I Am A Look, You Cannot Hold Me….

Posted on by milton

I am disabled.

My passage is marked by the tap tap of my cane.

Of late, at work I have to field invasive queries as folks say, ” Well you never would have known…”

My internalized abelism would not allow me to show weakness amongst these wolves. Because a part of me knows that despite my explanation, there is still a waiver between faux sympathy and wanting to stroke my cane; objects have no opinion on how well or worse the world will see it.

I also had long held to those same prejudices. Saw disability through that abelist lens, further marginalizing those on the margins. I believed in the false omnipotence of my colonized worldview..

I told myself that by denying use of the word disabled I was making space for my partner and friends who are also disabled. In actuality I was in denial about my own condition and not taking better care of my knee has only made it worse.

Listen…..

I am disabled.

Shall I tell you how, prior to this, my existence had already varied between pleasure, pain, labor, violence?

Would you rather it be a lavish tale of taking one for the team? Some fully loaded made for TV trip fantastic where I happily ever after my black ass to the promised Land?

Would it be possible that life itself has fucked me harder than any lover, and I carry the cum of countless tricks disguised as situations in my belly?

Of course, your discomfort is just as visible as the disinterest in your stance. Once I lay it on the line. Wiping imaginary dust from those perfect yoga pants. That’s right, you probably should not have asked me am I ok. I didn’t beg your pardon, ask you to hold the door.

Listen. I am disabled. The pain that works its way from my ankle to thigh has no expiration date. This is not a surgical procedure away from relief. My life is etched in my walk.

However, you cannot cement my place in this world.

I am disabled.

Yet me and my contemporaries are jukin’ and jivin’ daily for bread crumbs. You gon’ respect this hustle. I don’t mind you checking the profile as I walk away.

Your love/hate relationship with my queer black disabled everything is a flame that incites my vanity. Makes me stand tall. Even though I hurt like a mufucka. I’m tired.

If you ask me what happened, be prepared to catch a partial rundown of diasporic legacy, trauma, how my ankle looks like a small lemon at day’s end cause I’m walking over 3 miles on a fucked up knee. How I apparently make too much to qualify for assistance, while actively living check to check. There’s no room for rest, only motion, my life etched in my walk.

I am disabled.

My walk is etched into my life.

And I walk proudly.

Published by milton

Writing reminds me that the running commentary in my head is neither madness Nor genius......I observe, process and report as the world turns. I am a poet and sometime painter, a husband, father and social justice warrior on the digital battlefield. Truth is my armor, my pen a sword. I weave spells with word+sound and power in an attempt to educate and document for our children. I appreciate all the love thus far. My only hope is justice for all disenfranchised, marginalized and ostracized beings on this planet.