Disabled People Of Color Struggle To Be Heard
I am a black disabled woman. Those six words convey the essence of who I am — not all that I am, but the lens through which I navigate the world. I am black, and I am disabled. But often, these intersecting identities make me twice as much of an outsider.
I was raised by a single mother, who treated my older brother, able-bodied twin sister, and me as equals. Every bike, pair of roller skates, or scooter that they received, I got one too. I grew up shielded from the eyes of strangers and blissfully unaware of the reality of the world. In fact, I genuinely did not know that I was disabled until I reached middle school, when a boy mocked the way I walked across the cafeteria. Up until that moment, I had lived like I was able-bodied, and never considered that my walk was different than anyone else’s. I had never looked in the mirror and seen something or someone I didn’t like.
There was no going back to that bliss, though. The teasing made me painfully aware of my disability; I knew who I was now, and I didn’t like her. I spent middle school and high school trying desperately to take up less space and draw as little attention to myself as possible.
In college, I made friends who never used my body as a punchline, who saw me for the things that I took pride in showing and entrusting them with. My college years were…
