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Content warning: forced abortion.

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“Based on this assessment, the judge has ruled that it is in the woman’s ‘best interests’ that the pregnancy be terminated. I beg to differ, and do so based on some experience. For I am an intellectually disabled woman’s son.”

“I had a mother who was dedicated to my life, overcoming significant obstacles—and profound heartbreak—to ensure that I was raised in the best home possible. She taught me about the beauty of difference, the value of non-comformity, the dangers of seemingly ‘well-meaning’ people to our most vulnerable populations, and the power, and purity, of a parent’s love. Without her being a part of my life, I would be less creative, less kind, less intelligent, less good.”

Last week, a judge in the United Kingdom ruled that a pregnant woman with intellectual and psychiatric disabilities must have an abortion-even though the woman wanted to give birth and the woman’s mother was willing to raise the child. Fortunately, the ruling was quickly overturned in an appeals court. However, before the ruling was overturned, Harold Braswell wrote this powerful response, reproduced below and linked at the end of this post. Harold has a valuable perspective to share, as the son of an intellectually disabled woman. Although Harold, too, was raised by his grandmother, his mother played an important role in his life. Harold’s story not only sheds light on issues facing disabled parents and parents-to-be, but it also helps us take a broader view of what it means to be a mom.

When I was a kid, a strange woman would visit our house. Short, with stubbily cut hair, she would almost never turn to you, not responding even if you called her name. She dressed flagrantly, in patchwork clothing that she had sewn herself, and spent the entirety of her visits in a maelstrom of cleaning. Whipping the record player with a rag, banging colored pencils into a souvenir plastic cup, she appeared as some hybrid of the Tasmanian Devil and a hobo clown. Yet she did appear, every month, and at the end of her appearances, I would hug her, tell her I loved her, and give her two kisses: one on each cheek. A strange woman, a strange ritual—even stranger because, as I knew, this strange woman was my mom.

Yesterday, a British judge, Nathalie Lieven, ruled that an intellectually disabled woman should be forced to have an abortion against her will. The woman—who remains unnamed, ostensibly out of respect for her privacy—wants to have the child, but, because of her disability, she is presumed incompetent to make this decision. Attending medical doctors have judged that her giving birth and eventually having the child removed from her custody would be extremely traumatic because of her intellectual disabilities. Based on this assessment, the judge has ruled that it is in the woman’s “best interests” that the pregnancy be terminated. I beg to differ, and do so based on some experience. For I am an intellectually disabled woman’s son.

My mother, Andrea Braswell, acquired her intellectual disability as a result of her education. She was deaf, but the school she attended as a child did not teach sign language. She was “taught”—via a method called “oralism”—to lip-read and enunciate words that she could not hear. She did not finally learn a language until her mother removed her from school when she was eleven years old. By then, the damage had been done. Children who do not have language access during their formative years experience what is now called “language deprivation syndrome.” This condition has been analogized to brain damage, and found to underlay a range of psychiatric disorders with which deaf people are disproportionately diagnosed. With regard to my mother, its effects were severe.

This severity makes me extremely skeptical of this judge’s ruling. I do not doubt that the UK woman’s intellectual disability will perhaps make the process of giving birth complicated, and that it may hinder her from raising her child herself. But, like my mom, she, too, can be a mother, and her being so can be very worthwhile for both her and her child.

My own birth was difficult, perhaps even traumatic, for my mother. It left her in a pelvic sling. And my family was so certain of her inability to raise me that they had me circumcised by a mohel on the third day, not the eighth: They assumed that I would be given up for adoption, and wanted ensure that, wherever I ended up, I would be a Jew. Ultimately, I was removed from my mother’s custody, but instead of being given up for adoption, I was taken in by her mother, my maternal grandmother.

But though she did not raise me herself, my mother remained, always, my mom. She visited me monthly, sending, almost every week, postcards and gifts. These visits, postcards, and gifts were, at times, confusing for me, even unwelcome. But not always, and, over time, I came to appreciate them and also her. We developed a strong relationship, and, on becoming an adult, it was I who began visiting her, and sending her my own postcards and gifts. When my grandmother took me in, I did not lose my mom as a mother. I merely—and miraculously—gained another one. And my mother, though she did not personally raise me, never lost her son.

The situation of this young UK woman is analogous. Her mother supports her decision to carry the baby to term. Perhaps, with appropriate accommodations, she herself can raise the child. Even if not, there are ways to ensure that the woman remains a part of the child’s life. It is notable that the attending social worker also supports the woman’s decision, against the decision of the doctors. Doctors are not trained to evaluate the psychosocial factors and family dynamics most relevant to this case; they also, studies show, frequently underestimate the abilities of disabled people and devalue their very lives. The social worker’s expertise should be privileged. This is particularly the case because this expertise supports the woman’s own expressed desire.

But it is this desire that judge Lieven throws into question. “I think she would like to have a baby in the same way she would like to have a nice doll,” Lieven said. This statement is ignorant, condescending, and, yes, bigoted. My mother did not know all the particulars of parenting (no parent does), but she wanted a child for years prior to my birth. She knew the difference between a baby and a doll. This woman does too, and her wish should be honored.

My mother’s wish was. She had a son, and she was, to him—and always will be—his mom. Her impact on me was profound, and beneficial. I had a mother who was dedicated to my life, overcoming significant obstacles—and profound heartbreak—to ensure that I was raised in the best home possible. She taught me about the beauty of difference, the value of non-comformity, the dangers of seemingly “well-meaning” people to our most vulnerable populations, and the power, and purity, of a parent’s love. Without her being a part of my life, I would be less creative, less kind, less intelligent, less good. Because I was a part of her life, she was able to live her dream—a dream that few people believed achievable, one that, even today, too many, too easily, would deny.

The public outcry about the denial of this young UK woman’s dream has been largely led by what might gently be called “Catholic Twitter.” Catholic commentators have interpreted it as symptomatic of the evil of a secular liberal society that devalues life, purporting such ills as “Drag Queen Storytime” and abortion on demand. As a basically secular, liberal person (albeit with intermittent internal conflicts about my status as such) and recent attendee of “Drag Queen Story Time,” I reject these arguments.

In reality, this ruling should be recognized as evil by anyone. It is baldly “anti-choice,” and fails even the thinnest liberal commitments of opposing bigotry and protecting minorities. It shows an utter lack of creativity, a disturbing closure to the dynamism of life, an unwillingness to even minimally accommodate difference. Thus, though this story began as yet another entry in the so-called “culture wars,” my hope is that it end up somewhere else: as a “unicorn,” the rare, perhaps impossible, issue that really everyone can agree is bad.

My experience with my mother has shown me that such cross-“culture war” understanding can, in some instances, be achieved. In my early twenties, I had a “quarter life” crisis, provoked in part by the seemingly incompatible conflict between my relationship with my mother and the categories of the world that I had just entered as an adult. I began seeing a therapist and, with her encouragement, started volunteering at a Catholic home for intellectually disabled women. Working at the home was, among other things, a way for me to “work through” the seemingly indigestible feelings that I had about my relationship with my mom.

It did that. But it also did something more. I watched, with wonder, how, with minimal resources, a group of nuns cared for women who, otherwise, might have been abandoned to institutions or even dead on the streets. But “caring for” is perhaps not the right term, for the nuns lived with the women, viewing them as equals and providing an environment in which their basic equality, and value, could be perceived as such. I perceived it. And, by doing so, I became better able to perceive, and value, my own mother. I deepened my relationship with her; I also began to study with Catholic religious sisters, and, with time, to work at a Catholic institution myself.

As a secular Jew at a Catholic university—in a department with substantial theological commitments—I sometimes wonder what I’ve gotten into. I have no intention of becoming Catholic, and I disagree strongly with many of the tropes dominant in American Catholic discourse. But I also appreciate many Catholics and, in a way, Catholicism itself. In a society that, too often, undervalues disabled people—making their very status as “persons” a topic for debate—Catholics have consistently advocated for the intrinsic worth of their lives. I may not agree with the theological presuppositions based on which they do so. But I am grateful nonetheless.

It is my hope however that this does not remain “just” a Catholic issue: That there is a broad public outcry both in England and internationally, and that the decision is reversed. If that doesn’t happen, I hope that the Vatican does what it can to intervene. It may not come to that. But my fear is that it already has.

Harold Braswell is an assistant professor of health care ethics at Saint Louis University. He is the author of The Crisis of US Hospice Care, which will be published by Johns Hopkins University Press in August 2019. He can be reached on Twitter at @haroldbraswell.

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“We don’t have to devote hours every week to driving [our children] to therapies and classes.

We don’t have to battle with their anxiety because we are trying to expose them constantly to things they hate; with the belief that it will prepare them for life.

We do not have to accept the professional and social assumption that our children are faulty, and that they must be fixed or tinkered with in order to have a good quality of life.”

Ally Grace, autistic parent of three autistic children

I recently saw an interesting post on a Parents of Blind Children Facebook group, which I will paraphrase here. “My 19-month-old son receives early intervention services, and some therapies from the school. The local Commission for the Blind wants me to enrol him in their program for more therapy. Does my son really need so much therapy? He’s reaching milestones fairly well on his own. We just moved to a new state, I work full-time, and I’m pregnant-I guess that’s affecting my thought process on this.”

In the western world, families of children born with disabilities often find themselves negotiating a complex web of systems. It always starts with doctors-often too many doctors, sometimes multiple unpleasant, wallet-draining diagnostic procedures-to identify the congenital disability in the child. Then, once a disability is pronounced by the medical gatekeeper, the family is urged to sign up for “early intervention” services that may or may not be government-funded. The services vary widely depending on the disability and the locale, but usually they include “therapies” designed to correct specific deficits or “delays” in the child during critical periods of development. Therapeutic goals may be based on assessments showing what the child is lacking, with goals oriented toward ability-centric milestones like walking, speech, or “typical” social interaction. There is often an assumption (spoken or unspoken) that congenitally disabled kids will have adverse outcomes without the intervention.

In my own case, there was a private agency in my hometown where my family and I received early intervention after I was diagnosed blind at six months of age. I ended up going to preschool there, and later, to their summer camps. When I was in high school, I read the organization’s Website, where they justified the importance of their infant programs by stating that “research shows that at least 80% of what children learn in their first five years of life is learned visually.” They touted their services as being vital to compensate for all the information that blind children cannot acquire visually. At the time, I found their statistics persuasive. But then, I met a blind teacher of blind children, who suggested a different interpretation. “Perhaps 80% of what *sighted children* learn is visual and 20% is nonvisual,” she explained. “But that doesn’t mean that blind children, on their own, learn 80% less. It just means they learn 100% from nonvisual experience.”

Undoubtedly, there are children and families who benefit from state-funded early intervention. But I have long questioned whether it truly is vital for everyone, or if there could be unintended harms when therapists are unfamiliar with the specific disability condition, or if they hold negative, deficit-based attitudes about congenital disability. In the parent groups, I hear from parents who are overwhelmed by all the different professionals, schedules, and expectations. Young kids who may be similarly overwhelmed, seemingly resistant to therapy. With blindness, I hear about blind kids working with physical or occupational therapists who’ve never worked with a blind person before, and it makes me wonder how their intervention could possibly be more helpful than just engaging in ordinary play.

And then there are scientific issues. In countries where early intervention is the norm, we don’t have a non-intervention control group against which to evaluate impact. So, if a child shows a positive outcome, it is often attributed to the intervention, but if a child shows a setback, it may be attributed to the inevitable impact of the disability itself. However, it’s possible that kids would do just as well without intervention, and that the “benefits” we see are just effects of time and nature on development. Conversely, we are learning through anecdotes that some interventions, like Applied Behavior Analysis (ABA) for autism, can cause trauma. But without controlled studies, families and practitioners might conclude that signs of harm (such as increased anxiety) are just “symptoms” of autism rather than effects of the intervention.

Is there an alternative? A paradigm that celebrates congenital difference rather than minimizing it?

Back in 2010, I stumbled on this blog written by Marie about her son, Jack. Jack was born with a syndrome that affects his vision, fine motor skills, and speech. When Jack was four years old, Marie wrote about Jack’s early years:

“We began physical therapy when he was only a few months old. We added occupational therapy and speech therapy as he got older. I watched the therapists work with Jack and I tried to do what they did at home. I constantly pushed for Jack to do more and more and more. He’s a smart, resilient little boy and I knew he could do more.”

But then…

“I realized that Jack already had therapists and teachers and if we lost a therapist or teacher we could get a new one. There was one thing that I could do that noone else could. No one else could be this little guy’s Mama.”

During the summer after Jack turned four, Marie pulled him out of all “therapies” and just joined him in his play. She took him to the park, the pool, and on other outings that incorporated natural lessons. Marie reported that during that summer, Jack began talking and engaging much more with people around him. Eventually, Marie pulled Jack out of school and began following an unschooling child-led approach to his education.

Similarly, multigenerational disabled families might choose to forgo traditional “intervention” in favor of community and disability acceptance. For example, Deaf parents of Deaf children often reject “oralist” education, instead immersing their children in the Deaf community and sign language, and sending them to Deaf schools. Autistic parents of autistic kids, like the one I quoted at the top of this post, might engage a parenting process that encourages their children’s passions, their unique ways of solving problems, parallel play, and self-acceptance. Related to this is the idea that parents can be their child’s first teachers, whether they share the child’s disability or not, instead of waiting for “professionals” to step in.

I don’t think there’s one answer for every family. But, I want to see some changes in the dominant paradigm. For one, I wonder if we could establish a role for “disability navigators” to help parents bridge between the medical and the educational systems when they first suspect disability in their child. These navigators could be disabled adults, veteran parents of grown disabled children, or both. Such individuals could focus on helping the family members accept the disability, become part of the relevant local disability community, and explore all the services and supports available-instead of just shunting them to the dominant early-intervention provider in the area.

Furthermore, I believe we need to be doing ongoing research on these established early-intervention therapies. Many were established in the 1970s when cultural attitudes about disabilities were very different than they are today. At that time, a child’s acting less “disabled” was seen as a positive outcome. Today, we are beginning to recognize the importance of disability acceptance for disabled people’s long-term well-being. I want to see some data showing how various intervention practices impact children’s well-being and overall adjustment over time, not just how well the children can perform in ways that please nondisabled adults. With that information, we might be able to make informed recommendations to families that truly benefit our next generation of disabled people.

“Next time a Christian approaches me and offers healing, I might try to challenge their theology with some of the new interpretations of scripture I’ve learned from disabled Christians.”

“The notion that God and Jesus could be interpreted as being disabled may not be mainstream, but it’s a message that is more empowering for disabled people than the idea that we are all faulty and in need of repair. And who knows, maybe if we were approached with the message that God loves us as we are, more disabled people might welcome that conversation.”

Most disabled people have had at least one encounter with a stranger wanting to pray for our “healing.” These prayers may be inspired by acts of healing in the Bible. But, disability is far different now than it was then. In this article, disabled Christians share modern, disability-affirming understandings of how disability fits into Christian theology. While “healing” of the body may have been desirable in biblical times, modern theologies can incorporate positive disability identity and pride, including the possibility that God and Jesus could have had disabled bodies. Also discussed is the question of whether or not we would want to shed our disabilities in the afterlife.

Stop Trying to Heal Me

https://www.disabilitywisdom.com/?p=1162

Last week, I shared the link to comment on Section 14c, the provision allowing employers to pay people with disabilities a “special wage” based on productivity instead of the federal minimum wage. Comments have been pouring in, and it is possible to read them all (though time-consuming). As I read the comments, I noticed a very interesting trend. Dozens of comments, in support of Section 14c, poured in from parents and other relatives of disabled people. Unsurprisingly, most of the comments from people managing sheltered workshops also supported the provision. On the other hand, many Comments opposing Section 14c came from people who self-identified as disabled. In fact, out of the 519 comments I’ve been able to code so far (I’m still trying to keep up-so this analysis is in progress), 90% of the comments from parent/guardians of disabled people were in support of 14c, but 67% of the comments from identified self-advocates were opposed to the provision. Furthermore, only 10% of the comments on the forum were from self-advocates, while 39% were from parent/guardians. The parent/guardian voice was nearly four times as loud as the self-advocate voice.

Regardless of where you stand on sheltered employment or subminimum wages, it is concerning to observe such a vast disconnect between the views of parent/guardians and the views of adults with disabilities. And it raises important questions regarding the appropriate role of parent/guardian voices in disability policymaking.

Another trend was even more concerning. After some of the self-advocates commented voicing their opposition to Section 14c, they were told by other commenters that if they were capable of typing on an online forum, they must not be “severely disabled” enough to be personally impacted by Section 14c. Thus, it was assumed that individuals who are personally affected by Section 14c are incapable of speaking for themselves, at least not on an online policy forum. The implication is that their views can be represented only through their family members or caseworkers. Notably, only people on the pro-14c side of the fence used this argument to dismiss their opponents. I didn’t see anyone on the anti-14c side dismissing their self-advocate peers who wanted to stay at sheltered workshops.

First of all, this assumption is not entirely accurate. Several individuals on *both sides* of the fence identified having intellectual/developmental disabilities (IDD) or otherwise having experience with subminimum wage employment. Secondly, autistic adults have warned of the dangers of using functioning labels to categorize disabled people. In short, like mental ages, functioning labels reduce a dynamic, complex person down to a single point on a line. People who can type articulately on their policy position may still have substantial support needs in the workplace. We may still be at a real risk of employment discrimination. And, those who are unable to type or who don’t have the resources to access an online forum may absolutely have important views to share about their employment options.

As frustrating as those comments were, they do raise an important point. Many disabled people cannot share their views on policies in the traditional means like online forums, writing or calling legislators, or going to busy town hall meetings. We must find creative ways to invite all people with disabilities, including those with significant support needs, to tell us how current policies affect their daily lives-for better and for worse.

So how should we treat parent/guardians claiming to speak on behalf of their loved ones with severe disabilities?

It is true that in research, sometimes caregivers can provide “proxy” data on behalf of an individual who cannot answer questions. For example, the Functional Independence Measure (FIM), which is a scale of how much assistance a disabled person needs for various activities of daily living, can be filled out by a caregiver or by the individual. Such a measurement is relatively objective and straightforward. On the other hand, having proxies report on subjective mood states or overall quality of life can introduce significant bias to the data.

Unfortunately, there’s another problem with having parent/guardians represent the views of people with IDD. Historically, people with IDD have suffered high rates of abuse by caregivers. Tragically, it is estimated that one disabled person is killed by a caregiver almost every week. While the vast majority of parent/guardians genuinely have the best interests of their loved ones at heart, and would report accurately on their preferences, we cannot take this for granted, given the prevalence of abuse. On a related point, caregivers who experience burnout may have a self-interest in supporting particular policies that reduce their caregiving burden. Reducing caregiver burden is an important goal, but it shouldn’t trump the rights and happiness of those who require caregiving.

Having said all this, I do believe that parent/guardian perspectives should be included in policymaking. Their voices just shouldn’t drown out the voices of those who are personally affected by the policy. And, parent/guardians can assist their loved ones to share their experiences. For example, parent/guardians can provide historical background on their loved one’s life, which a researcher can use to help scaffold questions and build rapport with the interviewee. Parent/guardians can advocate for their loved ones to receive self-advocacy training and augmentative/alternative communication equipment. They can help their loved ones find written or spoken language to express their views, and appropriate advocacy outlets. They can join self-advocacy organizations alongside their loved ones and bring them to meetings and rallies, or assist them with letter-writing, if those modes of advocacy are accessible to the individual.

But, what about those “severely disabled” folks who don’t have a reliable mode of verbal communication? Well, everybody communicates. For some, the only or the most accessible way they communicate is through behavior and body language. Parent/guardians can provide background information on these folks’ lives, but they shouldn’t be the only voices speaking for them. In my opinion, examining how “nonverbal” individuals feel about a policy or program might be best done using ethnographic or case-study research. To find out how individuals feel about working in a sheltered workshop, we might ask their parent/guardians, their employer, their coworkers, but we would also want to observe them in multiple settings-in the workshop, in their home or residence, etc. Find out what their nonverbal signals of joy, frustration, fear, sadness are and see in what environments those emotions are displayed. We can ask the individual questions to signal our interest in what they have to say, even if they only respond nonverbally.

Before I conclude, I need to mention one more thing. As I scrolled through the online dialogue about Section 14c, I saw many parent/guardians using insulting language to describe their loved ones with IDD. For example, statements like “my son/daughter will never live a normal life.” In several posts the R-word was used instead of the modern term “intellectual disability.” One parent was trying to argue that adults with IDD don’t care how much money they make. The parent wrote, “Try asking a two-year-old the difference between a nickel and a dime” and later the parent defended their comment by saying their adult daughter had “the social skills of a 3-year-old.” Another parent said “when my son doesn’t have something to do during the day, he shows more autism tendencies.” (Seriously? “Autism tendencies” is a bad thing? I wonder if my “blind tendencies” come out when I’m bored-and is that a bad thing)? This isn’t just a matter of being politically correct. It’s about how actual people with IDD have eloquently described the problems with using the R-word, mental age statements, and equating autism with something bad. If parent/guardians (or anyone, really, but especially people who don’t have disabilities themselves) are going to get involved in disability advocacy, they really should educate themselves on what language and talking points humanize, rather than demean, the people they are trying to protect. It is possible to argue that a program is necessary, and to state that a loved one has specific needs, without demeaning that loved one with ableist slurs or comparisons to a toddler. Gains for the disability community should never come on the back of ableism. If you find yourself using demeaning or pity-based arguments to defend a policy, think again about how that same argument can be framed in a way that respects and humanizes disabled people.

Want to comment on Section 14c? Comments are open for one more week!

If you’re employed, think about how productive you are at your job on a typical day. Then think about all the things that might affect your productivity from week to week, or day to day. Do you sometimes have super productive days where you can feel your to-do list shrinking? But then, you might spend a whole afternoon staring at your computer screen, stuck in writer’s block. Or, maybe you’re less productive when you haven’t gotten enough sleep, or you’re worried about a family issue, or there’s distracting construction noise. Or, if you work in sales or customer service, there are busy days and slow days.

Now, imagine that your boss randomly gives you a pop quiz. During a random hour on a random day, your productivity is measured. And then, your salary is set based on your performance during that random quiz, and once your salary is set, you can’t appeal or change it. So, if you’re tested on a slow day, or when you’re distracted, or have nothing to work on, you end up with a low salary as long as you stay in that job.

Now, one more thing. Imagine you aren’t subjected to the minimum wage. So, if your productivity is very low during that pop quiz, you might end up being paid far less than the minimum wage. Until the day you quit.

The idea of tying wages to a single “productivity” measurement seems ridiculous to those of us who have always known a minimum wage. But, it’s still a reality for some Americans with disabilities. And it’s still entirely legal.

The federal minimum wage was set up via the Fair Labor Standards Act (FLSA) in 1938. A section of that law, Section 14(c), makes an exception for employees with disabilities. Disabled workers can be paid “special wages!” (note that word special again). The Department of Labor can give 14(c) certificates to “sheltered employment” providers, organizations that hire exclusively disabled workers, usually performing menial tasks. Once an employer has an approved 14(c) certificate, if they determine that an employee is less “productive” than a typical nondisabled employee, the disabled employee can legally be paid a “subminimum” wage dependent on how well they perform on a timed productivity test, compared to a nondisabled employee. Reportedly, in extreme cases, individuals have been paid mere cents per hour.

Think again about all the factors that might hamper your productivity at work? For a disabled employee, there are many more artificial barriers that could lower productivity. One of the biggest is a poor job-person fit. A worker who hates making widgets is going to be slower doing that than doing something they love. If you ask me to sort clothing by size, and I can’t read the print labels, I’m going to be slower than a sighted worker at that specific task. But does that mean I’m worth less? That I bring less value to the workforce as a whole?

The provision of 14(c), like so many other aspects of the disability system, treats a person’s productivity as a constant. It ignores the influences of the environment and supports that could raise the productivity ceiling. And by tying productivity to earning potential, the provision also treats our worth, our value to the employer, as a constant constrained by disability.

The Department of Labor is currently taking public comments on Section 14(c) subminimum wages. Looking at the comments, the provision still has some strong supporters. Not surprisingly, the most vocal defenders of Section 14(c) are either family members of developmentally disabled adults or people who work for organizations holding 14(c) certificates. Meanwhile, the provision is strongly opposed by disability self-advocacy orgs made up of actually-disabled people.

The pro-14(c) argument goes something like this: “My relative is significantly disabled with high support needs. They can’t do X or Y, so they can’t hold a job in the competitive market. They love their job with Z agency, which has a 14(c) certificate. They like being paid, but they don’t really care how much they make. If the 14(c) exemption went away and Z agency was forced to pay minimum wage to all its workers, my relative would be out of a job and just sitting on the couch all day.”

I’d like to examine two aspects of this argument: first, the idea that sheltered employers would all be forced to shut down if they had to pay minimum wage, and second, the idea that so many people can’t hold jobs in the community.

First, there’s this fear that if disabled workers all had to earn minimum wage, their employers wouldn’t be able to afford it. While it’s impossible to know exactly how much every sheltered employer can afford to pay its workers, nonprofit agencies are required to report the salary they pay their CEOs, which can give us some sense of their overall cash flow. Currently, 19 local Goodwill affiliates hold active 14(c) certificates and pay at least one of their workers subminimum wage. Yet Goodwill, in general, pays its CEOs quite generously: in 2014, 23 Goodwill affiliates paid their CEOs at least $400,000, significantly higher than other social service charities. Notably, Goodwills receive revenue from their retail operations as well as private donations and government grants. If an agency can pay its CEO an above-average salary, certainly it can figure out how to redistribute some of its revenue toward paying fair wages.

Second, there seems to be this idea that it’s either all or nothing. Either we give disabled workers sheltered jobs with all the supports they need, but we have to pay them subminimum wages, or we just turn them out to the mainstream job market to fend for themselves without supports. Such a dichotomy is far from true. In fact, many models of supported employment exist to assist all potential workers with  Job training, placement, and support on-the-job. And evidence is mounting to demonstrate that people once thought “unemployable” can succeed in jobs alongside their nondisabled peers, paying an equal wage.

For example, the Project Search program offers on-the-job training and job-seeking supports to high school seniors with disabilities. A related program, Project Search-ASD, includes supports and training specifically tailored to the challenges experienced by autistic youth. In a recent investigation, 79 youth in Virginia enrolled in Project Search-ASD during their final year of high school. The participants were all in self-contained classes with significant support needs related to autism and, often, other co-occurring medical conditions as well. During the program, the participants received on-the-job instruction while rotating through three internships. This training was supplemented with individualized job coaching and a plan to assist the youth in finding a job after graduation and receiving appropriate supports on-the-job. One year after graduation, out of the 73 youth who completed the program, 58 of them had jobs in their communities, working an average of about 20 hours per week, and all making at least $7.25 per hour (averaging around $10 per hour). The impossible becomes possible, not just for a few exceptional “high-functioning” individuals, but for a majority of youth with substantial support needs who received the right combination of supports at a critical time in life.

I can agree with the pro-14(c) commenters on one thing: Work is important to many (though not all) adults with significant disabilities. But, I believe that doing a task and getting a dollar an hour is not work. It’s glorified volunteering. And certainly, if an individual is being fed, clothed and sheltered through other means (like Social Security or family support), that individual may be perfectly content as a full-time volunteer. But, let’s call it what it is: it’s volunteering, maybe vocational training (if there’s a clear goal of transition to an actually-paying job). But getting a dollar an hour or less is not employment in my opinion.

The pro-14(c) people say it’s all about choice. And I support that. I support *informed* choice and self-determination for individuals with significant disabilities. I support having non-work social and recreational programs for individuals who want to spend time with their fellow disabled peers. I support having a range of employment options. I might even support having a few self-contained employment options where people are doing meaningful work alongside their disabled peers, with built-in supports. All I ask is that disabled workers get the same basic standard of fair treatment at work as their nondisabled counterparts: a job matched to their strengths, opportunities for professional growth, safe and sanitary working conditions. And, in 2019, let’s pay them the damn minimum wage.

Want to get involved? Comment here on the importance of fair wages. Let’s drown out the shouts of all the doubters who are so convinced of their disabled relatives’ limited potential. Let’s proclaim our hope and commitment to civil rights and self-determination for our disabled brethren.

After you comment, ask your legislators to support the Transformation to Competitive Employment Act which would phase out Section 14(c) while helping states increase job supports for disabled workers in the community.