It was really important to introduce my sister in order to explain the following friendship - and what it taught me about being an ally.
When I was 11 Jenny walked into our classroom one September. Until she arrived I’d been the odd kid. Asked to watch most classes, I had largely drifted in a boisterous environment, mostly trying to avoid conflict. As the British kid in a French school, having been the subject of a huge fight by my parents to be admitted, I felt I had to go un-noticed, it was a matter of survival. Because I couldn’t write, teachers largely refused to engage with me. I was asked to sit quietly and watch the others. I played on this enormously, I must have avoided homework for 3 years at least...
Jenny changed all this as my best friend. It was a perfect year, full of cards, pop songs and confidences. As a Canadian she was the first person I’d met who spoke both the languages I did, celebrated Christmas and Easter the way my family did... I think it’s fair to say we secured each other’s belonging in the world. Lunchtimes became a joy, rather than a dread, as we sat and talked, and talked and talked... if only I could remember what was said. The feeling of those happy days though I will never forget. To be understood, to be accepted, to be wanted and loved. [reaches for tissues…] As the English speaking kids, with a British family, our bonds were tight and life-affirming. I have no doubt our understanding of social justice came from those conversations. We had no words for disability, discrimination or ableism. Bear in mind, at the time, computers were far from personal, search engines hadn’t been invented. It would take me another 20 years to find the Disabled people’s movement and the idea of the Social Model. We certainly did not have the words to distinguish between identity and group. In the late 70s you could not identify it wasn’t an available option, you were labelled according to the most visible impairment, multiple or hidden differences had yet to be invented.
Connection is never that straightforward, the tale is definitely not to be read as disabled kid finds charity in non-disabled friend’s benevolence. From our perspective the gains were mutual, the pleasures shared, the reality one of tangible happiness. We shared a similar, if opposite, connection to our sisters. Jenny’s sister had Down syndrome. I am in no doubt that this played a huge part, because like my sister, her ability to understand my experience, and my hers, was significant. I now have words and ideas to describe the absence of prejudice that comes of seeing people as individuals without the skew of prejudice. It wasn’t so much that Jenny wanted a disabled friend, more that the difference wasn’t an issue. Our shared experience drew us together, our lack of judgement allowed a mutual respect. Jenny and I also shared a fight against sexism and xenophobia [anti-Brit]. While it’s a pointless task to want to decide which ism is worse, it’s certainly less damaging to understand them as cumulative! I had no idea at the time how important this understanding would be. Securing, or facilitating the belonging, of another individual defies articulation. Our lunchtime conversations I am sure set some solid foundations for the self-respect and personal pride I would need to survive the trauma in years to come. Personal endurance that would be seriously tested in the following years. As the Adverse Childhood Experiences (ACEs) literature indicates personal relationships I hugely beneficial in how we deal with violence, victimisation. While there’s no insurance against the hate crime directed at individuals from marginalised groups, having people around you does minimise the likelihood of abuse and may help living with the scars – if not recovery. In my experience, being known is a game-changer, on many levels. I do think that our relationship secured a safe space in the world. Our friendship helped us be resilient in the face of pain that has hit since. While BBFs cannot immunise, they aid resilience, as they secure a belief in our likeable nature. So when people treat you badly you know others won’t. I knew Jenny loved me, so I was sure others would too. Our friendship has been a source of strength and hope in the difficult years since.
Allies at work
As this tale seeks to demonstrate, you don’t always need the right words to stand beside others as allies. I would argue that it’s a more straightforward route though. What Jenny gave me isn’t so much of value, but beyond measure, it is simply priceless. Not all friends are allies, there’s a deliberate effort involved in standing against oppression. However, I’d argue that it’s my love for Jenny that made my activism meaningful. In ways I was yet to discover, my intersectional stance, was born out of many relationships similar to ours.
Looking back, it seems a matter of high irony that if it had not been for school we wouldn’t have met. That the self-belief I gained from our relationships not only enabled a sense of belonging but set me on a trajectory as an activist. Years later I find myself placing the rights of people like Jenny, and her sister, at the heart of my work every day. Would I have strived to address the characteristic discrimination other marginalised groups face, if it were not for her. Yet, today other mum are fight tooth and claw to get their young people into schools. As rejection often based on the bogus assumption that for the most part disabled people take – but do not give. Education is therefore for those that will contribute, most insidiously it is implied, on economic terms. Denying schools places to disabled youngsters denies the experience that equality and equity can be lived. Not seen as an idealistic dream, or a goal solely viewed as the most able. Jenny and I had no idea where we were headed, and I thank every star we had those months. As I read it education needs to equip us for life, not just for work. Schooling as it stands, pandemic aside, is still showing us how to divide and reject.
Yes, we keep in touch, many many letters over many decades. Jenny is an awesome ally, a bond beyond words, in my heart and a message away. I’m glad we both had the sisters we did, without them we’d have struggled to be allies. We have been friends I’m sure but, it’s the closeness to our sisters that defined our ability to see the injustice we faced. It’s this outward facing rage that has fuelled my activism. With every p.s., every X and every O, I thank you mon amie.
Writers note:
Evidence suggests that the way we talk about the disabled population as a group in the public sphere is often subject to misrepresentation. Narratives often lead a storytelling that depicts disability as a individualised and medicalised telling. Trope: brave perky Crip overcomes personal tragedy to inspire us all. It’s hardly surprising if even disabled people end up writing about themselves that way. Ableism runs deep, internalised oppression deeper. Even where we hold the pen, non-disabled publishers hold the power. When I tell my story in public, I do it quite consciously to counter identified stereotypes imposed on many marginalised groups. In terms of ableism, you’ll notice from others blog posts, I try to counter the prejudice, discrimination and inequality the disabled population face.
