The fight to never let my frustration show. I constantly bite my tongue, try not to be too harsh, keep some semblance of calm in my tone. When I am forced to argue with somebody about whether I know where I’m off to, reassure a woman who tells me she is going to tie my shoelace that I can manage it myself, confirm for somebody that I’m working with that, that I can indeed watch Netflix. There is a constant struggle not to roll my eyes every time somebody tells me I should be patient because some people just don’t know better. Has it ever occurred to anybody that this is the part that is most frustrating? That the fact that people don’t know better and feel like it is their place to make assumptions about me and my life and what I am capable of is the most agonising part of my existence. That it is up to me to constantly educate the sheltered public is eternally annoying, and not something I take any pleasure in. Maybe I just want to sit on the train and listen to my podcast, fantasise about a boy in my Italian class, brood about life, and not be expected to educate someone on the appropriate etiquette to observe when dealing with a blind person. I do not exist to be a teachable moment. I have better things to do.
I do not exist to be a teachable moment. I have better things to do.
The fight for my right to simply exist without being questioned. I am asked how I can use the words watch, see, look? People tell me, You don’t really think you can have kids do you? Oh, they say, You go to university do you? Do you need help? Are you lost? Are you sure you can manage that? Is this person your carer? All said in a condescending tone that makes me want to rip their eyeballs out and see how they like it. In fact, I do ‘look’ for my phone when I leave it somewhere stupid. I ‘see’ my friends on Friday night. I could have kids if I wanted to. And yes I go to university. I finished in the top five per cent of the state in year twelve, actually. But really…none of that stuff is any of your business. If I can’t manage something, or I’m lost, I’m capable of asking for help. So, if I’m just casually sitting on the bus, I probably ended up there on purpose. No need for the inquisition. Do you know where you’re going? I want to scream at them.
The fight to deal with my blindness in the way that works for me. Yes, I have a sense of humour. No, I’m not using jokes as a coping mechanism. I just think jokes are funny. Yes, I am capable and awesome and get on with life. No, it isn’t always fine. Some days I want to curl up in a ball and give up, because the society we live in likes to make life stupidly difficult for anyone who is a bit different. Not white? Not straight? Not neurotypical? Not able-bodied? Okay then, let’s just make certain you need to work three times as hard to be on an equal footing with the people around you. And when those with the advantages chastise you for trying to put yourself ahead of others by asking that things be made accessible for you, try not to scream at them when you’re reassuring them that all you want is equality, a chance to have the same shot as anyone else. It’s not nice. But don’t worry. It’s character building.
Yes, I am capable and awesome and get on with life. No, it isn’t always fine.
If I could go back in time to 2007, and give thirteen-year-old Olivia some advice, I’d tell her not to do anything differently. I might mention that she’s a fool for denying that anything is wrong. I might tell her to speak up when she’s struggling a bit more, so that maybe people would know what was wrong and teachers would not just assume she’s lost her work ethic all of a sudden. I might tell her not to back away from things, not to retreat from life quite so much. But she is me, so even that stage doesn’t last for very long. Most of all though, I’d tell her that what she is doing is brave. Keeping on with all the things she loves, being the same sarcastic brat she’s always been, it’s all good and strong and brave. I’d tell her there will be challenges, endless tests of her patience and positivity, but she has the strength to deal with them and move on. I’d tell her that it’s okay to make mistakes, and not to dwell on them when she does. To not bother with people who don’t want to bother with her. To not give a crap what anyone thinks, listen to her parents, and not, under any circumstances, to read the Harry Potter play that is released in 2016. It might sound cool to thirteen-year-old Olivia, but it is completely atrocious and she definitely won’t like it.
Thirteen-year-old me doesn’t really need my advice though. She is a Gryffindor. She is a fighter, a joker, a tough girl who can be oversensitive at times. All of her experiences have made me, as an adult dealing with people in the real world, able to keep fighting. Rise up and fight back every time the world tries to force me down or put me in my place. She is awesome, a regular Neville Longbottom – not that she would appreciate that sentiment just yet.
She made me, and I thank her.
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An extended version of this piece appears in Meet Me at the Intersection (ed. Ambelin Kwaymullina & Rebecca Lim), out now from Fremantle Press.
Contributor Ellen van Neerven will discuss their piece in the collection at Bargoonga Nganjin, North Fitzroy Library on Saturday 8 September, and the collection will be launched at the Wheeler Centre on Tuesday 11 September.
