Something remarkable is going on in the world. Disability arts festivals seem to be springing up all over. In the recent past there have been ones in Chicago, London, and Toronto. And in the near future others are scheduled for Australia, Philadelphia, Edinburgh, and Versailles. And then there are a slew of disability film festivals happening in places such as Austin, Berkeley, Calgary, and Moscow. Add to that the emergence of several new disability literary journals and we have what it is tempting to speak of as a worldwide flowering of disability culture. Except then we are faced with the question of whether there is, in fact, anything distinctive that is common to the creative expression of the world’s 650 million people with disabilities. More narrowly, since I am a writer with a disability, I think about whether or not there is a distinctive disabled literary sensibility. And, if so, how can we define that sensibility?
My first impulse is to say no: there’s nothing different about us. But then I realize that this is a conditioned, reflexive response to an oppressive society, which scorns us for our differences, which tells us that we are unworthy of love and incapable of living productive, happy lives. Then too, being the Darwinian underdog, I am reluctant to think in categories and prefer instead to consider all people on a continuum of human variability.
The truth is that people with disabilities do not constitute a completely closed group, so it’s impossible to make definitive statements about our creative expression. But I think that we can discern some tendencies. I would say that we and, therefore, our arts are not fundamentally different, but we do embody in a more dramatic way the universal human condition.
All human beings are helpless against the mysterious, invisible power of time to bring decline and death. But our disabled bodies are apt to decline faster. We have greater awareness of the reality of death and the fleeting nature of life’s pleasures. Therefore, our literature mourns loss and celebrates everyday moments with a passionate intensity. Harriet McBryde Johnson, a lawyer and advocate whose essays have appeared in the New York Times Magazine, eloquently describes tooling confidently in her motorized wheelchair through the familiar streets of her home city of Charleston. It’s a quintessentially disabled sensibility to relish this simple pleasure of motion so deeply. And it’s also a quintessentially disabled sensibility to write about it in a proud, defiant challenge to everyone who thinks our lives are filled only with suffering.
When we do write about the darker side of our experience — our encounters with illness and pain — we write honestly and matter-of-factly. We give the devil of suffering his due but don’t allow him to triumph over our spirits. So, an entire issue of Breath & Shadow, the online journal of disability literature and culture, can be devoted to the theme of mortality and yet be full of love for life and humor.
All human beings, also, are ultimately alone. But our sense of isolation is exaggerated by society’s prejudice and its concrete expression in physical barriers. Therefore, our literature celebrates the community that we find with each other and the preciousness of love. Mike Ervin, a prolific humorist and playwright, fortifies our bonds with insider jokes about how able-bodied people really envy us for our privileges such as handicapped parking. And poet Dan Wilkins writes beautifully of his child’s unconditional love. Certainly other people have written about the joys of parenthood. But it’s a quintessentially disabled sensibility to layer that joy with the poignant knowledge that in the outside world there are people who disvalue him simply because of his disability.
While we are ultimately alone, all human beings are also interdependent. But our reliance on human and technological support is more pervasive. So, our literature dispenses with the hubris of chest-thumping individualism and instead focuses on our relationships with the people and things that help us function. Disability magazines like New Mobility are full of reasoned but ultimately celebratory writing about the latest models of wheelchairs. It’s a quintessentially disabled sensibility to revel in these sleek, life-enhancing machines that others unfortunately view as symbols of decrepitude and dependence.
I am pleased to position my writing within this rich culture. My plays, poems and essays return again and again to love and loss, connection and alienation. Another theme that persists is the transformative power of art. An example of this is a play I wrote about a Holocaust survivor. The lead character, having written his life story, says in a pivotal moment, “I am not just a survivor. I am not just a piece of dirt the Nazis overlooked. I am also what I have made. I have made this book.”
The world keeps telling those of us with disabilities that we’re flawed. But in our art — beautiful, courageous and wise — we achieve a wholeness that no one can deny or surpass.
