Spatializing Disability and Considering Belonging 

By Derek Newman-Stille

Access. Access is a central issue for disability since we live in a society that only creates space for able bodies. It assumes a singular bodily ontology and our physical spaces are moulded to conform to that single body. Those who don’t fit the mould are expected to make our bodies fit, to modify our bodies, movements, interactions to fit with a singular interpretation of space. 

In this construction, we are made exiles in our own homes, in our own cities, towns, and villages. We are expected to accept our position of non-belonging in our own spaces, assumed to be comfortable with all of the responsibilities of citizenship, but without the basics of belonging that citizenship claims to offer. We are imagined to be content on the fringes, margins, and edges, those few spaces that accommodate our bodies and provide us with access. 

So what does this mean for our notions of home? How do we disabled bodies fit in to a nation state that has geographic boundaries but makes these geographies inaccessible to us? How do we gain access?

Perhaps the disabled body provides us with a space for re-thinking belonging, for critically questioning how we can occupy and take up space. 

Our bodies are perceived as awkwardly occupying space. We notice this through the states we evoke, the way that we are both hypervisible (stared at) in public spaces and simultaneously invisible (particularly when we need help or when city planners develop architecture). Yet, maybe this positions us as bodies that are able to CHALLENGE ideas of belonging that exclude, maybe this positions is as radical bodies in a space that seeks to pacify through the rhetoric of normalcy (that is constructed only to make bodies and identities not belong). 

Maybe we need to consider belonging and citizenship trough the lens of access. Maybe we need to think about exclusion and barriers to belonging when we think about how we occupy or are made unable to occupy our spaces.

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Fictional Portrayals of Disability- Why Do They Matter?

By Derek Newman-Stille

I frequently get asked why I look at portrayals of disability in fiction. I am often told that I should look at something “real” and “substantial” like policy. 
I find this an interesting assumption. People frequently assumed that marginalized identities are going to be best changed through policy and politics, but policies are shaped by social consciousness, by the realm of ideas. Fiction is about the realm of the possible, the realm of ideas, and it is ideas that make changes more than policy. Policies won’t change social attitudes unless there is a social receptiveness to these changes. 
I frequently think about this in terms of requirements for accommodation in building codes, and the notion that undergirds this: “minimal compliance”. Minimal compliance with building accessibility codes mean that people can continue to view disability as a PROBLEM, as an issue that doesn’t need to be accommodated, but instead needs to be appeased. This means that buildings often have spaces that don’t really fit disabled bodies, but instead fit codes. Disabled bodies are still viewed as non-viable in these spaces, perceived as a barrier to an easy build rather than a necessary inclusion. Rather than viewing us as needed and essential participants in these spaces, we are viewed as inconvenient obstructions. 
Fiction provides a space for radical rethinkings of our social spaces, challenges to a system that is content with our erasure. Fiction invites society to radically re-imagine our perceptual frameworks, our entrenched beliefs and the things that we consider self-evident. 
Yet, our fiction is produced from the moulds that have been created previously, from our social frameworks and from our existing taken-for-granted understandings of the world. Our fiction, and our ways of imagining disability are fundamentally problematic, limited, and actively damaging. They reproduce ideologies that push disabled bodies further to the fringes and influence policies that don’t really include disabled bodies and often actively exclude us. 
Our fiction, our imaginations, need an infusion of something new and potent, something that radically reconsiders not just literary tropes, but imaginative possibilities. We need a radical reconception of the way that disability occupies our imagination, challenge images that reduce us, and open up new possibilities for discourse.
Critical explorations of popular culture, literature, art, imagination, are not just things in the realm of academia. We should all be radically reconsidering our portrayals, critically questioning them, discussing them, and producing something new.

A Graphic History of Deaf Schools and Audism

A review of Carlisle Robinson’s The Case of Victor Gray By Derek Newman-Stille

Deaf history is wrought with oppression at the hands of hearing people, and the Deaf residential schools frequently prevented access to sign language, forcing students to instead use spoken English and rely on speech reading. Often Deaf students taught each other sign language in secret on the playground or in the hallways of schools, and, when caught, could receive punishment for learning their own language. 

In The Case of Victor Gray, Carlisle Robinson creates a historical fiction narrative based on the lives of actual Deaf students and teachers. He explores a Deaf teacher who has to fight against a system that prevents students and teachers from using their own language. Robinson portrays Victor Gray as a beloved teacher of Deaf students who taught in a combination of English and sign language, often using ASL (American Sign Language) storytelling as a reward for learning. Robinson draws Gray as a character with an animated body, hands, and face, illustrating the whole body experience of sign language. Gray is a character whose emotions and expressions exude from his body. 

Yet, Gray has to come up against a system that wants to force conformity on the Deaf population rather than allowing Deaf Culture to provide a space for Deaf expression. Robinson examines the history of Deaf schools being run by hearing people and the attempt to force the conformity of teachers and students into a hearing-only system. Gray attempts to resist this oppression of Deaf Culture, pointing out the usefulness of sign language for the education of Deaf students, and even resisting hearing culture by signing to the administrators who are attempting to erase ASL from his school. Gray eventually finds himself unemployed for trying to teach his students in the way that is most effective for them.

Gray is pathologized for his resistance and his attempts to ensure that his students can learn effectively, and, like many Deaf people in the 1930s, is treated as though he is mentally ill for resisting the hegemonic power of a hearing-only system. 

Although a tale of historical fiction, The Case of Victor Gray highlights issues inherent in the history of Deaf education, and, particularly, the stigmatization of ASL. Carlisle Robinson expresses the constant pain of a history of cultural erasure and oppression in The Case of Victor Gray, giving voice to the continued legacy of oppression and the impact that this continues to have on Deaf lives. Using a graphic medium, Robinson allows the reader to look into history, to see the richness of Deaf culture and the pain of oppression, making eye contact with figures from historical contexts. 

To discover more about The Case of Victor Gray, visit http://www.carlisle-robinson.com/the-case-of-victor-gray/ 
To support Carlisle Robinson’s work, visit their patreon account at https://www.patreon.com/carodoodles

The Reaper Cat

A review of Juliet Marillier’s “The Gatekeeper”in The Sum of Us edited by Susan Forest and Lucas K. Law (Laksa Media Group, 2017)
By Derek Newman-Stille

In 2007 reports abounded of a cat in Providence Rhode Island who predicted the deaths of more than 100 residents in an older adult care home. Oscar, the “miracle cat” was worked as a therapy cat for the residents and was reported on by geriatrician David Dosa in an article in the New England Journal of Medicine. Dosa reported that Oscar would nap near patients a few hours before they would die, and he eventually wrote the book.

Oscar evoked a number of questions by the public around omens as well as the ability for cats to smell impending death. Oscar was also the inspiration for Juliet Marillier’s short story “The Gatekeeper”.

Highlighting a cat in a collection of short stories about caregivers and caregiving evokes the interesting relationships between humans and animals, and the emotional labour that our pets do for us. Marillier’s cat, who names himself Cat even though everyone around him has a different name for him based on the cats that they had when they were younger, constantly works to make sure that the residents feel safe and cared for. Marillier brings attention to the constant work that cats do, ensuring that their humans are emotionally healthy and well. Cat has integrated himself into the care routines of the older adult care home where he is working, checking on patients when human staff aren’t sufficient in the care home for the care needs of the population. Cat is often with patients at their deaths when human staff are busy elsewhere. 

Marillier writes Cat as a servant of the Egyptian cat goddess Bast, and Cat believes he has a religious duty to make sure that he can give comfort to human beings, and, particularly those human beings who are transitioning into death. Rather than simply being part of the expectations of a pet’s role, Cat’s care for humans becomes his religious duty, complicating ideas of care.

In “The Gatekeeper”, Cat’s role is questioned and he and the man who rescued him and brought him into the home, Tariq, may have to leave because the home, with its strict policies considers the presence of a cat to be a question of hygiene. Rather than listening to residents about the importance of having a therapy cat, administration at the older adult care home decides that the cat shouldn’t have a role there. This relationship to the cat is further complicated because Tariq is unwilling to give up Cat (who he names Hamza), and, as a result may lose his job. Tariq is Afghanistani and has precarious employment in Australia due to his immigrant status. He is perceived as unqualified for others jobs that he could have and positioned as a care provider. His loyalty to Cat/Hamza comes into conflict with his need for employment and his ideas of care, a style of care based on personal connections with the residents, is already suspect in an older adult care culture that is often based more on efficiency and bodily needs over the emotional needs of the residents. Cat provides for the emotional needs that a neoliberal health system doesn’t allocate time or funds for. He provides care for the price of treats and connects residents to feelings of safety, comfort, and memory.

Marillier’s “The Gatekeeper” operates in the realm of speculative fiction to open up critical questions about health care and ideas of quality of life, while focusing her narrative on human-animal relationships. She brings attention to the devaluing of emotional labour and care work, highlighting the therapeutic potential of human-animal interactions, and human-human interactions in a home. She provides a cat’s eye view of the nursing home system, taking the narrative out of the hands of doctors, nurses, and PSWs and envisioning a new type of care work. 

To discover more about The Sum of Us, visit http://laksamedia.com/the-sum-of-us-an-anthology-for-a-cause-2/ 

To find out more about Juliet Marillier, visit  http://www.julietmarillier.com/ 

Signs of a Powerful Graphic Narrative

A review of Carlisle Robinson’s What QQ Vol 2 
By Derek Newman-Stille

Carlisle Robinson begins What QQ Vol 2 with a lesson for hearing readers in how to address Deaf people. Carlisle points out that the vast majority of hearing people assume that everyone else is hearing and when people don’t answer, they assume this is an act of rudeness, rather than Deafness. 

Carlisle reminds readers that English is their second language and ASL (American Sign Language) is their first language, noting that the comic is an act of translation, an act of storytelling in a foreign language. This is something incredibly significant to bring attention to. Most hearing people assume that ASL is simply a gestural form of English, when, in fact, it has a different grammatical structure, different idioms, and is a different modality of language. This means that translations into English can have grammatical differences. 

Carlisle shares a nightmare as part of the What QQ Vol 2 comic, a post-Trump election nightmare where racist, homophobic, ableist people are given a place to attack those of us who are queer, disabled, or non-white. Carlisle has a character encounter someone who is wearing a “Make American Great Again” shirt who begins calling Deaf people “retarded” and queer people “faggots”. Carlisle observes that this nightmare didn’t come out of nowhere, but is based on events that are occurring in the United States, and now also in Canada, where Carlisle has made their home. 

Not everything in the comic is political, nor does it all reflect depressive realities of being in an ableist, homophobic world, some of Carlisle’s geek humour comes through in this comic as well. Carlisle points out that Spiderman’s web-shooting hand looks like the ASL sign for “I love you” and that, therefore “He fights with Love”. 

Carlisle’s comics pages often combine signs, with the character actually carrying out the signing. This is unlike signing depictions in other comics, which frequently use ASL figure graphics. However, because of the static medium of the comic image, Carlisle often depicts a large amount of text on the page, and freezes the frame with only one sign (and often only one part of the sign) visible. 

Since Deaf populations rely heavily on body and facial expressions, Carlisle’s use of expressive character faces is important for conveying essential meanings to the reader, providing emotional and situational context that complements the text. 

Carlisle combines information for hearing people about Deaf populations with tales meant for the Deaf population to enjoy, linking these together into a collection of stories about their experience as a Deaf person. 

You can find out more about Carlisle Robinson’s work at http://www.carlisle-robinson.com or check out their tapastic account at tapastic.com/carodoodles .
You can support them at https://www.patreon.com/carodoodles

Able-Bodied People Speaking ABOUT Disabled People

By Derek Newman-Stille

Far too frequently, able-bodied people feel that they have a place to talk about disabled people. They use different justifications for this act of narrating our bodies to us, but the bottom line is always the same. There is an assumption that our bodies are open to public debate, that we are resigned to expertiseism about our bodies not only by medical practitioners, but anyone who feels that they have a stake in narrating us. 
I see this most commonly when it comes to medical practitioners, whose power to narrate our bodies is so strong that we have to depend on their assessment of our bodies to get access to basic accommodations. Our own narration of our bodies is never considered enough to guarantee that we will acquire everything we need. In university I observed this with the accommodation letters that I was forced to bring to my professors. My own narration of my bodily needs was not enough to be considered appropriate, so I needed to bring a letter detailing my needs in order to get them. Catherine Duchastel de Montrouge brought up the need for accommodation letters during her recent talk at the Canadian Disability Studies Association and discussed the fetishization of the accommodation letter for our post-secondary education system. Duchastel de Montrouge talked about being told by professors that she shouldn’t need accommodations, that she would be denied accommodations because the “professor knows best”, and the suspicion of accommodation letters by most professors. When talking to her, I likened the accommodation letter to a passport, allowing us into a space that we are considered unwelcome in and a space where we can have our rights withdrawn at any time. We depend on these accommodation letters for access to education, but they are dependent on the physician writing them, a university office drafting their final copy, and a professor deciding to abide by these letters. 
This is, of course only one example of the need for physician letters, since disabled people also need the word of a physician to access disabled parking, be able to use accessible seats on aeroplanes, have access to disability accommodation, and in order to access government support funds for people with disabilities. 
I have frequently had people narrate my body to me after seeing me walking with a cane. I have been told “if you work hard enough, you won’t have to use that any more”, been asked “why do you think you need a cane?”, and been told that I “look normal enough”. These narrations happened by strangers, which frequently occurs for disabled people. Able-bodied people have been told through their media that they have a right to narrate disabled people’s bodies to them, to tell us how to live our lives, how to be disabled in this world, and how we should act to make them more comfortable with our presence on the landscape. 
A friend recently came back from a writers’ conference where she was the only disabled person on a panel about writing disability. It should be abundantly clear to everyone that disability is generally not written of well in our literature and popular culture, so I am amazed at how little people want to listen to disabled people give input on their bodies and how to write them well. She noted that all of the able-bodied people on the panel tried to tell her how disabled characters should be written, replicating tropes about disability. They even waved their hand at her to say “people like you” when talking about people with disabilities. 
I have experienced similar issues when able-bodied people have asked me to read their stories about people with disabilities because they generally respond to my reminders that the character is presented problematically by getting angry and saying things like “that is how I need the character to be for the novel to work” or “but it’s not really about their disability, its about what it means for their society” or “but I saw a meme on facebook that said this” or “I talked to someone who was disabled and they said it was okay to write people like them this way” or “but I read a book on it by a doctor and this is what they said” or “but I tried to make this character a nice person, isn’t that enough?” This is one of the reasons I have become more hesitant to read people’s manuscripts, especially when they portray disabled people. I know that little will shift when I ask them for more, ask them to do better, or ask them to listen, pay attention, and understand. 
Able bodied writers and media consumers seem resistant to hearing back from the people they write about. Our disabled voices only complicate the easy symbolism that they write onto our bodies, our three-dimensionality only complicates the simple one-dimensional characters they want to write.  We make it hard to write us when we speak up.
I think that bears repeating: We make it hard to write us when we speak up.
I think this could be a call to action. A call to able-bodied people to actually listen to us, a call for convention organizers to have disabled people speaking about disabled characters, and a reminder of the call “nothing about us without us”. 

Obsessively Complex

A review of “The Bad Doctor: The Troubled Life and Times of Dr. Iwan James” by Ian Williams (Graphic Medicine, 2015)
By Derek Newman-Stille

“The Bad Doctor” by Ian Williams is a tale of the entwined experience of a doctor and his patients. Unlike most medical narratives that tend to reinforce the hierarchical position of doctors as the arbiters of knowledge and patients (particularly those with disabilities) as receivers of knowledge, “The Bad Doctor” complicates narratives of disability and medical authority. Williams’ exploration situates Dr. Iwan James as someone who learns from his patients, changing with each medical encounter. He is a figure who combines narratives of disability with narratives of medical experience. 

Dr. Iwan James is portrayed as a doctor who has experienced Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (OCD) his entire life, generally fixating on ideas of the occult as a threat and prayer as a method of averting disasters. Interweaving with narratives of encounters with patients, including one patient with OCD who helps Dr. James re-assess his own compulsive thoughts, Ian Williams also portrays elements from Dr. James’ childhood. Drawn with beautiful trees coming from his head that hold bubbles about all of the things that the young Iwan wants to protect, these pages about his obsessive thoughts illustrate the complexity of OCD. Young Iwan spends most nights going through a series of blessings of each family member, having to repeat these blessings if anyone or anything is missed. Even stuffed animals need a specific number of pats each night to ensure that they are protected. Williams draws circles of light around each of the things that young Iwan wants to protect, linking them together in a complex pattern of thought, and yet these images are also surrounded by caution signs depicting possible outcomes if he misses anyone. As Iwan grows up, he begins to obsess over the occult, believing that his dog died because he listened to occult music. After his wife becomes pregnant, Iwan sees occult imagery everywhere around him and seeks to try to protect his children from their influence. 

Dr. Iwan James develops coping mechanisms for his OCD, able to develop methods to control these obsessive thoughts, but they don’t disappear from the narrative. This is not a narrative of disability where there is an easy solution through a “cure”. Rather, Dr. James’ continued work on himself allows him to be a better doctor, to engage with patients from a place of knowledge, but not of arrogance. Instead, he is able to share his narrative with patients to help them to better understand themselves and their own compulsions. Dr. James still has persistent thoughts and continues to have suicidal ideation from time to time and these suicidal thoughts enter into the comic page in imagined scenes of shooting himself in the head or guillotining off his own head. Ian Williams illustrates the way that these thoughts can interrupt everyday narratives by inserting them between panels, at random, evoking the power of suicidal thoughts to seep into the mind during every day encounters.

Told through powerful snippets of encounters with patients and intense flashbacks of obsessive compulsive thoughts, “The Bad Doctor” creates a complex view of medicine and the relationship between an individual and the medical system. 

To discover more about “The Bad Doctor”, visit Graphic Medicine’s page at http://www.graphicmedicine.org/ 

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