10 Life Lessons WE Can Learn From Jane Austen

The person, be it gentleman or lady, who has not pleasure in a good novel, must be intolerably stupid.- Northanger Abbey, 1817

It is a truth universally acknowledged that Jane Austen’s novels are some of the most widely-read in all of literature. Her work regularly appears on popular must-read lists, is a staple on English literature syllabi, has inspired tabletop and online role-playing games, and is even invoked by the U.S Supreme Court in quibbles over language. Austen has also notably saturated the literary and film/television markets with a flood of adaptations, spin-offs, prequels, and sequels ranging from Andrew Davies’s iconic 1995 adaptation of Pride and Prejudice (yes, that one. Take your time. *cue daydream music*) to the web series “The Lizzie Bennet Diaries” and last year’s successful retelling of Lady Susan in “Love and Friendship.”

Today mark’s the 200th anniversary of Jane Austen’s death, and many readers and scholars across the world are reflecting on the reasons for her longevity as a literary phenomenon. For many of us who return time and time again to her novels, the answer lies in the fact that they resonate with universal truths about the human character and the joys and sorrows of life, at once encouraging us to laugh at ourselves and challenging us to scrutinize our failings alongside our admirable qualities. I myself have written about how my exposure to Austen at a young age shaped my reading tastes and taught me what it meant to be a feminist before anyone had even formally introduced the word into my vocabulary. Today, then, as we reflect on the life and legacy of Jane Austen, here are 10 life lessons her novels can teach us.

1. A runaway imagination rarely leads in the right direction

Northanger Abbey (1817) is often dubbed Austen’s satirical foray into fanfiction via young Catherine Morland’s fascination with Gothic Literature. When Catherine, captivated by the Gothic novels of Anne Radcliffe, receives an invitation to stay with her new friends, the Tilneys, at Northanger Abbey, she’s quickly carried away on a wave of mystery and intrigue, convincing herself that General Tilney has secretly murdered his wife. While she does still manage to snag the generals son Henry for a husband in the end (because of course), accidentally accusing one’s would-be father-in-law of murder isn’t the best way to win his affection. Here Austen satirically cautions us not to fall victim to our imagination and let fancy override good sense.

2. Pride goeth before a fall.

“Pride, where there is a real superiority of mind, will always be under good regulation,” declares Mr. Darcy in Pride and Prejudice (1813). Unfortunately, however, he fails to keep his own pride in check during his first ill-fated proposal to Elizabeth: “Could you expect me to rejoice in the inferiority of your connections? To congratulate myself on the hope of relations whose condition in life is so decidedly beneath my own?”

Who could accept such a charming declaration? Good day, sir. I said good day. If Darcy learns one lesson here, it’s that thinking too highly of yourself won’t endear you to anyone. Never approach a goal in life as if it’s a settled thing; work hard to earn the respect of your family, your friends, your colleagues and, of course, your spouses.

Elizabeth Bennet and Mr. Darcy in the 2005 "Pride and Prejudice."
Elizabeth Bennet (Keira Knightley) and Mr. Darcy (Matthew Macfadyen), image credit Working Title.

3. Never presume to know what’s in a person’s heart better than they do themselves.

Emma Woodhouse, the titular character of Emma (1816) thinks she’s doing Harriet Smith a favor when she tries to separate her from the gentleman-farmer Robert Martin, with whom Harriet is in love, and match her up with the vicar Mr. Elton. Little does she know how deeply Harriet and Robert care for each other. While everything turns out well in the end (as it usually does in Austen’s universe), Emma’s interference comes with much heartache and embarrassment for all parties involved. Support the decisions of your friends; voice your concern when appropriate, but never presume to tell anyone what to think or how to feel, particularly in matters of the heart. Not to mention, when you spend so much time looking into the hearts of others, you risk silencing the still small voice in your own. All’s well that ends well, of course, because to paraphrase Sarah Vaughan, whatever Emma wants, Emma gets.

Emma and Mr. Knightley in the 2009 "Emma."
Emma Woodhouse (Romola Garai) and Mr. Knightley (Jonny Lee Miller), image credit the BBC.

4. Hold fast to your right to make your own decisions.

Fanny Price, the heroine of Mansfield Park (1814), often gets shunted to the side in discussions of Austen’s heroines; she doesn’t possess Lizzie Bennet’s wit, Anne Eliot’s self-command, or Emma Woodhouse’s charm. She cowers in the presence of her uncle, Sir Thomas Bertram, is practically her aunt Norris’s personal servant, and doesn’t even voice any objection when Mrs. Norris insists that Fanny doesn’t need the luxury of a fire in her room because she must remember her place. Yet when she truly thinks herself in the right, Fanny possesses just enough self-confidence to stand her ground, even if she’s shaking in her shoes as she does so. Consider the moment when she stands up to her uncle when he insists that she accept Henry Crawford’s marriage proposal. Lucky for her that she refuses, since Henry later runs off with Mariah Bertram not long after her marriage to Mr. Rushworth, plunging the family into scandal. Close call, Fanny. Timid she might be, but Fanny Price still reminds us to stand firm in our convictions and protect our interests.

5. Learn when to hold your tongue.

Yes, we’re looking at you, Mr. Collins. Nobody likes a windbag. His excessively eloquent speeches in Pride and Prejudice do little more than fill already stuffy ball rooms with more hot air. Likewise, Miss Bates, Jane Fairfax’s maiden aunt in Emma, prattles away to the amusement (but more often irritation) of her neighbors. The danger of mindless chatter is, of course, saying too much, as when Mrs. Bennet speaks so loudly and presumptuously about Jane’s possible marriage to Mr. Bingley that she unwittingly harms all of her daughters’ chances of marrying with her uncouth manners. There is a time to speak and a time to be silent, and learning the difference between the two is a social survival skill worth cultivating.

6. Keep your head in a crisis.

Anne Eliot knows all about this one; anyone who has read Persuasion (1818) will recall Louisa Musgrove’s ill-fated leap from the cob so that captain Wentworth can catch her in his arms, only to wind up with a nasty head injury. While everyone else flails in panic, fearing Louisa is dead, only Anne has the sense to remain calm and give directions about carrying her to the nearest inn and fetching a doctor. While being the only one in the group to keep your wits about you means that everyone is apt to rely too heavily on your judgement, you at least have the satisfaction of knowing that when cooler heads prevail, you can solve problems more easily.

7. Never underestimate the power of a well-written love letter.

You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope. Tell me not that I am too late, that such precious feelings are gone forever. I offer myself to you again with a heart more your own than when you almost broke it, eight and a half years ago. Dare not say that man forgets sooner than woman, that his love has an earlier death. I have loved none but you. Unjust I may have been, weak and resentful I have been, but never inconstant.

Yes, Captain Wentworth, this one goes out to you. When Anne Eliot and Captain Wentworth reunite at the conclusion of Persuasion, more than eight years have elapsed since Anne broke off their engagement, acting on the advice of her godmother, lady Russel. If we think her unwise, we can forgive her because, after all, she was only 19; nor can we entirely blame Captain Wentworth for being, in his own words, weak and resentful. She did chuck him, after all. Fortunately for them, he swallows his pride and pours his heart and soul into a love letter with an offer that she really can’t refuse. In this age of social media, emojis, and online dating, when the love letter seems to have become a cultural artifact, it’s worth remembering the value of a few well-chosen words.

Anne Eliot and Captain Wentworth in the 2007 "Persuasion."
Anne Eliot (Sally Hawkins) and Rubert Penry-Jones (2007), image credit I TV.

8. Don’t let your emotions get the better of you.

This is basically Sense and Sensibility (1811) summarized in one concise sentence. When Marianne Dashwood discovers that Willoughby, the young man who has been paying her attention, is actually engaged to another woman with a larger inheritence, anyone with an ounce of human sensitivity can’t blame her for feeling crushed, but walking about in the rain and intentionally catching such a severe chill that it nearly kills her seems a bit extreme. No man is worth that much. There’s nothing inherently wrong with wearing your heart on your sleeve, but over-dramatization and self-martyrdom never does anyone any good. Still, once again, more sensible heads prevail in the end (we love you, Colonel Brandon, flannel waistcoats and all).

Marianne Dashwood and Colonel Brandon in the 1995 "Sense and Sensibility."
Marianne Dashwood (Kate Winslet) and Colonel Brandon (Alan Rickman), image credit Columbia Pictures.

9. Sisters before misters.

Elinor Dashwood, who plays sense to Marianne’s sensibility, would probably have quite a bit to say about this contemporary maxim; while Marianne is wringing her heart out over the worthless Willoughby, Elinor is secretly and silently nursing her own heartache. She spends several months during the course of the novel concealing her knowledge that Edward Ferrars, whom everyone, including Elinor, believes to be attached to her, has been secretly engaged to one Miss Lucy Steele. Her silence speaks volumes about her loyalty both to her own sister and to the bonds formed when women share confidences. Cautioned by Lucy not to breathe a word of the engagement, Elinor solemnly keeps her word, despite being none too fond of Miss Steele.

Marianne speaks sensibly, perhaps for the first time, when she declares, “How barbarous have I been to you! You, who have been my only comfort, who have borne with me in all my misery, who have seemed to be suffering only for me.” That’s right, Marianne; the sun called, and you are not, in fact, the center of the universe. She, not to mention the rest of us, could learn a lesson from Elinor about self-sacrificial love.

10. Live life according to your own dictate.

Lizzie Bennet says it best when she refuses to promise Lady Catherine never to become engaged to Mr. Darcy not only because she shrewdly suspects that he’s still in love with her (which, you know, he totally is), but because she refuses, in proto-feminist fashion, to let anyone else decide her destiny: “I am only resolved,” she declares, “to act in that manner which will, in my own opinion, constitute my happiness, without reference to you, or to anyone so wholly unconnected with me.” The takeaway here is simple yet profound; never allow anyone to dictate the choices you make about your own happiness. Of course, it’s worth pointing out that Lizzie’s self-determination here carries tremendous risk given that, as Mrs. Bennet continually reminds her, her fate and that of her family depends largely on her ability to secure a rich husband. That said, Lizzie can still remind us never to sacrifice self-respect for the sake of pleasing others, and to never allow anyone to convince us that we’re undeserving of the best life has to offer. (Can we say mistress of Pemberley, anyone?)

Elizabeth Bennet and Mr. Darcy in the 1995 "Pride and Prejudice."
Elizabeth Bennet (Jennifer Ehle) and Mr. Darcy (Colin Firth), image credit the BBC.

I Can Do This With My Eyes Closed: Blogging Against Disablism Day 2017

Once again, it’s Blogging Against Disablism Day—a day when people all over the world take time to write about their experiences with disability to dispel stereotypes and challenge attitudes of ableism. Every year, this date creeps up on me like a stealthy shadow that tip-toes up behind me, suddenly grabbing me and yelling “Boo!” This has largely to do with the fact that BADD inevitably falls in the thick of end-of-semester grading for me, when I can’t tell if the headaches are the result of too much caffeine, not enough caffeine, washing down comma splices with shots of Peach Schnapps, or some combination of all of the above.

Then too, this year, I haven’t written a single blog post in…a while—I don’t know precisely how long it’s been since my last post. Periods between blogging for me have become like the periods between going to confession; bless me readers, for I have sinned. I don’t know how long I’ve been away, but my conscience tells me it’s time to return. In past years, I’ve hastened to cobble together deeply philosophical reflections laced with humor about what I’ve learned from my life as a person with a disability; I’ve written about how my disability has made me a better teacher; I’ve written about the dos and don’ts of interacting with a blind person. This year, however, I dipped into my bag of writing tricks and came up empty, my excuse being simply—and albeit lamely—life.

What, you may ask, have I been doing? I’ve been teaching my classes; I’ve been advocating for the improvement of local public transportation for people with disabilities in my community; I’ve been playing fetch with my dog; I’ve been sharing laughs and bottles of wine with friends; I’ve been watching my nephew grow, marveling at how quickly, how eagerly he’s grasping with tiny hands at this big, big world. In short, I’ve been living, and this, quite simply, is the story that we tell every year on this day.

All day, every day, people with disabilities find themselves the recipients of some form of pity. “Life must be so hard for you,” someone will say. “I don’t know how you do that,” a passer-by will declare when we unlock a door, bend down to pick up a book we’ve dropped, or tie a shoe. All the while, we live; we go about our daily routines, performing these and many other tasks, large and small, in various ways. I don’t mean to minimize the challenges that we do face—difficulty accessing buildings, getting disoriented in unfamiliar places, or depending on the kindness of those around us when our adaptive equipment fails or our service animals are sick, just to name a few. Yet our life experiences are not altogether different than anyone else’s. I teach; I write; I make spaghetti sauce while dancing in my kitchen to the “Mama Mia!” soundtrack. I take long walks with my dog; I bake cake from scratch; I go on dates; I cook dinner for friends; I flirt with the cute bbarista at Starbucks; I drink cheap wine and cry during Colin Firth movies. I live a relatively healthy, relatively happy life, with the added twist of doing it all without looking. All of these rituals and routines, so seemingly mundane, testify to the fact that every day, everywhere, people are barreling through the barriers of ableism simply by living. Can you beat that? No, I didn’t think so either.

It Isn’t Only a Diary: How Bridget Jones Helped Me Find Myself

Dear Bridget,
I’ve wanted to write this for some time now, but whenever I sit down to draft a letter, the words get stuck between my brain and the page. It seems odd, really, to suffer an attack of writer’s block when addressing a woman who was once famously accused of verbal incontinence. You, with your candor and ready wit and your lack of (or perhaps refusal to activate) your brain-to-mouth filter, have often inspired me to practice greater honesty in my life, with others and, more importantly with myself. I have also discovered, as have you, that alcohol, while a seemingly effective tongue lubricant for confessing honesty, occasionally does more harm than good. Over the years, I’ve tried to express to others how much your story means to me, but nothing I’ve ever said has felt like an adequate tribute, so in honor of the 20th anniversary of your story’s publication this year as well as your return to the silver screen this month, now seems a fitting moment to thank you.

I first met you as an overwhelmed, twentysomething, budding feminist graduate student in English Lit, between crying over my inability to grasp Michel Foucault and eating entire cartons of ice-cream. When not slaving over novels that I seemed destined never to finish reading and feeling intellectually inadequate because I couldn’t use the word epistemological in a sentence, I gradually discovered that my social life had slunk off into the darkness, crawled beneath a pile of dirty laundry, and died. As I slumped on the sofa with a bottle of wine and a bag of pretzels, I convinced myself, in a fit of despair reminiscent of my elementary school days, that no one wanted to befriend the strange, bookish blind girl; never mind that I was pursuing a graduate degree in English and was entirely surrounded by strange, bookish people. I imagined everyone was attending swanky wine and cheese parties on Saturday nights and couldn’t be bothered inviting me because no one wanted to give me a ride. The fellow graduate student on whom I’d been crushing turned out to be a Mormon divorcee with three kids who flirted blatantly with me while being engaged to another woman and then tried to set me up with one of his friends. Had I known the textbook definition of a fuckwit at that time, I might never have landed in that particular mess, but I digress. To add insult to injury, my roommate (an undergraduate who was also blind) told me one night that “you dress like a woman twice your age, and it’s really off-putting. People think you’re older than you are.” So now I was not only unpopular; I was so criminally unfashionable that even other blind people shunned me.

Thus I found myself, during winter break after that first semester, de-fogging my brain with your diary. As you poured your heart into my lap, counting calories and alcohol units, self-consciously scrutinizing yourself in dressing-room mirrors, and worrying about dying alone and being eaten by an Alsatian, I realized something. Your struggles, your insecurities, your doubts, your fears were mine too. When I agonized over whether or not the size of my butt was the reason I couldn’t get a date or sulked about not being invited to any fabulous parties, you were doing the same. For one of the few times in my adult life, I experienced the thrill of bonding with another woman over the struggles of, well, simply being a woman.

I had spent most of my life struggling to fit comfortably in my own body, let alone fitting in everywhere else. Rationally, I knew that I couldn’t bow to the stigmas of disability; I couldn’t conform to the image that many people associated with a blind person who groped every day for one of three identical pairs of jeans to avoid a citation from the fashion police. How though, I wondered, could I construct a body image that reflected my personality without having my physical appearance and fashion trends filtered through the eyes of others? Trips to the mall were my personal purgatory, spending hours in front of a mirror that reflected nothing to me, relying on others to tell me honestly whether or not horizontal stripes made me look like a circus tent. This reliance on the judgement of others’ opinions of my body, believing that I couldn’t construct a self-image without the ability to see my own reflection, instilled me with a deep sense of self-loathing. I believed that if someone else told me that I was too tall, or too fat, or my hair looked like a bird’s nest, then it must be true, because they could see what I couldn’t. My body was disabled, abnormal, and therefore unattractive, and this, I gradually learned to believe, explained why I seemed to be a social pariah.

Then, Bridget, I met you, and I felt, for the first time, that someone understood me. My struggles, my self-scrutiny, my feelings of inadequacy had nothing to do with my disability and everything to do with the realities of being a young woman trying desperately to keep up with, as you put it, “Cosmopolitan culture.” You, Bridget, helped me to recognize that what I see in the mirror every day is as much a projection of what I believe my self-image to be as what is actually reflected there. On the one hand, you critically yet comically revealed a sadly enduring pressure on women to maintain unrealistic body image standards; on the other, you revealed to me that I wasn’t alone in my insecurity. My seeming inability to maintain a steady, healthy relationship with a mature adult male had nothing to do with my so-called disabled, abnormal body or the circumference of my thighs and everything to do with the fact that I simply hadn’t met the person who was ready and willing to love me just as I am; moreover, it didn’t (and still doesn’t) matter if I ever do, because being a woman of substance means loving myself with all of my flaws, not defining myself in terms of how others, especially others of the opposite sex, choose to see me. You gave me the courage to believe that if I choose to pursue love, I should settle for nothing less than someone who celebrates my strength and values me as a strong, independent woman; if I choose to remain single, my life and my work make no less valuable contributions to society because of that choice.

In the same way that you dramatically imagined that everyone had forgotten to invite you to their Christmas parties, I allowed my acute loneliness to exaggerate the perfection of everyone else’s lives. I imagined that everyone else had a successful job, a fashion magazine-approved BMI, glamorous circles of friends, and wildly sensational sex lives. Their reality, I gradually discovered, was far closer to my own. You gave me what I’d spent most of my life searching for: the validation that my lived experiences as a woman were, in many ways, no different than those of other women despite sometimes being constructed through the lens of disability.

After connecting with your story, my life didn’t magically change overnight, but that reading experience opened a space for me within the communities of women I began to encounter. You helped me to find a voice to participate in the narratives that women told and bonded over every day, from agonizing over the seemingly unattainable quest to find a perfectly-fitting pair of jeans to wondering if the barista at Starbucks who always gave me extra foam was hitting on me. Having reached this realization, I gradually found myself forming deep, enduring female friendships with women who have loved me, laughed with me, cried with me, eaten countless trays of chocolate chip cookies with me, drunk through enough bottles of wine to fill a black hole, and endured hours of agonizing dressing-room scrutiny and relationship analysis as only women can. You, Bridget, with your self-deprecating humor and your willingness to keep buggering on, taught me to embrace the wonderful, tumultuous, imperfect beauty of simply being a woman.

Be Not Alarmed, Madam, on Receiving this Letter: my Tribute to Jane Austen

Anyone who follows my writing regularly knows that I am a self-professed fan of all things Jane Austen. Recently, I had the honor of being published at the Dear Jane Project, a blog whose mission is to unite Janeites across the world and pay tribute to her brilliance through fan-written letters.

to learn more about the Dear Jane Project, visit the homepage; you can read my letter here. Please do also take the time to check out some of the other letters written to Jane and consider following the project.

As always, thanks for reading!

“But You Don’t Look Blind”: a Reflection on Blogging Against Disablism Day 2016

Several weeks ago, a friend and fellow blogger, Blindbeader, responded to and encouraged her readers to participate in a blogging challenge, entitled “But you don’t look blind.” The challenge asked bloggers to reflect on the statement, whether or not they had found themselves on the receiving end of it, and their thoughts about the statement’s intent and broader implications. As we celebrate Blogging Against Disablism Day, I thought today would offer a useful opportunity to examine this question and the nuances of ableist language.

Who Gets the Comment?

Mostly, sighted people will direct this observation to a blind or visually impaired person whose eye condition is genetic or whose eyes don’t bear the marks of surgery or illness. Someone might also make this observation to a visually impaired person who doesn’t travel with a white cane or a guide dog and appears able to see, read print, and navigate independently using proscription glasses. Many people don’t recognize that blindness, like other illnesses and disabilities, exists on a spectrum; some of us are totally blind, some have peripheral vision, vision in only one eye, or have only light perception (the ability to detect light and shadow). Some of us, like me, have conditions that don’t affect our eyes cosmetically, except for occasional muscle spasms. Since I can only detect light and shadow, my eyes have lost the ability to focus, so I often, especially when tired or in a room with bright light, have difficulty controlling my eye muscles. While it’s often visible if you look closely, someone might not immediately recognize my blindness since I generally try to make eye contact with whomever I’m speaking to, or at least look in the direction of the person’s voice.

Is it a compliment?

Most of the time, when someone observes “you don’t look blind,” she intends it as a compliment. She’s saying—or thinks she’s saying—that the blind person has risen above a disability and refused to let it interfere with the day-to-day rhythms of a fulfilling life. Yet the implicit ableism of this supposed compliment sometimes does more to perpetuate than to dispel myths about disability. To say that we “don’t look” disabled in effect congratulates us for assimilating into able society, concealing our disabilities (as much as we can, if we can) because they make people uncomfortable, or hostile, or can even cost us a job or access to adequate housing. Rather than simply allowing us to comfortably inhabit the bodies we’re born with or have had to learn to fit into, the comment applauds us for performing a “normal,” ableist narrative.

Broader Implications

Ironically, the compliment that applauds us for essentially performing an ableist narrative lends a certain performativity to disability, particularly when we require accommodation; if we don’t appear disabled, very often businesses or individuals will attempt to deny us appropriate accommodation because we don’t appear to need it. As a result, we either have to produce documentation (which can be an inconvenience at best and invasive at worst) or reduce ourselves to performing disability, adopting the perceived traits that you’ve just commended us for overcoming.

Case-in-point: when I moved back to my hometown last summer, I had to apply to ride paratransit because I cannot easily access the stop on the bus route nearest my neighborhood. Paratransit, for those unfamiliar, provides door-to-door service for people unable to drive or to use fixed bus routes because of a disability. You would think, wouldn’t you, that being legally blind and thus not permitted to hold a driver’s license would automatically qualify one for such services, given appropriate medical proof of disability. You would be sadly mistaken.

After submitting my application, I found myself engaging in a strategy session with two friends who use the service to determine how to pass the physical evaluation; in other words, how could I make sure that I appeared disabled enough to qualify for the accommodation I was requesting?
“You’re legally blind,” one friend said. “You’ll qualify. I’m sure they won’t give you a problem.”
“Well, here’s the thing though,” chimed in the other friend. “I don’t know if you realize how independent you are, and in a case like this one, that’s going to count against you.”
“so basically,” I concluded, “You’re telling me that I have to appear helpless?”
“Pretty much, yeah.”

In short, I was expected to perform disability, conform to the mold of what the system expected of a blind person to prove my blindness, because any sign of independence would count as evidence against my case. Blind people don’t have PhDs, or live alone, or hold down steady jobs, or essentially do anything independently, according to that logic. My independence, for which I had labored so long and hard, was now, in an irritating twist of irony, holding me back.

I ultimately refused to bow to this logic, because when we do, we just perpetuate the myth. Living independently doesn’t make me Wonderwoman, and it doesn’t deny me rights to reasonable accommodation. At the other end of the spectrum, reasonable accommodations don’t make people with disabilities helpless; on the contrary, they enrich our quality of life and increase our independence. To assume me somehow less capable because I have a disability, and then to believe me somehow unqualified for reasonable accommodations because I don’t appear to need them assumes false knowledge about my life with a disability. That cliché about walking a mile in my shoes before you criticize? Yeah, that applies here.

Why Can’t We Just Accept the Compliment?

I have tried, over the years, to accept this “compliment” gracefully, but unfortunately, ableist thinking has conditioned us to bristle at these comments—to react with suspicion to any observation that could potentially be an accusation that we are not, in fact, legitimately disabled. Do we want you to ultimately see past our disabilities and respect us as diverse, unique, talented individuals who can contribute to society just as productively as you can? Certainly we do, but are our disabilities also an inescapable reality of the narratives we live every day? Unfortunately yes. The implication that we are faking disability implies that we’re simply trying to manipulate the system so that we can receive services and accommodations that make our lives easier, and it’s this mindset that has actually created increasingly annoying roadblocks for legitimately, legally disabled people to receive those services, whether related to transportation, employment, education, housing, or government financial assistance, the last of which has become so convoluted that many people simply abandon the process because fighting the red tape takes more hours in a day than any human has. When you tell us that we don’t “Look blind,” you imply that we look “normal,” according to your ableist definition of normal, but did you ever consider that for us, our lived experiences in our disabled bodies are our concept of “normal?” Today, as we consider how to break down the stigmas of disability, I challenge you to step back and reexamine the ways that your words and actions can disable us just as much as, if not more than the disabilities we live with.

Question

Has anyone ever told you that you “don’t look disabled” or “sick”? How do you handle this comment?

Writer and Teacher

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