Intermission Magazine - Artist Perspective
Read the full piece “A Different Kind of Hustle” here
“In 2015, I opened a package containing my first neck brace. Propped up by pillows in bed, I put it on and realized that with its support I could sing – something I hadn’t been able to do for years. Immediately, I felt all of my hopes and dreams of performing rush in, only to realize, a moment later, that there were no characters who wore neck braces. No one would cast me.
I fell in love with theatre when I was 3 years old, at a production of Beauty and the Beast. I saw the magical, swirling, dancing plates and utensils in the giant wardrobe and told my parents that’s what I wanted to do. They chuckled, gave me a pat on the head, and said, “That’s nice, sweetie.”
But I was persistent. By the time I hit my preteens, I was a full blown theatre kid. I inhaled stories like they were candy and worked hard to develop my skills to bring them to life. Voice, piano, drama, dance — I did my homework in the car rides to and from rehearsal, and propelled myself through long hours of extracurriculars with sheer force of will, fruit-to-go bars, and the feeling of being part of something bigger than I could ever be alone.
Later in life, when I became intimately acquainted with chronic illness and disability, I realized that out of all those stories I had devoured, none of them prepared me for my experience. I had only learned of sickness as a plot device, one that ended in death or a cure. I didn’t know that I could experience symptoms that would stay. That I could float through the medical system, undiagnosed, for years. That I could live a full life and also be ill. I knew nothing of life as a Disabled person.
By the time I got my neck brace and put it on, the realization that I didn’t fit the mold of existing characters didn’t crush me. I wanted to be a part of telling the stories that I was missing. Stories like mine.
As I started to create and perform again, I knew that I’d face barriers in physical accessibility. Once I started using a wheelchair, I quickly learned that so many theatre spaces are up or down a flight of stairs, and there are often no ramps onto elevated stages.
I also knew that I’d face barriers from stigma. With such minimal and flawed representation of disability in existence, after performances I’m still often asked if my wheelchair and brace are props. I can feel the discomfort, the tension when I arrive on stage, and I’m constantly relearning how to manage those feelings.
What took me longer to realize, and what has been a lot harder for me to accept, is that I would also face barriers in-process.
New stories require a new framework…”
Read the full piece at Intermission Magazine