To The Other Side of Dreaming

the storm is brewing

mia, mia, mia,

my thoughts drift to you while you seek out our future home. your last letter spoke to my disappointment so well. you recently asked me about resentment. part of me resents being asked about resentment- i had things tucked away so tidily! now that it has unleashed itself, i am watching every piece of rage, loss, sadness, jealously wash by like debris made undone in a storm.  

i am furious that it is so hard to find accessible places to live. by “accessible” i mean a safe place that would meet both of our access needs and our budgets. i guessed that i might not be able to use the tub or cook in the kitchen but not even being able to get through the threshold? another reminder that, quite literally, this world was not designed to house us.

in all of this, i keep asking myself: where is the collective rage? i know ableism is an often silent system of oppression. i know that “the work” is in relationships —- teaching, patience, trusting, critiques— but damn, do we ever reach a place where your lack of access is my hurt and my inability to be present is your fury?

 does resentment just live there, seething, under the surface?

do we just suck it up when we get left behind?

do we be embarrassed when our comrades write our stories and we can’t even understand their words?

do we just swallow pills when our community ignores the cries for help our bodies give because the Revolution needs our labor?

do we just take the high road when people get intellectually turned on by disability justice but are still scared of disabled people (and our sexuality?)

i want more than a head nod. i want more than a disabled friend saying “yep, welcome to adult crip life. it’s shitty.” or an ally going “OMG that’s so messed up! injustice!” and then heading back to life as normal.

i want rage.

feel me?

stacey

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