“I Do My Own Stunts”

I have seen t-shirts sold by the National Ataxia Foundation that read “I do my own stunts” and have a picture of a stick figure falling over — an apparently humorous reference to the clumsiness that comes built in to ataxia. I have to say I don’t love this attempt at light heartedness: it might be funny or amusing for an able-bodied person to trip on a step or something, but it’s almost never funny for someone with a disability that makes them prone to physical mishaps trips or falls doing something the rest of us take — or have at one moment or another — for granted.

I am interested the idea of performing a stunt, which, as this refers to it, is the successful accomplishment of a physically demanding — nay, improbable — feat. We are supposed to marvel at Hollywood actors who “do their own stunts” — rather than have someone else do it for them — because they resemble their action heroes a little more when they do so. An interesting thing about this application of the phrase is that, for people with ataxia, the entire domain of human activity becomes the domain of the stunt — even if unconsciously. Actually mostly unconsciously. Most of my attention, while I am moving, is focused on remaining upright. I don’t try to turn my head or my body while I am walking, or adjust my belt, or put on sweatshirt or move my hands above my head. My effort when I am walking is to keep the body on lockdown: there are no stray movements, no unanticipated changes in direction, elevation, speed, etc. No humor. All of my movements are geared toward averting the logic of the parapraxis — what Freud called the slip of the tongue, the forgotten word or inappropriate action that appeared “at random” or “by coincidence” but were nonetheless purposeful. My purpose is to stifle the speaking body.

An interesting thing about the stuntman is that s/he is both “the real thing,” the real acrobat, death-défier, tumbler, brawler, etc., and a stand in for a star whose person is presumably too valuable to risk in the execution of these feats. The goal of the stunt person is illusion — of bravery, athletic skill, speed, daring. Her presence is ultimately theatrical, which is to say that “I do my own stunts” is both a statement about clumsiness and an expression of the awareness that, as someone with ataxia, I am being watched. I don’t say this as an accusation: I have stubbornly ableist expectations when it comes to judging my experience. But movement disorders are theatrical — they attract attention, awe, fascination. What does it look like for me to carry groceries? Or walk up steps? Or to try to jump? How obvious is it to others that something is out-of-sync?