Last night I went to the roughcut screening of ‘The school that Roared’, a film currently being made by the British Youth Film Academy (BYFA) which is based here at mmu. It is a kid’s movie, and it frankly showed, yet it was enough to get me excited: if I can somehow get myself involved with these people, who knows where it might lead. They gave a short talk after the screening, and I was impressed to learn that BYFA has already one several awards. I got myself an application form, which I’ll fill in shortly. How exciting.

The thesis is getting to a stage where I use expletives to refer to it, so I think I need a break. Although its unfinished, I’m frankly tired, and would like nothing more that to sit on the sofa at home, and listen to my father reading. I have been staying at university for god knows how long – must be about five or six weeks – and its starting to irritate me. I find myself getting pissed off at the smallest of things, like the busses. I was supposed to go to a meeting yesterday in Crewe with Alan, but in their wisdom the bus comp any which operates the intersite transport sent the wrong type of bus. Meeting cancelled. Now I still don’t know what to do with my zarking thesis. Ahh!

I know ii must keep my cool, but it’s hard sometimes. I’m just looking forward to Paris.

Today I would like to examine the subject of identity, and how it might relate to disability. There are folk out there who describe it as complex, but when you actually think about it, it is remarkably simple. A very wise woman recently told me that ‘it’s not what you are, it’s who you are’. That is to say, you can be given any label under the sun, but what matters are your actions and personality. I can be described as a person with quite severe cerebral palsy; a man; a cross dresser; a person with brown hair; whatever. These are just labels – constructions in the Lacanian symbolic – what matters is that I am me.

This is what I base my identity on. To have my disability at the core of my being would be to see myself as different from everyone else, like an adolescent Goth moaning ‘nobody knows the pain I feel’ as he listens to depressing music. We are who we are: okay, I happen to use a lightwriter to speak and a chair to get around, but I can communicate with anyone and go anywhere, so it does not matter. I am, quite simply, a person, and label myself as such. To define myself on the basis of my disability would be to set up divisions which need not be there – if I were to define myself as ‘white’, for example, I would automatically create a division between myself and people with different skin colour, implying separateness. Just as it should not matter what skin tone you have, or your gender, why does it matter that I have cp? To base the core of one’s identity on the fact that one may belong to a particular social or ethnic group to my mind betrays a particular kind of parochial attitude; the same surely applies to one’s disability. What matters is that we all strive to be the best person we can be.

This is not to say that I want everyone to act the same way, but the very opposite. Why should we restrict ourselves to one pre-set social group? Different groups produce different things, and have different ways to look at things. I don’t want to destroy that, or for everyone to be the same, but to mix, to try other things. Simply to define myself as one thing – a person with c.p – would imply that I intend to follow a pre-determined path, to act in certain ways. This is not my aim. I will always have cp, just as I will always be white, but at the core such things are not who I am. My father, for example, endowed me with a particular liking for cricket and real ale: I will probably always like them, but this is not to say I cannot also love football and larger, or sumo and sake. In the years to come, all being well, you will find my tyre tracks from Tokyo to los Angeles. The fact that I have cerebral palsy is irrelevant to this.

There is no denying that labour deserved to lose the Crewe by-election, and badly at that. This is not to imply I feel that the Tories deserved to win it – anyone with any memory of the position they left the country in in 1997 will think twice about voting Tory – but it is nevertheless true that labour, under brown, is a bit of a sham.

There is certainly a lot of bad feeling around about Mr brown. He’s acting more like the Tories than…well…the goddamn Tories! And what the devil were they thinking having Tamsin Dunwoody as their candidate and relying solely on a family name to win the election? How naive can you get? Is it any surprise the Tories won?

Frankly, and worryingly, it isn’t.

Its been a busy weekend, almost to insane levels. In time I’ll tell you all about it, but tonight I’m knackered. I’m just posting this to assure my reader(s) I am not dead and that the Crewe-bi-election has, let us say, given me pause for thought. Much more detailed blogging soon (after I mull it over).

Perhaps it was necessarry…

Charlie came to visit last night. Initially she was only going to stay for the evening. But about mid-afternoon she emailed to ask me if she could stay the night and could I lend her a sleeping bag and a bottle of Rose from somewhere. So I ventured out, buying a sleeping bag and a good Zimphandel.

She arrived just before seven. Our plan was to book a trip to Paris and then go for a drink somewhere. We soon discovered that neither of us were any good at booking holidays; I got bored and dropped a hint by handing C the bottle opener. We changed the plan – Charlie will pop into Going Places later today. At that, Ricardio and Burien appeared at my window and we all spent a while on the grass mound next to the Astroturf. After the wine was dead, me and C headed back inside to switch everything off before heading into the village. We went to The Bank Corner – the new place in town, I mentioned it yesterday, and we shared a Chianti as we talked about old times. Our three years here were great and we had some good times. Charlie told me how everyone misses it. I suppose pretty soon I’ll be in that position and I suppose too that I’ve been putting it off. University life offers security, you get a sense of belonging here and of community. C rightly pointed out that I must leave it soon, and that sense of uncertainty I felt is something everyone feels. Seeing her last night reassured me, I guess. This friendships built here over the last three years will never fade, and will be like homely ports as I venture out into the world. Interestingly, charlie suggested her hometown of chester as a place to live after I finish my masters – an idea that I rather like and will certainly consider. Chester is suitably cosmopolitain, yet not as hectic or as dangerous as a big city.

We ate breakfast together this morning, and went to Crewe together. I had a meeting there and Charlie needed the train. Her visit was brief, but it served to reassure me that there are still constants in life, and things to look forward to. Paris here we come.

It rather pisses me off tat the talk over breakfast in the wes this morning wholly concerned last night’s match and not the political events much closer to home. Granted, it was a very interesting match, but I am far more interested in the Crewe bi-election, for it seems to me that today truly is make or break day for both brown and CaMoron. I mean, don’t these people care?

As for the football, after finding brandies empty last night I headed into the village. There is a pretty smart bar which has just opened inalsager; it was, surprisingly, only a quarter full, so I went in and asked for a real ale before finding a spot in front of the TV. I told myself I didn’t care who won, but as usual I found myself supporting united as the evening wore on. The match, as you guys probably know, lasted longer than expected, but the right team eventually one. as I drove home, though, I found myself mulling over this disability thing.

I once saw the fact that I had c.p as the core of my identity. This leads one to make some logical deductions – for instance, one internalises the idea that one is wholly different, separated from the mainstream. One internalises the concept that one is ‘a freak’. But I no longer see this as either logical or healthy. I see myself as just a normal jo, as normal as anyone else. I just happen to use a few pieces of equipment to perform certain activities, but given that mankind is a tool-using species, I find nothing freaky about that. Why, then, should I take the position that I am anything other than normal? From this it follows that ‘freakism’ is a self-forfilling prophecy to define oneself as a freak is to let others do so, and hence become the freak. This to me seems the very antithesis of inclusion; to propagate actively the idea that disabled people are freaks is not a celebration of difference but it’s very opposite. To define oneself as normal does not mean trying to conform to ‘normal’ behaviours, like trying to use a knife and fork, but to encourage the idea that the use of a neater-eater is ‘normal’. The only way we can stop people from thinking that we are different tis to encourage the idea that we are normal. This means getting rid of this ”look at how different I am” type behaviour. Frankly, it’s very adolescent. It also means re-evaluating that contradiction, as we cannot have it both ways. To want to be seen as both different and normal is to want ones cake and eat it.

I guess I have rambled a bit today. I just wanted to jot a few things down. Seems driving home from bars is good for thinking.

Today I will just whish my good friend lyn a happy birthday. We have been talking online for a while, and have met once or twice. She’s also a fellow lightwriter user. I won’t divulge her age here, as, the truth is, I’ve forgotten it, but I’ll just say that I’m attracted to older women…

It has been quite a day. Crewe has become a microcosm for Britain, and I get to watch events as they happen. This morning, having failed to get to the bank early enough on Saturday, I set off for Crewe to withdraw some money, intending to meet Mayer for coffee and return by one. however, I found the place abuzz with politicians and cameramen. Naturally I was fascinated; it’s amazing to see so much attention on Crewe, so suddenly. I thought it worth hanging around.

In the square the bbc had their outside broadcast team. I watched Jon sopel doing pieces to camera, apparently to go on Newsnight. He had to say the same piece several times.

Of course I was in my flaneur mode. All the major parties were there. I talked a bit to Mr. opik, who is a very nice man. Yet I had one objective in mind…

CaMoron!

I must admit I was about to give up. I had been watching the bbc correspondents do their thing for a while, when I mustered up the courage to go chat with Mr sopel. I said how fascinating it was to see Crewe become a microcosm. He agreed, and we chatted a bit. I eventually said I really wanted to talk to CaMoron.

”Oh, he’s here” he said. ”apparently in asda – wherever that is”

I knew where asda was, and after thanking Mr s I was off like a shot…this was going to rule. Asda was just around the corner, and I saw a crowd in there, and then him. My own white whale.

I pointed at him, shaking with rage and excitement. This, of course, got his attention; he came to me. Shivering, I inputted the following into my lightwriter: ”I must beg you to reconsider your attitude to inclusive education.”

He replied politely that he believes in parental choice, and that inclusion is not suitable for everyone. I disagreed, saying that with the right support everyone could be included, at which he brought up his own son. I said that all children could benefit from inclusion.

The conversation was too short, and I know I should have put more points to him, but I couldn’t hog his attention. He gave me over to one of his minions too quickly, but I didn’t want to appear too pushy.

I told her of my grievances with special school; how I spent 13 years in one. I think she understood, as did CaMoron, but I rather doubt I changed their minds. But at least I lodged my complaint directly, however ineffective it may have been. They both reassured me that they don’t believe in total segregation, just for those who need it – I didn’t get chance to say that wasn’t good enough. Oh well.

Needless to say I’m quite pleased with myself. Okay, I could have said more – I wanted to; I wanted to press home my hatred of segregation – but you can’t have everything. I was, of course, polite at all times At least I got to make the basic pointy

I was out in Crewe yesterday. I got back late so I didn’t have time to blog. Tory campaigners were all over the place – they really think they can win the Crewe and Nantwich bi-election. I went up to them a couple of times and stated my opinion – politely, of course. I was told I was wrong, and that David CaMoron cares for disabled people – he has a disabled son, didn’t I know. Basically, they just spewed platitudinous, substance less crap – rather typically of the Tory party.

In the end, I put it to them that CaMoron threatens everything I hold dear, at which they politely whished me luck and I went back to the more pressing issue of finding dinner.

Michelle f added me as a friend on facebook last night. It was, of course, great to see her – I have barely seen her since school. I went to visit them, once, with bill, when rich was still about.

It has brought back a lot of emotion. Her profile pic is one of her and rich together, a fact which I find…well, I don’t know how I find it. I just find myself wanting to hug Michelle, to tell her how sorry I feel,, to tell her how I feel about Richard’s death – how fucked up it is. But I don’t know how.

I need my friends right now. All of them.

I hereby endorse papa’s pizzeria of Crewe road, alsager for pizzas, burgers and chips. Tasty international cuisine served by friendly staff.

(well, they still refuse to let me pay, so the least I can do is plug them here.)

I have been worrying about the future quite a bit lately. I’m coming to the end of my education, and it’s time to find something else to do. Yesterday, however, Katie suggested something which sounds about right.

I’ve often thought it would be good to make something like the Onevoice role model group more permanent. While it does great work, it only reaches a handful of people two or three times a year. But Katie suggested forming some kind of organisation or company where we would go into schools and empower kids.

I like empowering people, as long as it doesn’t stray into full-blown politicisation, as in telling kids what to think. It’s so rewarding. Back at school, I had no idea of life’s possibilities – that I could one day go to university, do a master’s, go on crazy trips to Newquay or Paris with friends, etc. Life once scared me, but now it stretches ahead like a vast landscape ready to explore.

I would love to show others this landscape – to enable them to see life’s boundless potential. This is why I’m so excited about this idea. Whether it will pan out remains to be seen, but, for now at least, the possibilities are endless.

Today I finished the first full draft of my thesis. It is extremely rough and still needs a lot of work, but its basically all there, more or less. I know I should be pleased with myself, but I cant shake a general feeling of impending doom. Alan seems to like what I’ve shown him so far, but…

Oh well. At least ii now have this draft on which to build. On a whim I had it spiral-bound; it only cost a quid and will help keep it in order. Small steps, eh?

Today, being the lovely day it has been, I decided that I was not going to stay in alsager. This usually means catching the bus to either Crewe or hanley, and, frankly, neither of them appealed. Thanks to the DSA, more and more of the public transport system is becoming accessible (except in London, where that shithead boris intends to bring back the old route master busses). I decided to test if this was true.

I decided to go to Chester. I’d seen busses with Chester marked as their destination depart from Crewe bus station, and it seemed an appropriate distance for a daytrip, so I got the 20 to Crewe and then the 84 to Chester. The busses were all wonderfully accessible, and, despite having to ride backwards, I enjoyed the journey.

80 minutes later I was in Chester, feeling quite pleased with myself. First I got a map from tourist information (I’d only decided to go to Chester after leaving home) and then decided to head for the Jonses. They’re my friends and I thought I might as well see if they were home. If they weren’t, no harm done.

Charlottes family don’t live too far from the city centre, but I nevertheless needed to ask directions two or three times. Everyone was very helpful. I found Mr. Jones in his garden, reading the paper. Only he and will were in. I’d only expected to stay about ten minutes, the purpose of the experiment being only to see if it was possible to get myself there,, but I stayed about an hour and a half. At one point, Mr. Jones asked if I’d like to stay the night. I was given a ham sandwich and a cup of tea, before Mr. Jones insisted we walked back to the bus stop together. They’re such nice welcoming people: although I didn’t want to intrude, their place was an obvious destination for my adventure.

The journey back went as smoothly as the journey out. I know this isn’t anything special, really. Most folks my age have already been on gap years and the like. But to me, this was an adventure – one more step towards Timbuktu. And besides, it certainly beat staying at home playing on my computer.

tonight was the evening of the summer ball. Surprisingly, I chose not to go this year: it would not have been the same without my old friends from the third year, and I suspect I would have found myself missing them. We always went as a group, and I think me and charlotte were more or less joined at the hip last year. (should see her in the next two weeks,, and Emma not long after. Woohoo!)

I decided to go to the cinema with lee instead. I didn’t want to be on campus this evening. We saw Iron Man, which isn’t a bad flick at all. Pretty standard action thriller, but I enjoyed it, so I have had a good evening anyway. I think I’ve got something out of my system tonight: not parties, nor my eagerness to dress up, but I sort of think I’ve grown up slightly.

Well, its getting late. Good night everyone.

My thesis having reached a semi-finished yet awkward state, I decided yesterday afternoon to go over to the front field to watch some cricket. Every Wednesday in the summer term they hold a match there, and yesterday MMU played Bolton. The sun was shining, the grass green. There is nothing finer.

It was a 90 over match, 45 each way; I hadn’t spent time watching a cricket match since Sydney, so I was eager to take it seriously and follow the game from start to finish. In the event, I did pop home to check emails once or twice, so I missed the odd ball, and at 5 I needed to meet jen for tea, but I didn’t do too badly. Cricket is the type of sport where you can do that, anyway, and I love it for it.

MMU batted first. We got about 270 for 6 off 45 overs. someone whose name escapes me topscored at 97. I always feel sorry in such cases.

Then we semi-skittled them, beating them 105 runs, or thereabouts. For a giant bear, bungle is pretty handy with the ball. For my part, I was just having fun, sitting in the shade of the hedges at the far side of the road. It was my father who instilled in me an intense love of this rather odd game, and yesterday brought back memories of Sydney Melbourne and Old Trafford. At one stage I even fancied I smelled Australia, but that could have simply been the coconut suntan lotion. Watching this sport being played puts me at ease with the world; it brings back happy memories; sitting there, yesterday afternoon, everything seemed right.

I have, in my recent writings here, been trying to work towards a greater understanding of disability and what it means to be disabled – that is to say, to fall under the category of ‘person with a disability’. It seems to me that the area is extremely problematic, fraught with paradoxes and contradictions, which ultimately do not satisfy me. How, for example, can we be a subculture with such a flimsy central focus? We are, to my mind, a loose amalgam of people. I know we can only achieve our goals by sticking together, but wouldn’t this have an automatic ostracisation effect? By establishing an us, don’t we automatically establish a ‘them’, and wouldn’t this contradict our goal of inclusion?

I have tried, in my own way, to scratch away at these problems, trying to uncover what they mean, and my place in the world. To my mind, no idea is sacred – I want to question everything. The day we stop doing so is the day fascism reigns. Thus I will continue to questioning ‘our’ nature. I feel, however, that I must do this from my own standpoint: while it is true that a particular failing of mine is my lack of evidence, I would prefer to work things out based on my own experiences of life and logic. In other areas, I understand the value of the quotation and the footnote (the bread and butter of academic writing), yet with his I need to work it out for myself. The very fact that I have c.p gives me just as much right to talk on the subject as anyone else. Mind you, it wouldn’t hurt to go pester Mary the librarian some more…

During a spate of procrastination yesterday, I came across reference to a book called Gandhi Behind the Mask of Divinity written by US Army Colonel G. B. Singh, which purports to expose Gandhi as a racist. While some have called the book ”deeply disturbing” in its eagerness to sling mud, it reminds us that no idea is above criticism, not even the mahatma, and especially not disability philosophy.

The stuff I’ve recently written here has been causing arguments. frankly I’m brassed off at being told I’m not allowed to question stuff – debate, it would seem, is dead. anyway, to lighten the mood, I’ll send you here. it is, lets say, right up my street

Sometimes, you just have to walk to the sea and make salt. In this simple action, Mohandas Gandhi showed an unjust law for what it was, and in doing so earned the world’s respect. Mind you, according to wikkipedia, the British jailed 60,000 after the mighty pilgrimage, but the fact remains the salt Satyagraha was a vital step along the road to Indian independence.

I’m not against protest. In no way do I think we should accept laws when they are unjust. I just think there are ways and means of protesting, ways and means of achieving true equality. I was just looking at some pictures of a DAN protest, and while what I think they are trying to do is necessary, I worry that all the bells and whistles and fury will ostracise the general public. We need people on our side, not to drive them away with vitriol. Rather than trying to cram our message down their throats, we need to show people what needs to be done. The mahatma could have cried out with great fury that the salt tax was unjust, but he instead walked to the sea and made his own.

Maybe I’m wrong. If dan succeed in their aims, its fine, for broadly speaking, their aims are my aims. But I look at these pictures and see a lot of sound and fury, and worry that it will achieve nothing but the proverbial pat on the head.

I whish to clarify something which may have been ambiguous in yesterday’s entry. I did not mean to imply disabledism doesn’t exist, but that it is fundamentally different to other ‘-isms’. Whereas racism and sexism are both born of blind hatred, what can be called disabledism is born of such things as concern, care, and laced with a dose of fear. They don’t plonk us in special schools because they hate us, they plonk us there for such condescending reasons as ”my son couldn’t cope in mainstream”. Further, disabledism is caused by factors in our environment: the lack of ramps, hearing loops, large-print signs. And while we’re at it would it hurt libraries and internet cafes to have key guard or two lying about?

I guess I was indulging in a little academic pedantry yesterday. Of course disabledism exists but only as a shorthand. For example, I was patted again yesterday, in the canteen on the shoulder: you might term this condescending act disabledism as it is born of prejudice; but you could also call it a misplaced display of friendship and care. My concern with labelling it disabledism is that implies hatred, loathing, something which it manifestly isn’t. I feel the term as a whole carries with it overtones of manifest repression: disabled people are not hated, as black or Jewish people sometimes are. People care for us and worry about us too much; they do not hate us. This is what I meant yesterday when I wrote that disabledism exists only as a shorthand for a set of other factors: its far more complex than simple hatred, and to see it as such is as unhelpful as it is paranoid.

The good news is that this would suggest that disabledism can be overcome. Hatred is blind, but people can learn what sort of behaviours are bad and patronising, and will, in my experience, happily avoid them in the future. The environment can change, and is changing to accommodate us cripples. Architecs do not put stairs and steps in buildings just to repress us – some people seem to think our environment is deliberately repressive, which I find absurd. Things,, I feel, are getting better as people become more aware. I guess in a way disabledism can be seen as a lack of awareness: if so, as I said yesterday, we simply have to teach people.

I know I missed blogging about disabledism day, as set up by the goldfish. I blame my memory. Mind you, I’m unsure disabledism exists as an entity in itself. While disabled people do indeed face certain factors which hold them back compared with others, these are environmental issues which can and will be overcome. More and more these days we see ramps and lifts being put into place; people are becoming more aware of disabled people, our needs, our differences.

Thus disabledism is, at best, a shorthand for a set of other issues. It is not, I’d maintain, of the order of sexism and racism: surely no one thinks they are superior to disabled people, as white people once thought they were innately superior to black people. even if some do, by and large this stops as soon as people get to know folk like me.

There is no denying there’s much work to do. Education is the way forward – we must help people learn to accept us for who we are, and the only way we can do this is, as my grandma would say, to ‘mix’. We must fight segregation in all it’s forms, encourage people to accept us for who we are, and help change the world around us to accommodate us all equally.

Ah I remember now

I was thinking last night about this culture problem. The notion of disability-as-identity still troubles me. I was speaking to a guy recently who seemed to suggest that his cerebral palsy went to the core of his being; that is, he had positioned himself as ‘other’. He spoke of ‘inner self’ etc. I would hope that those of you who have read my recent witterings know how problematic a notion this is to me: I know enough about Abnormal Psychology to realise that ‘normal’ is subjective’. I mean, how do you define normal? Even when we reduce the subject to mathematical averages, any cut off point between normal and abnormal is arbitrary. It follows, then, that everyone is normal.

This has implications for inclusion. If everyone is normal, then we all have an equal right to go to the same schools. By widening the definition of normal, we must also expand the ability of schools to accommodate normal kids.

As I keep saying, segregated education fosters difference. Yet we can also reverse that: you foster difference by segregation. The notion that disabled people should render themselves as ‘other’ in order to ‘develop their culture’ or whatever, should, by rights, logically lead to a pro-segregation stance. It is as if we say ‘we are different, therefore we should be treated differently’. The notion that we are different gives rise to the notion that we should be treated differently. This is exactly what happens in the case of religious schools: they foster culture but also difference, and needless to say I am against those too. Thus I find this disability-as-identity bollox ultimately uninclusive. Hell, look at Palestine, look at northern Ireland.

That’s why I define myself as normal. Okay, I use a lightwriter and wheelchair, but they are just tools, and after all tool use is part of what defines us all as human. The fact that I have cp is no more a part off my identity than the fact that I have brown hair.

I went to a beach volleyball slash barbeque today. Basically uni dumped a shitload of sand on the field and set up a net. It was good fun, and I decided to contribute a cat empire cd for the stereo, as it seemed appropriate. Well, its better than the gangster rap or chart shit they had playing.

It was pretty informal; just some hijinks in the middle of exam season. Interestingly, however, one team – the special Olympics – had a guy in a wheelchair. He’s a sports student, in a manual chair: one of those new lightweight things with thin wheels. This rendered him totally immobile on sand, however. They had to carry him, chair and all, on to and off of the sand pit, and during matches he just stayed still, looking like a lemon.

I really do whish people would think things through sometimes. A nice idea, but fundamentally uninclusive.