What Does it Mean to Forge a Body? Autonomy through Disability Cures and Gender Transition

I’ve always resisted the idea of a cure for my blindness. I’ve been asked about it plenty of times, shrugging off the possibility with an “it won’t happen for ages,” or “I’m just not interested,” when asked about it in person. My writing has delved even further into my feelings. How it makes me anxious, to think of this part of me being taken away. How I can’t reconcile what a cure would mean with my own love for the community of blind people who have guided me through some of the most difficult moments in my life. If we embrace a cure, surely we are saying that blind people are lesser, that we should not exist.

I am also transgender. I have begun the slow process of changing my body piece by piece, so that it may one day resemble the one I so desperately want, the one I feel like I need. Some changes were small and reversible. A haircut. New clothes. Yet others are bigger, deeper, changing the very chemistry of who I am and how my body functions. As I apply testosterone gel to my shoulders each morning I wonder how quickly my voice will drop, and marvel at the changes I am beginning to notice.

Am I a hypocrite? The question has been lurking in the back of my mind, creeping ever closer to the surface day by day. Aren’t I engaging in the same kind of body modifications that make me uncomfortable when a disabled person chooses them? A different angle, perhaps, but is it really any different.

There are some differences, of course. Particularly socially. Blindness, and disability overall, is viewed as a negative by the majority in society. Whereas being cisgender is typically treated as a positive and the norm. It is understandable that I might have fears about what a cure for blindness might signify, where I do not have the same fears about my transition. I fear what I believe is the inevitable. That if blindness is cured, all blind people will be pushed towards it, regardless if it is what they would want. That social supports or access to healthcare or adaptations in education might be denied to someone who refused to take up the treatment. And yet it doesn’t seem right that I could ask for my transition to be affirmed whilst not extending that same affirmation to those who celebrate medical treatments that have improved their vision. Because is the fear of blindness and the belief that a cure is the only right choice the fault of the blind person who might want such a thing? Should they bear responsibility for the way society treats us? Of course not.

Did I turn away from women when I transitioned? Did I stop caring about their rights? Did I forget my belief in safe and legal access to abortions? Did I brush off the need for equal pay? I didn’t, how could I. And yet perhaps it might feel to some of them as though I did. As though I abandoned them, by saying I was no longer one of them. Perhaps my transition stings in the way a blind person longing for, or taking up the opportunity for a cure has stung me. I think I can understand that pain, that feeling of betrayal, even though I don’t agree with it.

Ultimately, my fear of a cure is just that, fear. Fear that we will never reach a point where disabled people are truly valued. Fear that the discrimination that feels so endless will only end when we stop existing. A cure is simply something to target, to hold up as the symbol of my fears come to life. It isn’t inevitable, not if we don’t let it be. Because we can fight for blind people to be valued whilst also believing that blind people should have bodily autonomy. We can say that a blind life has value and also say that it is the right of that blind person not to choose blindness, if that is what they want. These choices don’t have to carry any kind of moral value. It doesn’t have to be that choosing sight is the right thing to do, or vice versa.

What if we all had the right to choose what we did with our bodies, even if those choices were extreme? And what if those choices didn’t determine our access to services and supports. What if a disabled person could choose to continue to be disabled, and receive the support they required to live. What if a person could access the hormones that would bring about the changes they desired in their body. Would that be such a bad world to live in? I suppose that by asking these questions I am edging into transhumanism. But it doesn’t feel quite right. Because I’m not necessarily arguing for enhancements to our bodies, though I’m certainly not opposed to that. It could be argued that in the case of a person choosing blindness, when sight is available, they are turning their back on an “enhancement.”

It feels as though by advocating for any of these things, you are forced to take some kind of moral stance. “Sight is best.” “Blindness is superior.” “Womanhood should not be abandoned.” “Transition is wholly good.” We are living in the age of the Internet, after all, where nuance is rarely permitted. It’s just a body. Why does what I do with it have to signify any kind of wider belief. Why can’t I long for a flat chest and low voice and narrow hips without having to justify my commitment to any kind of social or political stance?

I’m an idealist. I know I am. The world I’m imagining might never exist. One where we can make modifications to our own bodies without having to carry a whole movement on our backs. I’d like to see it though. Like to know that one day we’ll all be able to make the choices that work for us, whilst also committing to equality and fairness for all. Because they can exist in tandem, I really believe that.

So perhaps I was a hypocrite every time I chose to shy away from offering my vocal support for those disabled people who would seek a different body. I can understand why I did it, so many cures receive funding and publicity by telling the world that to be disabled is a terrible thing, and I did not want to support that message. But I’ve realised that I can do both. I can support the right to make choices about what you do with your body as an individual, and speak out about the stigma associated with disability. And I can hope for a future where we all have more choice, where our own bodies are truly our own, rather than subject to gatekeeping by those who do not have to live in it.