By Mark E. Smith
I refuse to be that guy, the one in the wheelchair, who strangers see rolling from here to there – crumpled-up and bound. No, I’m flying by, with bulging biceps and a tattoo that say, You can’t define me, so F- you and F- him, too.
I refused to be pigeonholed, stereotyped, or discriminated against – because, while I can’t kick-in doors with my legs, I can obliterate them with my intellect, where I will outwit, out-charm, and alarm with an I.Q. that will rock you like The Who trashing a stage.
I refuse to be dismissed – swinging palsied fists when I get pissed – and when I say I’m going to do it, you better step back, stand away, and make a path because I will not stop till it’s done, son. The ticktock of the clock tells me to do it better, faster, more accomplished, like I’m a man on fire trying to outrun the flames, where my disability is empowerment, not an object of shame.
I refuse to be undesired – my game is my attire – where I smile while chugging a double of Southern Comfort at a bar, with a swagger that women must admire – my distinctions aren’t distress but a cut above the rest. Man, I love her in that low-cut, red dress.
I refuse to sing the blues or follow the rules that say disability is tragic. In my mind, it’s a blessing of magic, where I’m different as you can see, and I refuse to be anyone but me – and I dare… you heard me… I dare to disagree.
Yeah, World, as you may or may not see… damn… it’s good to be me, no matter what you think of my dis-a-bility.
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