Pride is an odd concept for me. As 2SLGBTQIA+ pride and disability pride months in the so-called “United States” approach, I’ve been thinking a lot about what it means to find joy, as well as pride, in myself and my circumstances. As a bisexual and Two-Spirit, I’m proud to be queer and proud of the role that I play in my communities—but am I proud to be disabled? Not so much.

The purposeful disablement of my Indigenous body is a source of trauma, grief, and rage. I quite likely wouldn’t have suffered over forty years of chronic pain, nor would I have autoimmune diseases, dysautonomia, asthma, and a host of other illnesses if I weren’t Indigenous. It’s no coincidence that Indigenous people across the world have higher rates of disabilities and illnesses than non-Indigenous people. According to the United Nations, 15% of the world’s population has a disability. While there is no global data on the rates of disabled Indigenous people, existing data for the so-called “United States”, “Canada”, “Australia”, and “New Zealand” shows that Indigenous people have the highest rates per capita of disabilities versus all others on our lands. We’ve suffered centuries of brutalities that have left our nations riddled with injuries, diseases, and intergenerational trauma. Those that our colonizers couldn’t kill, would be left to suffer for generations. If I didn’t grow up surrounded by oil and gas extraction and uranium waste would my health be better? Almost certainly. Numerous studies have found that people living near polluted, toxic areas have significantly higher rates of autoimmune diseases, cancer, heart disease, and many other illnesses. If my people didn’t know the continued indignities, violations, and terror of an ongoing, unrecognized genocide would my health be better? Absolutely!

I want my disabled kin, Indigenous and otherwise, to love and feel pride in themselves, but it feels like a place of real privilege, and is frankly a bit galling, to expect a disabled Indigenous person to proclaim themselves proud of being disabled.

I also fear for queer youth and their ability to feel pride when so many of their lives are under attack. As of April 19, 2024, the ACLU is tracking 487 anti-queer bills across the so-called “United States”. My home state of Oklahoma has had 54 bills in the state legislature aimed at restricting 2SLGBTQIA+ people’s right to live, the highest of any state thus far. I’ve struggled a great deal with the death of Choctaw Two-Spirit and trans youth, Nex Benedict. At fourteen, I attended school in Owasso, Oklahoma, where Nex was a student. I remember the way I was mercilessly harassed by the white students for having attempted suicide the year prior. I skipped school constantly because I couldn’t stand to be there. It was just too hard to struggle through unnamed disabilities and trauma while also being harassed. My home life was no hayride either. I can’t imagine I’d be alive today if I had known then that I was queer.

After Nex’s death, Oklahoma State Senator Tom Woods said at a public forum held in Tahlequah, the capital of the Cherokee Nation, that “I represent a constituency that doesn’t want that filth in Oklahoma” about 2SLGBTQIA+ people. A 2022 candidate for State Representative, Scott Esk, even stated he believes queer people should be “stoned to death.” On my last trip home in 2019 to cover a Native-led conference against oil and gas extraction in Ponca City, I received a flurry of hate mail in response to my reporting that included a message telling me I should be stoned to death. Given that Oklahoma has 38 federally recognized tribes and one of the largest American Indian and Alaska Native populations in the so-called “United States”, these instances of anti-queerness are Native issues and must be addressed by our tribal leaders.

My tribe, the Cherokee Nation of Oklahoma, has released various statements related to Nex discussing how awful the loss of a child, especially a Native child, is. But they refused to acknowledge the anti-queerness that was responsible for Nex’s death. The colonization, assimilation, and Christianization of the Cherokee Nation has led to anti-queerness ranging from extreme attempts to restrict the rights of 2SLGBTQIA+ people and using hate speech to simply ignoring our existence and needs. As a result of this rampant violence and hatred within my tribe, I don’t go home for our annual Cherokee Homecoming celebration or any other events. I’ve had blatant anti-queer experiences at events held by our tribe in Washington DC, where I currently live. Couple this with the lack of disability access or care for our disabled citizens and I’m left with no ability or reason to participate in my tribal nation. I’m further disconnected from my people because of their hatred of queer and disabled people. How can my fellow Cherokees and our elected leaders say they live their lives with the principle of gadugi, meaning that we work together to serve the tribe rather than one’s self, when they ignore the repeated direct threats to the very lives of our 2SLGBTQIA+ people?

I still wave my pride flag and loudly and frequently proclaim that I’m a bisexual, Two-Spirit, disabled citizen of the Cherokee Nation because I refuse to be erased, but this won’t change my circumstances. I need more than pride celebrations, hashtags, and parades that exclude me. I need to see my communities doing the work to ensure disability justice practices, and this means a great deal more than merely meeting the Americans with Disabilities Act. I need to see Two-Spirits and Indigequeer people’s lives being both celebrated and protected by everyone, not merely by ourselves.

The multitude of injustices of life with chronic pain in the so-called “United States” are rarely discussed in their brutal honesty nor do those of us suffering often see the possibility of joy in our lives. But there is joy amidst the pain. Ketamine infusions have brought me a sort of disability joy in that I’ve found a path to a future worth fighting for. It’s difficult to think of the future with eagerness and excitement when the only certainty I know is more pain. Ketamine, as well as my bright yellow disability scooter that saves me untold amounts of pain and fatigue, plant medicines, and shared knowledge and support amongst disability justice spaces have brought me more hope. And within this hope, someday there may be more space for pride.

‘Where is My Pride’ will be published in SICK issue 6, an annual print magazine exploring illness and disability. SICK aims to increase the representation of sick and disabled folks in the arts and challenge the harmful stereotypes and misconceptions surrounding disability. Founded in Norwich, UK in 2019, SICK is now based out of Maine & London. Pre-order issue 6 and learn more at www.sickmagazine.org.