The title of today’s blog is a slight adaptation of the late, great, Stella Young’s quote:
No amount of smiling at a flight of stairs has ever made it turn into a ramp.
As an aside, if you have not spent years repeatedly watching Stella Young’s TED Talk, I highly recommend it. (LINK) It is an important reference for disability studies/disabled advocates. The main crux of her speech is the topic of inspiration porn, a topic that I have covered across multiple social media websites, and will undoubtedly cover on this specific blog. Today, however, I want to focus on the crossroads of theory and reality.
After being away from my family for a year and a half, I finally traveled from Leeds to Western New York (not the city) in mid-December. The plan was to stay for a few weeks before flying back to England in early-January. I did not expect a new coronavirus mutation to rapidly spread through the UK, nor did I expect my university to “strongly advise” me to stay in my current location. When I realized that I would be staying with my family until late-February, I decided to shift from sleeping on an air mattress in the living room to hunkering down in my old bedroom(s). For context: my parents divorced in 2006, residing in separate houses in the same town. Both houses are standard two-stories. Kitchens, living rooms, dining rooms, and half-baths (toilets) on the bottom floor; bedrooms and showers on the top floor. Both houses have daunting staircases that separate these floors. This architectural layout is not unique; aesthetic differences aside, most houses in my rural town have this same setup. Due to various economic and practical factors, there is no feasible way to retrofit the architecture of these houses. (Retrofitting refers to making adjustments to an inaccessible building so that it becomes accessible.) The amalgamation of these barriers is a fantastic example of the intersections of rurality and accessibility. A close friend brought up these very intersections when I told him that I dreaded having to climb those stairs every day to go to bed and/or take a shower. It took me a while to realize that my friend and I were having two different conversations. He was discussing the very interesting theoretical paradigms at the intersection of disability studies and rural studies. I was discussing the very real pain that I would be experiencing when I climbed those stairs. This prompted me to write this piece for this week’s blog.
Much of my research involves analyzing the disabling factors created in the past while speculating about better practices that could occur in the future. In doing so, it is sometimes difficult to remember the realities faced in the present. Even when I do examine said present realities—through my analyses of literature written by/about disabled people as well as my upcoming interviews with my disabled participants—I still have the proverbial “Theory Cap” on. Like my friend, I have read about so many different theories, paradigms, and analytical tools, that I can apply at least one theory to every problem that arises. I have often found myself reading and/or listening to a disabled person’s account of an oppressive circumstance, and my first thought is: “This is exactly what [Insert Any Author] was arguing.” The problem, as I have come to realize, is that a theory might not always provide instant gratification to that problem.
I could certainly use the social model of disability as an analytical tool, in order to come to the conclusion that my inability to reach the parmesan cheese on the top shelf of my dad’s refrigerator is not the fault of my wheelchair-use, but rather the fault of the refrigerator design. The problem is that tackling this issue with a theory will not get the parmesan cheese down before my pasta gets cold. So, I stand. I endure brief pain. I grab the cheese, I finish making my dinner, and I eat. In doing so, I essentially live two different lives: the life of a disabled researcher, in the field of disability studies, whose theories surround her like a weighted blanket, and the life of a disabled person who is trying to get through her everyday life, while continuously facing painful disabling barriers. While I can combine these two sides to form an immediate explanation of said disabling barriers, I cannot combine the sides to form an immediate solution. This is why I chose the title: “No amount of theorizing at a flight of stairs has ever made it turn into a ramp.” More specifically, no amount of theorizing has instantaneously turned a flight of stairs into a ramp.
As a realist who clings onto the preachings of an optimist, I would argue that sharing disability theories en masse will help people develop the aforementioned better practices. Therefore, a theory today could lead to a ramp tomorrow. This is, arguably, why we theorize at all. It is certainly why I theorize. I want to believe that studying these abstract concepts of disabling barriers, disabling social stigmas, and inclusive practices will one day make a difference. I am confident that they will—one day. Yet, as we sit in these ivory towers of theoretical academia, postulating on what could be, we have to stop and face the reality that these towers might be filled with winding stairs. We have to understand that, so long as these barriers exist, disabled people will experience exclusion and/or pain. We have to understand the very real human behind the very abstract theories.
Therefore, when I begin my interviews next month, I must do my best to remember that the disabled people sharing their voices are not just contributing to my theoretical framework of my Ph.D.; they are sharing their voices because they are people whose voices deserve to be heard. I will do my best to hear those voices and provide empathetic support. Then, after they have said what they needed to say, I will put on my Theory Cap.
Comments