When I think about the title of this blogpost,"The Weight of Access, The Isolation of Home", I think of messiness. I think of a messy room, with books and papers strewn everywhere. Bits of truth here and there and overthere in that corner - crumpbled up piece of butcher paper, a reminder that I live in a world that for I, and so many for us, we were never supposed to make it this far.
Or that by the standards set, it should've been a given, it shouldn't even be a question - but things change, and shift, and warp in to worlds that carry seemingly oxymoronic meanings: wholeness and isolation; freedom and an increased fear for one's safety. It's complexities like this that seem the toughest to wrestle with, at least for me.
I remember, that spring two years ago, when I discovered that I was moving on two separate paths; or maybe a more apt description would be floating or swimming down a river. That's more like it: being disabled/hard of hearing has existed as long as I can remember, and being queer and trans feels like I'm growing in an empowering, fierce, direction. And in a river or other bodies of water, you can feel clean, washed, relaxed - and you can feel like you're drowning, gasping for air, trying to hold on tight - and even more importantly, you need water to live.
That spring, I know there was a glimmer in my eye, and looking in the mirror, I knew it was a glimmer that included hurt, deep hurt, but a window in to experiencing another world, another home - ways of being in the world that wasn't just about our ideas or our theories, but body-based, tangible, real - in ways that match our ideas and dreams and frameworks.
But the thing I've been realizing about access, the thing that I've been learning about home, is that it's hard. That the foundation that I have is dreams, and sometimes that's just a net over the ground. Other days it feels rock solid. But it's what I have. And it adds just that bit of magic to keep me going.
But sometimes that isn't enough, and it's so much more tricky than that, I've found. I mean that's no suprise coming from someone who's white, class privileged, and used to be straight, male, and even quasi able-bodied identified. Learning how to work and know, and most importantly, love and cherish, the parts of me that the world creates barriers for, the queer, femme, trans, disabled parts of me have been, at the same time, had me feeling the most empowered I've ever felt in my life, as well as feeling curled up in a ball, sitting in bed most of the day, tired. So tired.
So going back to the title, I think of my friend, Mia Mingus'essay "Feeling the Weight, Some Beginning Notes on Disability, Access, and Love," in Make/shift magazine (issue 10, to be exact). That I've learned that it's not just access that I'm looking for, or perfect logistical situations: that there's an emotional weight to access. That it's hard to accept when it's there, sometimes, and the fact that it shouldn't be seen as something to celebrate - because it's what I need to be there. That it feels like repeated conversations about access needs, continually putting myself out there, and people nodding there heads, and responding in the moment: but usually putting their hands up in the air and not knowing what to do (or not wanting to do anything else) in the future, in the days, weeks, months, after those conversations. It feels like being tired of making requests. And a history of a lack of access, stretching beyond my relationship with any person, or group of people. That it's something more than just this one time.
So I go inside, I leave the waters. I go carve a space, alone. I figure out how to make things work for me, alone - that's the only way to manage it. But it's never really managing it. It's a way to control it, control my surroundings, to shut out the world, and hold on to dreams. Hurt filled dreams, because they feel so real, so needed, but knowing that I need others to make these dreams real. So now home is what I need to build, but it has begun to resemble a process of isolation, rather than community. It has looked like digging into books and finding the words that remind me to hold on, and that I'm not alone, not alone in this mental space, not alone in these dreams; freeing myself as I shut myself away from the world.
And I know that doesn't feel right. I know that I need to be in community and surrounded by friends and comrades and all kinds of family. Like I said earlier, one of the most powerful things about water is that we require it to live. I need something more than pieces of paper to hold on to sometimes. Because queer, trans, femme, and disabled positive spaces and community are something I'm finding that I require to fee whole. And I'm still holding on to the glimmer in my eye.
