When something is intended as a compliment, it's often incredibly difficult to respond by saying that it's actually not. Credit: chuwy (iStockphoto)

Leah Hobson doesn't want to be a disability awareness educator for everyone she meets, but she's come to understand that hiding behind niceness doesn't buy acceptance and inclusion, it's giving in to ableism.

It was a grey day, and I was having a serious conversation with a good friend. "Sometimes," I said, swinging my legs and looking at the sky, "people tell me how they could almost forget that I'm disabled."

My friend smiled the way she does when something is funny even though it really isn't. "I know what you mean," she said. "It's like when people tell me they could almost forget that I'm Asian."

For me, offhand remarks like this that are intended as compliments are harder to deal with than overt abuse or discrimination. I say 'intended as compliments' because, for me, they're not compliments. That's the first problem with statements like this: there's an idea lurking behind them that everyone with a disability has the need to appear as non-disabled as possible.

Some people with disability do have that need. Maybe it's because they've been disabled for most of their lives but have never quite felt like they fit in, or they've been taught to feel ashamed of their disability (in part, by statements like this one). Maybe it's because they're newly disabled and every reminder of their disability is a really raw and painful reminder of what they've lost. Maybe it's just nice to feel like you're on the same footing as everyone else.

But I'm not one of those people. I don't feel part of some homogenous lump called 'the disabled' and I don't feel a desire to escape my everyday existence. I'm someone who feels complete as I am, disability and all. Like every other aspect of who I am, being disabled is by turns a frustrating and wonderful experience, but it's one that I embrace fully wouldn't change for the world.

Some able bodied people might wonder at that statement: Why would you want to stay partially deaf and partially blind if someone offered you a cure? The simple answer is: Because my disability is one of the key things that has made me the person I am, and imperfect as she is, I've come to quite like that person.

From where I stand, telling me how easy it is to forget that I'm disabled is actually more like saying, "You're different in a way that's hard for me to understand. I'm glad you can change to better fit within my comfort zone."

More subtly, it says, "Don't tell me when you're struggling to read something. Nod instead of asking me to repeat that sentence you didn't hear. Smile when I make a tacky joke about disability. Be like me. Be normal and I'll reward you."

This leads me to the second problem I have with this statement. When something is intended as a compliment, often it's incredibly difficult to respond by saying that it's actually not. We're all wired to be polite to others. But people with disability are especially trained to be compliant; we're taught to thank the people who are 'nice' or 'giving' regardless of how useful they are.

A 'thank you' is expected when people make donations to disability organisations, no matter whether those organisations actually empower us. A 'thank you' is expected when someone 'helps' you by speaking for you or physically moving you without asking. And a 'thank you' is expected when someone who is blissfully ignorant blunders their way into giving a compliment about how well you cope, that really isn't a compliment.

In the past, that's what I've done. I've actually thanked people for saying something that made me feel at best unintentionally devalued. But as I was talking to my friend, I got to wondering what it is that I'm afraid of. It's not as though I don't know how to politely correct people, and that's all I'd want to do.

It turns out I'm afraid of being gaslighted.

Gaslighting is a term coined by the feminist movement to describe the way women are dismissed or made to doubt their own thinking when they raise valid concerns about how they're treated. We've all heard women described by themselves or others as 'crazy' or 'premenstrual' to dismiss real anger or pain, to hide a problem or to say that nothing needs to be done about it.

People with disability experience a similar no-win situation when they speak out. If I say, "I'm upset about the way you respond to my disability", I might be looked upon as the woman with a chip on her shoulder (because disabled people are all angry about their disability deep down). Or I might not have clearly understood what happened (because people with disability all have problems understanding others). I might also be considered a bewildering radical at the fringes of what's socially acceptable (because who's heard of people with disability who aren't grateful for compliments?). I've faced all of these reactions, and they wear you back down to the point of compliance.

But what's the big deal if other people get angry or upset by my anger?

It also turns out I'm afraid of what I have to lose.

When someone gets angry at you, it's unpleasant. But if that person was just complimenting you on how much you behave like a non-disabled person, it's more than that. It might mean they're no longer going to be quite so comfortable around you. It might mean they will no longer admire you. Which is fine when you're talking to a total stranger, but try having a challenging conversation with your boss, or your grandmother, or the bus driver you really need to keep on side so he'll remember to tell you when your stop comes up.

It's funny, but I think the fact that people with disabilities have gained so much in the last few decades has made it even harder than it was to rail against and rise up even in small ways like this. Some of us have jobs we could lose. Some of us have friends or lovers we don't want to alienate. Some of us have complicated lives which are made that little bit smoother by no-fuss interactions with other people.

When you have something to lose it's so much harder to challenge the status quo. I take what I'm given. I nod in false agreement. I have frustrated conversations only with those who already know what it's like.

In all my time hiding behind niceness I've never stopped to ask how much it is that I really stand to lose. The people making ignorant faux-compliments are already uncomfortable with me. They might be more uncomfortable if I speak up, and I could come away feeling dismissed. I could come away losing a relationship that was awkward anyway. In some circumstances, I could come away losing a job. On the other hand, I could give someone the opportunity to change by really listening to what I have to say.

When and how we make a stand about anything in life is tricky. I know I don't want to be a disability awareness educator for everyone I come across every day. There are times when the consequences genuinely aren't worth it. There are times when we're simply tired. And then there are times when we catch ourselves in the traps of society. We believe it's better not to make a fuss. We put our heads down and hang on to small gains in acceptance because somehow we've decided minor indignities and misunderstandings are a good price to pay. In reality, that's not acceptance and inclusion, that's submission.

In writing this piece, I'm promising to take back my own agency. For me, that doesn't mean storming the gates with no compromise. It doesn't mean I fail if I'm too scared or tired to change any one thing. It means I'll ask myself if I want to, just this once, speak up. It means I'll be as kind as I can when I do it. It means that if you're my friend and you're struggling with the same thing, I'll be there if you make a stand and you feel like you've won or lost. And if you can't make a stand, I'll be the one who listens to your frustrated conversations on the grey days.

Leah Hobson is a public servant, Labrador wrangler and wine drinker, usually in that order.