I am not a hero By Albert Britt Robillard, sociology professor and senior researcher, University of Hawaii, and author of Meaning of a Disability: The Lived Experience of Paralysis (Temple, 1999) The faculty at the University of Hawaii went on strike on April 5, 2001. I participated every day on the picket line and in a demonstration at the state Capitol Building. I sat with a sign on my legs, tied to my wheelchair, saying “UHPA (University of Hawaii Professional Assembly) on Strike.” I had a button pinned to my shirt, reading “United We Bargain, Divided We Beg.” During the strike, many people often told me or commented to friends within earshot, “Britt is really a hero.” There was also the constant question: “Are you tired?”. I was not tired. But I did feel as if people were dismissing me, as if people wanted me, along with my ALS (amyotrophic lateral sclerosis) atrophied body and wheelchair, to go away. (This disease attacks motor neuron cells in the body, brain and spinal cord, leading to varying amounts of paralysis and often death.) Another recurring question that people asked my wife or accompanying research assistant was, “How is he doing?” That question was never directly addressed to me. Strangers, as well as people who knew me well, applied the stereotypes of the tired hero to me. No one had evil or limiting intentions. Yet they rarely stayed long enough for any form of interaction. I cannot speak and have very limited movement of my head and neck but, like anyone else, I enjoy and require conversation. My wife and helpers can read my lips, gaze and gestures. Yet very few of my supposed admirers were interested in a chat. Being called a hero for participating in everyday life events, like the strike, is not limited to American culture. I was recently invited to Japan to address universities and communities. The listeners would break into sobs and wind up calling me a hero. My speeches were videotaped and played over and over on Japanese television. I could not go to a restaurant without being noticed. I do not want to leave the impression that I did not enjoy the trip to Japan or the participation in the faculty strike. I had many authentic conversations in both settings with people who knew my sociological work. However, I did not have the anonymity that most people enjoy. I find myself powerless in changing newspaper accounts or television stories about my so-called heroism. I cringe when I read reviews of my sociological work, typifying me as a hero. If limiting references are contained in languages and the implicit knowledge accompanying ways of speaking, what can be done to free up the disabled? There are two tasks. The first is to play back the constricting language on those who utter it. If I get the chance, I ask those who ask me whether I’m tired if they are tired and in need of rest. This provokes awareness. It also ruffles some feathers. The second task is to teach people the awesome power in ways of speaking and writing about disabled people. Power and the entirety of social institutions are contained and continuously reproduced in ways of talking, writing, reading, and visually representing society. We are agents in this reproducing society and are capable of change in the way we linguistically regard the disabled. Although we have laws to protect their civil rights, we need to go much further and address the power of discourse. By playing back the language on my well-meaning friends and colleagues, I do not want to impose a kind of sturm und drang discipline of a movement. My objective is to make people conscious of the way words and phrases create, make things. I really want to create the festivity of the picket line, where middle-class professors felt free to identify with, if only for a moment, historical working-class labour strikes. I want disabled people to experience the same freedom, where their disability is ignored. I am tired of being trapped in categories; I no longer want to be a hero. I wish to thank Katherine Trowell and Shannon Gau for their assistance in preparing this paper.