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
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