Hello,
For Disability Pride Month, last week I wrote about pride being a verb; something you have to actually do rather than have.
But perhaps we can do both.
Personally, I’ve always been good having pride in other people. My friends fill me with it (special mention to Becky who got elected to the actual House of Commons last week). I am immensely proud of some kids I have had the privilege of knowing their whole lives. I am proud of the girls every time they regale me with a story of challenging ableism, usually with impeccable comic timing.
And of course, my most steadfast source of pride is in the disability community, in the way we show up for each other again and again, no questions asked. I wrote last week that Disability Pride is the defining force in my life, and that’s true. But this community is, undoubtedly, the great love of it.
So pride in other people abounds. What I am not usually very good at is being proud of myself.
Now I know what you’re thinking. For crying out loud Lucy, you have lots to be proud of. And, sure, this is true. And I am proud of many of these things - the book, the double-page spreads, the never-shut-up activism. But all of these things are accompanied by - shall we say? - complicated emotions, and readers of this newsletter will know that I spend a lot of time wondering if what I’m doing is actually doing any good for that aforementioned community.
But pals, the other day the proof that I have been doing some good was right there in front of me, tangible and real and overwhelming.
You may remember that a few months ago I mentioned my friend Kim and I were putting on a LGBTQ/Disability Pride event. I was incredibly excited but the truth is I had no idea how it would go; who (if anyone) would come, whether we could make it feel celebratory like we wanted it to, if we’d got the accessibility right, if we’d have enough money, if I had the right questions for the panel, if we were even doing the right thing at all.
Well, I needn’t have worried. Disabled, Queer and Here was a day of pure magic.
The panellists were incredible. Tobi, Ellen and Alex gave such fantastic answers about what it’s like to be disabled and queer, how queer events can be more inclusive, and what pride, in all its forms, means to them. There was not a dry eye in the house.
A huge thanks also to our market stall holders, and the volunteers who ensured everything actually worked. And of course to Kim, who did so, so much work to make the event possible at all, let alone the resounding success it turned out to be.
You know who really stole the show though? The audience. As Ellen said, queer community can be great, but there is something about a room full of disabled people that is… indescribable. The fact that it was a room full of disabled queer people just made it extra special. The great swell of relief, solidarity, community and real joy that radiated through the room was so powerful it actually felt like you could reach out and touch it. Everywhere I looked, friends old and new were laughing. Really laughing. We beamed at each other. I fought the urge to weep with the pure emotion of it all.
And I fought the urge to weep every time someone told me it was their first Pride event, or even their first queer event; that it was the first time in however long they’d felt comfortable being their full selves; that we’d given them the confidence to go to more community events. People kept thanking me, over and over, and I shrugged it off because I couldn’t get into thanking them. For turning up, for being themselves, and for showing me that yes, really, all of this work is doing some good.
I have never been so proud of myself.
Disabled, queer, here, happy, full of love for this community of ours, proud.
Happy Disability Pride, this month and always,
Lucy
Celebrate Disability Pride Month with my book…
Women's lives are shaped by sexism and expectations. Disabled people's lives are shaped by ableism and a complete lack of expectations. But what happens when you're subjected to both sets of rules?
This powerful, honest, hilarious and furious memoir from journalist and advocate Lucy Webster looks at life at the intersection; the struggles, the joys and the unseen realities of being a disabled woman. From navigating the worlds of education and work, dating and friendship; to managing care; contemplating motherhood; and learning to accept your body against a pervasive narrative that it is somehow broken and in need of fixing, The View From Down Here shines a light on what it really means to move through the world as a disabled woman.