Roundabout

Get up, fall down

Get up, fall down

Metaphors of the Fight

Resonate right now.

Two steps forward; three steps back

Repeat ad nauseum

It hurts:

To fail

[Intransitive verb] “To stop functioning normally”

To be  

The embodiment of defeat

To claim Descartes as self-defence

Body-mind, body-mind

But where am I?

To disappoint

[Transitive verb] “To fail to meet expectations”

As childish moral inculcations

Crumble

Defeated edifices

Before beaten eyes

To surrender

[Transitive verb] “To give up completely”

To let

Teardrops punch pillows

With angry fists

The release

Of hostage frustrations

To rage

Against the dying of intellect

Against the theft of corporeal liberty

Breeze in sweeping hair, water on grateful skin

Sensual freedom

Robbed before sleeping eyes

Collect your self

Start again

Reshape your self

Repair exposed, wounded gaps

I will not give up

I will not give up

I will not give up

I will not

Give up

Da capo ad finitum

In Search of Radical “Voice”: Identity, Advocacy, and Anti-Discrimination law.

Last week, as the academic term drew to a close, I was really happy to be able to attend a seminar at the School of Law, University of Leeds – by Prof. Luke Clements, with Val Hewison – CEO of Carers Leeds

This was one of the “Conversations” series, hosted by the Centre for Disability Studies, University of Leeds, which provide the opportunity for the presentation of research from across the interdisciplinary field of disability studies, along with a response to the themes and ideas presented, with time for formal and informal discussion. Luke was addressing a fascinating question, relating to the role of carers, and then Val Hewison gave a response from the perspective of her organisation. The seminar also really got me thinking about my own work on the social politics of “voice”, so I thought it would be a perfect topic for this blog – giving me the opportunity (1) to do my best to share the ideas put forward by Luke and Val, (2) to think through the issues they raise in relation to my own work – and (3) to pose some questions of my own for further thought, so that is what I’m going to do here. The question on which Luke focused primarily was this:

“Why is there no radical wing to the ‘care-givers’ movement?”

The seminar began with Luke discussing the origins of the Carers’ Movement – and the prominent role of the UK in its history. He placed this history in the context of the development of identity-based anti-discrimination law, talking about various attempts to achieve for carers the status of a protected group/characteristic (as has been done for sex, race, disability etc). Such attempts have included the Carers (Recognition and Services) Act 1995, and the Carers (Equal Opportunities) Act 2004 – and Luke played a role in the development of both of these statutes. However, despite these legislative achievements, Luke also noted that carers are not, in themselves, recognised as a protected group anywhere in the world.

Turning to case law relating to carers, Luke referenced the case of Attridge Law (a firm of solicitors) v Coleman [2007] IRLR 88, which provides that the concept of “associative discrimination” may apply to carers. This concept, derived from European anti-discrimination law, protects people from discrimination based on their association with a person who is a member of a protected group (e.g. – as in this case, an able-bodied carer of a disabled person). So, rather than being recognised as a protected group in its own right, carers’ legal rights are “piggy-backed” onto those of the disabled people for whom they care.

Luke then moved on to place the position of carers in the wider context of the socio-legal work of theorists who have been critical of the preoccupation of anti-discrimination law with identity – drawing particularly on the work of Martha Albertson Fineman around “Vulnerability Theory” (e.g. Fineman (2008) – see below for link). He used this quote to Fineman to summarise his thoughts:

“The trick is to turn away, not from the law, but from identities to institutional structures”

In expanding on this, Luke argued that “identity doesn’t get you to the destination”. A point that was illustrated with reference to Hainsworth v Ministry of Defence [2014] EWCA Civ 763, a case in which the request of a civilian employee to be relocated from Germany to England, in order to meet the needs of her disabled daughter was refused. Luke explored the possibilities offered in Fineman’s critiques of the neoliberal entanglement of identity (particularly around liberal, individualistic notions of “autonomy”) to achieve the aims of equality and social justice, considering whether a more universalist approach, rooted in the embodied vulnerability inherent in the human condition, may be more useful – in this case, for carers. This led to the question:

“Have we reached the limits of what we can do with anti-discrimination law?”

In a detailed response, Val Hewison (Carers Leeds) explained that pockets of radical social action on the part of carers are to be found around the country. However, she also outlined several challenged faced by the carers’ movement, which I’ve summarised around 3 themes:

  • Identity challenges: Many carers dip in and out of caring. It is not (necessarily) a long-term identity category. Also, carers do not necessarily ‘identify’ as carers – seeing their caring role as an extension of family relationships.
  • Practical Challenges: Carers are often overwhelmed with their caring responsibilities, and lack the energy to engage in activism outside of the practicalities of their caring role.
  • Social Challenges: Carers may experience ignorance or disbelief in terms of their caring roles from employers and authorities. One organisation, when asked to disclose information about the carers employed by them, replied “we don’t have any carers”.

This seminar was fascinating, in engaging with the intricacies and challenges of the role of identity in anti-discrimination law, and placing this area of law in social context by focusing on the experiences of carers. It also raised some really interesting thoughts and questions in relation to my own research interests around what it means to “have a voice” in society.

As part of my PhD research, I’ve explored in social science literature how the concept of “voice” is employed as a “bridge” between the individual and the social world around them – a way of moving between the “inner” world of the individual, and the social and political structures that produce, reproduce, support, and oppress aspects of that individual – and that in turn are shaped, moulded, and challenged by the individual themselves. I’ve also developed a taxonomy of 6 aspects of “voice” that set out how the concept is understood in social science, which are:

  • Identity-building
  • Self-determination
  • Self-expression
  • Social participation
  • Advocacy
  • Disruption

In my specific area of interest – mental capacity law – one of the questions that has been particularly interesting me is what happens to the “disruptive” aspect of an individual’s social “voice” when that person loses the mental capacity to make specific decisions for themselves – and it is here that I felt strong resonances with Luke’s focus on the “radical” voice of the Carers’ Movement.

Disruptive “voice” refers to the ways in which a person may seek to create radical individual and social change – it’s the “voice” that a disabled person uses when they chain themselves to the railings of Parliament, or (to use an example quoted by Luke Clements), it’s throwing yourself under the king’s horse in search of “Votes for Women”. It seeks to overturn the State, social, legislative, or bureaucratic status quo, often when other aspects of the individual’s “voice” have been exhausted, and unsuccessful in achieving desired aims.

In situations where people lack or lose capacity, and in the roles of carers, we are confronted with situations in which an individual may be reliant on others to exercise their social “voice” – including in its disruptive forms. I’m particularly interested in what happens to “voice” when a person, for whatever reason, is (deemed) unable to speak for themselves. My background, and longstanding association with community advocacy has brought me face to face with the real-world ethical and practical challenges that arise when we find ourselves in a position of putting our own “voice” at the service of someone else to speak “with” or “for” them and ensure their views are represented, and I really want to understand more about these challenges, and the assumptions, theories, and practices underpinning them. It struck me in the seminar I’ve summarised here, that the challenges of the carers’ movement in achieving social change and recognition in their own right might be a location, similar to advocacy, in which some of these challenges and dilemmas concerning “voice” might be played out.

And I’m wondering what (if anything) my research on social “voice” can offer to clarify and develop understanding of these challenges.

So far, I’ve come up with three questions/thoughts-in-progress that I’d really like to explore and develop further:

  • One of the fundamental challenges for carers/advocates is that as the “voice” is socially understood as being rooted in the individual (identity-building, self-determination, self-expression), those who concern themselves with “speaking up for” others, and “ensuring their voice is heard” leave themselves open to charges of inauthenticity and misrepresentation of the “voices” of those for whom they aim to “speak up”. This is especially likely to be the case in situations where the distribution of social or financial power is unbalanced (e.g. where a carer or advocate engages with a professional who “holds the purse strings”), and where it is in the interests of those with whom the carer/advocate is engaging, for them to be silenced. (To digress momentarily, I acknowledge that it is often possible for carers/advocates to engage legal/rights-based claims in order to pursue, and perhaps achieve specific substantive aims, e.g. access to services – but I don’t think that addresses the issue of what happens to those aspects of “voice” on which I’m focusing here. It seems possible that they become entangled with, and are casualties of, a preoccupation with the financial consequences of acquiescing to such substantive rights claims).
  • If we accept this risk of “silencing” as a consequence of employing “voice” tactics on behalf of someone else (as a carer or advocate), this may shed some light on why the disruptive aspect of that individual’s “voice” may be especially vulnerable in situations where their “voice” is being represented and/or supported by another person (a carer, an advocate). As I have said, the disruptive “voice” is concerned with challenging the status quo, and with the pursuit of radical social change. It is – by definition – disruptive. And it is therefore the aspect of “voice” that arguably presents the greatest challenge to the established social order (a point that of course, has been rehearsed at length, notably in – John Berger’s writing on “The Nature of Mass Demonstrations”). So, could it therefore be the case, that for tactical or other reasons, the disruptive aspect of a person’s “voice” is the most likely to be lost in situations where the person is unable to exercise that “voice” for themselves, and is reliant on others? Given the already precarious nature of the epistemic position of the carer/advocate, particularly in the social contexts I discussed above, is it not to be expected that the disruptive, radical “voice” of a person being advocated/cared for is likely to fall by the wayside – a victim of strategy in the pursuit of other vital, tangible goals?
  • And if this is the case, if our disruptive “voice” is itself vulnerable, we are left with the question – Who is going to chain themselves to railings on your behalf if you lack/lose the ability to do it for yourself?

I’m fascinated by the ethical and practical issues raised for advocates and carers by the social politics of “voice”, and I’m looking forward to developing these initial thoughts, and attempting to figure out how they might be of use to carers and advocates in understanding and strengthening their roles – both through formal research, and through ‘thinking aloud’, as I have done here. I would really welcome your thoughts on the issues I’ve discussed, along with any references that you think would develop my thinking, and my ability to articulate the embryonic concepts I’ve tried to set out above.

Thank you to Prof. Luke Clements, and to Val Hewison for providing me with such stimulating food for thought.

For Martha Albertson Fineman’s work – particularly on Vulnerability Theory – a good place to start is

Fineman, M. A. (2008) “The Vulnerable Subject: Anchoring Equality in the Human Condition” Yale Journal of Law and Feminism 20 (1)

Finding my Voice

Welcome to this, my first post.

It’s always a challenge to battle the fear of the blank page, but I’m going to do that here by sharing some thoughts about one of the ways in which I have found, maintained, and developed my “voice” throughout my life. 

I am autistic. And as is commonly accepted, being autistic implies a difference in communication and social interaction – and difficulties in communicating in an unsupportive social environment. This means that we sometimes find our own creative, diverse ways of expressing ourselves.

For me, this has always been music.

There are several ways in which I could tell this story – several scripts that I could articulate. I could take the ‘autism script’ wherein everything I say relates to my experiences of autism. But this is problematic, because a significant part of the story is about how one expresses an identity that is not part of the mainstream, and is often thought of as ‘deficit’ or ‘deviant’. How one speaks without having access to the words to explain this identity. Or, I could tell the ‘music story’ – about the wonderful properties of music to help someone with a disability to express themselves. But that’s not right either, because music is not the right thing for all disabled people. For some, it would be absolutely impossible or intolerable. So the script that I’m speaking from is the one that helps me to explain a way in which an autistic woman developed her “voice” and began to tell her own story.

I will pick up the story in junior school, where music lessons and instrument loan were available without cost to a given number of pupils. I don’t remember the process that led to me being one of those pupils, but I do remember being given a choice as to which instrument I would want to learn. I chose the trumpet. I am very clear about my reason for choosing this – it was very deliberate. I chose it because ‘girls don’t play the trumpet’ – the other girls played flutes, clarinets and violins. I wanted to play the trumpet. I didn’t understand the other girls, I didn’t feel any affinity or connection with them and I felt I was failing miserably at being one of them. That isn’t to say that I felt any more in common with the boys, but then there was no expectation that I would. So I chose to play the trumpet as a way of setting myself apart from something that I couldn’t do, and couldn’t be – and finding a different sound, a different “voice” – a “voice” that I felt wasn’t expected of me. No expectations meant no pressure. I could express myself as I wanted.

When I was eleven, I began playing the piano. To be more accurate, I fell absolutely head over heels in love with playing the piano.  I had formal lessons and passed all the exams, but mostly I played, and played, and played. In particular, I used to play during lunch times at school. The school had a large hall, which was otherwise empty of people, but where I was allowed to play the grand piano. I used to go there on most lunch times to escape what felt like the pain and hostility of unstructured social time with peers – and was undisturbed except for the occasional person, usually members of staff, who would pass through the hall and, if they talked to me, would talk about the music. So I found a “voice” that could resonate with those around me, and this opened up the possibility of more than just self-expression. It brought with it an aspect of interaction that I could understand, and undertake with a degree of competence that was often absent in other forms of interaction that were expected of me.

So, clearly for me, music was about rejecting scripts that felt painful and uncomfortable (‘you do “being a girl” this way’), writing my own scripts and finding a “voice” that was achievable for me. However, music is in itself a script – and accessing this script is a way of connecting with the world. In this sense, it matters that it was the folk and traditional music around me that stood out to me as most meaningful and most appealing. And it matters that it is this script as opposed to others (other musical genres – classical, jazz etc) that has given me a “voice” in the social world around me.

The thing about singing traditional/folk songs is that they are social scripts. They are ways of telling what it is to be human in the social world – and they belong to everyone, and they belong to no one. This means that when I sing them, my voice is joining in with an ongoing act of carrying and shaping social scripts. I sing songs that touch on the whole range of human emotions – love, sex, anger, hurt, jealousy… I can express these emotions to the world, without needing to disclose how they relate to me. This is a big deal for someone who grew up without access to the words to explain myself. When I sing, the script is already written for me, I just have to claim it. Likewise, I can sing protest songs that bring into the foreground power and marginalization; that tell stories of those to whom society has denied a “voice”– I can connect with that, without needing to put ‘autism’ and all the assumptions that go along with that word up front as the explicit reason why I connect. I focus on the experience, and on shared experiences and common ground with others. I sing in folk clubs and festivals, where those around me know the script – where it’s their script too, and they join in, and we share. I also sing in other spaces, where these scripts are unfamiliar – in pubs and other social environments where my voice performs an act of bearing witness, and a way of enabling others to connect with the complexities of the human condition.

It would be wrong to assume though, that in order to access the scripts that form social identity one needs words. For me, dancing is a way of connecting and self-expression too. When I clog dance using steps collected and passed on from others, I’m aligning myself with the scripts of those who have gone before me – the (mainly) women and girls who danced in mills in the valley where I live, the music hall ‘stars’ who sought to bring pleasure to others and to achieve acclaim themselves – and those dancers before me who have recognized that those steps were something worthy of doing, and of saving.

And when I freestyle, barefoot at home, in a pub or at a festival –to music in my head, on a CD or with people playing music just for me, I don’t need a script to find my “voice”. My body just feels the music. It’s a purely sensory delight, a moment of absolute liberation – and we all need those.

So throughout my life, music has enabled me to find my “voice” – to express myself, to interact with those around me, and to connect with the “voices”of generations that have gone before me.

With, or without a script – with, or without words

Music is a powerful “voice”.