Craig asked. I answered.
Thank you for your request to me to write about “what disability pride means to me”. Ask me an easy question, Comrade!!!
You are correct to observe that what I’m asked for “may not be your jam” (as you put it).
It is beyond my skill with words to answer such a question. And if I'm honest, I am 100% certain that anything I might try to say on the topic would be self-serving bullshit. I'm known for that.
Nevertheless, I wrote you a not-very-good poem on the subject. It doesn't even rhyme. But then again … life seldom does.
Publish all of this. Or none.
That’s your choice.
Love ‘n peace.
Don't Ask Me Mate (I'm Making Life Up As I Go Along)
Life is full of mysteries.
Exactly what time on that Tuesday morning
(a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away)
did The Big Bang thing actually happen?
Who knows the secret recipes for Mars Bars and Irn Bru?
(both of which I've consumed way too much of
to be good for me).
Who really shot JR?
And how does one bend it like Beckham?
I was Dougie Herd before my accident.
I was Dougie Herd as I lay on that Scottish beach,
neck broken in three places,
coughing up the salt water, spluttering
as I fought for air,
while the universe -- bored out of its infinite mind --
rolled the dice
to determine if Dougie Herd might have a future.
(That too was a long time ago
in a galaxy far, far away.)
I am who I am.
If I'm not good enough for anyone I meet
that's their problem.
“Get out of my way,” is what I think
(but I do not say it
because my parents brought me up to be
even to nincompoops).
So, to answer your impossible question
If I was Walt Whitman I would say, “I sing
the body electric.”
If I was LVB, I'd say, let's sing
our ode to joy.
If I was Em, I'd tell you,
“hope is the thing with feathers.”
And if I’d been Virginia Woolf, I'd know
"You cannot find peace by avoiding life."
But I know nothing.
I would make Marxists of us all.
In this sense:
"The philosophers have only interpreted the world in many ways.
The point, however, is to change it.”