We Hung Up Our Harps And Cried

When I think of the things that happen to people with disabilities in secret, there is no easy framework of meaning and comfort. Over seventy people with disabilities have been killed by their parents or caregivers in the last five years.

This brings to mind Psalm 137:4: “On the branches of the willow trees, we hung our harps and hid our hearts from the enemy.” (The Voice)

The people lamenting in this psalm hung up their instruments and cried. When there is such a terrible injustice in the world, sometimes we must lament. But what follows? I take heart in Joanna Macy’s idea that we can, “act like ancestors.” We can take a long view of deep time and connect our bodies, ourselves, our work to past and future generations. It is not only for this moment that we work, but also for all the futures that this moment holds as potential.

One advantage of this long view of deep time is that it allows the blessing of the goodness of this present moment to ripen. We can really enjoy the good things in the path because they are part of the entire ecology that we experience. Still though, the grief and horror of injustice is often the most real part of what we experience.

Let us take the appropriate time to mourn, to rise against injustice, and to make way for new futures. March 1, 2015 marks the sixth Day of Mourning in which the Autistic Self Advocacy Network (ASAN), ADAPT, Not Dead Yet, the National Council on Independent Living, the Disability Rights Education & Defense Fund, and other disability rights organizations join to mark this specific kind of murder and oppression by sponsoring this Day of Mourning and candlelight vigils.

People need to know about the loss of human life that is made into a secret by bias against people with disabilities. People with disabilities are human and deserve the recognition of their inherent worth and dignity, and their right to live as they best will. I offer that we can mourn in deep time and connect with the far-away future in which disabled people are not at risk of being murdered by the people closest to them.

We may one day be able to say, along with the singer in Psalm 30:11, “You did it: You turned my deepest pains into joyful dancing; You stripped off my dark clothing and covered me with joyful light.”

Until then, we mourn. We rise against injustice. I invite you to watch the Autistic Self Advocacy Network (ASAN) website for an opportunity to sign up to host a candlelight vigil in your area. There will be a resource kit to help you be successful.

(Quick heads-up: If you plan for a few days ahead, you can print the names of those who have been murdered in large-format pretty inexpensively, so that you have a display for your vigil.)

For now, we sing no songs. We hang up our instruments and hide our hearts.