Respites, Rages, and Loveliness
Unexpected Ableism at the Met + A Few Fortifying Reflections
In November, Ian and I were granted the incredible opportunity to attend the opening reception of Flight into Egypt: Black Artists and Ancient Egypt, 1876-Now, in which his uncle Fred Wilson not only has an installation piece, but has the installation piece that’s being used as the representative image for this show. Donning our most elegant “festive attire” as par the invitation, we joined a curated crowd of important Art People a week before the show’s official opening. I was raised not to believe in big-picture hierarchies but I was also modeled, courtesy of my father, electrified excitement for getting on exclusive lists, and now I can say, with minimal to no shame, that yes, it’s a wonderful feeling to walk into the iconic Metropolitan Museum of Art, state your name to one of several stately people lined up at a table to vet guests, and hear someone say, warmly, “Yes. There you are.”
I belonged there, then, that was clear. That was official. I was unprepared for disability to play a role, suddenly, that would throw a wrench into that understanding.
Because everything started out reasonably enough, though the DJ’d music echoed painfully through grand acoustics that were not designed for block rockin’ beats. Still, we were at the fucking Met and life was grand. Rivers of shimmering people, possibly after having their fill of the unintended raucous that was supposed to be entertainment, ascended the epic staircase that led to the exhibit. It wasn’t 7:00 yet, the official moment of the opening, but that didn’t matter, obviously, because a text from Ian’s mom let us know that she and his stepfather were already there. She described some of the art they were looking at.
To the elevator, then, where most disabled attendees might go in the event of a staircase of such stature. But the security guard had other plans — not plans, but orders from on high. We were not to board the elevator. The security guard had been given strict orders not to let anyone use the elevator before 7:00. It was 6:45.
“No one is supposed to get in before 7:00,” he explained. “It’s a rule to keep people out of the exhibit who aren’t supposed to be here.”
“But people are going in now,” we told him, both of us gesturing toward the stairs. We told him that we’d just gotten a text from two other guests who were looking at the exhibit.
“No one’s supposed to get on the elevator before 7:00,” the security guard repeated.
“But people are getting in before 7:00 if they take the stairs, which means that if you’re not supposed to be here you can just head up the stairs because there’s no one keeping them from entering. So you’re only cracking down on people who need to use the elevator, which makes this policy discriminatory toward people with disabilities.”
The security guard reiterated the caution he’d been given that someone who wasn’t on the list might sneak onto the elevator and this was to be prevented at all costs.
“But I’m on the list,” I said, “and I need to use the elevator.”
“And you will, at 7:00.”
A lot of miscommunication took place before the security guard understood the argument that Ian and I were making. He’d initially taken it as a personal accusation, so I calmly assured him that we understood he had a job to do, and that no one was looking to get him in trouble. It’s just that this caution — no permitted guests in the exhibit before 7:00 — was not being exerted against people who could use the stairs. That made it discriminatory.
By 6:55, he understood what we were saying and his expression softened. “Come on in,” he said, leading us to the elevator.
He had also assured me that I could speak to the manager about this, and I had intended to. But by the time I got up to the exhibit, I was swept up in the excitement, the sheer wonder not just of the art — all of which was varied, provocative, fascinating — but of just how evocative a phrase “festive attire” was in the art world. I saw a pair of high heeled shoes I’ll never forget, not just because of their towering height but because they looked to be made entirely of iridescent sparkle, something that, had I seen them as a child, could only be a gift from an actual unicorn. We saw capes and hats that looked supernatural, and Fred observed that someone should have been hired specifically to photograph the outfits.
(For the curious: I wore black leggings and a silvery grey tunic made out of a fabric impossible to describe and a pair of purple vinyl snakeskin boots that alternated between shades of violet and dark blue depending on the light.)
By the time we had marveled at Fred’s work, followed various pulls toward incredible sculptures, lost ourselves in paintings and collages and video and, in my case, spent sustained time at a table in the Reading Room where walls of The Crisis back issues were offered for intended perusal, I wasn’t in the mood to be a disability activist. I wasn’t in the mood to feel slighted. This entire exhibit, after all, was dedicated to the work of activists! Feels a special kind of shitty to be excluded here. I focused on sharing an extraordinary night with Fred, on shaking the hands of luminaries, on the dinner that Fred took us all out to at a Japanese fusion restaurant open until 3am, where all the servers knew him and were thrilled to meet his family. I focused on the invigorating cold of the walk from the Met back to Grand Central. And I focused on Grand Central, because if there’s an architectural marvel I love more than the Golden Gate Bridge, it’s the incomparable Grand Central Station.
I focused on the unconscious poetry of one of Fred’s two personal assistants who said: “I’ve never been to an opening at the Met, and I didn’t know that this was what one was.”
We were in New York City, ie civilization. I was far away from oppressive rural norms, far away from Georgia, far away from a campus gripped with fear of angering Trump-supporting students or their Trump-supporting helicopter parents. I was far away from the aggressive driving culture that makes my life physically difficult in Milledgeville: whole neighborhoods, including mine, entirely bereft of sidewalks. We were walking, because we’re in New York where people walk. I was dressed fashionably among fashionable people and we could stay out as late as we wanted doing almost whatever we wanted, because no one in this city, ie civilization, is expected to be finished with dinner by 5:30 pm and all other activities by 8. I was free, wasn’t I?
But I wasn’t and I resented it and that’s why it’s taken me almost 3 months to relate this story to you. Shortly after the event I received a mass email from the Met announcing the official opening of the exhibit and talking a big fat game about how much they value accessibility and to email [this person] for any accessibility-related matters.
So I have an uncomfortable email to write to the relevant people at an institution I’ve never valued more highly than now, when everybody in power in America is working hard to destroy art. The University that pays a fraction of my bills has decreed that students may lean on ChatGPT to write most of their papers as long as some of their own words are used: I can’t call it plagiarism, because the bosses don’t call it plagiarism. In effect, my employer is eating up this unprecedented opportunity to prove what they have always known to be true in Georgia: a student who refuses to develop their own critical skills of inquiry is the safest one in a state wherein several monuments still refer to the Civil War as the War Between the States.
I’d have chosen any other time and place to be at odds with the Met than from the depths of rural Georgia on the cusp of Trump’s second term. But here we are.
For all that, it was a glorious trip, brimming with the best Chinese food Queens has to offer and that’s saying something. I kept up with the crowds at Grand Central and felt alive with my new walking pace. The Manhattan skyline at sunset looked so majestic from the train that I actually cried. That’s how much I long for life in a city.
I got a lot of what I’ve longed for from that trip, the quick-jaunt version. On the road trip there, we spent the night at a beach town in Maryland where the waves on the empty shore at night — the haunting lit-up boardwalk bare of any tourists — provided a feature-length film’s worth of inspiring images. We had coffee at a café called Vigilante in College Park, Maryland, and everything about the experience was a delight.
Before we left, Ian gave me an impromptu family tour of New York: this is where he spent his very-very early childhood in the Bronx, this is where his formidable great grandmother, who lived to 104, had lived and had sometimes taken care of him when his parents went out. (Irma was a force, a proud member of one of the first Black sororities who was still leading chants for her sisters at her 100th birthday party.)
We drove to White Plains and saw the house that his grandmother had designed, where his mom had grown up with her brother: the artist we’d all come to celebrate. We drove to the SUNY Purchase campus where Ian’s dad was first introduced to his mom, via his roommate, Fred Wilson. (“Is that your girlfriend?” he’d asked, struck by the beautiful woman in the frame. “No, I’m gay, that’s my sister.”)
Like me, Ian has spent a lot of time moving around, but when we’re in New York, his roots show. His grandfather, an engineer, worked on several bridges. Black chandeliers in restaurants? We can thank Fred for those.
Readjusting to rural Georgia was difficult. I missed New York with such primal longing that I started watching Gossip Girl for the cinematic shots of the Met and other images that brought me back there. (Then I got caught up in the Dickensian character development, so talk to me about Gossip Girl any time.) The semester took on a grueling pace and suddenly I had what felt like a year’s worth of grading to do, though I’m grateful to say that much of it was a pleasure: my students put their all into their final projects, the creative spirits on full and inspiring display.
There’s a lot that Chat GPT cannot do and teaching Freshman Composition in this moment means building our assignments around the demands of humanity.
By this point in December, I usually take time to reflect on past challenges, but this year, I’m more focused on the challenges ahead. I have no idea what shape they’ll take. But it’s never been more important not to back down from what comes.
I’d like to welcome my new subscribers, and to thank you for your faith that I’d give you something to read eventually. I hope that whatever 2024 has wrought for you is either loosening its grip or deepening in fulfillment. Please feel free to fill the comment section with whatever’s on your mind: hopes, worries, anticipations, resolutions, questions, screeds, gratitudes, grievances, book/film/music recommendations, commands.
