As a disabled Black woman born with a neuromuscular disability, I’m often asked “what are you?” and “what happened to you?” You know when you “appear” racially-ambiguous folks need to figure out how to categorize while casting a slight side-eye or sometimes smizing out of curiosity.  Tis a funny thing to be straight-faced *giggles* with a not-so-straight gait.

Oh how they wait for the reply with eyes growing wide while dining on lines to describe your biology while scanning the expanse of your anatomy. The need to place you in a category and define who you will be, nothing in their frame of reference culled from mainstream imagery.

Let me tell you…

I’m a wool fedora pulled forward. I’m a calm struggle whose cadence is complicated. Staccato-strutting through life cracked, whole, complete with each clickety-clack of my cane tapping down the street. And my effort and pace solidifies occupancy of space…