Tales of a Progressing Dork

                                          

When I was a little kid I wanted a lot of things. I wanted to write a great novel, to be a stand-up comedian, to be a disabled radical. Yes, I was undoubtedly the oddest and oldest ten year old alive. This internship is in many ways the fulfillment of that last and longest held ambition. It has been and will continue to be a privilege to work in this field, but it is an experience that has evolved my thinking in ways I would never have suspected. Actually, one of the first things I learned when beginning this internship is that I had little to no idea what being an advocate means. I’m aghast to admit; in my most elaborate of childish fantasies I imagined a great deal more bullhorns. I saw myself yelling inspirational words into a loudspeaker, leading my kin against the thuggish agents of the man. I’d become the leader of a national disability movement, and end my evenings with a stiff drink.  I’d dive into my tumbler as a pretty young advocate asked me in awed reverence “How do you find the strength Emmanuel? What are you fighting for?” I’d stare out into the rain, and say with trembling breath and an inexplicable brogue…”We’re fighting for justice darlin’. Justice….”. Oh god, I know. Painfully dreadful.

In fairness, my understanding of disability advocacy was painted mainly by the work of ADAPT, wheel-chaired radicals (really disabled Americans of all kinds) whose political actions often enraged allies and opponents alike. They chained themselves to buses, staged protests, and got arrested with abandon. Their work was and is important, but it isn’t close to offering a full example of effective advocacy. Coming into this internship, I knew Disability Rights Iowa operated differently, but I’d be lying if I said I fully understood their work. After four months, I’m proud to say I’ve begun to understand the many aspects of advocacy work. Disability Advocacy is less about talking, less about speeches, and more about listening to the needs of our community. It is less about political aggrandizing, and more about bridge building. It is time cards, collaborative meetings, research and paperwork. Oh dear god in heaven the paperwork. It is work that in a word needs dorks. Thankfully, my services were available.

I’m ashamed to admit I haven’t transformed into a dashing young advocate, nor have I inexplicably gained an Irish accent. But I’m becoming I hope someone infinitely more valuable to this movement. I’m a dork who cares deeply about disabled people, and am slowly arming myself to be a true advocate for my disabled peers. As it happens it seems I’m in good company.  I’ve had the wonderful opportunity to tour a variety of organizations through this internship. Last week, I was able to tour Vocational Rehab and learn from the many passionate people who work there. Their director, Mr. David Mitchell took it upon himself to introduce me to the inner workings of his organization, and gave me more time, consideration, and attention than any intern could hope to receive. He is also, and I hope he will forgive me on this point, a bit of a dork himself.

What I mean in that is that Mr. Mitchell not only turns his full attention to the complex, multi-tiered workings of Vocational Rehab, he enjoys these complexities. He seems to be a man who pours into the details not because he must, but because he enjoys it. He brings a genuine interest to his work, into the seemingly endless complexities that come naturally with Protection and Advocacy work. It is an interest I’m glad to find I share. What’s more, he has avoided the trap that seems to grab many in this field, that almost unavoidable loss of enthusiasm that comes with experience. Mr. Mitchell has inexplicably been able to hold onto his, and he brings his energy and passion into every aspect of his work. Most importantly though I think is Mr. Mitchell demonstrated last week first hand his understanding of disability and his clear ability to empathize with those different from himself.

There are a variety of litmus tests I look to when determining my opinion of a person.  Most are common sense. Do you happen to have a predilection towards Precious Moments Figurines? Have you ever referred to your friends or to yourself as “a riot”?  Are you named Tiffany? These are important issues to be sure. But beyond the superficial, I’ve found that observing the ways people interact with my disability can be incredibly telling, especially in this area of work. It becomes a kind of field-test, a unique way to gauge someone’s ability to empathize, and operate as a caregiver. A majority of the people I’ve worked with have passed this test, some sadly have not. Mr. Mitchell clearly passed, and earned my respect because of it.

During my first day at Vocational Rehab, we had meetings all over the city. Instead of simply saying “oh well” at my lack of a car and excluding me from the experience, (as many have done before him) he rented out the organizations van, and drove me personally from site to site. More than that, he assisted me with transfers, with getting my wheelchair, and did so without a hint of bother or annoyance. It is something I have only rarely seen outside of my family and friends. He knew what to ask and when to ask it, and made me feel incredibly at ease. For anyone with a disability, that is always greatly appreciated. I mention all this not to take away from the many other passionate, capable people I met at Vocational Rehab, but to share an example of the kind of advocate I hope to someday be.

 The advocate I hope to be will be a marriage of the best parts of these worlds and backgrounds. I want the heart of the aging hippy who trades his hulu-hoop for a ferret, the voice of the inscrutable radical and the foresight of the dependable accountant. I want to not only to have an idealistic, morally grounded vision but the ability to bring that vision into the world. My work will become I hope a marriage of all my parents have taught me, all the good they instilled in me, and all the skills I’ve slowly begun to acquire. I was raised on the hippy heart, and have tried to equip myself with the advocates mind. I’ve learned I’ll need both, and I’m arming myself for this work as quickly as I may. And even as I change and learn, maybe even grow a bit embittered, I’ll protect that young idealistic 10 year old to whom I owe so much. It may be that I’m a dork in progress but I’m not giving up on the pretty young radicals quite yet. All my thanks to those who made this internship possible, and to those who continue to make it an invaluable experience.

My Incredible YLF Tour.

I’m consistently amazed and horrified at how many of my personal successes have come out of moments of uncertainty. My childhood, loving and wonderful though it might have been, was littered with all manner of potential catastrophes many of which were unfortunately realized. The very fact that I am sitting in an office on this Monday morning, working in my near dream job, typing out this blog post is by itself a convergence of the near impossible. I was born with a disease which carries with it severe and lasting consequences. Reaching school age, I was entered into a system which minimized my potential, and turned my disability into a source of self-doubt and unease. I was taught to hate myself, faced with near daily confirmations from my peers that I was neither welcome nor wanted. School was undeniably brutal, and had I dropped out I think few would have blamed me. I was submitted to the very worst kind of social education, one in which I was lead to doubt my full worth as a human being, and the very fact I survived long enough to reject that cruel proposition will be a lifelong source of pride. It was incredible as it was unlikely. Still, I think it far less a testament to my own personal strength as a conformation that I was supported by many amazing, lifesaving people. My mother, my mentors, and my friends enabled me to subsist even as I lived through some truly terrible circumstances, their love bolstering and supporting me at every stumble.

There is a sad truth behind this history however, an alternate ending to this story which for many becomes an inescapable reality. There are many strong, young disabled people who crumble under the gravity of their own circumstance, without support or affirmation. It was more by luck then by providence that I avoided just such a collapse. I very nearly withdrew from high school, and joined a generation of young people with disabilities who abandoned long held goals out of sheer desperation. It is no coincidence that the graduation rates for the disabled remain far behind the national standard, but the result of a systematic attack so ingrained in our ablest society.

High School for those within the traditional norm is difficult enough, for those with often profound physical or intellectual challenges it can be intolerable. Once we do drop out, we enter into a system of family and societal dependence, dimming our talents and ambitions in favor of the security of stagnation. It’s a cruel system, often leaving young people adrift without a clear path to a sound, and independent future. Perhaps it’s precisely because I can remember my mother begging me to drop out of high school that I feel such a profound obligation to help young people with disabilities. Last week I was able to speak directly to dozens of young, disabled students in a new and exciting manner, and was enabled in some small way to meet that personal obligation.

As my last post got into in more detail, helping to staff the Iowa Youth Leadership Forum was one of the more incredible parts of my internship. YLF is an incredible event. A weeklong meeting of young people with disabilities, YLF is a comprehensive look towards the future, a collection of trainings and discussions that enable delegates to confidently work to transcend the many challenges that may come with their disability. So, as a huge fan of this important program, it was an absolute privilege to be able to go around the state and talk to students about all the ways YLF could help them as they transition out of high school. It was an adventure to say the least, and I couldn’t have had the experience without the dedication and help of Mike Williams. Formerly the Disability Consultant and organizer for Iowa’s YLF, he recently moved on to become the current CAP representative for the state. He has been an invaluable resource for me as I try and learn my way around advocacy work and I’m incredibly grateful he’s been so invested in my internship and its success. Mike could easily have excluded me from the trip, but instead he went to great lengths to make sure I would be able to tag along. Renting an accessible van, he went out of his way to help me fully understand his work, and made sure to put me through my paces as we traveled from school to school. I haven’t really talked about Mike much in this blog, and I’ll probably devote a whole post to his work before all is said and done. But I’ll just say here that his dedication and his huge heart have made this internship all the richer. I can’t help but feel secure in my future with him on my side, and as he moves on to the CAP program I know YLF will be losing an incredible advocate and organizer.

Spending a week with Mike touring the state was a blast, and his enthusiasm is entirely contagious. Our week was entirely packed, and we were able to speak with over a hundred special education students across northwestern Iowa. We visited schools and vocational rehabilitation centers, hoping to sow enthusiasm within both the student population as well foster collaboration with VR counselors for the YLF program. Based out of our hotel in Sioux City we visited high schools large and small, talking with students about their needs and how YLF can help them establish their future. I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t at times challenging. Whether it was trying to hold the attention of sometimes cynical teenagers, or dealing with the rare but incredibly frustrating disinvested Special Ed teacher, I learned a great deal. Talking with Vocational Rehabilitation counselors, I grew to better understand their work and the ways YLF enables their clients to meet their employment goals. It was a great week. But of course, my experience is secondary.

The trip was meant to help students understand how YLF will help them bridge the often intimidating chasm between high school and independence. The occasional moments of true connection I felt with the students made our trip worthwhile, especially if I was able to attract their attention and interest in YLF. I shared my story of frustration and the very real possibility that if not for a few areas of support I would not be sitting in front of them. I very nearly dropped out of high school and abandoned my deal of a college education and a meaningful career. I’ve been incredibly lucky, but I don’t want young disabled people to depend on luck simply to have agency over their lives. I want them to feel secure in their future and themselves as individuals, and I fully believe YLF is a direct path to gaining that secure sense of self. My trip with Mr. Williams is exactly the kind of foundation that leads to a successful YLF, and I can’t wait to speak with more students about what I believe is one of the most impactful programs offered by the state for young people with disabilities.

On YLF and the power of community

A few weeks ago I attended the Iowa Youth Leadership Forum and witnessed a kind of miracle. No, I suppose that is largely inaccurate. A miracle requires some inexplicable cause, some foundation in the unexplained.  If I learned anything in my week at YLF, it is that its success and its unique magic is solely the cause of the hard work of a collection of staff and volunteers.  It would be nearer the truth to simply call YLF remarkable. It is the greatest example I’ve yet encountered of government finding a need within a community and working tirelessly to meet it, offering new and powerful opportunities in place of frustration and marginalization. YLF was and is an enduring success, a success made possible through the hard work of its many supporters, though the passion and enthusiasm of its participants, and the inevitable magic that comes with simply putting young people with disabilities in a room together.  

Admittedly, at first boarding for a week at Iowa State with young people I’d never met, working 16 hour days and sleeping on a scratchy couch held little appeal.  I’d seen programs aimed to help the disabled before. As a rule they seemed to reek of cynicism and patronization.  I’ve attended events that were little more than a half-hearted collection of platitudes and empty gestures. Really, I have to admit I was less than convinced that the YLF could rise to meet the needs of disabled youth. Yet, my experience quickly left me with the belief that I had seen perhaps the most valuable service offered by Vocational Rehabilitation Services, the Department of Human Rights and the Department for the Blind. Its impact on the attendees and myself were deeply and immediately felt, and left me incredible thankful that I was able to be a part of the experience. The YLF offers something invaluable to the young disabled people of Iowa, an all too rare acknowledgement of personal dignity.

                Ones teen years are a time of introspection and reinvention. Teens are timid and self-effacing, quick to point out the flaws in others and slow to recognize flaws within themselves. They have a veritable monopoly on self-consciousness, puberty being a kind of master class of self-refinement both physical and otherwise. The young are continually modifying their identity to please, to fit in, to protect themselves from harm. They are creatures of remarkable self-preservation, with egos limitless in their scope and yet remarkably fragile. Many teens continually find reasons for self-hatred and little enough reason for self-love. Their minds constantly work creating imagined crimes of which they are guilty, crimes which will inevitably lead to their banishment from the safety of the social herd. Every relationship is the ultimate unshakeable validation, every breakup a nearly insurmountable assault to their self-esteem.  A teens feet always seem to be too big, their waists too wide, their relationships contrived and their sexual experiences mortifying. In short, being a teenager sucks. It is an inescapable reality of youth. To believe yourself ugly, brilliant, short, fat, wanted or unwanted are the constantly cycling thoughts of the young and insecure.

But what if for some those feelings of physical otherness were not imagined or overestimated, if total social isolation was not a constant fear but a pervasive and constant reality, if fears of unemployability, and lifelong family dependence are compounded onto the fears already common to the young? The unreasonably challenging experience of disability paired with the already difficult path of adolescence can be a seemingly insurmountable thing.  This dangerous mix of natural teenage self-consciousness and disability discrimination very nearly dampened my future, and threatens the long term wellbeing of thousands of young people with disabilities. This constant discrimination and self-effacement can lead inexorably to limited perceptions of self-worth. It is after all the vicious instinct of teens to attack those clearly different from themselves, to build their ego through the suffering of another. The world can scarcely tolerate the boy who talks to himself, the girl in a wheelchair whose breath smells because her nurse don’t care about her hygiene, the young man with a crooked face and a swinging, simian gate. The propensity of a teenager to be cruel is almost comforting in its consistency, and that cruelty is all too often directed at the strange. What is worse perhaps is that disabled youth are isolated from their peers by virtue of the logistical realities of disability, and are left to suffer these abuses alone.

Being disabled can be a decidedly singular experience. It is unique in that it in many ways is an experience of the individual, individuals left to interpret their unique challenges alone without guidance from those who share their experience. Being born into a specific race or cultural background presents a readymade collective identity.  A Jewish child born to Jewish parents creates no crisis of identity, it offers a seamless inheritance.  Mix this with the propensity for people of similar racial and cultural backgrounds to congregate together, and you have the makings of an instant insular community with a strong historically established identity. Discrimination then, when faced, can be dealt with together. People with disabilities are largely denied this valuable minority privilege. We are largely disabled children born to able bodied parents, curved lines in a world of straight angles, the abnormal in a sea of normality.  Our otherness is not imagined, it is the marrow of our experience.  Disabled identity then is often formed from an individual world view, each uniquely formed yet sharing near-universal similarities. Peppered as we are throughout society, we are largely kept from connecting with each other, left to grow up believing that our challenges are ours and ours alone.

 This is an inherently dangerous arrangement, as it all but assures that we will absorb whatever we are taught to believe about ourselves and our disabled identity. Young disabled children face discrimination, dehumanization, and are sometimes totally excluded from their community in many meaningful ways. Those around them often confuse superficial relationships for fully formed ones, token positions to real equal inclusion. This culture of exclusion is an effective teaching tool, it informs a young disabled persons feeling of worth and hope for the future, teaching them in effect that their voice is not valued. Slowly, young people with disabilities begin to internalize the gentle distaste, the outright disgust, the measured and lukewarm ambivalence they are presented with on a daily basis. These negative perceptions of disability become linked with personal identity, the jeers and ridicule of peers become ultimately redundant. The disabled become in effect self-censoring, automatically limiting, a bottle of socially learned self-hatred.  What emerges then is a new socially constructed disability, one with far more dire consequences. Understanding this environment, is it any wonder people with disabilities are far more likely to drop out of high school? How many thousands of disabled youth forwent college and a career simply because they began to believe their own powerlessness and worthlessness?  It is for this very reason that the Youth Leadership Forum is such a progressive, ultimately life changing event.

Youth Leadership Forum is a program funded through Iowa Vocational Rehabilitation Services and the Department of the Blind. Its purpose is single minded: it exists to help young people with disabilities pursue their goals and move towards full, meaningful employment. Dry sounding on paper perhaps, but it is the methodology and truly high-minded approach taken by YLF that makes it such a progressive program. It is not a camp, but it leaves its delegates feeling as family. It is not a week of recreation, but it is held as many attendees as being the highlight of their year. YLF is an event run by the disabled for the disabled, a comprehensive forum to address the many barriers to long term success. It is one week of lectures, field trips, discussion and education. YLF’s many speakers address practical matters, strong interview skills, correct use of social media, social skills and fostering the relationships essential for long-term success. The scope of topics addressed are important, and the organizers of YLF are right to include them. Yet, the most valuable aspect of YLF addresses the constant and central theme of self-worth. From the moment they arrive, the forum aims to erase the idea so pounded into these young people’s thinking, the idea that their disability somehow diminishes their intrinsic value as human beings.

YLF delegates are greeted by disabled staff, role models who work as living examples of the possible. The staff are almost entirely made up of former delegates, and some are being given a leadership role for the first time in their lives. It is a mutually life changing experience. For the delegates, they are able to see that the disabled are perfectly able to hold positions of authority, and achieve meaningful success in their lives. For the disabled staff, it is a rare vote of confidence in their abilities, and a chance to explore a leadership role within their greater community.  The delegates are questioned, listened to, and joined into a collaborative relationship with their peers and mentors. Incredible educators like Heath Pattschull from the Johnston School System work with the students, encouraging self-determination, assuring them that their presence in a discussion about their future is valuable and central to its success. These young adults encouraged to emerge as full people, told that the never-ending discussion so central to the human experience is enriched by their voice and their perspective.

 During YLF, we all work together to establish our long term goals and create a team of people in our lives who can help us achieve them. We stress interdependence not dependence, the unique and valuable elements of the disabled experience. It is a chance to explore our collective history, to draw on the strength, perseverance, and ingenuity of past leaders within Disability Rights Movement. Perhaps for the first time, the delegates become seamless members of a community, their disability becomes an element central to their identity. For that week we are all disabled together, helping and compensating for each other’s limitations. Ours is a collective empathetic experience, all of us made better by each other’s challenges. The impact is immediately observed. YLF is a chance to see young people transform in a weeks’ time, changed from withdrawn self-conscious teens to vibrant, confident disabled young adults. This transformation is not just meaningful on a personal level, it has a profound impact on the very tangible issues facing our community. The Director of YLF, Mike Williams understands that the single greatest barrier to employment is not transportation, inaccessibility, social prejudice or any of the myriad of other challenges young people with disabilities face. The greatest barrier to employment is the personally held belief for many within the disabled community that they are simply not worth employing. During YLF, that profound, crippling self-doubt is systematically confronted, through practical education, by example through others, and perhaps most powerfully by creating a strong collective support system on which this students can draw. YLF removes in one week the socially indoctrinated belief in their own inferiority, leaving in its place of reservoir of confidence and mutual support. YLF is progressive because is expounds a simple, life changing idea:  our Disabilities enrich the collective human experience, and cultivate skills valuable in all areas of life.

 I remain convinced the most radical thing I’ve ever done or could ever do as a disabled man was to imagine myself as anything other than detestable. Fighting to ignore that socially implanted chorus of self-doubt remains a constant struggle, even as I enjoy personal successes.  And so to see young people given the tools they need to change their thinking from an early age leaves me incredibly hopeful for the future.  YLF is a life changing experience, an event both practical in its approaches and goals. YLF is profound and extraordinarily progressive in its message, and has shown itself to be essential for the continued success both of the disabled community and for Iowa Vocational Rehabilitation Services. It is a defense of the idea that all meaningful success stems from self-love, the belief that a room is better for you being in it. YLF is a miracle made possible through the hard work of dedicated people, and simply being there was one of the singular privileges of my life. Thank you to Mike Williams for his innovative work establishing the program, the staff for their endless store of energy and enthusiasm, and most of all to the delegates for daring to believe in their future and worth as human beings.

The Occassional Truth

   Today being disabled sucks. Today my back hurts, my butt hurts and my eye is twitching and I only have frozen fish in the freezer to eat for dinner. Today I’m not in the mood to qualify, to navigate the complex emotional and philosophical nature of disability. No, today I’m sore and I want to know who is responsible. This side of disability isn’t cute, or really that complicated. It is just a day, an occasional day in which the various burdens of disability feel heavier, almost intolerable. There are days when disability only represents closed doors and lost opportunities, a continual source of discomfort that will follow me for my entire life. This is largely a fallacy I admit, an oversimplification, but it is one I am sometimes incapable of identifying as such. I don’t like being disabled on days when the buses don’t run. I’m afraid of being disabled on days when the supports of family or friends fail me, if only for a moment. I never look forward to the enduring moments in which I have nothing to do but saturate in the juices of self-doubt, a subtle but persistent resentment of my disability in all its forms. On those days my spine isn’t art, it isn’t beautiful. On those days it just hurts. It hurts and it hurts and it hurts a dull and irredeemable pain, neither profound nor illuminating. It is just pain, without purpose or remedy. This is when my body becomes a trap, an extension of all the tragic and macabre stereotypes of disability. These days are not common; they do not dominate my life. Still, they exist and to not acknowledge them as a part of this experience would be disingenuous.

     I love my disability, I trace every aspect of who I am back to my disabled experience, yet I can in a moment find myself harboring stronger resentments against it then I would have thought possible. I’ve written extensively on the amazing texture and breadth of the disabled life. But, if I were to ignore the sometimes horrible realities of life with a severe disability, I would misrepresent this experience in its entirety. Acknowledging the horrible, or the profane elements of disability does not devalue people with disabilities, it brings light to our unique challenges. There is no shame in complaining once in a while about our discomfort. Talking about our struggles is natural and essential.  Disability is complex and it sometimes totally sucks; it is ever a mass of irreconcilable thoughts and impulses, joy and pain doled out in wildly uneven arcs.  It is precisely this depth of feeling, this mess of ideas and impulses which make me so sure of the significance of the disabled experience. If the disabled perspective was simple, easily digested, it would be easily dismissed. No, Disability is contradiction, irreducibly complex, a web of seemingly contradictory beliefs and impulses. It is a collection of authentic moments which can sometimes lead you to questions with no clear answer. Yet, sometimes pain is just pain.

        Not every struggle demands a deep purpose other than to highlight future moments of calm and comfort. Thankfully, my life is not about clarity or clear irrefutable answers, nor is this blog. I value these complexities, and try to accept all elements of the disabled experience, tragic or otherwise.  To live genuinely is a worthy goal I think, and this blog has been infinitely valuable in that regard.  Honesty in the moment is a purpose all its own.   Today my back hurts, and I’m telling the world. Tomorrow we have more important things to discuss. Thanks as always to everyone at DRI and anyone who reads this blog for allowing me to explore the disabled experience, sore or not.

In Defense of Dwarf Wrestling

        
           I’m a dwarf and I love professional wrestling. I would say unabashedly, but I am most certainly abashed.  I love its pageantry, its long history, its inherent danger and the insane exuberance of its fans. It is one of my favorite things in world, but admittedly one I don’t often share with others. I work for Disability Rights Iowa, and wrestling is a topic which has yet to come up in professional conversation. Imagine my surprise then when my boss specifically asked me to write about it. My two of my biggest areas of interest, disability and professional wresting collided a few weeks ago, in ways I’m not entirely comfortable with. Recently in Dallas Center, a local bar raised some ire from the city for promoting a wresting event during Ragbrai which is to feature two dwarfs wrestling each other. I work at Disability Rights Iowa. It makes sense then my boss shared this news with me, expressing her concerns about the event, and wondering my take. I think she was surprised when I was unable to immediately articulate my feelings about it. My thinking on this issue is muddled, a collection of conflicting beliefs that I can’t seem to congress.

I’ve made a study of professional wresting since I was a nine. I remember as a young boy I would rent wrestling tapes from a local video store, and spend my Sundays gleefully watching my soap opera of simulated violence. It just seamlessly became part of my childhood, an outlet of sorts for the childish aggressions natural to a young boy. Professional wrestling became a rare and valuable way for me to express and engage my masculinity in a traditional way. As I got older, I read and researched, absorbing all I could. I’ve read about wrestling history going back to 1908 and the first NWA champion, Iowa native Frank Gotch. I know of its beginning’s at state fairs, the sense of spectacle and otherworldliness which it cultivated from the very start. Professional Wrestling is one of the great American inventions, a unique performance art which draws on Greek myth, comic books, rock and roll, caricature, and yes…sometimes even prejudice. It is an art form of continual reinvention, an American export which has spawned endless variation around the world. Its themes are timeless, the David and Goliath parable played out Ad infinitum, performers adopting persona of truly superhuman statue. One doesn’t have to enjoy professional wrestling to appreciate its storied history, cultural significance, and the undeniable athleticism of its performers.  Considering my disability, it should be no surprise that I’ve even studied the history of “Midget Wrestling”, and the dozens of dwarfs who made a living traveling the world performing for thousands of enthusiastic fans.

Today, I see “midget wrestling” promoted and can’t help but think it at its face disgraceful and discriminatory. It causes in me a visceral reaction, recalling the worst aspects of dwarf history, the countless “performers” whose acts were nothing more than a cheap excuse to indulge the vulgar curiosity and uglier elements of our collective nature. Yet, as I read about Lord Littlebrook, and his match for the Queen of England back in the 40’s, or Little  Beaver performing for 94,000 screaming fans at the Pontiac Silverdome during Wrestlemania III I can’t discount it completely. Dozens of dwarfs trained for decades to become masterful performers and storytellers. These were men who saw themselves as athletes first, men who entertained on six continents and made themselves extraordinarily wealthy in one of the few ways available to them. They were undeniably talented, every bit as committed to professional wrestling as their larger counterparts. But then of course I remember that there surely were talented Jim Crow performers. That does not render blackface anything other than a platform for prejudice and dehumanization.  Artistic elements of a performance do not redeem if it exists solely to propagate and confirm vicious stereotypes. In the end I suppose I can’t make sense of it. I’m simultaneously proud of my collective history, and ashamed. It is irreconcilable.

            There is one argument in support of dwarf wrestling that I find most compelling, but it is one difficult to understand. To be a dwarf is to be burdened with certain preconceived cultural conceptions of dwarfism, making it in some ways a performance. This performance is in my experience unavoidable. The dwarf as a source of tragedy or comedy is a very, very old idea. Going back to the origins of modern drama with Commedia dell’Arte, the dwarf has served as a source of either comedic relief or poignant tragedy. The Italian play Les Gobbi utilized a variety of dwarf actors, each serving as absurd caricatures of difference preconceived elements of the dwarf. The tropes are many and enduring: the dwarf as the sexual deviant, a conniving Imp driven by lusts and a gross desire to possess and destroy the beautiful, the dwarf as a tragic figure, god’s cruel jest, a pitiful creature who may find some semblance of revenge in the third act, the comic dwarf, the happy sprite who spreads cheer and lightens dramatic tensions, magical and sexless, perhaps offering some encouragement and inspiration as needed. These shallow dramatic conventions endure, and have seeped into cultural perceptions. In fact, these dramatic conventions are so well established people seem to expect to see them exhibited in real dwarfs. A dwarf can never just buy socks, no act is morally neutral. No, a dwarf must either comically struggle in a disproportionate world to make his purchase, or buy his socks as a heartbreaking testament to the unbreakable nature of the human spirit. Dwarfs, disabled people in general are never allowed an act of banality. Everything is either comic, tragic, or an inspiration, we are perpetual actors in narrative not of our making. We are continually cast in these roles, and we all seem to cope in different ways, none more correct than the other. Some dwarfs ignore these tropes, instead living their lives simply as they would, with little concern to what others expect of them. Others still passionately hate these stereotypes, and try to live in opposition to them. They strive to break preconceived notions, to present a decidedly different idea of what being a dwarf means. Yet another sub-group takes a unique approach, the approach I have adopted my whole life.

If I am to be cast as the jester, then I shall play the role as best I can. There is refuge in embracing and transforming expectations, filling a role that is bigger and older then yourself. Public attention and gawking is just a part of being a dwarf. It is far better than to yell “Look at me!”, command a room, and seize control of the moment. I’m intrinsically tragic, intrinsically comic, I can no more escape these roles then escape my disability.  I’ve tried to explore these expectations, and turn them to my advantage. Learning to play with this narrative, to inhabit all that comes with this role is deeply satisfying. It is appropriation of a sort. That I imagine is a part of the appeal for dwarf wrestlers. There is a form of liberation to be found in performance, even if it is in a role forced upon us. It is better to make people laugh then be laughed at, attract attention by our actions then our form. Agency is an infinitely valuable commodity. It allows for a transformation, a special kind of magic unique to being a dwarf. Something about our voices and our form cuts through people, we have access to big emotions, a kind of instant camaraderie. Audiences allow us to lead them places that otherwise would be out of our reach. Our size becomes a particularly useful prop. Dwarf wrestlers as part of their performance learn to do this instinctively. I’ve seen dwarf wrestlers absolutely own an audience with their comic timing, or unexpected physicality. They have learned to use their disability as an extension of their performance. Just as other wrestlers would use their huge size, dwarfs use their condition to add to the spectacle and awe. It is fascinating to watch. While others may shy away from stereotypes, these men seem to find a unique calm within the heart of the cliché, performing as embodiments of dwarf stock characters.

            As I have said earlier, Pro Wrestling paints in broad strokes. Yes, WWE has their dwarf wrestler dress up as a Leprechaun. Yet, in a wrestling context this is not offensive to me in the least. Why? Pro Wrestling plays to stereotypes, but it does so indiscriminately. Are you a Canadian? Dress up as a Mountie! Like motorcycles? Ride out in leather chaps and a bandanna! Southern? Wear a cape made of the confederate flag! Texan? Oil Tycoon! Italian? Mafia boss! The list is endless.  Arguably the most popular wrestler of all time is a walking stereotype, Stone Cold Steve Austin was a camouflage wearing, ATV driving, hard drinking hero. His character is shallow by design, but he is beloved precisely because he is a creation of myth, a larger than life figure whose motivations can be understood in an instant. This is pro wrestling, not The Wire. Nuance gives way to pulp, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. A dwarf using his dwarfism as an impetus for his character is not discrimination in this context, it is the norm. Not focusing on the most immediately identifiable trait of the individual would be strange, an abrupt removal from the traditional pro wrestling approach. Many people with disabilities, both with gigantism and dwarfism, have found community and a deep satisfaction from being a professional wrestler. Despite my misgivings, I can’t reject their experience as irrelevant.

I understand the trepidation by the Little Person community in regards to dwarfs working as professional wrestlers, in fact in many ways I share their concerns. I cringe at the American history of the freak show, the centuries of exploitation adopted as mainstream and acceptable. For centuries, Dwarfs were objects of ridicule, and unfeeling public fascination. “Midget Wrestling” is, at its worst, simply an excuse for drunk men and women to mock dwarfs. It can paint us as subhuman, scheming, pale impersonations of full people. At its most disgusting, it can mock our desires as somehow lecherous simply by virtue of our height. And yet, I’ve seen dwarfs exploited in a seemingly endless variety of ways, from television to fantasy novels, comedies to docudramas. I would never argue a universal disapproval of dwarfs participating in these art forms simply because of some examples of exploitation and bad taste. There is a unique value to dwarf performance regardless of the medium, and I can’t blankly condemn dwarf wrestling without disregarding performers I deeply respect. I love professional wrestling as a whole, even as I cringe at some of its history. It is complex, confusing, and it gets at the core of some of the more interesting aspects of disability. Even as I continue to struggle with these issues, I appreciate the unique and fascinating role dwarfs have played in professional wrestling history. Were I able, I would probably slip on some tights, don a mask and join them.