SEARCH RESULTS

Millie Lord provides an insightful extended piece into society's prejudices against those who are disabled, challenging readers to reflect on their own preconceived ideas and misconceptions about what it means to be able-bodied and what must be done for greater inclusivity. Let me set the scene. You're with a group of friends, who you consider kind, socially conscious, and liberal- in a nutshell, ‘woke’. As Black Lives Matter has recently (and necessarily) exposed, even the most ‘liberal’ of groups can contain deep subconscious prejudices, which are built into our systems. However, I usually find that in liberal groups, if a racist, or sexist, or homophobic joke is made, or slurs are used, although (questionable) people laugh, someone will always challenge the bigotry. The one exception, that is still considered perfectly acceptable to joke about, is disability. Whether joking with friends, in a political debate, or chatting, the spectre of ableism is always seen as acceptable in conversation. I have rarely seen anyone step in and challenge assumptions about disabled people. This has been especially visible at university, where ableism is as common as skipping lectures. Even the most ‘liberal’ of groups can contain deep subconscious prejudices, which are built into our systems. Perhaps the reason why I notice this is because I have been lucky enough to grow up alongside Florence, my older cousin who has Down’s Syndrome and is a medal-winning athlete for GB Down Syndrome Swimming. Coming from a family that sees disability as part of normal life, I’ve come to realise that ableism is everywhere. No matter how ‘woke’ the group, ableism is rife. Whether this is seen by using derogatory slurs like ‘retard’ or ‘mong’ to insult someone, doing mocking impressions of people who are clearly mentally disabled, or making fun of the autisticm, ableism is the prejudice that is never called out. It is ignored and normalised,  even within movements touted as intersectional, ignoring the fact that disability intersects with other systemic disadvantages. Those who claim to be inclusive often ask, “What's the harm in joking?” The answer to that is that ableist jokes stoke the fires of exclusion, maltreatment, and prejudice. Jokes and malicious humour, whether well-intentioned or malevolent, have always reinforced ableism by instantly labelling the disabled as an undesirable ‘other’ to normal human society. Jokes have “100% contributed to exclusion” says Veronique Garrett, an advocate for  disability rights, and my aunt. Since having Florence, 26 years ago, she has campaigned on inclusion and disability rights in countries including the UK, North Macedonia, Russia and Kyrgyzstan. “Primarily, [jokes] make them out as being different, unusual, a curiosity.” And the disabled are not a curiosity; they make up 20 million of the working age population globally. Despite the fact that disabled people are (newsflash) humans just like anyone else, and demographically significant, common ableist jokes set the disbaled apart as something strange, and deserving of mocking. I’m not trying to ruin fun: as Veronique argues, disability “does not have to be humourless”. Self-deprecating humour, black humour and witticisms about disability are common within the disabled community; many find it cathartic to joke about their condition. A great example is Francesca Martinez, a comedian, who has cerebral palsy, but simply refers to herself as ‘wobbly’. Even amongst our family, Florence is teased about aspects of disability. However, that is separate to laughing at someone: there is a significant, and obvious, difference between familiarity and mocking. Mocking has real impacts. Despite the fact that disabled people are (newsflash) humans just like anyone else, and demographically significant, common ableist jokes set the disbaled apart as something strange, and deserving of mocking. One of the primary impacts of ableism, especially ableist jokes, is the propagation of damaging misconceptions about disabled people. The way that we regard disabled people directly impacts how we treat them, be that as fellow humans, or as patients, consumers, and employees. Therefore, misconceptions can lead to prejudice and discrimination against the disabled, personally and institutionally. So what are the most common misconceptions? “The biggest misconception is that all disabled people are unhappy and want to change,” says Veronique. This is clearly not true, evidenced by the fact that, despite the unjust discrimation, many disabled people live happy and healthy lives. Disability does not have to define one’s life, and if given the right support, disabled people can truly live fulfilled lives. Another major fallacy, with real world impacts, is that “disabled people don't want to be independent”. In reality, “they want, like all of us, to be in charge of their lives”. And this is crucial to understand. For a more inclusive society, we all need to listen to the disabled, and let them plan their own lives. The misconception that the disabled cannot be independent can lead to unfair legal and medical treatment, and further limit opportunities. Over half of adults with mental disabilities still live with their parents, which is of course a different decision for each individual, but often their abilities are underestimated due to misconceptions. Other misconceptions that Veronique listed included disabled people being seen as “brave”, that they only want to mix with other disabled people, and that disabled people are unable to be sexually active and have fulfilling relationships. And all of these have real world consequences. The idea that disabled people only want to mix with each other further alienates and segregates them, whilst the narrative of ‘brave disabilities” is patronising, especially when disabled people are called brave for simply living their lives, or being out in public. As well as creating misconceptions, the othering of disabled people has more real world impacts. What does this othering do? It makes it acceptable to undertake more insidious forms of bullying and abuse, as well as increasing the stigma of being a visible disabled person, be that on the street, socially, or in a workplace. If we’re allowed to laugh at disabled people for being different, it’s not that many steps away from treating them worse because they are different. And examples of that are rife- although we have come far, insidious ableism is still virulent. The idea that disabled people only want to mix with each other further alienates and segregates them, whilst the narrative of ‘brave disabilities” is patronising, especially when disabled people are called brave for simply living their lives, or being out in public. Firstly, in the workplace. In the U.K, in 2019, 53% of disabled people participated in the workforce, compared with 82% of non-disabled people, a significant rift. The gap has closed slightly due to the growth of technology, but it is still major, and many of the disabled who are in work face discrimination. Stigmatisation is rife- however accessible a company makes its offices, if you are surrounded by mocking, or disbelief that you can work, it is hardly conducive to long-term employment. When the disabled are mocked, companies are hardly going to spend time and money working to increase accessibility, even though a diverse workforce actually leads to better innovation. Another, even more disturbing consequence, is those who believe they can take advantage of the people that society designates as ‘other’. This can be particularly be seen in sexual assault. According to NPR, in the U.S people with intellectual disabilities are sexually assaulted at a rate seven times higher than the non-disabled. This is criminal, and a much underreported subject- despite the wave that #MeToo set off, disabled victims of sexual abuse were again left out and ignored. When we treat disabled people as other, be this through jokes or vocabulary, we are creating a society where the sexual assault of the vulnerable is permitted. By turning a blind eye to ableism, the message we give is that we do not care how the disabled are treated. That we are ambivalent in their struggle for rights. And this leads to serious bullying and discrimination. So how should we treat disabled people then? Easy answer: ask them. And what they say is pretty self-explanatory. Veronique, who has worked with countless numbers of disabled people, believes that first of all, “do not pity disabled people.” No one likes to be pitied, and pity is a shaming emotion, not an empowering or equalising one. We must also keep our assumptions in check: “don't assume that just because you can't see a disability that there isn't one”. “Practice inclusion. Adjust your language. Don't make jokes at disabilities expense at all.” It all comes back to this: no matter how liberal you think you are, if you are still using ‘mong’ as an insult then you are prejudiced, and contributing to the devaluing of disabled lives.  “And I think we can all challenge accessibility issues”- if we notice that a space we live or work in would be inaccessible to someone with a disability, complain about it. Start a campaign. “Practice inclusion. Adjust your language. Don't make jokes at disabilities expense at all.” Of course, although there is much to do, things have improved. When I asked Veronique how things had changed since Florence was born in 1994, she explained that the entire paradigm had switched. “It was very much based on a medical model, where in order to rectify the solution of a disability, you were treated. And disabled people were seen as being unfortunate victims. Whereas now it's much more a societal model, where society adapts to and accommodates  the person”. The UK, despite some of our issues around disability, is leading the way for inclusion, and ensuring the disabled are not seen as a burden or problem. However, it is also important, in Veronique’s words, to learn from others. Although nations in the Global South often have a poor record on disability, and institutionalise the disabled, they do “bring something to the table themselves”. Institutionalisation is obviously cruel and ineffective, but some aspects of other cultures can teach us. For example, in many Asian nations, families that don’t give their children up to orphanages have large family networks, and, Veronique argues, “there's a huge nurturing and love that often people in the West don't give.” We need to take that into account, and should certainly not be congratulating ourselves yet on disability rights. Crucial to stopping all ableism, especially of the casual kind, says Veronique, is education. “Society needs to be educated early on or what to say what disability is and how it affects people. And how disabled people view themselves.” For many children growing up with only rare encounters with disabled people, it is easy to fall into patterns of laughing at or fearing those different from you. A combination of visibility and education from a young age will be crucial to reducing the large percentage of ableism that is caused by ignorance, rather than cruelty. Maybe then, casual ableism will finally die. Jokes about the disabled are both a symptom and a cause of ableism, and ableism kills. As the COVID crisis has demonstrated, systematic disregard or ignorance of people’s lives can and does kill. Crucial to stopping all ableism, especially of the casual kind, says Veronique, is education. Although narratives around disability have been changing for the better, the COVID crisis has set back progress. On the one hand, people have become more aware of what it feels like to be trapped at home long-term, and working from home (for privileged jobs) has rapidly become the norm, meaning working and socialising may become more accessible for the physically disabled. However, coronavirus has led to an extremely dangerous conversation around the disposability of disabled lives, propagated not only by the media, but also our own government in some cases. How we view disabled lives, and the reduced value our society places on them, has been laid bare by coronavirus. As news of the pandemic began to filter in, and the government decided to have a dalliance with herd immunity, the message this sent was that disabled (and elderly) lives were not worth the expense, not worth the inconvenience of treating them. Of course there was initial uncertainty over the science of COVID, and understandable uncertainties around lockdowns, but disregard for the disabled has continued throughout the crisis. When it seemed as if the NHS would be overwhelmed, discussions around triage demonstrated that we are yet to accept that disabled lives can be as fulfilling as able-bodied lives, with the seriously disabled viewed almost as collateral damage. The disabled were recommended to shelter, but if they got ill, those lives were then seen as less important. Some medical trusts, in Wales and Somerset, even issued “do not resuscitate” forms to disabled patients, including autistic patients, which mean emergency services would not be called if they contracted coronavirus and symptoms worsened. The disregard for life is staggering. As Veronique said, “you can’t put a value on a persons’ life”. But, sadly, that is exactly what we have done. The latest figures show that over 22,000 disabled people died from coronavirus, between 2nd March and 15th May, equivalent to ⅔  of all deaths. According to the BBC, this means that working-age disabled women are more than 11 times more likely to die from coronavirus than able bodied peers, and the rate for disabled men was 6.5 times higher than non-disabled men. There is obviously a biological reality in terms of the immune system, with physically disabled perhaps more likely to contract COVID, but these figures include mental disabilities, who’s understanding and inclusion in lockdown procedures have not been considered. Working-age disabled women are more than 11 times more likely to die from coronavirus than able bodied peers, and the rate for disabled men was 6.5 times higher than non-disabled men. So let this be another one of things we should have known for a long time, but are only really learning post-COVID. Ableism, be it jokes, slurs, or worse, kills. Exclusion kills. And it is our responsibility to make the changes that stop this. Subtle ableism may only be the tip of the iceberg, but it creates the mindset that allows tragedies such as this. It is our responsibility to re-educate ourselves.

FX’s drama portrays a political war between American women in the 1960s & 70s, but can it illuminate how women continue to operate within society at large today? Olivia Humphrey evaluates the series’ more subtle indicators towards modern feminist debate. Whilst watching Cate Blanchett’s command of a drawing room filled with middle-class housewives, each one bewitched by her galvanising rhetoric of internalised patriarchy, I find myself becoming increasingly exasperated. I imagine this reaction was shared by many of those who have been following FX’s historical drama, Mrs America. Sitting alongside my mum as the tirade reached climax, preparing a biting remark, she looks at me and says, “But she’s absolutely right.” Mrs America dramatizes the narrative of the movement to get the Equal Rights Amendment ratified in the US, and the unanticipated counterattack from conservative campaigner Phyllis Schlafly (Blanchett). An illustrious cast, if nothing else, elevates the production’s profile; recurring members include Rose Byrne (Neighbours), Uzo Aduba (Orange is the New Black), Elizabeth Banks (The Hunger Games) and Sarah Paulson (American Horror Story), to name a few. Relaying the accounts of the leading women of the era – Schlafly, alongside renowned second-wave feminists, including Shirley Chisholm, Gloria Steinem and Betty Friedan – the miniseries investigates how this theatre of war throughout the 1970s and 80s altered the American political sphere forever. Schlafly’s address in question, from the first episode of the nine-part series, is masterfully portrayed by Blanchett, who relays the contemptuous, yet keenly intelligent mechanisms of her vernacular and body language. The result is incendiary, riddled with personal strikes on Freidan and Steinem of the Women’s Liberation Movement. One statement, however, has continued to reverberate around my house: “What is going to happen if you push women out into the workforce, is that they are going to find themselves with two full-time jobs. And they’re going to be exhausted and unhappy, and feel like they’re not doing either well.” The smug resonance holds more truth than is comfortable to admit. At a first glance, this crusade perhaps seems worlds away from my own sphere of existence. As a young, white, female student, living in one of the most affluent cities in the UK, I am able to live a privileged lifestyle. I have access to free healthcare, incorporating sexual health, meaning I have autonomy over my reproductive rights. I have access to a community where LGBTQA individuals aren’t merely tolerated, but celebrated. What’s more, I have been actively encouraged to enrol onto an art degree – an arguably fiscally insecure decision – because I was lucky enough to grow up in a household where our finances were deemed stable enough to support our outlandish ambitions. In short: I have been afforded the luxury of idealism. This is where my mother and I differ – life has moulded her into a steadfast realist. Thrust into a career as a general practitioner by her parents, my mother’s life, up to the age of thirty-two, saw her check all the boxes of a respectable existence: career, husband, children, all whilst maintaining a size 8 waistline. However, throughout the majority of my childhood and adolescence, she functioned as a single mother, essentially balancing two full-time posts. Herein lies her sympathy with Schlafly’s rationale that, when given opportunities to do anything, women are expected to be everything. Herein lies her sympathy with Schlafly’s rationale that, when given opportunities to do anything, women are expected to be everything. It is simple to posit that this expectancy is intrinsic within women at large; that the tension between fulfilling oneself both professionally and personally is built within us, somehow. It’s a view my mother subscribes to. However, to my mind, this perspective seems reductionist and dangerous, and points towards an issue throughout society at large. Glossy magazine covers and diet teas consistently bombard their audiences with the reminder to maintain a certain figure, lest they dare lose their sex appeal, and TV advertising of home appliances regularly situate women in the kitchen. The illusion that perfection can be attained throughout all areas of life is seductive, yet inevitably unfeasible – it immensely endangers mental health by setting impossible standards and actively encourages women to perpetuate misogynistic ideologies. Schlafly’s continued rhetoric illustrates this perfectly. “… [Steinem] is the sort of miserable and pathetic woman they aspire to be… none of them can find a man who wants to marry them.” Moreover, modern ‘hustle’ culture, leaves little room for those who align themselves on one side of domesticity or professionalism; those who dedicate themselves to homemaking are often not taken seriously, and those who choose not to marry or have children are ‘incomplete.’ This apparent motif of women pitting themselves against each other resurfaces time and again throughout the show. There is a facet of the argument that still screams to be acknowledged: the strain of perfectionism would be significantly reduced if the dynamics of marriage and parenthood were allotted equally. This is not to say that the world is devoid of loving husbands and dedicated fathers – far from it. Nonetheless, there lingers throughout society a concept that women are duty-bound to be primary caregivers; a notion that is damaging to men also. In Mrs America, the implication that men be expected to raise children was met by Schlafly’s audience with hilarity, to an echo of “Oh, God help us.” Yet, whilst biology does not distribute the reproductive burden equally between the sexes, men are perfectly capable of emotional labour and the responsibilities of parenthood – to say otherwise is to do them a disservice. Consistently, Mrs America accentuates ways in which the key female players of the era navigated their own conflicts, not always to fruition. Issues concerning POC and LGBTQA characters cast a light on feminism as a movement that has historically prioritised white, middle class women. The political battlefield is represented much as one might expect: bloody, treacherous and duplicitous, and the war amongst women is a tragic narrative. The chronicle didn’t need to happen – women didn’t need to divide themselves, but under inflammatory leadership, did so anyway. It’s interesting to question whether Schlafly herself was truly invested in the lives of housewives, or whether she simply thought it would be a useful tool in increasing her following, to eventually place herself into office with a far-right president. It is widely believed that, had it not been for her opposition, the ERA would have been ratified victoriously; instead, the series concludes with no clear winners. Realistically, a turn through history books would tell me this was to be expected. But, somewhat satisfyingly to the idealist inside me, Schlafly herself discovers the bitter truth to Jill Ruckelshaus’ ominous words. The chronicle didn’t need to happen – women didn’t need to divide themselves, but under inflammatory leadership, did so anyway. “You want to get ahead by climbing on the shoulders of men, Phyllis? Well you go right ahead. Just know, they’re looking right up your skirt.” Mrs America is available to watch on BBC iPlayer.

Lucien Staddon Foster explores London's influence in Edinburgh and how University students should embrace multiculturalism as opposed to private school elitism in combatting bigotry and racism. It's hard to miss Edinburgh's uniquely strong English influence, especially that of London. It is so powerful that some parts of Edinburgh are often criticised as being an extension of London in terms of influences, attitudes and the Status Quo. Whether it's the ever-creeping prices of a pint, the growing London-calling student diaspora, or a simple shift in tempo and ambience, the influence of one capital on another is as inescapable as a signet ring at a JMCC dinner. This influence, however, is both a curse and a blessing, particularly from the eyes of a BAME student. Allow me to explain. “Whether it's the ever-creeping prices of a pint, the growing London-calling student diaspora, or a simple shift in tempo and ambience, the influence of one capital on another is as inescapable as a signet ring at a JMCC dinner. ” Just 8% of Edinburgh's population identifies as BAME (1). A stark contrast to the multi-cultural powerhouse that is London's 35% (2). Assuming discrimination and prejudice decrease with exposure to different cultures, peoples and lifestyles, the heavy influence of London on our capital can bring a shift in attitude that better welcomes the BAME people who call Edinburgh home. However, London is also home to vast inequality, much of which acts along racial lines, and with it, comes specific harmful attitudes, perceptions, and ignorance. Unfortunately, those uniquely London-based attitudes can be spread to Edinburgh through its student intake and run the risk of becoming increasingly widespread, exacerbated by Scotland’s lower diversity. As far as the University is concerned, there is already a poor track record when it comes to diversity. The University of Edinburgh takes in half as many BAME students as its Russell Group peers3, and many degree programmes see significant attainment gaps based on ethnicity (as much as 17.7% for my course (4)). Thus, a disturbing pattern against the potential satisfaction and success of BAME students is revealed and it becomes reinforced when student origin is considered. As of 2018, 34% of Edinburgh University students are privately educated (5), likely hailing from predominantly White and wealthy schools and colleges. Whilst the obvious issue here is over-representation, given that just 7% of the UK population is privately educated, another sinister situation arises, one regarding the students themselves. There's a certain type of student I'm sure you're well aware of; you can spot them from a mile away. Charged with pride for their South London or home county independent school; they waltz through the streets with a swing of flairs and a flash of a signet ring, with a demeanour consisting of equal parts arrogance and insecurity. There is nothing inherently problematic about privileged upbringings or needing to be noticed wherever you go, and I have no quarrel with those of us with those traits. Nevertheless, there is a fundamental common denominator for those matching this caricature. Beyond their work with foreign children on their gap year, they have likely had little to no real contact with BAME people. Think about their schools; you can probably count the pupils with a complexion darker than the façade of Appleton Tower on one hand. When the time comes for them to connect with one another in the fine establishment of Pollock Halls of Residence, they often bring with them harmful bigotry fuelled by a lack of diversity in their home lives. I'm sure if you spoke to any BAME friends of yours they'd return with countless examples of discriminatory acts and attitudes they have encountered during their time here. As your friends aren't here, I will lead with some personal examples of mine. "When the time comes for them to connect with one another in the fine establishment of Pollock Halls of Residence, they often bring with them harmful bigotry fuelled by a lack of diversity in their home lives." To preface this, allow me to tell you about myself. I am of mixed heritage, equal parts Black Caribbean and White English. I came to the UK when I was tiny and have lived here ever since. I am very obviously not white but just about ambiguous enough to throw a few White Brits off the scent. During my time at Edinburgh, specifically, when I was in halls, I have been subjected to all forms and flavours of bigotry. And more times than not, the culprits have been from the very social group I have been talking about. I have been questioned on whether I've been involved in knife crime or whether I know any Black person they can pluck from their memory. I have been praised for "how well (I) speak for a Black guy". I've endured three complete strangers pulling and running their hands through my hair on the middle of an ATIK dance-floor. I have even been called "Tropical Boo" by another stranger in a club, who I am sure meant well but it comes across as nothing but a fetishisation of my ethnicity. So why then, do some from the most diverse parts of the UK harbour such bigotry and disrespect? I certainly don't have all the answers, but I am truly concerned about the president it may set in Scotland's White-dominated spaces. The "posh-boy banter" that's so prevalent in wealthy parts of the South, from which Edinburgh draws many students from, oozes with toxicity regarding ethnicity, race, sex, gender, religion and sexuality; and as a result, Edinburgh runs the risk of adopting such a culture. That's not to say Scotland doesn't have its own issues in regard to these, which it certainly does, but a specific type of prejudice and behaviour comes creeping in on top due to Edinburgh's strong ties to England's capital. "I have been questioned on whether I've been involved in knife crime or whether I know any Black person they can pluck from their memory. I have been praised for "how well (I) speak for a Black guy"." During this time of demonstration and solidarity with BAME communities, we must recognise our own issues and the nuances behind them if we hope to transition further towards equality. At Edinburgh University, I believe a start can be made by addressing the negative influences of the capital and its surrounding bubble of affluence, and in its place, the positive aspects must be adopted. Such that, we embrace London’s multi-culturalism rather than its elite. Through this, we can reduce the toxicity and hardship that plagues both our UK-based and international BAME students. If the White-dominated private schools don’t address the toxic behaviour that’s often so rampant within them, it is our job to make sure that culture has no place in Edinburgh. References: 1, 2 Equality Evidence Finder Scotland 3, 4 EDMARC 2019 – Student Report 5 Higher Education Student Statistics: UK. 2018/2019 Statistical Bulletin