words.

My heart aches. My mind circles around simple words. Perceptions of people. And what they do to our spirits.

My girlfriend and I were called “fucking lesbians” as we walked down the street last week. That was a first.

We were on our way home from a candlelight memorial. A woman was murdered in downtown Hamilton. Her body was discovered under a pile of rubble and garbage. She was regularly degraded and insulted by those around her because of her addiction and mental health issues. Treated in life and death like a piece of trash.

On my way home, I watched as others watched a person in a wheelchair get on the bus. Watched them judge her appearance, her scent, her speech. Saw fear, disgust, shame in their eyes. Felt it rise in my own. I thought, if I could just look past her disability, her appearance, maybe I would see something more. Maybe I would notice her smile towards the infant in a stroller across from her, the child enraptured by this stranger’s beautiful face.

These moments pile up in my mind like dirty laundry. Distinct instances that all seem to be made of the same thread.

We all do these things, in different ways. Maybe we refer to the ‘crazies’ downtown. Or we meet someone with an intellectual disability on the bus and later joke about how uncomfortable it made us feel.  Or we pity the woman in the wheel chair. Or we say “that’s so retarded.” I have done all of these things.

I know how seemingly harmless and innocent words perpetuate negative stereotypes. I know how we isolate those who are different from us. Perhaps because of our ignorance, perhaps because of our fear.

Jean Vanier describes this fear as an unwillingness to accept our own humanity – our vulnerability, our eventual death. We fear people who have severe disabilities because they challenge us to face our own brokenness, our need for one another.

I also know how words can free us. Authenticity in another is contagious. Being with someone who accepts themselves in gift and weakness empowers me. I know that being around people who sing unabashedly, embracing their own imperfect voices for the sheer joy of melody and celebration, frees me to do the same.

On Friday I listened as Robert Pio Hajjar, founder of Ideal Way – an organization that advocates for people with Down Syndrome and other intellectual disabilities, shared his journey. ”Yes, I have a disability. But I ask you to see my ability.”

We are not very good at treating people like people. I disable you when I judge you. I am discrediting your capacity to be human when all I can see is your limitations.  And in doing so, I am discrediting my own.

I want to move away from fear or pity for those who are different than me, to a place of celebration. I want to embrace your humanity. I want to, like the infant in the stroller, look past your vulnerability and find the beauty in your smile. Past limitations to see possibilities. I refuse to disable people with my words and actions.

By embracing your weakness, I accept my own. I find my humanity reflected in yours.