Hammer Time

Friday night I had the privilege of attending Hammer Museum’s Breath(e) Art opening to see a piece I painted for artist and activist Ron Finley, LA’s beloved Gangster Gardener.

“Breath(e): Toward Climate and Social Justice” is an exhibition that’s part of Getty's initiative PST ART: “Art & Science Collide". Featuring works by hundreds of contemporary artists, scientists, and activists with topics ranging from climate change and environmental justice to the future of AI and alternative medicine, you can find PST art in museums & institutions across the region.

Gardening“ is my graffiti. I grow my art. -Ron Finley

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A few years ago Finley reached out on Instagram asking if I could contribute a piece to his ‘Urban Weaponry, Weapons of Mass Creation’; a collaborative exhibition that consisted of mailing out garden shovels to artists around LA to paint. I panicked. I hadn’t physically painted in years due to my progressive & debilitating muscle-wasting condition that had taken my legs and was now taking my arms. 

When I looked into Finley’s story, I learned he had received a citation that turned into a warrant for his arrest just for planting carrots and vegetables in the parkways…ya know, that drop of grass on sidewalks that serves as a waste of space when it could be nourishing food for a community. Finley remembers going to a grocery store in South central LA and seeing “Coated with Shellac” stickers all over the tomatoes. He’d have to drive an hour just to get his kids fresh fruit and vegetables. People don’t know, but areas like South Central LA across the country are known as “food deserts”, meaning you can’t access affordable and fresh fruits and vegetables because fast food chains replace grocery stores. You can’t find grocery stores, but fast food is cheaper than fruits and vegetables, anyways. Finley was sick and tired of seeing his community not having access to real food, so he began digging up his parkway in front of house to plant vegetables and fruit for the community. This all really began when his son planted a tangerine tree as a child.

The drive-throughs are killing more people than the drive-bys. - Ron Finley

Finley challenged the city and thus a former fashion designer turned activist & artist. Finley empowers others to grow their own food void of chemicals and repellents-educating how food affects our bodies and health. He teaches that you can’t fight and be empowered if you aren’t healthy, so take control because what we eat doesn’t only affect our bodies and health but our minds, because so much of what we consume can be connected to depression or the growing chronic illness scene. Food progress is also killing and making us sick. As a disabled advocate, it’s good to give awareness to chronic illnesses, but there also has to be an equal force on the origin of why, especially in a country that gives healthcare through corporate employment which means if you become sick and can no longer work then you no longer have healthcare. Finley also teaches the importance of passion as a weapon of choice-choosing creativity over violence. 

After researching Finley’s story, I couldn’t not say yes to his shovel art request. This shovel for Finley is the last thing I ever physically painted. I painstakingly did it over Christmas of 2018. Finley’s project birthed my ‘Wheel Girl’; a representative of me in the most sacred place of all—nature, the ruler of the kingdoms no matter how humanity tries to out progress it. 

I'm typically a line artist but lines are difficult to paint when you don’t have much arm or hand control, so I went with a graphic approach so it’d be easier to paint for my disabled hands. It was still a mind-numbingly slow, long & painful paint-by-number process, but I did it. For this piece, I wanted to give disability visibility like all my art that is inspired by my progressive disease-telling my intimate tale, but also with a plea to see us (disabled) as part of human culture. You don’t see us in art, so I draw disability for you. The girl is me, as all my pieces are. Wheel Girl has since made it into different drawings since this original piece I did for Finley in 2018, and I’d like to turn her into a series as I now learn to draw with my finger.

I’m grateful to Finley for including me. I feel like I got into the Hammer through a loophole, but regardless, it’s still cool. When he asked for an art contribution I had no idea what it was going to become, I just wanted to contribute to someone I felt cared. 

Finley and I have been following each other since his art request, but have only really met in person a handful of times, and yet he checks in with me, follows all my posts, and sends me things he finds inspirational online or provoking questions even though I’m terrible at reciprocating the same and instead offer bad dad jokes. I’ve appreciated his friendship, and I love our socio political and philosophical discussions in his backyard urban garden. 

When I left the Hammer opening on Friday night and said goodbye to Finley, he grabbed my head, kissed it and said “I love you”. This made me tear a little, because I knew he meant it. Finley probably wouldn’t like me sharing this story, but I’ve become a believer that we often wait to tell somebody what’s good about them when they’re already gone or unable to hear it, so at times I think it’s important to express these stories and what someone means to you. 

A few years ago, I shared online that my Mac desktop took a dive. I lost all my files. A couple years prior my mother had died, so the worst part of this tech loss was losing the only 2 audio voice messages I had of my mother’s voice. Two minutes after posting this, I got an Instagram ping from Ron Finley saying, “Kam. Here’s my number. Call me.” 

“Oh, shit.” I wondered, “Did I do something wrong?” I called him and he answered with a simple, “Kam. Do you need a new computer? I’ll send you one.” 

I was flabbergasted that somebody who technically only knows me from online was offering such a thing. Of course I refused his kind offer, stating there’s so many more people who need help over me, but it solidified my position on Finely.

Integrity is a motherfucker, people have very little of it right now. -Ron Finley

Something people should know about Finley, beyond the activist and artist, is that he really cares, and that is the kind of people I’m looking for in life—people who truly care beyond the limelight and give something beyond themselves, beyond the big houses, fancy cars and boxes full of stuff: To live, create and love. Finely could’ve been a sell-out, but he’s remained true to his message and mission.

With all the division and rage pushed upon us we have not allowed ourselves to step back and say, “Yes there are problems and bad in the world, but there is also good”. The 24 hour news stream only highlighting the worst of humanity doesn’t allow us to see that not every corner is filled with anger, greed and selfishness, and that there’s a great many good people who care, but are never the ones elevated to power structures, for a reason. We cry into the night for change to no listening ears from the powerful, and yet we wonder why people become so discouraged as they witness their loved ones dying from lack of healthcare or their children bombed and disintegrated by war profiteering. Listen. To the powerful: Please, listen to us and give a shit. To the average angry citizen caught in the middle of power: Please, know there are people that care, and most of the time your neighbor is not your enemy like you think they are, but potentially just as powerless and struggling like you. There are people who are kind and are good to each other, so never forget this when you’re thinking is boxed into one narrative while you endlessly scroll Twitter (sorry, X) or Instagram. There is goodness, and using division anger and bad people to excuse you not giving a shit isn’t the way either. As Finley and I most furiously believe: Giving a shit matters. So give a shit. Plant some shit. Do some shit. 

At the Hammer opening, I also got to finally meet talented sculpture, installation and mixed media artist, Melissa Meier (swipe left)!! I’ve been following her work for awhile. In the spring, we connected and have been mind scraping for a creative project since. One of Melissa’s themes is living sculptures where wearable and beautiful sculptures are made entirely out of natural elements like seeds, grass, flowers, hay, eggs, seashells and more. I can’t tell you how lucky I am that Melissa created a piece for me. I finally got to see it last night when we archived it in a little photoshoot at her place. I had so much fun. The piece is just beautiful. I can’t wait to share what Melissa built with you all, so stay tuned! In the meantime, check out her stellar work @ https://instagram.com/mellissameierart

A bunch of followers were asking to come meet me at the exhibit, so I will be setting up an “Art with Kam” meet up at the Hammer museum for Breath(e) in the very near future for any friends who want to come or followers who would like to attend and meet me. Stay tuned for the date to be posted on my IG @ https://instagram.com/kamredlawsk

Soul Tourist

Soul Tourist  / I drew this illustration and wrote the accompanying 2013 essay (below) back when I had a column with @character.media (then KoreAm Journal, the oldest and most circulated monthly magazine for the Asian American community). I am currently in Korea, a stop amongst a 2 month tour through Asia as a disabled Korean/Japanese American adoptee. I’ve been sharing daily travel memoirs so my followers can travel along with me. I’ve fallen behind, but still have so many stories and meetings yet to share. Keep following along @ KamRedlawsk on instagram.

This illustration and essay ‘Soul Tourist’ will give a preface to upcoming travel memoirs of our current travels through Korea:

KoreAm Column / November 11, 2013

While looking at the Detroit skyline from my tiny studio apartment, I made the impetuous decision to visit Korea. This would be my first time back in 20 years, since my adoption at age 4 by a white family in Michigan. It was the summer of 2003, and I booked my ticket two weeks before departure. This was also the period when the mysterious weakening of my legs had begun (the first signs of my genetic neuromuscular disorder that made me a full-time wheelchair user), and this hastened my sense of urgency, despite feeling nervous about traveling alone.

Fortunately, once I got to Korea, I wouldn’t be alone. A group of devoted classmates from my design college, which had a large number of international students from Korea, had offered to host me that summer and show me around my lost country. Back in college, I began inadvertently making friends who looked like me, and consequently tossed into “Korean life.” As someone who grew up in a predominantly white community, including my own parents and siblings, this sudden surge of similarity made me curious, and I jumped in with both feet—from learning all about Korean cuisine to Korean dramas and even going as far as teaching myself Hangul (the Korean alphabet), just so that I could read and memorize popular Korean songs to surprise my friends during karaoke outings.

I went from having all white childhood friends to mostly Korean friends, and thus began my education about my heritage, of which I knew nothing about. Or so I thought. As the plane touched down at Incheon Airport, I felt excitement. And as soon as my wobbly feet touched Korean soil, I felt at home.

For the next couple of weeks, my friends took turns showing me around. I met their families and lived as they did. Their families were nurturing hosts, treating me to home-cooked traditional Korean food. As we sat on the floor indulging in the colorful array of stews, meat and banchan (side dishes), I felt kinship and comfort. All of this seemed remarkably familiar, and I realized my memory had escaped me for so many years.

I found myself intently observing the children playing in the streets, as if watching them would extract a sense of what I was like as a child in Korea. But with all the positive moments, I also experienced moments of disconnect. Natives would target me as either not a true Korean or a disgrace because I didn’t speak their language. They could not understand why I didn’t, nor did they care, and would look upon me with pity as they glared down at my cane. When we drove through the bustling Seoul through pouring rain, all I could see were a sea of umbrellas covering the city. At one moment, I remember all the heads lifting up, and I could see a sea of faces that looked like me.

When it was time to leave, I felt sad, as I gazed at my birth country from the airport conveyor belt. Leaving Korea was difficult, and suddenly, Michigan no longer felt like home. I cried.

The story I know, or remember, of how I came to be begins at age 4. Belonging to a family was not a given for me. It required a long journey across the Pacific Ocean to find them. I am told I was abandoned at birth and my biological mother left, giving no name or trace of who she was. Sporadically, I would think of this alleged moment. I felt like she was a phantom in the delivery room. Was she really there? Did such a person exist?

I was transported from that little birthing clinic in Daegu, South Korea, to a convent. My first week in this world was spent with nuns and other abandoned children. Then I moved to an orphanage where I lived until being adopted by an average-income white couple in their late 30s, who already had three “homemade” sons at home in Michigan.

My very first photograph in the States shows me being greeted by my (adoptive) parents, Sandra and Rodney, at the airport, a picture that is always pinned up on the wall of my home. My mother recalls the story of seeing me being carried from the terminal with my tongue sticking out at everyone. “Oh, boy,” she thought, “this is going to be a ride.” They took me home to meet my three brothers, and I was now theirs.

The combination of newly nervous adoptive parents and the confusion of a little girl who did not know what family meant led to a rocky beginning, and I’m told I tested my parents to the limit. I’m sure they had their own jitters. I was not only adopted, but foreign. I brought my language with me, so communication was initially a challenge and would require my mom “bawking” like a chicken in order to relay the message that chicken was for dinner. For the first couple months, I whimpered for my “eomma” (Korean for “mom”), while crying myself to sleep. When I was 5 years old, I had a friend named Meena, who was also a Korean adoptee. She was the only friend that looked like me. One day I stopped seeing her around, so I asked my mom what happened to her. “She was sent back,” she said. I wondered if I would be sent back, as well. I knew there were problems, and sensing my parents’ anxiety and unstable relationship, I knew I was not the perfect child and further stressed an already crumbling marriage. From a young age, I knew what uncertainty and temporary meant. Nothing was forever in my tiny world.

I grew out of the mischievous child to an overly responsible and studious kid (I don’t think I was actually mischievous, I think I was a typical 4 year old kid, but my parent’s unstable relationship made it easier to place blame on a little girl who never had a family in a new world). Like everyone, my family had its own turmoil and issues, but I knew that they loved my brothers and me, and gave it their best. My life would become typically suburban. I played sports from childhood through high school and romped around with my three brothers, playing army, neighborhood flashlight tag and video games. I don’t recall feeling too different from others or my siblings.

Soon, I became one of them. Soon, I no longer saw a difference between them and me, and it was my families’ faces and bodies that I detected in my reflection. There must have been a moment I forgot who I was, where I came from, and shifted into the new me. My new surroundings now defined me, and I assimilated in order to survive and thrive.

It wasn’t until sixth grade and through junior year that I would be made aware of how different I really was. Like most children enduring their puberty years, I came under the gaze of critical peers who often made their chinky eyes at me. They capitalized on anything different about me. I was born with a cleft palate, so they would make fun of my voice. To this day, I hate how I sound. The first three months of life, I was told that I was in the hospital due to my cleft palate, chicken pox and measles that left scars on my face, so my classmates called me “crater face.”

As I got older and looked in the mirror, I began realizing how different I was from my white peers and family members. I felt ugly and would feel that way for most of my life. I wanted to be like everyone else, but was picked on for much of junior high. I grew quiet and reserved. I lived inside myself, even at home. I would sometimes spend my lunches in bathroom stalls or in the library. I still had friends, was heavily involved with school activities and made all A’s, but never felt truly connected to any category or group.

It wasn’t until college, when I was exposed to a whole new world, and the thrill of education enveloped me with new thoughts and ideas, that I realized those junior and high school years were so limited and meaningless. It was significant that I had moved away from my family and started forming my own self, diversifying my circle and experiences. I now owned the freedom to explore a self I did not know. I experienced my Korean period. I visited Korea, had Korean friends and became familiar with what my past could have looked like. But after graduating from college and living and working in the “real world” for several years, perhaps not unlike many second-generation Korean Americans, my Korean identity became less central to who I was.

I ended up unintentionally marrying a Korean adoptee, a former college classmate. He is very much like myself—not really Korean, not really Caucasian, just his individual self. We are both well-adjusted about being orphans and adoptees, with the opinion that it does not define who we are.

In 2010, I took my husband to Korea. It was his first time back. We ended up tracing my steps from birth to my orphanage, and I had the great and unexpected honor of meeting my foster mother who remembered me intimately. Though decades had passed, she lovingly recalled memories of what I was like as a child.

I saw my very first baby picture in the courtyard of the convent and was able to play with newly placed orphans in the orphanage where I once played. It was a wonderful experience, but somehow felt different than my 2003 visit. I felt like a tourist this time. I had grown past my Korean phase. I was still proud to be Korean, but felt odd to be completely surrounded by people who looked like me.

* * *

I like who I am, a hodgepodge of experiences I’ve collected along the way. I am not just American, Korean, disabled, an artist. I crave experiences and views that are truly different than my own. That is who I am. My background as someone who never quite fit in, I suspect, helped inform this perspective.

Of course, I still wonder about my past and have become increasingly interested in my biological family. I do not fantasize about my birth family and how my life could have been (better), but I do wonder about my biological mother’s story, her life and what events caused me to come about. Since childhood, I have had recurring dreams of this past. I wondered if she held me before she left and the thoughts that surged through her mind. I wonder about the story of her life.

My wrinkled tissue paper adoption records are all I have as proof that I was once a little girl in Korea. That I was once Kim Young-eun (Korean name given to me at birth) who loved dancing and singing “Goyohan Bam, Gorughan Bam” (Silent Night, Holy Night), hated naps, looked forward to the occasional cookie and TV time, and loved to be loved, even if I only allowed it at arm’s length.

I know many fellow adoptees who have struggled with identity or came from bad households, living a life of turmoil, loss, unrest, heartache, resentment and anger. Many have been left in the dark, lied to about their pasts or were victims of the system. I can’t speak for these adoptees because each experience is unique, but there is a common thread of something missing, a loss, this question of identity.

But, there is an identity seeker in all of us, orphan or not, and it is a journey that is never concluded. I think many of us search for the past to seek our future. I allow my past to be a part of who I am, without letting it dictate my present or future. I live with the philosophy of not allowing it to be a stumbling block.

To me, identity is like a Katamari ball that constantly rolls, absorbing every experience. No one experience is inferior to the other, and it is a constant adventure.

Epilogue: In 2007, I had DNA sequencing done and was given a definitive diagnosis of GNE Myopathy (back then called, Hereditary Inclusion Body Myopathy, HIBM), a very rare genetic, debilitating, degenerative muscle-wasting disorder. This diagnosis put an end to six years of searching for what was causing my weakening body. Unexpectedly, it also acted as a biological microscope to a past I never met. My disease is genetic, and the mutated gene combination of my biological parents had been passed on to me.

I have had this disease since birth, but, unknown to science, the disease doesn’t begin to express itself until one’s early 20s. Despite never meeting my biological parents or knowing my history, a glimpse had now been given to me. My parents had become more tangible. They were written in my cells, and are having a profound influence on my life and my future. They are like shadows on the wall. And, in a way, this knowledge of my biological parents being carriers of this mutated gene that did not carry physical manifestations for them as it did for me brought about a great sense of humility, as well as a deeper connection to and interest in who they are.

Finding Japan

Lost in Thought. Lost in Me. Lost in You. Lost in Japan.

As you know, I’ve been wheelchair traveling around Japan. It’s been 3 weeks today, and we have 12 more days here before we head to Taiwan and Korea. So far we’ve completed Tokyo, Matsumoto, Takayama and Japan Alps and Nagoya. We’re working on crossing off our last 2 cities before we leave Japan.

I’ve been sharing daily travel memoirs and musings from my perspective as we travel through Asia. I typically do this while traveling. These daily shares are meant to bring my followers with me so they can experience some of what I see through my perspective—as a disabled traveler, as an artist and writer, as a Korean-Japanese American Adoptee who has been caught between two cultural worlds since she was 4, and as a human in her mid forties who has been on a search for themself since she was young.

I keep a travel diary and some of these excerpts make it into the public eye. I’m very much an in-the-moment kind of person so this is how I write. Many times I share beginning thoughts in my IG stories and then when I have time, I clean up the writing and make it into a post. Here is one I recently shared:

May 27, 2024 @ 3:45AM / Takayama, Japan 

I’m awake and in insurmountable pain. Fatigue has cloaked me from sky to floor. My chronic stomach is no friend of mine. I could never explain the pain I’ve been in behind the smiles. The smile is genuine as I’m able to ignore pain when I’m truly inspired to live while traveling or creating, but eventually my body catches up and reminds me who is boss. My will is constantly pushing against my body, and I’m just an innocent bystander watching it happen. We’ve actually got quite a bit of rest since we left Tokyo. The great thing about nature and smaller towns Is everything shuts down by 5 PM, forcing resolve in rest which we have delightfully complied with. But in the pause, my body is able to scream much louder at me. I don’t share these things for sympathy, but rather because a lot of disabled people go through this, plus push themselves to do basic things that every other non disabled person does without thought and yet is such an effort for us, especially when inaccessibility lords over us. But we do it because we just want to live. People tell me to slow down, and some think I should stay in my house where it’s safe and unchallenging, but they don’t live with a rare progressive disease that is taking everything from them and will not stop-allowing limited time. They don’t live with sand draining from the hours of their glass, and they don’t live with the kind of dripping passion I’ve had pre disability, but has only been heightened and lit on fire post disability. They don’t live with the nonstop audible thoughts, ideas and constant creative visions of what is possible. And they don’t live with a soul that just wants to create and connect, but was given a body that can’t truly paint the world the way she envisions. But I live this way mostly because I’m scared that if I don’t keep going, I’ll arrive at a place of completely giving up…because I’ve been there before…in complete despair with no reason to keep living. I know this darkness too well, so I give myself reasons to live, and I’ve sampled life more than most because of this will that carries me through. This entire journey has been profound, complex, cavernous, beautiful and yet terribly painful-the kind that blisters, insightful, heart-wrenching and inspiring; a teacher to my being. It has been love and compassion in full action that has gouged a permanent wound that will never leave me. And I answer to this gash in full humility with living, loving and creating most passionately.

#kamswheelstravel #kamwrites #kamdraws

Pippi Longstocking turns 78: A Real Life Strong Girl.

Swedish author and activist Astrid Lindgren was born in 1907, and is most famous for Pippi Longstocking. She’s the eighteenth most translated author in the world and was a staunch and public political activist for children, animal and human rights, racism, environmentalism and world peace, all while often taking on the establishment. She penned the daring yet compassionate anarchist Pippi Longstocking; the personality with the red pigtails, freckles, mismated socks and an orphan who would make waves in stale middle-class suburbia. 

“There was a complete emptiness in children’s culture in Germany after the war,” Lindgren says. “When all the Nazi books and culture had been thrown away, there was a vacuum, and then Pippi came and filled it up.”  

Lindgren’s daughter, who is credited with coming up with the Pippi Longstocking name as a child while in bed, could never really identify with Pippi’s willful, independent, progressive, unconventional, anti-authoritarian, freedom lover who was ahead of her time. It was instead her mother, Lindgren, who mirrored Pippi Longstocking's zest. Lindgren defied times by wearing pants, jackets and sporting short blonde hair. She was an influential activist, author of 30 children’s books and businesswoman in a time when women rarely were asked what they thought. She lived during the Holocaust times and tried to make sense of it, fighting back against any and all wars through writing & fiction. In spite of depression and fear, she was still climbing trees at 70. She lived to see 94 years on earth.

Pippi Longstocking was one of my favorite childhood characters. We named our pup after her. As a kid I loved Pippi's subversive feistiness and ability to people to see differently and prove their perception of her as wrong, while turning conservative towns upside down. These kinds of figures greatly influenced who I am today.  

It wasn't until I was an adult I realized my favorite books and influences as a child were strong female characters, many of which fiery red-headed orphans like Pippi Longstocking, Anne of Green Gables and Orphan Annie, which is interesting.

Red hair was typically allocated for “misfits” or “outsiders” and attached to negative stereotypes and unfair prejudices (yes, us humans are weird and scared of anything that’s different). This is most likely why orphans were oftentimes depicted as redheads (Still are. Look at Queen's Gambit), because orphans are typically pitied outsiders, and seen as the unwanted, especially in older literature. So the one romanticized diamond-orphan-in-the-rough success story of a charmed abandoned girl (Annie, Punky Brewster, Pippi..) proving her town wrong was the basic plot for a lot of these stories. These spunky, sassy and unique characters who stood out from their more ordinary surroundings were perhaps, because, as an outsider, they had so much more to prove. 

It's funny. I'm an adoptee who ended up with red hair and similar to a lot of the characters I looked up to. Plus I created a little redheaded girl picture book. Interesting how we are influenced without realizing it. The representations we see do matter, and somehow I saw myself in these characters as a kid without fully drawing the connection that I was an orphan too.

I Don’t Want to be an Inspiration Today

I Don’t Want to be an Inspiration Today, 2011

Vulnerability is for the brave. - Lidia Longorio

Sometimes I feel like this. I drew this in 2011 before “inspiration porn” was coined. This illustration could encircle what being the center of inspiration porn feels like, and how at the end of the day gratuitous comments like, “You’re an inspiration” isn’t enough when all we want is change.

Inspiration Porn is an image of a disabled person doing something ordinary while dutifully wearing an inspiration halo given by a non disabled society. This exceptionalizes and objectifies disabled people as inspiration porn which allows non disabled people to put their own worries “into perspective”…to be grateful they’re not us. Using these images as feel-good inspiration is based on an assumption that disabled people have terrible pitiful lives, and that it takes some extra kind courage to be us.

But this drawing also depicts the feelings I was having in the beginning years of my advocacy (2007) and still do —feelings that can arise from being a public advocate, and all the responsibilities that come with this role underneath a spotlight while simultaneously struggling through the thing you’re advocating for. What I really felt when I drew ‘I Don’t Want to be an Inspiration Today’ is how difficult it can be to be known for something that’s been so arduous, especially the way I advocate.

Some only advocate about disability through the lens of societal obstacles and that is OK. Ableism and inaccessibility is a big part of daily struggles for disabled people. But from the beginning I also chose to be honest on what this progressive rare disease and disabled life is truly like.

Talking about societal barriers is easier, being vulnerable about the personal is much less so, but I share this more honest side because there are people who are newly disabled or have been for a very long time and still struggling. Nothing good comes from pretending something that isn’t or you aren’t.

I share about loss and grief because that IS what IS happening alongside the triumphs, empowerment, dreaming and accomplishments. I’m not a monolith of emotions so obviously I feel a range including joy and passion, but grief and loss has also been a big part of this disabled journey, too. To pretend otherwise is to deny my own and others’ experience. To pretend away the moments of who we are when a crowd isn’t looking is a disservice. .

In 2006, I accidentally fell into advocacy. The amount of pro bono advocacy work I was doing back then along with a full time job was intense. It still is even after 17 years, but I think it’s important work. This hasn’t come without personal struggles in doing so.

To be so public and open, I often doubt myself in the amount I share. I never wanted to be the “inspiration”. I’m still not used to my story being splashed everywhere, and publicly spilling my intimate vulnerabilities is something I do, but it’s not easy. I’m happy to share, but I’ve also had a fear in growing my following, not only because more eyes equals more criticism (i.e. online bullying), but because there’s that many more eyes to watch me progress to a stage that I’m not sure will look like. I want to be known as Kam and not necessarily because of something perceivably sad in my life. 

.In my advocacy, I share the nuance of being proud of yourself and the package you come in, but also how that package can be painful and grief stricken, and that it’s ok to acknowledge this.

It’s hard. The grief, the loss. Some advocates have gotten mad at me, saying I shouldn’t be so negative about disability, but I don’t think I’m being negative, I’m being real. This is what I don’t like about advocacy or rather, micro advocacy: the going around and telling people how they should feel and do things, but there’s no one way to do anything, and the same goes for disability and how we process and experience the path through acceptance, grief, and loss. It makes me upset that we can’t talk about this or the emotional journey of disability, and that in so many ways the online “influencer” space of constant empowerment dictates how people should feel. But I’m not here to be a “fierce b*tch” (as we like to annoyingly say to each other, as if this equals empowerment), and I’m not here to be a life coach (please, do not call me this). I’m just here to share my small corner and say, I’ve struggled, I’m struggling, just like you, so take anything you can from my experience, because you’re not alone.

The point is there is also the journey of acceptance. Treatment may never come about for people like me, so it’s been important to also communicate the processing of the emotions through the milestones of a disabled life, while also knowing that you can have a fulfilling existence. I don’t think there’s enough advocacy in this area that talks to disabled people, and this is what my advocacy is about; it’s for disabled people, it's not about disabled people. 

I know what loneliness feels like and I’ve used this to propel me through continued advocacy in hopes that it matters to someone who feels alone. And don’t we all feel like that sometimes? Just utterly alone? Like. What’s the point? As we helplessly lie on the floor, forcing the window light bands to crawl over us. Give those bands some time to saunter over your body even if a crowd is watching, and know that you can. #kamdraws

It’s Time to Ask Why / International Women’s Day

Today is International Women’s Day. Here are some words. War is the most prolific on women and children. Across the board. Full stop. 

To men or women in leadership roles in America or abroad: You cannot be a feminist, pro-democracy or pro-women with some of the crap you’ve been pulling in our foreign policy for years. I’m sorry, you know it and I know it. 

You cannot be a Democrat, Republican, independent, man, woman, a POC, congressional, POTUS or an official claiming to be a feminist, for democracy, justice or POC if you’ve been at the helm of voting for and/or leading our foreign policy into never-ending war, which has been the case since the inception of our nation in 1776. 

Some 26 years of peace in our 247 years as a nation.

If we’re all about celebrating women with these feel good awareness days and PR words, then we have to stop doing it on a platitude level and get real.

War relinquishes any agency, security and human rights. War creates destabilization, chaos, lawlessness, and horrific systemic s3x abuse and human trafficking. War is disabling and massacres societal health. War is about famines and displacement; creating tens of millions of refugees; many of which have to live in tent cities for years and even decades with no proper access to water or plumbing. Women trying to nourish their children in tent cities amongst constant violence and fear, whether from the bombs by the rich or lawless abusers living next to them, is not feminism.

War mostly affects the poor and the innocent who have no power. 

War is not the only thing that creates these conditions for women, but also the geopolitical strategy of overthrowing foreign govts, influencing foreign elections, arming and training foreign rebels to do our bidding, and regime change to govts who are willing to do West’s bidding with ulterior motives that often surround advance in power, control, geopolitical, financial or resources. BOTH US parties have been bipartisan in installing brutal right conservative regimes and dictatorships that set back progress and rights of women throughout its history. 

The U.S. has been at war for the 247 years, minus some 26 years, and it’s time to ask why.

Besides war, there’s also everything that happens after it like further disability beyond immediate impact, and generational diseases and cancer from the bombs we’ve dropped (including for military service people). Like in Laos whose women, children and men are still being blown up from bombs we dropped during Vietnam; when we used their country as a disposal unit for our weapons. Or the 20 million gallons of herbicide we dropped over Cambodia, Laos and Vietnam that has also forever affected our military service people. 

The truth is, American civilians and women have never had to experience war. This does not make us more benevolent, more worthy, more anything, but it’s time we actually dig into the real history and learn, because absolutely horrific things happen in war, and we’ve been ignorant to not only what’s been happening under our nose for decades, but the true effects of war. Not to mention unaware of all the exploitative players on the perimeters who gain power and profit from division. 

According to PubMed, In 2017 it was estimated that nearly 36 million children and 16 million women were displaced as refugees, and 265 million women and 368 million children lived dangerously close to armed conflict. No one wants the ‘others' in their countries yet they don’t ask why they need a home in the first place; it's because they’re sense of home has been destroyed many times over through foreign policy between the rich. 

Did anyone ask or did we see it splashed on the news 24/7 on what happened after we invaded Libya in 2011, unleashing the worst wide scale rape and sex trade, and open air slave trade? Did we ever ask what happened to Yemens in 2015 when we unleashed the worst famine in modern history on the poorest and smallest nation in the world, leaving starving mothers trying to feed their starving boney children? Is this pro-women? Is this pro-democracy? I think not. 

With a near trillion dollar annual US war budget (the second biggest is China at 230-300 billion dollar budget), over 800 military bases worldwide, and only 26 years of peace since we became a nation, it’s time we ask why and what the real effects of our actions are.

When we want our tax dollars to go to healthcare and issues here over destruction, over more interventionism that serves the ruling class’ interest, we, the powerless, are fear mongered as communists and told we’re privileged for wanting our dollars to go to life over death. We’re immediately asked, “How are we going to pay for it?” while Congress and the whitehouse bipartisanly approve multi hundred billion dollar funds for war quicker than we can blink. 

It’s time to ask why. 

Never forget, war is a business and extremely profitable, and our Congress members are allowed to profit from the military industrial complex that cannot exist if peace does. War is a business and has been used by power with ulterior motives throughout history to gain more power and control. Period.  

Contrary to public perception, war, according to many high security former officials, only gives rise to more terrorism, violence, lack of human rights and historic displacements. It does not create peace or solve problems like we think, it only creates more death, more violence and mass grief, anger, vulnerability and poverty. Full stop.

We are being led by platitudes and meaningless words, and I’m tired of seeing these “pro-women”, “pro-democracy” buzzwords from both parties when their policies and behavior do not reflect their never ending supply of war. This goes for all parties, including mine, and all identities, including mine. A bomb sent by a woman or POC does not make it better, so this applies to all power, including women who made it to the top, accepted by the male power structure just to turn around and do more of the same atrocities against other women on foreign soil. That’s called selective justice. Justice is justice, and you don’t get a pass on crimes against humanity just because of your identity. In fact, women have been taking over the military industrial complex leadership over the last few years with 4 of the top 5 arms industry having women CEOs, to senior US officials making and purchasing our arsenal and international arms deals. So I think the bigger question has to evolve to, “What do we humans, no matter the identity, do when we reach the top of power?”

I’ve had women and my own party call me a traitor for calling out inconvenient truths of all parties and identities who cry feminism or justice for women, and yet implement horrifying policies that do nothing but push back the rights for women on foreign soil. For me, breaking the grass ceiling is not about breaking it for yourself, it’s about making sure equality and equity exists for all, because it’s not breaking glass ceilings when your shards are killing everyone underneath you. 

This is not an anti-military service people sentiment. My father served in 2 wars, so I understand a little bit of what it does, and what it also does is it creates a lot of veterans who feel that they were not cared for when they returned home and even lied to. This message, and all my messages like this, are always at the leadership and power structures who exploit, lie and use war to gain advances in their own (geo) political agenda that hurt women, children and the innocent. 

For more ♿️ travels, disability and accessibility musings, mini-memoirs @ https://Instagram.com/kamredlawsk

To the Disabled Community

To my disabled peeps: The other day I was looking around the socials and I thought, “The disabled community is pretty damn cool”.

Collectively, we hold a diverse array of stories, hell-bent resilience, softness, power, stories to tell from our bellies, talents, style, humor and dreams—and though we all hold disability in common, our individual stories tree-branch into a variety of perspectives; further contextualizing the simple narrative the disabled community has unfairly been dealt.

Disabled people have been held down, hidden and dehumanized throughout human history just because we look, think, speak, see or move differently—and this is pretty sad; a smite on humanity who ignorantly thinks we’ve progressed so far, and yet we still hold all the same simplicities; viewing people as only one thing, prejudices, misinformed biases, and continued bondage to our innate positions of fear, superiority or exclusion against anything or anyone that is different.

We’ve had to experience this. We understand what this feels like.

All of this can be relieved by keeping an open mind; it’s the only way to ever proceed forward as a collaborative species. So when you see us, don’t skip over the disability-it’s a part of us-but there’s also a lot more if you take the time to learn.

I’m proud of my disabled community-proud of any community-who works to unburden the lines that disconnect us as humans. To disabled people, you’re a great catch, no matter what anyone says.❣️ I love you and think of you often.

#KamsWheelsTravel #KamWrites #KamDraws

For more ♿️ travels, disability and accessibility musings, mini-memoirs @ https://Instagram.com/kamredlawsk

Love Freely

“I have to remember, too, that sex is one of those areas—like religion and politics—where otherwise decent and rational people may have intense, irrational feelings.” -Oliver Sacks

I’m more the type to fangirl over artists, writers or philosopher types...like if Oliver Sacks walked into my room, that’d be unreal; he’s one of my heroes. An amazing humanist, writer, neurologist, scientist, historian and physician who was a patient himself living with prosopagnosia (facial blindness). In his 2015 autobiography (On the Move) Oliver, 82, came out after living in the closet his entire life, including celibate for much of it. In 2008, at 75, he had his first real gay relationship with a NY writer and photographer (Bill Hayes), and they stayed in love and partners until he died at 82–shortly after his autobiography came out. 

Oliver received news of his cancer diagnosis two weeks after turning in his manuscript for his autobiography.

Oliver, a passionate humanist, deeply cared for his patients and people. Read his books. His work helped humanize the stories behind patient cases; an example of what a good doctor should be. He put humanity into medical care; humanizing his patients by not focusing on what they were “missing” and instead, armed with exceptional curiosity, looked for the richness in differing experiences; a perspective he could never have but took the time to ask. 

From London to California Muscle Beach to a cross country motorcycle ride through America to NY, from self-destruction to finding his way in the human condition and storytelling—his life story is musical. Robin Williams’ ‘Awakenings’ was based on Oliver awakening years long catatonic patients. There’s also a beautiful documentary about his life called Oliver Sacks: His Own Life that was filmed once discovering he was dying. 

Oliver grew up Jewish. He lived as a naturalist. His mother’s religious conservatism shamed him into loneliness for most of his life. 

I’m glad he had 7 years of true love. 

Greece just legalized same-sex marriage; the first Orthodox Christian country to do so. Religious groups are now protesting. This is what I don’t like about religion-the way humans behave with it.

With thousands of different religions in the world, I wonder how we can be arrogant enough to start wars over beliefs. Pretty much every religion has throughout history—committing mass crimes against humanity and extremism in the name of religion including, yes, Catholicism and Christianity (hello…Christian Crusades killing millions). 

Many religious factions use existentialism to rally their followers and this can justify violence one might not otherwise do.

Within just one religion alone, you will get tens of thousands of different views and opinions, interpretations and expressions from the same book (within the same generation), as well as a spectrum from mild followers to ferocious objectors or extremists. This spectrum has existed in EVERY religion, nation, identity, culture, or group throughout history including today. For example, most have no idea that there are Buddhist nationalists/extremists; a religion that’s known to be among the most peaceful, yet also has extreme Islamophobic Buddhists (look in Myanmar and Sri Lanka, a Buddhist majority country) who commit atrocities in the name of their religion and fear. Violent Buddhist mobs have driven millions of innocent Muslims from their homes and carried out fire bombings and beatings of any non-Buddhist minorities. It doesn’t help that the government has incited anti-Muslim propaganda that makes it easier to dehumanize. Monks are even reinterpreting teachings to fit their narrative and justify their violence and bigotry; a commonality throughout religious history. You only need one “charming” person to take the center stage with a brand of hatred to completely pervert an ideology or a group, and create a mob of mirrored hatred. Any words in any book can be warped or wrapped in multiple ways—leaving human interpretation and translation with a lot of questionable inaccuracies. 

Look into the plight of the Rohingya that virtually much of the global community has never heard of. We never hear of or see 24/7 mainstream splashes of innocent Muslims who are being killed all the time in other countries because it doesn’t concern our political agenda. But they have been victimized, too.

Religion has technically been on the decline. but religious extremism and cultism across the bar has been on the rise, much to the help of social media. During the pandemic, online cults shot up because people were bored, in fear, depressed, disconnected, lonely, angry, uncertain and emotionally primed to be led by questionable hucksters and ideologies.

There’s a perception with extremism—we incorrectly think it’s isolated to only one religion, one race or one kind of person—this is assisted by decades of endless war in the middle east which has subliminally trained us to think in only one note. In 2015, the same pastor who started "Starbucks is anti-christmas" hysteria posted a call to his near 2 million followers to assassinate Planned Parenthood affiliates and to fight same-sex marriages with guns. Is this not extremism? 

The problem with justified violence is technically everyone feels justified, so allowing it for one, means allowing it for all. 

We’re in a bubble. Throughout history pretty much EVERY religion has had factions that demonstrated horrific extremism and mass bloodshed. Read a book. Please. 

If we remember nothing, please know ALL religions, groups and identities can and have been perverted and misused for political purposes and power, who then dehumanize the powerless, and get the powerless to dehumanize fellow powerless, in a finger-pointing PR campaign in order to maintain that power. Period. The “others” are often used as scapegoats as an old-age political tactic to balm a society that feels political unrest or dissatisfaction or anxieties over their government, but feel powerless, because they are. 

We must accurately remember that any one in any group has a potential of being radicalized; this is not privy to one religion or one race. Please stop this horrible and dangerous thinking. Every group has the spectrum of possibilities in them-from peaceful interpreters to hateful ones.

Also remember religions are not God-led, they’re people-led—sometimes by exploiters, revisionists, flawed, rage-filled, ego driven, dishonest or not sound people. Using religion to gain power is incredibly common throughout history, and most often in ancient times religion and government worked together to gain and maintain power. And the ones who ALWAYS suffered in this great thirsty quest—and still do through acts of war, oppression and systemic injustices because arrogant leaders can’t work together or have ulterior motives—are the powerless and impoverished.

I respect people believing as they see it, but I wish they'd give the same respect to others. We fail to realize that with 8 billion people on this dot, we can’t push our beliefs onto others, and each individual has the right to craft their life as they see it, as long as it’s consensual, doesn’t involve children or crimes against humanity.

I strongly feel it's nobody's business what you do with your body, even if I disagree, and I wish we would absorb that, because this fear prevented people like Oliver Sacks, a wonderful man, from being himself, finding love, and unnecessarily in shame for much of his life. I dislike this about religion, and the endless wars and bloodshed over it since its inception. And for what? 

Do you know we used to demonize people who were left-handed? The word ‘sinister' is derived from a Latin word meaning “on the left side.” We used to see left-handed people as evil and demonic, and more than a few of the mainstream religions considered it the “devil’s hand” that had to be banished or even killed. 

So yeah, we’re kind of ridiculous sometimes. 

I wished we'd see how little all these things we get upset over actually matter. Just let people be in love. We could use more of it in this world. 🌍

*This ended up being very long (no surprise), but I tend to see things more as patterns and systems intersecting with human motivation and behavior. I'm passionate about people seeing the bigger picture, and not getting caught in bubbles or “sides” because this infringes on humanity, other people’s rights and our ability to live peacefully as a humanity. As Carl Jung said, “Wisdom accepts that all things have two sides.” (I’d argue more than two, Jung.) #kamwrites

For more ♿️ travels, disability and accessibility musings, mini-memoirs @ https://Instagram.com/kamredlawsk

Valentines Series on Disability, Sex and Intimacy

Part 1: Valentines Series on Disability, Sex & Intimacy

Part 1: Valentines Series on Disability, Sex & Intimacy

This is one of my favorite topics! I like breaking misconceptions and stigmas in this area for both the non disabled and the disabled community who have been bound by incorrect rules and portrayals of what relationships, intimacy and sexy are supposed to look like.

When you find out you’re going to be disabled, one of the first things you may think of is sex and dating. “How is this going to work?” is not a question relegated only to curious prying eyes from strangers yet also an internalized one that can burn deep within.

When you become disabled, you have to begin relearning your body including new ways to be intimate. This can be challenging as we compare ourselves to the image of what we think it’s supposed to look like—images etched into our minds through repetitive narratives we are fed every day. It’s not just the physical relearning but also social as we disabled are typically inundated with constant thoughts on how the other person is going to perceive us, and then many of us can bring this insecurity into the bedroom. This is natural.

When I first learned I was going to be disabled for the rest of my life at 20 years old, I queued up my own doomsday perception of my future with love and sex—a byproduct of internalized ableism that had been hatched into my mind - into all our minds - from day one.

Ability is subjective.

Many non-disabled disabled can’t have sex or need assistance (there’s a multi-billion pill industry specifically for assisting men) and yet it’s disabled people who are unfairly stereotyped as sexually “broken” and/or indifferent. We drastically omit that sex, sexuality and relationships come in all different packages and styles—this aided by the media's lucent box booming subliminal messages of what is right and wrong.

When we envision sex we imagine thrashing bodies, arching backs and robust writhing, but I can’t do any of this anymore. I have a rare muscle-wasting condition that’s been slowly depleting nearly every muscle into nonexistence. My condition doesn’t affect sensation, but most think it does.

This well-kept ignorance is why it’s important to know disability and sex are not monoliths; we’re all different.

Sex is far more mental than physical.

As I’ve lost mobility, sensation has only heightened at equal pace. I’m also far more sexually and mentally connected to my body than I ever was pre-disability. Part of this I credit to disability-the other, experience and time as a near 45 year old woman.

When we think of sex organs, we think of gender appendages yet our brain is the largest sex organ we have. The brain is in the driver seat and tells our body when something is pleasurable and exciting. This is why despite no physical touch, for some, dirty talk is so arousing.

What my progressive disability has taught me is that opening and clearing the mind is essential. I’ve learned to accept that I have little movement, so I work with what I got, because it’s more important for me to experience my sexuality as freely as I can. If I’m always thinking about how I can’t move or of my insecurities, then my mind will never be present and neither will my body.

Think of sex more like the meeting of the minds than the meeting of the bodies.

Intimacy is about being present; it's not about the body as much as we think. When your mind is present, you’re able to experience how the body is intended to feel more clearly because you’re not weighed down with insecurities or fears of what the other person is thinking. You’re truly present. A good way to think of it is, most of the time if a person is with you, they’re probably just happy to be there and have that exchange with you, and there’s a good chance you’re judging your body and self much harsher than your partner is. This is true for both disabled and non.

Knowing sex is more mental than physical, it shouldn’t be surprising that when you lose sensation or mobility, the ability to experience pleasure and sexual connection is not over. There’s so many ways one can adapt and explore so don’t give up just because it looks different. For example, did you know you can have the big O just by thinking of sex, even if no one is around? This was mind blowing when I figured out how to do this, no pun intended.

I’ve read stories of men with SCI and zero sensation below the waist that could orgasm just by rubbing his thumb. The sensory structures in our bodies is like a highway system, more complex and amazing than we realize, and the mind a marvelous playscape that drives it.

My sex life post disability is far more liberating and freer than pre-disability, and much of this was about letting go of my perceived inadequacies, being in the moment and being open and present beyond the physical space. I can get lost in my mind, in the moment and thus my body.

During sex I feel the most connected to my body. I’m usually in constant pain but IN the moment of intimacy all sorts of endorphins release. People don’t think of it this way, but sex is actually good for your physical health; it’s a natural pain reliever, natural antidepressant, exercise/physical therapy, immune booster and helps you sleep (use this “health benefit” on your partner next time 😉). I’m more mentally in the moment and have learned to completely release myself from any expectations and control, and this has enhanced my sensory and sexual experience so much more.

Many of us struggle with insecurity with sex and our bodies. Newsflash, it’s not only us, non disabled do too, but for us there is definitely an extra layer of pressure non disabled don’t have to live through when it comes to intimacy.

To overlook yourself as worthy of love or intimacy just because you can’t walk, move, speak or hear is a great disservice to the spectrum of sexuality and how pleasure and intimacy can unfold. This rigidity we place around an idea or person smothers imagination. We think sex and love has to look and feel a certain way, and in doing so we miss out on so much variation and the infinite unique paths to pleasure.

In the end, if you truly want love, it has to start with loving yourself first. We may look or move differently, but different is ok, and you’re every bit worthy of these expressions no matter what your body looks like or how you move (or don’t). Sexy is a state of mind. All other opinions are unnecessary.

Part 2: Valentines Series on Disability, Sex & Intimacy

PSA: Disabled people like sex, we talk about sex and, yesss, we can have sexxx!

(CW: Some SA talk)

Why do I talk about sex and disability? It’s not to be shocking or sensational. I actually think it’s important to have an open dialogue about sex, mostly because it’s an area we’ve been taught to be shameful of throughout generations, whether by cultural, religious or societal influence.

There is so much unnecessary stigma around this topic. We see violence and guns all day on TV and yet sex, one of the most natural aspects of being human, is the thing we’re shielded from or taught to fear. We instead waste time banning and firing art teachers (Florida) showing the David’s sculpture because of its “nudity”.

Now add disability on top and we’ve now just entered (no pun intended) no, no land.

Much of society views disabled as asexual, disinterested, unable, void of desire or agency, and talking about sex is still taboo, especially when it involves disabled people. This honestly irks me when we are immediately and completely washed of sexual agency. Everyone needs access to love and intimacy, no matter who you are. This connection is a natural part of being human, and denying this essential part of the human condition is cruel. This ignorance is also precisely why disabled people are oftentimes dehumanized.

Ok…we’re gonna get a little more serious, hang on.

One of the major reasons I think sex (+ disability) should be talked about more is it helps wash away the shame we’ve associated with our body, and even taught since we were children. Shame is horrible. No one should ever feel shame around their body. But there’s another dimension we don’t think of with shame, and that is how it has been used to silence (CSA & SA) abuse into the shadows. When it happens, since we’ve been taught we’re dirty, the abuse and blame almost always falls onto the victim.

I could go on and on about how sex, in general, has been used throughout human history as a form of control; how shaming (especially women) and controlling sexuality through dogma or arbitrary rules created a culture of silence.

Where there is silence, abuse breeds, and it’s not uncommon for disabled people to experience a high rate of sexual abuse.

If we don’t feel comfortable talking about sex, if we’ve been told our bodies are terrible our whole lives, if we’ve been told to be ashamed around subject X, then abusers and systemic institutional abuse are able to do as they please in the shadows, whether it’s through religious institutions (very common, as we’ve learned), Women’s Olympics or the Boy Scouts that was recently implicated with decades of systemically hiding abuse-producing tens of thousands of victims. 

We don’t realize that the tradition of shaming creates silence, but there should never be shame around one’s

body, and most certainly not in abuse. Tying this back into disabled people, it is easy for disabled to be victims of this, and we have been taught an extra layer of shame for our bodies by the general cone of society.

One of the reasons society is completely ignorant of the fact that we have all the same desires as them, is simply lack of visibility. I say this all the time: What we don’t see, we don’t know. Our mind or span of personal experiences is filled with many gaps that can only be filled through curiosity beyond the self. 

Greater society has dehumanized us, in part, because they’ve taken us out of the love, relationship and human experience of intimacy. We’re not on covers or media showing we can be sexual so it’s assumed we aren’t interested or able. 

When you have an accident or are born with a disability and reach the age of sexual intrigue, no one really tells you much about how sex works in this (new) body. In fact, many doctors say your life is over like mine did when I was first diagnosed back in Michigan of 2003.

When I first became disabled some 20 years ago, of course dating and sex came to mind. I was initially insecure, but with time I built up confidence. I’ve been fortunate to have an active and healthy sex life throughout the stages of this progressive disease, but it didn’t come without work and relaxing anxieties of how I’m being perceived.

Now, confidence doesn’t mean void of insecurities. Anyone who pretends they are confident all the time is lying to you. Do I get down as my body weakens and I can’t move in certain ways anymore? Of course. But the trick was not letting those fears limit me more than my condition already was, because living life and experiencing its pleasures was just too important to me. 

This has been one of the greatest gifts of this progressive disability; it has pushed me beyond insecurities and comfort, and for that I’m forever grateful.

This progressive condition of mine intersecting with sex has mostly been about adapting and challenging myself to create new ways to reach the desired end. It’s been about being imaginative and making use of props like pillows, wedges, sex chaise and the like to assist the parameters or milestones of my body.

I want to normalize sex and disability. I want both non disabled and disabled to see we can be loved and have fruitful sexual and intimate relationships, so don’t discount us. We aren’t victims and we aren’t someone you need to overlook nor feel sorry for. We are just different as all bodies, disabled or not, inherently are. 

I believe in taking full autonomy for your body and sexuality, because then you’re in control, not others, not dogma or arbitrary rules. We’ve been fed all these rules-whether by society, media, political or religion-of what we can or can’t be, but we don’t have to be anything but ourselves.

Everyone deserves love and intimacy, whether you can’t walk, have Down’s syndrome,  limb or facial differences, blind, deaf, think or look differently or can’t move. Never forget this.

For more ♿️ travels, disability and accessibility musings, mini-memoirs @ https://Instagram.com/kamredlawsk

What Is Pain?

I've become afraid of my body. I appreciate her and all she has carried us through, but I'm still afraid. I'm afraid of new treacherous body tales, new pain and an uncertain future. I'm afraid of its fragility. I'm afraid of the inevitable.

I drew 'Torn' in response to a series of mysterious chronic conditions seemingly unrelated to my muscle-wasting condition. Some of the pain is from a body that is breaking down, but since 2016 I became enraptured in chronic illness & new diagnoses journeys.

What is Pain?

Pain is a way of being in the world; a way of being one with existence and detached at the same time.

Pain is a privilege of the living, an aperture of death.

Pain is an agonizing affliction.

Aching pain. Silent pain.

Physical pain. Emotional pain.

Can anyone hear me? pain.

Please, leave me, pain.

Why are you here? pain.

Can I make it through? pain.

Pain that has no silver lining. No smile to contain. No positivity to quench.

Pain that obfuscates any possibility of light at the end of the tunnel.

Pain that combats itself through intimate touch; a natural painkiller, a blurred dichotomy between aching & pleasure.

Pain is an intoxicating tonic with the ability to remove oneself from its own skin, compromising oneself with its lure, many times disguised as rage or hopelessness.

Pain has become a part of this body-decided upon since the genetic union of biological parents. After years of searching for answers and pleading for allies, I learned my condition was globally ultra rare and untreatable, one day leading me to complete immobility-top to bottom. But one can't truly understand what a prognosis means until they've traveled through it.

At diagnosis no one tells you there will be a list of progressive residual side effects to cellophane-wrap your entire life including chronic pain. No one tells you about the pain; an exhausting daily routine. I live in it, around it and beneath it every day. There is no choice.

My relationship with my body is one of duality. I'm afraid of my body, its ability to reverberate pain emotionally and physically, but I’m also in awe of its ability to endure. Yet still. The physical fragility is what frightens me. Everything is painful. Everything. My body is always screaming, I AM IN PAIN, in the smallest and most unforeseen ways. My neck has become a floppy rod of pain I can't count on. My fingers now tire solely from tapping on my phone screen. The sudden trouble with breathing, the scary spontaneous choking episodes with no witnesses to save me. Seeing others like me with breathing machines, tracheotomy recommendations, bedridden or gone from the by-product of a muscle wasting disease, all things I was told weren't side effects of this condition in its early days of understanding.

There are days I just can't and I don't. I'm so sad. I'm so lost in the pain. Other days, I assimilate — accepting its existence and a part of my days forevermore. There is a frustration with not having a choice which can trail to humility. How dare we think we get to have a choice? But our pain doesn't always have to have an inspiring ending or interlude or lesson to learn. We don't have to compare it for perspective. It doesn't have to benefit others or be something we attach meaning to or thread a purposeful tale or positive arc. There doesn't have to be perspective when darkness is eclipsing you. It just exists. It hurts to hurt. And that is enough right there. To all those hurting right now, physically or emotionally, I think of you. I love you. #kamdraws #kamwrites #kamswheelstravel

For more ♿️ travels, disability and accessibility musings, mini-memoirs & art @ https://Instagram.com/kamredlawsk