People tend to approach disability from one of two perspectives.
First, there’s the medical model wherein disability is perceived as an unfortunate personal problem, one that must be fixed in the medical realm. It is an illness, a disease, an injury or disorder that forms the bond between patient and doctor. Beyond the field of medicine, there is nothing anyone can do to right the unlucky circumstances of the stricken patient.
Then, there’s the social model, and it suggests that disability actually manifests at the point where people with different bodies and/or physical, cognitive, or other limitations interact with the world around them. Adherents of this philosophy view injuries, diseases, and other bodily imperfections as natural and inevitable, thus modifying the built environment and social structures to accommodate people with different bodies and limitations is the surest way to mitigate the difficulties they experience.
The distinction may feel abstract and needlessly intellectual, but its implications are sweeping. If you believe in the social model, then you can revel in the knowledge there are things we can do as a society to reduce the barriers faced by people living with a variety of impairments to such a degree that their impairments become inconsequential. Follow that same line of thinking, and you may find that maintaining the status quo, knowing in doing so you exclude more than a fifth of the population, amounts to discrimination. In the least, it is an unwillingness on the part of those in power, who shaped the world to their specifications, to grant equality to those who don’t fit an “ideal” norm.
In short, what you believe disability is either awakens you to centuries of oppression, or allows you to press on completely unaware of the thoughts and actions that contribute to the ongoing marginalization of people with disabilities.
It is likely no surprise, then, that the social model is the foundation for the Disability Rights Movement, the numerous successes of which have unlocked worlds of possibility to people with disabilities. We now have opportunities in education, employment, politics, social engagement. We can now live independently, raise families, pursue lofty ambitions. Which is all pretty impressive considering half a century earlier most if not all of the above were impossible; at that time, we would have been lucky simply to exist outside of a medical facility, or to roll more than a block without encountering an inaccessible curb. But none of this tremendous progress would have been possible without first changing our perspective and recognizing our collective identity as a disenfranchised minority group – for how could we have demanded our human rights if we didn’t know we had any?
We redefined disability, forged our identity, fought for decades to secure our equal rights, and now many forms of disability prejudice have been eradicated. But though we enjoy a wider array of opportunities than ever before, guaranteed by legislation less than 30 years old, the foundation of our movement, our very identity, is constantly under attack.
When diversity is mentioned, disability is often withheld. When we demand representation, we are told disability is different from other minorities. When we call out “ableism,” few pay attention.
And as we are denied our identity, our rights are called into question, the services on which our very lives depend are threatened. So it’s as important now as ever to remind our non-disabled peers and leaders that we have a collective identity, that we are more than mere accidents of nature to be treated in a hospital, out of view and out of mind. In fact, it is still the most radical thing we can do to claim our identity, to say we exist and we aren’t going anywhere.
Art Spark Texas