“If you’ve met one disabled person, then you’ve met one disabled person.” Emily Ladau, activist and author of Demystifying Disability, uses this line to illustrate that there is no single story of the disabled experience.1 As we learned in Chapter 1: What Is Disability?, disability is incredibly diverse. We are all unique, whether it is across different disabilities or even within the same type of disability. While one person’s experience might inform another’s, no singular experience represents the entire disability community. We have intersecting identities, unique needs, and varied ways of navigating our disabilities. We are not a monolith (been a while!), just like any other community of people out there.
Because of this, we sometimes disagree. For example, much of what you’ll find in this book is general guidance that I’ve attempted to pool from different resources that matches my own experiences, preferences, and beliefs. However, not every disabled person will agree with me or share my perspectives, which is why I’ve mentioned that I hope my personal stories and advice can be a catalyst for you to do your own research.
One example of where we might diverge is our language preferences. While I’ve discussed using words like disability and disabled people to refer to us in order to reinforce the idea that disability is a neutral rather than a negative term, some people prefer alternatives. Snowboarder Amy Purdy is fine with calling herself an adaptive athlete or a three-time Paralympic medalist; however, she doesn’t call herself disabled. “Although I never really considered myself ‘disabled’ because my legs have actually allowed me to do so much, I couldn’t be more honored to represent such a diverse & creative community!” she wrote in a Facebook post.2 While we should respect individual preferences, keep in mind that removing the shame and stigma around disability is still an important anti-ableist practice because shame and stigma hold people back from identifying as disabled and receiving the support and accommodations that we need.3 People have different preferences in etiquette, too: some of us like to be proactively asked before being offered assistance, while others prefer not to be approached at all, with the mindset that if we need something, we’ll request it ourselves.
It is one thing to respect the individual wishes of disabled people when it comes to preferred language and behavior. However, it is a whole other thing when there is a conflict in our ideals, values, and methods. At the end of the day, I believe that all people reading this book want to live in an anti-ableist society. However, the means and ways we use to get there might look different from community to community and person to person.
As we learned in Chapter 7: Disability Intersectionality, one of the principles under the framework of disability justice is anti-capitalism. The reason is that capitalism’s hyperfocus on productivity—the capability of our bodies to keep on producing—is ableist, and non-disabled bodies are valued over disabled bodies because of how much more they can potentially produce to support the capitalist system. I have to acknowledge that we still exist in a capitalist society, and much of my advocacy work is focused on getting disabled people paid and finding ways for us to survive and thrive within that system, which might not be supported under the anti-capitalism principle. I’ve also been paid an advance to write this book. I’m grateful to be able to support my livelihood through my advocacy work and pay it forward by investing in disabled entrepreneurs, awarding disability microgrants, and helping disabled people get paid.
Another example of diverging opinions in the disability community is Tim Tebow’s Night to Shine disability prom. Some disability advocates have been critical of the event because of the way it segregates disabled teens and doesn’t address the underlying issue of how disabled people feel excluded from the prom at their own school that their non-disabled peers are attending.4 I remember bringing up this feedback to a friend who volunteered at the event, and she told me that Night to Shine could be transformative and life-changing for disabled people who attended it because they didn’t feel welcome at the prom at their own school. After this conversation, I changed my perspective and realized that all of our initiatives were intended to work toward acceptance and inclusion. Disability-only spaces are sometimes needed, as they can create a sense of access intimacy, a term coined by disability justice activist Mia Mingus, which she describes as “that elusive, hard to describe feeling when someone else ‘gets’ your access needs.”5
It feels uncomfortable when disagreements happen, especially when members of your own community are critical of you. But I’ve learned over the many years I’ve been doing this work that the world doesn’t exist in a binary. We can and must hold space for the inevitable contradictions that come our way. Sometimes we don’t all agree on certain things—and that’s okay. I was struck by something that workplace culture and DEI expert Denise Hamilton wrote on Threads: “We have to learn to disagree without destruction.”6
A key point for me in any instance of conflict is what we can learn from it. There are some things we can agree to disagree on and continue to coexist in community together, for example, if it is the small issue of personal preference over whether one identifies with the label “disabled.” However, there are bigger issues that benefit from call-ins and further education to ensure that we can redress harm. It is okay to disagree with one another, but it is also important to open ourselves to feedback and commit to continued learning while being in compassionate conversation with each other.
When we use phrases like “Shame on you,” or we threaten someone’s livelihood, what is the intended effect? Is it to lock the person in a punitive cycle of shame so that nothing gets done, or is it to empower them to take action to do better? When I’m on the opposite end of an exchange like this, and I see an opportunity to educate, correct, or even criticize, I try to do so with care and respect because I hope to continue the conversation, not end it. I also try to use sensitivity and consideration because I recognize that individual experiences are valid, and there is no one way of doing or being. I’ll address ways to take accountability in the next chapter.
Mingus says, “We are trying to understand how we can build organizing and community spaces that are mixed-ability, cultivating solidarity between people with different disabilities. We are working to move together, as disabled people, through a world that wants to divide us and keep us separate.”7 Ultimately, I believe we all share a common goal of disability inclusion, even if we have different ways of pursuing that goal. If we are to exist in these messy contradictions that are a natural part of any community, it is important for us to respect our differences while calling for accountability and making space for productive anger and mutual growth.