Hawking won the world’s respect – and gave disabled people like me hope
Growing up disabled, I had few role models. But this brilliant, witty scientist helped shift the negative stereotypes many face.
‘Stephen Hawking’s groundbreaking research as well as tireless commitment to the NHS established him as soneone who should be listened to.’ Photograph: Tom Dymond/Rex/Shutterstock
As with most of the famous figures whose passing now hits us via a news alert on our phones, I never met Stephen Hawking. In the vastness of the entire universe, you could say I was one speck and he was another. And yet I thought of him as a continual presence in my life, who – perhaps paradoxically, in the light of his illness, not to mention of his work on time – would always be there, somehow.
Growing up disabled in Britain, I didn’t have many role models. There are hardly any statues of disabled leaders, no great lives with chronic disability documented in the history books. As a child, it’s easy to believe that disabled people have never really existed, and that when they did, it was as cripples to be pitied or burdens on society. In Hawking, we had a figure – brilliant, witty, kind – who confounded the negative stereotypes and the low expectations so often forced on those of us with a disability.
He wasn’t without faults (accusations of sexism were notable). He was also afforded opportunities – from wealth to healthcare to being non-disabled throughout school – that clearly enabled his success, opportunities too few young disabled people, facing cuts to multiple strands of support, enjoy today. But his groundbreaking research, as well as tireless commitment to the NHS and concern over Brexit, established him as someone who, though physically stripped of his voice, should be listened to.
In the rush to eulogise a figure such as Hawking the risk is that the media coverage either fails to acknowledge his disability – and to ignore him being a disabled person is as regressive as a white person saying they “don’t see colour” – or falls into condescending cliches and objectification. Within hours of the news of his death breaking, I saw headlines that reflected the (often well-intentioned) negative attitudes that so often plague discussions of disabled people: ones of “inspiration”, “overcoming disability” and references to “tragedy”. BBC Radio 5 Live asked listeners if Hawking had “inspired” them – a question unlikely to be posed about non-disabled academics. The Daily Mail referred to his “total disability” while at the other end of the spectrum, John Humphrys used Radio 4’s tribute segment to ask: “Did the science community cut him a lot of slack because he was so desperately disabled?”
Even the Guardian’s obituary mentioned how “despite his terrible physical circumstance, he almost always remained positive about life”, as if it was a surprise that a world-renowned scientist with a loving family could ever find happiness. Cartoonists illustrated him in heaven – a place Hawking did not believe existed – standing up, as if finally free from his wheelchair (an invention, much like his voice synthesiser, that actually empowered him to engage with society). Even sentiments such as “He didn’t let his disability define him” – as Marsha de Cordova, shadow disabilities minister (and herself disabled) tweeted – verge on repeating the ingrained belief that disability is an inherently negative thing: a part of identity that, unlike race or sexuality, should be played down.
This is not to say that Hawking’s disability didn’t help shape him. The thought that he had a sharply limited life expectancy – it was originally believed he would die within two years of his motor neurone disease diagnosis – by all accounts inspired Hawking to enjoy the present, and spurred on his hunger for scientific discovery. But to reduce a world-famous academic’s existence to one of tragedy and pluck respects neither the reality of a disabled life nor the love, success, humour and fulfilment that clearly marked Hawking’s. It is reminiscent of the countless “inspirational” memes and posters that throughout his life featured Hawking’s image – often using his body as inspiration for non-disabled people (“If he can succeed, so can you!”) or criticising “lesser” disabled people (“The only disability is a bad attitude”). Hawking, like all of us, deserves more than lazy, ableist tropes.
Amid all the tributes to Hawking’s contribution to scientific discovery, I would like to remember what he contributed – perhaps unknowingly – to many disabled people: a sense of pride, encouragement and hope. This was a genius who gained the world’s respect from his wheelchair. Hawking’s achievements alone will not have begun to overturn deep-seated prejudice, but he has played a significant part in shifting the misconceptions that still routinely mark too many disabled people’s lives. Hawking’s lesser-known lesson is one I hope others growing up disabled will be left with: we can all reach for the stars.
Source: The Guardian