Notes, Notings, and Common Refrains

Last night, with an ear-craving, I combed through YouTube for readings of Shakespeare's Sonnet 130 ("My Mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun"). And I came away quite disappointed.

The most common reading that had been uploaded was one by actor Alan Rickman, and for the occasion, he'd put on his "Listen-to-Me-I'm-Reading-Shakespearean-Love-Poetry" voice -- slow as a dirge, and fairly dripping with seductive intent -- completely missing the point that Shakespeare was mocking those romantic conceits to shreds.

*sigh*

I just needed to vent.

A cousin, perhaps, to the "Five Things" post -- for those pet peeves on your mind: "Three Three-Sentence Rants" (they may be long sentences; I'll try not to commit semicolon abuse).

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1) "Flynn Rider," from Tangled, is a lying, greedy, selfish, emotionally manipulative, thief: an anti-hero who becomes a hero. But he's presented as the unadulterated, romantically ideal "Disney Prince" simply because he's charming and handsome. What's wrong with people us?!

2) IMNSHO, only historical and hard biographical context should be allowed in declarative statements about literature (especially poetry). Symbolic meaning should only be brought up sparingly, in the form of open questions. Many people think of poetry as "hard" and "snooty," but it's really the anthology editors to blame, not the poets.*

3) Watched the season recap of "Elementary," the other day, and couldn't bear to watch all of it, because ( Spoilers, ahoy! )

*This rant is brought to you by The Poetry Foundation, and its 'Learning Guide' for William Carlos Williams's To a Poor Old Woman.

A year ago this last May, here: More Geeking Out Over the Word "Geek" [...], I spelled out in a little more detail how I believe "Geek" is more an approach to thinking about our world and our place in it, thusly:

• To a Geek, the sentence: "You're over-thinking this," is completely nonsensical. And --
  
• A Geek tries to connect All the Ideas to the subject of the geek's passion (whatever that passion is).

Anyway, with YouTube's "geek week" special just ended (on Sunday), that brought up memories of older ideas, about how "mainstream culture" mistrusts intellectualism -- I mean, really mistrusts it... Remember John Kerry's presidential campaign? The Bush people were actually saying that he was too intellectual to be president... And around that same time, too, there was a show on NBC called The Pretender, about a genius child who was stolen from his family (maybe?) and trained, by a secret government organization, so that they could use his genius to kill people ... I think. The four seasons it was on spent a whole lot of time writing the idea of a Massive Conspiracy Cabal, without ever actually working out what the cabal actually was. ...It didn't make much sense, really. And even though the titular character was definitely A Good Guy, the point was continually made that super smart people are dangerous, and the really good ones are the rare exceptions... And I think the reason geeks (nerds) are mistrusted is that:

• They are intellectual. And --
  
• The things they are intellectual about are obscure, and private ...

So, it's like they're a stranger in our midst -- some sort of idea spy, maybe, sorta. You just never know.

This is, I think, the reason sports fans are more easily embraced by mainstream culture: They may be just as obsessive over details and history, and just as enthusiastic in their willingness to be a spectacle in honor of their passion. But at least the thing they're passionate about is a symbol of "Our Community" -- you know they're on "Our Side."

So, over the last couple of days, the idea came to me that the reason terms associated with mental and physical disabilities (nut [nerd], Gek, Spaz...) get appropriated by folks in the mainstream and used to tease the intellectually swift and socially awkward, is that both geeks and PWD make folks in the mainstream uncomfortable in similar, related ways:

Our very presence is evidence that mainstream culture is not the only way to live (or even best way) for all people. Our presence reveals the cracks in the "just world" fallacy that makes those who are comfortable in the mainstream comfortable...

I dunno... still working this out...

In the real world, the disabled have to fight for the right to safety, education, employment, freedom of assembly, and self-determination. So does the way disabled characters are portrayed in stories we tell really matter? I think of myself as a storyteller, so perhaps it is both unsurprising and self-aggrandizing for me to say I believe it matters most of all.

Human beings are a storytelling species – the ritual of storytelling occurs in every known culture and in every period of history. And if we take time to actually observe this ritual, we can get a sense of just how powerful it can be, and its great potential for shaping attitudes and prejudices.

First, the audience gathers. The gathering may be as small as one or two around the fireside or office water cooler, or as large as several million, in the case of commercially produced movies and television shows. Then, the social chatter ceases and is replaced by a sense of shared and focused anticipation, which sets the stage for the storyteller to begin. This dynamic (as far as I can tell), is unique to the human animal; lots of creatures gather in large groups for the shared activities of migration, mating, and the rearing of young, but the chatter and communication continues between small groups within that gathering: tweets and grunts, snorts, snuffles, and flashes of meaningful color. I've never seen a flock of birds, a school of fish, or herd of cows or horses become as still as a human audience. After the hush descends, the storyteller begins the tale. Then, if she or he is skilled enough, the magic (and that is really only thing I can call this) begins: the members of the audience fall into a trance-like state.

If you've been lucky enough to have ever been in the audience for a really wonderful story, you've felt this magic from the inside. You're no longer aware of the seat you're sitting in, or that scratchy tag in the neck of your sweater; the events of the story unfurl in your mind with such clarity it's as if you're there – inside the world the storyteller is creating for you. In a very real sense, members of the audience temporarily surrender their imaginations to the storyteller for the sake of a shared experience.

The fact that this ritual is both unique to, and universal within, human society is, I think, a sign that it is somehow vital to our survival as a species – and is probably connected to how we learn and how we understand our surroundings. My mother had a favorite saying: "When we read, we don't learn, we recognize;" she meant, I think, that everything we read is colored by the things we've experienced. But there's also a flipside to that observation: we tend not to notice, or give credence to, our own experiences until they are reflected back at us through stories. The Evangelist Christian who accosts me on the street with the promise to pray for me sees me not as I am, but as a character in the Gospel tales of Jesus. The "Santa's helper" in the elf uniform who thrusts a candy cane at me sees me, not as I am, but as a stand-in for Dickens' character Tiny Tim. And I could not easily contemplate writing disabled characters into my own fiction until after I joined in the disability community online – sharing my own stories, and perhaps more important, learning the stories of others; that's why events such as BADD are so powerful.

The question is, therefore: how should we judge the quality of the disabled characters in stories, either fiction or nonfiction? I think a good template to use as a starting point is the Bechdel Test, which has, in the last ten years, or so, been a useful framework for feminist critique of literature.

In 1985, Allison Bechdel introduced "The Rule" in her comic strip "Dykes to Watch Out For," a litmus test for judging the role of women in movies (and later, other forms of media). The power of this test lies in its simplicity, and also its broadness:

1) there are at least two named women
2) who talk to each other
3) about something other than a man.

This test makes no demands that the women in the story defy stereotype or are admirable in any way, and yet the fact that so few movies, comic books, and other mass media pass this test demonstrates how strong the bias toward male-centered narrative actually is.

So – I've been wondering for a while now: Is it possible to come up with a test to expose the common biases against the disabled in narrative? Simply pasting "disabled character" into the Bechdel test in place of "women" wouldn't work very well. The Bechdel test addresses the primary bias that women exist as accessories to men's lives. And, frankly, that doesn't really reflect the social barriers the disabled face. We may be a substantial segment of society, but we are rarely 50% of the population – often, we are the only disabled people within our nuclear families. So requirement 1 is out. And it is often assumed (whether rightly or not) that we live together in some sort of institution or group home. So requirement 2 is superfluous. And while it would be nice to have a disabled character with any speaking lines, whether they speak about their disability or ability specifically wouldn't necessarily counter any stereotypical beliefs.

And yet, whenever I'd see a disabled character pop up on a TV show, I could feel my jaw start to clench in anticipation of the same, tired, overused plot devices. So I knew there was something basic, and repetitive, going on… If only I could put what was bothering me into words.

Finally, this past winter, after watching one too many cop shows where a disabled character only appeared on-screen as the mute, and nameless, motive for a family member's crime, my personal litmus test crystallized in my mind:

1) there is a disabled character
2) who wants something
3) (besides revenge, cure, or death)
4) and tries to get it.

In the Bechdel test, having two women engage in any conversation on subjects other than men represents both the ability of women to form their own social bonds, and also a wide range of intellectual interests they are able to hold, all within the universal narrative element of "dialogue."

In the real world, we disabled often have to fight three primary cultural biases, each of which, I've tried to address in this test.

The first is the bias that discredits our ability for personal autonomy. That's why I want the disabled characters in my fiction to want something for themselves – it doesn't even need to be a big, powerful, plot-driving thing: even showing someone in the background of the crowd scene buying a newspaper, or flying a kite, would satisfy me.

The second cultural bias defines the disabled only in terms of being less than the culturally-accepted "norm." This is why I believe the third item on my list is important. So often in fiction, the disabled character is so embittered by their "lack" that they lose touch with their own sense of self-worth and moral compass – filled with rage and shame – and this reaction is almost always seen as "perfectly natural," and is never even challenged by any of the other characters in the story. So that the only "happy ending" can either be the erasure of the disability itself via cure, or the erasure of the character via death ("at least they're free from suffering, now").

The third bias in our culture is that the disabled are dependent, and in constant need of charity. And that's why the final requirement on my list is that the character makes their own effort to get what they want, rather than being there for an able-bodied character to rescue. This does not mean, however, that the character should be some type of super-Crip, and do everything themselves, but only that they take some initiative in getting their goals met, even if that's "just" to speak out and ask for help.

So… That's the test that I've come up with for evaluating the stories I create and consume. But I don't expect this to be a perfect litmus test – I do hope, however, that it's a useful starting point for discussion.

What do you think?

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[E.T.A: Blogging Against Disablism Day 2013 archive ... So many articles to read! I hope to post a review entry sometime soon...]

A bulleted list:

A couple weeks ago (or so), heard about a study (Via BBC Radio) of people who are born Deaf: that their sense of touch is much more sensitive than that of people born hearing -- to such the extent that variations in vibrations influence how they interpret what they see. Apparently, the parts of the temporal lobe that process sound for Hearing folks, switch over to interpreting touch, instead.

My take-away: 1) Makes sense (unintentional pun is unintentional), especially since the auditory center is already built for interpreting vibrations [through the air], the shift to interpreting touch would be tiny. 2) On Planet Eyeth, a "hearing" child would be considered "touch impaired," since it would be much harder for them to sense people trying to get their attention by stamping on the floor, etc., because the section of the brain best designed for that is distracted by noises, instead of the vibrations that have cultural meaning and purpose for communication.

Once again, I watched a Nova ScienceNow program titled "What makes us human?" And once again, there was special focus on spoken language (see above), and walking upright on two legs... (sigh). And there was another episode I am making a point not to watch, about "What the future holds" because a centerpiece segment is all about fancy robot legs that let paralyzed people walk with crutches, and thus, appear more normal... And that's the really important thing, isn't it, above all else?

Grr. in my grumpiness around the inherent ableism in all aspects of this perennial question, my answer is this: "What makes us 'human' is the human genome." Humans are no more unique on this planet than dolphins are unique, or squid, or maple trees, or ... And really: "What makes us human?" is euphemistic-- the unspoken (honest) question is: "What gives us the right to claim ownership of everything (animate or otherwise) we can touch?" The honest answer is, perhaps, "Nothing." But we (as a species) secretly, and unironically, believe that "Might makes Right," and so keep searching for that one secret ingredient in the formula that gives us the right to have the might: perhaps it's speech, or walking upright, or tool-making, or question-asking, or government bureaucracies, or religion, or morality... and so, when we look closer, and see those attributes in other species (or even in those species of humans besides us that have died out), a tone of panic and rationalization enters the narrative.

Speaking of which, I am growing sick and tired of the meme (in the non-Internet sense) that Homo Sapiens must be somehow superior to the Neanderthal, because we're still here and they've died out... Um, yeah. The Neanderthals lived successfully in Europe for roughly 300,000 years before "dying out." So far, modern humans have only colonized Europe for about 30,000 years. I'd say it's still a bit early yet for us to go around boasting that we're doing so much better. Come back to me with that argument in 200,000 years.

On the "Pet Health" episode of a local radio talk show today, the subject was Wolf-dogs, and why it's such a bad idea to try and breed them and keep them as pets. And the point was made that dogs are not wolves -- that "domestication" has created a very different beast, not only with different temperaments, but different digestive systems, and different brain wiring.

The most common "domestication narrative" goes something like this:

1) Wolves have a range of temperaments from fearful, to aggressive, to curious and calm...

2) Wolves who had fearful or aggressive temperaments ran away from human settlements. But the the curious and calm wolves hung around human settlements, picking out food from our garbage heaps, thus increasing their chances to survive and breed.

3) Over successive generations, this divergence in populations gave rise to a different and brand new animal -- the "dog," that wants to be our best friend...

My answer to that is:

A) Well, humans come with a range of temperaments, too, from fearful to aggressive, to curious and calm.

B) Humans who are fearful or aggressive would have either run away or thrown rocks when wolves approached, looking for scraps. But the calm, curious humans might have held out their hands to be sniffed, and even ventured to offer an ear-scritch or belly rub. Thus having the wolves around to bark a warning when strangers or predators approached, and also to help sniff out prey when we go hunting, thus increasing human chances to survive and breed.

C) Over successive generations, this divergence in populations gave rise to a different and brand new kind of Homo Sapiens -- the mensch, that wants to live in close proximity with large numbers of family and neighbors, and to settle down and start farming and building cities; our current phenotype hasn't changed as much as the wolf's to Labrador has, but I bet our brain wiring has.

In other words, humans and dogs domesticated each other...

And here's the outlier (but maybe even it's not entirely an outlier):

A bit ago (sometime between the New Year and now), I stumbled across this video from the Vlogbrothers Channel, wherein Hank Green discusses the cultural phenomenon of superhero creation: Superhero Creation Myths. His thesis is that each generation creates supernatural beings out of the things we fear and are fascinated by: sex, violence, disease {he didn't mention, but I will: demons/angels/Fey}, etc.

And that got me thinking about the abortive attempt I made, in 2010, to create my own comic book hero. I, too, gave "Gabriel" an origin rooted in my own fear, fascination, and disgust. This particular plot bunny was "mothered" by Christopher Reeve's address to the 1996 Democratic Convention (where the only option presented to improve the quality of life for disabled people is to cure all disabilities, ever, forever), and it was "fathered" by my desire to see a superhero universe where the disabled superhero was a member of an active and interconnected disabled community (instead of being the only disabled person to ever appear on the pages [hello Oracle and Daredevil]). And it also, for plot-driving reasons had a healthy dose of gene-splicing and worldwide Space conflicts over energy resources, and issues of poverty and privilege, and yeah...

But anyway, the kick-off for my story was a meteorite crashing to Earth, and from that crash, discoveries of new metal alloys that spark a boom in non-petroleum based fuels (and the advances in science in that arena lead to advances in science in the "cure 'all' disabilities" arena -- only really just 'cure all the disabilities we know about, now'), which leads to fighting over resources in the asteroid belt the way we now fight and go to war over oil.

So-- all the meteoroid news this last couple of weeks got me thinking about my story again, and maybe it would be more plausible to have the asteroid-hunting element part of the plot come in the nearer future than I'd set it in my original idea...

( transcript of video below the cut )

So, last night, between a long, hot, shower and getting ready for bed, the question of this whole test clarified (as happens), and this is the revised version that's circling in my head, now, after sleeping on it.

jesse_the_k. lilacsigil, kittenmommy, elettaria, and prydera all disagreed with my inclusion of the criteria that the disability be "Actual" and "have consequences," since that would likely lead to "disability policing." And I see that point -- I also realized that, since "A Quest for Cure" is irrelevant in this test, "Cause" is also irrelevant. So that part is simply out.*

I realized that what makes the Bechdel Test so strong is that it is completely free of jargon -- using words that even those who never studied literature or writing get intuitively:

Stories have people who talk to each other about... stuff. The Bechdel Test point out: Unless those people are women.

I (and many folks in my circle) are comfortable with terms like "Conflict resolution," "story arc," and "motivation," but these terms are still jargon to many (and they have lots of syllables). elletaria also pointed out that it would be nice just to have random people with disabilities Show up in the background scenes whether or not they're actually part of the story. It's so rare that they're even in the background.

So-- this is the hot-water-drenched version:

1) There's a disabled person visible
2) Who wants something, and tries to get it,
3) Other than: Death, Cure, or Revenge.

(This might be the main character having story-type adventure, or it could just be someone in a wheelchair, in the crowd, buying a paper at the newsstand, while the lead couple make googly eyes at each other in the foreground)


*(Incidentally, I included "consequences" mostly as a note to myself. I originally wrote my NaNoWriMo novel as a script for ScriptFrenzy!, five and a half years ago, and back then, I only had my prince character suffer a missing eye and facial burns to break from the trope that the heroic prince is now and must always be "A Handsome Prince."

But, in revisiting the story this time around, I realized: "Oh, hey! having only one eye is going to change how he moves through his palace, isn't it -- especially all those steep, uneven, lit-by-torchlight, tower staircases? That's probably something I should address, and not have him capering up and down like he used to, when he was twelve..." [He's also relatively newly disabled -- within the last year -- and he hasn't, yet, gotten completely comfortable with his changed body])

Two Arguments For an Ugly Duckling Post:

Argument One: The protagonist "duckling" of the story is an outsider within his own family, and fails to embody their concept of "normal," because it is physically impossible for him to do so. He is therefore ostracized and bullied. This echoes the lived experience of many children with physical disabilities.

Argument Two: In (perhaps) the most famous modern retelling (The Danny Kaye musical bio-pic of Andersen), The Ugly Duckling is used, specifically, as a metaphor for illness, and how physical difference is a magnet for acts of public bullying. ... and this modern understanding of the story underscores how our society puts the responsibility for bullying on the shoulders of the victims, and makes "Cure" the most legitimate response.

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One Big Argument Against an Ugly Duckling Post:

Argument One and Only: There's Zero Evidence in text that Andersen, himself, intended the "Duckling's" experience to be a metaphor for illness or disability. ...

And because of that, I'm not sure whether the story would count as being within the purview of my blog. Sure, the original source was penned well before the onset of the Great War, but that specific retelling (YouTube clip from the film) came a solid two generations afterward. And that raises the philosophical question of whether or not the telling and the retelling are, in fact, the same story.

Now, if I could find some evidence that that movie interpretation had some basis in fact -- that that is what Andersen intended, than I'd have no compunction whatsoever about including it (and it would make March the month for our Web-footed Friends, over there).

I would have posted this yesterday morning, right after it happened, just for sheer WTF-ery. But I lost my Internet Friday night, and just got it back this afternoon.

When PHC was new-ish, it was one of our family's favorite two hours of the week, period. But in the last 10-15 years, Garrison Keillor (the host, writer, and exec. producer) has gradually turned it more into a showcase for proselytizing his own Christian beliefs and talents than hosting the talents of others (I mean, why does he always have to sing bass, now, in a duet with every woman singer he brings on?).

But, hope springs eternal, I guess, and I turned on the Sunday repeat broadcast for something to listen to because my current favorite show was not on yet.

For the "Guy Noir" segment, he wrote the criminal as a wheelchair user, and I quote: "the guy's in a wheelchair, and like a lot of these chair-bound people, he's wily and unpredictable..."

(scattered audience laughter)

Yes -- he really did say "chair-bound." And why for ever-loving Frog's Sake -- why? Just to make fun of an outside group? And okay, putting the perp in a rocket propelled wheelchair for a radio drama gives your sound-effects man a chance to do something interesting and funny with his mouth-skills. But why not make it clear that it's this individual is untrustworthy, instead of a whole class of people?

That's it. I'm done with the show. For good.

There was an essay on The Newshour, last night, and I agreed with just about everything she said, though I probably would have gone further with some of it (especially how it's packaged as a little kiddie holiday).

You can read the whole thing here: I'm suspicious of any holiday in which the greeting card business and the diamond cartel conspire.

Mostly copied (with editing and additions) from a reply to a post in haddayr's LJ:

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One of the people in my f'list (uncacreamy) came across a link to this picture in chat, and she loved it so much, she copied it to her own scrapbook. I've done the same. It just makes me happy to see it:



(I'm not sure, but based on the context, and what's going on in the background, I think it was taken on Wednesday morning, and at his daughters' school.)

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Now, to the real subject of this post: that "fist-bump" gesture. I know, during the election (was it as far back as the primaries? I honestly can't remember), the fearmongers said it was a "terrorist" thing -- like some secret code, or something.

And what I want to know is "Why would anyone believe that?"

I mean, how many of us, and how many of Obama's oponants, have actually seen a bunch of terrorists bumping their knuckles together? I know I haven't seen any.

But I have seen that gesture before Obama started using it, but where I'd seen it didn't come back to me until this afternoon: I've seen it while watching televised baseball games, when one player gets on base, or gets a homerun, or something, his teammates will "fist bump" him in congratulations -- it's like a handshake, but quicker (and you can do it while holding your batting gloves in your hand).

...I think that's where I've seen it, anyway...

I certainly know it was around for a long time before he and Michelle shared the gesture at a political rally...

Obviously, the "oh, look! He's a terrorist" meme didn't stick as well as his opponants hoped it would, because he got elected. But why did this meme stick at all? Is it through some vague association with the Black Panthers' upraised fist power salute?

Anyway, I just think the wide variety of ways that we greet and congratulate each other is interesting.

...

Off to do more writing, now.