Learning disability history is learning you belong

Hello,

It’s funny what stays with you, isn’t it? I have a strong memory of being maybe eight or nine, and learning (probably badly) about the civil rights movement and the Suffragettes. And because I have apparently always been like this, I remember asking if disabled people had ever done similar, ever mounted a campaign to change things. What I don’t remember is whether my teacher actually said no or just changed the subject, but I do know that I came away thinking that my people had never fought for our rights like the groups in the history books. I used to wonder why that was.

I wish I could go back a quarter of a century and tell that teacher, and Little Luce, that this was absolute bollocks: disabled people, as I would learn much later, have an incredibly long and rich history of reshaping the world in ways that go far beyond a simple story about rights and access. Alas, I do not possess the power of time travel. What I do possess is the power to tell stories, to reach people with them, and crucially, to make sure more of today’s disabled kids grow up proudly knowing that they belong to a lineage of people who stood up for what was right.

Which I suppose is how I found myself last week trying to explain to a bunch of disabled seven to nine year olds that yes, chaining wheelchairs to things is a very effective form of protest, but no, I was in no way advocating doing so (ahem).

Helping community to help ourselves

This was at Firefly, the holistic therapy/education/social centre I both attend and work at. I was doing a day of disability history for the half term holiday club. We covered the birth of the disability rights movement in the 60s and the Campaign for Accessible Transport in the 80s. We talked about DAN’s invasion of Parliament in the 90s and the shenanigans May Billinghurst got up to with her fellow Suffragettes. We talked about disabled people who had done cool things.

It was an exceptionally hot day, and there was a lot going on. After a while we abandoned lessons to go outside and cool down. Some of the kids tried my powerchair (the highlight of their, and my, week). We read some books and talked about space travel (obviously).

They were probably both too little and too hot to remember any of the history I shared in any detail. But I don’t think that matters. What matters is that they know that history exists. That someone who looks and sounds like them sat and talked to them about it. That they know disabled people are strong when they come together. That they can feel proud of people who are like them, and feel proud that they are like them. That there are both a community and a legacy that they belong to, waiting to properly welcome them when they’re ready. That is worth more than knowing any names or dates. It may just be worth everything.

It was hard not to think about Little Luce in that classroom, wondering if anyone had ever done anything about her rights. It was hard not to think about slightly older Luce, getting all the way through A Level History without anyone ever mentioning a disabled person. It was hard not to wonder how different things could have been if I’d known about those who came before, if I’d had people to be proud of. So when one of the kids suggested putting me on the timeline, it was mostly hard not to weep. Nearly twenty-five years after I’d first asked if there was a disability rights movement, I finally answered my own question. I’m so glad the kids won’t have to wait that long.

With love,
Lucy