Judith Heumann Quotes

Our anger was a fury sparked by profound injustices. Wrongs that deserved ire. And with that rage we ripped a hole in the status quo.

Part of the problem is that we tend to think that equality is about treating everyone the same, when it’s not. It’s about fairness. It’s about equity of access.

Change never happens at the pace we think it should. It happens over years of people joining together, strategizing, sharing, and pulling all the levers they possibly can. Gradually, excruciatingly slowly, things start to happen, and then suddenly, seemingly out of the blue, something will tip.

The truth is, the status quo loves to say no. It is the easiest thing in the world to say no, especially in the world of business and finance. But for the first time we were discussing civil rights, and no other civil rights issue has ever been questioned because of the cost.

I'm going to miss them,' said a Federal Building guard; he had started learning sign language and hoped one day to become a sign language interpreter. 'They were real nice people.

But I was beginning to learn something very important: when institutions don’t want to do something, to claim that something is a “safety” issue is an easy argument to fall back on. It sounds so benign and protective. How could caring about safety possibly be wrong or discriminatory?

When other people see you as a third-class citizen, the first thing you need is a belief in yourself and the knowledge that you have rights. The next thing you need is a group of friends to fight back with.

We should not have representatives of people with AIDS,” he was told. “People with AIDS will die.” To which Justin responded, “Of course they will die. So will you and I. We are not into perpetuating paternalism.

Right there was our catch-22: Because the country was so inaccessible, disabled people had a hard time getting out and doing things—which made us invisible. So we were easy to discount and ignore. Until institutions were forced to accommodate us we would remain locked out and invisible—and as long as we were locked out and invisible, no one would see our true force and would dismiss us.

They were not medical problems to rehabilitate. We were not medical problems. I was never going to undo the damage polio had done to my nerve cells and walk again, nor was this my goal. The disabled veterans coming home from the Vietnam War were never going to grow their limbs back or heal their spinal cords and walk again. My friends with muscular dystrophy were never going to not have been born with muscular dystrophy. Accidents, illnesses, genetic conditions, neurological disorders, and aging are facts of the human condition, just as much as race or sex.

Don't worry about me,' he said. 'You go for it. You're CHINGONA.' In the end, I took the job. And, by the way, if you look up CHINGONA at Urbandictionary.com, this is what you'll find: 'Chingonas are the most badass girls in the world. Don't mess with them or they will kick you in the nalgas.

I was confused and heart-wrenchingly sad to the point of numbness. I just couldn’t understand what I had to do to be seen as an ordinary person.

For we are leaders of inclusiveness and community, of love, equity, and justice.

The next day the Los Angeles Times reported on the event and quoted Representative Patricia Schroeder: What we did for civil rights in the 1960s we forgot to do for people with disabilities.

They held us up at reception and wouldn't let us in until we each swore that we would not start a sit-in in the White House. I couldn't hide the hint of a smile I felt curling across my face.

One of the simplest arguments against change is to say that something is too expensive, unsafe, or impossible. ....it distracts from the issue that when something is a civil right we must have ingenuity.

Instead of defining independence as “self-sufficiency,” the standard for independence in the clinical settings where they’d been treated as patients, they claimed that their independence would be understood instead as “self-determination.” The difference separated the dignity of authority and choice from the action itself. Asking for and receiving help with self-care tasks like buttoning a shirt, for example, was understood as a high degree of dependence in a rehabilitation paradigm. But if a person needed fifteen minutes of assistance with the shirt and with getting out the door to the bus, that person would be less dependent than a person who took two hours to dress on their own and could not leave the house. Uncoupling assistance from dependence—or perhaps bundling assistance together with a richer idea of independence—changed everything for these activists, because now they could press for a whole array of products and services that would support a desirable life. Judith Heumann, one of the instrumental voices for independent living, said in 1978 that “to us, independence does not mean doing things physically alone. It means being able to make independent decisions. It is a mind process not contingent on a normal body.

We will no longer allow the government to oppress disabled individuals. We want the law enforced! We want no more segregation! We will accept no more discussions of segregation and…” I paused. Eidenberg was nodding sympathetically at me. The look on his face was unbearable. “And, I would appreciate it if you would stop nodding your head in agreement when I don’t think you have any idea what we’re talking about!” I put my head in my hands and choked back my tears. The room burst in applause.

No matter which telethon it was, though, a sick-looking child would have been trotted out with the express purpose of inspiring your sympathy, or rather, pity. These sick, pitiful images of disabled people contributed to the assumption that most folks had about us – that it was because of medical condition that we weren’t out and about in society. We were seen as helpless and childlike, as the kind of people for whom you felt pity and raised money to cure their disease. Not the kind of people who fought back. It was time to share our side of the story. You can’t just take over a federal building and not tell anyone why you did it.

We’re not going to let a hypocritical society give us a token education and then bury us,” I told one reporter. When it came time for my segment on Today, I went on completely revved up. Poor Bob Hermann. He wasn’t necessarily against me, but I went after him like a dog with a bone. It was, I felt, no longer about me. It was about all the people. Yes, I did want to be a teacher, but in my mind, it was about all the stories I’d heard about someone’s brother or sister, or their father, their mother, their cousin, or they themselves—and how they had this problem or that problem and no one was listening and things weren’t happening. A dam had broken. After all this time, all the years of being ignored and dismissed, I felt like we had an opportunity to call attention and start to make it right. We could do something.

But it wouldn’t happen—the government would not take any responsibility—unless we made it impossible for them to ignore us. The idea of bringing a lawsuit against the Board of Ed was daunting, and I had no clue how to do it. I didn’t even know where to start. I definitely didn’t know any lawyers. The people I knew were butchers and cops, teachers and firefighters. How did one go about finding a lawyer? How could I possibly find one who would see the Board of Education’s decision as an issue of civil rights? If the ACLU didn’t get it, what hope did I have of finding a mainstream lawyer who got it? We decided we needed publicity. A disabled guy I knew from school was a journalism major and stringer for the New York Times. I called him and told him about the Board of Education’s decision. The next day a reporter named Andrew Malcolm called to interview me. A week later, the article, “Woman in Wheel Chair Sues to Become Teacher,” came out. It was 1970, and I was twenty-two years old.

I recognize now that exclusion, especially at the level and frequency at which I experienced it, is traumatic. Although at the time it didn’t feel out of the bounds of my normal, everyday experience—I can see that constantly coping with it definitely impacted me and it never stopped being painful.

Our parents’ generation associated disability with President Franklin Roosevelt, who actively hid from the public his paralysis from polio. He never allowed himself to be photographed in his wheelchair or being helped with his mobility. He talked about disability as something for an individual to beat or conquer. We disagreed with this—we did not see our issue as a medical problem that, if we just “fixed” it, would be fine. We were beginning to see our lack of access as a problem with society, rather than our individual problem. From our perspective, disability was something that could happen to anyone at any time, and frequently did, so it was right for society to design its infrastructure and systems around this fact of life.

MY PARENTS WEREN‘T obstinate or antiauthoritarian; they were thinkers. They had learned what happens when hatred and inhumanity are accepted. Both my father and my mother were brave people who lived by their values. They had personally experienced what happens when an entire country chooses not to see something simply because it is not what they wish to see. As a result, they never accepted anything at face value. When something doesn’t feel right, they taught us, you must question it—whether it is an instruction from an authority or what a teacher says in class. At the same time, my parents didn’t dwell on the past or on things that were done to them. They didn’t forget the past, and they definitely learned from it, but Ilse and Werner Heumann moved forward. Especially Ilse. She was an optimist. And a fighter. And so am I.

But it taught me, at a very early age, that most things are possible when you assume problems can be solved.

The day-to-day work of fighting fell on my mother, which I take as a sign. Because if the universe really hadn’t wanted me to go to school, it wouldn’t have made Ilse Heumann my mother. Telling Ilse Heumann that something wasn’t possible was a big mistake.