You Don't Know Until You Know
Today was the official kickoff of the NCIL conference, and I got to hear Congresswoman Tammy Duckworth speak (I also got to meet her in the freight elevator, thanks to my friend, Emily). The Congresswoman spoke about disability rights, disability advocacy, and not knowing until you know. I have such great respect for the Congresswoman, not only because of her work for the disability community, and not only because she's just all around awesome, but also because she's willing to get up in front of a room full of people, and admit she didn't always understand.
Tammy Duckworth, a woman hailed, rightfully so, as a major supporter of disability rights, admitted with such candor that she wasn't always that person. She told the story of the time when somebody told her they were going to have to remove 10 regular parking spaces to put in 5 accessible spaces at a military location and she was annoyed because they were taking spots away from her soldiers. She didn't know. She said that today if anyone parked in those spots she would be annoyed. Now she knows, now she understands.
She thanked all the advocates in the room for fighting so that she would have the rights she has today before she even knew she needed them. I loved that. I loved hearing this woman, a hero, admit something I could so readily relate to in my own way.
I didn't always know, I didn't always understand. I have always known disability, mine's been with me since birth, but I haven't always understood the importance of disability rights, and the importance of solidarity. I've been so blessed. I was born in October 1990, so I have grown up in a post ADA world. I took for granted the ability to go to school, the availability of ramps, and the fact that I deserved a place at the table. Disability advocacy, and disability activism were not words in my vocabulary. If anything ever came up, my mom would defend me tooth and nail. Not me, though, my disability was a thing that I had, it didn't really have anything to do with me.
I wanted to be like everybody else. I wanted to go to the mall and buy cool clothes. I wanted to have the best lip gloss, and somehow get the cutest boy in school to like me. I wanted to go to the best parties, and the best concerts. I wanted to be popular, and I wanted everyone to like me. What did any of that have to do with disability? Why would I even care?
If disability ever did enter the equation, it was usually the thing that made my life more complicated. Disability was usually the thing that made situations awkward. Disability made people uncomfortable, so it made me uncomfortable. Disability was a problem. It was my problem. It wasn't a civil rights issue. I didn't know.
When I started to learn, everything changed. When I realized there was a history, a community, things were different. Then I knew. Then I understood. Then I saw that I had to fight for issues that didn't directly affect me, but affected the other members of my community. Then, I learned that my actions mattered. I learned that when I condoned prejudice and stayed silent about discrimination, I was furthering oppression. I learned that disability could be part of my identity, and didn't have to be forgotten.
I learned disability wasn't the problem, and it wasn't my problem. I learned that we all share a stake in disability rights, because on the very basic and most selfish level, at any moment, disability rights could be important to anyone. At any moment, anyone could join the community. At any moment, anyone could know. Anyone could know that disability isn't the problem, the problem is the way that people react to it. The problem isn't a chair, it never has been. The problem is stairs. The problem is attitudes that tell us disability is personal. The problem is we forget.
I am not alone, and never have been. I'm part of a legacy, a story, and a shared history. When I realized that, when I realized that disability didn't belong to me alone, but to all the members of my community, I knew.
I knew without a shadow of doubt, and I didn't understand why other people couldn't see it. I forgot. I forgot you don't know until you know. I forgot that I was the girl who spent so much of her life avoiding it. I forgot that not too long ago I wouldn't have been in the fight.
I owe the hugest debt to those who knew before me. I owe the greatest gratitude to those who fought so I could have a life where I didn't always have to know. Here in the middle of ADA week, I have to thank the people who fought so that I could have rights without thinking about it. I also have to thank the people who helped me know. I have to be grateful to those who showed me my rightful place in the community. I have to thank everyone who has helped me learn, and has helped me stop avoiding, helped me get here.
Now I know. Now I understand. I will never forget
Image Description: Two women are in the foreground with two women in the background. Both women in the foreground are in wheelchairs. In the foreground to the left is a tan, dark-haired woman wearing glasses and a khaki dress. To the right in the foreground is a blonde-haired woman wearing glasses, a pink sweater, black shirt, and a printed knee-length skirt, with a purse and a cup.
Tammy Duckworth, a woman hailed, rightfully so, as a major supporter of disability rights, admitted with such candor that she wasn't always that person. She told the story of the time when somebody told her they were going to have to remove 10 regular parking spaces to put in 5 accessible spaces at a military location and she was annoyed because they were taking spots away from her soldiers. She didn't know. She said that today if anyone parked in those spots she would be annoyed. Now she knows, now she understands.
She thanked all the advocates in the room for fighting so that she would have the rights she has today before she even knew she needed them. I loved that. I loved hearing this woman, a hero, admit something I could so readily relate to in my own way.
I didn't always know, I didn't always understand. I have always known disability, mine's been with me since birth, but I haven't always understood the importance of disability rights, and the importance of solidarity. I've been so blessed. I was born in October 1990, so I have grown up in a post ADA world. I took for granted the ability to go to school, the availability of ramps, and the fact that I deserved a place at the table. Disability advocacy, and disability activism were not words in my vocabulary. If anything ever came up, my mom would defend me tooth and nail. Not me, though, my disability was a thing that I had, it didn't really have anything to do with me.
I wanted to be like everybody else. I wanted to go to the mall and buy cool clothes. I wanted to have the best lip gloss, and somehow get the cutest boy in school to like me. I wanted to go to the best parties, and the best concerts. I wanted to be popular, and I wanted everyone to like me. What did any of that have to do with disability? Why would I even care?
If disability ever did enter the equation, it was usually the thing that made my life more complicated. Disability was usually the thing that made situations awkward. Disability made people uncomfortable, so it made me uncomfortable. Disability was a problem. It was my problem. It wasn't a civil rights issue. I didn't know.
When I started to learn, everything changed. When I realized there was a history, a community, things were different. Then I knew. Then I understood. Then I saw that I had to fight for issues that didn't directly affect me, but affected the other members of my community. Then, I learned that my actions mattered. I learned that when I condoned prejudice and stayed silent about discrimination, I was furthering oppression. I learned that disability could be part of my identity, and didn't have to be forgotten.
I learned disability wasn't the problem, and it wasn't my problem. I learned that we all share a stake in disability rights, because on the very basic and most selfish level, at any moment, disability rights could be important to anyone. At any moment, anyone could join the community. At any moment, anyone could know. Anyone could know that disability isn't the problem, the problem is the way that people react to it. The problem isn't a chair, it never has been. The problem is stairs. The problem is attitudes that tell us disability is personal. The problem is we forget.
I am not alone, and never have been. I'm part of a legacy, a story, and a shared history. When I realized that, when I realized that disability didn't belong to me alone, but to all the members of my community, I knew.
I knew without a shadow of doubt, and I didn't understand why other people couldn't see it. I forgot. I forgot you don't know until you know. I forgot that I was the girl who spent so much of her life avoiding it. I forgot that not too long ago I wouldn't have been in the fight.
I owe the hugest debt to those who knew before me. I owe the greatest gratitude to those who fought so I could have a life where I didn't always have to know. Here in the middle of ADA week, I have to thank the people who fought so that I could have rights without thinking about it. I also have to thank the people who helped me know. I have to be grateful to those who showed me my rightful place in the community. I have to thank everyone who has helped me learn, and has helped me stop avoiding, helped me get here.
Now I know. Now I understand. I will never forget
Tammy Duckworth and me in an elevator!
Image Description: Two women are in the foreground with two women in the background. Both women in the foreground are in wheelchairs. In the foreground to the left is a tan, dark-haired woman wearing glasses and a khaki dress. To the right in the foreground is a blonde-haired woman wearing glasses, a pink sweater, black shirt, and a printed knee-length skirt, with a purse and a cup.