Revisiting the Tremé By Way of ‘Treme’, #52essays2017

I’m a little late to the party, but then again I was sort of early too. I just started watching the HBO show treme, and I love it so much, I don’t allow myself to binge watch. I save it for a good ole romp on the treadmill—one episode a day, if I make it to the treadmill. The opening credits get me going every time.

But it was episode 5 of season 1 “Shame, Shame, Shame” that provoked me to write. Thanks to the great sound design, the second line scene—before the shooting—was viscerally what I remember my life in New Orleans being. It was so full of brass that you felt your head would blow off in the wind–the closest thing to a punk show I’ve experienced since my few punk shows back when I was a kid. But the shooting felt real too. Treme does a great job of depicting so much that is beautiful and scary and totally out of control and special about New Orleans.

My best friend Indigo and I moved to New Orleans in 1996, just two years after New Orleans infamously broke the record on murder. “Nov. 29, 1994, is the day the murder record was broken in New Orleans. There were 28 more murders before the year ended,” according to NOLA.com. I was vaguely aware of the dangers of the city that I bragged to my California friends was the closest thing I could get to a third world country and still be in the united states—and that was before Katrina and her aftermath that is depicted in Treme.

It would have been impossible to not notice that instead of goodnight or have a good one people said, “Be careful.” At the Circle K down the street from us, at the bars when you were leaving, at the corner store, everyone said, “Be careful.” Perhaps it was because we were two pretty naive white girls living in a predominantly black neighborhood on the other side of Ramparts from the French Quarter, but I think it was also a sign of the times.

I suppose I should mention that I can’t see a damn thing of the show, and my memories of New Orleans and the Tremé are of a time when I could see pretty well. I was visually impaired, so there wasn’t always a lot of detail, and I couldn’t read normal print, and I couldn’t recognize faces. But I could still see.

I could see our swimming pool with its hodgepodge of floaty toys and the banana trees that would grow before your very eyes. When Indigo and I first moved there, we just sat in that picture window smoking and saw those trees shoot up and sprout leaves and fruit. And I could see the crazy inhabitants of our little Shangri-La parade by: the strippers and the hookers and the punks and the gay gentrifiers and the boys next door (who were, like us, from California) and the French business guy.

And I could see the wacky architecture, eight apartments carved crazily out of two antebellum mansions and their carriage houses: ours was the downstairs ballroom-fronted apartment with two shoebox bedrooms stacked on top of each other in the back with odd vanity lightbulbs running from my room to Indigo’s above which she accessed with one of those iron spiral staircases that are made to go into tiny spaces, so common in Paris. And next door the boys lived in a five-story apartment that was just one room stacked on top of the other, starting with the kitchen and topped by a roof.

Our grand mansion was on the front side of the Tremé, if you think of the front as Esplanade, but on the backside if you think of the Tremé as the heart, which we did. Directly behind our pool was Little People’s, which was run by the family of Kermit Ruffins and it would burst with music every Wednesday night. You had to be careful upon entering, had to wait for the music to stop because the place was so small that the drums had to be set up right in front of the door.
And you’d go in and the place was packed and the horns were in your face and the beers were two dollars and the chicken necks were on the house and I just remember being there with a huge smile every time, thinking this is the real new Orleans, which seems to me to be the sometimes tongue in cheek sometimes painfully true motto of Treme.
If you’ve seen the show you know Kermit Ruffins is a fantastically fun entertainer and excellent trumpeter, but he was basically a staple in our lives when we were there. I can’t claim to have been a close personal friend, but we saw him play all the time, and he and other such legendary locals came to our ballroom apartment once or twice.

I couldn’t help but fall in love with the show Treme from the very first episode when Davis, who reminds me of 95% of my performer/musician friends—yes, I’m talking to you!–sees Elvis Costello, who appears as himself in the show, and tries to get Kermit to go up and introduce himself because it would be so great for his career, and all that, and he’s so hopping frustrated that he finally says something like, “Kermit, you’re telling me all you wanna do is get high, play some trumpet and barbecue in New Orleans for the rest of your life?” And of course Kermit’s like, “yep, that sounds pretty good.” And everyone laughs at Davis’s expense.

Well, some part of me agrees with Kermit and wishes I would have stayed in New Orleans at 1260 Esplanade, on the backside of the Tremé, and continued my simple Big Easy life. I worked at Degas House, the ancestral home of the painter Degas’s creole relatives turned bed and breakfast. I was its breakfast chef and every morning I rode my blue and yellow banana-seat bike up Esplanade and back. I made egg puffs and quiches and muffins for tourists. It was an adorable job, made odd by my visual impairment. And I almost didn’t go to New York, to grad school, because of that job and our cute little band, an all-girl punk band called “Down There,” with me on drums and Indigo as our front woman.

Recently I’ve been reading guidebooks and doing research for a story I’m working on, which is what led me to the show. It’s all brought my nostalgia for the Tremé and New Orleans to the foreground, but of course there’s the fact that I was in my twenties and still had vision, so my nostalgia is a little mixed up with those things too, which makes going back even more impossible for me than most. That’s ok, I listen to Treme.

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I Have A Fellow Feeling For Trump. He Seems As Blind As I Am, Essay 27 of #52essays2017

Helen Keller startled vaudeville audiences from 1920 to 1924 with her lefty politics. According to Dorothy Herrmann’s biography, Keller’s answers to current events questions from the audience such as “What do you think of President Harding?” had planned zingers such as “I have a fellow feeling for him. He seems as blind as I am.” For my title, I take the liberty of substituting Trump for Harding, who was arguably one of our worst presidents, although he was popular at the time–his corruption being not fully revealed until after his mid-term death.

When Keller and I use “blind” to describe a man undeserving of power and ignorant of the common good–Trump or Harding–we mean, “I’d rather have no sight than no sense.”

Because Keller named, according to Herrmann, Eugene Debs (who ran for president on the Socialist Party ticket five times) as her “favorite hero in real life,” I feel confident in saying she would have supported Bernie Sanders, but, as a suffragette, I believe she would have rallied behind Hillary Clinton, and I think it’s safe to assume that she would have been pretty freaked out by the idea of Trump running, let alone winning, the presidency.

Besides the fact that she was one of the founding members of the NAACP, and an advocate for people with disabilities, she was very outspoken about workers’ rights and often linked the blind greed of capitalism to the ills of the common man.

“Amazing that hands which produce nothing should be exalted and jeweled with authority!” she writes in the first essay in her 1913 collection Out of the Dark, and continues:

“Is it not unjust that the hands of the world are not subject to the will of the workers, but are driven by the blind force of Necessity to obey the will of the few? And who are these few? They are themselves the slaves of the Market and the victims of Necessity.”

I would argue that Trumps blindness, and the blindness he infects others with, is fundamentally a capitalist one. He is unable to see beyond his own needs and accomplishments. In other words, his point of view is restricted by ego and greed, which leads him to outrageous and offensive statements.

During his debacle with the Khan family, Trump was accused of sacrificing “nothing and no one,” to which he responded ludicrously, “I think I’ve made a lot of sacrifices. I work very, very hard. I’ve created thousands and thousands of jobs, tens of thousands of jobs, built great structures. I’ve had tremendous success. I think I’ve done a lot.”

This stubborn assertion that working hard to line one’s own coffers is somehow equivalent to sacrifice, exemplifies his unwillingness or inability to see beyond himself. When he says avoiding paying taxes is “smart,” I believe he knows he’s being caddy and playing to the soundbite hungry, but when he, seemingly in all earnestness, confuses “building great structures” with sacrificing one’s life or losing one’s child, we are looking at a very profound blindness indeed.

*A draft of this essay was originally written in October 2016, before the election. It was never published. The recent horror in Nevada caused me to dig up all my old Trump writings. I offer it as #27 of #52essays2017. Read #26 about Rosemary HERE. Or for more Trump fun, read my essay on Machiavelli HERE*

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Machiavelli: From Grad School to the Stage to Bullying Trump, Essay 25 of #52essays2017

Sometimes I feel like I confuse friends and family with my chameleon approach to life, but in my own mind, grad school led me to the stage which led me back to the page, where I started so long ago before the eye disease. I’d like to think that my changeability stems from the need to adapt and adjust to the winds of time and the caprices of Fortune. As Machiavelli says in The Prince, “a prince will be fortunate who adjusts his behavior to the temper of the times, and on the other hand will be unfortunate when his behavior is not well attuned to the times.”

I taught Machiavelli many times in a course called Conversations of the West, offered by NYU as part of their core curriculum for non-humanities students to help broaden their perspective as they stepped into their lucrative boxes as doctors and lawyers and business executives–cue Little Boxes.

Teaching Conversations of the West was a team effort led by professors all over the humanities–from the German department to philosophy, history to English, and each professor inflected the course in his or her own way. Even the English professors, with whom I taught each had their own version based on their academic leanings. I should say though, that the first part of the course was more similar–everyone had to do The Odyssey, The Aeneid, some selections from the Old and New Testaments, something by Plato, and a Greek tragedy. So there was flexibility–in the many times I was a TA for this course, we always read Genesis, but sometimes we read Oedipus and other times Antigone, sometimes Phaedrus and other times Credo. The second half of the semester would be completely up to the professor, so long as it continued to dialogue with the ancients. I taught the Renaissance flavored class most often, the Eighteenth Century several times and once, in a perverse twist of fate, the Medieval, but always with English professors because that was my department.

My favorite flavor was taught by Professor Ernest Gilman, and it is from him that I stole my reading of Machiavelli that became the song D’Orca–in a process similar to that of the origins of Sludge. Written with my buddy David and first performed with our band gutter & spine, I later adapted it for solo performance with my loop pedal.

 

 

Here’s the passage from which I lifted the lyrics:

“The next point is worthy of special note, and of imitation by others; I don’t want to pass lightly over it. When the duke took over the Romagna, he found it had been controlled by impotent masters, who instead of ruling their subjects had plundered them, and had given them more reason for strife than unity, so that the whole province was full of robbers, feuds, and lawlessness of every description. To establish peace and reduce the land to obedience, he decided good government was needed; and he named Messer Remirro de Orco, a cruel and vigorous man, to whom he gave absolute powers. In short order this man pacified and unified the whole district, winning thereby great renown. But then the duke decided such excessive authority was no longer necessary, and feared it might become odious; so he set up a civil court in the middle of the province, with an excellent judge and a representative from each city. And because he knew that the recent harshness had generated some hatred, in order to clear the minds of the people and gain them over to his cause completely, he determined to make plain that whatever cruelty had occurred had come, not from him, but from the brutal character of the minister. Taking a proper occasion, therefore, he had him placed on the public square of Cesena one morning, in two pieces, with a piece of wood beside him and a bloody knife.8 The ferocity of this scene left the people at once stunned and satisfied.” –Chapter VII

godin performing dorco @ penny’s open mic 6 15 2010

In other words, the very excellent almost-prince and son of a pope Cesare Borgia uses a real bastard named Messer Remirro De Orco to do his dirty work in stamping out some intractable towns and then, realizing that de Orco has left some pissed off Italians in his wake, he turns around and… well just listen to the song…

The song is also influenced by another brutal passage from The Prince, in which Machiavelli offers some words of advice regarding what a virtuous (manly) prince ought to do with that bitch Fortuna:

“I conclude, then, that so long as Fortune varies and men stand still, they will prosper while they suit the times, and fail when they do not. But I do feel this: that it is better to be rash than timid, for Fortune is a woman, and the man who wants to hold her down must beat and bully her. We see that she yields more often to men of this stripe than to those who come coldly toward her. Like a woman, too, she is always a friend of the young, because they are less timid, more brutal, and take charge of her more recklessly.” –From Chapter XXV

It is sad to me that, the political climate being what it is today, I must hesitate here to stress the fact that this is a metaphor. That brutalizing women, or creating a climate where women may be brutalized, should be, by now, safely tucked away in our society’s embarrassing and brutal youth.

In any case, this is a metaphor, about the need to bend circumstances to our will and not be bent by them. Substitute women for men in these lines, and any old name–let’s go with Trump–for Fortune, and we’ll get a pill that might taste more palatable:

“I conclude, then, that so long as Trump varies and women stand still, they will prosper while they suit the times, and fail when they do not. But I do feel this: that it is better to be rash than timid, for Trump is a Man, and the woman who wants to hold him down must beat and bully him. We see that he yields more often to women of this stripe than to those who come coldly toward him. Like a man, too, he is always a friend of the young, because they are less timid, more brutal, and take charge of him more recklessly.”

 

*This is #25 of #52essays2017. Read my previous essay, about my adventures in the writing life HERE*

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Submitting: A Day in the Life of A Blind Writer, Essay 24 of #52essays2017

Black Static cover.Yesterday I sent off a story–a rather sick and twisted tale that has disturbed the dreams of more than one workshop companion–to a reputable UK horror magazine using Submittable. If you’re not a writer, Submittable may be new to you, but if you are a writer, you can hardly avoid it these days. Submittable is the online hub of submitting work for journals, magazines, even fellowships. I’ve used it many times and have always been so happy and grateful that it exists.

Submitting electronically makes it possible for writers who are blind to participate in the vital, if often painful, act of submitting work without sighted help.

So, while submitting to Black Static yesterday, I was aghast to find that, according to my screen reader, there was no button to choose a file or browse for one. In other words, I suddenly could not attach my story. And for those non-screen reader users, buttons are usually pretty accessible. I cursed and then asked Alabaster to mouse click the damn thing for me, and took it from there–the “submit” button was still accessible.

Then, as is becoming my habit, I wrote a note to the tech support at Submittable telling them about the problem and offering to help test any changes, a typical example of how I reach out in the face of such difficulties:

Hello,

I am a blind writer and have used Submittable many times for submitting in the past (and also as a member of the editorial review board for Newtown Literary), and today is the first time I’ve not been able to attach a file. My sighted partner had to click the “choose file” button, which did not appear to my screen reader Jaws in Firefox, though the “submit” button showed up fine. Usually such buttons are no problem at all…

Please let me know if I can be of any further service, and feel free to have your developers reach out with any questions, or if they would like me to test anything out for them.

Sincerely,

Leona

Happily, Submittable is awesome and I received an email within a couple hours:

Hello Leona,

Thank you for letting us know. We’ll get this fixed asap. I’ve also let our development team know about your kind offer to help them test the system. I’ll be back in touch when I get word of a fix.

Thanks again! Best,

Laurie

Although I always offer to help developers test their systems, I’ve only received a taker once before, and that from the premiere screen writing software Final Draft, with whom I’m working as a beta tester, which is super. It’s just kind of sad that most of the time developers do not take me up on my offer. Why not? Hubris? That’s my guess until some one of them explains it otherwise….

I try really hard not to get frustrated by these encounters with lack of accessibility in the writing community, but it’s hard.

I recently filled out an extensive application for the PEN Center Emerging Voices Fellowship, where several of the menus–age, gender, race, etc.–were not accessible, another frustrating case, as combo boxes and drop-down menus are usually very accessible. So I let Submittable tech support know, and asked Alabaster to take care of these, as the deadline was strict, and there was no time to wait around for a fix.

I also had him choose “Other” in the race box, so that I could type in, “I feel it is important to state that although I am white, I experience many challenges because of my blindness.” Disability is rarely included in statements of diversity, though I think that is changing.

Because the Emerging voices Fellowship is meant to help out traditionally unheard voices, I was able to press the issue further, into the short answers. For example, to the question “Explain why you think you are locked out of the literary establishment,” I wrote:

I have a degenerative eye disease, which means that I’ve occupied pretty much every notch on the sight blindness continuum, but oddly, as my sight has decreased, the technology that gives me access to new books, journals, electronic submissions–in short all the things that are vital to a budding writing career–has flourished. Still, there’s a long way to go. even in this application, there are a few dropdown menus that are not accessible and for which I will need help before submitting. I run into such difficulties often, and I try to let web developers know, but if I picked every accessibility fight, I would hardly have time to write. Thus, in a very practical way, I have been, and often still am, locked out of the literary establishment.

Tin House cover.Up until very recently, it was virtually impossible for me to gain access in a timely fashion to contemporary literature. This is part of the reason that I stuck close to the Early Modern Period in graduate school. Through my twenties and thirties, almost nothing was available to me, and now I am surprised when I cannot get ahold of a new book. This is wonderful, but I feel I have a lot of catching up to do with regards contemporary literature.

Even now, there is snobbery in the literary community regarding eBooks, which are accessible books. Happily, more and more prestigious journals–“Tin House,” “Ploughshares,” “Granta“–are available as Kindle books, but others, such as “Glimmer Train,” are not. The point was driven home in a “Publishers Weekly” article, “Bill Henderson Marks 40 Years of the Pushcart Prize.” In it, the founding editor explains why there will not be a digital version of the acclaimed anthology. “’In the future, anyone can read it without using a battery”,'” which indicates a naïve understanding of readers and a complete disregard for accessibility. This illustrates how, even though the technology exists, there is an ideology that keeps myself and other print disabled people locked out of the literary establishment.

In a Catapult workshop I am currently in, we read “Cremains” by Sam Lipsyte, and though I enjoyed the story, my appreciation of the writing was tempered by the portrayal of Hilda, the blind character, who is fantastically stereotyped and badly drawn–I don’t know any blind people who can’t do their own dishes for example. Of course, as writers we will all be mistaken in our portrayals of the other, but until some corrective is offered in the form of blind people taking some control of their literary image, mythology, and metaphorics, not to mention the mundane bits of life that the sighted cannot know experientially, the stories will remain terribly lopsided both in terms of number and authenticity.

*This is essay 24 of #52essays2017. Read #23 “She Doesn’t Look Blind to Me” The Blind Actor Phenomenon, where I talk about challenges facing the blind actor*

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“She Doesn’t Look Blind to Me” The Blind Actor Phenomenon, Essay 23 of #52essays2017

In my last essay inspired by attending the NYC Disability Pride Parade, I presented a small rant on the dearth of actors with disabilities representing themselves on television. And I got to thinking about how, in a troubling landscape, I can say with as few sour grapes as possible, that the blind actor is pretty much non-existent, excepting of course in a certain Vanda commercial starring me!

Blindness is a very weird disability since, without the accoutrements of white cane or guide dog, it doesn’t look like much, which is why, I suppose, I receive comments on the Vanda iSpot page doubting my authenticity. Here’s an example from George:

“Doesn’t look blind to me. Her eyes are following the action. She at least has some vision.”

And another from Rhonda:

“This is an actor!!! They need real blind people. They stopped this one with the actor woman. Now they have an Afganastan [sic] vet.”

For some reason, Ronda believes in the vet, but not me, the assumption is that the vet is a real blind person, which in fact he is. Mike and I shot our commercials at the same time and chatted during lunch once. But why getting blinded in war is more credible than having an eye disease remains a mystery.

I am not alone in being denied authenticity. On Molly’s Dove Shower Foam iSpot page, I read a comment from Roseanne:

“don’t think she’s blind”

And another from Carol:

“Same she doesn’t look hummm noract like any actual blind person I know and I have friends and family blind from infancy to loss of sight from wound in war to elderly! And lost sight even to being diabedic [sic]. She doesn’t appear to act in any way as they do”

Spelling mistakes and typos aside, I accept these comments as representative of a certain percentage of the American sighted population. Happily for Molly (and human kind), there are others who believe. Someone took the time to Google her and discovered her authenticity. From Shelley:

“I googled it and I think her name is Molly Burke and she has retinitis pigmentosis [pigmentosa]. You gradually lose your eye sight when you have that. My grandma had it along with two of her sisters. She was declared blind in 1967 but didn’t completely lose all her sight until 10 or so years later.”

Indeed Molly Burke is authentic and has a popular YouTube channel in which she talks about life with blindness.

I wonder if others in the disabled world get victimized by such able-bodied scrutiny. Probably. And yet there are disabilities that are hard to fake. No one doubts that Peter Dinklage, who plays Tyrion Lannister in Game of Thrones, is the real deal.

Part of the problem is that able-bodied actors have been portraying and often winning Academy Awards for their performances of disabilities for so long that seeing someone who is actually disabled defying stereotypes–not looking blind, for example–that when they see the real thing, they doubt the authenticity and somehow feel duped. It’s odd that people cannot imagine a real blind actor, but only real blind people, as if actors were not also people.

For my Celebrating People With Disabilities in Film and Television article I wrote for NYFA earlier this month, I was delighted to find enough actors with disabilities that I could not fit them all into my space limitations. However, beyond the TV ads, I had to stretch for a blind actor.

 

Kitty McGeever starred in the long-running “Emmerdale,” but sadly died age 48 as a result of many health issues. McGeever was the first blind actor to star in a British soap. Having trained at RADA, she lost her sight at the age of 33, shortly before winning her role on “Emmerdale.” She described her character as “naughty” and “manipulative in the extreme” to the BBC, and added, Lizzy “uses her disability to her advantage and then disregards it to her advantage whenever and whichever way she chooses.

 

There’s also a young French actor Melchior Derouet, who starred opposite Natalie Portman in Paris Je T’aime. Here’s a fun Hollywood Reporter article about him navigating Cannes.

When I was called to audition for the part of Reba on NBC’s Hannibal, I dreamed of not just the stardom and money, but the idea of doing talk shows and the like, speaking as myself to a mass audience of sighted people about my particular flavor of blindness. How delicious, I thought, and important, to offer a perspective that might not square with the usual perceptions! I also imagined insisting on the importance of having people represent themselves on TV, providing more nuanced and authentic representations, representations that have behind them, at least to some extent, experience that reaches beyond stereotypes. This is important not only regards viewers but also the immense cast and crews on a television or film set.

The director of the Vanda ads, Malcolm Venville, told me on our first day of shooting that how I moved was so interesting. That it was so different from how a sighted person moved, and yet subtle and not what you see in the media–not superhuman and not slapstick. The cast and crew’s experience of a blind actor can only help to explode stigmatic portrayals. There is hardly a mainstream blind actor working today, and yet the portrayal of blindness is practically a staple on the TV series, where main characters are struck blind at alarming rates, usually just before jumping the shark–yes, I’ve got Fonzie’s Blindness in mind.

But things they are a changing, and I’m excited for the blind kids coming up. Soon, I hope, it will be as frowned upon to have a blind character played by a sighted as to run around in blackface. But for now, we must be satisfied with pharmaceutical ads and training videos… Below you can watch my friend George Ashiotis and I tell poll workers how to treat people who are blind!

 

*This is #23 of #52essays2017. Check out #22 Disability Pride Parades Matter 2, about my happy march up Broadway flying my freak flag with thousands of others!*

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Disability Pride Parades Matter II: people with disabilities are the most unrepresented minority in Hollywood, #22 of #52essays2017

Last year I wrote about why Disability Pride Parades Matter, from a bookish perspective since I unfortunately did not make it to the parade. This year, I did make it and was very pleased to run into friends including my old pals from Lighthouse Guild Music School! They may never forgive me for flubbing my chance to distinguish the Lighthouse from amongst the hundreds of other disabilities organizations in my impromptu loudspeaker announcement, but perhaps this video mitigates somewhat. Anyway, please excuse my excitable camera guy, who got a little nervous when I took the mic–he’s a much better singer composer!)

As an actor and writer for New York Film Academy, I’m acutely aware of the challenges actors with disabilities face. So it was exciting for me and many others to have Micah Fowler of the current hit TV show “Speechless” grand marshal this year’s Disability Pride Parade.

Born with cerebral palsy, Fowler started acting when he was five. In a Vulture interview Fowler said, “I think it is sad that less than 2 percent of actors on screen are themselves actually disabled. Growing up a huge television and movie fan, I couldn’t help but notice the lack of representation of both disabled actors and disabled characters being portrayed on television. So I am so very excited that “Speechless,” a prime-time network-television show, conquers both of those missing links by having both an actor actually living with cerebral palsy as a main character and by having a “character” in the story line living with a disability.”

Although Fowler and other young actors with disabilities such as Lauren Potter who played Becky Jackson on Fox’s hit show “Glee” and Jamie Brewer who played several recurring roles on “American Horror Story,” including Nan in “Coven,” who both have Down Syndrome, offer viewers the glimmer of a new trend of hiring actors with disabilities, things are still pretty dismal.

According to a Variety article informed by a 2016 study released by Ruderman White Paper, “95% of characters with disabilities in top 10 TV shows are played by able-bodied actors,”

The study was commissioned by the Ruderman Family Foundation and took a comprehensive look at employment of actors with disabilities in television, and reveals that “people with disabilities are the most unrepresented minority in Hollywood.”

In all of this, there is a need for activism and a push for hiring practices to shift, but there are also things disabled people can do for themselves by themselves. A good example is marching in disability pride parades, because they bring bunches of disabilities into the public eye.

I could have wished that there were a few more people along the parade route yesterday, but there were a whole lot of people marching, and it felt good, though, I believe it was a little lacking in spectacle–a few too many matching t-shirts, if you ask me. I think we need to rip a page off the gay pride parade handbook. We need costumes and we need floats! I have big plans for a braille dress next year! But of course, Gay Pride has got a few decades on us.

Daryl Mitchell, who stars in NCIS New Orleans, was an established actor before a 2001 motorcycle accident left him paralyzed from the waist down. With support from friends, including Denzel Washington and Chris Tucker, he has continued his career and now stars in “NCIS: New Orleans.” He is an advocate for employing actors with disabilities. In an Ability Magazine interview Mitchell says, “You meet with these Labor Department guys, and you can tell everybody is enthused and ready to go. That’s the main thing, really. Their willingness to fly out from Washington and see us in Los Angeles and speak with us says a lot about them. But it’s really a matter of what we need to do, what we’re willing to do as people with disabilities. We need to be more boisterous. We need to let the world know that we’re here.”

So here’s to boisterous disabled people, costumed and bejeweled, marching in the Disability Pride Parade 2018!

*This is #22 of #52essays2017. Read #21 Bobst Library, the Education of the Blind, and the Buffoon of Saint-Ovide in which I wax nostalgic about my NYU library adventures and another kind of spectacle!*

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