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.