The War on Disabled People & Disability Rights: A Short Essay & Poem

by Rohit Doel ​for The 44 North

Guest Writer

Rohit is a poet & disability justice activist. Connect with him on Instagram, here.

Rohit, wearing a galaxy-patterned long-sleeve top, holding a guitar painted with Vincent Van Gogh’s “Starry Night."

"Always look for the light when trapped in the Darkness" —Rohit

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“We all need equal access and opportunity, and that includes disabled people! If it doesn’t, none of us will succeed in this life. None of us will be free. Disabled people deserve their own independence and the life they dream about living, without being vilified for their existence and needs.”

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Spoiler…I’m terrified…

As a disabled person, I’m worried for the future of disabled people, particularly speaking as a disabled Person of Colour (POC).

In this essay & poem, we'll be discussing what:

• Disability justice is and what our rights are

• Cuts to services and important things we need to survive

• Increased hatred, i.e racism, ableism, etc.

• What we can do to combat these issues

What is Disability Justice?

Essentially, disability justice centres the most vulnerable and marginalized people in our society: autistic/disabled POC and 2SLGTBQIA+ People. Disability justice also includes discussing important issues like racism, ableism, and transphobia, as well as facing oppression and stigma in everyday society.

Some of the rights disabled people have, which should always be upheld, are:

• Equal access to education and extra support.

• The right to not be disadvantaged from opportunities compared to non-disabled people because of disability.

• Access to important services through work, PIP over here in the U.K., Medicare & Social Security in the U.S., the Canada Disability Benefit, Health Services, the Human Rights Act, and the Equality Act. 

• The ability to access supports to help us navigate everyday life, such as mobility aids, wheelchairs, or hearing aids.

Cuts to Important Services

Over the past few months, I’ve noticed an ever-increasing surge of potential cuts to disability funding and important services. PIP in the U.K. is being cut, alongside Medicare in the U.S. with the government shutdown. The RCMP Disability Pension Program in Canada is also facing cuts alongside NHS cuts here in the U.K., forcing people back into work they cannot do due to poor health or inaccessible work environments that don’t meet the needs of disabled people.

This needs to be discussed and stopped because all over the world—including Sweden, France, Germany and other countries—cuts to health programs and disability resources (which disabled people specifically rely on to survive) are vital. These supports help make life easier, more viable, and independent. Cutting these services only puts disabled people—like me—in poverty and in turn, kills us. It’s important to maintain access to these public services for the sake of disabled people and their livelihoods.

Increased Hatred

I’ve noticed, as a disabled POC, that I’ve been receiving a lot of racist abuse, ableism (internally from my own community and externally), and have been excluded from key opportunities because I’m autistic and need vital support services like home heating. 

Much of this is sprouting from the hateful language we’re seeing in the media, specifically about immigrants, describing disabled people as “scroungers,” “handicapped,” or the R-slur (and much more).

The sad thing, to me, is that our governments and specific people in power are enabling this language and stirring up waves of hate against others which, to be plain, is unacceptable. So many people have accused me of “not being disabled enough” or told me to “go back to my own country.” I’ve heard racist jabs from others as well as folks in the disabled community. This reminds me of how deeply we’ve internalised ableism/racism. It still exists. Hatred to the 2SLGBTQIA+ community still exists. Transphobia and Homophobia are rising rapidly. Too many have the power to limit our rights and dehumanise us. Which is not okay. Let’s take it back!

What can we do to combat this?

• Call on your government and policymakers to express kindness not hate

• Stand up to the anti-disability hate and anti-immigration sentiments when you hear, see, or read them in person and online

• Educate others on important issues happening in your community, because they’re often connected to disability rights and justice

• Don’t accidentally support cuts to vital services—disabled people like me rely on them for survival! 

• Be empathetic and spread the message that disabled people matter

• Don’t encourage forcing people into work—focus on ways to support disabled people with their condition/access requirements to work how and when they’re ready

• Educate people in your circle about disability justice

These may be hopeful, wishful thoughts, but let’s be real together: everyone should be pro-disability!

Conclusion

To conclude, we need to engage in disability justice together to combat racism, ableism, hate, and discrimination. Equally externally and internally, cuts to important services cannot continue. We all need equal access and opportunity, and that includes disabled people! If it doesn’t, none of us will succeed in this life. None of us will be free. Disabled people deserve their own independence and the life they dream about living, without being vilified for their existence and needs. 

I will leave us here with a little poem that speaks volumes to what's happening right now, and how I feel:

Illuminous rainbows

Fainting Daisies

Why must my existence 

 curve with sorrow

Long waiting times at the hospital

feeling bruises all over

my body feels brittle

exhausted fighting for justice

Rainbows full of colour

signal disability pride

This is our hour, our euphoria

yet my chest feels so sour

Why the hate

when I’ve been your mate 

in identity, culture, origin 

we can’t erase 

Just like you 

can’t erase an existence

I’m disabled and I’m proud 

and will continue to be 

always, lovingly forever

Artist Spotlight: Bob Cole & Modern Music Studio

by Mikaela Brewer, ​for The 44 North

Senior Editor

A bright yellow Modern Music Studio logo with black letters

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“We see it time and time again in our studio. The kids who come to see us often have this perception that music is magic, that it can’t be understood. Learning about melody and harmony, chord progressions, and just how simple the construction of their favourite music is, a lot of the time, helps to break down that mysticism, making learning the language of music more accessible. ”

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Editor's Note: I had the absolute privilege of chatting all things learning music with Bob Cole, founder of Modern Music Studio—a community-focused group of musicians & teachers emphasizing student-directed lessons & learning as fun. Please enjoy our discussion!

Mikaela Brewer (MB): Modern Music Studio provides a space for everyone to “discover their musical passions on their own terms.” I love how this implies an inherent potential & possibility in a world that teaches us we can't approach music without ‘talent’. What does this mean to you? How have you seen this discovery happen at the studio?

Bob Cole (BC): This is a really important philosophy, or foundation of our studio. We truly believe that EVERYONE has music inside of them. Nothing irks me more than someone saying, “I wish I could play an instrument, but I just wasn’t born with it”. There is this myth that musicians are created at birth, and that truly isn't the case. We just have to find what music connects with you, and allow that music to flow through you. Anyone who loves music, anyone who loves to dance, anyone who loves to air drum or air guitar, anyone who lip syncs their favourite songs—truly, anyone can learn to play an instrument. 

We see it time and time again in our studio. The kids who come to see us often have this perception that music is magic, that it can’t be understood. Learning about melody and harmony, chord progressions, and just how simple the construction of their favourite music is, a lot of the time, helps to break down that mysticism, making learning the language of music more accessible. The adult students are a totally different case altogether. I’ve seen many adult students who wanted to learn an instrument but were unsure because they’d never done it before, or believed the “born with it” myth. Breaking down those barriers can be difficult; we all become a bit more stubborn in our older years. But for those who are willing to put in the work, stop believing the myth, and instead believe in the music inside of them, it can be tremendously rewarding (not just for them, but for us as well). We have students who came to us with no musical knowledge in their 50s and 60s and are now playing open mics or jams regularly around town. Watching students begin to believe in the music inside of them is perhaps our greatest source of joy. 

MB: On student leadership: because part of the magic is discovery, choosing an instrument, style, repertoire, and pace of learning offers creative control that's supportive for anyone, but perhaps especially for young people! Tell us more about what this looks like—what if a student doesn’t (yet) know what makes them special? 

BC: Such a great question. All of our instructors focus on positivity and building a love of music first and foremost. So the focus isn’t really on accomplishment (though that’s often a nice by-product), but on building a positive relationship with their creativity. It is a very vulnerable position that students put themselves in when they come to see us. We are asking them to share something that is a very personal connection: their personal taste in music. Initially, it can be difficult for them to share what it is about music they love. Our instructors are versatile and understanding in a way that makes kids feel comfortable and ready to share what music makes them feel special. We focus on positivity and listen to music through our students' lens to find their joy and help foster their connection to music in that moment. And it can often be in the least expected places! We have taught music from movies, video games, and even a radio jingle! Teaching songs that kids (and adults) recognize and connect with allows them to feel that connection and understand that what they love about music is distinct and unique to them alone. The benefits for self-esteem and confidence building with kids have been incredible to see. 

MB: On having fun: how have you seen the joy of growth/learning impacted—or maybe shifted from the way we think about learning at school—by empowering students to learn music they love?

BC: Fun is such an important part of learning in our view. By focusing on loving music first, we sort of create that carrot on the stick. The goal isn’t to learn ‘this’ scale so that you can play ‘this’ song. We teach it a bit backwards. We teach the song and then, once they’ve grown some confidence and connection to that piece, we start to show them maybe what scale it’s using, or what a score of that song looks like and how to read it, or perhaps how to transpose that song to another key so that it matches their voice. This resonates in a huge way with students. Not only can they learn their favourite songs, but they can start to understand the theory behind how these songs are constructed. By starting with fun, we sort of “trick” students into learning the nuts and bolts of music. So much of education is focused on learning a concept or a theory first, then it moves to how that theory is applied. Some educators came along and disrupted this idea (think Bill Nye or Mark Rober). They start with the application, then work backward to the theory. It’s a much more fun way to learn, in our opinion. The added benefit is that the student gets to choose the “application” (the song) that allows them to learn the theory, which makes them that much more engaged and connected to their learning. 

MB: On building community: we all know that tending connection is community care. Modern Music Studio has such a dedicated group of skilled, supportive teachers, but part of your goal is to connect students to their peers to learn songs together, form bands, and make friendships. The studio is located in a warm, cozy house in downtown Barrie, but what does community look like outside of sessions?

BC: We have so many students, for whatever reason, who seem to have difficulty fitting in with other walks of life, or difficulty with confidence in other areas. But when they walk through our doors, they get to feel like a rock star. And we’ve seen these kids’ confidence soar beyond our walls, to the performances we put on (Five Points Theatre, Aqua Theatre Orillia, and the Barrie Legion), and to the weekly jams we host. We’ve watched friendships grow and provided a sense of belonging for some kids who really needed it. As the years have gone on, we’ve watched kids graduate to university or college arts programs (one was even accepted to Harvard!). It's been super rewarding to help these kids find their footing and build their sense of belonging along the way. I think our approach—focusing on fun, encouraging a multi-instrumentalist approach, encouraging students to play music with their peers, to perform and to write and record songs—it’s given students a sense of belonging that maybe they didn’t have before they began lessons.

When I first had the idea for our studio, I wanted first and foremost for it to be a place where students who love music would find others like them and to bond over that love. I wanted to build a community of young musicians. The mutual passion for music we see in our students is incredible, and we love knowing that we’ve helped to create friendships and memories that will last a lifetime. 

MB: How can folks reading this spotlight support the musicians at Modern Music Studio—teachers & students alike?

BC: First and foremost, support the arts in our community in any way you can! The knock-on effects of that will benefit all of us who are trying to enrich our beautiful city through the creative arts. 

If you are interested in finding out more about music lessons with us, please go to modernmusicstudio.ca or email modernmusicbarrie@gmail.com to ask us any questions you might have. 

And finally, keep an eye out for all the amazing things our students and teachers are doing in our community, from working with at-risk or underprivileged youth (Glowing Hearts Charity, Orillia Youth Centre), to bi-annual performances at the Five Points Theatre and other venues around town, where you may find one of our students or teachers playing. We also have the amazing band Jupiter Hollow, who have members teaching with us, and then there is Sammy Johnston, who is an incredible blues/rock musician. Alondra Vega-Zaldivar is working as musical director this fall with the South Simcoe Theatre. And we have our choir starting up this spring that will be led by the incredibly talented Gillian Seaman. So look for their performances as well, and be sure to cheer super loud for our float at the Santa Claus parade in November! Follow us on Instagram and Facebook to keep track of all the cool things we are up to. And a vote for us in the Reader's Choice Awards in October would be really great too!

Short Story: Understanding the Consequences of Police in Schools

by Mikaela Brewer

A police officer in tactical gear walking through the front door of a building

The echinacea were still alive when the first bell of the school year rang. They’re also called coneflowers, and this is how my mother ensured we shared a name—that I carried her with me safely. Her name is Echina, mine is Connie. I didn’t understand, at first, why we didn’t have the same name. I both knew and didn’t in 2018, when the Toronto District School Board trustees voted to remove police officers stationed in their schools. But I see now, in September 2026, as I begin my senior year of high school. I was born in this country. My mother wasn’t. 

The last time we drove back from Mexico, during the summer of 2025, we’d talked about our fears surrounding the upcoming American and Canadian elections. Mid-topic, we passed a strip of coneflowers and mom, as always, adored an opportunity to talk about the flowers she so admired. She loved them so much that she gifted some to my high school, now rimmed in magenta, white, and yellow. 

“You know, echinacea are native to North America. They’re tough and sturdy and colourful. Resilient—surviving full sun, bad soil, and drought. They help the bees and butterflies, feed the birds, and boost our immunity. They even self-seed non-invasively. Do you know what I’m saying—”

“I know what you’re trying to say.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means you make them sound like a perfect flower. Maybe they are. But we’re not perfect. And flowers can be ripped from the soil by their roots, no matter how hearty they are. That’s what Trump’s going to do. And it can surely happen in Canada, too.” 

Mom’s bony, ringed fingers slid down the steering wheel to eight and four. She took a loud breath that slumped her shoulders. “You don’t know what I’m saying because you didn’t let me finish.”

I regret it now, but at that moment, I shook my head and put my headphones in. She was right—I didn’t know what she wanted to say.

And here I am, waiting in a long line of students entering the school. Doorways doubled by scanners, tripled by police officers, and quadrupled by cameras. I remember my mother’s words, but I don’t yet know how to enact them. I’m terrified.

When I was nine, police roamed my elementary school grounds. But more than the coldness of the cops, I remember Mandy. Mandy with freckles, dimples, warm brown skin slightly darker than mine, and polished copper eyes. One of the first English words I could spell was penny, because I’d met Mandy in kindergarten and been in love with him since. I fight to remember him this way: Mandy, who smelled of his grandfather’s tobacco pipe when he kissed my cheek inside a dead tree trunk during recess.

But he was a troublemaker, always making things when we were supposed to be quiet and listening. A delinquent. A thief. His every move was watched, surveilled, and reprimanded in the halls. Detention for backtalk became suspension, and soon, arrests. So many frightening phone calls with the Canada Border Services Agency. A model of the school-to-prison pipeline. And it all started, from what I can remember, when he borrowed Jenny Barton’s glue stick and scissors without asking her. “What are you going to do with those?” they’d asked, fearfully. I know it started before that. Start isn’t the right word. What was cut up and flimsy as construction paper, to begin with, was his trust in adults. And I wasn’t enough to glue something so hurt back together—at least not faster than it shredded. 

Mandy’s in prison now, so I hear. Just shy of nineteen. I haven’t spoken to him since he was fourteen and I was thirteen. He disappeared from my life. And out of manufactured fear, I let him. 

I know peers, parents, and teachers who protested police in schools. I have friends who stopped coming to school because their parents and guardians are afraid of being reported to immigration officials, even though mom said the Education Act guarantees them an education regardless of status. But Mandy needed support. Not the police.

About midway through the lineup to enter the school, this old heartbreak snapped into panic. As nonchalantly as I could manage, I slipped out of line behind a portable and again behind the echinacea bushes. How else could I protect my mom? I put my headphones in and played two poems by Celia Martínez with my arms hugging my knees. I couldn’t stop my tears and heaved the still-humid air silently. 

[A moment to pause with Connie & watch/listen to Celia’s brilliant poems, linked here & here].

I slowly calmed, listening to Celia’s words. As I fought to figure out what to do next, vehicle headlights lit up my hiding spot magenta. There was a catwalk to a subdivision next to me, but these lights were too bright and close to be coming from the road. I sank further into the bushes, so afraid that it was some form of authority figure looking for me. But nobody would’ve known I was missing yet. It was only 7:53 and classes didn’t start until 8:15. 

A loud engine growl startled me, but it was turning off. A kickstand scraped the fence, thick-heeled boots hit the pavement, and headlights clicked off. 

It took my eyes a moment to adjust, finding focus on a yellow floral dress hugged by a red leather jacket. My mom was crouching in front of me. She smelled like fruit. 

I smeared my glittery white eyeshadow across my face trying to wipe tears away. “How did you know I was here?” I murmured, nearly incoherently.

Echina smiled and almost laughed as she sat down cross-legged beside me, out of view. “Your brothers and sisters hid here too.”

“But how did you know I’d be here today?”

“Moms know a lot of things. I had a feeling.”

“So you know why I didn’t go in.”

“I do. And I understand.” She took my hands in hers.

I swallowed, clearing my throat. “I know what you meant last summer. About coneflowers. About us.”

“Tell me.”

“It’s not about perfection. It’s about believing in ourselves. In our love and hope and joy.”

“Yes, it is. And so much more.”

I nodded, but she could tell I was waiting for her to expand on the ‘much more.’”

“There’s a story that I used to tell your father before he died. I haven’t told it since, but you need it now.” She shifted to face me. “There was once an echinacea flower who—”

“Mom, do you have any stories not about echinacea?” My face cracked a wet smile. 

Echina smirked. “Yes, but they’re not as good. Don’t interrupt.” She paused to paint a fresh layer of red lipstick, put the tube in her bra, and clapped her hands together softly. “So, there was once an echinacea flower who thought she couldn’t support the roots of the flowers around her unless she was completely filled—brimming with nourishment (this tale is inspired by the wonderful work of Christabel Mintah-Galloway, RN, BSN). She thought that she couldn’t give unless she was full. Gradually, the flowers around her began to die. And then, so did she. What mistake do you think she made?”

“We’re never fully or perfectly nourished. So she never helped.”

“Precisely.” Mom squeezed my hands and kissed them. 

“But I don’t understand. I do help.”

“You do. You always help me. But I tell you this little tale to say: almost always, even when we feel most alone and hopeless, there’s something we can do—especially something we can give. And we must keep giving and gifting so that others can do the same for us. We can’t sever that connection. All relationships are tended most lovingly this way; it’s how we keep making in every sense of the word—change, progress, love, art, each other, and the list continues.”

“But I’m so afraid to walk into that school now, mom. With all the police and surveillance. Why is it always us who have to give. So many people only extract. Even my school friends.”

“I know. I know, my love.” Mom hugged me. As she stroked my hair, she asked, “Is there someone who gave to you, who you once shared roots with—made with, maybe—who you could give back to today?”

“Aside from you?”

“Mhm.” She smiled appreciatively. 

It only took a moment to figure out who she was trying to get me to remember. And it was with his memory that I eventually walked into the school for my last first day.

***

That afternoon, I sat inside what felt like a particle board booth for standardized test-taking. There was a grey landline phone on the wall beside me, its coil nearly reaching the floor. This room of the county jail smelled of sweat, cheap coffee, and old paper. I looked down, picking at my purple nail polish. I don’t know what prompted me to look up, but when I did, I didn’t startle. I didn’t know how long he’d been sitting across from me, watching from the other side of the glass, with those same eyes. 

I stared back, my brow creasing involuntarily to mirror his. It’d been long enough for both of us to notice change, but not long enough to not recognize each other. He was thin, but stronger, and with black facial hair that suited him. 

Mandy picked up the phone on his side but my hand went to the glass, as if my palm could push through it to reach his cheek. Keeping the phone to his ear, his head sunk, as if in shame. Afraid he’d leave I quickly picked up the phone. 

“Mandy. Don’t go.”

He looked up. His eyes were kind, but it almost looked uncomfortable for them to soften. As if softness was the only muscle he hadn’t trained since I last saw him, chiselled now in more ways than one. He started to speak but stopped and pressed chapped lips together. 

“It’s me. C—”

“Connie.”

I nodded, unsure why I thought he wouldn’t remember.

“Thought I’d never see you again.” His voice was like gravel. 

I smiled and nodded. 

“Why did you come?” There was a sternness now. 

I took a deep breath and looked down for a moment to gather myself. He thought I was patronizing him.

“If it takes that long to say I—”

“No, wait.” I snapped my head up. “My mom told me a story. And I wanted to tell you about it.” 

“You want to tell me a story?”

“It’s about us. About what we can make.”

“Us?” There was a slight momentum in Mandy’s voice that gripped my heart. The wit that once made much of what he said sound like a wink. I’d missed it so much. 

“Don’t you want to hear it?” 

“Well, what are we going to make?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“Then how are we going to make it?”

“Together.” 

He grinned, and I couldn’t help but beam back. 

We truly hadn’t said much of substance. I didn’t yet know why he was here, nor how we could make anything, let alone make anything happen or change in our corner of the world. He didn’t yet know what I’d been doing for five years. But a shared fight within the two of us found its reflection. 

Mandy kept smiling. It was a disarming, determined smile, with an undercurrent that I recognized. My cheeks warmed, realizing my hand was still on the glass. I was about to move it when he reached up and pressed his palm to mine. The sweat from our palms ran down the pane like tears.