Culture Clash – Page 2 – PowerchairDiaries

Capturing Frida Kahlo

By Mark E. Smith

When a well-known disability figure died a while back of “cardiac arrest,” it seemed a shock to many outside of his circle. After all, he seemed the portrait of health and an inspiration to many. However, upon his sudden death, most who knew him on a more personal level understood that cocaine and methamphetamine ultimately contributed to – or caused in the immediate – his death, that his passing wasn’t truly a surprise or a mystery. See, his foremost coping mechanism for some 30 years was hardcore drugs – and a lot of us witnessed it first-hand at times. Yet, the headlines both in and out of the disability community never mentioned the lifetime of drug addiction or almost certain overdose. Rather, the headlines read, “Disabled Icon Passes Away…,” going to note the heroic, awe-inspiring nature of his life. It’s as if the three dimensions of his life – the good, the bad, and the ugly – were selectively erased by death, where only sainthood remained in print.

In death, just as within life, others projecting sainthood upon those of us with disabilities truly ties into stereotypes, where the general public sanitizes our lives to make themselves feel better. After all, disability can be painful for outsiders to witness, where they want to avoid its realities – and there’s no better way for a outsiders to avoid the realities of disability than by convincing themselves that people with disabilities are doing fantastic, even when some aren’t.

Artist, Frida Kahlo, is arguable the best example of how the mainstream takes the depth of disability and human experience, and gentrifies it to an inspiring story fit for iconic status and the silver screen – even when it isn’t – simply to make all feel better.

Frida Kahlo, born in 1907, outside of Mexico City, is the most celebrated female painter of all time, with her work now fetching $10-million per painting. At the age of 6, Kahlo contracted polio, recovering with a limp. While studying pre-med at age 15, Kahlo was in a terrible bus accident, where a metal rod pierced through her abdominal region. Kahlo spent a year in bed, her body encapsulated in a cast – and it was at that point that she began to oil paint.

Kahlo’s painting were of self-portraits and still-life, primarily painted on tin, in a votive technique practiced by Mexican street artists. And, it was painting that brought her and renown muralist, Diego Rivera, together, married in 1929, with Rivera 20 years her senior.

At the time, Kahlo was mostly known as Rivera’s wife, with little recognition toward her artwork. Rivera, on the other hand, was an internationally known painter, political activist – and womanizer. And, Kahlo was loyal to Rivera till no end, following him wherever his career took him, sharing his political beliefs, and even forgiving his adulterous affairs, right down to the one with her own sister. Meanwhile, Kahlo underwent over 30 surgeries, and even had a lower leg amputated. Yet, through all of this, Kahlo painted 143 paintings, many depicting pain, and 55 were self-portraits, including reflections of her disability and chronic suffering. Kahlo wrote, “I never painted dreams. I painted my own reality.”

Kahlo died on July 13, 1954, formally reported as due to health complications. Internationally, not much was known about Kahlo till the 1970s, when Mexican-American painters discovered her work as inspiration, and in the early 1980s, the media latched on to the story of “Frida Kahlo, the heroic female painter who overcame so much to pursue her art despite disability and male oppression.” Magazine and newspaper articles were written, as were biographies. Then, in the 1990s, exhibitions were held, paintings sold to celebrities like Madonna for $1-million, and by the early 2000s, movies were made. Today, Kahlo is among the most revered painters of all time, where her paintings are now priced with Picasso’s, and countless merchandise – from screen-printed T-shirts to children’s books – portray her as among the greatest heroines, a saint in the minds of many.

However, where Kahlo’s public persona stops today isn’t where the real Frida Kahlo’s entirety stopped during her lifetime. Filtered from the popular articles, biographies, and children’s books is a three-dimensional Kahlo, one where far more human flaws flourished well beyond disability, where her now-described heroic life was anything but heroic.

By all accounts, Kahlo was obsessed with Diego Rivera, where despite his attempts to leave her, she used every means to keep him. Kahlo’s close friend, Dr. Leo Eloesser, stated that of the over 30 surgeries that Kahlo endured, many were unnecessary, merely ploys to retain Rivera through sympathy, where Rivera was actually astoundingly loyal when Kahlo seemed in need. Kahlo was also a lifelong alcoholic and drug addict, fueled with constant rage, attempting suicide several times. And, as a proclaimed communist, Kahlo supported and admired Stalin and his regime at the time when Stalin was killing millions (she was so enamored with Stalin that she painted “Stalin and I,” a self-portrait of herself and Stalin). What’s more, when Leo Trotsky, second in line to Stalin, was expelled from the Communist Party and deported from Russia, Diego Rivera provided him exile in the Kahlo family home, where Kahlo began an affair with Trotsky. Yet, she then turned upon Trotsky due to his opposition to Stalin, and upon Trotsky’s assassination, Kahlo publicly denounced her lover (who was just one of many of Kahlo’s affairs, including a bisexual affair with entertainer, Josephine Baker). Lastly, even Kahlo’s death in 1954 has been sanitized in popular culture, where it’s rarely mentioned that she committed suicide after years of being bedridden due to drug abuse.

Indeed, Frida Kahlo seems a tale of two people when we know the facts: A heroic overcomer of disability who created great art while in the shadows of a philandering husband, or a drug-addicted manipulator, whose inability to cope led to her suicide. Yet, it’s only the first portrayal – inspiring heroine – that people want to know. Why is that?

Again, because it makes them feel better, that’s why. As a culture, we want disabled heroes and heroines, and we’re willing to omit those character traits that don’t fit the mold – and in Khalo’s case, there were many. In the public process, however, of sanitizing disability experience, the entirety of the individual is removed. Much like many other great artists, Khalo was both a saint and a sinner, and just so happened to have a disability. Nevertheless, if we are to celebrate the disability, then the public dictates that there’s no room for the sinner on the page – just sainthood.

No, I don’t know how my acquaintance or Kahlo wished to be remembered, but I trust that they lived all parts of their lives – including the terrible – with some reason and purpose. And, the biggest tragedy in their lives may not have been their deaths, but the loss of valuable lessons that could have been learned from the troubled parts of their lives that most will never know – the selectively forgotten.

Wanna Watch Me Get Dressed?

By Mark E. Smith

Come on, someone’s said it to you. Maybe it was a friend, a colleague, or a love interest. And, admit it, you took it as a compliment.

Me, not so much. See, whenever anyone’s said it to me, I’ve struggled not to laugh, finding the sentiment genuinely funny, no matter how sincere the person has been when saying it: You know, Mark, I really don’t see you as disabled….

“Really, what part of this equation don’t you get?” I always want to retort, looking down at my body. ”…Never play the board game Clue because you’re the worst detective, ever!”

I’m a guy, with spastic cerebral palsy, who uses a power wheelchair – and, somehow one doesn’t see me as disabled. Really? It would be like me, at a “gentleman’s club,” saying to the dancer, You know, I really don’t see you as a stripper. …I mean, sure, you’re on stage, nude, accepting money from strange men; but, really, I don’t see you as a stripper – more like, say, a school teacher or an anthropologist.

Really, people don’t see me as disabled?

Look, I get the sentiment behind the statement – that the individual sees me as more than my exterior – but if that’s true, it should be self-evident in our interaction, not needing to be said. And, when someone says, You know, I really don’t see you as disabled, isn’t that really a paradoxical statement that says that they do see us as disabled? After all if one truly doesn’t see one’s disability, then the statement would never be made in the first place because the disability wouldn’t exist within one’s perception (call it a philosophical predication, if you wish).

Of course, I always want to turn the tables on the statement. Imagine if I was alone with a buddy, watching football on television, and I turned, looked my buddy in the eyes, and I said with a soft, sincere voice, You know, Frank, I really don’t see you as a man…. How long do you suppose it would take Frank to jump up from the sofa?

Or, how well do you suppose returning the sentiment to a love interest would fly? We’re cuddled up in bed, her supple hand on my cheek, and she whispers, “There’s something that I really want you to know – I really don’t see you as disabled….”

And, I begin kissing her neck passionately, and I reply in an breath-heavy voice, “And, there’s something that I really need you to know, I truly don’t see you as female….”

A lot of these Inspector Clouseaus are similarly – and, yet, completely contradictory – clueless as to how those of us with disabilities accomplish everyday tasks, as if it’s the Eighth Wonder of the World. Someone (who doesn’t really see me as disabled, of course), asked me how does one without arms or legs eat?

“With his or her mouth,” I answered.

“No, like how does he or she get the food to his or her mouth?” my friend asked.

“Levitation-based mind control,” I replied without blinking. “Floating freakin’ burritos – that’s what one eats when one has no arms or legs!”

Again, really? As adults, we’re somehow not smart enough to figure out that those who are quadruple amputees devise ways to eat – really? And, what gets me to no end is when those with disabilities, themselves, are the ones asking the most absurd questions. Logic tells me that because I’ve figured out how to live independently with a disability, so have many others with disabilities – therefore, there’s no mystery whatsoever in my mind how people get by in life, no matter one’s condition.

Yet, some with disabilities can’t seem to catch on to the concept that we all adapt and create pretty darn basic everyday living skills. One of the most common questions that I get asked by others with disabilities is, How do you get dressed? Really? Out of all of one’s problem solving skills, the one equation that’s unsolvable is how do I get dressed? …I always want to answer the question by asking, Well, how do you get dressed? Then, when they tell me the obvious – that they get dressed like everyone else! – I want to blow their minds with how I get dressed:

I had to rule out getting dressed standing up because I can’t stand up. So, because I can’t stand up in order to get dressed, I alternate between using high-class call girls (whom are strikingly reliable), and little people. Now, I know that using little people to get dressed may conjure up Santa’s elves stereotypes, but as long as I’m in a committed relationship with a woman of short stature – who so happens to be extremely attractive – it’s totally OK. However, when I can’t afford high-class call girls, or I’m not in a relationship with an extremely attractive woman of short stature, I have to opt for my last resort: I put on my pants, socks, and shoes while I’m on my bed, then I transfer into my wheelchair and put on my shirt. Does that answer your question, Detective Colombo?

OK, so maybe I’d better keep my retorts to myself. As absurd as the comments and questions are – You know, I really don’t see you as disabled or How does one with no arms or legs eat? – those uttering such words ultimately mean well. And, my giving any response besides, Thank you – that means a lot to me, or my seriously explaining how those of us with disabilities live independently, would almost certainly turn a well-intended moment into a creepy one really fast, sort of like sitting on the porch of a house in the country, on a warm moonlit night, and saying, You know, Malissa, I really don’t really see you as my cousin – wanna watch me get dressed?

Facing the Flames Within

By Mark E. Smith

Tiger Woods. What’s up with that whole dysfunctional drama-rama? I mean, the guy attended Stanford University, but isn’t smart enough to know that vices don’t void your problems? Even I know that – trust me, I’ve tried. No, I haven’t slept with 14 adult film starts – not even one, thank goodness – but I do know that escapism never, ever works. In fact, escapism just makes any problems in our lives worse – really, really worse in most cases. Just look at how it’s played out for Tiger.

Now, make no mistake, I’ve tried escapism to avoid my own problems at times. I remember at least one night where I didn’t feel like all was going the ways I wished, and I went out and got rip-roaring drunk. And, when I awoke the next morning, not only were all of my problems still there, but I felt like my head was a banging drum and my stomach a churning sea, not to mention the other I can’t believe I did that thoughts racing through my mind. Escapism didn’t resolve my issues; rather, it added to them – as it always does for all of us.

See, our issues in life are like fires, and when we seek escapism – alcohol, drugs, sex, overeating, overspending, you name it – we’re not dealing with the issues that need addressing, merely avoiding them with vices. And, then the fires – the not addressed issues in our lives – just rage, until we lose complete control, and it all comes crashing down in flames. That’s the deceptive nature of escapism: It distracts us while our lives fracture.

Surely, some with disabilities are professionals at practicing escapism – they avoid facing the fires within when coming to terms with disability. After all, if you’re a woman who questions her “value” as a future wife and mother due to disability – wondering if you can ever be that so-called “ideal” woman – what’s an easier escape from those scary emotions than to engage in promiscuity, where you prove to yourself that you’re worthy by sleeping with man after man, feeling validated in the moment, right?

Or, if you’re a guy who’s struggling to come to terms with disability, who’s entirely insecure with his identity, why not just stay high on every prescribed and elicit drug that you can get your hands on? After all, when you’re high, you don’t need to feel anything, or deal with anything, and your doped-up friends require nothing of you, right?

Indeed, escapism is oh so tempting, and I’ve seen many around me engage in it – including myself – in one form or another….

…But, again, it never, ever works. Escapism is little more than degrading and destructive at best, and dangerous at worst. What does work is facing life’s challenges head-on, with courage and clarity of mind, where we don’t avoid our problems; rather, we confront them. When we hit speed bumps in our relationships, careers, or disabilities, that’s not the time to veer and run off course. We shouldn’t seek escapism in the vices that so tempt us – from as seemingly mundane as pulling the covers over our heads instead of going to work, to as blatantly dangerous as drugs and promiscuity. Rather, when we experience rough spells in our lives, that’s the time to get more focused on only pursuing positive directions, and, most importantly, addressing the emotions at hand. Put simply, when there’s a fire, many people want to run from it, but our game plan has to be to run toward it, where we immediately focus and strive to extinguish the flames with an unyielding intensity.

I recall going through one particular tough spell in my marriage, and my friends wanted me to go out carousing with them, insisting that it would be good for me. Again, after all, what feels better to most guys – that is, what’s more validating – than getting boozed-up and hitting on other chicks when your relationship is on the rocks? But, again, it’s a deceptive, harmful path of escapism that just builds a snowball of dysfunction, adding fuel to the fire. What does resolve issues is when we face the emotions in our lives rather than running off in an effort to escape them. As I told my buddies at the time, Look, you Neanderthal knuckleheads, the last thing I should do is drink and chase chicks during tough times in my marriage – I need to focus on my career, my daughter, and all other positive pursuits while working through the emotions surrounding my marriage, not run in the wrong directions.

And, such a mindful approach always works, where it doesn’t prevent or immediately resolve the issues in our lives, but it allows us to address them in healthy ways, where, when we come out on the other side, all aspects are brighter. As I like to say, Run from your problems, and you’ll fail; run toward your problems, and you’ll succeed – it’s just how life works.

No, I have no idea what specifically drove Tiger Woods to jeopardize every aspect of his life to pursue unquestionably destructive sexual escapades. However, common sense tells me that he was using it as an escape from something troubled within. And, some of us with disabilities can find ourselves pursuing the similar paths of escapism, avoiding issues in our own lives by chasing destructive vices – alcohol, drugs, sex, or whatever self-medication one chooses. However, like Tiger Wood’s life proves to the world – and, as some of us have experienced in one way or another in our own lives – escapism not only catches up with us, but it ultimately crashes down upon us.

Face your problems head-on with accountability and self-awareness, and not only will your issues get resolved within, but you’ll be a better person for it, where you’ll be respected, not humiliated, and where you’ll display dignity over degradation. Unfortunately for his family, colleagues, sponsors, and fans, you only need to look at Tiger Woods to prove my point.

Discriminating Dating

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By Mark E. Smith

Indeed, many of my friends come to me for relationship advice. No, I’m probably not as tactful as I should be in such conversations, struggling to listen with patience only until I can’t contain my bluntness any longer. For example, one of my best friends explained to me that he was very sick on a first date with a woman who he really wanted to impress – and then he actually threw-up in the car on the date. I certainly could relate, having once dumped a Coke on myself on a date, but I was compelled to skip the sentimental comforts, and go straight for the reality check: “Look at the bright side,” I told him, “ if she goes out with you again after seeing you blow chunks into a bag, she’s a keeper.” As it turned out, they’ve been together ever since, now married.

However, knowing my bluntness, I don’t understand why some of my single friends with disabilities keep confiding in me that they don’t want to date others with disabilities? After all, my response is always the same: “Have you looked in the freakin’ mirror lately?”

Truly, how ludicrous is it to not want to date someone with a disability, when you have a disability, yourself?

I mean, I understand the skewed psychology behind it, that if one’s insecure and uncomfortable with one’s own disability, one is going to be even more insecure and uncomfortable dating someone with a disability, where it’s like looking in a mirror – and, therefore, one avoids dating anyone with a disability. What’s more, in a distorted view, if one refuses to date those with disabilities, and one dates someone who’s able-bodied, then one believes that one’s validating oneself as “less disabled” because an able-bodied person “accepts” him or her.

Yet, this unhealthy dating psychology really stems from self-loathing, doesn’t it? As I tell my friends, it’s Psych 101 that preschoolers can understand: If you can’t accept others with disabilities, then you’re surely not accepting your own disability.

Of course, toward relationships in general, it’s overall self-defeating to form prejudices against others of a particular group, as you’re downsizing the number of potentially-compatible people who you may meet. Surely, if you’re playing by the rules that say that meaningful long-term relationships are about compatibility on many levels – friendship, trust, understanding, intimacy, and so on – then shutting the door on anyone else with a disability isn’t only hypocritical, it lessens one’s potential dating pool, where turning away from others with a disability as potential mates may prevent one from meeting that right person – one who may just so happen to have a disability.

Now, some of my friends argue that they simply aren’t attracted to those with disabilities as a “physical type,” that there’s nothing wrong with being turned off by one “type” or another.

Fair enough, except for one fact: Despite my friends not wanting to date those with disabilities, they still want others to find them attractive, disability and all. In other words, they want others to love what they loath. Let me translate what they’re really saying: I won’t go near anyone with a disability, but you should love me regardless of my disability. Now, that’s dysfunction at its best!

Interestingly, some of my friends even try to present reasons justifying why dating someone else who has a disability isn’t their gig, stating, “It’s just too hard when we both have disabilities, and I wouldn’t want to burden someone with my needs when they have their own.”

As I replied to a male friend, “…But, it would be OK for a smokin’ hot blond, who’s not disabled, to empty your leg bag for you?”

Ultimately, when my date-discriminating friends with disabilities fail to hear my logic, that refusing to date others with disabilities is an absurd, hypocritical, self-defeating position for one with a disability to follow, I fall back on the blunt truth of the situation: If, as one with a disability, you’re so dysfunctional in your outlook that you’re put-off by others with disabilities, you shouldn’t date anyone until you are truly comfortable in your own skin. In catchy words, as one with a disability, you shouldn’t date unless your head’s on straight. But, then again, that goes for anyone, regardless of disability.

When Diagnosis Isn’t Distinct

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By Mark E. Smith

If someone with cerebral palsy told you that he wanted to attend a camp for those with muscular dystrophy, then go to the annual Little People Of America convention, then join a multiple sclerosis support group, you’d likely think that he’d lost his mind. After all, why would someone of one disability want to engage in activities exclusive to those who have other disabilities?

Why not, I ask? I mean, sure, I understand that there are intimacies of certain disabilities that are only truly understood among those sharing the precise condition. Yet, in the larger scheme, we’re all living under the umbrella of “disability experience” – so, why should “diagnosis” matter when we define who’s qualified to attend disability-specific events?

Oddly, many with disabilities will tell you that I’m wrong, that there are dramatic differences among those with disabilities solely based on “diagnosis,” where they believe that there are clear distinctions between, say, one with a spinal cord injury and a one with muscular dystrophy. Yet, again, I say not so fast.

The fact is, in the world at large, disability is a universal term that applies to all of us with physically limiting conditions, regardless of literal diagnosis. If you lined me up with a person with muscular dystrophy, one with spinal cord injury, one with dwarfism, and one with multiple sclerosis, and asked an average person from Main Street America what was distinct about our group, he or she would likely note that we each have a disability. And, that’s arguably how we’re seen at large – not remarkably distinct by diagnosis, but simply viewed as physically disabled. In fact, I can’t count how many times a stranger has asked me if I had muscular dystrophy, multiple sclerosis, or any number of disabilities beyond the condition of cerebral palsy that I have. Again, many in the mainstream recognize physical disability, but have no discretion toward specific diagnoses of disabilities – that is, they see little distinction from one “disability” to the next.

Yet, as those with disabilities, we often categorize ourselves as distinct from each other based entirely on diagnosis. We have our own subgroups, and, for the most part, draw social, political, and charitable boundaries around them. Those with spinal cord injury don’t attend little people conventions; those with cerebral palsy don’t attend muscular dystrophy camps; and, the visually impaired don’t attend multiple sclerosis walks. For many of us with disabilities, we hang out with our “own kind,” only support the charity organization for our own diagnosis, and we don’t pay much attention to the progress or research concerning other conditions.

However, from a practical perspective, the fact that we create these boundaries doesn’t make sense. Fractioning ourselves by diagnosis actually diminishes our power to bring change within the mainstream for all with disabilities. For example, it’s fantastic when 10,000 people march on Washington in support of themselves and loved ones with multiple sclerosis, but think of how much more of an impact would be made if people with muscular dystrophy, cerebral palsy, spinal cord injury, visual impairment, dwarfism, and on and on, showed up in support of multiple sclerosis as a cause, too – it would be epic. And, what if all disability causes supported all other disability causes, as well – it would change the social-political climate for those with disabilities in a heartbeat, making us an equivalent force to the AARP, per se.

To use a metaphor, it would be wise for individual farmers in a region to fight to save their individual farms, with each farmer lobbying for his or her own needs. However, if all farmers united as a single body to save farming in the region as a whole, they’d have a lot more socio-political power. Those of with us with disabilities need to see beyond our individual farms, and recognize that the plight of our neighbors is equal to our own, and by joining them, we find strength in numbers.

As one with cerebral palsy, I whole-heartedly support the Muscular Dystrophy Association, and at a recent fund raising ball, I was touched by how many people with disabilities other than muscular dystrophy were both in attendance and donating to the cause, as well. But, one particular gentleman with a spinal cord injury in attendance recognized my cerebral palsy, and questioned me. During the event, they publicly recognized contributors, and he saw that I sponsored a camper to attend MDA Summer Camp. Out of clear curiosity, he asked me why I would sponsor a child with a disability different than my own? My answer seemed common sense to me: “I don’t care about diagnoses; rather, I care about those with disabilities,” I explained to him. “I had a blast at summer camp as a kid, and I trust that the same holds true for kids with disabilities nowadays. So, it’s not a cerebral palsy or muscular dystrophy thing to me. It’s simply a kid thing.”

And, that’s an empowering realization: As those with disabilities, we aren’t ultimately divided as subgroups, but united as one, with remarkably common experience. When we encounter others with disability, we should care less about his or her precise diagnosis, and instead focus on the fact that we’re in this realm called disability together – recognizing a unity between us, where we’re all ultimately of one community, of one common experience. I say, let us possess the presence of mind to support each other as people, not diagnoses.

Mr. Flynt… About Your Wheelchair

By Mark E. Smith

Dear Larry,

I’m writing to let you know that you’ve ushered in a new day in America – at least for me.

It is true that I long lost sleep over you. I confess that you made me question my ideology that no one has a right to judge another’s choice of mobility. I mean, I truly don’t care what type of wheelchairs others use – if it works for them, great. Yet, you, in your lithium-induced haze, were the exception. Truly, I wished myself to sleep at night hoping that I could somehow bring your decadent, swinging soul into the twenty-first century with a modern wheelchair. I mean, really, Larry, why did you insist on using hospital-type wheelchairs for decades when mobility technology has come so far? You’ve made hundreds of millions of dollars exploiting others, so why not put some of that scantily-clad cash toward a good cause like a high-tech wheelchair for yourself?

Yes, I understand that your mind is often occupied with prescription medication, barely-coherent voices ranting about freedom of speech, and ambitions to further your pornographic empire. However, behind your glazed eyes, there must have been some room for consideration of improved mobility for yourself, right? After all, you demonstrated some sort of reasoning in gold plating your 40-year-old hospital-type wheelchair, so you clearly considered your mobility on some level.

But, alas, Larry, you have been redeemed, seen out-and-about in your new wheelchair, a gold-plated ultralight. No, I don’t know how one gold plates an aluminum wheelchair, but damn it looks good with your white, patent leather loafers.

Oh, Larry, aren’t you glad that you finally made the switch to a modern wheelchair, where your bodyguards have an easier time stowing it in your limousine, and where your adult film star dates have an easier time pushing you down the red carpet?

Surely you must. And, Larry, your new ultralight manual wheelchair must be easier for you to propel, too, right? In fact, I can imagine that you have much more energy now throughout the day, no longer struggling to move around the gaudy, red and gold decor that you call an office, with much more energy to do the activities that you most enjoy – like smoking fine cigars while pontificating about pornography.

Enjoy your new wheelchair, Larry – you wild and crazy guy!

-Mark

Dearest Mariah, RE: Dr. Hawking

By Mark E. Smith

Maybe I’m naive or eternally optimistic, but I truly root for whack-job celebs, where I want to see them turn their lives around, where they would prove the world wrong. After all, as one with a disability, some people project traits on me that aren’t accurate, so I fathom that the same could be said about celebrities. Sure, I see Britney Spears wigging out each night on the cable news networks; however, part of me wants to believe that she’s just misunderstood rather than a drug-addicted, bipolar, child-neglecting, egomaniacal, nut-job who only wants to get her groove on with losers. I mean, we all have bad days, right?

And, so this brings me to another kookoo celeb who I root for: Mariah Carey. Now, my take on Mariah Carey is that she’s so beautiful and vocally talented that I desperately want to know that she’s not the crazy cliché that the media portrays. Every time I see her on television, I get up close to the screen, hoping to hear some kind of proof that her IQ is a higher number than her dress size. Please, Mariah, utter the words I want to hear – quote Nietzsche or explain macro economics – prove to me that there’s not just a loose marble rattling in that overly-hair-sprayed head of yours.

But, alas, Mariah shattered my hopes again this past week, noting that she wants Stephen Hawking’s augmentive communication device so that she doesn’t have to speak or write: “Before a big show I have to do ‘vocal rest’ where I’m not allowed to speak for two days. It’s so boring having to write notes to everyone! I need Stephen Hawking’s voice machine for when I’m on vocal rest,” explained Mariah.

As if her statement isn’t silly enough, there are reports that she went on to say that using Hawking’s communicator would make her sound smarter, too.

Apparently Mariah is completely clueless to the whole disability thing, not understanding that Dr. Hawking doesn’t use a communicator because he’s a hip, Hollywood cat, but because he needs to as a result of ALS. Well, I guess someone should bring her up to speed on this, and it might as well be me:

My Dearest Mariah,

I am writing to you on the subject of Dr. Hawking’s augmentive communication device – or, “text messenger thingy,” as you might call it. I would convey this correspondence in the form of a coloring book for your best understanding, but my drawing skills are on par with your acting skills – that is, very poor. Therefore, please excuse any polysyllabic words in this letter that may confuse you.

Firstly, I shall point out that Dr. Hawking has a condition called amyotrophic lateral sclerosis (ALS), which affects his speech, and requires him to use his augmentive communication device to communicate with others. And, no, he doesn’t use it just because he doesn’t want to write, just like guys don’t date you for your worldliness. In fact, Dr. Hawking’s communicator is truly a tool of liberation, allowing him to live a highly-successful life, including dictating books that you wouldn’t understand and teaching college courses to which you can’t enroll (see, outside of Hollywood, the rest of the world has something called “standards”).

Secondly, please understand that Dr. Hawking’s communicator doesn’t make him smart. I know that you look into a mirror for hours like a parakeet, thinking that there’s someone talking back at you, but I hope that you can recognize that Dr. Hawking’s communicator merely speaks the words that he inputs into the device, a process called text-to-speech. Put simply, the reason why Dr. Hawking sounds smart is because he is, just like the reason why you sound like an overmedicated airhead is because… well… you know.

Lastly, while you may not fully understand why it’s in entirely in poor taste for you to make light of Dr. Hawking’s communicator, I have one final reason why you should think twice before wanting a communicator of your own: You have to know how to spell to use it. I thank you for your time, and I look forward to seeing you on the next season of the show “Celebrity Rehab.”

Hugs & Kisses,

-Mark

Pop-Up Disability

By Mark E. Smith

What ever happened to the Internet as the great equalizer, where our disabilities weren’t supposed to matter? How is it now that seemingly everywhere I surf on the web, so-called disability-related banner ads are plastered on my screen, illustrating that someone somewhere has me clearly tagged as a web surfer who has a disability?

My brother-in-law is a computer geek by profession, so he clears my cookies and caches, and all of the other cyber stuff floating around in my machine that can splatter my Dell’s DNA on the Internet. Still, when I log on to sites like Google or MySpace, disability ads blaze across my screen (how is it that the MySpace staff can’t tell a 41-year-old perverted predator from a 14-year-old Hannah Montana fan, but they know instantly that I have a disability the minute that I log on?).

One theory for my getting pegged as a wheelchair user online is that because I visit my own site, WheelchairJunkie.com, that other sites that I visit simply see ”wheelchair” as a popular term in my browser, and cater ads to me accordingly.

Nevertheless, what amuses me is that the so-called disability ads steered toward me as a demographic are always totally wrong. I often get an ad pushed at me for an adjustable bed, with a 70-year-old lady propped up with a fried chicken TV dinner on her lap. Show me a 25-year-old blond, in a bikini, on a water bed decked in silk sheets, and then I might click – but, show me 70-year-olds eating fried chicken in bed, and I’m clicking the other direction in a hurry.

My favorite disability-related ad is one I call “Gangster Guy,” which pops up every time I visit Fox News (which I guess I deserve for visiting Fox News!). I’m so distracted by Gangster Guy’s ridiculous nature that I don’t even know what he’s advertising, but if you’ve seen him, you know who I’m referring to: He’s a thugged-out gangster-looking dude in a wheelchair, complete with baggy Sean John jeans and a Gucci hat swiveled to the side like he just rolled out of an inner-city rehab, gunshot wound and all. Yet, in all seriousness, what disturbs me about the ad is that I’ve been to the country’s inner-city rehab hospitals, where the vast majority of in-patients are gunshot victims who look just like the dude in the ad, many shot as a result of gang affiliations, where they’re not allowed to be discharged in red or blue wheelchairs out of fear that such gang colors will simply get them shot again. So, as charming as a hip-hop disability-related ad may seem, clearly the advertiser has never been to an inner-city rehab to fully understand the demographic portrayed by Gangster Guy.

The fact is, I’m a 36-year-old dad, working a white-collar job by day and pontificating as a writer by night. I don’t have anything in common with old ladies eating fried chicken in adjustable beds or gangsters wearing unlaced Adidas – and I certainly don’t click on such ads.

Nevertheless, there’s still hope for me as a revenue-generating ad clicker online. If the advertisers stop stereotyping me as a surfer with a disability, and slip content on my screen that might tie into my true demographic – men’s business attire, parenting, reading, minivans, bikini models on water beds – then they might sucker me in after all.