When we are disabled, we often have to depend on perceived safety. I am physically disabled and the way I perceive the environment around me affects my access to it. Whether the environment around me looks like a crowd full of people, a quiet road at night, or the bustling market outside during the day, I ask myself three key questions before going anywhere:
First of all, will there be stairs? Will it be physically inaccessible? Will there be paved paths? I despise paved roads, why do the able-bodied prefer aesthetics to accessibility?
Second, in case I get stuck, will I get help, should I take someone with me?
Third, what if I don’t have anyone to take with me? Should I go alone?
So my access needs are affected not only because of a direct experience of harm, but also because of a fear of harm. As a visibly disabled queer person in public, my perceived safety is affected even in places that able-bodied people from a similar social place to me could freely access without thinking or thinking about it.
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The concept of perceived security is not easy to unpack. I admit: it can be transphobic, casteist and ableist. How did I end up dating violent men even though I’m so careful about my own personal safety? Who exactly do we find safe and who do we label as dangerous and criminal?
How do we unpack these words and tell ourselves that people are safe, even though our conditioning tells us that people are not safe because they “look, move, talk” a certain way?
Were the men I dated perceived as “safe” by me due to certain caste “characteristics” such as English language skills, ironed clothes, affluent background, upper caste, and “humor” that matched mine? Does choosing a “suitable” partner mean choosing a partner who has a “similar background” to ours, who understands our “jargon”, our ways of speaking and doing? How did these “well groomed” men turn out to be abusive anyway? What influences my perception of safety and security?
Were the men I dated perceived as “safe” by me due to certain caste “characteristics” such as English language skills, ironed clothes, affluent background, upper caste, and “humor” that matched mine? Does choosing a “suitable” partner mean choosing a partner who has a “similar background” to ours, who understands our “jargon”, our ways of speaking and doing? How did these “well groomed” men turn out to be abusive anyway? What influences my perception of safety and security?
It took me several years of unlearning to ask myself this question. My mind went through several conflicting and conflicting views, because as a visible minority, how do I, essentially, trust people and perceive them as safe? How do I view the caste and ableism factors involved in my perception: a very private thing, known only to me?
I am hypervigilant in public spaces and recoil at the slightest dismissive tone because I need to protect myself from hostility and abuse. I need to conjure up a mental map of the whole place and devise an escape route if a situation calls for it. I need to be armed with all my armor disabled, in case something happens. We must be on our guard at all times and everywhere because of the violent ableist world around us.
Not only do I have to think a thousand times before stepping out of my house, but I also have to think twice before engaging in casual intimacy.
I realize that I need some kind of commitment and acceptance from the person. I need to know that I can count on them if something goes wrong or if I flare up. Especially because I know I’m more susceptible to abuse because of my disability, it’s no secret.
I remember talking to a friend this week about the men I’ve dated and the friendships I’ve had. And I realized how I never really felt safe and comfortable in any of these interactions: that I had never really found my ideal group of friends or “the love of my life”. . I don’t think my access needs were ever thought of or considered. I’ve only dated able-bodied men and realized that one of the biggest power dynamics in a relationship is one of ability: a fact that directly contributes to the abuse of people with disabilities. Intimacy is often manipulated and taken over by able-bodied men in order to sustain and maintain violence in relationships with a disabled woman, trans and non-binary people. Caste and class mechanisms protect men, they conceal their abuses. In the eyes of these men, therefore, I was never meant to be more than a “girlfriend” because I would not be able to fulfill the duties of motherhood or wife: in an ableist world that denies the privilege of being valid and by extension, conventional femininity.
The logistics during intimacy have also always been considered beneficial for the able-bodied man in my experience. The bodies of women with physical disabilities are thus seen as sterile and infertile in an ableist world, we are seen as easier targets for abuse, trans misogyny and hate. A self-fulfilling prophecy then kicks in: a violent world sees our bodies as destinations for abuse and we truly begin to believe this and justify the abuse we experience. Like me, in particular by regularly defending able-bodied men in my mind and with my therapist.
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Whether it’s a relationship, a friendship, an interaction, I’ve always stuck to the bare minimum. Access needs were then seen as a transaction – a transaction of emotional labor and favor – “If you pick me up because I tripped and fell, I will be forever indebted to you. You won’t have to return the money you owe me, and you’re absolved of all the capable behavior you’ve shown me throughout our friendship.
Mia Mingus, disability justice expert describes it more precisely when she talks about something called access to intimacy. she describes it in the following sentences: “Access intimacy is that elusive, hard-to-describe feeling when someone else ‘gets’ your access needs. The kind of uncanny comfort your disabled self feels with someone on a purely accessible level Sometimes it can happen with complete strangers, disabled or not, or sometimes it can build over the years.It could also be the way your body relaxes and opens up to someone when all your needs are. are satisfied.
At the very end, I ask: how do we take care of ourselves and our community? Do we only participate in the joy and happiness of the community, or do we also participate in sorrow? How exactly do we quantify emotional labor? Are we ready to ask ourselves if our idea of perceived safety itself is based on our inherent biases? With whom do we really feel safe? Who do we let into our inner circle?
At the very end, I ask: how do we take care of ourselves and our community? Do we only participate in the joy and happiness of the community, or do we also participate in sorrow? How exactly do we quantify emotional labor? Are we ready to ask ourselves if our idea of perceived safety itself is based on our inherent biases? With whom do we really feel safe? Who do we let into our inner circle?
Featured image source: Alia Sinha
