In the article, “Becoming Dishuman” the authors discuss that it is important that we trouble or disrupt these norms to prevent people from feeling “dis-human”.  If we are not asking questions and thinking critically about these issue, then we will just take everything we hear as truth and accept it without much thought.  By doing that, we are doing a disservice to those who are dis/abled.  A disservice by treating them unequal and therefore making them feel inferior.  The authors state that “one might suggest that many disabled people have been denied the opportunity to occupy the position of the modernist humanistic subject: bounded, rational, capable, responsible and competent.”  No one should ever feel like this or be denied these basic rights.

In order for me to engage in “troubling” or reshaping and revising the norms, it would mean using proper vocabulary and gently correcting people who do not.  Simply not engaging in any kind of potentially hurtful or ignorant jokes would make an impression on those around us.  Furthermore, in order to be an advocate for those who are marginalized, it is important to educate oneself and then listen to what those who are effected by the oppression are saying.  Supporters use their privilege to amplify the voices of the people they are assisting.  Asking questions instead of trying to give advice is a necessity often overlooked.

When the prefix “dis” is used, as in the case of such words as disabled or disability, it implies someone is unable to do something.  The focus is on what cannot be done instead of what can be done.  On the contrary, ableism is indicating disabled bodies are broken and tragic.  This creates a culture of inferiority and pity.  The real problem is not so much the disability, it’s how they’re treated.  Clare describes it this way: “The problems faced by any marginalized group of people lie, not in their bodies, but in the oppression they face”.  What an empowering message could be sent if everyone, regardless of ability, was treated as “humans”, equal to those around them, simply by changing our vocabulary, and thus shifting our focus and attitudes toward others.

 

Works Cited

Clare, Eli.  Stolen bodies, Reclaimed Bodies: Disability and Queerness”.  Duke University Press, 2001.  Article.

Goodley, Daniel and Katherine Runswick-Cole.  Becoming dishuman: thinking about the human through dis/ability.  Taylor & Francis Online, 2014.  Online

 

i)

Looking through my classmates’ blogs regarding race, I chose to write about Emily Richards “The New Kid” and Logan Willfong’s “Race Realization”.  I found myself relating to these stories because they were similar to my story “My Friend Shari” in multiple ways.  We all wrote about how we met a new friend who was a different colour than us.  Our new friends were recognized as different from everyone else around us, they were the minority in our group and they were also treated differently by others.

First of all, I noticed the blogs all made it seem very normal that our new friends were just that – “new”.  They were thought of as separate from our regular friends and acquaintances.  In all three stories, our new friends were all of the minority.  These friends weren’t just different from us, but different from all the rest of our friends and seemingly most other people in our community.  This normative narrative was also treated as normal in all of our blogs.  It was as though these friends were on the outside, coming into a new and foreign circle, like they really didn’t belong.  Not only were our friends thought of as different, they were treated differently.  Perhaps it was because we were all children that we were confused by the way our friends were treated, and we didn’t know how to handle the situations.  Emily stated “I don’t understand”, and Logan “wish(ed) I was more informed as a child so I could have stood up for the boy that was coming in from recess”.  We all knew there was something not quite right about how our new friends were being treated, yet we didn’t know what to do about it.

The most common normative narrative that we all expressed was that we didn’t notice the race of our friends.  In all three blogs we wrote about how others treated our friends poorly, but we did not.  Perhaps the writers were implying that the only reason we recognized them as different was through the actions of others.  This is a normative narrative that is very common in our society; I am not racist, they are.

 

ii)

In contrast to the three blogs I discussed above, Kelsey Hollinger’s blog “Racial Advantages in Daily Life” disrupted the normative narrative that we didn’t notice skin colour.  Kelsey stated that “skin colour is the first thing the human eye will notice about someone else”.  Her blog continued “noticing an individual’s skin colour does not make you racist, it only makes you a functioning human being”.

Logan, Emily and my blogs included a few common rebuttals.  Two of them were “the exception to the rule” and “I was taught to treat everybody the same”.  We all told stories where we didn’t treat non-white people differently.  Logan stated his parents taught him to “always treat everyone as a friend as well as an equal”.  We three writers were kind and accepting toward our new friends, unlike the others around us.  We alluded to the fact that the colour of our new friends’ skin made no difference to us, as Logan states “they became my family and the colour of their skin never meant a thing to me”.  It is never comfortable to be thought of racist, and we reiterated stories that showed we were not.

When I wrote my self-story about race I chose a story where I was “the exception to the rule” and I was in fact “taught to treat everybody the same”.  I did not choose a story where I rolled my eyes at someone digging through my recycling bin.  And I didn’t choose a story where I judged someone before I even met them.  Looking back at my blog I see that I shared only what I wanted to share, without looking deeper into my own prejudices.  I am part of a racist society whether it’s easy to admit or not.  Even though I try to be a kind and loving person who tries to treat everyone with respect, I still have my prejudices because “everyone has prejudices based on distinctive experiences that are unique to them”.  If I look at the definition of prejudice “learned prejudgement about members of social groups to which I don’t belong” I see that my categorizations are not neutral.  And even though these prejudices may have “innocently” began as stereotypes, they are validated when we add value to our stereotypes.  Reading through our textbook “Is Everyone Really Equal” I see how easily these prejudices can manifest.

 

Works Cited

Sensoy, Ozlem and Robin DiAngelo.  Is Everyone Really Equal.  An Introduction to Key Concepts in Social Justice Education, Second Edition.  New York:                                  Teachers College Press, 2007.  Print.

 

It was paradise.  I stared in amazement at the wonder all around me.  It was like a dream and my senses were heightened by everything that I saw, smelled, heard and felt.  The warm sand under my feet was pure white and fine.  The smell of the crystal clear ocean filled my senses with an incredible salt water scent.  The sound of the never-ending waves soothed my whole being.  I had never been in such a beautiful place in my life and I was beyond excited to make the most of my vacation.  Walking on the Cuban beach that first day was like walking into an oasis. 

Vacationers everywhere were sprawled on their loungers, soaking up the warm sun.  We looked around, searching for a place to stop and take advantage of this sanctuary.  Out of the blue came a young Cuban man wearing shorts and a t-shirt.  He introduced himself as Yuri and asked us if we were looking for loungers.  We told him we were, but we could certainly grab them ourselves as we didn’t want to bother him.  Yuri quickly ran to grab a couple loungers, telling us that it was no trouble.  We didn’t want to insult him, as he seemed very eager to help, so we accepted his offer.  We talked a while with Yuri and discovered that this was his job.  He provided loungers for hotel guests and collected them at the end of the day.  He told us this wasn’t his plan for his life.  He wanted to be a marine biologist, and studied hard in high school to become one.  He was always at the top of his class and felt he was well prepared for the university entrance exam he needed to write in order to enroll.  It turns out he didn’t make the cut.  Post-secondary education is free in Cuba, however, students have to go through an interview and exam process.  It was decided (for him) that he didn’t meet the standard necessary and therefore school was not an option.

Listening to him tell his story caused me to think about how I have the option to pursue any education path I choose, and didn’t understand how he wasn’t even given the chance.  One of the things that he said to me that really struck me was “now I’m nothing”, referring to the fact that he brings vacationers chairs on the beach day in and day out.  He has no other option and his opportunities are very limited.  In contrast, my options are endless.  In that moment I thought about how I have the privilege to attend post-secondary education if I choose, travel freely to beautiful destinations and even have clean water at my disposal in the midst of a drought.  Just days before we arrived we learned there was a drought in Cuba and the resort had run out of water.  Nervously we boarded the plane, wondering if we would be able to shower and flush toilets when we arrived.  Being here now we see that the problem was rectified.  How can a drought be rectified?  Everywhere we travelled outside the resort revealed brown grass and dehydrated trees and vegetation, however our resort seemed unscathed.  Looking around we didn’t notice a problem.  That was because the solution came in massive bladders of water that had been shipped to the hotel, providing their guests the means necessary to have an enjoyable holiday.  My paradise was more than just what was before me in that scene, but everywhere I go.  

Self story #3 – Gender

I have never performed my role as a female quite like I did on May 6, 2012.  I had a job to do that no one else could do for me.  No one in the world could take my place.  I knew it would be hard, and I anticipated the pain with angst.  But amidst my underlying fear, I felt brave and determined.  I was more than ready to meet my baby, and knowing that he was also ready made me impatient with excitement.  Seeing his heart rate on the monitor made it all too real, knowing that his little heart had formed inside me and grew stronger and stronger every day.  Feeling him move and kick created a bond and love between us that could never be duplicated.  I was overwhelmed with thankfulness that I was able to experience this amazing moment in time.

Even though this was a place of new and happy beginnings, and not of sickness as is the case in virtually every other room in a hospital, it still felt like any other hospital room.  The sterile smell contributed to this, as did the way it looked.  It had white walls, out of date window blinds and paint chipping around virtually every corner.  Generous donors had contributed to the art work on the walls, showing their gratitude to the hard working staff.  Although it was only morning, the off-white tile floors had probably been mopped multiple times already that day, erasing the evidence from the previous deliveries.  Machines beeped quietly in the darkened room and my blood pressure cuff came to life every few minutes, making it difficult to ignore.

It was time.  I was ready and I listened intently to everything my nurse told me.  I was focused and tried to see past the pain.  I didn’t notice all that was going on around me because my focus was only on the treasured life inside me.  I did not notice that one by one, more and more people entered the room.  I didn’t think about what was going wrong; I only thought about what I needed to do.  Soon our space began to fill up.  The nursery staff arrived, interns, then the NICU nurses.  Next it was the on-call Obstetrician who came in, and she took over.  My family doctor gladly stepped aside and let her take control of the situation.  The heartrate of my precious child, who was a part of me in every way possible, was dropping.  Something had to be done and things needed to change quickly.  However, I still had a job to do and I didn’t think about the danger surrounding the situation.  I didn’t panic.  My new doctor looked me in the eye and said “one last time”.  I knew I had to finish this now or they would be forced to take over.  It was all the motivation I needed and I did it.  At last I held my baby in my arms and felt an indescribable joy that I could never replicate in any other way.  My nine months of waiting was over.  I held my cherished gift in the quietness of that moment and I will never be the same woman again.

Why is everyone staring at her and asking her so many questions?  I was so excited to bring my friend Shari to the ball game in town, but now I’m just confused.  I am always eager to come into town from the farm to watch a ball game, but today I am especially enthusiastic.  All my friends are here who I have not seen all summer.  I feel quite important that I have a new friend to introduce them to and am pleased that she is someone no one else in the whole town has ever met. 

Not only is she a teenager at 13 years old, which of course makes her cool, she is from outside Saskatchewan.  Shari is so nice to everyone.  I can’t talk to adults the way she does.  I have lived here all of my 8 years and I know every single person here, yet I don’t answer any of their questions like Shari does.  She talks to them like she’s known them forever, yet she has never met them before in her life.  She doesn’t question why they are inquiring about where she is from and who she is visiting.  I want to be like her and have the confidence she seems to possess.  Maybe she thinks I’m a pest because I follow her around.  I don’t make her play Cabbage Patch Kids with me because I think she would think that’s too immature, so I don’t ask.  To be completely honest, she is really here visiting my neighbours who live on the farm next to ours.  She lives in Toronto and was adopted by my neighbour’s sister.  But even though she’s not visiting me specifically, and I just met her 3 days ago, I still act like we’ve been friends forever.   I don’t mention any of this to my life-long friends.  

Shari is unlike anyone I have ever met or seen in real life.  She has dark black skin and I am very pale.  She has short, black hair in braids and my hair is long, fine and blonde.  She promises she will send me a picture of her hair when she takes the braids out so I can see what it looks like.  My hair is only curly for a day after I’ve taken out my braids, yet she tells me hers will last until her mom does something different with her hair.  I don’t know why it takes her mom hours and hours to put the braids in her hair; it takes my mom only a minute or two. 

As I stand beside the bleachers outside in the blazing Saskatchewan sun, smelling the popcorn and BBQ hotdogs mixed with the fine, red dust from the ball diamond, I am perplexed.  I wonder if the people in my community are talking to me and Shari because of the colour of Shari’s skin.  Are they curious about her because she is a stranger in a small town or because the shade of her arms and face is unlike anyone else who lives here?  I think it is interesting when my future grade 3 teacher asks if she’s from Regina.  Maybe they are just being friendly.  I typically don’t like being the centre of attention, but I like this interest in my friend.  I am bewildered and don’t feel like I can process the response of all these adults.  Regardless, I am happy to learn from my new friend and I cherish the time I have with her.  I hope our paths will cross again someday soon.

I’m on my way home.  My home is my childhood farm where I haven’t actually lived for over 10 years.  I love going home and turning off the highway onto the gravel road.  Watching the yellow and green canola fields against the never-ending blue sky takes me back to the many years I rode this same road as a child.  Making the turn into the yard, I anticipate the old farm dog perk up and amble toward the road to see who is coming down the driveway.  No one enters the yard unnoticed or without a warm greeting from him.  Smelling the fresh-cut grass catches my attention as the familiar dip in the road welcomes me home.  As I leave my vehicle, I recognize the familiar sound of trucks in the distance, travelling down the dusty, washboard gravel roads.

This trip home marks 100 years that this farm has been in my family and as such, a farm celebration has been planned.  Attending the celebration will be many neighbours who are full of support and recognition of what it means to have such rich heritage in a place like this.  They know what it’s like to be Canadian and build a life on the prairies.

In preparation of the celebration, I was tasked with researching and writing up the details of how this farm came to be, so I sat outside on the deck, educating myself as I poured over history books and newspaper articles.  Looking up at the massive, sturdy oak tree as the sun peeked through its leaves, I wondered how long it has stood there in that spot and who planted it.  I thought of all the memories I had here in my 29 years, but I was beginning to learn about the many years before me.

I read that 100 years ago my great-grandfather walked onto this barren, prairie flatland. There was no water supply, no buildings and no machinery to work the fields.  I tracked his extensive journey on a ship from Norway to North America.  I learned how he caught a ride on a dusty, dirty train across Canada.  He walked the final 30 miles to reach NE 18-2-12-W2M only to find there was no water supply, just a creek another 5 miles down the road.  The creek was full of bugs.  There were no buildings but eventually he and my great-grandmother built a sod hut to live in.  This sod hut later blew apart in the prairie winds.  They built another, but that hut was destroyed in a grass fire.  They persevered and built yet another.

I was astounded to learn such things about my family and the struggles they faced. Discovering these truths made me feel thankful that I had a connection with such strong and amazing people.  I also felt grateful that I can turn on a tap that gushes with fresh water and have a roof over my head that isn’t going to fall to pieces with a strong wind.  I know I have these luxuries because 100 years ago a man heard about a new land half way around the world; a land that came with the hope that hard work would present opportunities to make a home.  It was not an easy journey, but it was worth it.  As I unearthed more and more about how my great-grandfather came to Canada, I realized he saw the potential in this place, and in turn made that original homestead a home.

Act Justly, Love Mercy, Walk Humbly.