In a world with Rafalca the dancing horse in it, it's a little hard to believe anyone thinks I have too much of anything. Follow me below the fold for some ranting.
But the state of Arizona finally cut back my attendant hours yesterday. I am pissed off about it. Which is one of a few things we cripples aren't ever allowed to be...pissed off, instead of something milder, like "frustrated." which, although I've felt that too, is also too often applied to over-tired children to make me feel good about using it for feelings like this.It was ironic lying in bed pondering this while watching some of my fellow activists in the "We are Powerful!" disability voting commercial. Of course, any given day, that commercial could bring up feelings as diverse as "Hell Yeah!" to, on bad days, bitter laughter.
In a few days, I might be relieved that none of the big-ticket hygiene items were contested. One emotion disabled people are always allowed to feel is simple(it makes you think about what really matters) gratitude. It's true that my billing statement was a little padded, like many people's in my situation might be, with the day-to-day domestic tasks that, if things had gone differently, I might well pitch in with. In my view, they weren't paying my mother to do her share of these jobs. In my view, they were paying for mine. Which, given the cheering nature of daytime television today, I know that if we'd thought to get a list at my birth, might have run a lot more than this entitlement.
But this particular thrill ride is over now. I, for one, lost sight of what was right in the blur of new Target clothes and improved consumer confidence. Surely, it's more important to pay for some focus group, or do-nothing commission, or just keep it on hand in case Sheriff Joe decides to wallop somebody as a parting gift. But, by God, it won't be used for decadence like my mother cleaning the living room.
It makes you proud when government takes a stand.
People with disabilities, in my experience, at least, there may well be some SCI financial savant out there, rolling through Wall Street, voting to keep the rest of us down, aren't taught to talk about money. There are lots of euphemisms in most crip contexts to avoid it. Which might have been the deciding factor in marking me as a total naif in the few job interviews I got in my twenties, although I didn't realize it because I was so busy trying to come up with airy, light, and legal answers to questions like "How do you think your disability will affect your performance of this position?" I'll admit it here. I like money. Sometimes, I like the things you get for it.
Mostly, I like that, when you're the one that has it, you get a choice.Paul Ryan, without a rich father, and with brain damage, I was automatically born with fewer choices than you. Before I did anything. Before I "Just Said No," Before I took AP classes. Before I picked Tom Robbins, Hunter Thompson, and David Simon to read instead of Ayn Rand. That's just subtraction, brother, even you ought to be able to follow it. Even without Ayn's advice, I struggled with depression and suicidal thoughts that "You're somebody, 'cause God don't make junk," didn't quite cut through. Although, that's why, at my age and whiteness, Jesse Jackson leading little kids in Watts through "I am some*BODY* makes me want to cry,even though it feels like things I've seen before. Also, Sam Cooke's "A Change Is Gonna Come"
Although the truth is, I'm great at managing stuff. Surviving the unsurvivable. But there's not that much money in it. Although the TV show Survivor pisses me off because we play every day for free, and if we manage to win a round we get the stink-eye, not a prize.
6:14 PM PT: A brief update to let everyone who read this know that we've decided to use our right to a hearing since our math and theirs don't add up. I'll let you know more as events warrant. Thanks for reading.