Extended Version of Greg Marshall's Interview

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LINDSEY WELLS, HOST: From KVMR and in partnership with FREED, this is Disability Rap.  

GREG MARSHALL: Instead of looking someone in the eyes and seeing if I was attracted to him, or if we had chemistry, I was caught up in this internal anxiety attack or drama, where I wasn’t even really able to enjoy myself.   

WELLS: Today, a conversation with Greg Marshall on discovering he had cerebral palsy, thirty years after he was born.  

MARSHALL: I think being disabled, honestly, made me a better lover. It made me a better listener, it made me more giving, and it made me work around what I couldn’t do, and it made me really good at what I could do.  

WELLS: That’s all coming up on Disability Rap. Stay tuned!  

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CARL SIGMOND, HOST: Welcome to Disability Rap. I’m Carl Sigmond and before we introduce our guest today, I want to welcome Lindsey Wells as Disability Rap’s new co-host. Listeners of our show may remember that we had Lindsey on a few months ago, talking about Disability Pride. Well, Lindsey is now our Disability Community Advocate here at FREED. Welcome, and she is already rocking the job and making waves in our local community. So, Lindsey, welcome to the host’s chair here on Disability Rap. 

WELLS: Thank you, Carl. It’s great to be part of the show and part of the team here at FREED.  

SIGMOND: And we look forward to hearing more from you and about the great work you’re doing in the coming months. But for now, Lindsey, can you introduce today’s guest?  

WELLS: Yes. Well today we're joined by someone who has cerebral palsy since he was born, but no one ever told him that he had CP or even that he had a disability. It was not until Greg Marshall was in his early 30s and applying for private health insurance for the first time that he learned through a review of childhood medical records that he actually had cerebral palsy. Up until that point, he just thought he had tight tendons which was the line that his parents used to explain why his feet and legs didn't work like other kids his age.  

Greg Marshall takes us on a journey of discovery in his new book, 'Leg: The Story of a Limb and the Boy Who Grew From It.' It’s a memoir not only about learning he had CP, but about a mom who fights cancer, a dad who gets diagnosed with ALS, and a sister on the autism spectrum. And it’s a coming out story: coming out as a gay man at the age of 19, and then coming out as disabled in his early thirties. The book is poignant and also incredibly funny and tells this unique story of a kid who grew up in a small town in Utah where the only person who didn’t know he had a disability was himself.  

SIGMOND: Well, Greg Marshall, welcome to Disability Rap. It’s an honor to have you with us. You know, in the disability community, we talk about those of us who are born with a disability, and then those who acquire a disability later in life, either as a result of an accident or illness, or just the general aging process. And I think a lot of us form our identities around one those scenarios, and of course they can overlap and they often do overlap. But you don’t really fit anywhere in that Venn Diagram. So I’m wondering if you can begin by talking about your own identity now, and where you would place yourself. 

MARSHALL: I very much now identify as a disabled person, similarly to identifying as a gay man, I would say that it's just a part of myself now that I, and I've really been on a journey. Lindsay mentioned the kind of coming out nature of the book. And I think that's been so true for me. I think that coming out as a gay man, at the age of 19 really taught me to come out as disabled. Because I'd already had to grapple with notions of my body, and my physicality and my desires, and kind of where I fit on the spectrum in terms of my sexuality. And so in so many ways, I've always been grappling with cerebral palsy and with having, you know, living in a body that was demonstrably different. And I loved Lindsey, in your introduction, how you said that, you know, in my suburb of Salt Lake City, I was like the only one who didn't know that I was disabled. Because it's not like I was ever truly passing or ever truly hiding anything, except to myself. And I think the harm that I did by being secretive or ashamed, was truly also self-harm. And I think that I knew when I learned about my diagnosis, that I didn't want to inflict that harm on myself anymore, because I didn't want shame or secrecy to have power over me. So I think that writing my book, I was able to incorporate disability very quickly into the narrative of who I was. It was more like, I finally had a term that matched the magnitude of my struggle, and of what I've been through. You know, growing up, I had Achilles tendon releases, and a hamstring, hamstring releases on both sides, and had been through physical therapy. So in so many ways, I'd lived the life of a disabled person, but not been empowered by that life, in the same way that I could have been. And so I guess, in so many ways, my journey has really been one about claiming my journey, claiming kind of all that I'd been through. And so that, you know, the person I am now actually seems to match up better with the person I was before, than when I was, you know, in the closet about disability, because it's all been the same body all along. So I think for me, it's added a level of coherence to my experience as a human being, and introduced me to really a whole new world, and a whole new way of being that I think I was just dying to be a part of, and ready to be a part of, kind of from the beginning. So I think that's why I, that's why I was excited to write the book, I think, to get to have conversations like this, you know, and to see that I wasn't one of one, I was one of many. And that you know, all together, we're so strong, and we're so different, and we bring such different things to the table. But it's hard to come to that table when you're in the closet or when you're in denial or when you're ashamed. And so just to answer your question more simply, I would just say that I proudly identify as both gay and disabled at this point. 

WELLS: So your parents strike me as such open people, your mom documented and her journey with cancer in the pages of the newspaper that your dad owned, about her journey. And yet they weren't open with you about your disability. Can you tell me if it was a relief of some sort, at the age of 30 to get that diagnosis? And how did you go about that? 

MARSHALL: You know, it was in so many ways in enormous relief, to get the diagnosis. You know, it was in so many ways, an enormous relief to get the diagnosis. Growing up in the family that I did, I was surrounded by disability. My mom was diagnosed with cancer when I was in the second grade and is still alive today, having battled non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma for all of those years, and breast cancer and a variety of other health issues. And of course my dad was diagnosed with ALS during my senior year of college and has passed away in 2008. And I was one of his caregivers.  

And I think their journeys gave me a script to follow, or they really, like with my with my mom in particular, I really saw how she was celebrated and valorized in her community as a disabled person. And I'm not sure that back in my childhood she would have necessarily use the term disabled to describe herself, but her battle with cancer was very public. It was literally, like you said, it was in the pages of the newspaper. And I saw the power that she had in claiming her story and making it her own. Instead of, you know, being the punch line, she was writing the punch line, you know, she was very much the hero of her own story. And it would be the kind of thing where she would have chemo or blood transfusion or a bone marrow biopsy one day, and then the next day be on her computer clacking away at her keyboard, writing about that story for a significant audience. And I think I looked at that both from a writing perspective, and from a survival perspective, and very much wanted that for myself.  

And I think that, you know, the same thing with my dad's ALS, he was very much the hero of his story. He was a marathon runner, and a very active guy, a skier, a swimmer, you know, he, he was literally running marathons, when he was diagnosed with ALS. And I think that one thing that angered me when I found out about my diagnosis was that cerebral palsy hadn't been allowed to be part of my journey, I wasn't allowed to be the hero of my own story in that same way. I couldn't incorporate it into my identity, or talk about it, or kind of have bodily communion with people about it. And I saw that as such a… I felt in a way, like I'd been robbed of that experience. And I love my parents very much. And they had their reasons for doing what they did that, you know, they, or at least my mom wouldn't be the one to ask about what her motivations were.  

But I knew that I wanted to be, if not the hero of my own story, I wanted to fully show up in my own life. I wanted to feel like the world was mine to wander, and that this life was mine to live. And I think that, you know, really claiming CP and just getting to see myself in full, and cerebral palsy as a part of myself, instead of something that I needed to be ashamed of, or run away from, was incredibly empowering. And so even though my parents, in some ways didn't give me the language to grapple fully with being a disabled person, they provided these undeniable models for being disabled. And I think that that's kind of one of the tensions of the book that makes it really interesting: what ailments are valorized and celebrated and what are seen as taboo and stigmatized and kind of put in the closet? 

And so, I think that's something that I'm still grappling with just on a human level outside the book, but something that I hope readers can kind of look at, with all of the different, you know, examples of disability in my family, and, and ask themselves, you know, who is being served by secrecy and shame, who is being served by the closet and who's being served by being out and open and who, who gets to be celebrated and who doesn't get to be celebrated? And I guess, my personal mission with the book was just to kind of get to a place where I was celebrating myself. Or if not celebrating myself, I mean, the book isn't just me having victories and looking good, in so many ways I look absolutely terrible in the book. But I think that that's part of what I wanted to portray a full person who's flawed and vain and silly and says the wrong thing and does the wrong thing. But is kind of on, you know, for lack of a better word, a journey to, you know, a place of acceptance. 

SIGMOND: Before you discovered you had CP, you just thought you had tight tendons. And so, when you would go on dates, you would not even bring up your limp. And you made a comment that the only person in that situation that you were harming was yourself. Can you explain? 

MARSHALL: Yeah, I think what I mean by that is that when you spend all of your energy denying something that's apparent to the wider world, it kind of makes it your problem. Or it makes it your -instead of just being open about it, I found myself always trying to, you know, never walk in front of people, for example, or not let people see me get in and out of a car, or, you know, not going to the bathroom on a date when I had to go to the bathroom because like, I didn't want them to see me get up from a chair and walk to the bathroom.  

Those are small examples of the control that that secrecy had over me. That instead of, you know, looking someone in the eyes and seeing if I was attracted to him, or if we had chemistry, I was caught up in this internal, you know, anxiety attack or drama, where I wasn't even really able to enjoy myself. And especially, you know, especially sexually not being able to kind of go into the bedroom with an apparent understanding of my body that would make me conversant with a partner, I just always had to wing it. And I think what that led to in terms of harming myself was not just the missed opportunity, or the missed connection of a romance here or there, or a fling her here or there. It made me susceptible to other people not being truthful with me.  

In the book, I talk a little bit about two different boyfriends, who lied to me fairly grievously. The one that comes instantly to mind is my boyfriend, Corey who died of AIDS complications, without telling me that he had AIDS. And he told me that he got tested and he hadn't. And so that's a really, you know, that was a really extreme example, obviously. But I think that because I felt like I was holding back and not being honest with him about my body, and kind of why I had these scars on, you know, the backs of my legs, and you know, why I wasn't that great of a driver, or any number of my CP symptoms. I think, because I wasn't honest about those things, it made me feel like he didn't have to be fully honest with me, if that makes sense. And that he could kind of get away with duplicity, or with half-truths or with fibs, because, well, hey, I was a walking fib, you know. 

 I wasn't being truthful with him, and so I guess, I guess, you know to be a little bit more sharp with my answer, instead of any kind of a positive self-talk that would come with a diagnosis of cerebral palsy, like, hey, you know, my brain works a little bit different, or, you know, I may not be as strong of a walker is some but I can, you know, do these other things remarkably well. Instead of any kind of a positive self-talk, it became saying things like, you're stupid, you're incapable, you know, why would anybody want to date you, you know, maybe you should just take what you can get. And so I think those were the kinds of harms, that negative self-talk that was often going on in my head, that just made me, made, it made the world smaller and yet also more dangerous because I didn't feel like I could really trust myself. 

And I would say, you know, kind of one of the ways my brain works is, you know, spatial reasoning can be a little bit hard for me, so, I'll lose my keys, but like, really, really lose my keys. You know, even if they're turned out to be right in front of my face, I'm just inconsolably you know, those keys are gone for good. Or if I, you know, I, I can lose my car in a parking structure really easily. And I think that before I had the CP diagnosis, I was so much less kind to myself, you know, I would instantly criticize myself. And it would become all of this negative self-talk about how incapable I was, how I shouldn't even be driving how, how I was so silly to try to, you know, apply for this or that job, I could never compete with, you know, a copywriter or an editor who wasn't in some ways neurodiverse.  

And now, I guess I just feel like I have more grace with myself and I feel a little bit more like, okay, this is how your brain and body works, and let's just work with it. I feel like more in partnership with my body than I did before and not in opposition to it. So I think I feel more ready to bring my whole self to my life and to, you know, tackle problems in the bedroom, which of course, everyone will have, you know, whether you have CP and erectile dysfunction or not, you know, we're human beings. We all grapple with all of these things. And so now I almost I guess it's kind of counterintuitive, but now I just see myself as so much more human. And everybody's human and everybody makes mistakes and everybody, you know has, you know, flaws or things that they change about themselves or things they wouldn't change about themselves. And so I guess I just feel like I've come to more of a place of peace. And so the danger would come from not being at peace you know, when you're kind of in conflict with the very essence of yourself, you're going to set yourself up to fail more you know, if that makes sense? 

SIGMOND: It does! And you do such a great job in the book showing how this external ableism you experienced as a child really eats away at you, year by year, and I want to ask you more about that in a minute. But before I do, I would like to ask you to read from the book. And this is when you are applying to Northwestern University. 

MARSHALL: (Reading) Something else happened to turn me off Northwestern that I didn't mention to John. Back in the fall of senior year, I'd done an alumni interview with a guy in an electric wheelchair. His wife had taken my coat when they answered the door, and I'd walked stiffly to the couch in their cozy living room, unsure whether I should mention my tight tendons. Hoping this guy, an engineer in town, didn't think I was making fun of him with my shambling gait. I hadn't mentioned anything about my leg in my application. Our conversation covered the usual ground, stories I'd written for Horizon, and what I'd learned so far from being student body president. As we talked one of the engineers house slippers fell off. I kept wanting to bend down and help him put it back on. But I just sat there on the couch, hands on my thighs, biting my bottom lip, and thinking about how I was blowing it.  

How many times had a slipper fallen off my partially paralyzed foot? My brother said watching me try to put on a pair of shoes made him feel like he was having a stroke. That slipper brought back the sense of revulsion I'd felt for Carlotta, when I saw other disabled people, openly disabled people. I wanted to limp away as fast as I could. Maybe this was part of my attraction to John, my polar opposite, a Greek god who could spell things right on his first try, aced the ACT, and make the tennis team. And there he was in the parking lot of the Cottonwood Club, feeling up his chest muscles and begging me to follow him eastward. I had dad call USC and back out that night, my destiny was in Chicago with John. 

SIGMOND: Whoa, there is so much there we could unpack. But I actually want you to take us on a little journey, from your early foray into acting, to this interview, and how ableism affected all of that. 

MARSHALL: Well I think that early on performing, you know, I was very much into theater and loved the Wizard of Oz, and was part of this great theater group that was full of disabled people called Up With Kids. And in a way, it was such a celebratory space, because I grew up in a suburb of Salt Lake City, and it was very much skiing and hiking. You know, like that's all that you did all day, every weekend. And so theater was such an outlet for me, where I was the star and where I got to shine. And where my disability you know, walking with a limp didn't matter as much. I think where the ableism component kind of came into it was when I realized that in some ways, I was being typecast as a disabled person.  

I write about this in the book, but I had the privilege of meeting Margaret Pellegrini, who was one, of at the time, one of the last surviving actors who played a munchkin in The Wizard of Oz in the 1939 MGM musical. And, you know, meeting her, brought up all of these uncomfortable feelings and tensions within myself because Margaret was very much a star. And she very much owned that she was a sleepyhead munchkin and part of one of the great films of all time. And even in her advanced age, I believe she was probably in her 60s or 70s back in the 90s, she was owning it, she would go to, you know, speak at different community events. And so my theater teachers actually flew her in and had her had her speak to us and give a presentation about being recruited to be part of, I believe they were called Harry Kramer's Hollywood Midgets at the time. That was the name of the troupe, you know, inherently a very ableist term. And so she and other people in that acting company really traded on, you know, the fact that they, that they were who were, that they were, who they were in their bodies. And so, for me, I think I saw both possibility and peril in Margaret's example, because she was very out, and very much owned it. And you know, if I could go back, maybe I wish I could have been more like Margaret and would have taken her example, more literally, and just owned, owned who I was on that stage, my entire person.  

But as it happened, my acting teacher asked me to play the Hunchback of Notre Dame. It was right after the Disney film had come out, and so that was kind of the hot new, the hot new Disney movie in maybe like 1996 or so. And I think just on a subconscious level, I so rejected the idea of playing someone with a disability. In retrospect, it actually would have been a perfect fit. And it would have probably been the greatest role of my life. And it could have been a really wonderful opportunity. But it would have taken a degree of ownership, and self-possession that I simply did not have as a 12-year-old, you know?  

I thought, I think if I'd had the language back, then I would have seen it as some sort of micro-aggression or felt very put off, you know, by being identified as disabled. When in fact, in some ways, my teacher had just seen me, you know. She'd kind of seen who I was, she saw my talent, she knew I could sing (ish), I'm actually a terrible singer, but she knew that I could kind of sing and kind of act and would probably have thrived in that star role. And so that's when my acting career, such as it was, really shut down. And I said, in my head,  in retrospect, subconsciously, if acting will identify me as disabled, or put a spotlight on my body, in ways that I'm uncomfortable with, I simply will not do it.  

And so, that in itself, I think is such a great example, Carl, of what you were saying about externalized ableism becoming internalized. I think that it was internalized ableism that was the voice in my head saying, oh my god, this is terrifying. You know, if you go out there on that stage, you know, as a disabled person, you will be destroyed. And so, I think that Carlotta in so many ways, is the most vivid mirror in the book, I would say along with my sister Moe, who is also you know, really a sharp and occasionally damning mirror for myself. I think that, you know, Carlotta… I really wanted Carlotta in the book because I've wanted to show how ableist I was, and how incapable I was of breaching the silence, and of befriending this lovely person who, in so many ways was more mature about her body than I was. And all I can say about that is I wish that I could have just owned, you know, owned the experience in a more authentic way. Because, well, she certainly would have had a better date to the dance, for one. You know, she, she actually might have gotten kissed at the end of that dance, if she had asked the right person, instead of a closeted gay kid who, you know, was also closeted about being disabled.  

And so, I think that, you know, as I got older, not reckoning with my disability, just the harms just accrued, and, you know, things would get more and more intense, you know. I think about working as a journalist in my early 20s, and, you know, I'm a good writer, I'm a great interviewer. I loved talking and connecting with people. But, you know, dealing with, like, the layout of a page, for example, was really tricky for me, or even just managing, you know, any kind of a career calendar was really hard for me. So I think that I had all of this learned helplessness, that was also part of internalized and externalized ableism of thinking, you're incapable, thinking you can't possibly do this, so you throw up your hands, and you don't even try.  

So, yeah, I think that’s been…And I think in some ways, releasing the book is a little bit of a full circle moment where I just hope that I, I kind of get to be that performer again, a little bit, you know, in a very different way. And I get to talk to people and I get to show up as my whole self, and I get to kind of perform. I mean, yes, it's, you know, with the book in front of my face. And I'm, you know, by no means a good actor, or singer or performer, but performance really can, performance does have this way of being really freeing, and it kind of makes you say, the silent parts out loud. And I think that if you are able to take up this space that that spotlight provides, you kind of I don't know, it's so much easier to talk about disability, say on this podcast than it is that it can be in a real life situation, where those topics, it's easy to people, for people to feel shy around them, or like they're, you know, going to micro aggress you or like you're you know, they're going to make you feel uncomfortable, or you make them feel uncomfortable. And so, in so many ways, I love the chance to actually talk about things and, and connect and have these really heightened, overt conversations that, you know, hopefully can be some kind of a script or a starting point for other people to talk about their bodies and you know, and their human experiences. 

WELLS: Thank you, Greg. You mentioned earlier that you were your dad's caregiver when you were in your twenties. What would you wish you could say to your dad now?  

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MARSHALL: I think the thing that just that I was saddest for him was that he didn't get to see how it would all turn out. And I think I would just want him to know that it all turned out okay. You know, it's not that it hasn't been complicated, but his love and his acceptance of me as a gay man, and, you know, really, as a disabled person, has been pivotal in my life. I mean, as he lost the ability to move as he had before as his ALS progressed, and he was on a respirator, and largely in either a bed or a wheelchair, he - we had such moments of bodily communion where, you know. One moment that I write about in the book is we take a drive up one of the canyons near our house, and we kind of awkwardly sit on the ground, to enjoy ourselves because I'd forgotten to bring chairs for us. And he just said, you know, I'm starting to understand your leg a little bit more. It just never really goes away does it? And It was such a small moment, but it really allowed us to have conversations where we even started to use the word disabled, and the term disability to talk about our bodies, you know.  

I would ask him, kind of relating this back to something Carl mentioned earlier, you know, I would ask him if he identified as disabled, you know, did he have ALS in his dreams, for example? You know, kind of, or did he see himself as a person who had been, who had an ailment, you know, later in life? Was that disability identity bedrock to his identity? Or was it something that life had imposed on him? So we started to really talk about all of these, you know, different things.  

I mean, I remember he had a mucus plug in his trachea once, and you know, he'd get them all the time. And more often than not, we could, we could dislodge them with, you know, the different apparatuses that that we could use. And he had a cough assist machine, that was helpful as well. But this one particular one was really wedged in there, and we had to call the paramedics. And I felt so much shame about being unable to help him in that situation. But we ended up having this really beautiful conversation, where, and which I recorded on a very old iPod, that, you know, it was like 2007 technology, but I had, you know, have all these recordings, and I just say, I said, you know, when you're disabled, or you know, when you're disabled, you learn that there are maybe some limitations, and when you need to step back and let the paramedics in to handle this dire life and death situation.  

And so it was such a small moment. And I you know, I said it in a very quavery voiced, hesitant way with my dad. But I think conversations like that let me acknowledge my body with him in ways that were so beautiful. And of course, now I forgotten your amazing question. And I hope that that remotely answered it. But oh, yeah, I would just yeah, I would just want my dad to know that everything kind of turned out okay.  

WELLS: So, what does the disability rights movement learn from the queer movement? And where can the queer movement learn from the disability rights movement? What can we learn from that community? 

MARSHALL: I guess I can only speak to it in personal terms. I think seeing the progress that the queer movement has made, certainly since like I was in college has been really instructive. RuPaul has this wonderful line, “It's all just one struggle”. And I don't want to oversimplify things. I know that life is complicated, and it's not truly all one struggle. But I think just conceptualizing that intersectionality where, you know, I'm not just gay. I'm not just disabled. I'm like a million other things too. And so as much as we can, I think realizing that it is one you know, one fight for autonomy, for a better world, for certain kinds of freedom. 

And I am going to think deeply about this question and have a wonderful answer for you in about like, 12 hours after I've psychoanalyzed it. But I'd be so curious, what do you what do you guys think about that? What do you think the queer movement and the disabled, the disability rights movement can kind of learn from each other? 

SIGMOND: I didn’t expect you to turn this back on us, but you are a journalist after all. I think, like you said, bodily autonomy and being proud of who we are, proud of how we show up in the world, proud of who we love and who we care for. And we are SO out of time, but I cannot help squeezing in one more question because I think it is spot on related to this conversation. And it may not make it in the show, but, you are so open in the book about bodies and what bodies do in all ways, in all rooms of the house and beyond. And I was just wondering if being disabled helped you be more open about those body functions.  

MARSHALL: I think being gay and being disabled for me, were similar kind of, in intimacy, in that in both instances, you're kind of forced to have really open and overt conversations about what goes where and what you're into. And, you know, kind of what you want to have happen, how you see this scenario playing out. And I really think that in my childhood, I think being disabled protected me in some ways from being discriminated against more for being gay. And I think being gay, taught me how to be a better disabled person, if that makes sense.  

But just in terms of the bedroom stuff, I think that's so perceptive that you asked that. I think that, I think being disabled honestly, made me a better lover. It made me a better listener, it made me more giving, and it made me work around what I couldn't do. And it made me really good at what I could do. You know? And if, if it weren't for, you know, CP I don't know that I would have had to explore and question and sample and talk about it all as much as I have. Much to my mom's chagrin. But um, so yeah, I think I think being disabled is a lover's secret weapon. You know, because we're used to talking about our bodies, we're used to, you know, showing up for ourselves and for each other.  

Gosh, even being a caregiver probably made me a better lover or more, better at caring for people in intimate situations. You know, the shame and the kind of prudishness kind of goes out the window, like when your dad needs to pee, he needs to pee, you know, and that just needs to happen. You know, whatever your feelings are, as a, you know, 22- or 23-year-old gay man. You know, when he needs the commode, hey, he needs the commode. And I think that there's real beauty in seeing bodies for what they are, rather than, you know, we I mean, and I've done it in this conversation, we're constantly heaping metaphors and concepts onto our bodies. And those are valuable, and those are powerful, but there is also something really strange and uncanny and beautiful about stripping all of that away at times. And I think that, I think that that's hopefully one thing that the book at least suggests. 

Gosh, after a conversation this fascinating I like I want to go write like a million more books and I want to read your book, and oh, my gosh, this is just so much food for thought. I hope I'm even being semi coherent. But, man, this is awesome. 

WELLS: That was our conversation with Greg Marshall. His new memoir, ‘Leg: The Story of a Limb and the Boy Who Grew From It,’ came out last month. You can listen to an extended version of our interview with Greg on our website, disabilityrap.org. Transcripts of both versions are available on our website as well. 

And that does it for the show. Disability Rap is produced and edited by Carl Sigmond and Courtney Williams. You can go to our website, disabilityrap.org, to listen to past shows, read transcripts, and subscribe to the Disability Rap podcast. You can also subscribe to our podcast by searching Disability Rap on any of the major podcast platforms. We are brought to you by KVMR in partnership with FREED, and we’re distributed by PRX, the Public Radio Exchange. I’m Lindsey Wells with Carl Sigmond for another edition of Disability Rap. 

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