Friday, May 19, 2006

Disability in Popular Song


stolen from Disability World, #21, Nov-Dec 2003

My parents always shared their favorite music with us kids. My mother was a fan of string quartets and opera, my father, jazz. So, I don’t know where they got the compilation album Country Classics but the best song was “There’s a Star Bangled Banner Waving Somewhere.” It combined unabashed patriotism with a maudlin disability perspective. The singer asks, “Can the U.S. use a mountain boy like me… Though I realize I'm crippled, that is true, sir, Please don't judge my courage by my twisted leg.” The absurdity of a boy who wants to go to war when his disability provides him with an exemption and one of the few benefits of disability struck me even at twelve.

That started my collecting of songs relating to disability. My criteria is simple — the singer or songwriter has a disability or the song is about disability. The Who’s “My Generation,” with Roger Daltrey’s pronounced and affected stutter demands inclusion. Then there is “Ruby Don’t Take Your Love to Town.” The narrator declares that it’s hard to love a man whose legs are bent and paralyzed.

With the advent of eBay I have been able to purchase semi-obscure records such as Christian author Joni Eareckson’s Tada album from the 70s. Little by little my disability songs notebook has been filling up.

Finally, the opportunity for action came. The Society for Disability Studies (SDS) has a dance at their annual meeting. I was not able to go this year, but a request for music to play at the dance prompted me to finally put together a collection of disability songs. I burned two CD’s, one for dancing and another for listening. To insure that the dance collection worked I engaged in a rare activity — dancing. I hopped around the living room in my wheelchair with the stereo going full volume to insure danceability.

This is only a preliminary take on the subject. I am in the process of cataloging singers and songwriters with disabilities and songs with a disability content. If you have suggestions please let me know, ATusler@AboutDisability.com.

Anthony Tusler in association with Krip Kulture presents

The SDS Annual Dance -- 2003

Santa's In A Wheelchair • The Kids Of Widney High, 3:13
Widney High is the Los Angeles area special school.

Move On Up • Curtis Mayfield, 8:56
Curtis spent the last few years of his life using a power chair.

I Don't Need No Doctor • Ray Charles, 2:33
Ray Charles is, of course, blind.

Take Me In Your Arms Tonight • Teddy Pendergrass, 5:27
A recording before his power wheelchair use.

What's in a Name • The Cripples, 4:12
Seattle’s openly disabled punk band singing about our old favorite, semantics.

Short People • Randy Newman, 2:55
Will the controversy never end?

Mongoloid • Devo, 3:45
Easier to rhyme than Down’s Syndrome.

Johnny's Blues • Johnny Crescendo and the P.O.P. Squad, 3:44
The U.K.’s disabled flag bearer and his Piss on Pity Squad.

Beautiful People • Marilyn Manson, 3:38
Marilyn’s early years in the hospital informs this dig at the mainstream.

Cowboy Brown • The Kids Of Widney High, 3:36
The Kids again.

Cracking Up • Nick Lowe, 3:02
The title says it all.

I Wanna Be Sedated • The Ramones, 2:30
Joey Ramone’s OCD might have lead to this plea.

Spasticus (Autisticus) • Ian Dury & The Blockheads, 5:11
The disabled author of Sex and Drugs and Rock ‘n’ Roll writes a BBC banned anthem for the 1981 International Year of the Disabled.

My Generation • The Who, 3:18
Who says stuttering isn’t a disability?

Destroy The Handicapped • Fang, 1:33
It’s unclear what we did to piss off these San Francisco, hardcore skinheads. NB: The lead singer is back on the streets after serving a prison sentence for murdering his girlfriend.

The SDS Annual Non-Dance -- 2003

Rag • Marcus Roberts, 3:47, Joy of Joplin, Jazz
Roberts is a well-known blind jazz pianist working in traditional and avante jazz modes.

T.B. Blues • Otis Spann, 4:12, Blues Masters Vol.10, Blues
Muddy Water’s long-time band mate and pianist died of TB.

I Have Had My Fun • Sonny Terry & Brownie McGhee, 3:33, California Blues, Blues
Since 1939 Brownie and Sonny have been instrumental in bringing country blues to mainstream audiences. Sonny lost most of his sight in early childhood.

Black Mountain Rag • Doc Watson, 1:46, The Essential Doc Watson, Folk
This flat-pick guitar phenomenon would have been an engineer if he had not been blind.

Wade In The Water • The Blind Boys Of Alabama, 3:34, Higher Ground, Gospel & Religious
Singing in the blind school and gospel traditions this Grammy winning group has enjoyed mainstream success.

Ruby, Don’t Take Your Love to Town • Kenny Rogers, Ruby, Don’t Take Your Love to Town, Country
Ruby has it all — politics, anger, self pity.

There’s a Star Spangled Banner Waving Somewhere • Elton Britt, Country Classics, Country
World War II had its own disability candidate.

My Little Tune • Joni Eareckson, 4:01, Joni's Song, Pop
The Christian author sings about her relationship to her disability and God.

Jerry Lewis Blues • Peter Leidy, 2:33, More Songs For People Like You & Me, Books & Spoken
From an album of satirical songs directed at the disability helping professions.

Disabled People Do It! • Jane Field, 2:53, The Fishing is Free, Folk
Wheelchair-using folk singer singing about her experiences and perspectives.

In Northern California (Where the Palm Tree Meets the Pine) • Danny O'Keefe, 3:19, American Roulette, Folk
Able-bodied (A.B.) folkie describing a one-night-stand with a braced and crutched woman. (“Creepiest song I’ve ever heard.” Anthony Tusler)

See You Around • Vic Chesnutt, 7:19, About To Choke, Rock
Doleful quad singing in the folk tradition.

Kentucky Avenue • Tom Waits, 4:49, Blue Valentine, Rock
A story of disability and an A.B.’s heartfelt desire to make things better.

Castles Made Of Sand • The Jimi Hendrix Experience, 2:46, Axis: Bold As Love, Rock
Another use of disability as a metaphor (flawed) and vehicle for transcendence.

Viva Las Vegas • Dead Kennedys, 2:29, Fresh Fruit for Rotting Vegetables, Alternative
Doc Pomus, the post-polio prolific song-writer, wrote this bubbly Elvis song. It’s interpreted by San Francisco’s bad-boy punks.

Thursday, May 4, 2006

PEOPLE FIRST LANGUAGE...To ensure Inclusion, Freedom, and Respect for all, we must use it...

Sober now from Mayday. Can't believe how few teachers know any history to this day - 5/1. One of my favorite days.

Sober now cause I got called on my shit today.

It has been a bit of a struggle to master the people first language necessary in this field. I ocasionaly slip up. He has MS or the girl in the wheelchair, that sort of thing. I know better and understand the value of it. Just fuck up on occasion.

I know how much labels suck. Who wants to be the girl in the wheelchair. Defined by it. The "autistic kid", you know, sounds close to "that retard" coming from some peoples' buccal cavities.

In the real world we speak - always straining for the easiest way to say something quickly, unthinkingly in my case. In medicine, at least in the hospitals, patients are almost always referred to disease first, as they say, e.g., the stage four lung cancer in room 3 or the craniotomy waiting for a bed.

So there I was talking to a shining light in this world. A para who kicks more ass in the classroom than almost any teacher I have EVER seen. We are talking casually about a prospective student coming for a preliminary visit to our school.

(She and I have a casual relationship, we tell each other to fuck off when necessary, so I don't expect her to ever pull her punches. We are certainly not PC. I firmly believe that you have to laugh as often as possible, especially in this field. There is precious little that I can't laugh at, if it's funny.)

She caught me as I referred to the student as a TBI. I wasn't thinking, I just didn't want to say traumatic brain injury out loud. Obviously the student isn't just TBI. I'm not gonna defend nor attack my statement. It was unthinking.

To me, that's the worst thing about it. It was without thinking.

I had nothing else to go on and was talking through what I had said. It was the one time I had my card pulled and am happy with it. I've thought more about this people first language more than ever before. It and E-Prime both force you to think in new ways about the world of special education & how we relate to it.

Kathie Snow says:
Who are the so-called "handicapped" or "disabled"?

According to stereotypical perceptions, they are:

People who suffer from the tragedy of birth defects.
Paraplegic heroes who struggle to become normal again.
Victims who fight to overcome their challenges.

Categorically, they are called retarded, autistic, blind,
deaf, learning disabled, etc., etc., etc. --- ad nauseam!

Who are they, really?

Moms and Dads. . . Sons and Daughters . . . Employees and Employers
Friends and Neighbors . . . Students and Teachers. . . Leaders and Followers
Scientists, Doctors, Actors, Punks, Presidents, and More
They are people.
They are people, first.

Tuesday, April 11, 2006

THE LANGUAGE OF US AND THEM


by Mayer Shevin

We like things.
They fixate on objects.
We try to make friends.
They display attention-seeking behaviors.
We take a break.
They display off-task behavior.
We stand up for ourselves.
They are non-compliant.
We have hobbies.
They self-stim.
We choose our friends wisely.
They display poor peer socialization.
We persevere.
They perseverate.
We love people.
They have dependencies on people.
We go for walks.
They run away.
We insist.
They tantrum.
We change our minds.
They are disoriented and have short attention spans.
We are talented.
They have splinter skills.
We are human.
They are.......?

Monday, February 6, 2006

IEPs According to Dr. Seuss


Do you like these IEPs?

I do not like these IEPs
I do not like them, Jeeze Louise
We test, we check
We plan, we meet
But nothing ever seems complete.

Would you, could you
Like the form?

I do not like the form I see
Not page 1, not 2, not 3
Another change
A brand new box
I think we all
Have lost our rocks.

Could you all meet here or there?

We could not all meet here or there.
We cannot all fit anywhere.
Not in a room
Not in the hall
There seems to be no space at all.

Would you, could you meet again?

I cannot meet again next week
No lunch no prep
Please hear me speak.
No, not at dusk. No, not at dawn
At 4 pm I should be gone.

Could you hear while all speak out?
Would you write the words they spout?

I could not hear, I would not write
This does not need to be a fight.
Sign here, date there,
Mark this, check that
Beware the student’s ad-vo-cat(e).

You do not like them
So you say
Try again! Try again!
And you may.

If you will let me be,
I will try again
You will see.

Say!

I almost like these IEPs
I think I'll write 6003.
And I will practice day and night
Until they say
"You got it right!"
-------------------
Here is another modification of his style I've always liked...



"I do not like the
Police-man,
I do not like them,
Sam-I-am.
I would not like them
Here or there.
I would not like them
Anywhere!"

Wednesday, January 18, 2006

Boys town

Fulfilling some requirements I volunteered in a SDC room for a minute.
The aide was this immense creature who waddled into the room in the morning to sit. Never moving til lunch, then off to her home. She was reading a paperback from a writer you wanted to kill her for reading. Fuckin Danielle Steele type shit. (R.I.P. Nick Traina)

This waste of human flesh paraprofessional sat there and didn't move 'cept to yell at a kid when she felt like it.

Every student there was a young black male. The male teacher I was volunteering for was white. Really white. Bridge and tunnel.

He spent all day yelling at the fifteen kids in his room. This was occasionally peppered with her gurgling some shit at a kid pissed enough at his situation to be mad as hell, that he wasn't gonna take it no more.

Whity McTeacher tried to get her fired constantly. Nothing ever worked. Both of them should have just gpone away and this shit just shouldn't be.

Young black males are disproportionately shuffled off to "special education" cause some fuck doesn't know what else to do with them. There is nothing special about the education they are getting here.

Isolating these students, marginalizing them, stigmatizing them on a school campus helps nobody.

I am reminded of the Dead Prez track "They Schools". Listen to it.

Friday, September 23, 2005

Hummus and Flat Bread

Middle School.

Hot sun, sweltering classrooms. Lots of crunchy granola types in varying degrees of bourgeois rebellion.

Hummus had a sharp mind. Like me tries to stay away from the gossip mongers in the lunchroom. Hummus hates the lunchlady too.

Flat Bread runs one of the SDC rooms.

Now, I'm an accepting type. Let your freak flag fly, right?
I don't care what you shave or don't shave, as long as I keep it out of MY mouth, do as you wish. I'm cool with natural scent. I hate perfume and sympathize with the chemically sensitive sometimes.

But GOD DAMMIT!

Crusty Punks don't belong in the classroom. Or, rather, Crusty Hippies don't.

Flat Bread was so impressed with Hummus' retro thing that she adopted a bit more of the birkenstock thing. Skimpy summer dresses, no sleeves, no deodorant, oh no.

She's one of those teachers, likes to get down to the students level, "to communicate" on their level, as she says.

So one day I'm in Flat Breads classroom and she is leaning over a students shoulder, nipple resting on his collarbone. That was the first thing I noticed. When I'm closer it hits me. That smell. Like Maude after a roofing job in Tucson.

Fight the Power, Not the Shower!

Just cause the government stinks, doesn't mean you have to.

For her birthday Hummus got her one of those crystal stick deodorants. Wonder if she ever used it.

Poor fucking kids.

Saturday, May 28, 2005

Fuck Homework!

That's all he would say.

"Fuck Homework".

He was rockin his ing-bing.

He didn't know at first that I agreed with him, later it was a given.

I was responsible for the after school homework program at the multiservice center for families in crisis. This was at a city you have never visited, inhabited by folks you'll never meet. The names have been changed because I respect confidentiality. I shall modify the slang colloquilisms to avoid any obvious regional dialects. (See the Glossary Below for assistance)

"C'mon lefteye, you have this stack of paper to finish. Get to work."

"No, fuck homework."
He was smart enough to tackle the material he was tasked with. Lefteye was the smart one in a terrible twosome with Biscuit. They roamed the hallways of the building after curfew. Nobody ever said a thing to 'em. Biscuit was touched. Liked to scoff, almost all he would talk about. Some murmured that Biscuit was Lefteye's Angelina. I knew better.

Lefteye wielded his charisma like a weapon. When he was in a good mood he would naturally light up a room with little effort.
Bis was rockin the Lenny angle. He tasted it and it tasted bad, five more licks and he decided OK, time to stop. Followed by five more licks. He was charming though, in his crazy wisdom. Reminded me of Mullah Nasruddin.

Fuck Homework.

It took a while to get it out of him. He didn't want to relinquish the power of having an adult ask repeatedly.

At school, in the two & a half hours he was there he got into it with his science teacher. To him we are all straight bums on the plush.

She called him an asshole under her breath and he heard it. She was one of the very few teachers he ever tried to please. He didn't care too much about that, it was easier to hate her, less work.

The social studies teacher liked the science teacher. The kids knew it. They talked, teachers and students alike. After the run in with her, the SS teacher loaded up the assignments on Lefteye. Shit other students didn't have to do. Shit was coming to a head for Lefteye.

I asked and he finally answered.
" I'ma clout". I know his mom is a snowbird blister. You would know too. Passin her in a bag of stampers, she stood out. He was facing sleep in the clubhouse. I think somebody at his school had the ear of the town clowns. He thought more drama and they were gonna beef on him. It'd be his cherry.
Someone was fomenting his bull horrors. "Mr. Block", my super, could arrange for kids to sleep a spell in the crowbar hotel. Never saw him do so though.

Moms didn't give a fuck, at least in front of others. Behind closed door's, who knows? June fucking Cleaver for all I know.

He told me his drama, and I kept trying to give hime advice. None of it caught his attention, he just kept bitching in a full and floridly descriptive manner probably not appropriate for the other three people in the room. All of whom younger than the two of us.

It kept coming, nonstop. Til Supertight walked by, a looker-a real number. No crotch crickets there. The mostly empty vending machines are just beyond our classroom on the third floor. Just bored fat rent-a-pigs and giggling children feeding their sugar highs pass our door.

Supertight.

He was gone in a flash. Came back only after realizing he needed me to supply the pass. He could leave at will, go to another floor, go home (the studio they live in here at the center), just couldn't hang on this floor without a pass. This is ostensibly to prevent playing in the halls, distracting the "good" kids who were there to do their work. Yet the only vending machines that worked, kind of, were outside our door. Everyone came there and nobody ever had to show a pass but the poor bastards in the homework program I was supposed to supervise. Fucking useless house dick. Only seemed to muck with the kids tryin.

Nothing I ever said changed a fucking thing. Supervised?

Supertight. I saw her too. I understood his need for a break. She was alone and thirsty, who'd wanna jaw with me.

Supertight!

I lie. I didn't understand. I was pissed he wasn't taking my advice. Writing down every priceless word I uttered for his benefit.

Everyone else was charging thru their homework like champs. Glad for the break.

He returned, licking his wounds but satisfied with the attempt. She plays, he said. She knows he is the one with access to the alki. Leftover henny bottles, stolen from the crib. He could produce quick-like a jorum of skee for the honeybee. Juju's were nothin special, everyones holdin here, everyone.

Fuck homework, he said with a smirk.

He had to be there cause his neighbor would play him a patsy. SHe looked out for his mom. No one else for him. His uncle Ant was a loogan. 86'd from the building. He's building stacks with his bottom bitch. No time for Lefteye.

I gave him the lay. Homework. He's makin this harder than need be. I start my peaching bout others he knew not cutting it. He needn't be in the same category. I keep bleating.

Fuck homework.

Ten more minutes of this and I start to ramp up the rhetoric. Why couldn't he pipe to what I was spilling. I thought to put the screws on.

Then Biscuit and Braids. Braids was a sick little dancer. This kid owned the stoop. I wish I had a fraction of his ease. Moved like a master.
B-Boy reborn.
Folks kept their shit tight around him. He could copperfield a key before you finished saying hi.

Lefteye had to go. He couldn't without my approval, I could fuck with him if I wanted and he knew it. I wasn't done inspiring this little bastard, why can't he see that.

Somehow, I let him go. I'm trying to get him to reinvent himself, look at himself, see what's important, accept my valuable guidance, turn his life around avail himself of my resources.

He was gone.

I was happy to get back to my reading.

I ranked him upon his return. I could smell the muggles. He wasn't out on the roof, just a little buzzed. No rummy stiff, this one. I was blowed in the glass to him, or so he said.

Something changed. A few minutes hustlin, a break with benefits. He had his primary reinforcers.

Suddenly homework was no big deal, life goes on. None of his drama was gonna matter in a few days.

He stared at the stack of papers. Five minutes before he touched his pencil.

One hour later he was done. An hour left before I go home.

He did this. On his own.

Alright.

I got no kick.