ISSN 0004-0894 © Royal Geographical Society (with The Institute of British Geographers) 2004

Area

(2004) 36.3, 298–306

Blackwell Publishing, Ltd.

Social geographies of learning disability: narratives of exclusion and inclusion

Edward Hall

Faculty of Health and Social Sciences, Queen Margaret University College, Edinburgh EH12 8TS

Email: ehall@qmuc.ac.uk

Revised manuscript received 15 December 2003

The social geographies of people with learning disabilities, one of the most marginalizedgroups in society, have largely been ignored. The paper explores these hidden geo-graphies through the interpretation of narratives of people with learning disabilities inScotland, within a social policy framework of social exclusion and inclusion. The paperinterprets the experiences of being excluded from and included within mainstreamsocio-spaces, and the safe spaces that many people with learning disabilities haveformed for themselves in between the positions of social exclusion and inclusion.

Key words:

Scotland, learning disability, narrative, social exclusion, social inclusion, safespaces

Introduction

Whilst disability is now an established sub-field ofresearch within social and cultural geography(Butler and Parr 1999; Gleeson 1999; Hall 1999;Park

et al.

1998), issues of learning disability havebeen largely omitted.

1

This relative lack of attentionreflects the marginal position that the majority ofpeople with learning disabilities (PWLD) hold in theUK and most Western societies. In comparison to theoverall population and many other disabled people,the estimated two million people in the UK (120 000in Scotland; Disability Rights Commission 2001)with mild to severe learning disability

2

have feweropportunities for employment, less choice overhousing, fewer options in education, and commonlyexperience discrimination, abjection, abuse, poorerhealth and a lack of control over the key decisionsthat affect their lives (Foundation for People withLearning Disabilities 2001). This paper unpacksthese hidden social geographies using the method of‘narrative building’ (Booth and Booth 1996), givingspace to the voices of PWLD, so regularly excludedfrom social research. The research takes place within

the context of a state social policy of tackling ‘socialexclusion’ through the economic and spatial inte-gration of marginalized groups. Social

in

clusion offersthe possibility of better opportunities for employmentand social position, but at the same time establishescriteria that may be impossible or undesirable formany PWLD to fulfil.

Wolch and Philo describe geographical researchon learning disability as forming a ‘small corpus’ ofwork (2000, 138). Hall and Kearns (2001) argue thatit is not only the smaller number of PWLD thatexplains the neglect, but also their limited publicand political presence. The policy of ‘protective’care that has shaped the lives of PWLD – for manyyears within the institutions of the asylum and long-stay hospitals (Park and Radford 1999; Radford andTipper 1988; Philo 1987)

3

and now within commu-nity contexts (Metzel 1998; Radford and Phillips1985; Wolpert 1980) – is the product of a deeplyembedded sense of mental difference. Parr andButler (1999, 14) argue that those without mental‘competence’ are perhaps the ‘ultimate other’, be-cause of a presumed inability to reason, exert agencyand so be part of a modernist civil society. The lack

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of social presence of PWLD – in contrast to theassertion of rights to public space by many physi-cally disabled people and those with mental healthproblems – suggests that they are being properly‘cared for’ and lead relatively contented lives.

This paper details the social exclusion that manyPWLD experience despite physical inclusion withincommunities, what Dear and Wolch (1987, 6) havetermed a life in an ‘asylum without walls’. In doingso, the paper draws on the sole exploration ofthe everyday geographies of PWLD – Laws andRadford’s (1998) study of Toronto – which tells thestory of deinstitutionalization through the voices ofPWLD, revealing that while for many their objectivecircumstances were more favourable – most livedin the community and many were employed – theirsubjective embodied experience of social interactionand inclusion was less good (see also Dyck 1998).This study largely followed Laws and Radford’s (1998)approach, in its focus on embodied narratives inspecific socio-spatial contexts, although unstructuredgroup, rather than structured individual, interviewswere used, both to reflect the social networks ofpeople’s lives and to encourage participants tospeak, ensuring their voices are placed at the centreof the research.

4

Critiquing social exclusion and inclusion

The principle that binds together the present UKGovernment’s (and indeed Europe’s) social policy isthe reduction in the number of people and placesexperiencing ‘social exclusion’ from mainstreamsocietal activities and the promotion of ‘socialinclusion’ into these activities (Social ExclusionUnit 2001; Byrne 1999). It is a reformulation of theconditions of poverty, marginalization and discri-mination into a problem of access to the spaces ofthe social and economic majority. Madanipour

et al.

sum up social exclusion as follows:

[It is] a multi-dimensional process, in which variousforms of exclusion are combined: participation indecision-making and political processes, access toemployment and material resources and integrationinto common cultural processes. When combined,they create acute forms of exclusion that find a spatialmanifestation in particular neighbourhoods. (1998,22)

Its multi-faceted nature, the claim to incorporatelack of access to cultural as well as material re-sources and the sense of process, has made social

exclusion a powerful and captivating concept thathas permeated the language of social policy andacademic debate. From a geographical perspective,the recognition of the social

and

the spatial in theproduction of exclusion makes the concept apotentially useful one for thinking about thepositions of particular social groups and places.

However, for many, social exclusion is a ‘prob-lematic’ concept (Sibley 1998, 119) that draws athick line between those who are within and out-with mainstream society. Further, whilst the notionof social exclusion supposedly incorporates par-ticipation in all aspects of society, the dominantcriterion centres on economic (in)activity, neglecting(non-paid) social, cultural and political activities.This has at least two consequences: firstly, thatnon-participants in employment are deemed to be‘others’ who do not form part of ‘society as a whole’(Levitas 1996) and, secondly, that inclusion in workis ‘de facto beneficial’ (Colley and Hodkinson 2001,348), disregarding discrimination in employment(and that people on the margins are more likely tohave poorly paid, low quality jobs (Gleeson 1999)).This hints at what is perhaps the most troublingaspect of social exclusion, as Colley and Hodkinsonargue:

Despite appearing to reinstate a concern for thesocial, social exclusion locates the causes of non-participation and social exclusion primarily withinindividuals and their personal characteristics. Yet atthe same time as focusing on individual deficit, it doesso in a way that denies diversity and individuality,and reduces those it describes to categories andstereotypes . . . This in turn obfuscates the social aspectsof disadvantage, the deeper structural causes ofinequality and differential life chances. (2001, 346–7)

As such, it is a dramatic move away from the ana-lysis of social problems afforded by marginalizationand discrimination, shifting the causation fromsocietal structure to individual agency – and weavingin a moral strand of responsibility for (self) exclusionfrom the dominant order (Room 1995) – while atthe same time aggregating individual experience.Further, the agency and alternative imaginings of‘inclusion’ of those deemed excluded is not incor-porated; there is a failure to recognize, value andsupport the agency and strengths of many disadvan-taged groups and communities that provide a senseof inclusion to their members (Colley and Hodkinson2001). And, lastly, to be excluded is seen as necess-arily undesirable for the individual, group or place

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involved; it is ‘in their interests’ to be incorporated(back) into mainstream society (Samers 1998).

The legislatures of England and Wales, and Scot-land, have separately published reports that docu-ment the social exclusion of PWLD and advocatetheir ‘reinclusion’, principally through increasedemployment participation and community-basedhousing (Department of Health 2001; Scottish Exec-utive 2000), in what is arguably a reformulation ofthe long-standing policy of the ‘normalization’ ofPWLD (Nirje 1969) into ‘socially valued roles’(Wolfensberger 1983). Although there is a call forPWLD to be ‘better understood and supported bythe communities in which they live’ (Scottish Execu-tive 2000, iv), the inclusive solutions are to provide‘the same opportunities as others to get a job, todevelop as individuals, spend time with family andfriends, enjoy life and get the extra support theyneed to do this’ (2000, iv); there is little recognitionof the structural constraints, institutional discrimina-tion and individual stigmatization and abjection (seeSibley 1995; Kristeva 1982), through verbal andnon-verbal abuse, avoidance and victimization, thatmany PWLD experience. The reports are undoubt-edly positive in their intentions and practical poli-cies, yet there are concerns over the fundamentalbasis on which people are to be ‘included’. That is,to be socially included a PWLD will have to con-form to a mainstream notion of ‘normality’, throughbodily behaviour and appearance, social location(ideally independent living, at least communityhousing) and/or economic engagement (throughpaid employment), otherwise they will experiencesocial and spatial rejection (Sibley 1995). To under-stand PWLD as excluded – rather than as experienc-ing material and representational discrimination andpoverty – is to see them as not part of mainstreamsociety, a situation that seems to be acceptable tomany in society (Enable 1999).

Voices from the shadows: developing a methodology

While studies of mental health and broader healthgeographies have embraced the methodologicalresources of the ‘cultural turn’ (Kearns and Gesler2002; Parr 2000), geographical research on learningdisability has been largely historical and descriptive.The single exception is Laws and Radford’s (1998)exploration of the ‘fine print’ of PWLD’s complexeveryday geographies. This paper adopts a similarapproach and in so doing responds to Mohan’s

(2002) critique of studies of social exclusion thathave tended to focus on structural constraints andwelfare institutions to the neglect of the culturalprocesses of discrimination and stigmatization ofthose excluded. This paper is an attempt to producea ‘nuanced’ account of social exclusion (and inclu-sion) (Sibley 1998, 119) through placing PWLD’sexperiences and voices at the centre.

Dominant constructions of mental incompetenceand lack of agency have kept the voices of PWLDfirmly ‘in the shadows’ of research and policymak-ing (Laws and Radford 1998, 88). Coles (2001) hasargued that many methods, including question-naires, interviews and focus groups, are designed insuch a way that PWLD do not ‘talk’, only the ‘repre-sentative’ voices of carers and families are heard.Coles (2001) and Booth and Booth (1996) have pro-posed ethnographic techniques, including partici-pant observation and narratives or storytelling thatenable the recognition and blending of personalexperiences and social/place issues.

The method adopted here is ‘building narratives’of the everyday geographies of PWLD (Laws andRadford 1998). The participants were recruitedthrough local groups of the Scottish learning disabil-ity charity ‘Enable’; letters of invitation were distrib-uted to the groups and five interview sessionsarranged in a location familiar to the participants, toensure they felt at ease and confident to speak.

5

Through group interviews, people were asked todescribe their presence in and engagement withsocial spaces: their homes, their friends and family,their care, their work, where they live, where theysocialize, their experiences, concerns and delights(Holloway and Hubbard 2001). Group, rather thanindividual, interviews were used, firstly, to providea supportive environment, secondly, to counterproblems of ‘compliance’ common in one-to-oneinterviews with PWLD (Laws and Radford 1998)and, thirdly, to recognize that people live their livesthrough social connections and their narrative is inmany cases a collective one (Parr 1998). In a furtherrecognition of the networks that constitute people’slives, also present at the interviews was a ‘sup-porter’, friend or careworker of one of the individ-uals, who was also well known to the rest of thegroup. As will be clear from the interview extractsbelow, the supporters’ role was important in helpingto create a sense of trust between myself and thegroup, and in helping people to express themselves(this is very different to speaking ‘for’ individuals).The data that resulted reflect the method, that is,

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they are very much group discussions. This and thelack of confidence/ability among many of the partic-ipants to speak at length means that the data arepresented as conversations rather than short quotes.Further, in some cases the narratives show thatprompting by the interviewer or a supporter wasnecessary to elicit details and to maintain the flowof the discussion; this reflects the lack of confidencethat many PWLD have about speaking in public.Prompt questions were always as open as possible,to minimize the ‘leading’ of participants.

Narratives of exclusion and inclusion

A brief profile of the 21 participants in five locationsin Scotland

6

frames the discussion which follows:firstly, 11 lived with family (parents or children),five lived independently, four lived in a staffed grouphome and one lived in supported housing; secondly,nine worked part-time and one full-time, two didvoluntary work, five were at a local education collegeand 11 (including some of those already mentioned)attended day care either part or full time.

On being excluded: experiences, places and practices

Laws and Radford describe the long-term social andspatial marginalization of PWLD in ‘small actionspaces’ on the ‘outer fringes of the daily round’(1998, 99–100). Abjection, discrimination and abuseare common experiences for PWLD and underpin (andrun through) their social exclusion from mainstreamsociety (Foundation for People with Learning Disabilities2001). As Sibley (1998) argues, social exclusion isabout much more than not having employment andliving in separated caring environments (indeed, asshall be argued below, such places may offer someform of ‘refuge’ or inclusion). It is also about personaland bodily exclusion on a day-to-day basis, a geographyof being ‘out of place’ that PWLD are acutely awareof. In one location, some cafes and pubs are knownto be places of potential rejection and intimidation,from both staff and fellow customers:

7

Ed: When you go to the pub or a café, dopeople sometimes say things to you orlook at you?

Gordon: Sometimes.Beth[supporter]: Are people rude to you Leanne?Leanne: Mmm.Gordon: If you [go] into White’s Cafe you’re

welcomed with open arms.

Leanne: Yeah, that’s right.Kay[supporter]: How about the Pear Tree or O’Neills,

would you expect to be made to feelwelcome or unwelcome?

Irene: Be unwelcome.Ed: What do people say or do to make you

feel unwelcome?Irene: They stare at you and all that kind of stuff.Gordon: I find that more in pubs than cafes

. . . Sometimes, I do get a feeling of likefeeling unwelcome.

The rejection can be through non-verbal feelings,looks and stares and behaviour – the reverse ofbeing ‘welcomed with open arms’ – or verbal rude-ness. In another location, it was reflected that, ‘In alot of cafes, they say just get on with it . . . it’s push,“hurry up we haven’t got all day” sort of thing’. Theresponse of many people is to, understandably,avoid these places and only visit those venues –such as Whites Cafe above and a church-run cafe –where a welcome is assured. There is a process ofself-exclusion, individuals and groups experiencingabjection and withdrawing. Further, this ‘map’ ofacceptance and rejection is passed on, throughsocial networks, to other PWLD. A clear social geo-graphy of social absence and presence is producedby processes of othering and the separation orabjection of the ‘out of place’ and even potentiallydangerous (see Parr 1997) bodies of PWLD frommainstream society.

Another prime site of public space interactionfor PWLD is public transport. Families and carersencourage sole travel or travel in small groups togain confidence and independence, but it can oftenbe a difficult experience:

Ed: If you go on the bus, do you find that okay?Sarah: Yes, sometimes I’m a wee bit nervous ‘cos

people call me ‘mongol’ and that, it’s notvery nice!

Winifred: Horrible.Jane: Horrible.Sarah: And people call me ‘specky’, and all that!Jane: Not very nice.Winifred: That’s terrible.Sarah: And I’m not having it.Jane: No, you’re not having it.Sarah: And it hurts my feelings sometimes. And I

often help out the helpless lady and takeher bag and trolley onto the bus.

PWLD respond to these uncomfortable, intimidatingand sometimes frightening experiences of bodily

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and social rejection on public transport in severalways: by travelling together, by giving each othersupport when the stories of travel are told (note thecollective nature of the narrative above, affirming –‘not very nice’ – and encouraging – ‘no, you’re nothaving it’), and in many cases by self-exclusionthrough the use of private minibuses, taxis and familycars. Again, absence from public space is a combin-ation of discrimination and abuse and self-exclusion.

A more serious, yet not uncommon, experience(Enable 1999) involved the physical abuse of aPWLD on the street, walking between a day carecentre and her home. Such an attack is an extremeform of othering of a person seen as out of place, andencourages withdrawal from mainstream social spaces:

Mandy[supporter]: What about that story about something

that happened to Geraldine, that wasn’tvery nice?

Janine: Yes, the schoolboys hitting stones to her,as she came over from the centre as shewas going home.

Winifred: Aye, you told me about that.Mandy: Is she okay now?Janine: Yes, she’s fine. The boys hitting her with

stones, the lady looking after her went tosort it out. The boy from the house . . . sothey reported it. Just came and hit herwith stones.

David: With a stone?Janine: Aye, Geraldine got hit with a stone this

week.David: Oh yeah.Jane: Oh, what a shame! What a shame.

There is a powerful sense of fear and bewildermentabout this incident; crucially, the group respondscollectively, both in sympathy and anger – ‘Oh, whata shame!’ – for their friend. In another location, agroup of younger people had similar intimidatoryexperiences, with memories of bullying whilst atschool still fresh and which continue for some inlocal public spaces.

Such actions of othering and exclusion, maintain-ing the dominant (mentally capable) order of socialspace by containing the social threat of mental dif-ference (Atkinson

et al.

1997), mean that for manyPWLD theirs is a ‘social life’ of physical presencewithin communities and simultaneous social absencefrom mainstream networks (Pinfold 2000). For somethis can lead to shrinking social worlds (Dyck1995), and limited and very particular social andgeographical networks of safe spaces.

What being included can mean

Those PWLD who are employed, live independentlyand make choices for themselves are understoodas having moved from positions of social exclusionto being socially included, with all of the positiveassociations the term enjoys (Scottish Executive2000). However, for many, experiences of exclusionand rejection continue within the ‘inclusive’ spacesof paid work and independent living. For example,Gordon has worked part-time in a supermarket fillingshelves for 12 years. He’s ‘quite happy’ working oneday a week, but feels he would maybe benefit fromsome more hours, both to feel as though he ‘belongedmore’ and to ‘fill in the gaps’ in the week. Heexplains his limited working time partly through the‘needs’ of the business – ‘I’m just not needed somuch’ – and partly through the working hours restric-tions placed on recipients of welfare benefits. Theserestrictions on Gordon’s participation are compoundedby the negative and openly hostile attitudes andbehaviour that he has experienced at work:

Ed: What are the people like that you workwith?

Gordon: They’re fine. There was a bit of a time, wellit happens in every work place doesn’t it,when there was just . . . It’s not just schoolsyou get it in, it’s workplaces as well. . . .But I don’t take it lying down.

Ed: What would people do?Gordon: They would just say all sorts of, they

would just use all sorts of tones, well, putit this way, a couple of months ago, I wentto the management because it was justgetting ridiculous, it just wouldn’t stop.

Ed: What were they doing?Gordon: Well, they just kept on antagonizing and

taunting me all the time.Kay[supporter]: Did it start from one particular person

and then seem to spread?Gordon: Aye.Irene: People calling you names you mean

Gordon?Gordon: Yeah. People call you names. It’s

unacceptable Irene.Irene: One person called you one name, and

then someone else says it.Gordon: Yes, it’s very contagious. So, what I did

was I just went up to the managers officeand said, ‘Look, I’ve had enough’, I said,‘I want this to stop’, and immediately itwas done.

Ed: So the manager knew what you weretalking about and did something?

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Gordon: Well, he had to know what I was talkingabout or otherwise I was going to say‘Cheerio!’.

Irene: Well done.Gordon: And so um, well, before I worked in the

produce I was on the back door, with achap called Dave, whose very sectarian,very bigoted and all the rest of it. I said tohim one day, I said ‘Dave, do you get areal kick out of antagonizing peoplewith learning disabilities?’. And he just said‘you haven’t got a learning disability’,and I said to him, ‘Well, that’s the mostignorant statement that I’ve ever heard inmy life from you Dave,

everybody

hasgot a learning disability, and don’t youforget!’, and after that I just walked away.

Ed: And did he say anything anymore?Gordon: No, he didn’t say anything, but I knew

what he was thinking, I could tell in hisface.

There are many issues within this narrative.Gordon’s restricted social and spatial position atwork – filling shelves and dealing with the suppliesand waste at the back door, both of which keep himout of direct contact with customers – is reinforcedby name-calling and taunting in relation to hislearning disability; there is a powerful othering ofGordon from the company in its job and hoursallocation (and his not receiving career develop-ment or promotion in 12 years) and from the otheremployees in working alongside this person whois for them ‘out of place’. Even after Gordon hassought the support and protection of the manager,the abjection continues with looks and perceivedthoughts. At one point, an employee challengesGordon’s ‘authenticity’ as a PWLD – he has trans-gressed into a mainstream social space and hencecannot be a bona fide disabled person (Sibley 1999).Gordon, like many disabled people, experiences a‘hostile environment’ at work, both in terms of workallocation and attitudes (

Guardian

2003). He sayshe will continue to work there, but takes a signific-ant psychological and physical risk being employed.It is spatial and economic inclusion (to the extent ofseven hours’ salary), but this also includes the‘normality’ of discrimination, abuse (Reid and Bray1998) and social isolation (Pearson

et al.

2002).Paid employment is the central marker of social

inclusion. However, if economic engagement effec-tively means intimidation and low pay, then formany PWLD continued self-exclusion from paidwork is an understandable path. Others interviewed

had more enjoyable work experiences, within publicsector, voluntary and non-profitmaking organiza-tions where organizational structures, training andexpectations together tended to produce a ‘safespace’ of employment.

Making safe spaces

Despite slowly changing public attitudes and institu-tional policies to improve acceptance and access,many PWLD (with the advice and support of theirfamilies and carers) make the decision to excludethemselves from discriminatory and intimidatingmainstream social spaces and to instead be includedin social networks of friends, families and carers(Parr 2000; Pinfold 2000). For example, most of thoseinterviewed attended the weekly social event run bythe charity ‘Enable’, held in a dedicated centre calledthe ‘Cabin’. The evenings are a mix of activities andsocial interaction:

Ed: Do you go out in the evenings?Janine: Sometimes, on Friday night.Ed: What do you do on Friday?Janine: Club night.Ed: What’s that?Janine: Just do knitting or jigsaws.Ed: Where does that happen?Janine: In the Cabin.Ed: Do you all go there sometimes?Winifred: I used to go years ago . . . I still miss going

to the Cabin because it’s good, ‘cos I like tokeep in contact with them all. I ask Janinehow they’re all getting on.

Ed: So what’s the reason you go to the Cabin?Janine: Just get me out for a wee while.

The ‘Cabin’ and ‘club night’, plus other Enable socialevents, holidays and trips, are spaces and times thatfulfil many functions: as a place of social interactionfor PWLD, as a way of connecting – ‘keeping incontact’ – with other people and issues, events,problems and so on, and as a change from routine –‘just get me out for a wee while’ – and (in the caseof this person) from the care home where they live.For all who attend, its most important role is as aspace, ‘refuge’ even, in which people can feel asense of community and ‘safety’, and where theiridentity as a PWLD can be valued and strengthenedbefore the next encounter with mainstream society(Philo

et al.

2002; Pinfold 2000). Recently, this hasbecome a much more important issue with theprogressive closure of long-stay hospitals (ScottishExecutive 2000) that provided places of refuge forsome in the past, despite their social and spatial

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exclusion (Milligan 1999). Other forms and spacesof refuge – such as care homes – are being soughtas a replacement to avoid the ‘fall between thecracks’ for those whose support diminishes ordisappears in social care restructuring (Gleeson andKearns 2001; Park

et al.

1998).For many PWLD, it is neither possible nor desir-

able for them to ‘achieve’ social inclusion on theprescribed bases of employment, housing and socialactivity. Instead, for some, institutional care andsupport may be the most appropriate space forleading a safe and peaceful life, protected from the‘stresses of everyday life’ (Milligan 1999, 234). Forothers, perhaps those with more ability and confi-dence, alternative spaces of inclusion may meannetworks and activities that provide opportunitiesfor those (self )excluded. For example, Rhona, throughthe confidence gained in association with a groupof friends (and wider social networks), frequentlyenters quasi-public spaces – the local cinema, bowl-ing alley and pubs – to assert her presence in main-stream society. The experiences of life on the ‘outerfringes’ of mainstream society has for some PWLDbeen transformed into a sense of collective identity,and even ‘a strategy for resistance or survival’ (Sibley1998, 120), through the development of networks ofpeople, groups and spaces where learning disabilityis accepted, valued and normalized.

Conclusion: beyond social inclusion?

This paper has presented a nuanced account of theeveryday social geographies of PWLD. It has arguedthat the policy of social inclusion establishes criteriathat many PWLD cannot or do not want to fulfiland, at the same time, marginalizes the alternativespaces and roles that many generate. Further, whatsocial inclusion does not account for or tackle is the

socio-spatial context

within which people live, work(or not) and socialize, specifically discrimination,abuse and rejection by individuals, groups and in-stitutions. PWLD have responded by self-excludingfrom certain public spaces and places and byactively making ‘safe spaces’ and networks, wherenew forms of ‘normality’ and inclusion can be shaped.This everyday support is crucial for many PWLD tosustain their lives and provide places of safety andrefuge. However, the growing political activity ofsome PWLD (

Guardian

2001) is broadening theirnetworks beyond these communities and engagingwith mainstream spaces and issues.

8

It is vital thatsocial geographers respond to this, firstly, through a

sustained critique of the employment-focused socialinclusion strategy for PWLD and, secondly, througha strong advocacy of a broad notion of social justiceand access. Importantly, this would be an

enabling

socio-spatial justice – rather than simply inclusioninto an unchallenged disablist society – recognizingthe need to reimagine the cultural, political andphysical structures of society to enable full parti-cipation of PWLD (and all people of mental andbodily difference) (Gleeson 1999). This would involvethe creation of ‘enabling environments’ (Swain

et al.

1993), that is, the remaking of the public andprivate spaces within which the participants in thisresearch live their lives – home, street, work andcare – into spaces where they could satisfy theirmaterial needs (through benefits and/or work), par-ticipate in politics and decisionmaking, and achievesocio-spatial inclusion (Gleeson 1999, 150), cruciallyall

on their terms

. Self-advocacy is the key tool inthis ‘raising of the voices’ of PWLD (Goodley 2000),both in rearticulating the debate in the interests ofPWLD and in working towards including learningdisability within the social model of disability andthe disability movement (Chappell 1998), a movewhich would resocialize, culturize and politicizelearning disability (and in doing so regain it fromdamaging medicalization and individualization),making further resistance and true inclusion possible.

Acknowledgements

Thanks to all those who took part in the interviews, and toLena Gillies at Enable. This paper was presented at a semi-nar in the Department of Geography at the University ofDundee; I would like to thank all who attended for theirincisive questioning and support. The two referees’ com-ments were constructive and very useful. The research onwhich this paper draws was funded by an RGS-IBG SmallResearch Grant 2002.

Notes

1 The paper uses the term ‘learning disability’, in preferenceto ‘learning difficulty’, ‘intellectual disability’, ‘mentalhandicap’ or ‘mental retardation’, for the principal reasonthat it is the term used in Scottish and UK policy docu-ments (which the paper is partly concerned with critiqu-ing), in health and care services and in popular discourseto describe all those with intellectual impairment. It isacknowledged that ‘learning disability’ has a specific (edu-cational) terminological history within the normalizationphilosophy of social integration which does not includethose with mental retardation or multiple physical and

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305

intellectual impairments (Hall and Kearns 2001; Rennie2001), that the UK self-advocacy movement prefers theterm ‘learning difficulty’ for its progressive connotations(Harris 1995), and that internationally ‘intellectual disabil-ity’ is dominantly used (Park and Radford 1999).

2 There are no reliable statistics for the number of PWLD, dueto non-standardized definitions (see note 1) and assess-ments and a significant number of people not registeringfor social care support. Estimates, based on research evi-dence, indicate a prevalence of 3–4 per 1000 with severeand 25–30 per 1000 with mild learning disability in the UK(Foundation for People with Learning Disabilities 2001).

3 The majority of PWLD were never housed within asylums(large, isolated residential care complexes). Most livedwith their families or in other forms of residential care inlocal communities (Bartlett and Wright 1999). Also, formal‘community care’ for PWLD was in place long before dein-stitutionalization, beginning with the Mental DeficiencyAct 1913, which made it a duty of local authorities toascertain, certify and, where necessary, institutionalize‘mental defectives’ (Hughes 1998).

4 Laws and Radford (1998) employed interviewers experi-enced in interacting with PWLD; in this research theauthor undertook the interviewing.

5 The locations were: a college, a learning disability socialclub, a training centre, a skills centre and the Enableoffices. Four interviews took place in October and Novem-ber 2002, and one in January 2003.

6 This paper deals with the overall everyday geographies ofPWLD in Scotland; a future paper will discuss differencesbetween urban, suburban and rural experiences.

7 All names have been changed.8 Political activity organized by PWLD is a relatively new

development (Hall and Kearns 2001); issues of compe-tency, dependency and mental difference have togetherkept PWLD out of the broader disability movement(Chappell 1998). The ‘self-advocacy movement’ is beingpioneered by the campaigning group ‘People First’(

Guardian

2001) and supported by other charities andorganizations (

Guardian

2002; Goodley 2000).

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