Fighting Discrimination: Racism to Ableism. . .

Our societal tendency to dehumanize “others” is deeply troublesome. Thankfully, most would agree that a death threat against a public official—based on a policy disagreement—is the extreme, an act of those on the fringe.  I also have to remind myself that the twenty-four-hour news cycle favors the sensational, often overlooking the endeavors of reasonable people, many of whom rail against discrimination of any sort. But still, the ease with which too many blindly discount the humanity of entire groups of human beings can’t be denied. Nor can the realization that these insidious habits—taught rather than inborn—don’t just hurt those who are deemed unworthy, but they diminish our collective well being. 

My advocacy for drug policy reform is fueled by the fact that over 190 deserving people in the U.S. die of an overdose every day, the majority of whom would have gone on to lead productive lives. But the hurdle in overcoming this tragedy is stigma, which essentially boils down to the fact that we dehumanize those who suffer from addiction and, thus, the motivation to implement proven strategies continues to languish.

Sadly, the reality of this discrimination is embedded in our culture. Drug use among the poor, or people of color, incurs a shockingly higher rate of criminalization and incarceration when compared to white or wealthy counterparts. Evidenced by years of prison population data, this fact is driven home by law enforcement biases that play out every day—inflicting punishment within marginalized communities, for example, while turning a blind eye to the very same practices on elite college campuses. 

In addition to racism and classism, there is ableism, which also runs rampant in our society. Just as ugly as basing individual worth on socio-economic status or skin color is the discrimination against people with disabilities. Seen as “inferior” and often discounted, people with disabilities are readily denied basic human rights.

My son, Paul, had disabilities that precluded his success in school. Having been underestimated, marginalized, and often mistreated throughout his formative years, he turned to self-medicating in his twenties. It wasn’t long before his drug use—initially providing welcomed relief—spiraled into addiction.  With drug treatment programs that further demoralized him, blamed him, and cast him aside, he was eventually incarcerated, a cruel and humiliating experience that served no purpose whatsoever other than to reinforce his sense of helplessness and worthlessness not to mention crushing his chances for employment. 

Given the barriers to needed health care, along with the harms inflicted by the mindset of the war on drugs, Paul’s fate was stacked against him, and he died of an accidental overdose. My belief that Paul’s suffering was avoidable, inspired me to write Cover My Dreams in Ink, a memoir that recounts his life and celebrates his gifts. If Paul’s story can instill sensitivity for those who are different, and compassion for those whose circumstances are not of their making, then his life and preventable death will not have been in vain. 

While Paul’s language impairment had compromised his connections with others and his right to be treated with dignity, his writings—most of which I discovered after his death—reveal inner thoughts and a skill level he had yet to share. Intertwined with the passages of the memoir, Paul’s poetry—ranging from expressions of hope and love to depictions of his dismal plight and his grappling with a way out—help to tell his story.

One of Paul’s many poems is copied below: 

A SMOOTH AIR     

A smooth air beats its chills upon

The shingles of this rooftop sinking

Down into an empty apartment

Building; welded from rusted metal,

Lying bodies; a smelly trash.

Outdated innocence compels

Itself in a crude state

And has lost the right to move

Through the town naked

In the presence of such emptiness     

So stranded, we sit.

If only the church steeples

Could rescue us from several flats

Over, the cosmic zombie of the Jewish faith

Could electrify our stunted growth

Set in by what seems like rigormortis

With fervent prayer

And we too could be giants.

But its steeples are much too high

Our feet and hands are restrained by the

Humility of watching the world

Move freely below us in swift movement;

With camouflaged work attire

And batons concealed to briefcases,

Ready for the battle of youth.

We however, came unprepared;

Meeting the dawn with our eyes

But brains still stuck in their wet,

Midnight slumber… searching.

The rude crosstown traffic

Makes pointless music to our ears

And skips my phonograph in

1000 beats until the record is

Scratched and broken.  No good

So in what seems like eternity, we

Wait for the stampede to vacate

The sidewalk. Because behind these masks

We cannot breathe

[Photo credit: Daman Singh]