I am an LGBTQ+ able-bodied and hearing person walking into the lobby of one of my favorite venues: The Public Theater.  There is a notice on the door to mask up before entering. I am early and after masking up and picking up my ticket, I lean up against one of the columns in the lobby and check out my surroundings. There are more lanyard-bearing staff than usual milling about the lobby. Some of the lanyards are Public Theater staff, other lanyards seem not to be. Most are wearing their masks properly; some have masks drooping over noses and oddly resting on lips; some seem immune to directives and sashay around unmasked with clipboards. They must be important. Some are with service dogs wearing vests warning passers-by not to pet them. I don’t see any Blind persons with their unvested guide dogs. The service dogs stand or sit obediently while their owners spend time on their cell phones. The announcement is made that the Shiva is open for seating. I snap out of my reverie and enter one of my favorite spaces in the building. It is on the main level and does not require stairs or an elevator for access. I am thinking that is a good sign for a performance about disabled persons. But no guide dogs: just service dogs.

After taking my seat, I continue to check out my surroundings. Able-bodied patrons take their seats. Patrons in wheelchairs are guided into spaces set aside for them. Programs and masks are placed on each chair. Things are calmer here than in the lobby. The staff member with the service dog and the drooping mask makes an announcement. It is time to begin.

Disabled actor Alejandra Ospina enters audience left in their wheelchair which gets parked just next to a ramp that leads up to the stage. They announce, “Hello. This is the voice of your Describer for the evening. I will be describing all visuals, stage actions, and stage pictures for our blind and low vision audience members.” The Describer, who is a performer, spends time carefully describing everything the sighted patrons are able to see. Then Dickie Hearts and playwright Ryan J. Haddad enter. Dickie is Deaf. Ryan has Cerebral Palsy (CP) and enters with his collapsible walker. The dark disabled stories begin.

Ryan muses about whether he would accept a cure for CP if that medical advancement ever occurred. After considering the possibility he shares, “I feel fine, I feel great. I love my body, I’m happy with my body.” I have heard that from my friends with CP; however, Ryan’s sentiment might be new for some patrons. This is an important story. I look forward to more of the same stories.

Equally powerful is Alejandra’s story about the possibility of being trapped on a subway platform when the elevator is out of service. They finish the story saying, “Do you know what it’s really like to be stuck underground? Not just inconvenienced, a little late because “the trains were terrible.” Actually stuck. Do you know? Do you?” None of my disabled friends ever told me a story like that. I needed to hear Alejandra’s story.

Unfortunately, the remainder of the dark disabled stories told by Ryan or the Deaf actor “playing Ryan” or the gay Deaf Actor Dickie Hearts sharing his own story are not stories I expected to hear or needed to hear. Ryan tells story after story about being horny and meeting men on Grinder. Most “dates” turn out not to be who they advertised they were or were threatening or unkind. Dickie/Ryan tells a lengthy story about his encounter with someone on Scruff who is a match: “I found a man with similar interests: long walks on the beach, bondage, roleplay, TPE – total power exchange.” Why are they telling me these stories?

I find myself drifting away. Is it possible these disabled and Deaf gay actors do not know that able-bodied people are fully aware that disabled and Deaf persons get horny? Often? Are there not more engaging stories about how disabled and Deaf persons are taken advantage of when they are put in harm’s way or put themselves in harm’s way?

I have dozens of disabled and Deaf friends. I’ve walked on streets with them, rode the subway with them, sat in graduate and post-graduate classrooms with them; broken bread with them. They have shared their stories with me. They never tell me about being horny: that is none of my business. They do tell me stories about being taken advantage of and not receiving help even when they ask for assistance. Those stories moved me. Ryan’s stories do not.

As I exit the theater, I am reminded that there needs to be an off-Broadway play that challenges the able-bodied and hearing audience members to better understand what it means to be neither able-bodied nor hearing: what it means to be disabled and Deaf. That show should be “hilarious” and “audacious.” Ryan J. Haddad’s “Dark Disabled Stories” is neither. I am saddened by that because I wanted The Bushwick Starr’s production to be both. I wanted to be challenged; I wanted the disabled and Deaf actors to be audaciously funny. Unfortunately, they were not. I wanted to leave the Public with new insights, new enduring questions, new understandings. Unfortunately, I did not.

Listen to the stories your disabled and Deaf friends tell you. If you have no disabled or Deaf friends, you have a lot of work to do. Time to get started.