They might not be able to go to the march because of the threat of violence and police brutality that exists at any protest. I thought of how they might not be able to be present for the marches because they had to go to work, or because they lived under the threat of being fired from their job if they marched, or because they were literally incarcerated. It seemed to me that many would be the people for whom Black Lives Matter is especially in service. I thought of the many others who were not at the protest either, who could not go because it was in some way inaccessible to them, all the other invisible bodies, with their fists up, tucked away, out of sight. I started to think about what modes of protest are afforded to sick and disabled people at all. In bed, in pain, I started to think about the kind of solidarity in which I could participate as someone stuck at home, alone. Attached to the bed, I raised my sick woman fist, in solidarity. I listened to the sounds of the marches as they drifted up to my window. The park is not surprisingly one of the most active places of protest in the city. At the time, I lived one block away from MacArthur Park in Los Angeles, a predominantly Latinx neighborhood and one colloquially understood to be the place where many immigrants begin their American lives. This particular flare in 2014 coincided with the Black Lives Matter protests, which I would have attended unremittingly, had I been able to. In late 2014, I was sick with a chronic condition that can get bad enough to render me, for anywhere from days to weeks to months at a time, unable to walk, drive, do my job, sometimes speak or understand language, take a bath without assistance, and leave the bed. The work these two pieces-a n argument and its wake-do together, delineating all the ways radical ideas shape the speaker, make it both possible and impossible to move through the world, capture the very spirit of this editorial year. ![]() Found at the bottom of this page, the bibliography is a resource for artists, writers, and activists, who wish to teach and learn more from “Sick Woman Theory.”Īt the jump, in Hedva’s newly commissioned essay, “Why It’s Taking So Long,” one finds a deep reflection on the evolution and impact of “Sick Woman Theory” as it took on a life of its own since publication. They have gathered these references over the past six years. Further yet, Johanna Hedva has here included a rich bibliography of essays, prose, poems, book chapters, resources, and references that emerge from, and support, the ideas in the work. Since its publication in 2016, “Sick Woman Theory” has been translated by reader-initiated projects into the following languages: Albanian, Danish, French, German, Italian, Korean, Russian, Slovak, Spanish, and Turkish. As Mask Magazine has closed, I was delighted to offer Topical Cream as a new anchor and home for this vital piece. ![]() This text has been revised from its earlier version, which was first published in Mask Magazine in January 2016, and was originally edited by Hanna Hurr and Ripley Soprano. ![]() It is taught in classrooms all over the world. Hedva’s “Sick Woman Theory” is a seminal text in disability activism. I’m proud to share two works by Johanna Hedva published in tandem: “Sick Woman Theory,” below, and a newly commissioned essay, “Why It’s Taking So Long.” Their dual publication closes the past year’s explorations of maintenance of a creative practice and finding models of experimentation, which began with Mandy Harris Williams’s essay “Re-Modeling” last summer, and has featured works by Alexis Pauline Gumbs, Tiara Roxanne, Anaïs Duplan, and interviews with Laurel Halo and Astrit Ismaili.
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