In the summer of 2012, something miraculous happened. I found myself sitting beside TV host Ben Mankiewicz on the Turner Classic Movies (TCM) set in Atlanta, taping introductions and promotional videos to accompany a month-long disability in film spotlight I’d also curated we called “The Projected Image: A History of Disability in Film.” Every Sunday night that October, we explored the history and evolution of disability in film—the good, the bad, the how did this get made? The showcase reached an estimated 90 million homes. Movies had always been a passion for me, but making them a central part of my advocacy had been scary.
But in spite of my fears, there we were. It was actually happening. A few weeks later after the segments started airing, something even more astounding happened: Folks started talking—amongst themselves, to me, to TCM, and to each other on social media—not just about what they saw, but about what they’d been missing.
That’s one of the most amazing things about stories—whether flickering on a movie screen or filling up a page, they shape more than entertainment. They set expectations, bolster or break down assumptions, and ultimately, shape our realities.
From being drafted into fundraising campaigns at age five to writing this column decades later, I’ve spent my entire life attempting to cross the sometimes perilous intersection of experience, media, and meaning. I’ve seen how the stories we tell ourselves and others can either harden stereotypes or shatter them. Whether writing for PBS, providing commentary on CNN, or lecturing at the Library of Congress, one truth remained constant for me: The stories we consume not only shape how we view the world, they also influence what we expect from it, and even how we experience it.
For instance, every time a reporter uses the term “confined to a wheelchair” instead of “wheelchair-user,” they’re painting a picture of imprisonment rather than wheelchairs being “chariots of independence.” Pause for a moment. Consider the difference in phrasing. Imagine if chariots of independence were what wheelchairs were commonly called. How would that after how we think about them and how folks who use them are treated?
When movies only show disabled characters on the extremes of existence, as sources of inspiration or victims deserving of pity, instead of illuminating the messy middle most of us inhabit, they’re crafting a narrative that extends far beyond the closing credits. These aren’t just creative choices—they’re cultural blueprints.
Yes, we still see plenty of mistakes and missed opportunities, but here’s the good news: The landscape is shifting. Where we once had silence, or only a few soloists were heard, there is now a choir. Where we once had stereotypes, there is complexity and nuance. Where we once had others telling stories about us without us, we now have platforms to tell our own.
I’ll never forget how my own perspective shifted from a singular experience to something bigger, as we started to engage and others began to realize that the things we’d been showcasing and talking about on TCM all month had been right there, under their noses all along. Waiting to be discovered.
In some ways, however unwanted, unplanned or unexpected, that’s happening again, in living rooms and classrooms, on social media and in writers’ rooms. An increasing number of people are noticing the gaps in our stories, the gulf in our narratives, the missing pieces of our collective imaginations.
But noticing is just the beginning. We can’t stop there. To change things for the better, the world needs your insight, your story, your perspective—and so do potential allies, collaborators, and co-conspirators. Today, and in the days ahead, you are the missing piece that has been there all along. Share the magic that is uniquely you on social media. Support disabled creators. Challenge harmful representation when you encounter it and, more importantly, when somebody gets it right, share that too. Reach out to editors and producers. Or better yet, become one yourself. Make your own content. The revolution isn’t something that happens to us—it is something we create, together.
Ask yourself: At the intersection of imagination and opportunity, what role do I want to play? What can I do, however small, to help flip the script? Is that difficult? Probably. Scary? Almost certainly. Ask anyway. Because daring to ask is the necessary first step to finding answers.
And because what you reveal might surprise you, too.
Lawrence Carter-Long is an internationally recognized authority on the history and evolution of disability in media, recently featured in “Conversations with Able News.” This is his first regular column for Able News.
Opinions expressed are solely those of the writer(s) and do not necessarily reflect the opinions of Able News at The Viscardi Center and/or The Viscardi Center.