We Are Disabled, Not Disqualified

Written by Angel L. Okafor-Telfort

Let me say this loud enough for the people in the back:

Disabled people are not weak.

Matter of fact, some of us carry more weight sitting down than some people carry walking on two perfectly good feet.

We carry medical appointments.
We carry accessibility battles.
We carry insurance paperwork.
We carry transportation problems.
We carry people staring.
We carry people assuming.
We carry systems telling us what we supposedly cannot do before they even give us the opportunity to show them what we CAN do.

And somehow, after carrying all of that, we are still expected to smile, keep going, stay strong, be grateful, be patient, and prove ourselves over and over again.

Baby, that is not weakness.

That is strength with receipts.

We wake up every day and keep moving forward in a world that was not always designed with us in mind.

Some of us have to plan a trip to the grocery store like somebody else plans a vacation.

Is the entrance accessible?
Is the bathroom accessible?
Is there enough room for my wheelchair?
Will transportation show up?
Will somebody park in the accessible space who does not even need it?

And after we navigate all of that, society still has the nerve to look at disabled people as though WE are the inconvenience.

No.

The inconvenience is a world that still has not learned how to include everybody.

And then here comes the part I really need somebody to explain.

We are told we deserve equal opportunity.

We are told we have rights.

We are told we should pursue education, independence, employment, relationships, marriage, family, entrepreneurship, and financial stability.

But sometimes, when a disabled person starts trying to build a better life, suddenly benefits can change.

Get married?

Something may change.

Start earning more money?

Something may change.

Try to save?

Something may change.

Try to become more financially independent?

Now somebody is calculating whether you have become “too independent” to receive the support that helps you maintain that independence.

Now make that make sense.

You tell us to become productive members of society, but some systems can make disabled people feel like they are being penalized for trying to become productive members of society.

You tell us to work.

Then sometimes earning too much can affect assistance.

You tell us to pursue independence.

Then the very services helping us live independently may be tied to financial limitations.

You tell us to build families.

Yet marriage can sometimes affect benefits or eligibility depending on the program.

Meanwhile, somebody without a disability can work one job, pick up another job, start a side business, get married, combine income, build savings, buy property, and nobody automatically questions whether they still deserve access to the basic tools that allow them to live.

So again I ask:

Where exactly is the equal opportunity?

Because equality cannot simply mean, “You are allowed to participate as long as you stay inside this little box we built for you.”

That is not freedom.

That is a cage with paperwork.

And disabled people are not animals to be kept inside some financial fence.

We are PEOPLE.

We fall in love.

We want companionship.

We want husbands.

We want wives.

We want children.

We want careers.

We want businesses.

We want homes.

We want vacations.

We want savings accounts.

We want retirement plans.

We want to leave inheritances.

We want to contribute.

We want to create.

We want to build.

We want to LIVE.

And guess what?

WE DESERVE TO.

We should not have to choose between love and healthcare.

We should not have to choose between marriage and necessary assistance.

We should not have to choose between making money and keeping the services that allow us to get out of bed, get dressed, travel, work, or function independently.

We should not have to remain poor just to remain supported.

Some disabled people are not asking for a handout.

We are asking for a fair shot.

There is a difference.

Give us access.

Give us opportunity.

Give us accommodations.

Give us the tools we need.

Then move out of the way and WATCH WHAT WE DO.

Because once a disabled person gets access to the same door everybody else walks through?

Oh, baby.

You might find out the wheelchair was never the limitation.

The walker was never the limitation.

The cane was never the limitation.

The diagnosis was never the limitation.

Sometimes the biggest limitation was the system standing in front of the door.

And I refuse to believe God created disabled people just to sit on the sidelines and watch everybody else live.

No.

Jesus sees us.

He sees every unfair rule.

Every tear.

Every denied opportunity.

Every time somebody underestimated us.

Every time somebody talked around us instead of talking to us.

Every time somebody assumed we could not work, lead, love, marry, parent, preach, teach, create, build, or succeed.

Jesus saw every bit of it.

And I believe He knows how to turn tables.

So while somebody is looking at my disability, God is looking at my destiny.

While somebody is counting my limitations, God is counting my gifts.

While somebody is deciding what box I belong in, God is reminding me that He never asked permission from society before putting purpose inside me.

So no, I will not shrink.

I will not apologize for wanting more.

I will not apologize for wanting love.

I will not apologize for wanting financial stability.

I will not apologize for wanting independence.

I will not apologize for wanting the same opportunities everybody else gets to pursue.

I am disabled.

I AM NOT DISQUALIFIED.

I may move differently, but I am still moving.

I may need assistance, but assistance does not erase ambition.

I may have limitations, but limitations do not cancel purpose.

I may roll into the room, but trust me—

I STILL CAME TO TAKE MY SEAT AT THE TABLE.

And if there is no seat for me?

Move something.

Because I belong here too.

Disabled people are not asking society to feel sorry for us.

We are asking society to stop putting obstacles in front of people who already have enough to overcome.

We deserve dignity.

We deserve opportunity.

We deserve access.

We deserve careers.

We deserve financial growth.

We deserve relationships.

We deserve marriage.

We deserve families.

We deserve community.

We deserve to LIVE without being afraid that becoming “too successful” may cost us the support we need to survive.

And until the system catches up, we are going to keep speaking.

Keep advocating.

Keep working.

Keep loving.

Keep building.

Keep rolling.

Keep walking.

Keep creating.

KEEP SHOWING UP.

Because there is something powerful about a person the world underestimated who refuses to disappear.

So keep watching.

You might call it disability.

God calls it another platform for purpose.

And one day, the same system that tried to keep us boxed in may have no choice but to make room.

Because Jesus sees.

Jesus knows.

And I believe justice is still on Heaven’s agenda.

So to every disabled person who has ever felt trapped between surviving and thriving:

DO NOT LET THE SYSTEM CONVINCE YOU THAT SURVIVAL IS ALL YOU DESERVE.

You deserve a LIFE.

A full one.

A meaningful one.

A loving one.

A productive one.

A prosperous one.

A purpose-filled one.

And if somebody has a problem with that?

Tell them to take it up with the One who created you.

Because I am not begging for permission to be human.

I ALREADY AM.

Disabled? Yes.

Weak? Absolutely not.

Limited by your expectations? Never.

Created with purpose? All day long.

Now watch God make room.

Written by Angel L. Okafor-Telfort

Angel’s Poetic Praise

Two Pounds

Welcome to my blog. My name is Angel L. Okafor-Telfort, and I am going to tell you the truth here — how it is, living this life in this body, in this chair, and how I get through it. Not the pretty version. The real one. And it starts the same place my book starts: at two pounds.

From my book, God’s Gift, Chapter One — “The Crown”:

I was born on August 19, 1980, at Jefferson Regional Medical Center in Pine Bluff, Arkansas, weighing only two pounds.

Two pounds. Say it out loud and feel how small that is. A bag of sugar weighs more. A newborn baby is supposed to be this soft, heavy, crying bundle, and I came into the world barely bigger than a whisper — the baby of the family, and the smallest one in the room by a long shot.

They told my mama I would not be able to walk. They told her I would not be able to talk. They told her I would not be able to think for myself. And then, as if that were not enough sentence for one small baby, they told her I would not live to see the age of five.

Walk, talk, think, live. Four things. They took all four of them away from me before I had even opened my eyes all the way.

And my mama was not the only one standing against that verdict. My grandmother was a praying grandmother. While the doctors were writing down what I would never do, my grandmother was declaring a different word over that two-pound baby: my baby will live and not die — and declare the works of the Lord. She was speaking Scripture, whether she was quoting it on purpose or it was just living in her: Psalm 118:17 says, “I shall not die, but live, and declare the works of the LORD.” The doctors said five years. My grandmother said live. Those two sentences fought over my crib, and my grandmother’s is the one that won.

I am forty-six years old now, writing this book. Forty-six. Every birthday past five has been a rebuttal. Every year has been an argument I won just by waking up. I walk in my own way. I talk — Lord, do I talk, and I will tell you more about that in a minute. I think for myself, and I think deeply, and I think out loud, in poems and songs and books. And I lived. I lived past five, past ten, past every number they wrote down, and I am still living, still writing, still saying yes.

Two pounds. That is how I started. But two pounds was never how much I weighed in God’s eyes. In His eyes, I weighed a kingdom. And this book is the story of how I found that out.

That’s how I got here. What the doctors called a verdict, God called a beginning. Come back for the next post — we’re just getting started.

— Angel

This post is from my book God’s Gift (GOD — the Gift that Overcame Defeat). Paperback $42, Kindle $14. Find it on my shelf with all my books: go-disabled.org/books

Need somebody to sit with you on your own hard road? I offer peer coaching through Go-Disabled — angelspoeticpraise.org/peer-coaching

It Is Not a Shift. It Is a Skin.

Welcome back to my blog — I'm Angel L. Okafor-Telfort, and here I tell you the truth about how it is living this life, and how I get through it.

From my book, God's Gift:

Cerebral palsy does not come off. I know that sounds obvious, but people act like they do not know it. A caregiver can take off her uniform at the end of the day. She can hang it on a hook by the door and go home and be a person who is not tired in that particular way anymore. She can close the door on all the noise. She can take a breather. And if she is tired of me — if she is tired of us — she can choose not to come back.

I cannot choose not to come back to this body. I cannot put it down for a little bit. I cannot rest from it. I wear it to bed. I wake up in it. Cerebral palsy is not a shift. It is a skin.

And here is the part nobody talks about: I get burned out, too. Everybody talks about caregiver burnout, and I understand it, I really do — that work wears on a body, no lie. But who talks about the burnout of the person being cared for? Burnout from attitudes. From people talking to you any kind of way, like your wheelchair ate your brain, like your voice does not count. Burnout from waiting. From being stuck right where somebody left you until somebody decides to move you.

You ever been stuck? I do not mean "hold on a minute" stuck. I mean, "I cannot get up until another human being decides I matter enough to move" stuck. That is a different kind of tired. That is a tired you cannot sleep off.

That's the truth of living in this skin — and still, God gets me through it. Come back for the next post.

— Angel

This post is from my book God's Gift (GOD — the Gift that Overcame Defeat). Paperback $42, Kindle $14. Find it on my shelf with all my books: go-disabled.org/books

Need somebody to sit with you on your own hard road? I offer peer coaching through Go-Disabled — angelspoeticpraise.org/peer-coaching

The Box Everybody Else Could See

Welcome back to my blog — I'm Angel L. Okafor-Telfort, and here I tell you the truth about how it is living this life, and how I get through it.

From my book, God's Gift:

I need to tell you the truth about how it felt at first. Having cerebral palsy felt like being imprisoned for life for a crime I didn't commit. I felt overlooked. I felt like the black sheep of the family — not because my family didn't love me, but because too often they saw the responsibility of me instead of God's true capabilities that He placed inside of me. It took me years to learn what I know now: God had better for me than the box everybody else could see. And once I learned that, I started reaching for it.

That's the truth about the box — and still, God gets me through it. Come back for the next post.

— Angel

This post is from my book God's Gift (GOD — the Gift that Overcame Defeat). Paperback $42, Kindle $14. Find it on my shelf with all my books: https://go-disabled.org/books

Need somebody to sit with you on your own hard road? I offer peer coaching through Go-Disabled — https://angelspoeticpraise.org/peer-coaching