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A brief note: You may notice that the focus of this blog is shifting from writing about writing, to writing about disability/accessibility. This is where my passion lies, and I’m grateful to the readers who have followed my experimentation. I hope you enjoy the new posts that will come out of this renewed focus and inspiration. I will also be changing my schedule to one post on the 8th of each month.
Perhaps “non-practicing disabled athlete” would be a more accurate addition to the title of this post, but I am still an athlete at heart, and it’s all a matter of semantics.
With the 2024 Paralympics coming to a close the day this will be posted, I want to take a moment to reflect on some of my experiences watching this year’s Games. I hope you enjoy and that something I say can resonate with you.
Table of Contents:
- Paralympics meaning.
- I can’t escape it: ableism during the Paralympics.
- A murderball defeat and a sense of empowerment.
Paralympics meaning.
Many people know the Paralympics as the “disabled Olympics,” but what does the competition’s title actually mean?
While it may not be the origin of the word, the most accepted explanation today is that Paralympics uses the prefix para-, meaning beside or alongside of.
So, with that definition, the Paralympics are an event that occur alongside the Olympics. They take place slightly after the Olympic Games and use the same stadiums. Their organizers, and the contents of the games themselves, are different.
I’ve seen many people refer to the Olympics as the “normal Olympics.” Although I have made this mistake myself, the phrase is redundant; the Olympics and the Paralympics are already separate entities in their names alone.
Calling one the “normal Olympics” implies that the Paralympics are the “abnormal Olympics.” That leaves a sour taste in my mouth. Most of the time, just saying the Olympics and Paralympics is enough.
I also want to point out that the Paralympics are not the only event to feature disabled sports in competition. There are so many international, national, and local events that to attempt to list just some would unfairly exclude so many others.
I can’t escape it: ableism during the Paralympics.
Yes, it’s a sporting event designed for disabled people. But like every other area in our lives, there will always be ableism to be encountered here.
Sometimes it’s from the officials, like in the case of para track & field athlete Nick Mayhugh getting reclassified from T37 to T38 for this year’s games, a decision which he believes is because he simply performed too well in Tokyo. The underlying assumption is clear: you can’t really be that disabled if you’re also that good of an athlete.
Other times it comes from commentators. I remember watching one of Team USA’s wheelchair rugby matches. At one point, the commentator remarked on the performance of a 0.5-classification player (meaning the most amount of impairment allowed in the sport).
“You really never see a 0.5 player have that kind of speed or power.” I’m paraphrasing their words here. “It’s surprising for such a low-scoring athlete to make a try.”
The words, combined with the tone of voice, felt like the same kind of infantilization of disabled athletes we see all the time. They were talking about this player as if he wasn’t competing at one of the highest levels of competition in the world. As if he wasn’t an impressive athlete in his own right.
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The ableism isn’t always in the presentation of the sport; it can also come from the people you watch it with.
A few days ago, I watched a portion of a blind football match with one of my friends. Brazil, until this week the undefeated champions, scored a shot against France on a penalty. It was a beautiful shot, right to the corner of the goal, too fast for the goalie to reach.
Afterward, my friend said to me, and again I’m paraphrasing here, “I can’t imagine the mental challenge that goalie is going through, to lose a shot to someone who can’t even see the goal.”
It was, without a doubt, the most explicit ableism I’ve experienced during this year’s games. Its implication is so clear it almost isn’t even implied: the blind athletes are less-than because they can’t see the goal, and it’s shameful for a sighted player to lose a play to them.
Again, these athletes are some of the best blind football players in the world. Especially the Brazilian athlete my friend was talking about, whose team have won gold in every Paralympic Games that the sport has been a part of. [Note: as of the time of writing, we don’t know the gold winner, but we do know it won’t be Brazil!]
To me, the player made a well-executed shot and the goalie couldn’t block it. I imagine the goalie kicked himself for that, but I have trouble believing that he thought it was any worse because the opponent was blind. I hope that those playing a sport for disabled people would not buy into the same ableist rhetoric; especially if that goalie is also disabled, which is a very real possibility.
A murderball defeat and a sense of empowerment.
Shortly before that jarring remark during the blind football match, the same friend and I were watching the wheelchair rugby gold medal match.
Murderball, which is what wheelchair rugby used to be known as, is a brutal, fast-paced sport. It’s all racing metal and sweaty faces.
The first half was a tight competition. USA and Japan were neck-and-neck most of the time, with rarely more than a 2-point lead to be seen. There were clever plays and disappointing misses.
But going into the second half, it seemed like Team USA ran out of steam. Chuck Aoki was obviously tired. Even all of Sarah Adam’s energy couldn’t pull our team back. The final quarter was almost painful to watch, as Japan quickly and ruthlessly secured their gold medal.
So, while we sat on the floor despairing over Team USA’s loss, I felt sad. Defeated, in a way. But I also felt empowered.
For a long time, I thought that arthritis had taken away my identity as an athlete. The only athletes I knew of were nondisabled, and everyone said my pain made me weaker, so I believed it. It took years of mental and physical work to realize that I still very much am an athlete, a disabled athlete, and can find ways to express that within my body’s limitations.
Now, watching the best disabled athletes in the world compete, there are times when I see myself on the screen. Especially during the blind football matches, since football (or soccer, for my American readers) has always been my sport. Although, as a sighted person, blind football wouldn’t be my place. I’ve never been much of a goalie.
I know I’m teetering on the edge of inspiration porn, which is something I very much want to avoid. I’m not saying, “look at these disabled athletes! If they can do it, so can you!” I’m saying, “if there are ways for these people to play the sports they love while still being seen as beautifully disabled, then surely there are ways for me to do that too.” The key element is that I’m a crip too, and I’m reveling in rare and much-needed representation.
Perhaps the Paralympics, even with the stain of ableism, provide a sort of virtual crip space for me and other disabled folks. I know that many of the people I follow online have had similar experiences of connection, inclusion, and safety. It provides an opportunity for all of us to come together and build each other up.
And hey, congrats to the Japanese players. While I so badly wanted Team USA to win, they played with fervor and precision. They earned that gold.
Do you have other reflections on the Paralympics you’d like to share? I want to hear them! You can leave a comment down below or on my Instagram (@ashtonrosewrites) or Facebook (@ashtonrosewritesfb). And if you liked this post, make sure to subscribe so you don’t miss the next one.
Ashton Rose 