Undesirable: Toxic Romantic Dreams, Disability, Sexuality and Relationships

sexy ISA

Image Description: A stenciled modified image of the International Symbol of Accessibility, A presumably male stick figure in a wheelchair being straddled by another stick figure who is presumably female because of the addition of a ponytail hairstyle.

CW: This post contains discussion and descriptions of sexual harassment, violence and bullying

 

Considering the Kathy Lette article in the Daily Mail (which I wrote about here and Carly Findlay wrote about here). I want to offer my own narrative of disability and sexuality, a narrative that isn’t driven by a parent or other third party.

It is often said that disabled people are perceived as nonsexual and this is certainly the experience of some people. I previously wrote a response to this New York Times piece Longing for the Male Gaze. As problematic as I found the author, Jennifer Bartlett’s romantization of sexual harassment, I do understand it. While I do not and never shared that particular longing. I do understand the creation of problematic desires and fantasies created around cultural expectations of romance and relationships. My personal experience, however, was not so much marked by being viewed as nonsexual but rather simply undesirable.

In fact, my sexuality was not only acknowledged it was used as a weapon against me.

For as long as I can remember I have been excluded. It was the first form of bullying that I experienced as a child. Starting in kindergarten and continuing through to the end of high school. While that exclusion in those very early years was certainly not tinged with romantic rejection—we were all too young for that—it set a precedent for my being denied even friendly personal relationships. It created a deep desire within me for inclusion and acceptance.

As I got older the bullying became more direct and aggressive. From about grade six onward, harassment from girls in my class often contained aspects of sexual humiliation. From being cornered at my desk and being told that if I wasn’t already a lesbian I would be within a year to mocking me when they realized that I didn’t wear a bra.

As a physically disabled autistic person, bras have been a source of stress since I started wearing them. They are often inaccessible and more often uncomfortable. Yet, within days of the first comment about my lack of bra (I really didn’t need one), I started wearing sports bras (the only bras I could stand to wear at the time) just to stop the comments.

Eventually, the bullying turned to my relationship status (or more accurately my lack of one). The girls first dropped a note off at my desk which said: “Maybe if you got a boyfriend, you’d have more friends”. They later cornered me to deliver this message in person. I clearly learned that being in a romantic relationship might lead to broader social acceptance. I was, however, unable to acquire the boyfriend necessary for this entrer into social acceptance.

In elementary school, I was told I needed a boyfriend to be socially valuable. In high school, that message continued but it was also clearly accompanied with the message that no one would ever want me.

The very idea that someone might be interested in me was unthinkable and the source of much amusement for my classmates. In grade 9 one of the girls’ favourite torments would be to try and determine who I had a crush on. They used whether I blushed as evidence—I am very pale and blush easily—they got a lot of amusement out of embarrassing me in front of whatever boys happened to be present.

In high school, the boys joined in this abuse. It started with my being mock proposed to repeatedly to the uproarious laughter of the audience.

It culminated into an incident in grade twelve where four boys cornered me alone in an empty classroom and explicitly described pornography in detail and mocked my embarrassment, telling me that if I couldn’t handle such information that no one would ever want me.

When I reported the incident to the school, I was told that I probably misunderstood what had happened and that the boys probably didn’t realize that they were bothering me. Because disabled women can not only experience sexual harassment, they can also have it minimized and ignored when it happens.

The idea of dating me was so much a joke and a repugnant idea to my male peers that having it suggested that they were dating me was an insult. A rumour started that I was dating my science partner (because if you so much as speak to a member of the opposite sex in high school, regardless of context something sexy must be going on). He blamed me for the rumours. He got so sick of denying them that he eventually found me alone in a hallway one day and screamed every insult that he could think of at me. There was a small justice in this instance because he didn’t see the health teacher come up behind him and witness the entire tirade. He was swiftly and loudly told off.

Through all of this, I was hyper aware of what made me different from the other girls who were not treated with the disgust and scorn that I was. Namely, the fact that I had cerebral palsy. I became hyper aware of anytime someone might have to come into contact with my left hand (the most visible aspect of my CP).

As a kid, I participated in a lot of group activities whether it was church youth group, brownies or that time I participated in French Youth Parliament (my French really wasn’t up to the challenge). As a consequence, I frequently found myself having to play ice breaker games. One that always seemed to be played was where everyone stood in a circle and grabbed the hands of random people across from you. You then had to twist and wind between people’s hands to try and return to an untangled circle.

Every time this activity was announced, I had a moment of panic because I always feared that when I reached my left hand out, that no one would take it. Though someone always did.

It wasn’t until I was 22 and in a cultural exchange program that some failed to take my left hand when circumstances dictated they should. We were dancing to Malian music in a line holding hands and when the Canadian group leader joined the line he grabbed wrist instead of my hand. I was startled and just blurted out “you can take my hand”.

“Are you sure?” he asked, he clearly didn’t seem to want to.

“Yes”, He did it reluctantly and soon decided to leave the dance.

These fears of being rejected in social settings and the continued messages that I was undesirable did not culminate in my wanting to be perceived as a sexual object like Jennifer Bartlett but they still left me with toxic dreams about relationships.

I didn’t dream of being seen as a sexualized ideal. I just wanted to be loved and included. Getting this attention from one person would have been enough. I was desperate for it.

The desire to be loved and wanted is not in and of itself dangerous or unhealthy but it can be when you’ve been told over and over again that you are undesirable and that this undesirability is also what makes you a social outcast. I was also clearly told that I was so undesirable that to be seen with me would have social consequences for anyone willing to be with me. This lead to expectations that any relationship I had would likely be isolated from the rest of the world. While I heavily romanticized this scenario as a teenager and young adult, I am well aware now that this kind of dream and the level of desperation that I had for it, left me at serious risk of abusive relationships.

This is evidenced by how I behaved around and responded to boys I had crushes on. I wanted so badly to feel loved, that I would pretty much develop a crush on any boy who would initially speak to me with any degree of kindness. When I was 16 this meant I was infatuated with a boy who was initially very charming but in reality, had a deeply misogynistic streak to him.

I can’t remember what precipitated the incident (I think I had said something sarcastic to him) but one day when we were rehearsing for the school musical he slapped me hard across the face. It was witnessed by the stage manager (another student) who came over ready to punch him for having hit me. I talked him out of it and while it was probably best that they didn’t get into a fight in the school gym, I wasn’t trying to de-escalate a fight. I was defending the person who had hit me. I still wanted him to like me.

I am not sure when exactly when I was able to start thinking critically about those toxic romantic dreams. I suspect it began after I actually found social spaces where I was accepted as a friend. This didn’t do anything to ameliorate my romantic prospects but I did finally have a space where my desirability as a sexual or romantic partner was not held up as necessary for social inclusion. A relationship was not a social status symbol and association with me was not cause for a person to be mocked.

The thing is that this didn’t really start to happen until I reached grad school. I was also in Disability Studies which attracts a disproportionate number of disabled scholars. In my master’s program, I was one of three people with cerebral palsy and there were many other disabilities represented.

This was huge in terms of creating a sense of self-worth and community but I shouldn’t have had to wait until I was in my late twenties and surrounded by people with common experiences to be accepted.

This is why first person narratives of disability are so important, particularly in relation to sexuality because we can talk about the social impact of being deemed undesirable. Third person narratives like those of Kathy Lette about her son really just buy into the social stigma and work with it rather than challenge it.

Her son asked her if he would ever get a girlfriend. A question to me suggests a desire not just for sex but for a relationship, a prolonged romantic experience. Lette’s response was to consider hiring a sex worker which really meets none of those desires even if sex is a desired part of a romantic relationship.

Considering hiring sex workers as a solution even in part to the issue of the widespread cultural disinterest and even disgust with the idea of sex and romantic relationships with disabled people is in some ways to accept and fail to challenge those ideas.

A sex worker is not going to offer a relationship beyond what is agreed and paid for. Disabled people know this. It is not a comparable substitute for actually being accepted and wanted.

I want and deserve meaningful human relationships both simply social and romantic. These are not things I can buy. In order for me to be able to have them. I need people to actually interrogate why disabled people aren’t seen as options for romantic partners. I need more than the platitudes I received from a male friend at 18 when in a moment of bravery I shared my insecurities and the sentiment that no one when I fantasize about an as yet unseen and unmet lover, thinks of someone like me. I even asked him outright if he had ever thought about dating a disabled person.

He deflected by magnanimously claiming that he was open to falling in love with someone who was disabled. He would however not answer my question directly because of course, he had never actually considered it. He, however, wouldn’t directly admit as much because to do so would be to admit to an internalized bias and discrimination.

I want people to be aware not only that disabled people are sexual beings but also be aware of the widespread messages that they tell each other and disabled people about how we are undesirable. I want them to understand the harm that causes and how it sets people up for potential abuse. It goes beyond them simply not considering having a disabled partner.

I want those ideas directly and actively challenged. I want to see disabled people culturally framed as beautiful and I want this to happen without a flurry of think pieces on how progressive it is. Those think pieces are evidence of how strange it still is how people still feel the need to applaud it. The change will come when disabled people can be portrayed as beautiful and sexual and the response is to agree and admire that beauty without qualification.

I don’t want any more disabled people growing up to be told that no one will want them just because they are disabled.

 

 

If you liked this post and want to support my continued writing please consider buying me a metaphorical coffee (or two or more). Donations help me keep this blog going and support my ongoing efforts to obtain a PhD.

Buy Me a Coffee at ko-fi.com

Advertisements

Issues of Disabled Sexuality and Consent: When Parents Get Involved in Their Children’s Sex Lives

 

sexy ISA

Image Description: A stencilled modified image of the International Symbol of Accessibility, A presumably male stick figure in a wheelchair being straddled by another stick figure who is presumably female because of the addition of a ponytail hairstyle.

 

Australian-British author, Kathy Lette considered hiring her son a sex worker*. She considered doing this because her son is autistic. This narrative in and of itself is not new or particularly shocking. Parents have discussed considering hiring their disabled sons a sex workers before. I’ve seen narratives written by disabled men talking about their experiences hiring sex workers. The thing that makes Lette’s article so horrifying is the lack of involvement and consent from her son as she goes through her consideration of hiring him a sex worker.

There is also the fact that this narrative comes from her and shares a lot of extremely private medical information about her son. The over sharing of private information about disabled children is inappropriate and exploitative generally but is particularly heinous in the case of Lette as she is literally using her son’s story to sell her novels.

Lette describes her process of seeking a sex worker for her son as follows,

Not one, but two of the mothers I’ve befriended through the National Autistic Society suggested that we take our sons to a brothel. I mean, what kind of mother gives her son the sort of advice championed by Silvio Berlusconi?

But even the temporary solace of sex might do something for his flagging confidence.

Is soliciting a prostitute a seriously abnormal thing to do? Yes. But mothering a child with autism tends to recalibrate one’s view of normal. And so we asked our male friends how to go about it – only to be met with blanket non-co-operation till one pal replied facetiously, ‘Great idea. I’ll just run it by my wife, shall I?’

I asked a French girlfriend who is very worldly. ‘How can you, a feminist, condone prostitution?’ she responded with a searing glare.

Soon after, I was driving past a red-light district near Liverpool Street station. On impulse, I veered off the main road into a labyrinth of dark streets. As women skulked towards me out of the shadows, my heart thumped against my ribcage. What the hell was I doing there? I was more likely to be found at a book club than on a kerb crawl.

Besides, even if I did pick up a prostitute, how would I negotiate the transaction?

No, this was a bad, bad idea. I waved my hand back and forth like a windshield wiper to shoo the women away. When it came to parenting, I obviously needed a hat marked ‘trainee’.

It also crossed my addled brain that I was contemplating an illegal act. Kerb crawling for your child would prove a pretty hard concept to explain to a judge. And, how would I survive in jail? I’m a writer. The only wound I’ve ever received is a paper cut.

I went into spooked deer mode and bolted.

At no point, does her plan involves discussing it with her son. I can only imagine the bizarre and awkward scene that would have followed her impromptu “kerb crawl” if she had in fact succeeded in hiring a sex worker and had taken her home to her unsuspecting son.

“Hello, dear, I hope you’re having a good evening. By the way, I’ve hired you a sex worker. Here she is. Go at it. Have fun.”

The best case scenario is simply a lot of awkwardness. The worst-case scenario is that she, having presented her son with a sex worker, ends up pressuring him into a sexual experience that he does not want and is thus along with the sex worker complicit in a sexual assault.

This narrative falls into the egregious stereotype of disabled male sexuality which suggests (quite incorrectly) that their sex drive is simply constant and completely undiscerning. The very idea that you could simply present someone with a willing partner and assume that they would automatically be attracted to that person and in the mood for that sexual liaison is absurd.

The level of hopelessness that Lette describes, about her son ever finding a girlfriend (which he does eventually do all by himself) is also unnecessarily exaggerated. He is in his early twenties. Contrary to narratives in popular culture, it is still not entirely uncommon for people regardless of disability to have not had a successful relationship by the time they are twenty-one.

I am also struck by the masculine centred nature of these disability and sex worker narratives. The horrific failure of consent that is the Lette example aside. These stories are so frequently couched in a need to explore and affirm sexuality. But they are almost always focused on men. I have never heard a narrative written by a disabled woman or from the parent of the disabled woman in which they seek a sex worker. A 2005 survey suggested that 22% of disabled men had sought the services of sex workers as opposed to only 1% of disabled women had done so.

When it comes to narratives of providing supportive assistance in facilitating sexual relationships for disabled people, women are left out. The social taboo of women hiring sex workers completely overrides the narrative of affirming sexuality that often accompanies stories about disabled men.

This is problematic not because women aren’t seeking sex workers but because it reinforces the idea that men are in some way entitled to sex while reinforcing the idea that disabled women are sexually passive and that disabled women having sex or seeking sex may be in and of itself cause for concern.

Lette’s article reinforces this idea of male entitlement to sex through her complete lack of consideration of consent. It is simply assumed that this is something that he would want and be willing to participate in.

She also entirely fails to consider or address the way that disabled people have been culturallyy desexualized that has led to the conclusion that relying on sex workers for giving disabled men, sexual experiences in the first place. She simply laments that women will not think outside the box. She doesn’t look at how those boxes are created and socially maintained or how they might be broken open and destroyed to include disabled people as socially acceptable and desireable sexual and romantic partners.

Ultimately, the expression of sexuality by disabled people should be led by them. Even in circumstances where third-party assistance might be necessary to fulfil the expression of sexuality, the decision on how and with whom should always come from the disabled person themselves not from a parent or anyone else.

*Lette never actually uses the term sex worker in her article, choosing instead to use more disrespectful language.

 

If you liked this post and want to support my continued writing please consider buying me a metaphorical coffee (or two or more). Donations help me keep this blog going and support my ongoing efforts to obtain a PhD.

Buy Me a Coffee at ko-fi.com

Disabled Women & Sexual Objectification (or the Lack Thereof)

Today in The New York Times Opinion pages there was a piece called Longing for the Male Gaze. It is a personal account of a disabled woman’s experiences of not being socially perceived as sexually desirable. I have mixed feelings about the piece. On one hand while it is reasonably well known that disabled people are either viewed as nonsexual by default, there is very little available on the lived experience of not being accepted as an attractive, sexual being. This piece challenges that trend and does so in The New York Times.

On the other hand much of the framing of the piece is problematic. It focuses less on being seen as attractive and sexual within interpersonal relationships and more on not being treated as a sexual object. Jennifer Bartlett (the author) focuses on her lack of experiences with cat calling and other forms of sexual harassment.

This is problematic for a couple of reasons. For one it gives a lot of social power and validation to harmful social interactions. For another, the author actively plays oppression olympics between sexism/misogyny & ableism. In so doing she fundamentally fails to comprehend the very real harm that can come from catcalling and other forms of sexual harassment.

I do understand her frustration with the fact that disabled women are left out of the sexual objectification faced by our nondisabled peers. It is a catch-22 of intersectional oppression that even being denied an oppressive force usually experienced by part of your identity as a result of its intersection with disability is in fact further oppression.

That disabled women are often denied sexual objectification only shows how disability has denied us the ability  to live up to social and cultural understandings of gender presentation and punishes us by denying us not only the consequences of being sexually objectified but also of simply being seen as fully women.

That is a conversation that hasn’t happened enough and needs to.

Unfortunately, Bartlett is not starting that conversation. She instead writes almost longingly of being sexually objectified as though being seen as worthy of catcalling would also mean she was worthy of being seen as a sexual being in healthier interpersonal interactions. Unfortunately, in this she is probably right.

That however does not negate the issue of her downplaying the seriousness & real dangers of sexual harassment and catcalling. She writes,

On one hand, I know that I am “lucky” not to be sexually harassed as I navigate the New York City streets. But, I am harassed in other ways that feel much more damaging. People stare. People insist that I have God’s blessing. People feel most comfortable speaking about me in the third person rather than addressing me directly. It is not uncommon that I will be in a situation where a stranger will talk to the nearest able-bodied person, whether it be a friend or a complete stranger, about me to avoid speaking to me.

I also do understand what it feels like to get attention from the wrong man. It’s gross. It’s uncomfortable. It’s scary and tedious. And in certain cases, traumatic. But I still would much rather have a man make an inappropriate sexual comment than be referred to in the third person or have someone express surprise over the fact that I have a career. The former, unfortunately, feels “normal.” The latter makes me feel invisible and is meant for that purpose.

She does acknowledge that attention from the “wrong” men can be scary but still positions it as preferable to the erasure of the ableist interactions she does experience more frequently.

I would however argue that catcalling and sexual harassment is an erasure of the humanity and personhood of women. It can also be deadly (link to When Women Refuse a blog which collects stories of women who are either harmed or killed when they didn’t respond favourably to male attention).

Like Bartlett I am a woman with cerebral palsy. I however have not lived a life as free of catcalling and sexual harassment as she describes her life to have been. I have also experienced the stares, question, prayers and being ignored in favour of nondisabled companions. I am however not going to say that one is preferable than the other.

In every single incident of street harassment that I have experienced. I have felt either utterly dehumanized or genuinely threatened. I however cannot say that I have left every dehumanizing disability specific negative interaction feeling totally safe either.

Being a disabled woman who has experienced street harassment, I can also attest to the fact that it hasn’t done anything for my being accepted as a sexual being by society. In fact it is sometimes used to reinforce the fact that I’m generally not viewed as sexual.

As I’ve written about before, as a result of my disabilities I am not able to perform femininity to cultural expectations. This has resulted in men yelling questions like “are you a man or woman?” at me out of car windows or men foregoing the question altogether and simply loudly debating the question as I walk by.

When the harassment is actually sexually suggestive it’s threatening. Like the time I was lost in downtown Winnipeg at night and someone came up to me while I was trying to get my bearings told me I was beautiful and requested that I go home with him. Luckily when I visibly recoiled he moved on. This interaction was immediately followed by a second man who had witnessed the interaction using it as an excuse to get way to close to me in order to say “well that was creepy wasn’t it”.

These interactions didn’t affirm my femininity despite my disability. They made me terrified. The fact that I am also disabled and less physically able to run away or fight only exacerbated that fear.

So while I agree that in many ways the ability to be viewed as a sexual object is also tied to the more benign assessments on who gets viewed as a sexual being, I do not agree with Bartlett’s down playing of the harm of sexual harassment.

Sexual harassment when coupled with disability does not actually reinforce a disabled sexual identity in a culture that continues to ignore that disabled people are sexual beings. Downplaying the harm of street harassment not only erases the real harm it causes nondisabled women who experience it regularly but also ignores that some disabled women do experience it and that it only makes them less safe not more fully human.

 

Disability, Gender, Sexuality and Hair

When I moved from my home in Saskatchewan to Toronto to study for my Masters degree, I didn’t cut my hair. This was an act of defiance.

That may seem like an odd thing to say as a straight cisgender woman and yet it’s true.

The gendered world in which we live often says that for women to be beautiful, they should have long hair, so long hair would seem to be more of a capitulation to gender norms than a radical act. There are strong societal ties to how people view women and hair.

Long hair is feminine and beautiful whereas short hair is not, it supposedly veers into androgyny and there is a stereotype that women with short hair are lesbians. These are stereotypes that should absolutely be challenged but it is impossible to argue that society hasn’t internalized them and it changes the way people are treated.

Here’s where it gets complicated for me, I’m disabled. I have very little (if any) fine motor control over my left hand. As a result I have difficulty styling my own hair (If I can do it at all).

Disabled women’s hair is just seen as yet another inconvenience for caregivers and at times we aren’t even given a choice around our hair length and style.

As a young child, my hair was kept very short. I definitely had to rock the mushroom cut that was so common in the early nineties. When I became old enough to voice an opinion on my hairstyle, my mother let me grow it out but with the disclaimer that I was not to expect her to style it for me.

Requests for pony tails or braids were more often than not met with exasperation and refusal. On my own, I could at best pin the bangs out of my face.

My attempts to pull my hair into a pony tail were utter failures. I had to deal with loose long hair in all weather and environments, from walking down the street to hiking up a mountain. My long hair might have been beautiful but it was a source of inconvenience and discomfort.

So it is hardly surprising that at around 12 years old, I cut it all off. I had so little personal experience of girls with short hair, I provided my hairdresser with a photograph of a boy as a guide. The hairdresser spent the entire cut, lamenting the loss of my beautiful blonde hair. The message I received was clear. I was making myself uglier.

I let my hair grow out again. Basically, my youth was a series of hair extremes. I always let it grow really long, would get sick of it then cut it to a short pixie all at once. The hairdresser’s grief over cutting it, repeated each time.

When I cut it short again in high school, I started getting back handed compliments from my peers, “oh Kim, your hair is so cute…but you know boys don’t really like girls with short hair”. So in addition to feeling less attractive, I was also certifiably undesirable as well. So I grew it out again.

At fifteen I traveled with my church’s youth group to a youth gathering in BC. I had long hair and no way of controlling it myself. Some of the other girls were kind enough to put it in a pony tail for me, so that I could be more comfortable in the summer heat. For the first time in my life I started to think that occasionally asking for help wasn’t a complete inconvenience to people around me.

That all ended when we arrived at the gathering site at the University of British Columbia and I suffered a shoulder injury. I was separated from my peers because, they were participating in the conference. I was alone with one of the parent supervisors after having been taken to see the nurse. Fresh off my positive experiences with my peers I asked her to help me put my hair in a pony tail expecting a positive response. Instead she said no. I was disappointed but accepted it. Later she came back and berated me and told me that if I was incapable of doing something so simple for myself than I had no hope of being an independent adult saying she was shocked that I had even asked her. I went back to my dorm room and cried. Yet I kept my long hair throughout the rest of high school. I had however learned that long hair and independence were mutually exclusive.

After high school I participated in a youth volunteer program called Katimavik which had (until the Conservatives defunded it) Canadian youth travel around the country doing volunteer work for nine months. It was the first time I was going to live independent of family. The day before I caught my plane, I went to the salon and cut off all my hair. I didn’t grow it out again until I got back.

The next time I knew that I was going to be traveling for an extended period of time, off to the salon I went.

In my twenties I experienced some severe illness and long periods of unemployment. This stress led to the sensory symptoms of my autism going into overload. Basically as soon as my hair got long enough to cover my ears I couldn’t handle it. As a result, I consciously maintained short hair for a few years. Each time I went to the salon, I risked dealing with sexism and straight out homophobia. I was told “this will make you look like a boy” “what will your mother think?” and the golden standard of gender policing “you know boys don’t like girls with short hair”. I changed hair dressers and salons twice during this time.

After my health stabilized, I grew out my hair again. I kept it long through the rest of my undergraduate degree. During that time I spent hundreds of hours and tens of thousands of attempts figuring out how to get my hair in a pony tail.

I would try and fail over and over until the cramping in my left hand got so bad that I would be forced to stop. It took years. I did eventually figure it out, though it still takes me several attempts to do it successfully.

So when I moved to Toronto for my MA, even though I knew I would be away for at least a year, I didn’t cut my hair. I kept it long for the duration of the degree. Each morning I would spend several minutes forcing it into a pony tail so that it wouldn’t get in my way. My wrist would cramp but I would struggle on. It got to the point that I hated my hair but couldn’t bring myself to cut it. It felt like giving in.

I didn’t cut it again until I finished my degree and a lack of employment prospects forced me to move back home and be the stereotypical millennial living in their mother’s basement.

This time when I got it cut, I know that I have the hairstyle that I want. I got it because, I like it aesthetically though the convenience and comfort of short hair cannot be denied. This time, I was lucky in my hair dresser, she just double checked that I understood the drastic change and was sure it’s what I wanted. There was no judgement or impromptu funeral for the lost hair.

And yet, despite loving my hair I know that I do not exude femininity. A friend even complimented me on my “beautifully dikey hair”. She’s queer and did genuinely mean that as a compliment and I took it as one but it does serve as a reminder that I am not necessarily visually identifiable as either straight or cis.

Nondisabled feminists fight gender norms because they are both false and limiting. For disabled people though, they are additionally insidious. When we don’t have control over our outward appearance we are by default desexualized. As a teenager it wasn’t about being mistaken for being gay. No one even considered that my hair might be an expression of gender identity. It really was an erasure of my sexuality as a whole. Short hair just exempted me from the dating pool. It cannot be overlooked that the cultural tendency is to view disabled people as universally asexual which serves to remove them from the sexual spectrum altogether. We are not just dealing with gender normativity but ableism as well.

Even though I am happy with my hair probably for the first time in my life because I truly chose it for myself. I cannot help but be frustrated with how gender norms coupled with ableism means that my sexuality is so easy to erase and that I felt the need to suffer discomfort for years in a vain attempt to appear feminine. It is sad that it is so recent that I really started to think about how I wanted to look and not how other people would react to how I look.

IMG_20160310_001719

Image description: Black and white photo of me (a 29 year old woman) with a disconnected undercut. shaved on the sides and back with top left longer and styled to be standing up.