About 13 years ago, when I was a reporter for a small community newspaper in Nova Scotia, I came across a self-advocacy group for persons labeled with an intellectual disability and approached them to do a story.
To be honest, I had never spent much time around people with disabilities and found myself somewhat uncomfortable and unsure of how to behave. Communication felt awkward. With some people in the group, it was difficult to make out what they were saying. I wondered, for instance, if I should I ask them to repeat themselves and if they would be insulted if I did.
After the interviews were over, the group's advisor asked me if I would like to take over her role as she was moving to another community. Honoured and intrigued by the request, I agreed. Every month following, we would gather together at the local high school and talk about challenges faced by those with the label of disability - the difficulties in obtaining employment at a fair wage, the struggle for control over decisions that affect one's life when living in an institution, the stigma surrounding the label of disability, and so on.
Perhaps arrogantly, though out of a genuine desire to be of help, I assumed my role as group advisor was have all the answers, to come up with solutions and to transform my community into a haven of loving-kindness. With such ambitions and the pressure I had put on myself, it didn't take long for me to realize that this wasn't possible. I became disheartened.
Then, one evening, I was driving some of the group home from our meeting when one young man started singing "Born to be Wild." His joy in singing was infectious and, one by one, we all joined in, including a rather shy woman who rarely said a word during our meetings. Our voices escalated until we were giving it our all, completely freed from our usual inhibition. That night, I went home feeling as if, for the first time, I had been of use to our group - not as a wise and all-knowing advisor, but as a fellow human being.
My work with people with so-called disabilities has continuously taught me this same lesson, namely, that the best way to be of benefit is simply to be myself. Being unafraid to be me and honest about all my vulnerabilities and strengths allows others to relax and find confidence in their own voice.
Within the group, I put this into practice and noticed an immediate change. Members who had been reluctant to speak started opening up, laughing and sharing their experiences. Meetings were first and foremost about the joy of being together, of having someplace where we felt included and liberated, for me as much as for the rest of the group. Our gatherings became the one place I felt like I was able to fully relax with myself and feel my presence genuinely appreciated.
Though I have never considered myself to have a disability, my whole life I have felt the burden of self-imposed labels. At times, I have been "fat," "awkward," "overly-sensitive," "overly-emotional," "cowardly," and "depressed." In the end, these categorizations have only made it more difficult to feel valued and loved. More to the point, they cannot possibly account for the complexity of who I am as a human being.
Disability, like any other label, is much the same. In placing limits on ability, we limit ourselves and our communities. We are not able to see our full potential, as we deny what people, in all their complexity, have to offer. A fundamental principal of inclusion is that people are included, not simply as a matter of rights or equality, but because everyone is needed for communities to thrive.
To be honest, I had never spent much time around people with disabilities and found myself somewhat uncomfortable and unsure of how to behave. Communication felt awkward. With some people in the group, it was difficult to make out what they were saying. I wondered, for instance, if I should I ask them to repeat themselves and if they would be insulted if I did.
After the interviews were over, the group's advisor asked me if I would like to take over her role as she was moving to another community. Honoured and intrigued by the request, I agreed. Every month following, we would gather together at the local high school and talk about challenges faced by those with the label of disability - the difficulties in obtaining employment at a fair wage, the struggle for control over decisions that affect one's life when living in an institution, the stigma surrounding the label of disability, and so on.
Perhaps arrogantly, though out of a genuine desire to be of help, I assumed my role as group advisor was have all the answers, to come up with solutions and to transform my community into a haven of loving-kindness. With such ambitions and the pressure I had put on myself, it didn't take long for me to realize that this wasn't possible. I became disheartened.
Then, one evening, I was driving some of the group home from our meeting when one young man started singing "Born to be Wild." His joy in singing was infectious and, one by one, we all joined in, including a rather shy woman who rarely said a word during our meetings. Our voices escalated until we were giving it our all, completely freed from our usual inhibition. That night, I went home feeling as if, for the first time, I had been of use to our group - not as a wise and all-knowing advisor, but as a fellow human being.
My work with people with so-called disabilities has continuously taught me this same lesson, namely, that the best way to be of benefit is simply to be myself. Being unafraid to be me and honest about all my vulnerabilities and strengths allows others to relax and find confidence in their own voice.
Within the group, I put this into practice and noticed an immediate change. Members who had been reluctant to speak started opening up, laughing and sharing their experiences. Meetings were first and foremost about the joy of being together, of having someplace where we felt included and liberated, for me as much as for the rest of the group. Our gatherings became the one place I felt like I was able to fully relax with myself and feel my presence genuinely appreciated.
Though I have never considered myself to have a disability, my whole life I have felt the burden of self-imposed labels. At times, I have been "fat," "awkward," "overly-sensitive," "overly-emotional," "cowardly," and "depressed." In the end, these categorizations have only made it more difficult to feel valued and loved. More to the point, they cannot possibly account for the complexity of who I am as a human being.
Disability, like any other label, is much the same. In placing limits on ability, we limit ourselves and our communities. We are not able to see our full potential, as we deny what people, in all their complexity, have to offer. A fundamental principal of inclusion is that people are included, not simply as a matter of rights or equality, but because everyone is needed for communities to thrive.