3:28pm April 8, 2014

“

I admit it, I was depressed. Depression was kicking the living crap out of me. So why didn’t I call up Jack? How come I’m not one of those middle-aged women who ends up sucking down monoxide in the back of Happy Jack’s deathmobile? I’m certainly as disabled as many of these women, more severely disabled than some of them. But disability isn’t really the issue, is it? What I feel and think about myself and my possibilities as a disabled person is.

I am one of the lucky ones. Very lucky. I have a disability cultural identity that tells me I am whole and valuable. An identity that tells me I am a survivor. An identity that teaches me that my difficult life is worth the struggle, that being alive even in a very painful limited edition body is worth it. An identity that reminds me that although my disability may feel like a tremendous burden, I am not a burden. I have a disability cultural identity that tells me I am worth it, whatever it takes, whatever it costs. And that I am not alone. To put it in the language of one of my favorite fictional characters, Frankie Addams, I have a we of me. We, the disabled. And because I have this vital we, I am not alone with my suffering or surrounded solely by the voices of those who would lay their easy pity and resentments on me.

Because I have this empowered disability identity, born of the independent living movement, taught to me by political activism, imprinted on my marrow by the example of Crips putting their asses on the line to fight for their/my/our freedom, I am able, even in this most difficult time, to tell Jack Kevorkian to park his van in his own damn garage, I want to live.

But this empowered Crip identity is not a granite statue steeling my resolve with a raised, gnarled fist, nor is it a symbol I can tack on the wall like a picture of Christ on the cross. It is a living, breathing, changing force that needs care and feeding like the rest of me. And like the rest of me, it doesn’t stay healthy in isolation. It begins to wither and fade, losing its ability to influence my actions. Community is the key to my empowerment. Connection. The holy we. The more days I go without community, the easier it is to feel overwhelmed by the medical portion of the program. The more days I go without seeing examples of the possibilities, the closer my finger moves to the dial: 1-800-SUICIDE.

Let’s face it, it’s not that damn easy to feel empowered even when you’re out in the world, fighting for change, involved, active. The struggle is awesome and the political. times we’re living in are certainly not making it any easier. But each time we do something to fight oppression, anything, no matter how small or insignificant it may seem at the time, we fuel our empowerment. Each time we make the decision, in this moment, not to take a pass, we fuel our empowerment. Each time we fight the natural inclination toward despair and insist on hope, we fuel our empowerment. And when we fuel our empowerment we greatly increase our chances of survival. And each time one of us deemed “a fate worse than death” survives, we make a difference, we change the world. Staying alive, especially now, is an important and powerful act of resistance. If you are one of the Crips out there using every ounce of energy to keep on truckin’ against very very heavy odds, I want to say thank you for your act of resistance. Whether you realize it or not, you are making a valuable contribution to our culture.

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