Review: Don’t Touch by Rachel M. Wilson
There was something in this story—some intimate, intangible Knowing—that made me believe, This author has been here. This author has walked in these shoes.
There was something in this story—some intimate, intangible Knowing—that made me believe, This author has been here. This author has walked in these shoes.
In terms of disabled characters, what would our contributors like to see more of in children’s literature?
For disabled characters, being cured is a common trope. What’s more, in most of these narratives, the characters are cured because they’re better than they were at the start of the book: kinder, gentler, braver. And finally, finally, they’re normal and whole.
All too often, portrayals of disability in literature mirror the common assumption that disability signifies helplessness.
The most common wheelchair-using character has acquired paraplegia, but why is this particular narrative so prevalent, and at the expense of all others?
I related to Mahlia’s struggle with the harsh words hurled at her because of her limb deficiency—sometimes wanting to prove herself and sometimes wanting to keep her distance.
The world does its best to remove our autism from the mainstream narrative of life, hiding either it or us whenever possible. In the world of fiction, we often see these same attempts.
Blind characters seem to always go too far in either one direction or the other—either completely ruled by their disability, or completely unfazed. The truth is, I hate both, because neither is honest.
According to pop culture, mentally ill people are magically more creative, filled with a manic drive to create art that pushes them to the brink until they finally explode.
Perhaps “normal” behavior is best described as a “normative spectrum.”