#DisabledBlackLivesMatterToo by Persephone Jones

Disability Visibility Project

Many people on twitter have been tweeting lately about #BlackLivesMatter in light of recent events this year.

Persephone Jones, @galvezmiro, has been tweeting the names and photos of black and disabled people killed by police. As many in the disability community know all too well, there have been countless cases where race and disability intersect with police brutality.

Here are just a few tweets from Persephone along with her hashtag #DisabledBlackLivesMatterToo

Thank you, Persephone!

https://twitter.com/galvezmiro/status/546173653746843648

https://twitter.com/galvezmiro/status/546181549205372928

https://twitter.com/galvezmiro/status/546183356979769344

https://twitter.com/galvezmiro/status/546187389408780289

https://twitter.com/galvezmiro/status/546187806750433280

https://twitter.com/galvezmiro/status/546194941127294977

https://twitter.com/galvezmiro/status/546195142604894208

https://twitter.com/galvezmiro/status/546196399159652352

https://twitter.com/galvezmiro/status/546199769849135104

https://twitter.com/galvezmiro/status/546200054227140608

https://twitter.com/galvezmiro/status/546200304333901824

https://twitter.com/galvezmiro/status/546208897136988161

https://twitter.com/galvezmiro/status/546221126830284800

https://twitter.com/galvezmiro/status/546234351302627328

For more, check out this Storify of Persephone’s tweets:

https://storify.com/SFdirewolf/disabledblacklivesmattertoo-by-persephone-jones?utm_source=direct-sfy.co&utm_content=storify-pingback&utm_medium=sfy.co-twitter&utm_campaign=&awesm=sfy.co_f061W

View original post

Advertisements

RUDOLPH – DISABILITY ICON OR EXPLOITED VICTIM? A STORY OF DISABILITY BULLYING

In this piece, David Linton brings us the Christmas spirit with an analysis of the song and story of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.

It is not known if Rudolph’s glowing, bulbous nose was a congenital condition or acquired, perhaps suggesting years of excessive alcohol consumption. But despite belated acceptance by his peers and exploitation by a bearded sleigh driver once it was discovered that his impairment could be put to profitable use, there is no way to hide the life of humiliation and rejection he experienced during his formative years.

Prior to that fateful “foggy Christmas eve” when it seemed as though the North Pole and virtually every rooftop destination was socked in with atmospheric conditions that would have grounded even the most daring pilots, young Rudolph’s anomalous nose made him an outcast. Despite his cheery nature and repeated efforts to participate in communal activities, his peers treated him as a pariah. Even the pleasure of frolicking with the herd in childish antics was denied him, and to make matters worse, he was constantly taunted and ridiculed with cruel epithets. According to Gene Autry, a knowledgeable source of impeccable veracity, “all of the other reindeer used to laugh and call him names.” (One can only imagine the cruel forms that name-calling took.) And the social isolation was so thorough that they “never let poor Rudolph join in any reindeer games.” Such treatment must surely leave scars.

So desperate was Rudolph’s situation, or, to consider another explanation, so strong was his character, that when the deer keeper known as Santa Claus found that the only way he could complete his delivery schedule was to put the young fawn at the head of his team, Rudolph willingly accepted the request. He did so despite the obvious dangers of the assignment. Being the lead deer through thick clouds and fog with repeated take-offs and landings on tiny, ice and snow covered roof tops would test the mettle of the most seasoned pilot landing on carriers in stormy seas.

It appears that the story of Rudolph has a happy ending. After all, he has “gone down in history.” But at what cost? Is this yet another tale of disability overcoming, a chance to say once again, “Oh, he’s so inspiring!” Is Rudolph actually some sort of GPS pioneer or just another exploited member of the disability community, welcome when his “special” qualities are of use but otherwise isolated, disenfranchised, unemployed?

Next holiday season perhaps it’s time to take a moment to shed a tear for that poor little fellow and the sacrifices he made. Bless you, Rudolf.

Spatial Dyslexia As a Window to Cultural Invisibility: Reflections on my participation in an Opera Workshop

 

Spatial Dyslexia As a Window to Cultural Invisibility

“Spatial dyslexia” is a term I first heard during a Richard Crittenden opera workshop in Washington, where I was singing the roles of Neda and Rosalinda in scenes from Pagliacci and Die Fledemaus. After several challenging rehearsals, the choreographer held a special meeting with me to address my significant struggles with the stage directions in the Pagliacci sequence. She was also a movement specialist, and she observed that my body seemed to lack a perception of its own relationship to space. She said, “I can see it when you move in different directions-it’s like a glitch in two connecting brain signals.”

Hence, when I practiced the blocking used to ensure that singers faced out toward the audience, I struggled to judge whether my body was facing right or left. I knew the difference between “Center Stage” and “Downstage” on an intellectual level, but my *body* didn’t know that. For instance, what my brain perceived as stage right would sometimes be what the director perceived as center stage, causing me to be perceived as confused and disoriented. From his perspective, my disability was interfering with fundamental aspects of the scene, the character, and operatic practice.

There were, however, certain aspects to the scene that I felt validated this aspect of my performance. Just before the Neda/Silvio love duet in Act 1, Neda escapes being sexually assaulted by her fellow troupe member, Tonio. After having fought him off with a whip, she encounters Silvio in a deeply distressed and frightened state; which is only exacerbated by a longstanding fear of her husband’s temper. Hence, disorientation could be interpreted as a reaction to severe stress following an attempted rape. I suggested that perhaps Neda was so upset that she didn’t know where she was going. The director answered, “That’s not in the story…”

That’s true, but I have other traits that the character would not have exhibited, such as I am light-skinned with red hair, and she is intended to be Romani. Hence, one could argue that my performance white-washed a character that was written as a person of color. Yet, the director did not ask me to dye my hair or engage in the racist practice of darkening my skin.

Furthermore, while the liberetto doesn’t indicate that Neda is disabled, it never explicitly says that she is ablebodied. Hence, our differing interpretations of what my disorientation could represent (a disoriented, clumsy performer vs. a severely traumatized character) were mitigated by social and bodily experience. It’s not that the director *intended* to be oppressive or that his concern about stage directions wasn’t legitimate, but as a nondisabled musician who grew up with ablebodied privilege, he had been conditioned to accept mainstream expectations of onstage performance and human behavior.

Ultimately, the director’s experience had conditioned him to accept the predominant association between musicality and ability, in which the latter is fused with the former to such an extent that the inclusion of disability in that experience is either discounted or enfreaked. For instance, Alex Lubet writes:

To contemplate disability as an “area” is to render performance, even the ranking of performance, a facet of identity. (This may also apply to sex and sexuality.) Justaposing musicality and disability reveals that the former is often regarded as an opposite of the latter. Musicality is viewed not simply as ability, but an extraordinary ability. Music making, at least at the highest levels, is regarded as requiring an exceptional gift within many social confluences (Lubet, 95).

The disparity between our lived experiences is at least one of the reasons that the director viewed the impression of mental disability as being foreign to the nature of a well-orchestrated opera scene. For me, however, the experience of disability and musicality were inextricable.

As a disabled woman who was conditioned to associate some of my own behaviors with disability rather than conscious choices, I grew up asking myself: “Did that person bump into me because that person was being rude, or did she misjudge the amount of space between our bodies?” “Did that person say that because she was angry, or because she was sad? Does that child remember the directions that his teacher gave him a few minutes ago?

These experiences also applied to my experience of the director’s instructions. At my most defiant and metaphysical, I asked myself,  “what *is* center stage? Why do we have to face the audience at all; when in fact people are frequently observed with their backs turned? Does the fact that my voice is slightly more muffled in that position make my voice sound “bad”? Does that auditory difference make my performance inferior, or just different? Although the dichotomy between our perspectives can be largely attributed to situational authority and objectives, some of these differences of perception can be attributed to the cultural invisibility of disabled people’s history and cultural experiences. Public knowledge of the latter would not eliminate the role of ableism in music making, but perhaps it would provide a frame of reference for discussions about the legitimization of disability in performance interpretation.

Another experience of historical invisibility came via admonishments regarding the terminology in Pagliacci’s libretto. As most readers are probably aware, Tonio’s character might be considered a proto-eugenic stereotype of the disabled as lecherous, sexually deviant predators. These perceptions inform his every scene, from his interactions with Neda, to his thwarted attempts at virility, to his attempt to rape Neda and participation in her murder, Tonio is situated as a symbol of violence and primal brutality. Nevertheless, the singer playing Silvio was instructed not to use the term “il gobo” (hunchback) in reference to Tonio, but to substitute the word “schemo” (idiot), because current performance practice was to discard the former as a slur. Notwithstanding the director’s intentions, this change does not mitigate the ableist sentiments that are inherent in the opera’s characterization of Tonio. If anything, the change represents an dominant people groups’ attempt to sanitize an irredeemably ableist caricature. As such, this change in terminology obscures opera’s status as an artifact of the disabled community’s cultural history. And, of course, the suggested substitute of “idiot” simply switches a historical term for a physical disability with one associated with an intellectual impairment.

A similar encounter with ablebodied hegemony concerned a former opera singer who had watched me perform. She  suggested that while my bodily comportment was appropriate for Neda, it did not reflect the upper-class background of Rosalinda, whose movements would have been graceful and refined. As a gypsy with no exposure to the domestic and social training that Rosalinda would have been expected to exhibit. Hence, one might argue that the former character was not expected to embody the 19th century ideal of female domesticity that Rosalinda represented.

In addition to the latter ideal, my would-be mentor’s advice reflected 19th century conceptions of the virtuoso musician on contemporary performance: virtuosic performances are intended to suggest an esoteric association between the singer and the Divine. Indeed, and this relationship is often situated as representing the last remnant of man’s lost, Edenic state. Unfortunately, such associations have not been conceived to include the participation of disability in that divine discourse.

Moreover, the exclusion of disability from possible performance interpretations erases the historical presence of disabled people; as if they did not exist or were universally segregated in institutions. While the latter abuse is historically consistent, this practice varied depending on the disabled individual, the disability itself and the affected family. Hence, it is certainly possible for a woman in Rosalinda’s society to have been clumsy or awkward. Hence, aside from the mainstream opera-goers expectation that the actress’ persona will reflect the aesthetic attributes associated with high-style entertainment, it is acceptable to interpret Rosalinda as a disabled woman. Certainly such a representation could expand the music community’s understanding of which behaviors can be accurately associated with people who lived in a particular time period; thus helping to increase the historical visibility of disabled individuals in matters not related directly to their disabled status.

Ultimately, my performance was deemed to pass for that of an ablebodied woman and I was allowed to perform both scenes. The next year my disability was accommodated by placing me in scenes in which the character remained in a stationary position or engaged in limited movement (The love duet from Cendrillion and the card scene from Act III of Carman.) While this was an excellent solution that I encourage other musicians to consider, I also hope that the presence of disabled people in music performance will serve in creating an environment where disability history is acknowledged and our experiences legitimized in performance interpretation.

Hence, my experience as a disabled performer who was attempting to “pass” as an ablebodied character was mediated through expectations of hyper-ability. As Ibby Grace writes of  labyrinthian jargon in academia, “This is a giant access problem, especially if the field in question is a field relating to social justice in any way, and most especially if the field is Disability Studies, or even feminism talking about disabled people. It’s a giant access issue any time disabled people are being talked about.” One might argue the absence of disability in musical performance represents the same problem.

Diss..Disscussion: Singing the Stutter

Our first post has been contributed by scholar David Linton, who, with Anthony Tusler, organized a Disability and Music panel at the SDS annual meeting of 2012. In addition to his studies on music and disability, David is a professor of communication arts at Marymount Manhattan College, is editor of the newsletter of the Society for Menstrual Cycle Research.

Among the many appearances of disability-related themes in various music genres, one that has fascinated me is the occurrence of what seem to be speech disabilities or deviations from “standard” speech practices.   For instance, consider the speech disfluency commonly known as stuttering. Though often used in popular media to suggest slow thinking or weakness (think of Porky Pig), the sound of stuttering in music takes on more nuanced meanings.

Repeated syllables or notes, often having no semantic meaning, are a mainstay of song. From the melodic “Halleluiah Chorus” through the amusingly named “Doo-Wop” of the 1950s and 60s to the mesmerizing chant of “Hey, Jude,” (a series of “nah, nahs” memorized and sung by millions), phonetic units that would constitute stuttering in every day speech become elements of song when expressed with rhythm or accompanied by instruments.

The jazz sub-genre or riff known as “skat” is a good example of how a vocal technique that might otherwise have been seen as a speaking flaw was elevated to a respect musical art form by vocalists who could take the tune of a song and embellish it with meaningless extemporizations that sometimes sounded like baby talk.

While many songs use the repetitive effect of stuttered speech for purposes of musical continuity or just to sing along (especially when one has forgotten the lyrics!), it is hard to tell if the singer intends to be imitating the unique speech pattern of an individual who actually does stutter. However, I can think of one case where that does seem to be the case.

The rock group Bachman-Turner Overdrive (BTO) had a hit in 1974 titled, “You Ain’t Seen Nothin’ Yet” written by Randy Bachman. The lyrics are presented in the first-person voice of a man who is enamored of a super-sexy “devil woman [who] took my heart away.” He presents himself as a rather pathetic, desperate character who grovels for attention. The woman responds positively though with a tone of condescension that is somehow heightened by her stutter:

“. . .she looked at me with big brown eyes And said, ‘You ain’t seen nothin’ yet B-B-B-Baby, you just ain’t seen na-na-nothin’ yet Here’s something that you never gonna forget B-B-B-Baby, you just ain’t seen na-na-nothin’ yet.”

The effect of her powerful assertion is made all the more potent by the fact that it is sung by the male who is quoting her words in a voice that is strong and confident. There is certainly nothing weak about this woman nor the least bit of hesitancy about her willingness to say what she wants in a voice that she fully owns.

Meanwhile, the question of why stuttering commonly decreases or is absent while an individual is singing is a topic that will have to wait for another day. (The nerdy video of a BTO studio performance of the song in the mid-1970s gives a good sense of the way the group saw the tune.)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7miRCLeFSJo