Our system postures itself as a beneficial ouroboros; one is led to believe in the presence of infinite resources fit for infinite consumption, yet one can look beyond this façade and see that individuals who rank power and profit above all else have been devouring those deemed unimportant or undesirable. Within the false notion of never-ending resources, one can see a paradox in which abundant resources suddenly become scarce when those outside of a particular group request them. It has been declared that our society cannot have free healthcare, clean air, timely cures for devastating conditions, affordable housing, public health measures, food for hungry children, or the absence of war because it is too expensive or difficult.
Beyond this excuse, one can see that the most likely reason for withholding and denying is that many of these protestors’ demands would not generate sufficient profit for the right companies, nor would the outcomes conform to the prejudiced worldview that has kept the systemic divide alive and well for centuries. As such, numerous causes do not receive attention until a problem becomes so impossible to ignore, so popular, that one may wring profit and control out of it. We produce reusable straws at the detriment of many disabled people, greenwash products made by grossly underpaid workers, and tout ‘personal carbon footprints’ in an unwalkable society, yet the majority of polluters are allowed to continue.
How loud must one be in order to be heard by those in a nearly soundproof box? How visible to be seen through the frosted glass wall that surrounds us? There is a highway barrier between the suffering and the indifferent, built by those who seek profit and power. Even in the places where this barrier crumbles, one is conditioned, either through excess exposure that rots one’s ability to fully see the magnitude of it all or dismissive falsities meant to cloud one’s perception, to see one’s suffering and look away. Those in the figuratively often-less-dangerous slow lane are told that those stuck in the fast lane are to blame for the highway, for its traffic and danger, forgetting that we are all trying to safely reach the same destination while those who built this system fly overhead.
You don’t have to watch Wicked to know its famous line—“No one mourns the Wicked”—which basically means that some people aren’t worth grieving. This kept echoing in my head when I heard that both lead actresses of the Wicked: For Good film recently tested positive for COVID.
According to a recent Guardian article, “Both Grande and Cynthia Erivo tested positive for Covid during the filming of the first movie, temporarily delaying production. Erivo reportedly contracted the virus days before shooting the climactic first-act number Defying Gravity, while Grande tested positive before filming the song “Popular.”
The same article notes that during the current press tour Ariana Grande again tested positive, forcing her to miss several events.
That news made me think of Mia Mingus. In her blog “You Are Not Entitled to Our Deaths”, Mingus challenges the idea that disabled or sick bodies are disposable and that those lives aren’t worth protecting or grieving. After reading this blog and our discussion in class, it made me remember hearing about the Wicked news. It made me realize we’re acting like COVID is just a production hiccup, an inconvenience to filming or press tours, rather than the ongoing threat which is killing and disabling countless people. The fact that both leads got sick, during filming and promotion, yet the media and public reaction centers on delays, missed appearances, and disappointed fans speaks volumes.
There’s something horrifyingly Wicked-like about how illness is framed now. If someone masks, they’re “paranoid.” If they don’t appear for a photoshoot or premiere, fans complain. When someone gets COVID, the conversation is about wasted money on promotion, fan backlash over missed premieres, or travel delays , but rarely about health, recovery, or the toll illness takes. The framing treats sickness as a hiccup, not as human suffering. It treats the sick body as a burden to the show, not as a person in need of care.
“Grande’s positive test was the latest hiccup for the full-court Wicked press blitz that has seen the cast hop continents by the day. Due to flight delays, Grande was unable to make the premiere in Brazil, triggering fan backlash she also addressed on her Instagram.”
That is exactly the kind of abled entitlement Mingus warns about: a culture that assumes certain bodies can and should be sacrificed for convenience. Under this logic, “the show must go on,” regardless of who gets hurt. The Wicked cast situation isn’t just celebrity news, but it’s a reflection of a larger societal pattern where health, disability, and our shared vulnerability are minimized, ignored, or erased entirely.
What’s even worse is how normalized this erasure has become. COVID has become “another thing,” something to power through so cameras and promotions stay on schedule. Workplaces expect people to show up sick. Students are told to push through fevers. Long-term effects are brushed off as “just fatigue.” Public health infrastructure? Largely forgotten. Masks, ventilation, testing are all optional. People who get sick frequently or live with chronic conditions are expected to adapt or be pushed aside.
Mingus doesn’t just name this as negligence, she instead frames it as violence. When we treat care as optional, when we prioritize productivity over people, when we mourn canceled premieres more than lost lives, we are making a statement about whose lives matter. We’re deciding who gets protection, who gets grief, and who doesn’t.
We shouldn’t act like the pandemic is over. We need to stop shrugging when someone gets sick, framing illness as inconvenience, or acting like the only thing that matters is the show going on. Production, entertainment, or convenience is not more important than actual human lives. Because if we care at all about disability justice, about valuing every life, then we can’t pretend the pandemic is done. We have to mourn the sick. We have to fight for care. And we have to stop believing the myth that pushing on by ignoring risk, ignoring illness is normal or acceptable.
A sticker of a computer pop-up with a water bottle reading “IT’S HOT!!! Go drink some Liquid IV” by the artist disablelovely on redbubble.
When I was younger, I knew something wasn’t exactly right with my body. It wasn’t necessarily hard to see, but one of the biggest issues always had to do with water.
As a college student, I’m constantly juggling classes, assignments, and part-time jobs, and I often feel like I’m being pulled in a million directions. It’s exhausting, and I sometimes find it hard to keep up with everything. Beyond my studies, I want to be there for my friends and family, but it often feels like I’m barely keeping my head above water. Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about how work and health are connected, especially as I prepare to step into the workforce. The transition to independence is daunting, and one of the biggest challenges I face is figuring out how to take care of myself amid all the chaos. Unfortunately, essential topics like nutrition, stress management, and work-life balance are rarely taught, leaving me to navigate them on my own.Reflecting on the history of labor in the United States, I realize that the fight for workers rights has been long and difficult. Over the years, labor movements have battled for fair wages, reasonable hours, and safer working conditions, paving the way for healthier workplaces today. But after reading “Made by the Work: A Century of Laboring Bodies in the United States” by Ed Slavishak, my perspective on the human cost of labor has shifted profoundly. Slavishak dives deep into the harrowing experiences of early 20th-century workers. It’s hard to fathom that laborers in steel mills and coal mines faced daily dangers and grueling conditions, with their bodies treated like mere tools for productivity. One statistic that struck me was that over 25,000 workers died every year from workplace accidents. That number is staggering and heartbreaking. It hits close to home for me because it makes me think about how easy it is to overlook the sacrifices of those who came before us, who were seen as expendable and pushed to their physical limits until they broke.
Sitting in my cozy dorm room, surrounded by textbooks and my laptop, I feel a mix of privilege and guilt. I belong to a generation that, for the most part, doesn’t have to face such dire conditions. It’s easy to take that for granted, especially when I’m so consumed with my own struggles. While my working environment is much safer, I can’t help but feel frustrated by how companies historically handled safety or neglected it entirely. They placed the burden of safety on workers, insisting that “the best safety device was a careful worker” (p. 152). That mindset is infuriating because it shifts the blame onto the very people who had little control over their situations.As Slavishak points out, corporate safety campaigns “shifted responsibility to avoid the costs of updating machinery or improving ventilation” (p. 152). This is maddening. It reminds me of the pressures I face in college. I often feel that I’m expected to power through exhaustion or even illness just to meet deadlines. I think about how many workers today might still feel that same pressure to sacrifice their well-being for the sake of productivity.Learning about unions and workers’ compensation laws has given me a profound respect for those who fought for workers’ rights. They understood that workers deserved to be valued for more than just their output, advocating for crucial things like life insurance and compensation for injuries. Slavishak notes how the insurance department of the Amalgamated Association of Iron, Steel, and Tin Workers directly asked its members, “What are your chances of living twenty more years? Can you afford to tempt fate?” (p. 153). That question resonates with me. It makes me think about the importance of community and looking out for one another in college. We’re not just isolated individuals scrambling to succeed; we’re part of a network that can uplift and advocate for one another. As I navigate my college journey and prepare for the future, I’m reminded that the fight for dignity in the workplace is far from over. It’s not just about securing a job; it’s about creating a work culture that values us as whole people, not just for our productivity. Reflecting on the struggles of past workers fills me with a sense of responsibility to carry their lessons into my own life. Balancing everything can feel overwhelming at times, but I know that by supporting each other, we can work toward a future where every worker is treated with respect not just for their labor, but for their humanity.
My mom has an understanding that her medical concerns may not be taken seriously as a woman of color. At the time of this event, my mom had just recently gotten her U.S. citizenship, which only made it more important for her to find a doctor for her three young daughters who would simply listen. So, she made sure to find a Latino pediatrician who would care for her concerns.
It was nearing the end of my kindergarten year when I started to express pain in my lower abdomen to my mom, and with worry and concern, she decided to take me to the doctor to get an answer. But something was different. This time the doctor who saw me was a white man, training under my actual pediatrician, who diagnosed me with a UTI and prescribed over-the-counter medication for the pain.
However, my pain continued to get worse; I constantly stayed home from school, I was constantly vomiting, and it eventually got to a point where it was difficult to walk and my dad had to carry me around everywhere. As my pain continued, my mom continued to look for answers from this doctor, which he brushed off as “exaggerated” and was even hesitant to give my mom any sort of medication for my pain. He had somehow concluded that my mom was just seeking a way to gain access to drugs, completely overlooking the five-year-old girl in agonizing pain and her mother, who was concerned for her health.
Eventually, because of my incorrect diagnosis, I had gone untreated for several days. My parents had no other choice but to take me to a hospital in hopes that they would provide an answer. At this point, my appendix had already burst; the woman at the front desk knew exactly what was happening without even asking further questions. Luckily, I was properly diagnosed with appendicitis and given treatment on time; if we had waited any longer, I would have likely not survived. Yet, I can’t help but wonder how this experience could have been different if I had been white or if I was a boy. Would the doctor even think of a UTI as a possibility? Would he have cared more about my mom’s concerns? Could have this near-fatal experience been avoided entirely?
As I reflect on this experience and our class discussion surrounding healthcare and the medical system, it becomes even more clear how gender and race shape not only the experience of pregnancy and birth but various levels of health issues and medical complications. While my experience does not surround labor and pregnancy, it does point out how gender and race impact the medical attention that women of color receive. Evidently, medical professionals frequently overlook women of color, particularly Black women, due to preconceived notions about race and gender. Consequently, they are neglected and placed in situations that could be avoided, and tragically, the situations are often deadly.
When we read Shakespeare’s Social Model of Disability, it introduced a concept I had never considered before. At first, I did actually like it, but the more I thought about it, the more my thoughts changed.
I am someone who is both physically disabled and neurodivergent. I have always been neurodivergent, of course, but my physical disability did not become more prominent until recently; and with it has come shame. I think this is why I was drawn to the social model of disability at first. I am ashamed and embarrassed of the visibility that comes with my disability and how I have to accommodate it. Reading this social model helped me think of this shame in a new light, however – it is not my fault I am ashamed. It is the society around me who has made me embarrassed and forced me to push myself past my limits countless times.
At the same time, however, I realized that this is not fair to myself and my identity as a whole. Yes, it is the society around me that has caused me shame and embarrassment and an unrealistic stubbornness that makes me push myself. But that does not take away the pain I am in, or the potential complications of my disability. And even if it is “just” society causing this shame, that doesn’t take away the pain from the nights I’ve wasted staying up wishing with everything in me I could be “normal”, wishing that I could just understand social cues and not have sensory issues or anxiety or mood issues.
It also takes away from the community I’ve found in spite of this pain. I’ve had negative social interactions because of my neurodivergency and my disability, but framing these things as purely societal issues takes away from all of the positive aspects of social interaction while disabled. I am always so grateful for that community and the people that have been there for me consistently. I’ve learned a lot about both myself and the world around me as I navigate being disabled and neurodivergent, and even though there are bad days, I love the community and the people I’ve found, and I love our persistence despite the pain we experience, regardless of where it comes from.
Imagine you walk into a gym, a not-quite 20-year-old feminine presenting person. After months of working out in the peace of your own home and improving your self esteem, you finally build up the courage and confidence to work out in public for the first time. You sign in and find the weight room. You look up and…wow that’s a lot of men. You struggle to even find one girl. Just a bunch of grunting gym bros with all their buddies lifting weights that are probably too heavy for them to safely lift. Not to worry though! You’ve been training for this moment. All the (Instagram) research you’ve done has led up to this moment. You take a deep breath, grab your 2 dumbbells and find a corner to begin your Shy Girl Workout…
Your Shy Girl Workout allows you to stay in one place with one set of weights the whole time, taking up minimal space so as not to draw any attention to yourself. To be virtually imperceptible. Invisible.
Growing up, we saw physically disabled people as the odd ones out. I could take responsibility for viewing disabled people that way, but that was how everybody around me viewed them. I had no chance of “knowing better,” at least in that environment and age. That was the case until I was introduced to this class and had a fair share of friends who were open-minded. These people changed my thinking in both positive and negative ways, but the point that they taught me that people are different; not everyone is going to look and act the same as everybody else, and that is okay. I know the previous statement can come out as a very “duhh” statement for most of yall; however, I didn’t use to think like that. It was more of “you are weird! something is wrong with you.” And of course, like most adolescents who are just discovering sex and how it works, I wondered what sex must have been like for people with spinal cord injuries and other disabilities like that. I asked myself, “Do they feel anything down there?” or questions like, “can women who are paralyzed from the waist down give birth?” Most of these questions came from mostly ignorance and a bit of curiosity.
Sexuality and Disability: The Missing Discourse of Pleasure by Mitchell Tepper opened my eyes to this issue regarding disabled people and sex. An article like Tepper’s is exactly what people like me missed back in junior high. From reading the article, I learned that sex is more than just borrowing some friction from a partner, and there are more ways to derive sexual pleasure that does not involve the privates. I found it heartbreaking that some disabled individuals give up on their sex lives because they believe that there is no point in trying, “nothing will be the same.” And that is when Mitchell Tepper steps-up and encourages people with SCI that their “sexuality is their responsibility.” These people learned more about the spinal cord-injured bodies and embraced their disability. Evidently, disabled people in wheelchairs tend to have a more difficult time finding a sexual partner than abled individuals; most of this is due to the stigma around disability and sex and partially due to self rejecting before they can even try. Self rejection is a problem that we need to tackle. We (teachers and professors) need to teach about pleasure and sexuality in order to shine a light on this topic of sex and disability and hopefully reduce the stigma and misinformation around disability and sex.
I have many impairments. I need glasses. I need tasks repeated, written down in planners, reminded of multiple times throughout the day, written in front of me, with a harsh deadline in order to get done. I even had braces, and should be using my long-lost retainer inside a hot-pink case to keep that “aesthetic impairment” in check (sorry to my future dentist). But I don’t think I would have ever considered myself disabled until now that I’m facing mobility issues.
To be frank: I still don’t consider myself disabled. I just think the possibility is higher now. I’m older (not too old), and have had incredible stressors placed on my body (an example being COVID in May, as well as the mental stressor of work and a deteriorating friendship) – it’s natural for things to start “falling apart” or “not working as well as they used to”.
But buddy, if you have these impairments – surely you’ve been disabled this entire time! Like, sure, I guess. Except for the fact that my visual and cognitive impairments are the “more manageable” impairments that I face. I have glasses, although I need to go in to update my prescription every few years. I have ADHD, although I need to constantly ensure I can get access to adderall without jumping through ten thousand hoops – not to mention admitting my amphetamine results on drug tests are because of medication, something I am always embarrassed of (another conversation for another day). Mobility impairments aren’t in the same ballpark solely because the “solutions” are less accessible.
In order to check that my ankles are chronically messed up, I have to have routine conversations with my doctor. This means testing out theories of new/different shoes, stretches, exercise plans, and pain medications. Some of which could help, but only for a few periods of time. Others can have no impact whatsoever, or even make my pain worse. Once these are all ruled out, then comes the tests. X-rays. Blood tests. Gait checks. Then the waiting. Then the results. Then the realization, whether good or bad – that I need help. Then the vulnerable accommodations. Begging to be taken seriously, if I was even given the advantage of being taken seriously from the get-go, which not everyone is privileged to. I’m fortunate enough to be working somewhere where the walk from my car and the building isn’t too harsh, but from Parking Lot 29/Walker Apartments (wherever there’s a free commuter spot) to Engineering is absolutely unbearable. So the disability pass – if I even qualify for one – would only be for school, which already feels like a debate that’s waiting to happen: are you really disabled?
That’s when I circle the drain. Is it easier to just accept yourself as impaired, but not disabled? But then, how do you gain accomodations for such impairments? Do you just stick it out, saying it’s not worth it and continue suffering in silence?
Why has society ruined the idea of being disabled?
trigger warnings: body dysmorphia, suicide, mentions of disordered eating, illness
If you remember what your body looks like, I think you’re one of the lucky ones. If you don’t, then I’m not so glad this is what we have in common. Coming from an older West Indian family, my body was always a discussion. No matter how many soccer practices I showed up to, salads I ate, nor how well I did in P.E. class, whenever an aunt approached me it was always “You’ve gotten bigger!” Even throughout my adulthood my body has gotten bigger. I know I’m big, but I wish they knew that I didn’t need to be reminded every second of my life.
I think it’s important to note that I wasn’t always fat, but I still struggled with food and dieting at a young age. Having to deal with cholesterol issues during elementary school was the start of my long, relentless relationship with food. I remember sitting in the doctor’s office with my uncle, his eyes glazed over, listening to every word my pediatrician said. My relationship with food not only originates in this moment, but also with my family’s history of heart disease, diabetes, and many other debilitating diseases. By the time I reached high school, my uncle had a coronary angioplasty, stent insertion, triple bypass heart surgery, and several other surgeries for various kinds of cancer. He never wanted me to suffer like he did.
For as long as I can remember, my uncle micro-managed everything that graced my plate. There were even times we fought at the dinner table so he could see whatever takeout I’d brought home. The stress of bringing home any form of food that he would scrutinize started to transfer into other aspects of my life. In middle school I discovered how uncomfortable it made me feel to eat in public spaces. In high school I even went as far as to become the library aide so I could escape the daunting task of consuming food in the adolescent-filled cafeteria and tried my best to retreat back to the library every lunch break. The library was my safe haven, a place of structure for the moments where I felt the most vulnerable. This is still a habit I have today, I always look for security.
It wasn’t until my senior year of high school that I started my first romantic relationship. He was beautiful, smart, and even had a piercing on one ear that was the jackpot of my teenage girl fantasies. Being with him was the first time someone told me I was pretty. For someone that had only dreamed of having a boyfriend, that meant the world to me. I naively thought that feeling would last forever. As the pandemic raged on, and quarantine forced us into our isolated nests, there became an evident strain on our relationship. Still, we continued to stay with each other. I never noticed when his demeanor changed or that I couldn’t fit into half of my jeans anymore, or even that I was getting bigger than him. I made a huge mistake. You know that horrible mistake people make when they get lost in a relationship because they already have constant bodily validation? Yeah, that one. I gained the “happy weight”, I let myself go. People hate happy weight because being fat makes you feel empty and alone after a relationship. Nobody thinks that you’re attractive anymore and it feels like now there’s this huge responsibility that you have to get back to when you were skinnier. I fucked up.
Coming out of that relationship I became extremely depressed. I moved back in with my family, back to a space I never felt secure in. Endless nights spent scrolling through Tinder, a space where your body is always being perceived, felt completely invalidating. I was a completely different person. And I didn’t feel that way because I had loved and learned valuable lessons about navigating relationships, but it was because I was fat. Everytime I looked into the mirror, a devil appeared on my shoulder pointing out every flaw on my now monstrous body. It’s like my ego had turned against me.
I didn’t want to live in my body anymore. I thought I was nothing without the comfort of another person telling me I was good enough. I can’t say that I never feel that way today, but I’ve worked on it. I’m not about to go on a spiel about how much it matters to love yourself, nor about how self-love is a journey and not a destination… but would love really be worth it if it meant that I had to be skinny, athletic, or fit any of the aesthetic qualities guys on dating apps wanted? Probably not. But I want to be better, because I know that the moments in between these feelings of doubt and despair are much more important than these superficial views of my body. Though, how I never saw myself changing is still a phenomena to me.
In the end, I’m still trying to upward spiral out of this feeling called body dysmorphia.
Unruly Bodies 