This Blog

 Blogging has kind of fallen out of fashion, hasn't it? I'm definitely still around--I spend WAY too much time on tumblr, and working on getting represented. I started revising a manuscript during the pandemic and am about to start my next project, which is focused on a major event in disability history. 

The Grey's Anatomy Thing

This is not going to be a popular opinion. I’m not sure why I hold it. Grey’s Anatomy is deeply a part of me. I’ve grown up with it—lived by it in some ways. And I know that to many, many fans it feels like the spine of the show has been ripped out. I should feel that way. I’ve spent the better part of eleven years invested in Meredith and Derek’s relationship. On the night the season four finale aired, I remember telling my mom I could die happy because Meredith and Derek were together again. I haven’t been able to re-watch the ferryboat crash arc in years, because of the possibility of Meredith’s death. But Derek died last night, and although I’m not happy with this, I understand.

Please note, that I’ve almost always had a strange ability to comprehend Shonda Rhimes’ choices in regards to Grey’s. I’m somehow on her wavelength in a way that kind of freaks me out. I stand by her choices—mostly, I’ll never be over Lexie—and this choice is not the exception. Patrick Dempsey has wanted to cut hours/leave the show for some time. He’s not extremely vocal about it, but fans know, and it’s visible in his story arc for the past year. His departure was bound to happen, eventually. I’ve heard people say that they wish he could have just stayed in DC, but how much sense would that make? It didn’t work, didn’t feel right this season, let alone stretched across innumerable future seasons. Meredith and Derek are an MFEO couple. Their relationship was the main storyline for the show’s first four seasons. I couldn’t bear to watch that fall apart, to have it end in a bitter break-up, a divorce with no chance of reconciliation. That is not the ending the characters, Patrick, or the fans deserve. That I would have hated. Instead, he died after spending a day saving lives. It’s devastating. I don’t know how Meredith will cope. But I do know that she will. She and Derek had their fairytale. It ended too soon, but it ended far more happily than it could have. And although I could see myself quitting the show if Meredith died in season three, I will not be quitting now.

I didn’t start watching Grey’s for Derek, after all—heck, at one point I shipped Meredith with George—from the beginning, I’ve watched for Meredith Grey, this flawed, strong, phenomenal woman. I will keep watching as she mourns the love of her life, raises her children to honor the memory of their father, and proves that she is a capable single mother, in the way that her mother wasn’t. In a way, this change makes sense for Meredith’s story. She had the kind of love her mother lost, and now she succeed in another way her mother could not. Other possibilities are opened as well—will she go back to Neuro, maybe, to seek out a change now that the husband who couldn’t trust her at work is gone?—possibilities that won’t let me quit the show, the way so many fans are doing. I understand watching for the love story, I do. But that’s not all the show—or Meredith—has to offer—not even eleven years in. 

Identifying with the Undead

I have ben mildly obsessed with zombies lately. Mind you, I've never seen a Ramero film. I've only watched one episode of The Walking Dead. My zombie interest is not, therefore, typical. Rather, it was sparked by BBC3's In the Flesh, a show that many people admire due to its treatment of queerness, and mental illness,  among other things. I love it because of those things, because they are a part of my life, but there's another facet to the zombies on that show that I rarely see acknowledged. They are, in many ways, relatable to me, because of my specific disability, but also disabilities in general. 

First of all, let me say that In the Flesh's zombies are not typical--but the more zombie-related media I consume, the more I realize that the thoughts I've had in relation to the show are widely-applicable. In the Flesh presents a post-zombie rising world, wherein the undead who rose were those who died in 2009, and who did not pass on their condition. While "rabid", the zombies attacked civilians, and the populace did have to rise up and battle them World War Z style--until a medication was introduced that stimulated the Risens' brains in a way that allowed them to regain full consciousness, and dulled their appetite for human brains. They became known as "Partially-Deceased Syndrome Sufferers" and are reintegrated into society, something that does not go as smoothly as either the PDS sufferers or the establishment might hope. 

This is the point at which the TV show starts, and it is also the point at which my comparison begins. PDS sufferers are stigmatized based on what they did in their "untreated state," but also based on their bodies, which are unable to heal and frequently have marks that display their cause of death all to see. One woman in the first episode wears a neck-brace, and at one point a PDS sufferer who has his leg in a cast-boot is asked when his stitches will come out. The answer, of course, is never. He will have to live with his injuries forever, as would any disabled person. 

The idea of unhealed injury, of visible wounds that lead to questions and stigma is one with which I am intimate familiar. My disability, a collagen disorder called Dermatosparaxis, causes easy bruising and tearing of the skin. I frequently get sores and wounds that take months to close. Sometimes, my legs get swollen causing me to have a gait I call "shobbling," and it looks not unlike the traditional shambling walk of the zombie. On In the Flesh, I see myself reflected in a way I never have before, nor probably will again. The PDS sufferers wear make-up to mask the difference between their skin and that of the living--I have done this to conceal bags and scars. They wear contacts to disguise the difference in their pupils and eye color--I have two differently colored eyes, one which crosses in spite of multiple surgeries to correct it. The show's protagonist, Kieran, has mental health issues and a complicated relationship with his own reflection. I see myself, I see myself, I see myself. 

But in the broader world of the series, as well as in the overall genre of zombie fiction, I see the disabled experience in general.  The fictional zombie varies in origin, but the general explanation is a transmutable infection of some sort or another. They vary in mental ability. They are believed to be impervious to pain. They walk on injuries that would incapacitate a "human." They are frequently identifiable by their physicality. They are, in short, everything that the non-disabled fear in the disabled--an othered body that is seemingly unaware of it's own "wrongness." These creatures are also, almost always, out to attack "humans," by default--whether or not this desire has been neutralized--because of course a body this different must want to destroy those who are "normal."

Zombies, in short, allow able-bodied people a metaphor with which to mask their fear of the "abnormal body" and their belief that the disabled must harbor an innate jealousy--a violent jealousy--toward them. After all, they would rather die than become disable--a zombie. Frequently, the trigger warning that comes before an example of zombie media refers to "body horror." The "abnormal" body is, after all, horrible. 

No! you protest. Zombies are simply fictional monsters. They do not represent anything!--as if any fictional monster did not have a real-life counterpart--Able-bodied people are not afraid of the disabled! They are not even made uncomfortable by them, not in the way that the civilians of In the Flesh are! We do not make them sit in a separate section of the pub, for instance.

And that is true. Now. In most places. But even in the America of the Americans with Disabilities Act--a law that is only twenty-five years old--there were laws, called "Ugly Laws" on the books until 1975, with language that stated in at least one case that "no person who is diseased, maimed, mutilated or in any way deformed so as to be an unsightly or disgusting object or improper person to be allowed in or on the public ways or other public places in this city." 

And why is this? Because it made people uncomfortable. Because they were afraid. Because they did not want to be reminded that the human body is capable of imperfection. That there are people who are perfectly content to live lives that include this imperfection. After all, that cannot be possible. These people cannot be fully alive. These people must have some kind of ulterior motive. They must want to make me as miserable, as brainless as they are.

If they came out into the open, the world as we know it would be over. It would be apocalyptic.

But that is not something we can acknowledge openly, is it? Not explicitly. 
And so, the zombie. Fear writ flesh. 

A New Normal--Or Is It?

In a previous post, I mentioned that the fatigue that held me captive for most of 2014 should have scared me more than it did. This is one hundred percent the case. Recently, a friend--who is a nursing student--mentioned that the time I got sick after walking the five blocks from CVS to Panera definitely concerned her. I remember believing that day was a fairly good one, but now, from a place where I am physically better, I wonder why I wasn't seriously freaked by that occurrence--and the myriad of similar ones I can point to over the past eighteen months or so.

Let me be clear: I was not okay with the turn my health had taken. I was exhausted, miserable, and demoralized. I was also resigned. The severity of my disability has fluctuated over time; I'd had multiple surgeries--and a couple of post-op infections; I had mild, but chronic, depression and my meds needed adjustment; my back still hurt, which had me on pain meds. All of this is to say, I had excuses. They're all valid, as is my most recent explanation--after my last surgery in November, we discovered I'd become pretty severely anemic. No one knows when it happened, thanks to a mix-up regarding my pre-op labs prior to my past three surgeries. Since I began treating that, and got my other meds fixed, I've felt much better. None of these excuses explain my resignation. I accepted the situation as my new normal--even after a period of sickness caused by running out of my anti-depressants after which I told myself to never accept sudden new symptoms as "normal." 

The fatigue wasn't new, after all. I've always had less stamina than most people. Always needed more sleep. Always had some insomnia. But during this period, I exaggerated my past issues in my mind. Really, if they had been anywhere near as severe, I would not have been able to make it through grad school. On the Panera day, I told myself that of course I got tired walking, I wasn't doing much of it. Never mind that in the past I could go from zero-to-trapsing around a new city in a couple of days. It would cause me to sleep later the next day, sure, but not to be afraid I'd pass out within the next three minutes. That was not a thing I should have accepted. Inability to function to that degree was not an okay thing. And even if it had been something untreatable, a new facet to my condition, I should have questioned it more. I know that on this side. Will I know that if my iron levels drop again?

I can only hope so.

This post doesn't have a firm message of: this is what I learned, or this is what you can do, except that you should never accept being miserable as a "new normal." Something is causing that misery, be it physical, mental, or circumstantial, and you are allowed to fight like hell to determine and eliminate that thing. It may take time. It may not be something you can change--but at least you can identify it. That's step one in making things better.

And you don't have to do it alone. If you have a good day, tell a friend Hey, if I try to pretend a bad day is the best things can get, remind me of this. If you haven't had a good day in a long time, hold up one from your past as an example. You may not be able to get to that place again, but it doesn't mean you can't get close. Every time you think something is normal, ask this question: But can it be better? 

It's okay if the answer is no. But if it's yes, then keep asking questions. That may be all you can do, but hope is so much better than resignation.

A Quote Out of Context

Many of you will be familiar with Stella Young's TEDTalk. In it, she introduces the idea of inspiration porn, which is--strictly speaking--a method of using disability in media to encourage the non-disabled, rather than to reflect the true lives of the disabled. Stella's talk is wonderfully articulate, and though she passed away at the end of last year, I imagine her ideas will be a part of the conversation in regards to disability in media for some time to come.

However, always a however, there is a quote from her talk that takes on a different meaning if you analyze it from the point of view of a person with certain types of disabilities, and to apply her concepts correctly, one must do this. Here is the quote: "I want to live in a world where a 15-year-old girl sitting in her bedroom watching "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" isn't referred to as achieving anything because she's doing it sitting down." In context, Young is making the incredibly valid point that to get out of bed and watch Buffy isn't an achievement in and of itself, even if you are a person who uses a wheelchair. What she doesn't acknowledge is that for some people getting out of bed and into a chair (wheels or otherwise) can be a big deal--to them. 


Let's make this personal. In October of 2013, I had major spinal surgery to correct a severe scoliosis curve. Since then, I've had five surgeries, developed anemia that required a transfusion to correct, spent about three months in the hospital overall, and dealt with the pain/fatigue/depression that's just par for the course of my disabled life. Prior to all that, I was very much the type of disabled person who believed I didn't deserve a medal for getting out of bed and growing grocery shopping, because at the time that wasn't an achievement. Finishing grad school with two Master's degrees and chronic back pain, well, yeah, that was a big deal, but it wasn't something no one else does. In the scheme of things, it didn't seem like a big deal. 

And then came the summer and fall of 2013, along with the odyssey that followed. Suddenly my personal bar fell. It fell far. Pajama days became pajama weeks. At night, I undulated between bouts of severe insomnia and sleeping for twelve hours at a time. I couldn't get out of bed before ten for most of 2014. I had a period wherein any exertion--walking a few blocks, for instance--caused exhaustion to the point of nausea. It scared my roommates. It should have scared me more than it did--but my own skewed reaction is another post in and of itself. Most days, I got to the couch, and that was it. I subsisted on bananas, yogurt, and delivery sushi. Generally, I read, but there were days when I'd wake up and realize I hadn't consumed a real book in weeks. What had I been doing? Trawling the internet, mostly. Sleeping, in between doctor's appointments. Rewatching web series. Laying on the couch for all of it.

During that period, days where I sat up to watch Buffy--figuratively, and literally--were good ones. I'm coming out of it now. I get up every day. Shower. Eat food on a regular basis. I have energy. Yesterday, I bragged to my friends that I woke before 8:30, dressed without stopping to rest mid-shoe tie, put on make-up, and went to meet a friend at Panera to work on a project. They were duly impressed, because they understood that this was an achievement for me--but not one that I deserve accolades for. It is an achievement because it means that my body is recovering enough for me to do the things I would do on a regular basis if I were physically able. There are certain milestones of physical ability that are a result of hard work and dedication. A person with cerebral palsy might build up their muscles to be able to use a walker for longer periods of time. This is a matter of making a goal and working toward it. It is an achievement that deserves attention, sure. But even that is not something that a non-disabled person should use as an "if they can, then I can," because this achievement is not about the non-disabled person. It's something that is deeply personal to the disabled person, who would be doing this task without thinking if there body would only cooperate with their mind. 

That's the thing. Many of the achievements that get held up as so-called inspiration porn are merely a disabled person doing something that a non-disabled person does without thinking. It is a body allowing you to do something simple, something required to move on with your day and then take on the tasks that you actually want to do--that you would be doing already, if only your body would cooperate. And this is where I come into conflict with the social model of disability that Young is advocating--consciously or not--it is the view held by some folks that disability would not be an issue if only society did not put up roadblocks for the disabled. Most of the changes put into place by the ADA are meant to eliminate these obstacles. However, for some, no conceivable societal changes would change the fact that the body--be it the visible, physical body, or the invisible workings of the brain--are keeping us from achieving the tasks our mind is more than willing to do--tasks that the majority of people do without consideration. And when those tasks become possible, well, it is a big deal. But it is not a big deal that the non-disabled get to claim. Rather, it is a personal win in the battle between desire and action that many people with disabilities fight on a daily, if not hourly basis. 

So, no, a fifteen-year-old girl does not deserve a medal for sitting in her room watching Buffy just because she's sitting in a chair. However, if she was unable to sit in that chair yesterday, though she desperately wanted to, she is allowed to feel that she has achieved something--something nobody, not even hers, can take away.

A Theory About One Thing

This post requires two disclaimers:

One: I have adored Eddie Redmayne since I saw Les Miserables on Christmas 2012. Not only is he a talented actor, he is also a thoughtful, charismatic, and adorably self-depricating person, at least in interviews. The way he discusses preparing for roles and admits to his own mistakes. He's incredibly respectful as well. I hold him in pretty high esteem. I do not think this colors the opinion I'm about to express, but it might.

Two: The keyword there is "opinion." The following is one opinion from one disabled woman who has a significant amount of privileges. I don't speak for anyone other than myself, and I especially don't speak for people whose experiences are closer to the ones portrayed in The Theory of Everything.

Okay, let's get to the actual opinion, shall we? The Theory of Everything collected press even before it--and Eddie-- got nominated for an Oscar. With his win, I imagine there will be a bit more discussion, but once the awards are given out we as a culture tend to move onto the next controversial topic. Now then, it may be surprising that there is negativity surrounding an uplifting movie about one of the greatest scientific minds of our time, but if there's one thing people have it's opinions on the internet. Truth be told, though, the criticism isn't unique. Any film that casts an able-bodied person as a character with a disability garners censure from the disability community. The hype surrounding The Theory of Everything brought able-bodied bloggers and journalists into the mix. Some of them probably believe their arguments. Others want to paint themselves as progressive and understanding. If they really accepted their own claims, wouldn't their privilege invalidate their opinion in the same way that they wish to deny Eddie this part?

It's a thorny issue. one that every oppressed group has to deal with to some degree. When does privilege require you to stay silent?  Should actors who aren't x (disabled, gay, transgender) be able to play characters who are? They're always difficult questions to answer, and in this case they may be impossible. Disability is unique to a degree in that unlike most other forms of oppression it can be acquired. it can affect people later in life. Most conditions affect people on a spectrum. It can be invisible. Also, although having a loved one with a disability is not at all the same as having a disability, it can profoundly affect someone's life from birth. Thus, it's hard to look at someone and decide whether or not they have the right to speak on a disability-related issue. Honestly, there's the chance that you shouldn't accept anything I have to say about Redmayne's portrayal of Stephen Hawking. I am physically disabled, but I have the privilege of being able to walk, speak, feed myself, etc. I am not overly limited in my ability to care for or express myself. My condition is chronic, but it is not degenerative. I have no memories of the world pre-ADA. I acknowledge all of this. I do, though, have a background in disability studies, history, and culture. I also have what might be an unpopular opinion.

I do not think there is anything wrong with having a non-disabled actor portray a person with a disability in this instance. My thoughts on the subject are very specifically related to both the actor, Eddie Redmayne, the character, Stephen Hawking, and the condition, ALS. It's easy to apply a generalized should in the abstract. But this example is as complicated as it is concrete. First of all, the actor. Eddie Redmayne put an incredible amount of effort into this role. An actor takes on an entirely different life with each film. There is a new personality to portray, a new physicality to enact, a new voice with which to speak. And Redmayne is the type of actor who takes this very seriously. In any interview about his preparations for The Theory of Everything, he talks about the work he did to understand Stephen Hawking, both mentally and physically. Although not a science person, he studied to comprehend Hawking's discoveries. He spoke to people with ALS, the way actors portraying police officers often go on ride-alongs.  He worked with a dancer to perfect the affects of ALS at each point in the film's timeline. In the director's commentary for the film, James Marsh says that the physicality had to become unconscious for Eddie. That once the cameras started rolling, his mind had to be focused on the words, the inner monologue, the same way any actor's would. This undoubtedly put a physical and mental strain on Eddie, but Felicity Jones has made a point of saying that his dedication made his scene partners attempt to take it up a notch with their own characters. It's important to note that she, too, changes her character's body language in the different stages of the film. Thus, although portraying a person with severe physical disability might be more taxing than some other roles, the process isn't necessarily different. 

Okay, fine, one might say. Eddie did the work. He earned his Oscar. But that doesn't mean that an actor with a disability couldn't have done the same. This isn't an impossible claim, by any means. However, there are considerations here that don't come up when this issue is considered in other contexts. Nearly every interview Eddie has given about The Theory of Everything brought up the physical nature of this role. How difficult might it have been for an actor who already had a physical disability to contort themselves in the various positions required to make each stage of Hawking's ALS manifest. Depending on the actor's disability, though, the hardest part might have been the initial stages when Hawking is more or less non-disabled. If nothing else, it would require even more effort, led to more fatigue, and require the actor to exert more muscle control that their own disability allows. There's the deepest irony of this situation--to show the degeneration of muscle control requires a supreme amount of muscle control. I'm not saying any of this is impossible for a physically disabled person. That's an individual question. I would have concerns, though. There's an increased chance of injury, but this could apply to anyone. My true worry would be for the actor's mental health.

There's a story told about the filming of the Sophia Burset-centric episode of Orange is the New Black. Although Laverne Cox was willing to play pre-transition Sophia producers wanted to cast an outside actor, worrying that taking on the part would be triggering for Laverne Cox--that having to dress as a male might cause dysphoria. In the end they were able to hire her twin brother for the part. Had Cox performed the part, I'm sure she would have been fabulous, but I understand the producers' concern. I also know that as a person with a physical disability, I am very conscious of my abilities, and how privileged I am to have them. Having had to use a wheelchair occasionally makes me very, very, thankful for the days when I can walk. More significantly, I lost vision in one eye at the age of thirteen. I live with a constant fear of losing the low-vision I have in my good eye. I have a better-than-most understanding of the difficulties of not being able to see. I used to act, and I know how to go about researching and preparing for a role. I cannot imagine portraying someone whose vision is worse than mine, because I believe it would trigger my fear of losing my vision, because that is a very real possibility for me.

But then, I'm not blind. So would I be "allowed" to play a blind person? Anyone without ALS could be said to be in the same position as Redmayne. They might know what it's like to have a physical disability, and to use a wheelchair. They might know what it's like to go from able-bodied to disabled, as many disabilities are acquired. But they probably wouldn't have a disorder as degenerative or life-threatening as ALS. So, should whoever played Stephen Hawking have had ALS? There could be someone in the early stages who could have done it, but how traumatizing might it be to have to enact later stages of the disorder? And to present these stages, they would have to do the same preparation as Redmayne, the same physical and mental work, while knowing that this could very well be their body's default within months--remember, Hawking's ALS did not move at the disorder's usual pace.

To me, it seems like this could cause unnecessary mental anguish. One of an actor's best coping mechanisms is the fact that the life they are portraying is not their's. The role is a job. It's not a possible future. In fact, even for Eddie Redmayne this role comes with a bit more mental risk than most, because acquired disability is a possibility. He will never be a world-renowned physicist who is diagnosed with ALS in the 60s, but he could end up needing an electric wheelchair one day. He could lose his ability to speak. The possibility is there for him as much as for anyone, disabled or not. And that's my main reason for thinking that this role, specifically, can be played by a non-disabled actor. It is incredibly specific, and it is an acquired disability. Most people with disabilities haven't experienced that part of Hawking's life--the non-disabled part--anymore than a non-disabled actor has experienced the later part.

Of course, there are other considerations. The increased physical strain wouldn't be there for an actor with an invisible disability, but their experience of disability is, in many ways, as different from the physical disability experience as a non-disabled actor. And, really, what I think it boils down to is the fact that Stephen Hawking, the real, living person, does not mind being portrayed by a non-disabled actor. Of course, he also does not tend to identify as disabled, and he has been criticized for benefitting from the disability rights movement without using his position to advocate for it. But that's a whole other post. My point is that there are reasons to critique every possible opinion about this film. But what no one seems to deny is the success of Redmayne's performance. It is respectful, thoughtful, and nuanced. The film isn't overly inspirational the way most Disability! pieces are. It's more-or-less honest, and it's about more than just a white man's struggle with his body. It's about family, about belief, about change. It's important.

Should there be more disabled actors out there? Absolutely. Should they play disabled and non-disabled characters? Absolutely. Should The Theory of Everything be ignored or censured because of this? Absolutely not. In my opinion.

Flavors of Feminism

If in your book/essay/blog post you claim to be an intersectional feminist—or„indeed if you see writing about any social issue—and then you neglect disability, you have failed. 

Any time I come across a list of adjectives that nearly every author addressing social issues—particularly gender equality—wants to make sure their reader considers, I cringe. These ubiquitous lists contain what I like to call the flavors of feminism. 

Listen, they entreat. Pay attention to transgender women! Women of color! Queer women! Muslim women! Jewish women! Women next door! Men who have also suffered the sting of patriarchal expectations!

These lists are nearly comprehensive, and as such they are generally identical, regardless of the author’s position and privilege. This makes the omission even more harmful. 

These lists entreat us to rally around those like us, and those different from us. However, they generally exclude the one category that can touch anyone, regardless of gender, race, class, or creed. There are parts of the disability experience that could provide common ground between folks that inhabit entirely opposite subsets in every other conceivable way. 

And maybe that possibility is why it’s so easy for able-bodied people to neglect. Unlike many minorities, disability can be acquired. Without it the menu requires only acknowledgement from the reader--yes this is my life, I must understand my challenges and check my privileges; or, no, this will never be my life, and so I must have empathy. Disability is a variable. It could happen to you, or a loved one, and introduce an entirely new factor into your understanding of social issues. Yikes! That’s too nebulous for this true/false questionnaire!

I’ve put more thought into in this than I meant to, but I wanted to examine the function of these lists in order to tease out the reason for the exclusion as well as the consequences. At a a basic level, these lists are true/false tests. The reader scans them, notes which apply to their life, feels the thrill of being remembered, the relief of remembering that one is not alone. The other descriptors eacb up an image, the reader’s mental construct of an entity to whom the designation applies. Someone in their life, or from the media. Not them, but a person, they realize, whose life is affected differently than theirs by the construct at hand . They consider the possible differences, the positive and negative, and tell themselves to bring them to mind as they construct their identity within this realm. They must do so, because taking on that perspective will never be instinctual. It will never be a part of their day-to-day experience in the same way as someone who is part of the listed group. 

But disability is a reminder that circumstances can change. That’s uncomfortable for people of all privileges. However, I don’t think it’s bad for anyone to remember that this shift can happen to anyone; that even the uncertainty gives them something in common with those on the other side of the spectrum in all other aspects. Fine, maybe you can’t unexpectedly wake up with a different ethnicity, race, or sexuality*, but you could acquire a disability. So could the man in the mansion across town. Both of you need to think about how your economic choices affect the disabled, because it is the ethical/equal/right thing to do—but also because it could affect you.

But that’s seeing this from a non-disabled lens, which is an act of empathy on my part. It is not a sphere I inhabit, or that I could. I cannot omit disability because it doesn’t apply to me, and I’m not reminded by running through the women on Orange is the New Black**. I am disabled. It is the linchpin of my identity. Thus, I feel more than disappointed when it is excluded from a checklist of minorities that the true intersectional xxx-ist must remember. I feel invisible, neglected, and ignored. I feel as though I have done something wrong. I must have, to be forgotten by those who wish to fight for the rights of everyone, whatever their lifestyle, power, or privilege. 

Disabled woman is a flavor of feminist. We stand (march, sit, lie) with other minorities to advocate for rights they have been denied, and we should have the same consideration. We tell others about the Stonewall riots, so please remember the Capitol Crawl. And, please, put us in your lists. To be truly intersectional, one must acknowledge that black men can be queer, Muslim women can be trans, non-binary folks can be in the one-percent. 

And any of these people can be affected by disability. So could you. 

And I am. That makes it my favorite flavor of feminism. I’d really appreciate you remembering to keep it on the menu.

*Yes, you can convert to a religion, but since that is a thought-through choice, one generally puts more consideration into how the whole of their life will be affected by that. 

**Note that I say women. Bennett does have a disability, but his character isn't associated with that; whereas Laverne Cox has become the country's symbol for transgender women.