Content note for the Day of Mourning, filicide, and a much longer post than I meant to write.
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On March 1st, we participated in the Disability Day of Mourning to honor disabled victims of filicide. Every year, a new list of names is shared – adding to the hundreds of names that has been gathered by The Autistic Self Advocacy Network over the years.
And yet, there are names and stories that we will never know. Never reported, acknowledged, or shared.
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Disability is a natural part of the human condition. It’s not a tragedy or a fate worse than death. Every person is an integral part of the interconnected life we live – by the things they create, the influence on those around them, or the love they hold for the things that give them joy.
Our worth is not measured in salaries, degrees, or suspected IQ points. Life is sacred in whatever path lies before us – even if it’s not expected or the “norm.” The beauty of life often lies in the mundane.
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This was my seventh year as a site coordinator for the Disability Day of Mourning vigil. It never gets easier. As I put together a slideshow each year, I look through the photos and their stories.
I see babies as young as one day old, and I wonder what kind of life they could’ve lived. I think of all the things taken away from the young names on the list, robbed of those little moments as we grow.
The warm feeling of sunlight through a school bus window or the comfort in the presence of those we love during a winter storm outside – would they have experienced such things?
What joys would have filled their soul with delight?
What would they have been like as an adult?
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I see elders over one hundred years old – and I imagine what kind of life they lived. Even in their older years, life was still there to be experienced.
How did they like their coffee – or did they even drink coffee?
Did they have any regrets?
Was there something they were looking forward to?
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A list of names doesn’t tell you everything.
It doesn’t tell you that 4 year old Madelin’s favorite color was blue and adored her collection of stuffed animals.
You can’t see that 84 year old Patricia had 8 great-grandchildren – or the joy of 6 year old Leon when he was surrounded by bubbles.
It can’t describe how much 73 year old Mary loved scrapbooking and watching the Guardians of the Galaxy.
We don’t get to see why 35 year old Jack was described as an incredibly loving person, or the art of 17 year old Morgan who dreamed of going to Japan one day.
It doesn’t tell you that little 2 year old Lola was a joyful toddler with a love for butterflies and the outdoors – or that 9 year old Amanpreet loved visiting the park, playing in the swings.
We don’t know what books 63 year old Cheryl was happily reading. We will never see 82 year old Joan’s rose garden.
We don’t get to know 7 year old Lucas’ favorite character in Star Wars, or 12 year old Rosa’s favorite shade of pink.
Names alone can’t tell you that 5 year old twins Ahmad and Ava were in kindergarten; Ahmad was talkative and outgoing while Ava was known as a quiet observer.
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All these years, I’ve never been able to understand these deaths. I can’t explain it, nor can I explain society’s painting of our existence as a burden.
When my youngest brother died in 2018, the remnants of my grief were constantly countered with “encouragement” of strangers, who never actually had the privilege to meet sweet Liam.
Being told we were better off without him as a burden was pure salt in the wound. Over 6 years later, the sting still remains – as does the real burden: grief.
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The arguments of a lack of supports fall flat as parents all over struggle with the same – and yet never harm their children like this.
The tragedy lies not in the disability, but the violence from the hands of those who the victims should have been able to trust the most.
I don’t have the words to describe the ache I feel in the photos and stories.
But what I can tell you is this:
Disabled lives are worth living.
Just Keep Stimming! 