not only must you decide on the "fun" stuff, such as frame and material colors, you must decide how wide you want the chair. (While taking into consideration that doorways in most homes are STILL not the ADA-required 36 inches wide.) What about the height of the seat, back and front? How much difference do you want between the two? How high do you want the back? Adjustable or fixed? Tension straps or no? Push handles? Yes? What kind? How high? Do you want brakes? What kind? Where should they go? Do you need brake extenders to reach them? What type of front casters do you want? How big? What material? What about the camber of the wheels? (Don't camber them too much or you won't make it through a door!) Speaking of wheels, what kind do you want? Fancy spokes that can be super heavy or regular spokes? What about tires? Solid or air-filled? Brand? A color other than gray? Now let's talk cushion? Hard? Soft? Foam? Gel? Foot rests? One or two? How high? How much distance between the seat and the top of the foot rest? Don't forget clothing guards? Fabric or plastic? Removable? Fold down? If the back of your chair folds down, do you want it to lock in place? How do you want to lock/unlock it? Cord? Bar?

And all this (and more!) after you choose the basic frame type (rigid or folding) and the frame material (titanium, aluminum, etc) and the model (umpteen!). But that's not all. Then you have to go through the rigmarole of getting it approved by the insurance company. Depending on how you want to do it, you can either wait for the insurance company's approval before even ordering the chair (which, by the way, has to be custom built) or you can buy upfront (about the same amount as a down payment on a car) and order the chair, hoping that the insurance company will approve the chair and reimburse your out-of-pocket expense (at least some of it). In order to get approval by the insurance company, you must first receive a forest's worth of paperwork from your doctor, including, but not limited to, a prescription (worded specifically for the type of wheelchair you plan to get) and a letter or medical necessity, which attests to the fact that yes you DO need a wheelchair for mobility. And, if everything is not worded exactly as it should be, fuhgettaboutit!

And, there is no "driving off the lot." It can take weeks for your new chair to get to you, if all goes according to schedule regarding the paperwork and insurance company's cooperation.

So, yes, I would prefer to buy a car. Here's my order: 2008 Ford Mustang, red, black interior, automatic transmission, fog lamps, rear spoiler, ABS, front-wheel drive, AM/FM radio, CD player, MP3 player input. Not nearly as complicated as the wheelchair.

From the beginning...

2007-06-09T23:59:00.000-05:00

Let me tell you something about my world: The scenery rarely changes. As you may have guessed, it's all bums and bellybuttons from where I sit. I've spent my life judging people by their belt buckles and now it's time for me to pass on my wisdom.

I was born with a disease called Osteogenesis Imperfecta (aka "brittle bone disease"). Milk is not the answer to OI, because OI is not about calcium. It has to do with the collagen in the bones being poorly formed or lacking altogether. OI is a rare disease, but it's slowly coming out of its shell. Heard of a Bruce Willis flick called Unbreakable? Samuel L. Jackson's character had OI.

But, this is not about OI. This is about the community of people with disabilities as a whole. The challenges we face. The obstacles we overcome. The barriers we barrel through. And the people who stand (quite literally in some cases) in our way.

Although people with disabilities make up the largest "minority" in the world, the non-disabled community still does not seem to quite "get it." That community does not get that having a physical disability does not equal incompetency. A physical disability is not catching. It is not a sign of demonic possession. It simply is what it is: Different.

It is important to remember that disability can befall anyone at any time. I just happen to be a genetic mutation. Illness or accident can cause disability as easily and as readily as being born. Only a handful of people will escape joining this particular population. Some will die before they have the chance. Most will join by the default of getting older.

I am out to change the world by changing minds and opinions. I am offering an education through the simplest means I know: my own experience. I have been called bitter, sarcastic and philosophical. My views on the world are my own and have been shaped by the daily interaction with a variety of people ranging the spectrum from pitying to "I wish I could throw them under a bus."

I will answer questions about what it means to be a person (more specifically, a woman) with a disability. Questions people have actually asked me (or other persons with disabilities) and ones supplied by my own imagination. This means discussing sex, drugs and rock & roll! I am open to receiving new questions, but make no promises as to answer them.

I brought my own set of wheels and I promise, it's going to be an interesting ride.