My recently decreased mobility has resulted in a lot of things, one of which is that my eastward adventures have been put on hold, another of which is that thoughts about the body and my relationship with my body have been overwhelming my attention. The result: a blog post on the head, shoulders, knees and toes, knees and toes.
It's a difficult post to write because it requires an uncomfortable confession: I have spent my life in a blind bubble of able-bodied privilege. I like to think that I'm a sensitive person, conscious of how the various elements of my being offer me invisible opportunity. I reflect on how I benefit from being white, being english-speaking, even being thin, but I have never reflected on how I benefit from having a body with abilities that mirror the norm. I don't even have the right words to discuss disability, I don't know the discourse that causes least offense. I don't know how to avoid a description of pathology when it comes to talking about bodies that do things differently. And I'm kind of ashamed.
I read this article yesterday, listing some able-bodied privileges, and found myself nodding and saying, yes, yes, I have difficulty with that! And then I found myself silenced, because usually I don't. On my everyday, my normal day, I am completely oblivious of the 19 examples listed on the page. But not now. I worry about a lot of things now.
I worry that when I go to the loo at work between classes, when there are eight or nine of my students in the line behind me, that they are going to start breathing roughly, impatiently, because I'm taking so long to roll off the toilet paper, to button my pants. For the first time in years, hell maybe for the first time ever, I feel shy. I feel shy to ask my wonderful colleagues to make me the tea that is my manna, because I can't work the urn in the kitchen with one hand. I feel self-conscious that someone will smell me. Smell you? Yes, smell me. I smell of talcum powder and of sweat. I smell of the canvas of my sling and the bends of my arm that I just cannot clean. I smell of the folds of my skin that I cannot unfold. It's not an overpowering smell, just a gentle scent of my immobility. And I'm worried that someone will smell me.
I feel scared when I go out that someone will bump me. That they won't see my sling or my arm or my broken bones beneath the surface and they'll bump me and it will be sore. I negotiate others' bodies like a minefield. And not just strangers, but also friends. Because I can't give a hug, or take a hug, that holds me close enough to someone else to meet their being. I can't visit my mas in Khayelitsha; how would I get there? I miss them. I can't tell all my friends all that I want, because to text one-handed, trying to balance my sweaty phone in my sweaty palm as I move my sweaty thumb over the tiny (sweaty) buttons, to text like that; I've given up so many times already.
My injury is temporary and my body will heal and I'll probably forget these feelings. But I shouldn't. Because taking an absence of feelings for granted means that I forget the privilege of having a body I don't have to think about, that I don't have to feel about. Just to be clear, I would not even consider projecting my feelings of my body onto the bodies of others. I may know nothing about disability, but if Anthropology has taught me anything it is that individuals react diversely to the same stimuli. These feelings are my responses to the changes in my body. I am sure that others in the same situation have a multitude of other feelings.
Anyway, this post will serve as a reminder to my future self of my able-bodied privilege. And as a reminder that I need to read more on the extent of ability and what it means to people who circle the norm because I don't want my privilege to translate to an unintentional ableism.
Shoh hey, everytime I think I've got a handle of myself in the world, BOOM, I realize I can be a really naive and obtuse individual. Sigh. Best to ring for a cup of tea...
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