They have pride, passion and dignity — and they deserve so much more

YOU could spend your life in despair, couldn’t you? Certainly the papers and the news this past week would encourage nothing but negative thoughts.

About the economy, about the way our society is going.

Well, I spent last Friday night at a black-tie gala ball, in the company of some of the most inspirational people I’ve met recently. And let me confess up front – I went to the ball in one of those seven-block-long limos that celebrities travel in. We sipped champagne en route (well, sparkling wine anyway) and we luxuriated in the white leather seats and the disco lighting.

I like to think that along the way, as we stopped at traffic lights, people were wondering what stars of stage or screen were passing. But it was just us — Mandy, Dessie, the two Annes, Paul, Frieda, and me — on our way to a great night out. We dined in style in the Royal Hospital in Kilmainham, and then we danced the night away.

Earlier in the week I was at the announcement of the winners of a national poetry competition. The poetry was on display in the National Library, and there were a number of distinguished poets on hand — Theo Dorgan and Nuala ní Dhomhnaill — because they had judged the competition. I’ll give you a sample of the poetry later, but I have to tell you every single poem would bring you up short. They had a raw honesty about them, and a way of expressing emotion, that would bring a lump to your throat.

The same honesty and emotion was on display in an art exhibition in the RDS a couple of weeks ago. The best of 600 entries from around the country were on show, alongside the more commercial art works at the National Art Fair. One of the judges of the competition, Guggi, declared that while some of the paintings might lack the finished technique of the professional artist, all of them had a passion that more than made up for that. The passion, he said, was what transformed the pictures into real art, the kind of art he’d be proud to produce himself.

And you could see that — even someone like me who is pretty visually illiterate — you could see the passion in the paintings. It was that passion that drew steady crowds, many of them other artists, throughout the several days the exhibition was on.

One of the highlights of the last couple of weeks for me, though, was a debate in the L&H the other night. The L&H is the Literary and Historical Society in UCD. According to its website (a modest affair), the Literary & Historical Society is among the oldest, most esteemed, and most active student societies in Europe. It was founded by Cardinal John Henry Newman in 1855, and it’s older than University College Dublin itself.

Well, speaker after speaker at this debate kept a full house enthralled and fascinated. They had come from all over the country, and they used honest and straightforward accounts of their own lives and times to make a powerful point. They had great technique too, and they used powerpoint (much better than I do sometimes) to illustrate what they had to say.

One of them, Joe McGrath from Clare, told us about the businesses he had started, the research he had done, and the things he had to overcome in his life. At the start of his talk, he put up in the screen behind him a slide showing a page from what looked like a clinical assessment of him. Stripped of jargon, it said that Joe would never amount to much, because he had an intellectual disability.

He showed the slide again when he had finished talking. “That’s the label they put on me,” he said, “and they didn’t even know me.”

The odd thing was, Joe wasn’t alone. Every other speaker in that debate — the first time it has ever happened in the 156 years history of the L&H — had an intellectual disability. So did every one of the artists whose work evoked such passion and power. So did each of the poets whose writings had the power to move people to tears. And so did most of the dancers and revellers at the black-tie ball on Friday night. Mind you, they might have had an intellectual disability, but they looked great in their tuxedos and long dresses.

You can have an intellectual disability, it transpires, and still be immensely talented. It might, though, get in the way of you being noticed. Each of the events I’ve been describing was open to the media. But the media stayed away. All of these poets and dancers, artists and speakers, were celebrating themselves first and foremost. They were also helping to celebrate 50 years of Inclusion Ireland, the national organisation that advocates on their behalf.

Inclusion Ireland’s motto is “Promoting Rights, Independence, Dignity and Equality” (PRIDE for short). This past year, because it’s their 50th Anniversary, they’ve been balancing the serious work of campaigning to protect services and introduce higher standards, with the equally serious work of celebrating achievement. Not just their own achievements as an organisation, although they are considerable, but the usually overlooked achievements of their members.

Fifty years ago, an art or poetry exhibition would have been unthinkable. They might have been allowed to set tables at a gala ball, but never to put on their finery and dance. People with an intellectual disability wouldn’t have been allowed in to the L&H, never mind invited to speak — and to change minds. The L&H debate was chaired by Judge Kevin O’Higgins, a judge of one of the European Courts.

He did a brilliant job of chairing and summing up, although I suspect he may have thought he was doing a kindness by agreeing to serve as chair. By the end of the debate, he said, he had learned not just that people with an intellectual disability had a lot to say, but it was long past time the rest of us began to listen.

As I write this, I don’t know whether the income support for people with an intellectual disability will be cut in the budget. It was cut in each of the last two budgets, for people who are often totally dependent on State support. They didn’t deserve it before, and they don’t deserve it now. But if they are cut again, they’re unlikely to protest. They just get on with their lives. Day after day, they demonstrate the dignity, independence and equality that Inclusion Ireland demands for them. Sooner or later, their rights will follow.

By the way, those poems I mentioned earlier — they deserve to be published. Each one of them communicated something funny or sad, and each one of them caught you in the throat. Here’s just one. It was written by Sharon Murray, and it’s actually called “Sad”. Theo Dorgan described it at the launch as “short, but exquisite”. And I’ve been thinking about it ever since I read it:

“I am sad because my little cousin Lauren is in hospital.

And the black crows have taken all the food

From the little robins.”