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ISSN 1757-6458 (print) 1757-6466 (online) doi:10.3828/jlcds.2011.14

A Reflection on Inspiration

A Recuperative Call for Emotion in Disability Studies

Wendy L. Chrisman

Columbus College of Art and Design

The article calls for a reconsideration of the term inspiration so that it might be recuperated

as a valuable emotion within disability discourse. Inspirational narratives often carry the

attendant baggage of pity and fear, suggesting that disability can and should automatically

evoke sympathy or concern from the audience—concern that people with disabilities might be a social or economic burden, concern of becoming disabled themselves. Dichotomously, other inspirational narratives promote the idea of the “supercrip” who, against all odds, overcomes

the burdens of disability in the face of pervasive adversity. In these narratives, inspiration

rightly becomes an emotion unsettling to Disability Studies and the disability community. Yet

certain disabilities, such as psychiatric and emotional disabilities (arguably underrepresented in Disability Studies), may benefit from inspirational narratives. After reflecting on some analyses

of these contested emotions by disability scholars, the article offers a repositioning of the term inspiration in relation to scenarios of the personal and political.

Current scholarship in disability studies contends that “overcoming” and

“inspirational” narratives of disability are ableist and antithetical to (or, at least, impede) the idea of viewing disability as a socially constructed site for analysis.

Leslie A. Fiedler has argued that recent and historical images and accounts of people with disabilities often circulate to evoke pity and compassion, with the

implication that the disabled need and deserve charity. For people with physical,

visible disabilities, these images have arguably been challenged and, perhaps to some degree, replaced. José Alaniz, for example, suggests narratives and images

of disability have moved away from inspiring fear, pity, and the image of the

“supercrip,” toward awareness, acceptance, and integration. In Disability Studies, the inspirational narrative has become intrinsically bound to the narrative of overcoming: that is, the idea that one can take sole responsibility for conquer -

ing one’s disability and its attendant challenges. The belief that a person with a disability can and should pull oneself up by the bootstraps despite overwhelm-

ing odds is an impediment to understanding the sociocultural barriers that people with any given disability may face. I would argue, however, that not all experiences of inspiration are infused with this reductive notion of overcoming.

I would like to breathe new life into an emotion that is often at odds with Dis- ability Studies: the feeling of inspiration.

dummy header_ 174 Wendy L. Chrisman

Part of negotiating for a reconsideration of inspiration as a productive term

for Disability Studies is calibrating what inspiration is not . I am not suggesting

that the kind of inspiration associated with narratives of overcoming disability,

narratives that invoke pity, or the charity/tragedy model of disability itself can or should be recuperated. I am also not necessarily suggesting that a reconsidera-

tion of inspiration can or should mean that those without disabilities need to be inspired by what they interpret as the triumphs, tragedies, or daily routines

of people with disabilities. And, I  am not suggesting that disability narratives

where there is no triumph or overcoming (which the reality of disability predi- cates can often be the case) lack the ability to inspire. I am suggesting that people

with disabilities, in the broadest sense of the definition, can be inspired by the

work that they and others do, and that they can be inspired to continue to do

work of their own. Disability Studies is in many ways a thankless field, one that is alienated even in academia, as is evidenced by the glaring lack of available

Disability Studies-related positions in the current job market. It necessitates a frequent re-articulation of just what exactly Disability Studies is, why it is neces-sary, and why one would even want to invest time and energy in it. Internally,

then, some in Disability Studies might find inspiration a welcomed and valuable emotion, one that helps us to do our work and expand the range of impact of

the field. Insofar as inspiration has been cast into the same or a similar category as pity, fear, overcoming, and other problematic terms, new models for under -

standing the possibilities inspiration provides need to be forged. In a similar vein,

David Mitchell and Sharon Snyder point out that, “like other social movements, advocates for disability rights, artists, and scholars have recognized the power

available in resignifying terms such as cripple and gimp. [. . .] The power of trans-

gression always originates at the moment when the derided object embraces its

deviance as value” (35). Although the term inspiration has not been historically

marked as deviant, it resonates for disability studies, scholars, and activists, as an

undesirable term, particularly as a qualifier for disability narratives.

By repositioning this problematic term, it follows, then, that inspiration might

be recuperated as valuable. In “And Now, a Necessarily Pathetic Response:

A Response to Susan Schweik,” Catherine Prendergast argues for a stronger rela- tionship between Disability Studies and pathos. As a field, Prendergast notes,

Disability Studies “has always been concerned with a certain vernacular of pathos just long enough to reject it” (241). Pathos, particularly when evoking

pity, has historically been unsettling for Disability Studies. If appeals to pathos are suspect in certain discourses, then inspirational appeals are perhaps doubly

suspect. Added to this is the concern that, as a discipline, Disability Studies is

still struggling to gain the same leverage as other academic disciplines deemed A Reflection on Inspiration 175

credible. Yet Prendergast cautions that current critical theory “reminds us that

we cannot exist outside of pathos,” and that the field of Disability Studies “would be most advanced by participating in the circulation and recirculation of emo-

tion, rather than trying to arrest it” (242). I  encourage this participation, and call for a reconsideration of a particular emotion intrinsically bound to pathos:

inspiration.

A History of Inspiration in Disability Studies

In asking Disability Studies to reconsider inspiration as a viable and vital tool for social change, I  map some ways in which inspiration already factors into

Disability Studies scholarship. There are two recurring trends in two separate but overlapping spheres for the circulation of inspiration in disability discourse:

the personal and the political.

Perhaps more than any other dimension of Disability Studies, inspiration

profoundly resonates in the political sphere. The history of Disability Studies and the disability rights movement is written in the language of inspiration.

In describing the 1935 formation of the League of the Physically Handicapped, and how “[l]ater activists became involved with or inspired by the black civil-

rights, feminist, antiwar, and labor movements,” Longmore makes a point that is reiterated throughout Disability Studies scholarship: “All disability move- ments have borrowed and adapted the analyses and tactics of contemporaneous

movements” (85). Even internally, Disability Studies has found inspiration. In describing the distinction between cultural disability studies and the disabil-

ity rights movement (namely, that the former are intellectual endeavors and the latter advocacy initiatives), Rosemarie Garland-Thomson observes that cultural disability studies too was inspired by the disability rights movement

(xiii). Brendan Gleeson credits the sociological turn Disability Studies took in the 1980s and 1990s as being inspired by identity politics. It was “the political experiences of practitioners, advocates, and, more importantly, disabled people

themselves” that inspired “a movement toward consideration of other social

identities—and the multiple subjectivity of disabled people” (Gleeson, 17).

Countless historical and cultural events have depended on inspiration, so that it is commonplace for academics of numerous disciplines to refer to events as being inspired by other moments or events. Given that Disability Studies is a

discipline born out of a rights movement, which by its very nature is inspired by a sense of anger and injustice, I find it difficult not to find redeeming qualities

in inspiration or inspirational narratives. 176 Wendy L. Chrisman

If the relationship of inspiration to the political has been largely beneficial

and progressive, its relationship to the personal has been more conflicted, in

part due to the conflation between the personal and political. Some personal

narratives evoking inspiration (intentionally or not) are problematic precisely because of their political ramifications. For John B. Kelly, it is the ubiquitous

“human interest” or “supercrip” stories that are most often served up for public consumption. These stories, for him, are problematic because of their “under -

lying assumption that we are as a group inferior to normals, thereby making

remarkable our smallest achievements. These stories .  .  . not only deny group oppression by individualizing disability, but reinforce that oppression by seem-

ing to blame the vast majority of disabled people for not achieving.” For Dis-

ability Studies and disability rights activists, then, inspiration becomes an

impediment just as formidable as other sociocultural barriers. Inspiration is politicized further here in that Kelly sees “disability inspiration as a form of

propaganda that glosses over the oppression while simultaneously reassuring

normals about the superiority of their ways.” In this context, inspiration glar -

ingly serves as the dichotomous wedge between disabled/nondisabled. Simi- larly, in describing the supercrip, Eli Clare contends that “[t]he nondisabled

world is saturated with [.  .  .] stories about gimps who engage in activities as grand as walking 2,500 miles or as mundane as learning to drive. They focus

on disabled people ‘overcoming’ our disabilities. They reinforce the superiority

of the nondisabled body and mind. They turn individual disabled people, who are simply leading their lives, into symbols of inspiration” (2). Again, herein

lies the problem, for Clare and for Disability Studies, with supercrip stories. It

is not just that these narratives sentimentalize the experiences of people with disabilities, but that they lack perspective on the more pervasive issues regard-

ing disability. Supercrip stories fail to address the sociocultural construction of disability, the real barriers that stand in the way of people with disabilities:

Supercrip stories never focus on the conditions that make it so difficult for people

with Down’s to have romantic partners, for blind people to have adventures, for dis- abled kids to play sports. I  don’t mean medical conditions. I  mean material, social, legal conditions, I mean lack of access, lack of employment, lack of education, lack of

personal attendant services. I mean stereotypes and attitudes. I mean oppression, the

dominant story about disability should be about ableism, not the inspirational super -

crip crap, the believe-it-or-not disability story. (Clare, 20)

Throughout Disability Studies scholarship we are reminded of the dangers of

one-dimensional representations of disabled people. Beth Haller observes that

the flip side to inspirational stories is tragedy, that people with disabilities are celebrated for their “success” at ordinariness because they are viewed as tragic A Reflection on Inspiration 177

figures otherwise. Haller urges journalists to report on “disability issues more

[.  .  .] [but to] promote better acceptance of disabled people by focusing their coverage on society’s barriers, rather than on inspirational and one-dimension-al stories of a person’s life with a disability.”

Marsha Saxton provides another example of how inspirational representa-

tions of disability are problematic in that they potentially erase the sociocul-

tural aspects of disability in favor of a sensationalized version of the disability experience. In relation to the ways in which individual people with disabilities

(as opposed to the disability activist community) consider disability-related selective abortion, she reminds us that, “The medical system, unable to cure

or fix us, exaggerates the suffering and burden of disability. The media, espe-

cially the movies, distorts our lives by using disability as a metaphor for evil,

impotence, eternal dependence, or tragedy—or conversely as a metaphor for courage, inspiration, or sainthood” (199). While I  agree with Saxton’s points

here, I question whether there are also resonating truths in what she sees as the exaggerated suffering and burden of disability. The media surely sentimentalize and capitalize on negative and inaccurate portrayals of disability, yet disability

can bring suffering and it can be burdensome, and not just in relation to socio-

cultural constructions of disability. The experience of disability is individual-

ized, and different disabilities necessitate different reactions, survival strategies, and ontologies.

Other scholars offer examples of personal narratives of disability-related

inspiration that are coupled with contradiction. For example, the biographic- al films The Other Side of the Mountain and The Other Side of the Mountain II

construct an account of how alpine ski racer Jill Kinmount overcomes a tragic

disability (paralysis as a result of a skiing accident) and triumphs through phys-

ical rehabilitation and perseverance. The film neglects to evaluate “her struggle to combat discrimination in education and employment,” yet demonstrates this discrimination by depicting a scene where “a professor praises her as an ‘inspira-

tion’ while declaring that she will never get a teaching job” (Longmore, 143). Here, disability itself equals something to be inspired by, but not something that is in

itself equal—equal in ability to teach, work, or lead. Indeed, Longmore points out that constructing people with disabilities as possible (even hopeful) heroic oddi-

ties has far-reaching consequences; this kind of inspiration becomes “a weapon

to blame handicapped people who have not proved their worth by cheerfully

‘overcoming’ their disabilities. It is a way of distracting attention from the real- ity of the prejudice and discrimination and inaccessibility that thwart the lives of millions of us” (130). Since one of the many goals of Disability Studies is to show the constructedness of disability in its various representations, and to show 178 Wendy L. Chrisman

how some of these constructions are inaccurate and even harmful to people with

disabilities, then disability as inspiration does seem antithetical to that goal.

Yet, Longmore also points to a more productive or purposeful use of the

term by including parameters for what exactly “inspiring” might mean. In the autobiographically based film My Left Foot, Daniel Day-Lewis portrays Christy

Brown, an Irish writer, poet, and painter who had Athetoid cerebral palsy and communicated primarily through the use of his left foot. Critics hailed My Left

Foot as a “triumph-over-adversity film,” though Longmore refutes this claim

(128). He maintains “that is exactly the sort of film that this is not,” and points to the necessity of a particular kind of inspiration:

Sometimes, though, the word “inspiring” fits. People with disabilities do need heroes,

not uncomplaining overcomers, but real disabled heroes who fight bias and battle for

control of their lives and insist that they will make their mark on the world. Christy

Brown, difficult and dangerous as he is, is such a hero. He embodies the consciousness of a new generation of people with disabilities who assert that for the overwhelming

majority of us prejudice is a far greater problem than any impairment, discrimination

is a bigger obstacle than disability. He reflects our demands for full human dignity, self-determination, and equal access to society and to life. Christy Brown is a hero of

our struggle. We will be inspired by his glorious disabled rage. (Longmore, 130)

For Longmore, rather than diminishing the political ramifications of a disabil-

ity narrative, Christy Brown’s story successfully conflates the personal and the political, a linkage prominent (and even necessary) in all rights movements.

The real, lived experiences of people with disabilities can be inspirational, then, both politically and personally. For others, inspiration takes on both personal and professional value. There are countless examples of publications where

the author lists the inspirational forces behind the text, and Disability Studies

is no exception.

1 In our professional writing, we are expected, if not required,

to name family, friends, colleagues, collaborators, mentors, historical figures, and whoever else may have played a role in our writing processes. Sometimes

the professional inspiration reveals a more meaningful experience than just an acknowledgement of our peers or relatives, as Longmore describes in his

impassioned Why I Burned My Book and Other Essays on Disability :

Over the years, time and time again, men and women in the disability community

have instructed me. In their savviness and tenacity at surviving in a society that so

often oppressed them, in their wise and complex understanding of the disability

1. Acknowledging our inspirations has been such an important part of the writing process, for aca-

demic and nonacademic writers alike, that for centuries we have been dedicating a special section of our work just for this purpose. For a vivid commentary on the inspiration necessary for the academic

writing process, see Davis. A Reflection on Inspiration 179

experience—an understanding often richer and more profound than that of academi-

cians in either traditional rehabilitation research or transformative disability stud- ies—in their dedication to securing freedom and dignity for their disabled brothers and sisters, they have taught me and (to use a word that often makes disabled people bristle, but that in this case is the only appropriate word) inspired me. (Longmore, 13)

Longmore acknowledges a sentiment that I  believe is deeply, albeit privately,

felt in the disability and Disability Studies communities: “The fact is that every

movement for justice needs its heroes. Some heroes become famous for doing great deeds. Others never get their names in history books. The latter form

of heroism consists simply in this: in the face of society’s contempt, they just

live their lives” (13). How many other scholars in Disability Studies are inspired by similar people and events? My own academic and personal inspirations are

fueled quite similarly. I am inspired by people who take a stance, who put them- selves in the public eye to call attention to an injustice, to correct a misrepre-

sentation, or to direct attention to a much-needed issue, however unpopular

that stance may be. I am inspired by the similarity of other people’s experience, and because I can emotionally relate to these experiences, I am inspired to con-

nect and share mine with others. I cannot epistemically know the world from

those subject positions I do not occupy. I can, however, identify and understand

the effects of discrimination based on the discrimination I have faced because of other differences, such as the stigma surrounding my own disability. I  can

understand the deep historical fears that have culturally, medically, and polit-

ically inscribed what the “normal” body and mind should look like and act like,

while marking anything else as “deviant.” Based on my own experiences with friendships, colleagues, relatives, and my own experiences of stigmatization,

I  can find kinship with others who have had related experiences. Many if not most of us come to Disability Studies with this experiential knowledge, and we know that experiential knowledge is necessarily emotional knowledge.

If we consider all the circumstances in which we might truly need inspiration,

perhaps we can envision the need for recuperating inspirational narratives: the

inspiration needed to confront a struggle, to seek justice, to right wrongs, to set examples of encouragement. While the term inspiration seems to occupy

a negative (or at least conflicted) space in Disability Studies, I  am unaware of

other related words holding the same position. Related terms such as encourage ,

persuade , and influence appear to be less contentious in the parlance of Dis-

ability Studies, and I question why this is so. A related question then might be,

where is there a place in Disability Studies for inspirational narratives? In Disability Studies, particularly in the humanities, a primary site for analy-

sis has been the personal narrative—the offspring of experiential and emotional 180 Wendy L. Chrisman

knowledge. Arthur Frank describes the different narrative paths people take in

telling stories about their illnesses, a process that “shift[s] the dominant cultural conception of illness away from passivity—the ill person as ‘victim of ’ disease and then recipient of care—toward activity. The ill person who turns illness into

story transforms fate into experience; the disease that sets the body apart from

others becomes, in the story, the common bond of suffering that joins bodies in

their shared vulnerability” (xi). Frank notes that “[s]erious illness is a loss of the

‘destination and map’ that has previously guided the ill person’s life: ill people have to learn ‘to think differently.’ They learn by hearing themselves tell their stories, absorbing others’ reactions, and experiencing their stories being shared”

(1). I  add to this that they learn by reading or hearing other people’s narra- tives, by following other people’s maps—that is, by being inspired, since, as

Frank contends, “[h]umans need exemplars who inspire” (133), and this would include humans with disabilities.

Considerations: Where Do We Go From Here?

I  have mapped out some terrain in Disability Studies where inspiration has made its mark. Yet, a key question remains in determining inspiration’s role

in Disability Studies (or other academic endeavors): “inspired to do what ?” Is

it enough to inspire someone simply to care, simply to become aware, to think, to consider a position or problem? In the province of critical theories such as feminisms and critical race theory, the act of theorizing is itself a form of

praxis, a springboard for future action. Inspiration is an emotion in itself (one

feels inspired) that also excites other emotions. As aforementioned Disability

Studies scholars have rightly pointed out, representations of the disabled body circulate in film and text to inspire fear, terror, revulsion, pity, sympathy, dis-

trust, anxiety, awe, and so on. Are there, however, more productive emotions

we might be inspired to feel? Are there perhaps underrepresented emotions, or underrepresented disabilities?

Part of the cautious or dismissive reaction to the inspirational narrative rests,

I  believe, on the fact that those narratives upheld as inspirational and over -

coming are typically narratives of physical, visible disabilities. For instance, the

term supercrip itself generally refers to the portrayal of a person with a physical

disability who has achieved some superhuman feat through perseverance, who

has surpassed the bodily limitations imposed by both medical and sociocul- tural expectations, or who is celebrated as heroic for doing what those without disabilities might view as mundane, everyday tasks. This is not to say other A Reflection on Inspiration 181

disabilities are not upheld as inspiring, or that other inspirational narratives

featuring what might be called non-physical disabilities do not exist—they are, and they do. Cognitive and developmental disabilities have their own particular

brand of inspirational narrative, for instance, one that is often predicated on a

person’s physical ability (e.g., the Special Olympics as “inspiring of the human spirit”) and that is at the same time infantilized or sentimentalized. Yet, the stor -

ies most frequently circulated in film, television, news stories, book clubs, and other contexts, and the inspirational narratives most often critiqued in Disabil-

ity Studies, are less likely to focus on mental illness or people with psychiatric disabilities as inspirational. So I  question, what might inspirational narratives

mean to them? Because each person’s experience of disability is markedly different than the next (for instance, mine might be distinctly different than

Clare’s, Haller’s, Saxton’s, or Longmore’s, but also different than other people

with psychiatric disabilities), I  cannot provide an all-encompassing answer to this particular question. I  can, however, suggest that inspirational narratives can serve a different purpose for an underrepresented population. I believe that

inserting inspiration into the theoretical domain of Disability Studies has a spe- cific importance for people with psychiatric disabilities and, specifically, people

who identify as having an affective disorder (also known as a mood disorder), particularly when considering that they live an existence both marked and

regulated by (dis)ordered moods.

An Index of Personal Inspirations

Echoing Arthur Frank’s belief that we need inspirational exemplars, I want to situate here my own experiences as one point of reference for how bearing the

diagnostic label of bipolar with generalized anxiety necessitates a counterpoint of inspiration. I was given this diagnosis the year I began my graduate studies, and it undoubtedly influenced my direction into Disability Studies and shaped

my academic research. The basis for my dissertation, for example, is an analysis of mental health narratives in visual and textual discursive spaces. Throughout graduate school, as well as the writing process of my dissertation, several texts

became not just inspirational but lifesaving for me.

Kay Redfield Jamison’s work, particularly An Unquiet Mind: A  Memoir of

Moods and Madness , resonates deeply for me. Again, while no two psychiatric

experiences are alike, Jamison’s closely mirrored mine: diagnosed in graduate school, initially resisting the diagnosis, eventually beginning psychotropic ther -

apy, experiencing subsequent resistance to medication, and ultimately

accepting 182 Wendy L. Chrisman

and adhering to lifelong lithium treatment. Jamison’s memoir illuminates the

possibility of completing degrees, maintaining a professional life, having stable

intimate relationships, and living a genuinely fulfilled existence despite (even because of ) a severe, though treatable, mental illness. Having begun lithium

treatment in the early stages of its public inception, Jamison also is evidence

that the medication can work and that the side effects are not always more det-

rimental than the disorder itself. For me, her being both doctor and patient makes Jamison most credible, and, when I began lithium treatment, her story

reassured me that there was, in fact, a light at the end of the tunnel. One of the bravest acts I  have ever done was taking my first dose of psychotropic medi-

cation, since I, like Jamison, was vehemently opposed to it. What took insur -

mountable courage, however, was accepting that this would become a lifelong

process. While lithium is not a successful treatment for everyone with bipolar disorder, I  credit it for my being able to live a functional life, and Jamison for giving me the inspiration and courage to accept it.

If I  credit Jamison and her works as being the most inspiring for my men-

tal well-being, then I  credit Lauren Slater for inspiring me to write about my experiences. Slater’s writing style and voice are, to me, exceptionally candid,

unexpectedly honest, and wickedly humorous. In Prozac Diary she writes of

hospitalizations, beginning therapy with what was then a new drug, being a graduate student, and trying to function through mental illness well enough

to write, learn, and live. Like Jamison, Slater reminds me of me. In Welcome to

My Country: A Therapist’s Memoir of Madness, Slater also reminds me that not everyone in the medical field is devoid of passion, compassion, and understand-

ing, which she demonstrates in her work with the patients at a group home for people with chronic schizophrenia. Unlike virtually any other disability, read-

ing or writing about psychiatric illnesses such as bipolar disorder, depression, anxiety, obsessive compulsive disorder, and psychoses, can actually induce or

replicate the illness. Interestingly, because I experienced several serious epi- sodes throughout the dissertation-writing process, I was dissuaded repeatedly

by relatives and friends, as they attributed the triggering of these episodes to my subject matter. Interestingly still, I was never discouraged from writing about

mental health by any of my mental health caregivers. Considering this, I  take great comfort, as well as inspiration, in knowing that others have succeeded in

their professional lives, despite the fact that their professions might put them at

risk for triggering an episode or otherwise compromising their wellness.

Both Slater and Jamison remind me that writing about such terribly personal

experiences can be done well, and done safely. There are numerous other texts and authors I  find inspiring for various reasons that I  cannot detail here. All A Reflection on Inspiration 183

memoirs about mental illness are, to me, brave efforts to raise awareness and

educate others about the complexities of living with or knowing someone who

has a psychiatric disability. True, some are written with better attention to craft and style, or offer greater insight into their subjects’ experiences. Some show

incredible critical awareness of an illness and the systems working to define and control it. Others lack such insight, or are written by someone other than

the person with the illness, such as a relative or physician. These narratives can often alienate me as a reader, but might inspire me to share the account with

others as a particular insight into how my own family or friends experience

my illness. I have never been particularly reticent (or even prudently cautious) about disclosing that I have a diagnosed disorder for which I take medication.

Because I  am inspired by the similarity of other people’s experience, because

I  can emotionally relate with those experiences, I  am inspired to connect and share mine with others.

Conclusions

If the sociocultural barriers and discrimination people with disabilities face every day were routinely checked, challenged, and righted, perhaps the inspi-

rational narrative would not hold such a suspect position in Disability Stud- ies, the disability community, and beyond. In this utopic context, would there even be a need for inspirational narratives? Perhaps Disability Studies needs

inspirational personal narratives to articulate experiences that are difficult to articulate. As an emotion, inspiration has an interesting recursive factor. If one

feels inspired, the emotion does not just settle into itself. One is inspired to feel, or do, something else: to feel something such as pity, fear, sympathy, sentimen-

tality, and other infantilizing or objectifying emotions, yes. But, conversely, to feel empowering emotions as well, such as validation, honor, celebration, and connection. In everyday parlance, the inspirational might circulate to mean any

of these things, but, for Disability Studies, I  hope that it might move toward

empowerment.

Taking into account that “to inspire” means also to push to action, inspi-

ration can be a vital means to learn, to raise awareness, and to connect with others. I am hoping to inspire here a particular action: not just a recuperation of

inspiration, but also an investigation of what role inspiration plays in the lives of those people whose narratives are missing from the landscape of Disability

Studies. Disability Studies (and its ever-growing articulation of a disability the- ory) seeks social change, political change, and economic change. Given these 184 Wendy L. Chrisman

goals, raising awareness without employing narratives of inspiration might be

an impossibility. At the very least, this agenda necessitates a consideration of

inspiration as a valuable, rhetorically strategic emotion.

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Fiedler, Leslie A. “Pity and Fear: Images of the Disabled in Literature and the Popular Arts.” Salmagundi 57 (1982): 57–69.

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