I’ve been ~chosen as a patient profile for a fundraising push my clinic is doing. Which is really cool, and I’m honoured. I’ve worked with them before doing some PR/patient face stuff. It’s nice to be able to participate in something that is obviously important to me, and this time around there’s big money on the table—and more importantly, huge huge growth opportunities for the clinic. This push could potentially be a big deal and do a lot of good for a seriously overloaded, underfunded and under-researched clinic.
But I know part of the reason they chose me is because I’m a young pretty white cis girl, and I’m well-spoken and well-educated (rich). And that part of participating in this campaign means being flattened out and normalized by the PR machine. I’ve seen the first draft of the profile, and it’s all about making me palatable to a donor. I know they’re going to minimize (erase) my queer femme identity and make palatable my illness identity by turning me into an inspiringly brave surivor, a supercrip. I try to tell my own story about my illness, and the very fact of participating in PR means someone else is doing the telling.
I’m still going to do it, because this way I have at least some participation, can influence the message in a tiny way by being a silent little queerbomb in the middle of party. Because even though it sucks that this is about money and capitalism, the end goal (research and more doctors for my clinic) is more important to me than the particulars of storytelling. I’ll resist in the ways that I can: they want a picture of me for my profile; I think I’m gonna give them something with an edge of femme ridiculousness. Fuck yeah sicko drag.