The Cinematic MRI

A review of Paul McGuigan’s “Victor Frankenstein” (Davis Entertainment Company, 2015).
By Derek Newman-Stille

I’ve been giving thought to the cinematic gaze lately and the way that is configures disabled bodies. Frequently camera angles focus in on bodily difference, breaking disabled bodies on screen into dismembered parts – zooming in on prosthetic legs, panning to blind eyes. The camera breaks the disabled body up into parts of difference, divorcing it from its bodily context and from the personhood associated with it. 

This figuring of the disabled body as parts mimics the medicalized lens, brining attention to individual parts of the body in isolation, as pathologies rather than parts of a bodily and identity wholeness. Much like the freak show and the medical theatre, film seeks to break people down into their parts

“Frankenstein” was written by Mary Shelley as a body text, exploring the idea of how life and death are entwined into bodily existence and examining the perception of medical science that it could conquer the body and bring nature to heel. 

In the many adaptations of her text, the monster’s body has taken an iconic voice of its own, the monster losing his original eloquence to become the childish, silent figure of film, a creature that was all body and no voice.

Paul McGuigan’s film “Victor Frankenstein” continues his bodily silence and performs the medical apparatus of the body. Building on the investigative lens used by the BBC’s Sherlock, with camera panning into key pieces of evidence, the camera work of “Victor Frankenstein” takes a medical investigative approach to the body, giving both Victor and Igor the ability to see the inferiority of bodies, medically diagnosing them with a glance. Bodies are written over by anatomical drawings, writing skeletal and cardio-pulmonary systems on the exterior of the body.

The body is rendered a passive object, offering up its inferiority to the diagnostic gaze.

We first get introduced to Igor at the circus where he is functioning as part of the freak show due to his hump. He becomes the circus medic through private learning and thus has the potential to complicate the notion of disabled body/ medical doctor by inhabiting both roles. However, when first seen by Victor Frankenstein, he is rendered a passive subject by Victor’s medical gaze, prefiguring him as an object in the same way that people witnessing the freak show had done. 

Freak show transforms into medical theatre when Victor takes Igor, still treating him as property, and alters his body without his permission, piercing his hump and forcing him into corrective clothing to adjust his posture. His body becomes property of science and he loses any ability to disrupt the simple binarism of medical practitioner and medicalized body offered by his own knowledge of medical science.

Igor is partially complicit in his own enfreakment, desiring normative bodied identity and visiting a medicalizing lens on the body of the monster that he and Victor construct as a medical fix-it for death. 

Victor Frankenstein” constructs an enhanced medicalized lens by not only focusing the camera on parts of the body that are non-conforming to ideas of bodily normalcy, but also by rendering the interior of these bodies onto the externality of the body, turning the camera into medical equipment – part cinematic camera and part MRI. This lens, combined with the treatment of bodies as open to experimentation and modification, marks the film as one of disabled bodily passivity and medicalized control. 

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A Review of What’s Left of Us

A Review of What’s Left of UsBy Derek Newman-Stille

Performed September 29 at Nozhem Theatre, Peterborough, Ontario, Canada

Performed by Justin Many Fingers and Brian Solomon.

Sponsored by Tangled Art + Disability and Nozhem Theatre, Trent University.

Justin Many Fingers and Brian Solomon describe their performance What’s Left of Us as “Two 2 spirited ndns, with only two hands between them. A gloriously deranged world of dance, storytelling, and the unexpected things that make you sexy”. What’s Left of Us was a beautiful fusion of identities, bringing disability, indigenous, and two-spirited identities together in a way that celebrated the power of movement and narrative for shaping lives, but more than that, this was a tale of resistance and of writing our own stories. 

Justin Many Fingers and Brian Solomon wove multiple tales together in their performance, drawing on the power of polyphony and resistance to a singular narrative. Their performances were about breaking barriers, stretching out into new spaces, and resisting confinement into one story or one space. They began by preparing for their performance in front of the audience, costuming, putting on make-up, eating, practicing shadow puppets, and stretching in front of the audience, breaking down the idea that there is an easy separation between performance and life. They lived performance. They gave chocolate to the audience, walking between audience space and acting space to illustrate that we are all part of and involved in performance. 

Many Fingers and Solomon began their official performance by critiquing the music choices on their entrance, playing with the form of theatre and the idea of theatre as something that is always polished. They then burst out onto the stage to circus music, sharing a bicycle and bringing attention to the history of treating disabled bodies, indigenous bodies, and queer bodies as parts of the freak show tradition. They brought attention to the way that people look, the way that people stare, and the fact that performance has always had an interest in the spectacle of different bodily presentations. 

Many Fingers and Solomon brought attention to their spirit hands, their smaller left hands with tiny fingers and the way that these hands had shaped a wide variety of emotions, letting their faces show isolation, laughter, fear, strength, and sexual freedom with alternating expressions. They illustrated the way that others tried to tell stories ABOUT them, exploring the power of speech in constructing identity by having loud, clamouring voices of doctors describing their hands in medicalised ways, trying to structure them as flaw. But, while these voices sought to overwhelm them, their bodies moved with passion, responding to what was being said in a way that told the audience “our bodies can speak for themselves, no one should tell our bodies who or what they mean”. Narratives tried to overwhelm them in the performance, but their bodies spoke for themselves, moving in ways that illustrated strength, beauty, and raw sexuality. 

Many Fingers and Solomon danced strength into the performance, illustrating the power of their bodies to be capable of speaking for themselves, while narrating their own understandings of themselves to resist the earlier stories of doctors, sharing their own histories – moments of joy, playfulness, change, and journey. Their stories interwove with each other as they shared the similarities between their two lives as people who both have spirit hands, both came from reservations, and both came out as two-spirited people while they moved around the stage, meeting and separating from one another, showing similarities and differences through movement. 

Many Fingers tied story and hand together by creating shadow puppets first with his right hand and then switching to his spirit hand. He illustrated the power of hands to speak, to tell their own stories, shaping them up on a screen and creating a dual performance of the stage space that featured Solomon’s movements on stage and Many Fingers’ hand shapes on the projected screen. Many Fingers emphasized the connection of voice and hand by using the light from his cell phone (a symbol of speech) to project the shadows of his hand.

What’s Left Of Us was the most accessible performance I have ever attended, with accessible seats, descriptive audio and ASL interpreters. Not only were interpreters present, but the performance disrupted the normal isolation of the interpreters and the challenge of interpreters being off to the side of the stage (meaning that Deaf or Hard of Hearing audience members would have to divide attention between performance and language interpretation). Instead, interpreters were centre stage, woven into the performance. Many Fingers and Solomon made the space a bilingual one, not separating Deaf space from Hearing space, but illustrating that both were significant by bringing interpreters into their performance space and interacting with them. The interpreters were also able to move with the music and signed in a form of dance, face and body animated in a way that few interpreters are able to accomplish. The interpreters were dance partners in this glorious performance of body and language.

What’s Left of Us was powerful, creating a sense of the ability for those of us who are disabled, LGBTQ2IA, or indigenous to speak for ourselves, to disrupt the simple gaze of the audience and a society that is focussed on staring and remind people of the history of that gaze in the history of performance and medicine. It was a performance that suggested that we can stare back, that we can move from spectacle to spectator, and that we can tell our own stories even while others are trying to narrate our stories for us. This was a performance that was about the power to express.

Sign Police and the Town Mouse and the Country Mouse.

A review of Roz Rosen’s “The Town Mouse and the Country Mouse” in Deaf Culture Fairy Tales (Savory Words, 2017)
By Derek Newman-Stille

The fable of The Town Mouse and the Country Mouse is one about craving what one doesn’t have, and about discovering what is most valuable. In Roz Rosen’s Deaf Culture version of the tale, Town Mouse convinces Country Mouse that he isn’t getting enough quality food, so he convinces his Country Cousin to join him in town, allowing him to see the generous feast offered by the wealthier family that Town Mouse stays with.

Of course, there is a drawback to all of the wealth of food and beverages… the house is guarded by guard dogs who prevent the use of sign language. These “Dog Sign Police” begin to bark and attack the mice whenever they use sign language, forcing them to repress their language if they are going to stay on the premises. Country Mouse is forced into a debate about whether he is willing to give up his language in order to experience the luxury of food or whether he values his language and right of expression enough to go back to eating beans, corn, and stale bread. 

Rosen expresses the idea that one’s cultural expressions and language are another essential part of life, a fundamental need that is as strong as the need for food and water. 

To find out more about Deaf Culture Fairy Tales, visit http://www.savorywords.com/dcft-by-roz-rosen-2/

Beautifully Deaf Swan

Beautifully Deaf SwanA review of Roz Rosen’s “The Ugly Duckling” from Deaf Culture Fairy Tales (Savory Words, 2017).

By Derek Newman-Stille

The Ugly Duckling is a tale of non-conformity, family rejection, and self discovery, so it makes sense that Roz Rosen re-wrote it into a Deaf fairy tale to explore dynamics of exclusion and rejection. Rosen’s Ugly Duckling is a tale that brings attention to the medicalization of Deaf bodies, and Mother Duck, perceiving something to be different about her Duckling decides to invite in a doctor, who diagnoses him as Deaf, telling her that this is “bad news” and that the Duckling will need constant listening and speaking therapy as well as medical interventions. Mother Duck takes this medical advice and subjects her child to medical procedures and speech therapy to try to force him to learn to speak English and speech-read. When the Duckling isn’t learning speech fast enough, the doctor, appropriately named Doctor Quack for his quack ideas, forces the Duckling to have his wings bound so that he is forced to rely on vocalizations. This procedure mimics the experiences of many Deaf youth who were taught the oral method and forced to sit on their hands to prevent them from signing. 

The Duckling internalizes the ableism around him, eventually wanting to conform to the expectations of his parents, siblings, doctor, and duck society around him. He keeps his binding on even when he is at threat by hunters and allows his flying to atrophy. Despite all of his attempts to conform, he continues to experience isolation and loneliness, finally abandoned by his family to freeze to death in the winter. 

Fortunately he is rescued by a human being and his Deaf cat. The Duckling is introduced to Deaf culture through the cat, who he has an instant kinship to through their mutual Deafness. The cat tries to help him through the damage already done to him through an audist culture, and begins to teach him to embrace who he is, learn to fly, and learn to communicate without vocalizations. 

Rosen expresses the idea, as she does in many of her Deaf Culture Fairy Tales that there is a universal connection through sign language – that Deaf people recognize each other through a sense of shared identity, and that they can find a way to communicate with each other even if they come from different cultural backgrounds and different animal groups. Through this transformative tale, Rosen focuses on the liberating quality of being part of a Deaf community and the escape from audist norms and assumptions about Deaf people. She brings attention to issues with the treatment of Deaf children by hearing parents and the isolation that comes with being treated differently from the rest of the community. “The Ugly Duckling” is a tale of taking pride in one’s self and one’s difference.

To find out more about Deaf Culture Fairy Tales, visit http://www.savorywords.com/dcft-by-roz-rosen-2/ 

Interview with Nicolette Barischoff

Interview with Nicolette Barischoff

By Derek Newman-Stille

nicolette

I was able to work with the wonderful Nicolette Barischoff when we were both included in the collection Accessing the Future (edited by Kathryn Allan and Djibril al-Ayad) a few years ago and just recently had the pleasure of working with Nicolette again when she edited my personal narrative submission as part of Uncanny Magazine’s Disabled People Destroy Science Fiction. As always, Nicolette had a plethora of ideas and I realized I had to share some of her insights with readers here on Dis(Abled) Embodiment. I want to thank Nicolette for joining us here and taking the time to do an interview.

 

Q: To start our interview off, could you tell readers a little bit about yourself?

 

Nicolette Barischoff: Well, I’m a speculative fiction writer. That’s probably the least visible and most important thing I do.  I’m also a chronically naked performance artist and art model. That’s a big part of my activism. It’s very important to me that we get people used to seeing many different types of bodies, and that we normalize the sight of visibly disabled bodies in particular. I have Spastic Cerebral Palsy and I use a wheelchair unless I feel like crawling (which I do, frequently).

 

Q: Could you tell us a bit about how you interact with disability in various ways?

 

Nicolette Barischoff: I resisted disability as a large part of my identity for a the greater part of my life. I’ve always identified as disabled (having a visible disability kind of forces you to be out and proud) but I fiercely resisted the idea of myself as Disabled Writer or a Disability Activist throughout my teens and early twenties. I think I thought of able-bodied peoples’ preoccupation with my disability as a distraction from the things I really wanted to say and write. To a certain degree, I still think that’s true. But as I grew into a proper adult, and as body and sex positivity became more and more important to me, I realized that I couldn’t be Body-Positive without being actively Disability-Positive. I have a very visibly disabled body. It’s the body I will always have. The two activisms are not separate spheres. They never can be.

 

Q: How have you interacted with ableism in the past?

 

Nicolette Barischoff: For me, ableism always seems to take the form of a struggle over personal autonomy. Many of the abled people in our lives really do want to empower us to make our own choices, but they often have trouble respecting those choices when they find them alarming or inconvenient or odd. They feel entitled, often compelled, to step in. Every disabled person I have ever met has at one time or another had their personal autonomy overridden for the comfort and convenience of the able-bodied, sometimes for the comfort and convenience of total strangers. Another off-shoot of this kind of ableism is when a disabled person is denied the assistance they need in the name of promoting their autonomy. I often encounter this at women’s clinics, where they don’t let my partner/assistant past the front desk in the name of protecting my privacy. Able people often fail to recognize a disabled person’s autonomy when it comes in the form of assisted living.

 

To be a true advocate for disabled rights (or human rights generally) is to empower autonomy, even when that autonomy is expressed in ways you do not fully understand or support.

 

Q: What does Disability Pride mean to you and what does it mean to be part of a disabled community?

 

Nicolette Barischoff:  To me, Disability Pride is Body Pride. It’s about coming to terms with the enormous variety of bodies there are in the universe, and celebrating them. There is no such thing as a “normal” body, or even a “fully-functioning” body. Every person on earth is just trying to get the most out of the body they’ve got. Disability Pride for me is about building worlds for the bodies we actually have, instead of trying to shove every body under the wheels of a great big Normalizing Machine.

 

Q: What potential is there is science fiction for thinking about disability in a different way?

 

Nicolette Barischoff: Science fiction is all about changing the shape of the world. It’s a genre that offers us the space (sometimes literally!) to imagine societies that fit our varied bodies. (Andi Buchanan would call these non-disabling worlds, worlds that don’t favor one type of body above all others.) Science fiction has all kinds of bodies and societies depicted in it. It’s kind of tailor-made for exploring relative concepts like disability.

 

Q: What are some pitfalls that literature gets into when portraying disability? What are some of the problematic tropes that arise?

 

Nicolette Barischoff:  We have had many talented essayists devote a great many words to answering this question over at Uncanny, so I won’t try to outdo them.  But I will say that one of the most common problems I see in disabled characters written by abled writers is a preoccupation with disability itself. Real disabled people have very bored and boring relationships to their bodies (because, you know, we live in them). When I wake up to my spine arching like the Brooklyn bridge, I don’t think “Oh, Gods, my disability! I hate this, this is so unfair!” I probably only have time to think, “Oh, fuck my back, today… Maybe a bath will help?”

 

Q: There is often pressure on those of us with disabilities to write about disability. How have you balanced this pressure to write disability with all of the other things you want to write about?

 

Nicolette Barischoff: Good question! And one I haven’t really found a good answer to, yet. I suppose the short answer would be that I’m very choosy about who I write about disability for. And my disabled characters don’t get to come out of my head until I have the right story for them.

 

Q: You wrote for the collection Accessing the Future. What was it like to write for an anthology that centred disability and didn’t seek to erase us from the future like so many tales of the future do?

 

Nicolette Barischoff: Wonderful! Accessing the Future means a great deal to me. It was the first science fiction story I ever wrote.

 

Q: In your story “Pirate Songs” as part of Accessing the Future, you create a wheelchair user, Margo, who is thrust into an alien environment. What was the inspiration for Margo, and in what ways was “Pirate Songs” ultimately about all of us disabled people feeling as though we have been thrust into an environment that is alien to our bodies?

 

Nicolette Barischoff: “Pirate Songs” is really a story about the fluid and flexible nature of privilege: the idea that a person can be extraordinarily privileged in some respects and utterly marginalized in others, that a person can be marvelously privileged in one environment, and horribly disadvantaged in another. The character of Margo came about as a result of a fun, funny thought experiment. Say you plucked someone from a very sleek, progressive, Roddenberry-esque “Federation of Planets” kind of society (away from all the 127 holodecks and the food replicators and the androids that play the violin) and you plunked them down in a backwater, somewhere at the very far edges of that society. What would they find? All societies look different at the margins, no matter how advanced they consider themselves to be, and if a person is disabled, that difference is all the more keenly felt. Disability is treated very differently in societies and subcultures that lack the resources to create non-disabling environments. Fear or hatred of disability often comes about when a society is too resource-poor to accommodate it.

 

Q: In what ways can our art (writing, visual arts, theatre, music) be an act of resistance to an ableist world? How can we evoke change through our art?

 

Nicolette Barischoff: I think change happens naturally as a result of the kinds of art and stories we produce. There’s a reason why book burnings and book bannings are a cornerstone of any burgeoning fascist regime. It’s because stories are natural vehicles for making us think new and uncomfortable thoughts by ancient and comfortable methods. We don’t need to TRY to make change with art. Art, by its nature, changes. All we need to do is write good stories full of wise and sensitive and beautiful human things.

 

Q: What are some things we can be doing to increase the profile of marginalized stories? So often, one of the biggest challenges is getting the sort of attention for marginalized stories that are already in place for able-bodied, straight, white, cis-gendered men’s narratives. How do we challenge this privilege in publishing?

 

Nicolette Barischoff: Good question. I don’t know that I’m entirely qualified to answer it. I think one thing we can do is invent new and unconventional ways of promoting stories. New platforms for doing so are popping up faster than publishing houses can make use of them. This is good. This subverts the gatekeepers.

 

Q: You are currently editing the personal narratives section of the Disabled People Destroy Science Fiction collection from Uncanny Magazine. What are some of the most rewarding parts of reading and sharing these personal narratives?

 

Nicolette Barischoff: It was always a fun surprise to me what each essayist chose to write about. Discovering which characters and stories are important to people and why. Oftentimes, two essayists would express totally opposite opinions on the disability rep in the same work of fiction, and they’d both make absolutely fabulous essays. That’s the sort of stuff that makes editing fun!

 

Q: What thoughts, perspectives, and ideas have these personal narratives evoked for you? How have the stories of other people opened up new viewpoints for you?

 

Nicolette Barischoff: One head-smacking moment occurred for me while reading Elise Mattheson’s essay “The Only Thing Faster Than Tonight: Mr Darkness.” She spoke on the idea that disabled people are often thought to be remarkable for simply existing (we’ve all been called “amazing” by dim and kindly strangers before, right? )  She points out that the mere fact that disabled people are alive and occupying the same space seems remarkable to able-bodied people, because there is an unspoken and unconscious belief that disabled people aren’t supposed to survive. That they aren’t supposed to live long enough to do perfectly ordinary things. That thought was a sharp tack to suddenly sit on! I couldn’t believe that I’d never thought about that aspect of it before. Anyway, there were a lot of little moments like that.

 

Q: What other current projects are you working on and how can readers find out more about your projects?

 

Nicolette Barischoff: The novel. Always the novel!  (The details of which are still misty and mysterious and very top-secret). I also have some pretty epic body-positive performance art planned for the coming year, so look out for that. You can find me on Twitter @nbarischoff or you can look up my dusty little blog, Turtles Have the Best Dreams.

 

——

 

Bio:

Nicolette Barischoff was born with spastic cerebral palsy, which has only made her more awesome. Her fiction has appeared in Long HiddenAccessing the FutureThe Journal of Unlikely AcademiaPodcastle, and Angels of the Meanwhile. She regularly writes about disability, feminism, sex- and body-positivity, and how all these fit together. Her personal essays on these topics get read way more than her fiction does, which is only a little annoying. She regularly collaborates with visual and performance artists to promote normalization of visibly disabled bodies. She’s been on the front page of CBS New York, where they called her activism public pornography and suggested her face was a Public Order Crime.

Narrating Blindness

A review of Rod Michalko’s “Explain Yourself” in Things are Different Here (Insomniac Press, 2017)

By Derek Newman-Stille

In “Explain Yourself”, the first story in his collection Things are Different Here, Rod Michalko exercises his characteristic wit and sense of play to bring attention to the way that sighted people are always asking blind people to explain how they became blind. Michalko plays with the overall notion of storytelling within the story by having a character, Jason, who invents stories about how his friend Matt became blind whenever he is asked. Michalko explores the subversive power of storytelling, using fiction as a mode for opposing ableism in public spaces. 

Frequently the able-bodied feel that they have a right to demand narration by disabled people, asking us how we became disabled and wanting us to give them our narrative. They frequently ask us how we became disabled out of an attempt to ensure that they don’t fall into the same “tragic” circumstances. There are power dynamics to that demand for us to narrate, and “Explain Yourself” is a story narration that is an act of resistance, a commentary on systemic ableism and the power of storytelling as a mode of resistance. Michalko is best known for his academic work in disability studies, but this shift to fiction stories is also an act of education (and I don’t mean that in the way that people often mean “educational” sources on disability – i.e. stories that explain our bodies). Michalko brings his readers into the critical questions and ambiguities that fiction does so well.

“Explain Yourself” is a tale about Matthew, a blind man, and his friend Jason, who is sighted. These two met at the gym and have a friendship based on mutual humour. Instead of people asking Matthew directly about his disability, they ask Jason because they are too uncomfortable speaking to Matthew directly, but still have their curiosity and ableist privilege to feel the right to question Matthew’s body. Jason had not asked Matthew how he became blind throughout the history of their friendship, but decided to let Matthew know how often he gets asked about blindness. 

Michalko uses this narrative to bring up critical questions about able-bodied allies. His character Jason interrogates why he feels proud to have a blind friend, and how he feels about narrating a blind man’s story as an able-bodied person. Like much of Michalko’s scholarship, “Explain Yourself” is an exploration of narratives – who gets to tell them, how they tell them, and what they mean.

To discover more about Things Are Different Here, visit http://www.insomniacpress.com/new-books.html

It’s Time to Stop Portraying the Lives of Disabled Children as Tragic for Parents.

It’s Time to Stop Portraying the Lives of Disabled Children as Tragic for Parents.
By Derek Newman-Stille

I just finished watching the Netflix show “Atypical”, which seeks to portray the life of a family with an 18 year old autistic boy as one of its members. The show bills itself as a comedy and seeks to portray this autistic young man, Sam’s, attempts at finding a girlfriend. It is another show that cashes in on portraying disabled lives as an alternation of tragedy and comedy, counting on its viewers to alternate between finding Sam’s antics humorous, while simultaneously portraying his life and the lives of those around him as tragic. 

Even though the show uses the tagline “normal is overrated”, it in fact reifies normalcy, putting the audience in the position of viewing Sam’s life as hilarious (even positioning students making fun of Sam for his neuro-atypical behaviour, while trying to play this scene up for laughs by the audience). It portrays Sam’s friends and girlfriend as people who have to constantly advocate for him, at one point even having Sam’s sister, Casey, tell his girlfriend that she shouldn’t get too close to him because then he will depend on her and she won’t be able to leave him (a sentiment that he then repeats later). These sentiments reflects and magnifies the already existing message that disabled lives are a burden on those around them – the image that we, disabled people are perpetually defined and shaped through the notion of dependency. Despite the fact that Sam is a competent, intelligent, capable person, he has to depend on his younger sister to give him lunch money at a certain point in the day. This is never explained and seems to be an uncomfortable fit with Sam’s capacity in every other part of the show. Yet, the writers seem unable to give Sam agency. 

The most dangerous part of the messaging around this show comes from the portrayal of Sam’s interactions with his parents. His mother, Elsa, defines herself through her relationship with her son, taking on the identity of “parent of an autistic child” over everything else. The show focusses on the “sacrifices” she, her husband, and her daughter have to go through as part of having an autistic child. Parenting an autistic child is portrayed as tragedy, and the show focusses on the damage that has been done to Elsa’s relationship to her husband, justifies Sam’s father, Doug’s abandonment of their child because it is “too much” for most parents, and portrays Casey as the ignored child because her parents didn’t ever have time to care for her because their lives had to revolve around Sam. Sam is portrayed as a autistic bomb dropped on his family with continuing damaging results. 

I have heard from a few people about this show that they admire the show’s bravery in portraying the mother of an autistic child needing to take time for herself, but I would argue that that isn’t something that is happening in this show. This isn’t about balancing caring work with personal time, it is about her feelings of having not had a life because an autistic child has damaged it. I think it is important to acknowledge the need for any parent, and particularly mothers who end up doing most of the caring work in their families, to have time for their personal growth and time for self care. However, the way to do that is not to portray parenting a disabled person as a perpetual tragedy. Although there is no doubt that the lives of mothers are shaped by a system that seeks to oppress them, it is my perspective that their liberation should not come at the expense of people with disabilities and that there is a way to liberate both groups without inherently portraying one type of life as tragic for another. There are very real social consequences to this portrayal particularly since government and private research groups continue to search for genes or conditions during pregnancy that can cause congenital disabilities and then suggest that any child that could have been born with a disability be aborted. Our society already has difficulty imagining disabled lives as viable, but the additional constant messaging that disabled lives are tragic for parents tends to encourage parents to not want disabled children. This has direct repercussions for the lives of disabled children, creating a situation where it is difficult to find people who are willing to parent disabled children.
Of course, this problem is magnified by the fact that there are relatively few portrayals of parents of disabled children who live happy lives. Our stories tend to focus on disability as tragedy rather than disability as benefit, so the overwhelming amount of portrayals of disabled lives as tragic tend to override any other possible portrayals or even the likelihood of our society viewing disabled people as anything other than a burden. We can see this in our governments, who tend to look at disability as an inherent negative, frequently preventing the immigration of disabled people, discussing the economic deficit of disabled people, and generally failing to provide accessible spaces because disabled people aren’t seen as beneficial enough to be permitted access to all spaces. 
Sam’s narrative is one shaped by treatment, learning from his therapist and those around him how to be neurotypical. His mother attends a support group that at one moment is about sharing horror stories about having a disabled child and the next moment talks about person-first narratives and NOT describing disabled people as tragedy. This sort of mixed messaging is not entirely without grounds in a lot of organizations, because frequently organizations will focus on language around disability while simultaneously encouraging a view of disabled people as dependent and making decisions without the involvement of disabled people. There is a cadence of these meetings that reflects organizations like Autism Speaks, who tend to exclude the voices of autistic people, while elevating those of parents, also focussing on Autism as something that should be treated and eliminated rather than focussing on providing accessible spaces for autistic people, tends to raise money for attempts to “cure” autism rather than recognizing it as an important part of neurodiversity. Many of the messaging boards attached to Autism Speaks tend to provide a space for parents to talk about the difficulties in raising an autistic child. This approach mirrors some of the approaches taken in Elsa’s support group. This type of approach contrasts with groups like the Autistic Self Advocacy Network (ASAN), an organization run by and for autistic people that focusses on disability rights advocacy and provide a space for neurodiversity. The Autistic Self Advocacy Network focusses on the notion of “nothing about us without us”, and this approach would have been something beneficial for the creators, writers, and those involved in the production of “Atypical” to consider.

Disability, Deafness, Ageing, Queerness, and Other Complicated Embodiments