Karl Knights: Inaccessibility is the Language All Disabled Poets Know

Tonight, I was supposed to be reading at a Queer reading series. I was excited by the possibilities of the space, and excited to read disabled poems in a queer context. In the lead-up to the reading, I asked the organiser whether there was any plans to caption the event. ‘How should I know?’ came the reply. I was told in no uncertain terms that all the poets reading had steadfastly refused to provide access. Apparently, the readers ‘didn’t feel’ like being accessible. I replied, ‘I’m sure disabled people don’t ‘feel like’ being excluded, either.’ When the event’s inaccessibility was relayed to me, I was told by the organiser, ‘I would ask you to not make too much noise about it.’ I had a choice. I could either be complicit in ableism and quietly endorse inaccessibility by reading, or I could be vocal about the event’s inaccessibility. I chose the latter. 

Immediately, my invitation to read was rescinded, despite me having pulled out of the event beforehand. Poets got in touch to let me know that ‘my tones had been reproachable.’ Many poets were more incensed by the tone I’d used to call out ableism, rather than the ableism itself. Both the organiser and other queer poets took issue with the way I had addressed the chronic inaccessibility of the reading’s stage. It should go without saying, but a disabled person addressing systematic ableism and exclusion can do so in any tone they please. The organiser said, ‘If you want to get anywhere with your message, you’ll have to learn diplomacy.’ Other queer poets followed suit. ‘I am certainly aware that honey draws more bees than vinegar.’ But I’m not interested in bees. Accessibility is about equality, plain and simple. Whenever inaccessibility is encountered, it should be resisted, in no uncertain terms. Too often, access is seen as a nuisance, rather than an obligation. What many literary venues and figureheads fail to understand is that access isn’t a favour, it is a right. Quickly, other queer poets associated with the event tried to frame the ‘controversy’ as a simple spat between two people, as another iteration of literary gossip. No, I said. This is about ableism, exclusion, and discrimination. Many poets felt it crucial to let me know that my tones were aggressive and rude, an accusation that is often levelled at autistic people when they dare to speak at all. 

Of the four poets I was supposed to be reading alongside, only one managed to show solidarity. They unequivocally damned the event’s conduct, and pulled out of the reading alongside me. Another poet who was due to appear on the bill quickly told me that what had occurred wasn’t ableism at all, but a simply miscommunication. No, I said. I know ableism more than I know myself. I know ableism when I see it. Instead of being deferred to on ableism and seen as rightful experts, disabled people are constantly spoken over and ignored in literary spaces.  

In hindsight, I should have expected ableism to be the rule of the land. A week earlier, the host of the event had messaged, ‘may I actually be so bold as to ask how sex works for you? Hope this doesn't bother you. I'm genuinely curious.’ I’ve come to expect ableism from literary spaces. But I always hope that already marginalized spaces might have a deeper understanding of exclusion, and strive to be inclusive. I have yet to enter a queer space that was even remotely accessible, or welcoming to disabled queer people. I never stop being surprised, and deeply disappointed, when I find ableism in queer spaces, too. 

Like most poetry scenes, the UK poetry scene is small, and my claxon on ableism hadn’t gone unnoticed. Within the hour, a number of poetry organisations in the UK that had never said a word about access before suddenly began talking about how they would provide access to their events. There’s an expectation that, as a disabled person, I should be nothing but grateful when a venue offers basic, fundamental access. But I’m often more miffed than grateful. What’s galling is that I know that many of the organisations who were suddenly eager to provide access had been asked by disabled people to do just that for years. What I would like to see from an organisation is an examination of why they were so happy to exclude disabled people from their programming for so long. Literary festivals need to ask themselves, why is the environment we’ve created so conducive to ableism? I often want to ask people who are suddenly enthusiastic about accessibility, ‘why weren’t you accessible before?’ 

Many of the organisations who suddenly changed their tune on accessibility had been inaccessible for years or even decades.  I have yet to see any literary organisation acknowledge how deeply painful consistent inaccessibility is. If you’ve excluded disabled people for months, years or decades, you need to acknowledge that you’ve directly caused an enormous amount of fury and pain to disabled people. Organisations big and small need to interrogate why they were so content to exclude disabled people for so long. Often, when a disabled person brings up access, they’re treated as though they’ve asked for the rings of Saturn to be moved. Many people in the world of poetry simply don’t think of disabled people as audience members and readers. And that’s a much deeper and more fundamental problem in the arts, that isn’t rectified by providing incredibly basic access. 

What message are you sending if you willingly exclude disabled people from your spaces? If you’re inaccessible, you send one message to disabled people: ‘you don’t belong here.’ Every poet who reads at inaccessible events, no matter their standing in the literary world, may as well hang a sign around their neck which says, ‘my work isn’t for disabled people.’ When I call out ableism, people often think that the ‘controversy’ is about my needs. But it’s not, not really. The reason I speak up at all is for the person who I know will come after me. I know that the poets of the future are relying on me to speak up about ableism. I have no doubt that at the very moment I’m writing this, someone is walking away from poetry for good. Because of constant exclusion, I have no doubt that a voice poetry urgently needs is leaving. I have no doubt that a disabled person is being asked rude, invasive and inappropriate questioning by event organisers even as I write this. Disabled people’s lives are seen as public property, as dossiers of information that anyone can readily consult at any time. 

When I got the email confirming that I was going to be one of Zoeglossia’s 2020 fellows, I was excited, but a part of my brain, somewhere in the back of my skull, was nervous. I live in the UK, and I wondered, how large would the cultural gap be? How many of my poem’s references were rooted to place, in ways I’d never thought of before? I needn’t have worried. Despite borders, the Zoeglossia poets and I had one overarching experience in common: inaccessibility and discrimination. In talking to disabled poets from around the world – in Australia, New Zealand, Nigeria and the States – inaccessibility is a universal experience, a common ground on which all disabled poets can meet. Inaccessibility is a language without borders that all disabled poets come to know intimately. 

Poetry belongs to everyone. Disabled poetry has existed for as long as poetry has existed. Poetry belonged to disabled people when Homer began orating his epic. Poetry belonged to disabled people when Masaoka Shiki began to pioneer the haiku form as we know it today (indeed, the word ‘haiku’ originates from Shiki). Poetry belonged to disabled people when Rachel Bluwstein wrote short poems on notes to her friends. If you look hard enough, disabled people have always been in literary history. If disabled poets are to have a future in the wider poetry world, poetry must become accessible. Philip Levine said in an interview that, ‘if you have grave doubts about being a poet because you will thereby not achieve your social ambitions, then don't write poetry. Poetry will make it without you.’ Poetry doesn’t deserve to make it if it willingly excludes thousands of people every day. Poetry won’t make it if we lose thousands of essential poetic voices to ableism, year after year. All poets – nondisabled and disabled alike – must create a space where the voices of the future can flourish. It’s up to us. The poets of the future are counting on us. Don’t let them down. 

BIO: Karl Knights is an autistic writer with cerebral palsy. His poetry and prose has appeared in The Guardian, The Dark Horse, Under the Radar, and The North. He is twenty-three and lives in Suffolk, England. Read his Poem of the Week here.