#Being Disabled Does Define Me

It may be emblematic of my age, but I really don’t understand the whole hashtag thing. I get that the purpose of the hashtag is to make an idea or opinion gain traction and go viral — that is, be seen by as many people as possible who identified with a word or phrase in the hashtag. It might also be a beacon to people who disagreed with the concept expressed in the hashtag but were nonetheless attracted to the post, if only to write something oppositional.

In other words, the hashtag is a conversation starter; it creates awareness and can unify a community.

Recently I read an article about a new Twitter hashtag started in November 2020. It was #beingdisableddoesdefineme. I started to respond to the article but was interrupted by my digital native college-age son.

“You must have gotten it wrong, Mom,” he said. “The hashtag must have read #beingdisableddoesnotdefineme.”

He wouldn’t read the article, but in an age where labeling people provokes — and in many cases, rightly so — righteous indignation, my son was ready to defend me against any perceived smirch on my persona. He’s a good boy. But he was wrong.

Being disabled does define me.

It’s not a bad thing. It is simply part of who I am. I have been blind for the last 28 years of my life and visually impaired for 28 years before that. I have also been — in no particular order of priority — a Jewish woman, a life coach, a Zionist, wife, mother, grandmother, aunt, friend, daughter, sister, disability advocate and community leader. My son accepts all these aspects of my identity as well as my blindness because that is all he has ever known. He doesn’t think of my disability any more than my being his mom, being Jewish or any other of my identities.

That’s a good thing, but his attitude made me want to explain all the more why I personally believe that being disabled unequivocally and unapologetically does define me.

As with most issues, human beings with opinions are going to come down on both sides. In the disabled community, the hashtag sparked controversy among those who felt that being defined by their disability was limiting, an insult, not a reflection of who they were.

There are others — and I include myself here — who think being defined as disabled is a good thing; it is not limiting, just descriptive.

It is not limiting, just descriptive.

This controversy is reminiscent of the “person first” language issue: Some people prefer to be referred to as a “person with a disability” (the noun comes first) rather than a “disabled person” (where the adjective comes first).

My English teacher friend tells me this is the very definition of an issue — there are two equally supportable sides, both having value and deserving of respect. Personally, I think it is a good thing to have many opinions expressed in the disabled community. Expression is empowering and helps us educate others. It is the respect angle that needs emphasis — everyone should get to decide his or her own identity and how they want to be addressed.

Sometimes, my blindness has simply served as an expedient way for me to identify myself. Recently, I contacted someone from my synagogue regarding something I possibly needed from her, and I wasn’t sure we knew each other. I could have said “you may know my sister…” or “you may know my dad,” but when I said “I am the blind woman,” it evoked instant recognition, and we were quickly able to get to the reason for my call.

Those who claim that the term “disability” is insulting because it implies limits, I think, must accept that there are some limitations on disabled people. I have been trying to think of the ways my blindness limits me in my daily life. Do I resist going out in the ice and snow because I am afraid I will fall? Yes, but not because I am blind — I resist because I am 63 years old, and I don’t want to break a bone. Do I rely on others to help me get places because I can’t drive? Yes, certainly.

But these aren’t limitations per se, just reasons for accommodation and modification. I can get places by having someone else drive me. I can read by utilizing my computer app. I still won’t walk on the snow and ice, even in expensive snow boots. There isn’t any accommodation or modification that would entice me to do that, but that’s just common sense, not blindness. In truth, there certainly are challenges I face, but it isn’t my blindness at all that limits me; it is the lack of accessibility that limits me; it is people’s attitudes and misconceptions that limit me, not my blindness.

Being blind defines me in the same way that being a Jewish woman or a mother and grandmother defines me. Why wouldn’t I want to embrace that? Frankly, for the first 28 years of my life, when I tried to deny my visual impairment and fake it in order to fit in, I was pretty miserable.

It was exhausting — this fear of being excluded, stigmatized and judged solely by misconceptions about blindness. When, at age 23, I was finally able to accept that my blindness was part of my identity, I was able to embrace that part of me, and it was so liberating! While blindness may be a disability, it is nonetheless just another intrinsic part of me. It goes along with my intelligence, my ability to empathize, my desire to help others, to give back, to be informed, to teach and to live as a responsible, contributing member of society.

It’s a package deal. Each of these pieces of me informs how I am in the world, what I read, how I act, how I think, how I vote, whom I choose to spend time with, whom I choose to avoid, what organizations I want to be involved with, what charities I support and every other choice that I make in living my life meaningfully. Each of these parts of me informed my decision to serve on the Keshet board, supporting the work they do to promote and advocate the inclusion of people with disabilities. Each part of me contributed to my decision to serve on boards of Jewish day schools and overnight camps in my community, and each part of me is why I am a board member of an organization that provides creative arts therapy.

Being disabled does define me in the same way that being resilient, assertive, empathetic and creative does. Being disabled isn’t my problem. It isn’t something broken that needs to or can be fixed. It is simply a part of me. To deny that would be like framing a completed puzzle but leaving a gaping hole for a lost piece.

I am a complete puzzle. I am the sum of all my parts. I am blind.

And so much more besides that.

Michelle Friedman is the vice chair of the board of Keshet in Chicago, a member of ADA 25Advancing Leadership and the Development chair of The Institute for Therapy Through the Arts.