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My first day of Care vs. Cure, a class I took in the fall of 2022, I truly didn’t know what to expect. I’d never before been part of a class dedicated to discussing disability. I didn’t even know that was an option.
The tables were arranged in a square. I sat in one corner, the door in sight, next to a friend. At least I wouldn’t be facing this scary new venture alone.
Our professor introduced herself and said we would do the typical round of names and pronouns. But she added something else. “I also want to invite all of you to share any access needs if you feel comfortable. We’ll talk more about these, but that means anything you need, or want us to know, to help you show up today.”
I don’t remember what I said, or what others said, during introductions. My mind was too busy trying to grasp this concept. My experience with sharing disability in classroom spaces had been entirely built around the structure of official accommodations. This meant private meetings with professors and things rarely discussed in the classroom proper.
As much as colleges want to be supportive, this secret nature still creates a culture where disability is a bit of a taboo subject. Accommodation meetings absolutely should be private, as no one should be outed against their will. But without classes inviting disability into discussions and work, it will remain a secretive topic.
Starting off with a public invitation for this type of sharing— one that is optional and doesn’t require diagnoses, personal details, or medical information— felt freeing. Finally, a space where my taboo reality could be out in the open. This was my first introduction to Disability Studies, a field which has now captured my attention and academic efforts.
Just as an adrenaline-filled moment wrestling with a friend was my first queer awakening, Care vs. Cure was my first true disabled awakening. All at once, I learned what Disability Studies was and became confident that I belonged in it. But it was Disability Justice that made me realize that disability is a political identity as well.
In a culture built around productivity and worth as measured by output, simply having a non-normative bodymind is a political act. From diet culture and the beauty industry to self-help books and meditation retreats, every one of our bodies is commodified and policed at some point in our lives. But few people feel that more than disabled folks, especially those with a visible disability. Many aspects of our daily lives seem to be opportunities for nondisabled people to ask invasive questions.
Everyone feels like they should have some authority over our bodies. Everyone but us, it seems.
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For the first time, I realized how much political weight my bones carried. People asked inappropriate questions, and I answered them. Everyone wanted more details on what was “wrong” with me, and I gave them. I listened calmly to unsolicited advice. How much agency could I regain if I were to stop doing those things? How upset would the nondisabled crowd get if I stopped allowing their intrusions?
In our class’ first introduction to Disability Justice, we were split into groups. Each of us was given one of the ten principles. We were to read it, discuss, possibly look at other resources, and then find a way to present the key information to the rest of the class.
A few at a time, groups went up to the whiteboard. They wrote their principle, then bullet points, notes, or a sentence underneath. At least one group drew something. There was little organization. It was a patchwork of different colors, handwritings, sizes, and ways of thinking.
This was not just an academic effort. It was a display of interdependence: each of us relied on the other groups to get more information about their principle. We were practicing disability justice, at a miniscule level, while learning about it. I often wonder if this was intentional on the professor’s part, or a simple moment of chance.
In no way did I learn everything there is to know in that class. It was an introduction, a launching point. It served a different role in each of our lives. For me, its impact was twofold. First, it both sparked and deepened my interest in Disability Studies as a field. Second, and far more meaningfully, it gave me the knowledge and confidence I needed to inhabit disability not just in a medical capacity. To accept disability as a space of social and political identity, a realm of embodiment and thought. A way of knowing.
And a path, slowly, to make my bodymind mine again.
Cripspace. Some nondisabled folks are likely bristling at the word. Aren’t we not supposed to say that?
One day, I’ll likely write a long essay on cripspace, as I will with access intimacy. For now, I’ll leave you to read more on your own should you wish.
One can experience cripspace without knowing its name. Going to the CDR’s gatherings was cripspace. My roommate and I could create cripspace together. That first day of class, and especially that whiteboard, was a form of cripspace, even if I didn’t know it.
Sometimes nondisabled people are also in these spaces. That’s perfectly fine. Many instances of cripspace may not be intentionally created as such. They develop naturally, the way a love blossoms and grows at its own pace, and cannot be forced, only encouraged.
Without that space, I would never have felt safe enough to explore the rougher parts of a disabled identity. Fully realizing and coming to terms with ableism’s role in our society is exhausting. It’s terrifying. Once you can see that most of your world has been designed against you, it’s easy to feel defeated. Especially when others don’t want to see it.
I couldn’t accept defeat, though. Not in a room full of people all passionate about discussing alternatives and ways to cope, support, and heal. Many of us in that room might not go on to become big changemakers, and that’s ok. Small things can still have large impacts.
The path of the educator was my choice. From panels and presentations to classroom lessons and guest lectures, I devote myself to spreading knowledge of disability. I continually learn so that others may, in turn, learn from me. I uplift the work of others. That’s how I can make a change. How I can promote interdependence, sustainability, and cripspace. How I can rebuild the feeling of home in my skin.
Ashton Rose 