Apr 152018
 

This piece on disability and sexual assault was published in 2010, long before hashtag movements and mainstream coverage. It’s 2018, and, honestly, I don’t feel as if we’ve made any sort of significant cultural shift.

Each April, we observe Sexual Assault Awareness Month. Every year we learn about at least one more documentary, local or regional anti-violence organization, or awareness campaign aimed at stopping the nightmare of sexual assault and abuse, or at helping victims of violence pick up the pieces

We’re churning out “awareness” essays and videos until they’re foaming up around our ears, and I have to ask: “Is it making a difference?”

Is there any less sexualized violence?

Are disabled folks facing any less ableism (read: disbelief, dismissal, lack of accessible services) when they seek help after an assault?

What does it mean to empower people if the basic culture permitting sexualized violence hasn’t changed?

I’m a disabled woman with a lot of disabled friends, and I’m tired of feeling fear for them.

I’m a disabled woman with a lot of disabled friends, and I’m tired of my heart hurting because most of them have abuse lurking in their pasts – and for all the friends who’ve shared with me, there are (probably) just as many who haven’t.

I mine the Internet for pieces like the one linked below, and I feel overwhelmed by the sameness of it all. It feels like nothing is changing, except that we have more data to link to, more essays and opinion pieces to show us the variety of chaotic things that happen in a world that sees disability as a failing, or at least as an insurmountable difference, a world that is so broken around sexuality and sexual expression that I don’t know if we’ll ever succeed in turning the tide away from abuse of power. At least, maybe, the sheer numbers of stories supply the data disbelievers always ask for, the “proof” that sexualized violence is a problem, that disabled folks are at horrible risk of being assaulted…

We’re smack dab in the middle of Sexual Assault Awareness Month and I look at all the data, trying to find the progress, and wind up just shaking my head.

At least we now give voice to sexual victimization being something that touches people of all genders, not just women.

Here’s your dose of disability history-making for the weekend.

Feb 252018
 

Everybody’s getting in on the “let’s publish sex and disability articles” deal these days.

Query Google (or your favourite search engine) for “sex and disability,” and your top results will almost always be from major online and print publications, and will date from the last four or five years. I’m not complaining about this. It’s fantastic that sexuality and disability, separately and together, are getting so much air time.

But like all good things, we didn’t create this conversation from scratch. Today’s voices aren’t the sexuality and disability pioneers the clickbait headlines want us to think they are. Years, decades really, of confabs in living rooms, at conferences, and later on online bulletin boards and chatrooms got us to this point.

Some of these conversations are lost in people’s memories. Some are hiding in obscure, or out-of-print books. And then there’s the Internet, the decades-old Internet with all it’s treasures. Remember, people were getting online in the early 90s, and I’d argue, with no evidence whatsoever, that disabled folks were some of the first to realize how powerful online spaces would be.

So, yes, the Internet, full of treasure – sometimes buried, sometimes obvious, sometimes forever lost to the ubiquitous “404. Page not found” message, which usually shows up when there’s a particularly enticing title and meta-description.

I’ve been digging these online and offline gems out for a while now, and it’s time for me to stop hoarding and start sharing. (though come to think of it, treasure-seeking pirates are usually portrayed as disabled…one eye? artificial leg? Yup, disabled.) So, maybe hoarding is just what we treasure-seekers do.

First stop: FWD (feminists with disabilities) for a way forward

FWD/Forward published essays, interviews, and opinion pieces on feminist and disability topics, “in response to the lack of disability content in online feminist spaces.” They were live from 2009-2011, and closed due to lack of community support. It takes more than passion and commitment to keep a Web site running.

Fortunately for us, some generous soul has archived everything and is keeping the site live…for which I’m incredibly grateful. I was pretty active online when FWD/Forward was happening – and I had no idea they existed. There really aren’t words for how sad this makes me. I could have learned a lot about writing and advocacy from these folks. This was important work being done, and valuable people to know.

I can, and do, get lost in this site for hours. I’ll probably share more favourite pieces over the coming months, but, first, this excellent introduction to disability and sexuality.
Disability and Sexuality 101, or, Do disabled people have sex?

The reason PWD aren’t considered as sexual – particularly “visibly” disabled PWD – is that the idea of “the perfect body” as the only sexual body dominates popular discourse. Additionally, we have the stereotypes of PWD as pathetic or stoic, far removed from the sexual. Not to mention the fact that disabled people tend to be shoved away from the general public. This idea is not due to some inherent aspect of disability that negates sexuality, it’s just bigotry. The lack of recognition for PWDs’ sexuality has meant, less so in recent years, that a lot of PWD aren’t given appropriate sex education. Without proper sex ed, it’s harder to take charge of one’s own sexual life and body. This lack of information has its role in enabling the high rates of abuse against PWD. There is a lot of horrific policing of the bodies and sexuality of disabled women in particular, as you’ll read about on this blog in less 101-type discussions.

And this…this is one case where you do want to read the comments. There’s so much good, honest, thoughtful dialogue here. At the risk of sounding like an old fuddy-duddy, there’s a strong feeling of connection I just don’t get from so many online conversations today.

If you have a sex and disability resource you’d like to see get more attention – a favourite article, book, academic paper, or what have you, hit the contact form at the bottom of this page and send it my way, please. Remember, I’m looking for older, or more obscure material – let’s say anything more than five years old.

Mar 022017
 
A magnifying glass, for looking closer at what's right in front of us.

(Originally published on another blog in 2014. My writing voice has changed a lot since then, but I still agree with everything I said here! I have a lot more to say on disability and harassment, and am reposting this older piece here to get the conversation started.)

***

Every time I leave my house I may experience being seen as less-than, or incapable. I may be touched, poked or prodded, physically directed, spoken down to, stared at, pursued by people, all in the name of helpfulness and kindness.

Every time I leave my house, I may be touched without my permission, not a handshake of greeting or a tap on the shoulder, but an arm-grab, an arm around the shoulders, hands against my torso propelling me towards where it is thought I need to go, an uninvited hug. My body is used instead of words. I’m touched in these ways in the name of helping me.

All of this because I am visibly disabled, some of it because I’m a small woman.

Every time I leave my house, someone will get into my personal space when I want to be left alone—in places and at times when one would expect that I could be left alone—and yes, people do follow me. In most contexts, following a stranger is called stalking. When you’re disabled it’s called the follower being kind and concerned, or not knowing better.

When disabled folks get to talking about personal experiences, the discussion usually comes around to all the times people touch us without our permission.

We tell each other stories. There are frequent nods of recognition and rueful, sometimes amused, sometimes mirthless, laughter.

We’ve all been there.

***

Recently, a friend blogged about walking down a street, training her service dog, while a woman—a stranger to my friend–tracked her progress, following them in her car. One imagines that this woman must not have had anything important to do right then; one also knows how incredibly rude and creepy it is to stare at someone, and that it’s considered predatory to follow anyone without their expressed consent.

Another friend adjusts his work schedule (when he can) so as to not ride the bus at peak times, when there are likely to be more people engaging in what he calls “the grabby”–physically grabbing and directing him to an empty seat, or on or off the bus. Sometimes (not always) this grabby is accompanied by queries as to whether he needs help, but people rarely listen to his “no.”

What never seems to come up in these commiseration sessions about our experiences as disabled people in public spaces is exactly what to call what happens to us. For lack of a better term, I call it street harassment.

Unlike many forms of street harassment, what people with disabilities experience in public spaces is all but invisible, not because onlookers are accustomed to it, not because they want to pretend it’s not happening, but because most of the actions comprising this harassment are chalked up to kindness, ignorance, concern, helpfulness, or good intentions. Who wants to put down anyone’s good intentions?

How do I know it’s perceived this way? Because people make these excuses for their own and others’ behavior. Frankly, it’s tiring after a while to hear that someone getting into my personal space, or making assumptions about me, or handling my body or my mobility aid without asking is just trying to be kind, or doesn’t know any better, or thought they were being helpful.

As a human being living in North American culture, I have certain expectations of privacy and personal space. Most of us who grew up in this culture grow up expecting that we won’t be touched by random strangers, that there is a hierarchy of touching (where your new acquaintance on the bus doesn’t stroke your arm or put their hand on your back).

As a woman, I have an expectation that people will be conscious of gender in their interactions with me. I’m often startled by the way men touch me, many of whom, I would like to think, would think twice about touching women they don’t know in the ways they touch me. The touching is obvious, out there; there’d be no way to deny it if someone was trying to be sneaky and manipulative with their intrusions.

Perhaps part of the problem here, part of the disconnect, is that I am genderless in these people’s eyes. I’m disabled first, woman second. Indeed, for some, I’m disabled first, negating my womanhood and putting me somewhere in a nebulous space of being childlike but having a woman’s body and doing adult things (like going out and buying my own groceries).

it’s also tiring not having words to describe this experience, this sensation of always being on guard, for there’s no place, time, or way this might or might not happen. it just does…single women, married men, concerned citizens of all genders may think they know exactly where I want to go (without asking me, or if they ask, not waiting for an answer) or draw attention to me I don’t want or need, or blow a need or want I do have into far greater proportion than it needs to be.

Most of what I’m describing here isn’t explicitly violent, though physical and sexualized violence against people with disabilities does happen, in both private and public spaces, at alarming rates.

No, it’s not explicitly violent, but not being aware of it also paves the way, I think, for more violence. The more often something happens, the less likely people are to notice it.

Plus, it truly does unsettle me that disabled people’s space is invaded every day.; that this invasion leads to people feeling worn out, so demeaned, so reduced—and yes, so threatened by actions which onlookers see as considerate. It’s alarming that a disabled woman was surprised when her friend apologized for having to physically hustle her through an airport security line in response to TSA agents’ curtly given directions to hurry up (after all, that physical manipulation to follow the rules is seen as something that just has to be done, and we aren’t supposed to have feelings about it).

I’m sometimes alarmed by the strength of relief expressed by disabled people (including me) when a trip out in public is positive, with people talking to us like adults, respectfully assisting us only when asked and giving us loads of personal space.

We’re frequently objects of curiosity in public spaces. If it stopped at curiosity, we’d be doing fine, but that curiosity often translates into intrusiveness.

Feb 132017
 

(I first published this piece on another blog in April 2014 in response to an article on RH Reality Check – now called Rewire. It’s 2017 now. My writing voice is different. The way I analyze and critique issues is different.

Reproductive justice organizations are now making more of an effort to include disability and disabled people in their education and advocacy work.

…and I still stand behind everything I’ve said in this piece. Recent history is as important as long-ago history.

Advocates are doing better, but the kind of erasure I talk about here is still happening, which is why I’ve chosen to republish this essay.

****

If we don’t remember history, we’re doomed to repeat it. That’s probably one of the first cliches I learned.

Instead, We should probably be saying: If we don’t do our research, and talk to a good cross-section of people, our understanding of history will be skewed and incomplete—and nothing good can come from that.

Not so catchy, but much more real.

We’re still leaving people out when we write histories.

Even supposedly inclusive, progressive narratives are excluding people’s realities.

Even progressive, thoughtful writers are leaving out key pieces.

As a visibly disabled woman, I’m particularly conscious of how the histories and realities of disabled people are often left out of dialogues which include the histories and realities of other marginalized groups. This stings a little every time I see it, not because it’s specifically my reality being left out (as a North-American born white woman with economic advantages it often isn’t, but because the minority groups discussing these realities aren’t doing their research. They’re not practicing what I think of as true inclusiveness, not just making sure all the voices are at the table, but including the histories and realities of those whose voices aren’t at this particular table. Yes, it’s a fine line between including those histories and speaking for the people those histories discuss (and, yes, we want to avoid speaking for or over others) but so long as we use documented fact and anecdote, we’re practicing due diligence.

Can we include every single person’s reality? Of course not. Someone will always be left out. We’re too individual, have too much amazing, beautiful diversity, to expect that every one of us will always be represented.

Yet entire populations, populations with well-documented histories and realities if one knows where to look, are still being left out.

I’ve been noticing this particularly in the reproductive justice movement – it makes me especially sad to see it here – and it was glaringly obvious as I was reading this position on proposed changes to consent requirements around sterilization published at RH Reality Check.

I’m pleased that the groups who put this position paper together are reminding the public about this country’s long history of reproductive abuses against women, and urging reproductive justice advocates not to be so quick to dismiss safeguards against those abuses. But am disappointed that such an aware, well-cited mini-history leaves out the well-documented experiences of disabled people.

Disabled women were one of the primary targets of involuntary sterilization laws, which fell under the umbrella of eugenics, and became particularly prevalent starting in the 1920s, yet this article mentions disabled women only once.

Any quick Google search will pull up references to online and offline resources about the unconsented/involuntary sterilization of disabled people.

This is not> a hidden history.

This history of eugenics and this archive from the Chicago Tribune are but two publicly available online resources, available to any interested party with a computer and Internet connection.

I found those on the first page of my Google search.

I’m disappointed that the organizations who signed this position paper left out this key part of history.
I’m disappointed that they seem to be following the common trend of rendering invisible any reality that doesn’t specifically speak to the one they’re trying to bring attention to.

While this article nicely addresses the pros and cons of a thirty-day waiting period before sterilization procedures—we’re not nearly far enough away from the days when sterilizations were incorporated into other medical treatments without patient consent to do away with safeguards—I do wish that the mention of women with disabilities that does exist wasn’t so perfunctory and one-dimensional.

This is the only reference to women with disabilities in the entire piece:

What improvements to the Medicaid sterilization consent form would reflect the needs of women with disabilities, limited English proficiency, and low literacy levels, who want sterilization?

This feels an awful lot like being talked about, while rendering our collective history invisible. In other words, we don’t get to be part of the history-telling (and in so doing be empowered to speak our truth) but we can fit into a bullet list of policy-considerations.

Not only does this single mention in an article all about something that has routinely happened to us erase our reality, but it reinforces the assumption that the relationship women with disabilities have to sterilization is unilateral, and always in the direction of exploring sterilization options. This reinforces the idea that women with disabilities are not capable of the full range of reproductive decisions that other women—other people–are capable of, and that we don’t, in the course of our lives, find ourselves considering and making that same range of decisions.

I can tell you that this just isn’t true. Disabled people worry about getting pregnant, make decisions about whether to parent, have abortions, feel a range of feelings about those abortions, experience unwanted pregnancies and unplanned parenthood, think about how many children they want to have, wind up having fewer or more than they’d intended, and all the other health and life circumstances that fall under the rubric of reproductive rights or reproductive justice.

Looking at the list of organizations which put this position paper together, I noticed a distinct lack of organizations run by women with disabilities or devoted to disability research. I reached out to my favourite grassroots women with disabilities thinktank Gimp girl, to find out if any organizations were in fact addressing reproductive justice for disabled people.

They pointed me to these groups:

Center for Research on Women with Disabilities (CROWD)
and The Initiative for Women With Disabilities.

Both look excellent, and I’m happy to have them in my virtual rolodex of research.

They don’t appear to be doing any significant cross-issue work, such as with other reproductive justice organizations, though, and reproductive justice organizations don’t appear to be looking critically at the place of disability or disabled people either.

It’s not an easy thing to critique the work of prominent reproductive justice organizations, particularly when what they’re calling for is critical dialogue.

However, When we have a position article that references secondary sources, and which was clearly researched and constructed thoughtfully, the absence of information right there in the open, ready for the taking by anyone, is disappointing and frustrating. The reduction of disabled women’s reproductive realities—no matter how unintentional—to how and whether they can access consent forms for sterilization is, again likely unintentionally, harmful.

How do we, I wonder, integrate the voices of people with disabilities, and awareness of our collective history, into the general reproductive justice conversation? How do we break down the barriers that make reproductive justice activists afraid or unwilling to include disability and disabled people’s role in the movement?

Oct 092015
 

diane De Vries was born without arms and legs. This fast-paced, hard-hitting and beautifully honest documentary takes us through Diane’s life, through the ways the fear of her devoutly religious grandmother and the physical neglect of her mother shaped her childhood, through the ways being physically different impacts her interactions with others as an adult (she describes going to a networking luncheon where other participants asked about her wheelchair, but not about her work), her hopes and struggles, her experiences with intimate relationships and sexual expression. Some of her friends and attendants share their feelings and reactions to Diane, and their observations of how the rest of the world treats her.

What sets this story apart from other disability-related documentaries is Diane’s candid discussion of her experience in an abusive marriage.

I don’t think I ever felt like a victim, except when I was Jim’s victim.”
Jim was always my attendant as well as my husband, which I always hated. I thought that was the worst thing we could do to our relationship…
But he never wanted me to have an attendant.

He wanted the extra money.

He wanted to feel needed.

Disabled people are often at increased risk of experiencing intimate partner violence, and diane’s experience ticks a lot of the boxes for abusive situations – isolation, enforced physical dependence, and financial dependence (the couple’s economic stability rested on diane’s agreeing to let her husband work as her attendant).

Diane describes how Jim would become violent when drunk, throwing things, hitting her, and shaming her for the physical help she needed from him, such as help using the toilet.

This was in the seventies, and there wasn’t much technology to help people with limited mobility to use the phone, leave the house, or otherwise leave an abusive situation without someone’s help. Diane was eventually able to leave, after a friend dropped by to visit during one of her husband’s violent attacks.

Diane De Vries is (or was, I haven’t yet been able to learn whether she is still alive) a fascinating woman.

This documentary is one of the only sources I was able to find in which her story is told in her own words.

You can learn more about her through the cultural biography Venus on Wheels: Two Decades of Dialogue on Disability, Biography, and Being Female in America or through an essay (by the same author of the biography) published in Women with Disabilities: Essays in Psychology, Culture, and Politics (Health Society And Policy).

Note

October is Domestic Violence awareness Month and this entry is part of a series of posts aimed at raising awareness about disabled people’s experience of domestic and intimate partner violence.

Aug 312015
 

August brought us a lot of personal narratives, powerful, funny, sad, and thoughtful.

Topics include respectful personal care, dating, not-so-accessible sex toys, a moving day-in-the-life of a support worker for disabled folks who’ve experienced sexual violence, and so much more.

Disability Rights

A Bill of Rights as an Autonomous Disabled Person

No One Wants to Be Normal: So Why Are We Awkward Around Those Who Are Different?

On Not Being “Pretty”

Disability Housing: Living, Supporting, and Loving Intentionally

Gender, Sexual Expression, and disability

Gender Differences in Asperger’s: Being a Trans Guy and a Female-Socialized Aspie

Lawsuit: EHarmony Discriminates Against the Blind

Boys in Chairs and Their Toys: My First Experience With a Sex Toy

‘Deliciously Disabled’: Toronto’s Sex Ball for People With Disabilities

Sexual Healing

Dateable Self-Esteem: Danielle Sheypuk, Ms. Wheelchair NY, Discusses The Evolution Of Sex In The City

Secrets to Sexual Self-Discovery: Going deeper Is Key – Wheelchair Accessible Living

Sexual Abuse and Disability

Sexual abuse of people with learning disabilities is too often overlooked

Arts program helps women with disabilities navigate sex, relationships

Aug 282015
 

Then my behaviour therapist called, I asked him how to get a girl friend, he said he’d draw up a plan with a step by step process.

Did you know that there are 176 steps that you need to climb in order to get out of loneliness.

That’s a lot. Loneliness can feel like a deep pit can’t it?

One Step Out Of Loneliness, Dave Hingsburger

Watch this animated film from Dave Hingsburger It’s safe for work unless your workplace objects to words like sex and penis.

Read the transcript here. or watch below.

Jun 172015
 

This was originally written and published in late August, 2014 after I attended Jessica Naslund’s workshop, Healthy Relationships and Sexuality: A Systemic Approach to Supporting People with Cognitive Disabilities, at The Woodhull Sexual Freedom Summit.

Workshop description:

As practitioners and educators we are guiding individuals through their unique sexual journeys. People with cognitive disabilities have a challenging journey ahead of them because of barriers to education that are perpetuated by myths about how these individuals relate in society. It is our job as advocates to understand the barriers and work to push through them so that everyone has access to the same pertinent information and resources. People with cognitive disabilities require more multi-dimensional approaches to capture and retain comprehensive sexuality education material. These approaches may include visual or auditory media, hands on activities, developing a support system for the individual, and a more team approach to teaching with caregivers and support providers.

Words can’t quite describe how awesome this workshop was.

Jessica Naslund is brilliant—enthusiastic, passionate, and best of all she doesn’t just talk the talk, but walks the walk every single day of her working life.

As a social worker, Jessica works with, as she puts it, a population no one wants to talk about—intellectually and developmentally disabled people—around an issue no one wants to talk about—sexuality.

Jessica started by asking workshop participants what words and phrases come to mind when we think about sex and sexuality. We then shared words describing thoughts and feelings around sex and sexuality and people with intellectual disabilities. The two lists didn’t look at all alike. The first one included a variety of feelings and experiences, most of them positive; the second, full of limits and lack of possibilities, was positively dreary!

We should not be ignoring the lives of people with intellectual disabilities, or the reality that sex and sexuality can be, and usually are, just as much a part of these folks’ lives as they are for anyone else.

It shouldn’t have to be said, but…

People with developmental or intellectual disabilities do have sexualities – sexual feelings, experiences, desires, vulnerabilities. people with developmental or intellectual disabilities are also at alarmingly increased risk (relative to the general population) of experiencing many kinds of abuse, including sexual abuse.
This is, to put it mildly, not okay.

Jessica’s work focuses on teaching people with developmental or intellectual disabilities the positive as well as risky parts of sexuality. For example, a person can and should be taught about dating and sexual harassment, or happy feelings and bad feelings when someone touches them and they don’t want that touch. It’s really hard, if not impossible, for people to know something is bad, if they don’t also learn about the good things, and that it’s okay to have those feel-good feelings in their bodies when they touch themselves or when they think about someone they have a crush on.

Dave Hingsburger’s Ring of Safety takes this sexuality-affirming and humanity-affirming approach to preventing abuse. I had a momentary “squee!” moment when Jessica mentioned Dave’s work, as reading his article A Witness to Courage was pivotal in catalyzing my commitment to giving a voice to disabled people and our sexualities.

The Ring of Safety incorporates several components, including individualized sex and relationship education, awareness of privacy, and the ability to non-comply—to say no. People often don’t know how to teach people with intellectual or developmental disabilities about sex and relationships, or don’t think it’s important to do so. But, if someone doesn’t know what their body parts are called, how can they convey whether those parts are feeling good or bad. If someone doesn’t know what privacy is, or what it feels like, they can’t tell if that privacy is being invaded. Things many of us take for granted, such as getting to spend time alone, or being able to use the toilet and shower by ourselves, are luxuries virtually unknown to many. Jessica shared a story of one person who was considered such a threat to himself and others that he was never, ever allowed to be alone. His behavior changed markedly when he was given the chance to be alone in a familiar room for fifteen minutes at a time.

People with developmental or intellectual disabilities are often in very regimented treatment and care systems (with tight schedules and strict rules) where they aren’t given privacy, even to just be alone in a room listening to music or watching TV for a while, and where they aren’t allowed to say “no!” even to simple things. Too often staff in these environments are rushed or overworked, and don’t feel like they have the time for the negotiation process of someone saying “no” to something the staff member thinks needs to be done, such as taking a shower or finishing a snack.

Jessica quoted Hingsburger as saying: “If you can’t say no to peas, you can’t say no to penis.”

When someone indicates they don’t want to eat peas, no matter what their disabilities are, that needs to be respected. We can’t expect someone to be able to protect themselves from being hurt, or tell a trusted person that they were hurt, if their preferences around what they do, and what happens to their bodies, have never been listened to or respected before.

It’s important that intellectually disabled people be given the opportunity to make choices. Even when something needs to happen or the person with an intellectual disability isn’t able to indicate what their choice is, talking to them, asking permission before something is done (for example: “Can I dress you now? Instead of “Okay, time to dress you.”) goes a long way towards restoring someone’s humanity, and, ultimately, helping to keep them safe.

If people with intellectual disabilities don’t know what healthy is, they won’t know what unhealthy is. This includes both speaking up if they’re being abused, and learning how to not be abusive. The incidence of abuse among developmentally and intellectually disabled people isn’t just from caregivers, but from intellectually and developmentally disabled people themselves. Very often, this is rooted in people not understanding boundaries. Even when boundaries – such as good touch/bad touch – are taught, time isn’t usually taken to teach about emotions in a way folks with different intellectual disabilities can understand. For example, educators can teach not only “don’t hit” but “this is what someone looks like when they’re uncomfortable, or scared, or have just been hit and don’t like it at all.”

Many people with intellectual or developmental disabilities need new concepts spelled out really concretely.
This is why it’s important to teach about body parts, about feelings, and about relationships. Many people with developmental disabilities have trouble reading social cues, so when they learn about bodies and relationships, they need their educators to talk very specifically about what people are feeling when they look or act a certain way. They don’t know they’re making people uncomfortable, or that they’re about to get in trouble for assault or harassment. Or, they don’t know how to convey amorous feelings without overwhelming the person they have those feelings for (E.G. Learning how many voice mails it’s acceptable to leave for a girlfriend or crush object). But, using the right learning tools for each individual, folks can learn what cues from other people mean – how to use the skills they have to judge if what they’re doing is okay.

*

The reality that’s shown itself over and over again is that when people know what their body parts are, and understand privacy, they start to disclose abuse. Residential and day programs where this kind of education is done have a higher reporting rate, but that doesn’t mean they have a higher incidence rate. It means people have been given some of their power back, and the tools to communicate what’s happening to them or what’s happened to them in the past.

Jessica advocates using multiple systems approaches- for example, recognizing that there are multiple ways people learn, and hence multiple ways people teach, and also that teaching and supporting people means working with everyone, from healthcare providers, to group home staff, to educators, to families.

She offered this example of what this collaboration reveals: People who are not verbal, or who have a limited vocabulary, often express their feelings through their body language and behavior. How frequently or intensely someone stims can indicate how that person is feeling. People who see them every day, support staff and family, are the best people to ask about which behaviours or expressions mean excitement, nervousness, happiness, stress, etc. I particularly like this approach because it validates family members, not the professionals who come in for “sessions” to work with them, as experts. Family members often end up doing the majority of caregiving, and the work of this caregiving, plus the constant interaction with professionals who are often telling them what to do or not do after spending relatively little time with them, can take their power and sense of confidence (both personal, and in the care they’re providing) away.

Another part of this approach is finding a teaching method that works for each individual. Including using pictures to tell a story or diagram the steps for something, like a visit to the doctor or what it takes to ask someone out and go on a date.

Jessica gave this example. People with Down Syndrome aren’t any more affectionate than the general population—which is to say that some might be very affectionate, based on their personality, but it’s not a feature of the syndrome. They’re encouraged—taught—to express affection to everyone, probably because people are drawn to their open manner and frequently happy disposition. Hugging everyone isn’t culturally appropriate behaviour, though, and not teaching people boundaries deprives them of knowing when their boundaries have been violated or when they’re crossing someone else’s boundaries. There’s a need to teach all people which forms of interaction are okay In which situations. Jessica says she will often use pictures to diagram different interaction circles—e.g. the mail carrier is in the wave circle (we just wave if we see her), doctor is in the handshake circle, aunt is in the hug circle, etc.

As I write this, I think about how important it is to maintain consistency. A doctor who has known a developmentally disabled patient for a long time, may feel very fond of this patient, and may interact with them in ways they don’t interact with other patients. I think it’s important for them, in this case, to express fondness in other ways, such as through voice, body language, level of interest in their lives, and so on, to reinforce the message that while it’s a friendly relationship, it’s still a doctor-patient relationship.

Relatedly, we need to remember to treat people according to their chronological age, not their presumed mental age. If someone is thirty-three, they should not be treated as if they’re ten. This includes how we talk to them, what activities they’re encouraged to get involved in, and what information (about anything, but especially about sex and relationships) we think they’re supposed to have. I’ve often thought that judging what someone understands, or even how they perceive the world, on their verbal skills is misguided. Jessica agrees, saying that we really can never know exactly how people perceive or understand things because we’re not in their heads.

This presentation taught me a lot of useful information I hadn’t known —as well as gave me new language for things I already knew—but it also made me reevaluate the way I understand people with intellectual and developmental disabilities. Jessica presented several scenarios for us to talk through, both to puzzle out what might be happening and to brainstorm solutions. In working through the following scenario, I discovered a flaw in my thinking:

A young woman attending a day program spends a lot of time in the bathroom, to the point where she’d rather be in the bathroom than participating in the activities. Her support staff have also noticed redness around her vulva, and that she’s been rubbing her vulva a lot.

We might presume that the redness, and the self-isolating behavior, indicates that she’s being sexually abused. Or, she could be masturbating to the point of irritation. Redness could mean that she needs lube, or that she’s not reaching orgasm and is rubbing herself more vigorously to try to get to the ultimate feel-good part—which could be why she’s wanting to hide away in the bathroom. Or, redness could mean an infection, yeast or bacterial, and she’s staying in the bathroom because she doesn’t feel good. Or… It could be for any number of emotional or physical reasons.

So, my first step towards a solution was to have this young woman visit a doctor. But no, there should be a step before that, a step that could help us narrow down the possibilities – a step that will center the young woman, not our beliefs about her. As with any situation, the young woman is the expert on what is going on with her own body; the only thing that differs is the way we access her own expertise.

That was the flaw in my thinking, not questioning whether and how we could get information from the young woman herself.

The operative question here, and one that only she can answer, is “how does your vagina feel? Happy, sad, itchy, mad, etc.” depending on her cognitive needs, the discussion might involve looking at or drawing pictures, or speaking words, or pointing at words, or illustrating with dolls, or any other communication system that works for that individual. Sure, a doctor’s visit is probably in order too, but how much better it would be if that appointment was arranged with the input of the woman herself.

Sometimes, the hardest part to reinforce is that people with developmental disabilities do have sexualities, and those sexualities should be respected.

Even when everything else is in place, the sex ed, the education about privacy, the understanding of a person’s communication style, the permission to noncomply and leave those pesky peas on their plate – people still don’t have the opportunity to express healthy sexuality.

Many group homes still frown on, and even forbid, their residents dating, pursuing relationships, and engaging in sexual activity with others. Sometimes, the response when a resident is found masturbating is anger, rather than withdrawing and giving privacy, or politely and firmly explaining that you need to do that in your room, not in the TV room.”

If we want to recognize people with developmental and intellectual disabilities as human beings, we need to recognize all the things that make them human.