I actually don’t prefer the term disabled, because nothing about my body is «broken» or «not working.» I do have severe muscle weakness, sure, but my body is not disabled in the same way «the elevator has been disabled» means, it’s just not as able.
I prefer the term «handicapped.» I’m not bothered by «disabled,» what really bothers me is cutesy phrases like «special needs.» To be upset at being called disabled would be to be upset every moment of my life. It’s just that I think it linguistically makes very little sense and genuinely wonder if choosing «disabled» actually backfired on the whole… pride, independence movement, because in any other context «disabled» still implies being broken, 30-40 years later. Likewise, «handicapped» does not, though it does wrestle with the assumption of «taking hand outs,» but… Well, we’re mostly low-income, afaik, so we’d have to wrestle with the welfare drama regardless 
It’s not that I refuse to acknowledge different definitions for the same word exists, either. It’s more that I’m not convinced the change in phrasing actually did what it was, supposedly, meant to do. And I grew up without any overt slurs hurled at me or my family acting like I should be ashamed, maybe that helped…
I am a disability advocate, a disability blogger and I am disabled. I’ve written about disability before, how it has affected me personally and how I struggle with the word as a defining term for who I am. We all want to be seen as an individual beyond a label that may change how people perceive us, and yet, disability is a part of who I am, like my brown hair. But it’s not something that should be seen first, or something an abled person should make a judgment about and consequently make a judgment about who I am based on it.
Disability shouldn’t be a bad word. What do I mean? When has disability become a bad word, you ask? When you have those in the abled community trying to supersede how disabled people are perceived, under the guise that “disability” is a negative word, and it would be better for the community to be seen as “differently abled.”
Recently, a trending hashtag on Twitter, #AbledsAreWeird has enabled many in the disability community to share their own experiences with discrimination. But not every experience shared is blatantly discriminatory, such as being denied employment because of a disability. In some instances, it is more along the lines of a polite disregard, in which we are seen as something “other” and disconnected from “normal” society.
I’m not writing this to “educate” the abled community or to scold them. I have always felt that without positive discourse, without a sharing of ideas, experiences and feelings, a society can never improve. When people in the disabled community share these experiences, it can help to open a dialog so improvements can be made. Just as importantly, it’s a means for disabled people to commiserate over feelings of discrimination and otherness.
You might be #AbledAndWeird if:
• You think it is offensive to call someone disabled and prefer to call them “specially abled” or “differently abled.”
Many of us identify as disabled. Arguing with someone about how they identify and trying to force them to identify as something you find more politically correct is arrogant and demeaning. It almost implies we are children and need a “grown-up” to properly school us in the right word we should use to define who we are. We don’t.
• When you attempt to inspire us by comparing us to another person with a disability, pointing and saying “Look! If they can do it, you can too!”
Not every disability is the same, even if on the outside both people may use a wheelchair. One person may not be capable of the same things as another, and that is OK. Don’t shame someone under the guise of trying to motivate them because you believe their disability isn’t as severe as somebody else’s.
• You’re a doctor and tell a patient they don’t want to get better because they won’t take a drug.
While we may respect your training and education, our bodies are still our own and we have the right to make choices about what we put into them. Some drugs have debilitating side effects, and we should be able to choose without being made to feel as though we’re a criminal.
• You’re shopping at the market and need to reach something on the top shelf, but someone in a wheelchair is blocking your access and you just push them out of the way.
I wish I were joking, but I am not. That actually happens. Who gave you the right to touch someone without permission? You might think it’s just a wheelchair, but it’s not. A wheelchair is an extension of a person’s body when they are utilizing it to get around. If you wouldn’t dream of pushing an able-bodied person out of the way to get what you wanted, why would you do that to someone in a wheelchair?
• When you bring up accessibility for all but when it comes time to follow through, you make excuses.
The expense of it is too high, or the construction is too complex, or it would take too long, or you think the number of people who would use it doesn’t make it a practical expense. If you don’t make public buildings, bathrooms and streets accessible for all, you are excluding people.
• You think it’s OK to ignore those who are deaf within a mixed room.
I don’t think many people understand how difficult it is to be disabled. I think many people feel that if it doesn’t personally touch them in some way, they don’t need to be empathetic to the situation. They tend to feel it is the responsibility of the disabled person to make sure their needs are met. The deaf/blind community is an excellent example of this, where a small percentage of the population has been forced to navigate a world not built for them. But it goes beyond the physical world. It’s going to functions and events where an ASL interpreter is not provided. It’s going to a restaurant where you are in the company of both those who can hear and those who can’t, and the server ignores you because they feel you have others who can speak for you, or they don’t think they can communicate with you and they don’t even try.
Disability is not a bad word. Being disabled isn’t something you need to whisper about or call by a different name, especially one ableds invented because they think “disability” is offensive. Accessibility for all shouldn’t feel like the newest candidate’s edgy slogan that becomes the newest trending hashtag because it sounds nice. It should be a reality, something we actively strive for which motivates us to reach out to disabled communities to find out what they need and what’s important to them.
This story originally appeared on Love Karma Food.
Photo via Disabled and Here.
U.S.
July 29, 2022 / 2:31 PM
/ CBS News
Disabled in the pandemic
Disabled and immunocompromised Americans share why they feel forgotten
04:46
Disabled isn’t a bad word.
That’s the message writer Melissa Blake wants to send this Disability Pride Month as she advocates to change people’s misconceptions about people with disabilities.
«So often we try to dance around, you know, just the word itself. So people will say ‘special needs,’ the ‘differently-abled,’ said Blake. «Non-disabled people try to talk over us or explain our own experience to us.»
And when the trolls come for her — Blake claps back. Blake was born with a genetic bone and muscular disorder called Freeman-Sheldon syndrome. Its symptoms can include abnormally flexed joints, spine abnormalities and a characteristic facial appearance, and she’s had 25 surgeries to fix her joints — including spinal fusion surgery.
And she went viral in 2019 for her response to trolls who told her not to post any more photos of herself. Telling her own story pulled back the curtain on the treatment disabled people often face.
During the last round of trollgate, people said that I should be banned from posting photos of myself because I’m too ugly. So I’d just like to commemorate the occasion with these 3 selfies… 📸😉👋🏻 pic.twitter.com/9ZuSYFOtwv
— Melissa Blake (@melissablake) September 7, 2019
After all, she says, no one knows what it’s like to be disabled better than those with disabilities themselves.
«Disability is seen as this tragic, awful thing,» she told CBS News. «Disability Pride Month gives us the opportunity to flip that script … and to show up authentically and to be ourselves.»
Her story is part of the fight for community, inclusion, and acceptance highlighted by Disability Pride Month, which started in 2015 to commemorate the landmark Americans with Disabilities Act’s 25th anniversary.
Public Domain
«Disability pride, means to me, survival — sometimes out of spite, sometimes I’ve had no other choice,» Imani Barbarin told CBS News. «But it means that we have made inroads in the society in which we are living.»
Barbarin was born with cerebral palsy, the most common motor disability in childhood, with 1 in 345 children diagnosed, according to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. It is all about how the brain sends messages to the rest of the body — so it affects each person differently. For her, she uses crutches to move around.
As a disability and inclusion advocate, Barbarin writes, speaks, and creates content about disability. Under «Crutches and Spice» on social media, she sheds light on disability rights, inclusion and racial justice.
She remembers a lack of representation growing up.
«I really wanted more representation of disabled people that look like me, that had my experience,» said Barbarin, who is Black. «And so I really wanted to write about my experience.»
But she soon found a «welcoming and loving» disability community that reflected her experiences back at her, embracing her with open arms — even when society at large, sometimes, doesn’t.
Contrary to popular belief, @CDCDirector, disabled people aren’t just data points. Every life lost was loved by someone, someone’s community member, someone’s friend.
How callous to say you’re encouraged by the prospect of their deaths.
#MyDisabledLifeIsWorthy
— Imani Barbarin, MAGC | Crutches&Spice ♿️ (@Imani_Barbarin) January 9, 2022
«The more I started studying and observing and listening to the Black community, the more I realized just how hand-in-hand ableism and racism go together and how different communities reflect these stereotypes onto Black disabled people,» she said.
Her hashtag #MyDisabledLifeisWorthy went viral earlier this year with thousands of responses after CDC director Dr. Rochelle Walensky said that among the vaccinated, it’s mostly those with comorbidities who are dying from the virus — leaving many with disabilities outraged.
«Ableism is a living, breathing system that we encounter every single day,» Barbarin said. «We have a responsibility to combat it, to fight it, and to understand ableism is to understand so many other marginalizations as well as how ableism is used against us.»
With a resurgence of COVID with Omicron variant BA.5 and now monkeypox, Barbarin admits she is still upset with the federal government, adding it «sends a signal that they don’t take this seriously.»
«Disabled people represent nearly a third of the population — growing more so with COVID,» she said, referring to the health problems like fatigue and inability to regulate body temperature that can persist after initial infection known as «Long COVID.» «This idea that it’s ‘just’ nice to have disability inclusion is not the truth. Disability inclusion is literally lifesaving.»
«We can build a society that is inclusive of disabled people — in a way that impacts all of us — when we include disabled people in the conversation, Barbarin said.
Photographer Robert Andy Coombs set out to do just that, exploring the intersections of queerness, disability and sexuality with his art — usually with vivid self-portraits.
He always had an interest in photographing his body. During his third year at college, he was on a trampoline to shoot a series called Fly/Fall. A week later, Coombs was back on the same trampoline. This time, he suffered a spinal cord injury that left him paralyzed in his legs, torso and hands.
While spending a year at home recovering, he still had his photographic eye — but what could he photograph? But he recalled how much his parents were worried.
«They just saw all of my hopes and dreams just kind of wither away, which was the complete opposite from my experience,» he says. «I was like, ‘OK, well, minor setback. I need to rebrand.'»
He quickly realized he was sitting on a gold mine of imagery and he was determined to push the boundaries of what can be achieved with such a life-changing disability — with the help of others.
In one series, «Traversing Pride,» photographs are taken during a gay Pride event at his eye level — from a wheelchair. He says it was tough maneuvering around and sometimes it felt as though no one saw him — but he definitely saw them.
Coombs spoke about his attendance at a recent Pride event in Miami, where the organizers had set up a disability tent up a hill. Being a wheelchair user, he says it felt «infantilizing.»
«It’s exhausting for disabled people to try and traverse these Pride events because you’re damned if you do. And you’re damned if you don’t,» he told CBS News. «People don’t think we exist because we don’t feel comfortable in these spaces.»
But there’s beauty too. In photographs of his recent trip to Fire Island, he’s floating peacefully in the water. In another, a friend empties out his catheter.
Robert Andy Coombs
«There’s themes of caregiving, there’s themes of love and affection and touch and desire,» he said. «I think those are pretty universal to any relationship.»
Coombs is featured in Deaf trans activist Chella Man’s art exhibition, «Pure Joy,» on display at New York City’s 1969 Gallery.
The group show, featuring 12 other artists, «acknowledges the persistent tokenization of disabled artists, contradicting this cycle by centering ideologies of pleasure rather than pain,» according to a statement from the gallery. «The show serves as a reclamation and celebration of our humanity.»
Blake, Barbarin and Coombs don’t want anyone’s pity or ridicule — and don’t want to be objectified as «inspirational» for living with their disabilities. Telling their own stories in their own way is about being proudly, unapologetically human.
- In:
- Americans with Disabilities Act
Michael Roppolo
Michael Roppolo is a CBS News reporter. He covers a wide variety of topics, including science and technology, crime and justice, and disability rights.
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By Nina Tame in collaboration with
Disability Content Consulting.
Play the audio file read by Nina Tame or discover the full transcript below.
Full transcript.
I’m a 41-year-old Disabled woman. I write it with a capital “D” because it’s something that I now identify as, and I identify as Disabled proudly too, but this wasn’t always the case. I was born with Spina Bifida in 1980. I met all the usual milestones like crawling and walking, just a little later than my toddling peers. And you wouldn’t have known I had a disability unless you saw the large lump on my lower back. I was four years old when another child saw the lump and loudly exclaimed, “Ewwww, what’s that?” It’s funny, I can barely remember what I had for dinner yesterday, but the memory of someone pointing out that a part of me was somehow “wrong” has always stuck with me.
My teenage years saw my Spina Bifida begin to appear in ways it hadn’t before. Spina Bifida causes the nerves in the spine to be a little tangled sometimes. Teenage years with their significant periods of growth can often exacerbate this. So, bladder weakness got worse for me, I began to develop random ulcers on my feet that wouldn’t heal, and we realised after much poking and prodding that I had minimal sensation in my legs. This led to frequent infections and hospital stays—stints on crutches and in a wheelchair, as well as some orthopedic shoes.
God, I hated those shoes. When you’re 14, all you want to do is fit in and be cool. I was not into my regular and huge wide massive boot that I rocked for a bit. It’s funny. I wouldn’t care a carrot now, but teenage me, who didn’t have the greatest set of friends anyway, didn’t want to give anyone cause to laugh at her. I tried to balance it out by impressing people with my party trick – Kicking the wall as hard as I could because I couldn’t feel it. Yes, I ended up breaking my foot.
I’m a 41-year-old Disabled woman. I write it with a capital “D” because it’s something that I now identify as, and I identify as Disabled proudly too, but this wasn’t always the case.
As I got older, left school, moved out of my parents’ house, and became more autonomous, I often continued rejecting the idea that I was disabled… to my health’s detriment. I wouldn’t rest; I’d be discharged from hospital and go straight down the pub. And I once got my mate to help me cut the plaster cast off another broken foot so I could go out dancing. What an absolute menace.
I claimed disability benefits, had a disabled parking badge, used mobility aids on and off but still couldn’t identify with being Disabled. I knew how people viewed disability, the pity, the awkwardness, the mocking. I didn’t want that for me. I didn’t want people to know I had Spina Bifida, to know that I was disabled. So, I kept it hidden as much as possible until a mobility aid became a permanent fixture in my life. My ableism still told me disabled was a “bad thing” to be, so I called myself “differently-abled,” which looking back on it now makes me want to vomit.
Two big things changed everything for me, and they both happened around the same time like a gorgeous gift from the universe. The first was discovering the Disabled community on Instagram. People proudly calling themselves Disabled, people rocking and looking fabulous with their mobility aids– the ones that I had always kept hidden in pictures because, you know, they made me “look disabled.” People sharing their stories, people calling out inaccessibility, people advocating for themselves, and people advocating for others in the community. People creating beautiful art, people supporting and validating each other. I found my community, and in doing so, I embraced a part of myself that I had always thought was wrong.
My ableism still told me disabled was a “bad thing” to be, so I called myself “differently-abled,” which looking back on it now makes me want to vomit.
The second event that changed everything was finding the Social Model of Disability; it allowed me to undo years of internalised ableism. It was like the moment after a terrible breakup when you realise it wasn’t you; it was them all along. I’d always thought my Spina Bifida was “bad.” Being disabled was “bad.” And somehow, being disabled was my fault or that I was an inconvenience and a burden. The Social Model disagrees.
In contrast to the Medical Model, the Social Model states that, yes, I have a medical condition, but it’s the world that disables me. Now don’t get me wrong, that’s not to say that my Spina Bifida doesn’t come with pain and challenges. However, the societal challenges I face often disable me more than my actual disability.
Put me in an accessible shopping center where my wheelchair can zoom around, and I won’t feel disabled in the same way that I do when I can’t physically get in somewhere because it doesn’t have a ramp. Or the ramp is so steep that I need help getting up and down it. I can’t walk, but my wheelchair solves this problem. It’s inaccessibility that’s the disabling thing. Inaccessibility isn’t just for wheelchair users either. Disabled people face a lack of access to adequate health care or a lack of access to communication like braille and captions, as just a couple of examples. There is a lack of quiet places, quiet times, or adequate seating in many busy public spaces. Think of how varied our disabilities are, yet most Disabled people have all probably come across people’s weird at best — hateful at worst — attitudes. These things cause me more hurt, inconvenience, and frustration than not walking ever does.
If we had the same access to work, education, and social lives… If we were paid the same not less than our nondisabled counterparts, if we weren’t penalised for getting married, weren’t the subject of hate crimes, were fairly represented in the world of TV and media, if we all had access to decent health care, access to decent fare and livable social security, then maybe the word disabled wouldn’t even exist? That’s the thing, though. That’s where the Disabled community stems from. That’s the shared Disabled experience. Our conditions can be miles apart, yet we all understand without question what ableism is and the access barriers that come with it.
I found my community, and in doing so, I embraced a part of myself that I had always thought was wrong.
When we deny Disability, when we try to soften it somehow by using terms like “differently-abled” and “handicapable,” we’re erasing the acknowledgment of societal barriers that Disabled people face. It erases an identity, erasing a community of diverse, brilliant people. I remember answering the tired old question of “What’s wrong with you?” with a “Nothing I’m Disabled” only to be met with a well-meaning yet icky “You’re definitely more abled than disabled.” Considering I can’t get into 50% of my local shops, I’d say that definitely isn’t true, Graham.
I’ve found it’s often nondisabled people who are uncomfortable with the word “Disabled.” Considering how “disabled” is the subject of many an ableist slur to insult people, I’m not that surprised. Also, considering when disability is discussed in the mainstream, it’s often not Disabled voices; it’s usually someone who is disability adjacent — doctors or caregivers, etc. For example, “differently-abled” and “special needs” are commonplace terms amongst parents and teachers of Disabled kids. So I’m also not surprised that many nondisabled people don’t know or can’t imagine that many Disabled people identify with being Disabled and that a thriving, diverse Disabled community even exists at all.
Now, of course, Disabled people are not a monolith; the majority of my Disabled peers prefer identity-first language. When you slog for years undoing all the internalised ableism that told you that being disabled was a “bad thing,” you don’t want people to erase that. But of course, not everyone feels this way. Different disabilities and cultures can all impact whether we prefer identity or person-first language. And I would never question how someone chooses to identify themselves.
The idea behind using person-first language was to see the human behind the disability or the person before the disability. However, I would argue that I am still human with my disability. I would argue that my disability runs through all of me, every area of my life, in both positive and more challenging ways. I do not wish to separate myself from my disability because my disability is a neutral thing. My Disabled community isn’t a neutral thing, though. It’s bloody glorious.
When we deny Disability, when we try to soften it somehow by using terms like “differently-abled” and “handicapable,” we’re erasing the acknowledgment of societal barriers that Disabled people face.
So, suppose you’re asking for a clear answer on which terminology (person-first language vs. identity-first language) is right or wrong. In that case, the answer is that there is no right or wrong answer. The exception is when nondisabled people decide that “disabled” is a bad word on behalf of the community. I’ve seen this often; to be inclusive, the term “disabled” is replaced with a gross little euphemism, and the Disabled people who try and educate around this are then completely ignored. Never do that.
The question presented is: How are businesses, companies, and organizations supposed to address Disabled people? I don’t think it’s very complicated — “Disabled people/People with disabilities.” Use both—easy peasy lemon squeezy. And in the event you need to refer to someone as “being disabled” or “having a disability,” and you’re not sure which to use, ask. “Do you prefer Disabled or Person with a disability?”
Amongst my peers, the majority of Disabled people are not uncomfortable with the word Disabled. Still, when you avoid it or try to somehow sugar coat it, it shows us that you are uncomfortable with it, and surely that means that actually, you’re uncomfortable with us?
More about Nina Tame.
Nina Tame (she/her) is a disability mentor, disability advocate, writer, and content creator from the UK. She uses her Instagram account to debunk outdated societal myths about disability and the ways ableism runs throughout herself and her life. Her experience of growing up disabled and parenting a disabled child is a continual influence that runs through her work. With wit, passion, and lots of wheelchair selfies, Nina’s work explores the nuances of the disabled experience while contributing to the growing, diverse, and brilliant online disabled community.
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A few years ago, a woman I was talking to said that she didn’t agree with the use of the word disabled when describing someone with a disability. Her preference? Differently-abled. Not only I was taken aback by her comment because this is the pronoun I (and many disabled people) choose to use, but I was bothered that this opinion came from an able-bodied person. Also, I don’t like that she preferred using a phrase that emphasizes different.
To me, calling myself disabled is no different than using gender pronouns (i.e. his, her, he, she, etc.). If I prefer using a particular pronoun to describe myself I don’t believe anyone has the right to question it.
When I was little, it was common to use the word handicap when referring to a person with a disability, but much like the word crippled before it, handicap is no longer politically correct to say due to its negative connotation. Like crippled, when I hear the word handicapped it makes me feel like the emphasis is on what I cannot do and can lead to the assumption that I have a cognitive disability, whereas if I say «physical disability» it’s much more specific. Depending on who I’m speaking to, I’ll even just say I have a disability called Spina Bifida just so I’m clear with my language. I’ll admit, there are times when I catch myself saying handicap like handicap parking. It’s not great that I still say it, but like most people, I’m learning and trying to be conscious of my language.
I guess the reason why I don’t have a problem with saying disabled or disability is that it’s the word I personally want to use to describe myself. Nobody is putting these words in my mouth. Nor is it being used in a derogatory way. Therefore, in my mind, it’s empowering, not negative. I’m sure there will be a point when describing someone as disabled will no longer be acceptable, but I’m personally okay with its use. Language is constantly evolving.
If you meet a disabled person and are unsure of what language to use, just ask them what their preference is. If they say they like using disabled or something else, accept it because it’s their choice.
