Hello,
Things have been difficult recently and, except for with a very select group of people, I’m not ready to talk about why. This is tricky because I am also trying not to pretend everything is fine; a tight rope to walk when you can’t get into what’s wrong. My friends are being patient but I fear I am alarming them.
I have been trying to reassure them that although I am sad, they don’t need to worry because I am also lividly furious. It’s interesting that not everyone actually finds this as reassuring as I do, which has made me think about the role that anger plays in anti-ableism and why nondisabled people really should be feeling it a whole lot more.
I think, as a society, we judge anger - especially when it comes from women and other marginalised people. We have been taught to see it as irrational, even hysterical, and told that anger is futile, that it gets in the way of sensible solution-finding. But this is, frankly, bullshit; a fiction designed to both discredit and disempower us.
For me, anger is the thing that stops despair swallowing me up. This may be a surprise to those of you who know how much disability joy and pride and community give me purpose, but the truth is that sometimes those positive things feel pretty out of reach. At those times, I am not ashamed to say that it is rage that keeps me slogging away at ableism, that propels me up and out of bed, to the keyboard, out of the house. It is fury that allows me to ignore the magnitude of the wall of ableism and instead concentrate on chipping away at whatever particular brick is right in front of my face. It is anger that means I don’t throw my hands up, give up, back down from a fight. So where others might see only negativity in anger, to me it is a positive, igniting, spark-like force, and I hold onto mine, feeding it so that the fire doesn’t go out.
Which is why I think you should be angrier. It may be a cliché to say that if you’re not angry you’re not paying attention, but it is nonetheless true. You really ought to be angry about how ableist the world is; anything else is akin to denial. Not being angry is as much a choice as being angry, and one you can only make thanks to an immense amount of privilege. Personally, I think deciding to be angry about ableism is one of the first ways to show allyship, because it’s a prerequisite to recognising how much needs to change. It places you down here with us on the front lines, and it’s only by being at that sharp edge that the work gets done.
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Being angry, especially with systems that we might personally benefit from, is uncomfortable. That’s ok. The real work of allyship comes not from ignoring that discomfort or feeling guilty about it but from channelling it into action. Much as my anger drives me, yours could drive you. It could drive you to question narratives that exclude disabled people, it could drive you to demand access, to challenge systems, to call out problematic language and assumptions. It could light your fire so that you can then go out and ignite that change we all need.
Often, when disabled people share something ableist that we’ve experienced, people respond with “I’m sorry”. It’s a very kind thing to say, acknowledging our pain and hurt and grief, and it’s often a very welcome response. I say it often myself. But, depending on the situation and the relationship you have with the person sharing their experience, it can shut down a much-needed conversation. This is why I often say, “I’m sorry and I’m so angry the world treats you this way.” By acknowledging your own fury, I think, you allow yourself to meet disabled people’s own anger with compassion instead of confusion, solidarity instead of judgement. Joining us in anger shows that you recognise our right and need to be angry, and shows us that you believe things should change. And that allows us to express the fury we have long been taught to suppress, and perhaps most importantly, to feel heard. And that’s a key part of allyship, too.
Until next week, and with a great deal of rage,
Lucy
I am not disabled but I have cared for those who are. My mother was in a wheelchair the last years of her life, and we found out together the ways that access is prevented or made difficult. I still feel anger if I return to those places, I discovered recently. My daughter wanted to have a meal at a place I had taken my mother several times. A well-known chain what should do better clearly had not been designed by anyone who knew anything about access for wheelchairs. I still notice.