What Ableism Feels Like

An Answer To An Old-Foe Question

In mid-January I attended a book event at The Common Press bookshop in Shoreditch. A two-hour conversation took place to a lot of laughter and comradely of head nodding;

Ellen Jones

interviewed

Lucy Webster

from

The View From Down Here

about her book of the same name.

There was a lot of talk about Ableism - and I admired most was the critic of feminism. Because where are the disabled women in a feminism said to be for all? Beats me. In the aftermath of the murder of Sarah Everard, not once where we platformed or listened to - the cries of “BUT DISABLED WOMEN CAN’T RUN FOR A BUS” left us well behind. Like political football, no less. Not much has changed since.

The talk in particular highlighted how Ableism is bad for your mental health, on top of the physical side of disability - and yet, a resilience culture (‘it’s okay not to be okay’) arguably only adds on. Because who do you talk to, to be understood?

Allies are anti-ableist by definition. They take their cues from us, and allow us to be adults with autonomy and agency. We are not spoken for, we speak for ourselves. There’s a beauty in the mistakes, the screw ups, after all. I’ll have something hopeful to offer another day.

This is what I want you to know meanwhile - to answer an old foe of a question, what does ableism feel like.