Black, Disabled, queer and proud: why I love my identities

Topics mentioned: disability and mental health, racism and mental health, cultural identity, self-esteem, body image, school

About: As a Black, Disabled, queer young person, Simi didn't see herself represented in stories. Here's how family, community and creativity encouraged self-love.

My name is Simi and I’m a Black, Disabled, queer person. To some people, that sentence alone is too much. I am too much. But every part of my identity makes me who I am and who I am is a strong, hard-working, confident creative.

I was born into a loving Jamaican-British family. My skin is ochre-coloured, I have thick afro hair, and a wide nose. My cheeks are indented with cute little dimples and I have a gap in between my teeth which I used to love sticking things into when I was younger. I remember wishing my hair was blond and straight like my Barbie dolls instead of twisted into plaits which none of my friends wore.

My curly hair seemed so different compared to everyone else’s. I’ve always been a creative so I loved writing when I was a kid, but the characters in my stories would always be white. All my favourite heroes from the shows I watched were white, so to me, that’s what a hero looked like. I didn’t want to write about Black characters – they didn’t seem as cool to me.

When I was two years old, my parents found out that I’d been born with a rare progressive disability. During most of my childhood, I was practically nondisabled – I could walk, run, jump, and use my fingers without issue. But since I had a progressive disability, I began losing abilities one-by-one. When I was 11, I woke up one morning to discover that I’d lost all mobility in my hand. And when I was fourteen, I suddenly lost the ability to walk.

By the time I was 16, I was a permanent wheelchair-user, my fingers were curled inwards, and my wrists were limp. This made me even more different to everyone else. I felt like I was ‘broken’. Like my body was a mistake. I thought that the only way I could be happy was if I was cured of my disability so I could be like everyone else.

But I still managed to get by at school. I taught myself to write, draw, and type by holding a pen in my mouth and moving it across the keyboard or page. I received high grades for my essays and exams and made it on time to my lessons by travelling around school in an electric wheelchair. At home, I was able to get dressed on my own by flinging the clothes over my head. I could brush my teeth by pinching the brush in between both of my wrists and I navigated through the space by climbing up on furniture. It may not have been the same way other people did things – but it worked for me.

I’m proud of my identities. I love my body. And I love the way I love. It’s a love that goes beyond the ordinary boundaries of gender, ethnicity, ability, or sexual orientation. I don’t fit into a specific box of gender stereotypes. I’m too much of an anomaly for that. I make my own box, I am my own voice, and it’s definitely not a quiet one.