Thoughts on "Sorry, Wrong Number"

 

I didn’t realize, until I finally watched Sorry,Wrong Number this week, in my quest to give you new/old things to say about the disability experience in fiction, that I’d mixed up “Sorry, Wrong Number” and “Wait Until Dark” for a long time.  If you’ll look at the links, though, they do have a lot in common—A-list actresses who got award nominations for playing (somewhat) helpless and the gathering suspense of someone who can’t defend themselves facing danger, though it would seem that Hepburn’s plight in the later film is something of a case of mistaken identity, as opposed to Stanwyck’s Leona getting caught up in her husband’s crooked plot after years of using a heart condition that she sort of…talked herself into to manipulate others.

If Leona Stephenson in “Sorry, Wrong Number” weren’t a tremendous, ball-busting bitch—in some ways, as a disabled woman on a short leash myself—I sort of enjoyed the way she had of getting what she wanted, at first, especially in a world where “Add To Cart” isn’t a substitute—“Sorry, Wrong Number” might have been a difficult watch for someone who has experienced dependency first hand.  (It might make an interesting 21^st century reboot, or at least something to consider as someone writes an internet thriller, especially if someone cast a disabled actress…it might make the debates on representation and #ownvoices more challenging though.  But whoever did it would have to be careful about not creating a Vince-Vaughn-Psycho-shot-for-shot thing because I can’t really imagine a modern actress saying or typing “I’m an invalid,” ever, which is a small beam of light in a time when I’m not sure the disability rights movement has accomplished very much.

Maybe someone could rewrite it with MS for Selma Blair…I would be into watching that.(If I were still a teenager or something, I would imagine myself writing it, too, but I don’t think I could do that, anymore.)  I’ll leave that with the Universe, though, and see if someone picks it up.

 

 

In Case Copper Courier Passes...

 

Why Medicaid Cuts Make Me Think Of Luigi Mangione

 

 

Not because Mr. Mangione was on disability like me. By all accounts, he comes from a wealthy background that could’ve afforded him all of the alternative medicine he could take into his head(or aching back) to want. But reading that story over the summer still reminded me of how small our world got when I was working on our last appeal of an attempt to cut my personal care benefits in 2012. That is most of what I did that year, most of what I thought about, even when people asked me about other things.  Mentally, part of me was looking for some mundane personal detail—why don’t personal-care plans take more note of menstrual periods, for instance—they happen to half the planet…just not, shall we say, to the lucky half—to stuff in some manila or electronic folder, and hope that it pressed some heartstring someplace. In the end, I guess that time had sort of a happy ending. Friends wrote personal statements for me, the doctor that I’d only seen one other time came through with a strong and stirring statement, I had support from the local independent-living center, and we even got most of the money back. I don’t know where I’d be without support that everyone may not have.   It still was a small dark time, ten months spent e-mailing strangers and looking for technicalities…if my mobility issues had been compounded by the kinds of pain that it seems like Mangione suffered, I’m not sure that I could have helped myself from taking it personally and maybe taking it out on someone else. People also can’t get time back, not that being a disabled adult means I’ve never lost an instant.  I’ve been in a wheelchair since birth so the appeal process put some strain on my double act with my mother, too, and, even though it seems dramatic to say so, we think of that as a lost year.  I don’t want another one; I think that’s a mean thing to do when people are just trying to get through our lives, largely in situations not designed to meet our needs, since the United States is still designed for abled people: a lack of access for people with mobility aids and workplaces that demand *more* than full-time, if anything all fit together to remind me that very little was designed with me in mind.
It's hard not to do what I’ve been taught to do at times like this and bring up the ways I’m good at being Special: List some publications(yes, there are some) or show off a picture of me with the fam looking cute.  I’m pretty good at being mainstream-acceptable, which is why I can still recite my state-college GPA(3.2) from journalism school after decades, even after it wasn’t my ticket to ride.

 My fitting in is not the point. You shouldn’t have to deserve healthcare, housing, or to go to the toilet. You really shouldn’t have to wonder if your own government treats you like they do because they think you can’t fight back.

Erika Jahneke is a writer and activist with Progressive Democrats of America.  She was diagnosed with cerebral palsy after an accident at birth and needs extensive attendant services. She’s based in Phoenix.

Decisions Can Be Hard, And A Bit Of Meta...

 One thing that is helping me out as a writer this week is: Making the decisions. It's exciting to start something new(if you're not going the other direction and having a blank-page freakout thing) but right now, I think my challenge is to make the decisions. Decide it's day,or night, spring or fall.(If something comes up where I change my mind, that's one thing, but it doesn't matter if my options are open if nobody ever sees anything.)

Finally readJulie Powell's first book after rewatching the movie version. She reminds a lot of my online friends, and, indeed, myself, trying to find space for myself with this blog. Strange irony that Ms. Powell died in the first wave in the pandemic that I'm perfecting some stories about.

If you're reading this, I hope you're not shopping today.  Not that I think one economic disruption will solve it all, but anything that's got Yahoo News disavowing can't be all bad. With all the talk of cuts and austerity shadowing everything, I've spent less money all month--because my family helps back my play, it should be noted-- and it's kind of upsetting how much I think about shopping.

Things I Might Have Written To The Last Editor From Whom I Bought Feedback....

 

Dear H.

Even if I sent this, I wouldn’t blame you for not responding to it (although I might have liked your thoughts on POV and wished I hadn’t been so nervous to ask.)  If you did find a moment in what must be an unbelievably hectic schedule—despite the glamour and fairy dust working on writing stuff in hip Brooklyn seems like it has when you’re brain-damaged and scratching little stuff out in your hometown that maybe never gave a flying fuck about you, or, best case, is still wondering where the cute version in the hair ribbons went, I would welcome an additional moment of your time, though I must remind myself of two things as the days pass: I may not get that, at least right now, and you don’t actually live in “Younger” NYC, which is too bad for all of us, don’t you think? I wish I did! But maybe on the day we had our zoom consult, you killed a roach the size of your thumb or something—not that that thought satisfies like when I picture my little size-2 doctor who trivialized my digestive complaint green and on the ropes with morning sickness(This chick hardly had a bump, but there must have been some tough parts, and that doesn’t make me sad after kind of getting “You’re disabled…what do you expect?” as an answer for something, maybe the twentieth, but feels like the millionth(Kind of like the weather in places where there’s wind-chill.) time over the course of a life of wheeling. Also, I have absolutely heard that in place of “I don’t know,” more than a few times, and they were wrong. So, this could clear up, too, even if a certain wonkiness could be part of my deal.  I get that, hey, I told *her* about CP. And would it be so hard to say “That must be rough,” because it definitely can be.)

Your feedback was fairly helpful, even if it also hurt because I’ve been writing since I really was a child and might be developmentally expected to hope to be somebody’s “Bestest Scribe Ever,” and get spiritually adopted based on a few pages. The fantasy lingered, I’m sorry to say. (Also, it’s hard to fathom that very many people will care about a perfect story collection here in #AssholeNation, so sometimes I’m not even sure why I’m taking the time to, say, metabolize the trauma from five years ago as so many fresh ones are barreling down the pike.) But, still, at the same time, I don’t know what I’d do if it wasn’t that.  All of my other unfinished work seems ludicrous in different ways, besides. It’s a lot of pressure feeling like everything I write could be my last words.  Nothing seems good enough.

As an under-represented writer (Because if I’m on the margins, they tend to be neat margins, not even like ripping a page from a spiral notebook.  Which is kind of a weird place to be, in art as well as in life—there seem to be a lot of places where I don’t fit, but I’m not…you know, troubled enough to raise a ripple when people are looking for Special talent.) Not that I’m complaining about my breaks. Even so, there is still this perfect disabled character in my head that I feel bad about not trying to bring to life, even though writing her would probably be boring and I’ve never met anyone who’s that perfect every day.  Just…kind of picture the Have It All cartoon feminist crossed with Snow White and dropped on her head, ever so slightly, and you kind of get it.(Do I also feel bad that I never really had a shot at being that person?  Even knowing it’s an impossible thing to live up to and would probably have never made me happy? Yeah.  Sometimes.)

Yours in creation,

The Bohemian Crip