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Today’s Babe Letter is guest edited by Babes Member Christyna Hunter. If you’d like to guest edit the letter sign up here. “So what’s the point?” A valid question, I thought, since it was coming from my newly hired writing coach. I’d spent a month typing up memories of my life as a person with a disability. I was pleased with the material I had thus far, although it wasn’t of any solid quantity. So I knew I had more work to do. The vignettes were budding but had not bloomed. This writing coach had helped me get started but I was at a point where I was stuck. What now, I had asked her. And that was when she asked me, “so what’s the point?” Her intentions were not to be snarky or flippant. I saw what she was doing. I had to dig deeper. Why tell my story? There was a part of me that wanted to be defensive in my reply, saying everyone has a story to tell. Everyone should tell their story. However, I knew that wasn’t enough. Just like the fiction writing I had produced more than a decade ago, there had to be a theme or a reason for a potential reader to actually take my book home with them. Having a disability label, in its various forms throughout my life, was like a box. At first it was comforting in that I knew my limits and the people around me accepted those limits. And though I was annoyed by the adults in that box, some of them did push me to grow. “I was put in box,” I answered, “created by others for a while. It was a comfortable place at first, and I was happy with its clear dimensions. Then the box’s dimensions changed. Several times, actually. None of those changes were within my control, and they made me uncomfortable and unhappy.” Then the box changed. Its shape, texture, scent, and boundaries contorted, taking me along for the ride. I felt trapped. I couldn’t find a comfortable spot anywhere. When I eventually transitioned from special education classes to “normal” classes it so disrupted my life and psyche it took years, I believe, for me to recover. That box kept me trapped through the adolescent years of middle and high school. I twisted and contorted but I never found a comfortable spot let alone allowed freedom from the box. “At some point, I worked on getting comfortable, eventually growing up to the point where I could make the box my own space.” Realizing there was more, I added, “But I really just wanted to get rid of the box all together.” Although these initial life events occurred for me more than thirty years ago, I imagine there are numerous people today that are feeling the constraints of the boxes society has put them in. We humans do like organization and classification. And as much as I love language, we use it these days to limit and lessen rather than celebrate and uplift. Months later after that meeting with the writing coach, I am still working on the memoir. And since I am a moody soul, I have days where I am emboldened by my story and other days when I am dejected by it. Also, our society has become a sad place where narratives are being ripped from our identities either to be erased or used as weapons. Like so many, I know what it’s like to be boxed in. My White race has afforded me less boxes, I realize. But as a woman with a disability, I know some of the struggle. It’s not enough to be human anymore. So I am going to continue to work on writing my story. I encourage everyone who is reading this to do the same. Do it for yourself first. Clearly discover who you are through your story. Then when that is solidified in print and in your heart, share with others. And listen to others. Life stories keep us connected and remind us of each other’s humanity. All of us forced into gnarled spaces that are not real for us must keep telling our stories. This not only allows us to leap out of the but then set it on fire. -Christyna
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