I’m Ethan Meyers. Even if you don’t know me, you might recognize me by how I walk around campus—a visible result of my cerebral palsy. I shuffle through the world, an anomaly in the flows of students passing through campus. My taut muscles bend my body into a persistent question mark, prompting curiosity from all angles.

People with disabilities are the largest minority group in the United States. Some disabilities, like mine, are visually obvious. Others are hidden or fluctuate in presentation over time. Disability in all its forms is a constellation as diverse as humanity itself.

Like most members of any minority, I’ve resisted the societal pressure to make cerebral palsy the central tenet of who I am. I firmly believe that minorities should have a choice in how they identify with or represent the group to which they belong. 

For many years, I chose to focus on other parts of my identity, particularly academics, in an attempt to prove I could measure up to “everyone else.” This kept me from full self-acceptance. I could only see my mind as something to be valued and celebrated. I couldn’t conceive of my disabled body as beautiful. I absorbed the lie that disabled people can be defined by their limitations alone. My body was constantly “less-than,” an extra challenge to be overcome.

Since coming to Calvin, I’ve begun to deconstruct that internalized ableism, fostering a new understanding of myself rooted in theology and human rights. Conversations with my friends and professors have healed my self-worth and prompted self-examination. This year, I’m helping lead the Disability Inclusion Project student organization, and I’m going to incorporate disability studies into my honors thesis.  Without coming to Calvin, it would have taken me much longer to accept myself fully as an intertwined mind and body.

Yes, there are still days when fatigue or strangers’ stares make me want to scream –– just to truly make a spectacle of my already too-notable body. Even I occasionally worship the idol of conformity, wishing I belonged to the amorphous “normal.”

However, I’m beginning to see myself as a prophet and an advocate. Dr. Amy Kenny, who came to Calvin as part of the 2023 January Series, writes that disabled people have a unique opportunity for prophetic witness. Our existence is a constant reminder that ability is a temporary status. If nothing else, we are windows into a future that awaits many of you. 

Having an unsubtle disability gives me an effective platform to advocate against subtler strains of ableism. I am an accessible avenue through which others can wonder about life with a disability. Rather than viewing questions from strangers as an unwelcome invasion of privacy, I’m growing to see them as an opportunity to kickstart broader discussions about disability and inclusion. 

Belonging is an intermittent feeling for me and other Calvin students with disabilities. Even the structures of our campus weren’t originally built with students like me in mind. Policies like Calvin’s voluntary and incomplete ADA compliance amplify the harmful message that disabled people are allowed to flourish thanks to the benevolence of the able-bodied. The pervasiveness of the charity model of disability and other ableist ideas prove that while we have come a long way, much remains to be done. 

It’s still widely acceptable to see disabled people as drains on society. However, my hope for the future is this: As Christians, we profess to hold counter-cultural views on human worth, so Christian communities like Calvin should be uniquely predisposed towards valuing people like me.  

Sharing these thoughts was a difficult choice. When I invite a wider audience into my fight to be seen as more than just disabled, I paradoxically risk overemphasizing the disabled part of my identity in the public eye. Furthermore, making my struggles too real reinforces the perception of disability as tragic. Meanwhile, trivializing my pain glosses over the ugly realities of both individual and systemic ableism. Despite this seemingly impossible balancing act, it’s my prayer that spreading this message is worth the risk. 

If you’re disabled and reading this, may it give you courage. You are loved and valued, even if you are not always seen. There will be days when you’re too tired or swamped with homework to feel it, but always remember that your body and mind are not “less-than.” You bear God’s image.  

To those of you who aren’t yet disabled, know that you likely will be someday, in some form. Do what you can to resist believing the reductionist labels — positive or negative — that society gives people with disabilities. Please, remember that we are exactly that: people.