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How double pirouettes are like meeting a cat

I lost my double pirouettes this winter. I don’t know how long I’d had them because I don’t remember the date that a double pirouette first came to me, but I do remember the moment. We were all masking in class, so it was before vaccinations. Mine was purchased at the studio: black with tie-dye text that said “DANCE MODE: ON” above a drawing of a little toggle switch. I took to the center of the floor with my small group, did the lead-in butterfly steps Miss Diana teaches, the prep, a single, the lead-in again, and, suddenly, a double. The room erupted in cheers. Jill ran up to me, clutched both my hands and cried, “Dance mode! ON!” I was happy my first double came to me surrounded by friends, but I’d put in the groundwork at home, painstakingly repeating rotations every day in quarter-turns, half-turns, and singles; following along twice a week with a conditioning workout for balance, core strength, and ankle strength; practicing my relevés on the train and in the line at the groce
Recent posts

The problem with "able-bodied"

I hate the word able-bodied. I would rather hear “crippled,” “deformed,” the saccharinely condescending “differently-abled,” or even “moist” whispered over and over directly into my ear, than hear someone describe the state of not being physically disabled as able-bodied . Obligatory disclaimers: I’m going to explain why I hate “able-bodied” because I’m in a complaining mood and because I can’t expect other people to alter their language or actions based on my whims without building a convincing argument. But before I do, I should acknowledge that the language I use to talk about disability is probably every bit as grating to plenty of people who aren’t me. There is not vocabulary consensus in the disability community. Lively debates rage about person-first vs. identity first language (“people with disabilities” and “disabled people," respectively). I think it’s a mistake to focus too much on language in conversations about disability. Too often, nondisabled people are afraid t

A Body in Motion: Yoga with Erb's Palsy

In a yoga class, you usually start with a pose called Sukhasana. Sit with your legs crossed, back straight, and hands resting comfortably on your knees. If you want your practice to feel grounded or introspective, the instructor will say, then rest your hands with your palms facing down. If you want to be receptive, your palms should face up. My friend took this picture of me looking very Zen indeed on the floor of a dive bar when I was explaining Sukhasana to him. I love yoga now, but it took me years to get to the point where I can just take a drop-in class without worrying I’ll make a spectacle of myself. My left arm and shoulder are partially paralyzed, visibly smaller and bent in odd directions compared with the hypothetical, uninjured arm that isn’t there. At first, I struggled to modify the poses and flows to fit my body. When you’re disabled, learning a new physical skill means two processes are happening simultaneously. You have to learn how a typical body would do it while

It's That Time Of Year Again!

Disclaimer: This post is basically  The Chatner fanfic. It's That Time Of Year Again! The time of year to Apply Healing Salves.  Anoint yourself with oils & pastes. So many different salves, all in tubes. Different tubes for lips, face, other part of face that is not lips, hands, rest of body, tattooed parts of body, maybe hair, definitely parts of body from which hair has been removed.  Each paste is different because different parts of body have different skin needing different pastes, according to Little Sister Who Knows About Skincare and Convenience Store Aisle and Friends Who Know About Skincare and Social Media Content. Some tubes are same sizes, some tubes are different sizes, many tubes with similar colors and logos. Don't mix up the tubes!! Keep tubes organized for putting each specific paste on corresponding skin at correct approximate time of day. Additional tubes every year because body ages and dries out more.  Too tired to apply salve? Tomorrow morning, yo

Short Conversations with My Inner Critic

HANNAH BROWN (HB): This is a pretty original, fun-to-read meditation on body art, bodily autonomy, and disability! MY INNER CRITIC (MIC): Kinda? But also the last sentence in the second-to-last paragraph is a bit of a non-sequitur, or at least needs unpacking, and the ending comes across as really positive, which almost renders the whole piece hollow and superficial. You should probably focus exclusively on these two flaws and hide this essay away until you get to a final set of revisions that make it perfect. HB: I think it’s really better to get it out on paper and let it see the light of day, though! MIC: Oh, no, definitely not, but that gives me an idea. Why not leave it in your brain indefinitely? Just think about it in the shower or on walks and it’ll be brilliant (as long as you never actually write it)! HB: That jazz combo is tough! MIC: You’re not going to get it. HB: What? I mean, I don’t have it now, but if I practice it at ho - MIC: No, you didn’t get it immediately

Permanent Markings: On Tattoos and Disability

Five years ago, my at-the-time boyfriend told me that when he sees people with tattoos, he wonders what they’re trying to prove. It struck me because I, his tattooed girlfriend, felt immediately defensive. And it’s stuck in my mind for all these years because it hit exactly the reason why I love my tattoos. I have something to prove. For as long as I had plans for ink, the ideas were tangled up with my disability, Erb’s palsy, a birth injury to my left shoulder. The injury partially paralyzed my left arm, which is visibly small and misshapen compared with what it would have looked like on a hypothetical, nondisabled body. Before I could walk or talk, I was under the knife for an experimental surgery — a nerve transplant that gave me much more movement in my arm without losing (as far as I can tell) any function in my legs. Ever since, I’ve had two long scars running down the back of each of my legs, like permanent in-seams on a vintage pair of stockings. My first tattoo was an ivy vi

Tatnuck Bookseller

The smell was one part books, one part food, and one part warehouse. The floor was water-damaged hardwood. My mom met my stepdad there — in the poetry section, they said, although they refused to disclose more details. During the summer after fourth grade, we moved from the condo downtown across the street from the parking lot where my stepdad used to do a lap to pick up pieces of broken glass before watching me roller-blade around and around in circles. Now we had a two-story house with a big backyard and Christmas-light-ready porch. It happened just in time for me to be deemed old enough to walk unescorted to nearby Beaver Brook Park (with the dog) and convenience store (for candy). But my favorite destination was Tatnuck Bookseller. Here are a few momentous things that happened there… In elementary school: My mom always insisted that the end of The Giver was a metaphor for Jonas’ death, and I insisted she thought everything was a metaphor for death and couldn’t she lighten up?