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Review: Blind by Rachel DeWoskin
It’s sadly hard to see beyond Emma’s reflections on what she can’t do now that she’s lost her sight to actually find out how she’s adapting and adjusting.
It’s sadly hard to see beyond Emma’s reflections on what she can’t do now that she’s lost her sight to actually find out how she’s adapting and adjusting.
Stranger represents a case where verisimilitude—the appearance of plausibility—succeeds where a more realistic representation of disability might have failed.
Jacobus nailed the struggle with addiction, she nailed physical limitations, she nailed alcoholic and disability-related depression, she nailed the chaos of the active alcoholic, and she nailed the hopelessness and despair that can come from all of it.
An estimated 1 in 7 women suffer from chronic pelvic pain; it’s bizarre and disappointing that despite these statistics, there are distinctly zero characters with this condition.
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.
ADD isn’t an end of the world big deal. It’s really, really not. But it is a deal, it’s a thing. It’s a disability. It puts you on a different default setting.
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.
Science fiction and fantasy tell us that anything can happen, and yet disabled people are often told that their narratives don’t fit into the genres.
At its core, the Mystical Disabled Person trope is about a disabled character—frequently mentally ill, developmentally disabled, and/or blind—with some sort of unusual ability. This trope is varied, flexible, and depressingly common.