assumptions are dangerous

look past the wheelchair and see the disability

Wheelchairs don’t have disabilities; people do. Unfortunately, many people intuitively think of disability as residing in wheelchairs and other adaptive equipment, and forget that it’s a basic fact about a person and that person’s body.


This can cause a lot of problems and misunderstandings.


For example: Jane uses a wheelchair most of the time, but sometimes walks when she needs to go somewhere inaccessible. That’s nastily exhausting, bad for her health, and comes with a significant risk of injury. Sometimes she does it anyway because it’s important for her to go to an event, or take a class, or do something else in an inaccessible place.


Jane’s sister Sarah is getting married, and has chosen an inaccessible location. Jane decides that it’s important enough to her to go to that wedding that she’s willing to go even though she won’t be able to bring her wheelchair.


All of Jane’s relatives assume that this means that she is ~getting better~, and doesn’t need mobility equipment anymore, even though her disability is not an illness and is not something that can be changed. What it actually means is that she’s having a very difficult and possibly dangerous day because her sister made an inconsiderate choice.


Jane’s wheelchair doesn’t have a disability; Jane does. And when Jane isn’t using her wheelchair, it doesn’t mean that she’s somehow less disabled; it means that her needs aren’t being met.


Or, another example: Bill has a chronic illness. He usually needs his wheelchair to get through the day, but sometimes he’s feeling particularly energetic and decides to walk somewhere. His friend Joe sees him and says “It’s so nice to see that you’re getting better!”. This bothers Bill, because he’s not getting better, and he’s not going to get better, he’s just having a day where taking a walk is an option. Bill would like people in his life who don’t understand his reality to stop making inappropriately intimate comments about his health.


There are many other examples, for just about every disability category. People make a lot of unwarranted and intrusive assumptions about someone’s disability and health based on what adaptive equipment they are or aren't using on a particular day. Those assumptions can cause serious problems for people, and it’s important to stop making them.


Mobility equipment doesn’t have disabilities. People do.

  • what she says: i'm fine
  • what she means: i'm really troubled and unsatisfied by the lack of closure and cohesiveness in the third trial of sdr2. a lot of important things were never clarified properly or at all, and the advancement of the trial seems to be propelled a lot by unclear assumptions, which would be incredibly dangerous to rely in a life-or death investigation. i mean, what did mikan actually use to kill hiyoko? what did she do with said weapon afterwards? was it possible that she got blood on her clothes or any other objects around her? if so, how did she clean it and/or dispose of said evidence? that exact aspect is quite important in the first trial. how did she possibly have time to uncover hiyoko's body, break the drumstick, and seal the door in such a short amount of time? and then without anybody seeing where she came from? what was her purpose for imitating Monokuma's movie and/or mixing up the killing order in the first place? pulling off so many of the numerous highly complex aspects of those murders would be incredibly risky to her, so why would she do it with no clear reason? i mean, do we even technically know that the person imitating ibuki on the monitor was mikan? it would certainly stand to reason, but considering the numerous arbitrary complexities of that and other trials in sdr2, it wouldn't be the least bit strange if mikan got an accomplice to pull off imitating ibuki to trick hajime. it just seems to me that the game's creators put so much focus into trying to create complexity and challenge that they lost focus on creating a cohesive storyline. this can be seen numerous times throughout sdr2, but almost nowhere is it more evident than in that third trial. it's really frustrating and disappointing to be honest.

The Voltron fandom has such a big problem, in that there is a sizeable portion of it that honestly believes that There Are Laws and that there need to be rules and limitations on enjoyment of media, that everything has to strictly defined. This leads to the frankly dangerous assumptions that A. Becoming canon is the end all be all goal, and B. That you can’t mess around with media and twist things around and change things to further personal enjoyment and exploration beyond the source material. 

Ambiguity is important. It gives people space to explore their own interpretations of canon. AUs exist for a reason, and wanting to explore something does no necessarily mean condoning it. Sometimes it doesn’t even mean liking it. Sometimes the BadWrong serves a purpose, as a way to challenge and subvert expectations and allow for emotional catharsis that the coffee shop AU just doesn’t deliver. 

The show creators have been very explicit about wanting to leave room for fans to create their own interpretations. That’s why ages are more of a vague range than a set law. Shiro isn’t twenty five, that isn’t canon, that’s something fans have latched onto in their desperate search for Rules they can use to police each other. In canon he’s somewhere between 18 and 30. His age is “an adult, but not too old of an adult” (and they even gave him a leap year birthday to drive home how ambiguous ages could be), the same way Pidge’s age is “young”. Even when pressed, writers were only willing to fess up to “a range”. That’s pretty damn flexible. 

Yeah, we can critique how we interpret and process media, we can do that all day, but we also need to acknowledge that canon doesn’t have to be some perfect untouchable monolith, and that other fans are going to do things that you personally don’t understand for their own reasons. I might not personally like some of the more age-gap beset ships either, but frankly the policing in this fandom is doing a lot more damage than the “bad” content ever could. The show creators realize that, which is probably why they’re so hesitant to give you all solid ages that you can use to further torment others. 

Assumptions are dangerous things to make, and like all dangerous things to make–bombs for instance, or strawberry shortcake–if you make the tiniest mistake you can find yourself in terrible trouble. Making assumptions simply means believing things are a certain way with little or no evidence that shows you are correct, and you can see at once how this can lead to terrible trouble.
—  Lemony Snicket, THE AUSTERE ACADEMY
Dangerous Assumptions.

James’ POV

Her phone sat buzzing again as it had been for a while now. The past hour she’d quickly grab for it, smile and then usually burst into loud laughter. It was annoying the hell out of me and she didn’t even notice the irritated glances I was throwing her way. She was too engulfed in whatever messages were coming to her phone from whatever guy that had stolen her attention.

So when she skipped away to the bathroom for a moment, forgetfully leaving her phone behind, I took that as my opportunity to see who had my girlfriend so entertained this past hour. I didn’t mean to probe or be the type of boyfriend who would sneak through his significant others phone but I knew if I asked she wouldn’t answer. She’d probably just give me an excuse, call me ridiculous, and hide her phone from me for the evening as well as delete the incriminating messages.

It was perfect timing as her phone buzzed again while I looked at it. A name I wasn’t expecting danced across the screen, practically taunting me.

Cristiano.

My face immediately screwed with confusion. Why the hell was he texting her? They weren’t friends. The only reason they spoke was because of me. Otherwise, Y/N wouldn’t even know him. I could feel myself getting hot with anger, only able to imagine the types of messages the two were exchanging. Was I not good enough for her?

I had to take my chance while I had it. I grabbed for her smartphone and immediately cursed myself when I pressed the home button and stared at the screen waiting for me to put a password in. I had no clue what digits she used to secure her phone. I racked my head for a guess and settled for her birthday as the first one.

Wrong.

Shit. I knew I couldn’t get this wrong too many more times or I’d lock myself out and away from the proof. She’d know when she returned that I had gone through her phone and it would all be downhill from there.

It was a long shot but I entered my birthday numbers on the next try. My eyes immediately lit up as I gained access to the device. If I was in my right mind I would have found it cute she used my birthday as her passcode but right now I was too set on my mission.

I couldn’t click the text message thread because that would let her know I had been through her phone so I simply looked at the last message, available to see freely.

Mine ;)

That was all it said but I could feel my heart stop in my chest as I began to think of all the possible scenarios of what this message meant. Mine? Was Cristiano putting claims on my girlfriend?! My own teammate?!

My earns burned red with displeasure and I no longer cared if Y/N knew I had gone through her phone. I couldn’t keep this to myself any longer. I jumped up from the couch, taking the incriminating device with me and stormed off to the bathroom just in time to catch her exiting.

A clueless look spread her face once she realized I was upset. She knew the look all too well. “What’s wrong?” She dangled her hand out to grab me closer but I immediately shrugged away. “What the fuck is this?” I threw the unlocked phone towards her watching as she quickly reacted and took it carefully within her grasp.

Still confused, she turned the screen to face her and I watched her eyes dance over the screen. She was still confused when she looked back up at me. “Uh what’s what?”

I walked closer and harshly pointed my finger to the top of the screen where Cristiano’s message thread stood. “That! You’re texting Cris little love messages behind my back?” My tone rose while the anger inside of me grew. I could only imagine what lie she was about to use to escape.

Her expression quickly twisted into a laugh as she burst into a boisterous giggle, continuing on until she could barely stand bent down to her knees for support. I wasn’t find this as amusing as she was but she ignored my anger and continued on until she was able to get herself together and speak, nearly out of breath.

“You can’t be serious. Did you read the entire message?” She brought the phone back to her face again and clicked the thread. “We were talking about you, you idiot!” Y/N turned the phone over to my hand as I took it within my grasp and began to read. She explained what it was I was reading as I scrolled.

“He sent me a picture of you from the Ballon d’Or and we started joking about how you never look at me the way you look at him. We just went back and forth over who was your favorite and that’s when Cristiano said ‘mine’. That was about you, not me.”

I could feel myself calming as I read over each message she mentioned. The conversation really was about me and I felt incredibly stupid for jumping to conclusions. “You were talking about me?” I questioned lowly though it wasn’t actually meant to be a question.

“Yes.” I stood there for a moment, basking in my own stupidity. I should have known better.

“So who is your favorite? Me or him?” Y/N questioned, her arms crossed in mock anxiety as she awaited an answer.

I finally spoke up. “Eh…it’s close,” I joked. “But definitely you.”

“I am SO telling him you said that.” She snatched the phone from my hand and immediately began texting away to let Cristiano know she had won the battle.

anonymous asked:

"Perfect" is a word generally used to describe a thing without flaws, which is an unfair and dangerous assumption to make of a fellow human. When this anon told the blogger she is "perfect", rest assured, dear reader, that they were aware of her possession of any number of perfectly human flaws, but here meant "you are so beautiful, you make my forget my native tongue and instead gibber brokenly in 18th c. Hungarian."

why u talkin like that

huh.

It’s just occurred to me that one of the biggest problems in online discourse - namely, a lack of knowledge about our interlocutor/s leading to false assumptions - is likely exacerbated by our collective experience with an age-segregated school system. In any vaguely educational context, we’re used to assuming that the other person is about our age, because that’s how school always works, and the quasi-anonymous nature of the internet makes that easy. But it can also be a dangerous assumption to make, particularly in the case of adults yelling at teenagers. 

Just. I know it’s really easy to assume that the people you’re talking to or arguing with are automatically in the same place as you, but erring on the side of caution, or at least trying to check, is probably a good habit to get into. 

It was the fourth night of the seventh moon.

Nine rises since any sign.

Trail wasn’t cold, but lukewarm would’ve been an exaggeration.

Jaren had us hold by a ravine.

The heavy wood along the cliffs’ edge caught the wind, holding back the cold and the rush of water muffled our conversation.

We’d seen dual Skiffs hanging low as they cut through the valley.

Wasn’t known Fallen territory, but anymore that’s a dangerous assumption.

There were six of us then.

Three less than two moons prior, but still, one more than when we’d first turned our backs to Palamon’s ash.

We took a rotation for watch during the night.

Movement was kept to a minimum and communication was down to hand signals and simple gestures.

We could hold our own in a fight, but only the dead went looking for one—a hard truth that cut in direct opposition to our reasons for being so far from anything resembling civilization, much less our safety.

The Skiffs had spooked Kressler and Nada, and, in truth, me as well. But, looking back, I think we were all just grasping for any good reason to turn back.

Not because we would—turn back—but because it seemed to be our only real hope, and I think we all knew it.

Forward. Where we were headed—into the unknown. And following the footsteps we were. It all just started to feel like a never-ending dead end after a while.

Jaren never wavered though. Not once.

At least not to any noticeable degree.

It was his drive, his conviction, that kept us going.

And—it’s hard to think on—but if I’m honest, it was his death that rekindled my own fire. A fire that was all but exhausted on that cold night.

He seemed confident we were close.

But more than confident—sure. He seemed sure.

No one else felt it—our own confidence, and any enthusiasm we’d had was set to wither soon as Brevin, Trenn and Mel were gunned down.

The Ghost—Jaren’s Ghost—never said a word to any of us. Just hung there. Always alert. Always judging. Not us, per se, but the moment. Any moment.

I never got the sense it thought of us as lesser. More that it was guarded, wary.

We knew it could speak. We’d overheard them a few times. Just brief words, and no one ever pressed the subject.

From time to time I caught its gaze lingering on me, but always assumed the attention was a result of the bond Jaren and I had. He was a father to me. At the time I didn’t know why he’d singled me out as someone to care for. Someone to protect. After all the loss, I welcomed it, but looking back—taking in the arm’s length at which he kept the others—I guess I should’ve known, or at least suspected there was more to it.

We all woke that night, closer to morning than the previous day.

A crack of gunfire split through the wood. Then more.

Far off, but near enough to pump the blood.

A familiar ring. “Last Word.” Jaren’s sidearm. His best friend.
Then another. A single shot, an unmistakable echo calling through the night. Hushed, cutting.

One shot, dark and infernal. Followed by silence.

We crouched low and quiet. Listening. Hoping.

Jaren was gone. Off on his own.

Maybe we were closer than we’d allowed ourselves to believe.

Too close.

He’d gone to face death alone.

I couldn’t admit it—not at the time—but he thought he was
protecting us.

After such a long road—years on its heels, a trail littered with suffering and fire—maybe he just couldn’t take the thought of anymore dead “kids,” as he called us.

The echoes faded and we all held still. No way to track the direction. No sense in rushing blind.

What was done was done.

The cadence of the shots fired told a story none of us cared to hear.

“Last Word” it hadn’t been. And somewhere in the world, close enough for us to bear absent witness but far enough to be a dream, Jaren Ward lay dead or dying. And there was nothing to be done.

Hours passed. An eternity.

We held our spot, but as the sun rose the others began to fade back into the world. Without Jaren there was nothing holding us together. No driving force. Vengeance had grown stale as a motivator. Fear and a longing to see more suns rise drove a wedge between duty and desire.

By midday I was alone. I couldn’t leave. Wouldn’t.

Either I would find Jaren and set him at ease, or the other would find me and that would be a fitting end.

Death marching on.

But then, a motion. Quick and darting. My muscles tensed and my hand shot to the grip of my leadslinger.

Then a confirmation of the horrible truth I had already accepted, as Jaren’s Ghost came to a halt a few paces in front of me.

I exhaled and slumped forward. Still standing, but broken.
The tiny Light looked me over with a curious tilt to its axis, then shot a beam of light over my body. Scanning me as it had done the very first time we met.

I looked up. Staring into its singular glowing eye.

And it spoke…

3

According to the depth of your décolletage and the length of your skirt and heels, you may well be judged on a sliding scale between “prude” and “whore”, or anything in between, including “old-fashioned”, “bore”, “tease”, “cheeky”, “asking for it” and “slut”.

If you think this is extreme, think again. In some countries a woman’s outfit can reportedly be used as evidence by the defence in cases of rape.

The campaign’s slogan “Don’t measure a woman’s worth by her clothes” is a direct reflection of the way many girls and women feel they are regarded and this feisty protest is just part of a global resistance against such narrow-minded, sexist and even dangerous assumptions.