/cripcycles
Foreword
Lights up. Camera rolling. No sound cue, because captions were here first.
I’m a Deaf crip and lifelong card-carrying member of the “Can’t Hear You” gang. I think in pictures, edit in jump-cuts, and punctuate every sentence with a flourish only captions can keep up with.
I say crip on purpose. It's a loaded word, exactly why I use it. I'm not sanding off the edges or asking for permission. Crip is about claiming space. It's a refusal to speak softly in rooms that never turned on the mic. If it makes you uncomfortable, good. That means you're finally reading what I've been saying all along.
That's why Crip Cycles arrives dressed like a screenplay: scene headings, smirking stage directions, and dialogue sharp enough to slice through centuries of ableist bullshit. I didn't pick this format for kicks. I picked it because it's how my mind naturally storyboards the universe. When the world forgot to include me in the conversation, I rewound the tape, wrote my own narration, and made sure every line had open captions baked in.
But script pages alone aren’t the revolution. Why I’m doing this matters more than how:
To hijack the canon—History books worship flawless heroes chiseled in marble but I'm here for the cracks. Crutch marks on ancient stairs. Hand-worn grooves in stone. Penis graffiti. Proof that the margins have always talked back.
To build ramps between past and present—Each story is a time-travel episode, less DeLorean, more powerchair, where the curb cuts we overlook today trace back to rebellions we skipped over.
To prove access is a plot device, not a prop—Inclusive design isn’t a charitable subplot; it’s the main action sequence. For folks like me, the real boss fight isn’t some cinematic villain, it’s an American Sign Language interpreter who never shows. And I’m still expected to play.
To leave receipts—Every joke, sight gag, and punchline carries an invoice for the systems that still send disabled folks the bill. Pay up, or at least read the fine print.
So, roll the camera, slate the take, and adjust your focus. The following pages might make you laugh uncomfortably or might piss you off. You might Google a footnote and realize it’s painfully true. Either reaction means it’s working as intended.
Now dim the lights, mute your assumptions, and press play.
Lights up. Camera rolling. No sound cue, because captions were here first.
I’m a Deaf crip and lifelong card-carrying member of the “Can’t Hear You” gang. I think in pictures, edit in jump-cuts, and punctuate every sentence with a flourish only captions can keep up with.
I say crip on purpose. It's a loaded word, exactly why I use it. I'm not sanding off the edges or asking for permission. Crip is about claiming space. It's a refusal to speak softly in rooms that never turned on the mic. If it makes you uncomfortable, good. That means you're finally reading what I've been saying all along.
That's why Crip Cycles arrives dressed like a screenplay: scene headings, smirking stage directions, and dialogue sharp enough to slice through centuries of ableist bullshit. I didn't pick this format for kicks. I picked it because it's how my mind naturally storyboards the universe. When the world forgot to include me in the conversation, I rewound the tape, wrote my own narration, and made sure every line had open captions baked in.
But script pages alone aren’t the revolution. Why I’m doing this matters more than how:
To hijack the canon—History books worship flawless heroes chiseled in marble but I'm here for the cracks. Crutch marks on ancient stairs. Hand-worn grooves in stone. Penis graffiti. Proof that the margins have always talked back.
To build ramps between past and present—Each story is a time-travel episode, less DeLorean, more powerchair, where the curb cuts we overlook today trace back to rebellions we skipped over.
To prove access is a plot device, not a prop—Inclusive design isn’t a charitable subplot; it’s the main action sequence. For folks like me, the real boss fight isn’t some cinematic villain, it’s an American Sign Language interpreter who never shows. And I’m still expected to play.
To leave receipts—Every joke, sight gag, and punchline carries an invoice for the systems that still send disabled folks the bill. Pay up, or at least read the fine print.
So, roll the camera, slate the take, and adjust your focus. The following pages might make you laugh uncomfortably or might piss you off. You might Google a footnote and realize it’s painfully true. Either reaction means it’s working as intended.
Now dim the lights, mute your assumptions, and press play.
To build ramps between past and present—Each story is a time-travel episode, less DeLorean, more powerchair, where the curb cuts we overlook today trace back to rebellions we skipped over.
To prove access is a plot device, not a prop—Inclusive design isn’t a charitable subplot; it’s the main action sequence. For folks like me, the real boss fight isn’t some cinematic villain, it’s an American Sign Language interpreter who never shows. And I’m still expected to play.
To leave receipts—Every joke, sight gag, and punchline carries an invoice for the systems that still send disabled folks the bill. Pay up, or at least read the fine print.
So, roll the camera, slate the take, and adjust your focus. The following pages might make you laugh uncomfortably or might piss you off. You might Google a footnote and realize it’s painfully true. Either reaction means it’s working as intended.
Now dim the lights, mute your assumptions, and press play.
Lights up. Camera rolling. No sound cue, because captions were here first.
I’m a Deaf crip and lifelong card-carrying member of the “Can’t Hear You” gang. I think in pictures, edit in jump-cuts, and punctuate every sentence with a flourish only captions can keep up with.
I say crip on purpose. It's a loaded word, exactly why I use it. I'm not sanding off the edges or asking for permission. Crip is about claiming space. It's a refusal to speak softly in rooms that never turned on the mic. If it makes you uncomfortable, good. That means you're finally reading what I've been saying all along.
That's why Crip Cycles arrives dressed like a screenplay: scene headings, smirking stage directions, and dialogue sharp enough to slice through centuries of ableist bullshit. I didn't pick this format for kicks. I picked it because it's how my mind naturally storyboards the universe. When the world forgot to include me in the conversation, I rewound the tape, wrote my own narration, and made sure every line had open captions baked in.
But script pages alone aren’t the revolution. Why I’m doing this matters more than how:
To hijack the canon—History books worship flawless heroes chiseled in marble but I'm here for the cracks. Crutch marks on ancient stairs. Hand-worn grooves in stone. Penis graffiti. Proof that the margins have always talked back.
To build ramps between past and present—Each story is a time-travel episode, less DeLorean, more powerchair, where the curb cuts we overlook today trace back to rebellions we skipped over.
To prove access is a plot device, not a prop—Inclusive design isn’t a charitable subplot; it’s the main action sequence. For folks like me, the real boss fight isn’t some cinematic villain, it’s an American Sign Language interpreter who never shows. And I’m still expected to play.
To leave receipts—Every joke, sight gag, and punchline carries an invoice for the systems that still send disabled folks the bill. Pay up, or at least read the fine print.
So, roll the camera, slate the take, and adjust your focus. The following pages might make you laugh uncomfortably or might piss you off. You might Google a footnote and realize it’s painfully true. Either reaction means it’s working as intended.
Now dim the lights, mute your assumptions, and press play.
Accessibility is the
innovation engine.
Build for edge cases first; the mainstream will follow.
Meet my partners who are part of making the future inclusive.
Accessibility is the
innovation engine.
Build for edge cases first; the mainstream will follow.
Meet my partners who are part of making the future inclusive.
Accessibility is the
innovation engine.
Build for edge cases first;
the mainstream will follow.
Meet my partners who are part of making the future inclusive.
