A post of thanks

“Cultivate the habit of being grateful for every good thing that comes to you, and to give thanks continuously. And because all things have contributed to your advancement, you should include all things in your gratitude.” ― Ralph Waldo Emerson

In spirit of Thanksgiving, I’ve decided to write a post of thanks.  This one isn’t going to be theoretical or academic, but rather a long overdue thanks to those who have helped me over the years.  You see, living with a disability often means time complaining about your body or time in the hospital, or time when you’re wrapped up in your physical Self for a bit.  We all have moments when we become more self-absorbed than we should be, when we talk about ourselves a little too much, or ask a lot from friends, and I think we also forget to say thanks.

I’ve been wrapped in my Self a lot the past three years, as my body has been on a new, and not-so-secret, mission to get me down lately.  My ankle has been bad for a long time, but it’s one of those things I can’t do anything about, and so it has become a silent, gnawing part of my day.  But, I thought that my knee surgery in 2007 was going to be it for a while, I really, naively, did.  However, my left shoulder gave out in 2012, and it’s been downhill from there.  I’ve had two major surgeries in a year, and now my back hates me.  My other ankle is chiming in as well.  Good times.

Since then, I’ve called on friends and family, and they have risen to the challenge.  They have listened while I’ve cried about feeling as though I am in my 30s but live in a 70-year-old body. They’ve listened while I wonder how much longer my body can take my 150-mile roundtrip commute.  They’ve listened as I fearfully ponder what new challenges my body will throw at me as I age.  They’ve babysat me after surgery, brought food, and took time out of their own lives to bring me laughter and support.  For this, I thank all of you who have been on the other end of my diatribes and sobbing.  I probably don’t say thanks enough, or at all.  Thank you.

I have to give some shoutouts to specific people:

“I sustain myself with the love of family.” ― Maya Angelou

First, my husband.  It’s a cliché, I know, but he’s my rock.  He lets me cry and feel sorry for myself when I need to, but he also tells me to suck it up and keep my body in good shape.  Though I would prefer to drown my sorrows in gooey chocolate, he encourages me to eat healthily and exercise.  He’s a coach and a cheerleader.  He’s got my back.  He is the best teammate a person could have.  I know it’s not easy to watch me on my bad days; no one likes to see someone they love in pain.  Unfortunately, he has to do it more often than I do.  He’s got the most comfortable shoulder to cry on, and his hugs are the best.  There’s palpable compassion, love, and strength in them.   Simply the best.

My mom.  Oh my, I cannot even think where to begin.  She was my biggest advocate as I was growing up.  She fought with schools and teachers, jeopardized her job for time off, and dragged me to doctor after doctor.  She taught me to speak up for myself when I was an angsty teenager who wanted to blend in.  She’s also been there for the surgeries… so many surgeries.  For my first shoulder surgery, she came to stay for 7 weeks.  Yes, she left my lovely dad and her two dogs, four states away, to do the things moms do best.  Parents never stop caring for their children, and I know each new medical challenge that arises pains her heart.  I’m sure it’s not easy.

My dad.  My dad is a dork and keeps me laughing.  He’s taught me to not always take myself so seriously.  If you can’t tell a stupid joke and laugh, then what’s the point?  My dad is a “trucker,” and I don’t mean he drives a truck; he keeps truckin’ on.  What an example!  I grew up with him as the epitome of the American work ethic.  He worked for the same company as long as I can remember, until I was in grad school.  His loyalty and commitment taught me to keep on in my own pursuits: at school, at work, and with my disability.

My brother.  I’m sure it wasn’t easy having a kid sister with a disability, a sister who got all kinds of attention during surgeries and procedures, and the days out of school for doctor’s appointments and x-rays must have seemed totally unjust.  The teenage years are always rough on the psyche, and who knows how my medical issues played a role in that.  I hope not too much.  We haven’t really talked about it.  Maybe we should.  My big brother is a thinker, and sometimes he surprises me with a gem of an observation about something I’m going through, and it means a lot, that thinking about me.

My in-laws.  All of them.  I suppose that it’s unhip to love your in-laws, but I do.  From J’s parents to his brother and his wife and daughter, to the aunts and uncles and cousins.  They are all so supportive, like blood relations.  J’s mom has spent weeks here helping out during surgery, and right now when my back is acting up, she’s done the cooking and the driving that I can’t do easily at the moment.  J’s dad is running around Chennai checking into alternative therapies, calling and boosting morale; in fact, everyone calls and checks in.  I feel like family.

“She is a friend of mind. She gather me, man. The pieces I am, she gather them and give them back to me in all the right order. It’s good, you know, when you got a woman who is a friend of your mind.” ― Toni Morrison

My friend C.  She’s amazing, and I don’t think she knows how much.  She stayed with me a week after my first shoulder surgery, and she rocked it.  She cooked the best food and just sat next to me, quietly reading, while I slept the sleep of the drugged.  She saw the worst parts of surgery.  I’m a vomiter.  I vomit from pain pills, from anesthesia, from migraines.  She was there for the vomit, the worst of the pain, the most helpless phase.  She was awesome.  She continues to be awesome.  We talk every week, and I probably monopolize the conversation as I delineate my latest bodily complaints.  I need to listen to her more.  She’s got a lot going on herself, and I am trying to make the effort to be the kind of friend she has been to me.  She’s new to academia, so she’s forgotten how wicked smart she is.  Academia has a way of doing that.  So, I’m telling her here:  you’re wicked smart, caring, thoughtful: quelqu’un de bien.

My other friend C.  I think she’s psychic.  She somehow knows when to text or call.  We also have the most odd maladies two people could have.  She’s the person with whom I can complain and laugh in the same breath.  Together, we are Murphy’s law: if it can happen, it will happen.  She also keeps me reading, which is essential.  I’ve always followed C.S. Lewis’ thoughts on this subject: “We read to know we’re not alone.” Reading keeps me out of my Self, concentrating on worlds of images and ideas.  Plus, it keeps me and C connected even through spells of silence.  There’s something lovely about reading something, knowing that the other person is reading it too.  I’ll see a passage and think, “I wonder what C thought of this, or if she’s read that part yet.” Sometimes we text about it.  It’s our way of keeping in contact.  It’s weird, but we’re always in contact, even when we’re not, and that’s a comfort.

My friend D.  This lady here let me stay at her apartment twice a week all last academic year so the commute wouldn’t be so tough on my body.  We enjoyed talks, cards, and wine (medicinally, of course).  Friendship, in a nutshell.

My FB friends.  A lot can be said about the dangers of over-cyber-connectivity, but I do think it has a the potential to create a strong and vast support network.  No, we aren’t going through the same things, but reading about people’s everyday struggles, and big struggles, puts life into perspective.  We’ve all got stuff: good stuff, funny stuff, sad stuff.  I like reading the stuff.  Also, it was my FB community who forced me into writing this (very cathartic) blog.  How could that be bad.

Happy Thanksgiving, and thanks for being there.  You make me happy!

Good Cripple, Bad Cripple: At the Movies!

One thing that has always confounded, and annoyed, me is the trope of “overcoming” disability in cinema.  For me, it is akin to the Magical Negro character in Hollywood films, à la The Legend of Bagger Vance, Driving Miss Daisy, or The Green Mile.  Basically, the Magical Negro is a term to describe a black character who helps some sad white person overcome whatever is ailing them.  There has been a ton of academic work out there criticizing this trope, but I think this comic sums it up nicely.

Magical, no?

What does this have to do with disability?  Well, see, tropes exist because we can recognize them, and they help us understand ideas as a society.  While Americans use the Magical Negro trope to engage in (misguided) discourse about spiritual awakening, I argue that the equivalent trope for disability is the tale of “overcoming.” For me, this trope is one in which the bitter (bad) cripple learns to triumph over more often his, though also her, broken body with the help of friends, just like the Beatles song.  It’s not always a bad cripple; sometimes, it’s someone who becomes crippled or who is diagnosed and must come to terms with the loss of a functioning body.  Whatever the scenario, the character usually ends up the archetypal “good cripple,” spreading joy and inspiration to mankind.  The tale is made for regular folk to feel better about their lives, and bodies.  If so-and-so can overcome their pain and suffering, I can deal with my troubles.  Yes, I can!  Woohoo!  Now, I can leave this movie and feel happy and not have to worry about what it’s like to be disabled, because they are all OK!  Such a warm and fuzzy time.

The most recent example of this is the new film about Stephen Hawking: The Theory of Everything.  Not only is he a brilliant mind, but he’s so inspirational.  I mean, how can someone want to live like that?  And be a genius?  It’s too much for us to think about and not want to utter the words, “inspirational.” I mean, look at the trailer:

Oooh, ahhh.  It could be a musical.  It makes me want to throw ice water over myself.

But let’s talk about the real Stephen Hawking.  He is brilliant, not in spite of his disability or because of it.  He was always brilliant. (He did get some stuff wrong, but so did Einstein).  In fact, he pursued his science at the detriment of personal relationships.  This has everything to do with the pursuit of the gifted mind and not a broken body.  He is an astrophysicist who is also disabled, not a disabled astrophysicist.  Equally, I am not a dwarf French professor; I am a badass French professor who happens to have pseudoachondroplasia.  Oh wait, here’s what the man Hawking himself says about his disability:

“If you are disabled, it is probably not your fault, but it is no good blaming the world or expecting it to take pity on you. One has to have a positive attitude and must make the best of the situation that one finds oneself in; if one is physically disabled, one cannot afford to be psychologically disabled as well. In my opinion, one should concentrate on activities in which one’s physical disability will not present a serious handicap. I am afraid that Olympic Games for the disabled do not appeal to me, but it is easy for me to say that because I never liked athletics anyway. On the other hand, science is a very good area for disabled people because it goes on mainly in the mind. Of course, most kinds of experimental work are probably ruled out for most such people, but theoretical work is almost ideal. My disabilities have not been a significant handicap in my field, which is theoretical physics. Indeed, they have helped me in a way by shielding me from lecturing and administrative work that I would otherwise have been involved in. I have managed, however, only because of the large amount of help I have received from my wife, children, colleagues and students. I find that people in general are very ready to help, but you should encourage them to feel that their efforts to aid you are worthwhile by doing as well as you possibly can.” ― Stephen Hawking 

There’s a lot to unpack here, but you probably get the gist.  There’s a tad of the good cripple lurking in there, but generally, Hawking is a pragmatist.  He did what he could do and that for which his mind was made.  He also got out of a bunch of academic work that he didn’t want to do.  Smart.  I’m filing that away in my brain the next time I’m asked to chair a committee.  Can you chair the ad-hoc committee on the use of the basement in the library?  Nope.  I’m busy because everything takes longer when you’re disabled.  Sorry.  But, if you get that elevator to work better and add some ramps and handicapped parking, I’ll think about it.

The New Yorker has this to say about the film:

It’s also a revelatory portrait of his strength, including his surprising gaiety, the jokes and the ironies that he drew from God knows what reserves of energy. In this movie, his illness and his productivity are intimately linked.  New Yorker, 10 November 2014 “Love and Physics: Interstellar and The Theory of Everything.

Sounds pretty “overcoming trope”-ish, if you ask me.  I am going to coin a word for this: Cripptrumphant.  If you use it, please, please give me credit.  I want to be famous for making up a word.  Add it to Urban Dictionary.  Do it.  And link back to the blog.

Though I’ve gone on and on about The Theory of Everything, you can see this trope in tons of films, such as: My Left Foot, The Diving Bell and the Butterfly, Passion Fish, Temple Grandin, and Intouchables.  (There is also the trope of the happy mentally disabled, – I am Sam, Forrest Gump, The 8th Day – but we’re not talking about this here.)  Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy the feel-good nature of these films, but at heart, it’s a difficult trope for those of us with disabilities.  It makes it very difficult for us to live ordinary lives when everyone wants us to be extra-ordinary.

I’m actually working on a paper for the 20th/21st Century French and Francophone Studies International Colloquium about the international hit film Intouchables.  This film has made a lot of Americans angry for its use of the Magical Negro trope, but not much has been said about the overcoming disability trope.  I’m not going to tell you much about the paper now, but I’ll let you know when it’s finished!

One more thing before I go.  Joseph Campbell argued that tropes and archetypes teach us about humanity.  His famous work on the Hero’s Journey was famously used to explain the Star Wars saga.  We use the familiar structure of the hero to give meaning to the human experience.  If you’ve seen Interstellar, same thing.  There’s a nice restructuring of Campbell’s work in Maureen Murdock’s The Heroine’s Journey; you can see a nice summary of both here: The Hero’s Journey.  While I know that Jung is largely out of favor in terms of psychology, I do think that Campbell understands something about the metastructure of the human mythos.  While his explanation is a bit male- and ablist-centric, he has a lot to offer in terms of how and why tropes/archetypes are important to build meaning.  I think I just might come up with another iteration: The Cripple’s Journey.  Again, don’t steal my idea!

I leave you with another archetype: Supercrip! Maybe another post…?

Check out more humor at: https://cripstrips.wordpress.com/

Good Cripple, Bad Cripple: What the hell does that mean?

So, Disability Studies is an emerging interdisciplinary field/theory that literature, sociology, history, cultural studies, and the like are beginning to use as another tool to talk about “otherness.”  It happens to fit in nicely with other messy topics centering around the “other,” – the fancy word for otherness is “alterity” (my favorite philosopher on this topic is Levinas) – topics like race, sex, gender, and basically any minority.

Bear with me while I get a little theoretical for one moment; you can skip to the next 2 paragraphs if you want. No hard feelings.  Anyway, the “other” is basically anyone who is not your “self,” but of course, there are myriad philosophies out there about how this leads to ethics and such, based on how one should treat the “other.”  Think Sartre, Camus, Heidegger, Buber, Levinas, et al.  I’m not going to get into that here, but I do want to get in to how this plays out in society.  Basically, pick a topic.  Let’s say race.  As a white person, races different from mine are “other;” we do not have a shared experience in that regard. It also happens that I live in a society in which the majority race is white.  Our government was designed by white men, for white men.  Our institutions are white institutions.  What we can chalk all of this up to is that our society is one in which the white experience is the norm; this is the normative experience.

You can extend the normative to any dominant experience. Being straight is normative.  Being cisgender is normative. Being able-bodied is normative.  Do you see where this is going?  Some normative experiences are culturally/geographically dependent (i.e. being white isn’t the norm everywhere), while others are not (i.e. being disabled is pretty much never the norm).  So, what does this have to do with Disability Studies?  Well, by studying, and theorizing, about the way the disabled experience is different (i.e. “other”), we may be able to create a more inclusive society, one that includes experiences beyond those of the majority.  Now you see why people who do Disability Studies also look to other theories and fields to talk about disability.  Feminism, cultural studies, LGBTQ studies, postcolonial theory, among others, connect to each other in that they all address the relationships between the normative and the non-normative.  This blog is about my experience with a non-normative body and how it shapes my world view.


Wake up!  My academic mumbo jumbo is complete, so let’s move on to the good stuff: good cripple, bad cripple.  This is a concept rolling around out there among those who do Disability Studies that normative society (able-bodied folk) have imposed two categories for us disabled folk to fit into.  The good cripple is the one who doesn’t complain too much, the one who is upbeat and optimistic, the one who overlooks most of the ADA non-compliance issues, the one whose story inspires able-bodied folk because they have “overcome” their lot in life.  They triumph!  The bad cripple (there’s a blog about that) is the bitter one, the one who is depressed and mean, the one who is critical of every public space, the one who needs to “get over it.”  BluntShovel does a nice job of talking about being a bad cripple, and the pressure one feels to be good when you want to be bad! I love, love, LOVE this post about why the “good cripple, bad cripple” binary opposition needs to change, and an interesting article, “Call Me a “Good Cripple” If You Must,” on the topic as well.  Independencechick has got it right, if you ask me.

I have good cripple days and bad cripple days.  I want friends, family, and colleagues who understand both.  Of course I enjoy it when people tell me how well-adjusted I am, but it makes talking about the bad days tough.  Sometimes my body hurts so bad that I just want to cry, but the “good cripple” in me only lets a select few see that side of me.  But, I’m getting better at showing the other side of me.  I think it’s important.  How is society going to change if I’m the one who has to overcome society?  I think most advocates have to be grumpy from time to time.  As with most things, balance is essential.  I’ve learned that being the good cripple too much has had the unwanted side-effect of people not really thinking I’m disabled or not understanding the extent of my underlying issues.  My skeleton is a hot mess: that’s why pseudoachondroplasia is a skeletal dysplasia, see?

So, what part do you play in all of this?

Ask if I need help.  Who doesn’t need help at certain moments.  I think many people are afraid that disabled folks want to do everything on their own. To be sure, there are people like that out there, and they aren’t all disabled.  But, if it looks like I might be struggling, I probably am.  I love it when people hold doors or offer to reach high-up items at the grocery store.  It makes people feel good to help, and I like not having to always ask.

Speak up.  When you see someone illegally parked in a parking space, leave a note, – it doesn’t have to be nasty – or inform whoever might be in charge.  Go out of your way when you have the time.  Having a non-normative body means that we have to go out of our way to function in a world built for people with normative bodies.  Advocate!  I would love to see as many Facebook profile photos advocating accessibility as I do marriage equality, cancer awareness, or whatever.

Educative yourself;  become thoughtful.  If you have a friend, relative, or colleague with a specific disability (that they have disclosed, or is obvious), do your homework.  I don’t expect for you to become an expert, but my mind would be blown if someone actually anticipated some of the problems I might have.  My dissertation advisor read Ursula Hegi’s Stones from the River, and he told me that it had never occurred to him that it was painful for my legs to hang off a chair.  I explained that, in high school, I had a stool in every classroom, but that I gave that up in college.  The next day, there was a stool in the room where we had our graduate seminar.  He told me I didn’t have to use it if I didn’t want to, but it was there.  What a great feeling! I have never felt so welcomed as I have when friends and family have thoughtfully placed stools in strategic places before a visit.  Recently, I was visiting a friend who had purchased a stool just for me.  So wonderful.  Or when I find a coffee cup and dishes waiting for me down low when I wake up in the morning. Such nice gestures.

Listen.  I know it might be uncomfortable to hear about my pain or frustrations, but just listen.  Don’t explain things away, or say things like “well, at least you can walk.” Don’t even get me started on that one.  That time you broke your leg is not the thing to talk about when I’ve just found out my ankle is beyond help.  Just listen.  I’ll listen to your story another time.  I promise. One more than one occasion, I have heard that people of color often encounter a similar situation when they bring up race or racism.  People get nervous and can’t relate, so they might talk about the time someone told them they were a bad dancer, and they were sure it was because they were white.  Reverse racism.  Not the same.


There were the times the surgeons broke my leg.

Now is the time when I insert a nifty quote from a novel I finished last month, Americanah by Chimamanda Ngoziwhich Adichie.  I think that race and disability are similar in many, though not all, ways because difference makes people uncomfortable, so talking about it is uncomfortable.  The burden to have that tough conversation often shifts to the different person, so it’s nice to have someone to back you up.

Understanding America for the Non-American Black:

Thoughts on the Special White Friend One great gift for the Zipped-Up Negro is The White Friend Who Gets It. Sadly, this is not as common as one would wish, but some are lucky to have that white friend who you don’t need to explain shit to. By all means, put this friend to work. Such friends not only get it, but also have great bullshit-detectors and so they totally understand that they can say stuff that you can’t. So there is, in much of America, a stealthy little notion lying in the hearts of many: that white people earned their place at jobs and school while black people got in because they were black. But in fact, since the beginning of America, white people have been getting jobs because they are white. Many whites with the same qualifications but Negro skin would not have the jobs they have. But don’t ever say this publicly. Let your white friend say it. If you make the mistake of saying this, you will be accused of a curiosity called “playing the race card.” Nobody quite knows what this means.

When my father was in school in my NAB country, many American Blacks could not vote or go to good schools. The reason? Their skin color. Skin color alone was the problem. Today, many Americans say that skin color cannot be part of the solution. Otherwise it is referred to as a curiosity called “reverse racism.” Have your white friend point out how the American Black deal is kind of like you’ve been unjustly imprisoned for many years, then all of a sudden you’re set free, but you get no bus fare. And, by the way, you and the guy who imprisoned you are now automatically equal. If the “slavery was so long ago” thing comes up, have your white friend say that lots of white folks are still inheriting money that their families made a hundred years ago. So if that legacy lives, why not the legacy of slavery? And have your white friend say how funny it is, that American pollsters ask white and black people if racism is over. White people in general say it is over and black people in general say it is not . Funny indeed. More suggestions for what you should have your white friend say? Please post away. And here’s to all the white friends who get it.  Adichie, Chimamanda Ngozi (2013-05-14). Americanah (pp. 361-362). Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group. Kindle Edition.

This brings me back to otherness and normative behavior.  These things I have mentioned are all ways of recognizing, and legitimizing, my “other” experience.  This is a step towards creating an inclusive society: to understand that we are all “other” in some way and to make steps to ensure that whenever we are not the norm, we can participate.  Be the The White Able-Bodied Friend Who Gets It.  I have a few of them. I hope they know who they are.

Welcome to Lilliput

This is a blog about perspective, about how I see the world. It is about returning the gaze that is so often turned towards me. To be a dwarf is to live in the limelight, the spotlight; to be a spectacle.

What do I hope to offer the dear reader? A change in perspective. In the tradition of Gulliver, whose experience amongst the diminutive Lilliputians leaves him bemused and beffudled, and somewhat self-righteous in light of their pettiness, I will reverse the gaze. In the vein of Gulliver’s post-Lilliputian voyage to Brobdingnag, where he becomes the ridiculed, the spectacle, the object of the examining gaze, – a dwarf among giants – I am offering my Lilliputian view.


“Szene aus Gulliver’s Reisen – Gulliver in Brobdingnag” by Richard Redgrave – Victoria and Albert Museum, London.

You see, I believe that my world view is inextricably linked to the experiences I have had and continue to have in Lilliput. Though my topics may not always be about disability, or dwarfism, or even spectacle, my gaze on the world is informed by these. These make up the multifaceted prism through which I reflect the world back at you. As I interact with the world, – read, listen, watch – my own experiences as “other” necessarily influence my perspective. Though, unlike Gulliver, I have lived my whole existence in Brobdingnag. I have never been a giant among dwarfs, but like Jonathan Swift, I do hope my writing will offer a new (relative) perspective, a new gaze, a new view on your world. This is how the world of Brobdingnag looks from Lilliput.

I remember when I was at Lilliput, the complexion of those diminutive people appeared to me the fairest in the world; and talking upon this subject with a person of learning there, who was an intimate friend of mine, he said that my face appeared much fairer and smoother when he looked on me from the ground, than it did upon a nearer view, when I took him up in my hand, and brought him close, which he confessed was at first a very shocking sight. He said, “he could discover great holes in my skin; that the stumps of my beard were ten times stronger than the bristles of a boar, and my complexion made up of several colours altogether disagreeable:” although I must beg leave to say for myself, that I am as fair as most of my sex and country. (Gulliver’s Travels, 2.1.11)

One more point on the title: the fancy Latin. In this I owe a debt to my liberal education.

Once upon a time, in college, I took two years of Latin and learned about such things as declensions. I learned that the feminine singular genitive of minuta is minutae, meaning “of a small thing.” In a similar vein, minutiae is the genitive of minutia, or “of smallness.” This is the game I’ve played with the name Lilliput. Lilliputia = things relating to Lilliput (i.e. small things). Lilliputiae = of things about Lilliputia. See what I did there? Clever.

The other part of my liberal undergrad (and grad) education involved the reading of many philosophical essays by none other than Michel de Montaigne. This lovely man would write essays and title them things like “des Cannibales” (“Of Cannibals“), or in other words: all about cannibals. See, Montaigne used this clever French genitive to talk about things pertaining to “cannibals” (or whatever). Except for that most of Montaigne’s essays are not actually about what the titles say they’re about. There aren’t really that many cannibals in this essay, except for that he’s talking about relative morality. Who is the true savage? The cannibal or the European? Who is the dwarf? The Lilliputians or Gulliver? See what I did there? Clever.

One last thing. The title of this blog is also meant to be subversive in the sense that I hope to reappropriate some negative associations that the community of people with short stature might have with “short worlds.” Back in the heyday of Cony Island’s Dreamland, there was a place called Lilliputia, or “Midget City,” a miniature city where 300 dwarfs lived as a spectacle.

Gumpertz began his career at Coney Island’s Dreamland in 1904, the year it opened, with a smash hit: a miniature village populated by very small people. Lilliputia, also known as Midget City, was built to resemble 15th-century Nuremberg, except that everything was smaller. The inhabitants, gathered by Gumpertz from expositions around the country, had their own parliament, their own fire department (which regularly responded to false alarms), and their own theater. For increased effect, Gumpertz installed a few giants to wander this experimental community from time to time. (PBS)

Lilliputiae is also then a response to this Lilliputia. This is what I think of the “tall world.” I am not rendering it a spectacle, but it is under my microscope nonetheless.


Dreamland’s Lilliputia had its own Midget Fire Department.