Faultlines Canon Wiki: Ellen Matsuda and Joey Matsuda — Relationship¶
Overview¶
The relationship between Dr. Ellen Patricia Moore Matsuda and her youngest child Joseph "Joey" William Matsuda, born June 20, 1987, is characterized by Joey's radical innocence meeting Ellen's exhausted expertise, by questions nobody wanted to answer asked with eight-year-old directness, and by love that persists through family crisis after crisis. Joey entered the Faultlines narrative at age eight during the worst year of his family's life—1995, when Cody attempted suicide and lost his voice, when Pattie fought everyone, when Susie left for Stanford carrying guilt she didn't deserve.
Ellen, already stretched impossibly thin by her demanding advocacy work and three older children's complex needs, found in Joey both blessing and challenge. He was sweet, affectionate, loving—the "easier" child who didn't require constant school interventions like Pattie or medical crisis management like Cody. But his zero-filter honesty and literal autistic thinking meant he asked the questions that cut straight through adult euphemisms: "What does that mean? Suicide?" "But he's not dead...Right? He's still alive?" "Why did Cody want to stop living?" "Will he try again?"
Ellen tried to explain the unexplainable during a Saturday morning family meeting in spring 1995, watching her youngest child process trauma through questions she could barely answer herself. Joey's response was characteristically innocent—he drew a picture of their family with stick figures labeled MOM, DAD, SUSIE, PATTIE, JOEY, CODY, with Cody's stick figure smiling, everyone together and happy. Ellen brought that drawing to the hospital and propped it on Cody's bedside table, the simple hope of an eight-year-old sitting beside complex medical equipment.
Years later, Joey would self-identify as autistic in his late twenties (around 2012-2017), recognizing traits that had always been present but invisible within a neurodivergent family. Ellen's response was characteristically direct: "Yeah, we knew." The relationship evolved from mother protecting innocent child through family crisis to mother and adult son both understanding the neurodivergent patterns they'd always shared, both contributing to the Moore-Matsuda legacy of disability rights advocacy.
Origins¶
Joey was born June 20, 1987, Ellen's fourth and youngest child after Susie (born 1977), Cody (born 1979), and Pattie (born 1982). Ellen was in her mid-to-late thirties, nearly a decade into balancing demanding disability services oversight work with raising children. By the time Joey arrived, Ellen had already navigated Susie's gentle perfection, Cody's twice-exceptional brilliance and emerging chronic illness, and Pattie's explosive AuDHD chaos.
Joey was the baby, arriving when Ellen was exhausted but experienced, when household routines were established, when the older siblings could help with childcare in ways that lightened Ellen's load. Susie, age ten when Joey was born, became his second mother—reading to him at bedtime, helping with homework, playing with him even when busy with her own rigorous schedule. This allowed Ellen to continue her advocacy work with slightly less guilt, knowing Joey had Susie's nurturing presence.
From infancy, Joey was sweet-natured and affectionate, easier in temperament than Pattie had been, not requiring the constant vigilance that Cody's gullibility and social vulnerability demanded. Ellen could focus on her older children's more acute needs—Cody's undiagnosed chronic fatigue developing around 1993-1995, Pattie's constant school suspensions—while Joey simply...was. He played, he asked questions, he loved freely, he hero-worshiped his siblings.
But "easier" didn't mean Ellen was fully present. She still worked until nine or ten PM regularly, still prioritized other people's disabled children in institutional settings, still received Greg's nightly calls asking "Have you eaten dinner?" to which she lied and said yes. Joey grew up in a household where disability advocacy was dinner conversation, where ASL would become family language after Cody's crisis, where neurodivergence was normal even before anyone had diagnostic vocabulary for most of the family's autism.
Joey's autistic traits—zero filter, concrete literal thinking, difficulty with implied social rules, radical honesty—looked like normal family communication in a house full of autistic people. When everyone in your household is literal, being literal isn't a symptom. When everyone stims, stimming isn't weird. When everyone needs routine, routine isn't rigidity. With family attention focused on Cody's crisis and Pattie's explosive behavior, Joey was simply the sweet youngest child who didn't cause problems.
Dynamics and Communication¶
The communication dynamic between Ellen and Joey reflects both Ellen's direct communication style and Joey's zero-filter autistic honesty. Ellen doesn't engage in subtext or emotional games—she states clearly what she means, a trait that works beautifully for Joey's literal thinking. When Joey asks questions, even painful ones, Ellen answers as honestly as age-appropriateness allows rather than deflecting or lying.
At age eight in spring 1995, Joey's questions about Cody's suicide attempt cut through every adult euphemism Ellen might have preferred to use. "What does that mean? Suicide?" he asked during the Saturday morning family meeting, his innocent confusion breaking everyone's hearts. Ellen tried to hold herself together for the younger kids, particularly Joey, while explaining the unexplainable.
Susie helped, explaining as gently as she could: "It means he...he tried to make himself stop living, Joey." The fear in Joey's voice was palpable: "But he's not dead...Right? He's still alive?" Ellen confirmed yes, Cody was alive, but the follow-up questions kept coming—"Why did Cody want to stop living?" "Will he try again?" "Can I see him?" Each question required answers Ellen was barely capable of providing while managing her own devastation.
Joey's communication was characteristically direct and literal. He took Ellen's explanations at face value, applied family teachings uniformly without understanding implied exceptions. If Ellen taught that people who love each other get married, then Cody and Andy should get married—simple logic. When Joey asked Andy at a family dinner "Are you and Cody gonna get married?" and every adult looked mortified, Joey was genuinely confused. "Mama said people who love each other get married sometimes," he explained. "Cody said 'love you' on the phone yesterday. I heard him."
Ellen's response to Joey's innocent homophobia-free logic was to suppress a smile while other adults looked uncomfortable. Joey had zero internalized prejudice, just applied Ellen's teachings uniformly. The Moore family values—love is love, disability is neutral, justice matters—were internalized by Joey without the social filters that might have taught him not to ask such direct questions in mixed company.
Throughout Joey's childhood, Ellen communicated through practical care and intellectual engagement. She explained things directly when he asked, maintained household routines that provided stability, validated his feelings without dismissing them. When Joey was terrified after Pattie came home exhausted from the Backstreet Boys concert in October 1998, asking repeatedly if the baby was okay, if she was breathing, Ellen didn't tell him he was being silly. She, Greg, and eleven-year-old Joey stood at the foot of Pattie's bed watching her chest rise and fall, reassuring him that she was breathing just fine.
Years later, when Joey self-identified as autistic in his late twenties around 2012-2017, Ellen's response was characteristically direct: "Yeah, we knew." She'd recognized his traits throughout childhood—the zero filter, the literal thinking, the pattern recognition, the radical honesty. But in a neurodivergent household where three of four children were autistic (Cody, Pattie, Joey) and Greg was autistic too, Joey's presentation didn't stand out as requiring intervention. He was simply being himself in a family where his neurology was the baseline.
Cultural Architecture¶
Joey Matsuda grew up in the particular cultural invisibility of the youngest child in a crisis-defined household—the one whose needs were real but never urgent enough to compete with a brother's suicide attempt, a sister's school suspensions, or a father's undiagnosed autism. In the Matsuda family's cultural ecosystem, where neurodivergence was baseline and accommodation was atmospheric, Joey's autistic traits didn't register as traits at all. They registered as Joey being Joey, in a house where everyone was some version of that.
The cultural architecture of Joey's relationship with Ellen is shaped by the intersection of three forces: the Moore family's wealthy white progressive activism, the Matsuda household's Japanese-American and neurodivergent communication norms, and the specific American cultural failure to see autism in children who aren't struggling visibly. Joey's zero-filter honesty, his literal thinking, his pattern recognition, his inability to parse social subtext—in a neurotypical household, these would have triggered concern, evaluation, possibly diagnosis. In the Matsuda household, they were simply how people talked. When your father communicates in precise, unmodulated sentences because he's an undiagnosed autistic Japanese-American professor, when your brother uses AAC because he can't speak, when your sister blurts things without filtering because her ADHD won't let her not—your own literalness isn't a symptom. It's family language.
This diagnostic invisibility was simultaneously protective and limiting. Joey was spared the pathologization that defined Pattie's childhood—no school suspensions, no behavioral intervention plans, no adults calling him "willful" or "defiant." But he was also denied language for his own experience until his late twenties, when he stumbled onto autism descriptions online and recognized himself. The Moore-Matsuda household's cultural strength—making accommodation universal rather than individual—had the unintended consequence of making Joey's autism invisible even to a mother whose professional life was built on seeing disability.
Ellen's response to Joey's self-identification—"Yeah, we knew"—carries the weight of white progressive disability advocacy meeting Japanese-American family pragmatism. Ellen had recognized Joey's traits for decades but hadn't pushed for diagnosis because the household already accommodated him, because he wasn't struggling in ways that demanded clinical intervention, because the Moore family philosophy said identity first, labels second. Greg's influence is also here: the Japanese-American cultural tendency to accept family members as they are rather than pathologize difference, combined with Greg's own experience of living undiagnosed for fifty years and being fine—or at least functional—without a label.
Joey's internalization of Moore family values without social filters produced moments that exposed the cultural architecture in sharp relief. "Are you and Cody gonna get married?" was an eight-year-old applying his mother's teaching—love is love, people who love each other get married—with the pure logic of an autistic child who had never learned to filter universal principles through social convention. The question made adults uncomfortable not because it was wrong but because it was right, and Joey's zero-filter delivery stripped away the comfortable ambiguity that allowed progressive families to hold egalitarian values in theory while navigating homophobic social realities in practice. Joey didn't navigate. He applied the rule. The rule was correct.
This dynamic—Moore family values plus autistic literalness producing a person who applies justice frameworks without social lubrication—would eventually define Joey's career as a disability rights lawyer. The cultural inheritance is direct: Ellen's radical belief that "that's just how things are" is never acceptable, Greg's autistic precision and intolerance for logical inconsistency, the Moore family's generational wealth providing educational access, and Joey's own zero-filter communication style. The result is a mixed-race, autistic disability rights attorney who terrifies opposing counsel with facts and has no patience for the kind of institutional doublespeak his mother spent her career dismantling. The cultural architecture built him for this, even if no one planned it.
Shared History and Milestones¶
June 20, 1987: Joey's Birth Joey was born Ellen's fourth and youngest child when she was in her mid-to-late thirties, nearly a decade into balancing advocacy work with motherhood. His arrival completed the Matsuda sibling constellation—Susie the nurturer, Cody the brilliant, Pattie the fierce, Joey the sweet baby.
Spring 1995: Cody's Suicide Attempt (Joey Age 8) The crisis that defined Joey's childhood came in spring 1995 when Cody attempted suicide by overdosing on Fluoxetine. Joey was eight years old, in second or third grade, when his world shattered. Ellen tried to explain the unexplainable during a Saturday morning family meeting, watching Joey curl against Susie while Pattie exploded with fury and punched a hole in the wall.
"What does that mean? Suicide?" Joey asked, the innocent question breaking everyone's hearts. Susie explained as gently as she could. The fear in Joey's voice was palpable: "But he's not dead...Right? He's still alive?"
While the family fell apart—Ellen exhausted, Pattie raging, Susie trying to hold everyone together—Joey did what eight-year-olds do when processing trauma: he drew a picture. He sat at the kitchen table with his crayons and carefully created their house with stick figures labeled MOM, DAD, SUSIE, PATTIE, JOEY, CODY. Cody's stick figure was smiling. In Joey's drawing, everyone was together and happy, because that was the world he needed to exist.
Ellen brought that drawing to the hospital and propped it on Cody's bedside table. The simple innocence of Joey's vision—Cody smiling, the family whole—sat beside the complex medical equipment keeping Cody alive. Ellen looked at that drawing and sobbed, recognizing both the impossibility and the necessity of protecting Joey's innocence even as their family transformed irrevocably.
Summer 1995: Cody and Andy's Relationship That summer, Joey met Andy Davis when Cody's relationship became official. At a family dinner with the entire Moore-Matsuda clan present, Joey watched Cody light up when Andy arrived, observed them holding hands under the table, and heard Cody's AAC device announce to the entire room: "YOU'RE MY BOYFRIEND."
Joey processed this information with characteristic eight-year-old directness. "Are you and Cody gonna get married?" he asked Andy, genuinely confused when every adult at the table suddenly seemed very interested in their food. "Mama said people who love each other get married sometimes," he explained. "Cody said 'love you' on the phone yesterday. I heard him."
Ellen watched her youngest child apply family values with perfect logic and zero social filter, demonstrating that the "won't someone think of the children" rhetoric was bullshit—Joey wasn't damaged or confused by Cody being gay, just accepting. To Joey, the equation was straightforward: People who love each other get married. Cody loves Andy. Therefore, they should get married. Why was everyone being weird about this?
Fall 1995: Susie Leaving for Stanford When Susie left for Stanford in fall 1995, Joey's world rocked again. He begged her not to go, cried, asked when she was coming back. Ellen stepped up more, tried to fill the gap Susie's absence created, but she couldn't be the second mother Susie had been. Joey missed bedtime stories, felt abandoned even though it wasn't true, had to adjust to another loss in a year full of losses.
Ellen recognized Joey's grief but was already stretched impossibly thin between her demanding work, Cody's recovery, and Pattie's ongoing behavioral challenges. She did her best—maintained routines, validated Joey's feelings, ensured he knew Susie still loved him—but she couldn't fully replace what he'd lost.
October 24, 1998: Pattie's Concert and Joey's Fear (Joey Age 11) By October 1998, Joey was eleven years old and had spent seven months watching Pattie go through pregnancy—throwing up constantly, crying at random times, being in visible pain. When she came home from the Backstreet Boys concert at 10:42 PM completely exhausted and barely conscious, Joey appeared at the top of the stairs clutching his GameBoy, eyes wide with fear.
"What's wrong with Pattie?" his voice came out high and scared. Even after Ellen reassured him that nothing was wrong—Pattie was just very tired from the concert—Joey couldn't process "tired" as normal. "She's walking," Joey pointed out, confused and frightened. "How can she be asleep and walking?" He asked repeatedly if the baby was okay, if something bad happened.
"Can I make sure she's breathing?" he asked after they got Pattie settled. "Sometimes people stop breathing when they're really tired." Greg understood—Joey had been watching his teenage sister go through a pregnancy that terrified him. All three of them—Greg, Ellen, and Joey—stood at the foot of Pattie's bed watching her chest rise and fall, listening to her steady snoring, reassuring Joey that she was breathing just fine.
Later that night, Joey asked to sleep in his parents' room, something he hadn't done in years. "What if something happens to Pattie while she's sleeping?" he worried. Eleven years old, trying so hard to be brave, loving his sister so much he couldn't stand to see her hurt. Ellen let him sleep on their floor, understanding that sometimes presence matters more than independence.
2012-2017: Joey's Self-Identification as Autistic (Late 20s) When Joey was in his late twenties, around 2012-2017 (ages 25-30), he self-identified as autistic after reading about autism and neurodivergence online. He recognized himself in descriptions, talked to Greg and Cody: "Wait, I do that too..." He didn't pursue formal diagnosis because he didn't need it for himself—knowing was enough.
Ellen's response when Joey told her was characteristically direct: "Yeah, we knew." She'd recognized his traits throughout childhood but hadn't pushed for diagnosis because home was already neurodivergent-friendly, because he wasn't struggling in ways that required intervention, because with three other autistic children and an autistic husband, Joey's neurology was simply normal family baseline.
Joey's self-identification gave him language for his experience, helped him make sense of childhood patterns through a neurodivergent lens. Looking back: "OH. That's why I kept accidentally insulting people." The family response: "Yeah, we knew." Relief at having vocabulary, validation that he wasn't weird but autistic, framework for understanding his zero filter and pure logic that had made him accidentally legendary in online debate spaces.
Public vs. Private Life¶
In public spaces during Joey's childhood, Ellen and Joey's relationship appeared as busy professional mother and sweet youngest child. Ellen attended Joey's school events when she could, but her demanding advocacy work meant she wasn't as present as she'd been for Susie or even for Cody's early years. Joey was the fourth child, the "easier" one who didn't require constant school interventions or crisis management.
Observers might have seen Ellen as distant, absorbed in work, not fully present for her youngest. They would have missed the private moments—Ellen explaining suicide to an eight-year-old with heartbreaking honesty, standing at Pattie's bedside at midnight reassuring eleven-year-old Joey she was breathing, bringing Joey's crayon drawing to the hospital and propping it beside Cody's bed.
In private, the relationship revealed Ellen's fierce protective love filtered through exhaustion. She answered Joey's impossible questions as honestly as she could, validated his fears without dismissing them, maintained routines that provided stability even when everything else was chaos. She couldn't be the second mother Susie had been, couldn't fill every gap, but she showed up when it mattered most.
Ellen's professional expertise in disability advocacy meant she recognized Joey's autistic traits throughout childhood but didn't push for diagnosis because he was thriving in the neurodivergent-friendly household they'd created. In public, she might defend his blunt honesty when others called it rudeness. In private, she appreciated that Joey said exactly what he meant, that his zero filter was refreshing after decades of navigating neurotypical social performance.
Emotional Landscape¶
Ellen's love for Joey is profound and complicated by guilt. He was her baby, her youngest, sweet-natured and affectionate—but he was also the child who got the least of her focused attention. By the time Joey was eight, Ellen had already been stretching herself thin for two decades. Cody's suicide attempt, Pattie's explosive behavior, Susie's quiet overfunction—all of it meant Joey often came fourth by default, not by preference.
Ellen's guilt manifests in the moments she remembers clearly—Joey's drawing of the happy family, his question "What does that mean? Suicide?", his fear watching Pattie barely conscious from exhaustion. She wishes she'd been more present during his childhood, wishes she hadn't worked until ten PM so regularly, wishes Joey hadn't had to grow up in the shadow of family crisis after crisis.
But Ellen's pride in Joey is equally profound. He grew up sweet despite trauma, applied Moore family values with perfect logic, became the kind of person who dismantled homophobic arguments online with pure logic and zero patience for bullshit. He self-identified as autistic and contributed to disability rights work, continuing the family legacy. Ellen watches her youngest child carry forward the values she tried to instill and knows that despite her absences, despite the crises, Joey turned out beautifully.
For Joey, the emotional landscape regarding Ellen is characterized by love and understanding. Even when Ellen was working late, even when she couldn't fill the gap Susie's departure created, Joey knew his mother loved him. The practical care, the honest answers to impossible questions, the midnight vigils at Pattie's bedside—all of it communicated love in ways Joey's autistic brain understood clearly.
Joey's childhood fear—"Sometimes people stop breathing when they're really tired," "What if something happens to Pattie while she's sleeping?"—reflected trauma from Cody's suicide attempt that Ellen couldn't fully prevent or heal. But Ellen's response—standing with him watching Pattie breathe, letting him sleep on their bedroom floor—demonstrated that even when she couldn't fix things, she could provide presence and reassurance.
As adults, the emotional connection between Ellen and Joey evolved into mutual respect and shared advocacy work. Joey eventually became a disability rights lawyer, terrifying opposing counsel with pure logic and zero tolerance for bullshit—the same traits that made him ask "Are you and Cody gonna get married?" at age eight now weaponized for justice. Ellen recognized herself in her youngest child's fierce commitment to dismantling ableist systems.
Intersection with Health and Access¶
Ellen's professional expertise in disability services meant she recognized Joey's autistic traits throughout childhood—the zero filter, the literal thinking, the pattern recognition, the radical honesty. But in a neurodivergent household where three of four children were autistic (Cody diagnosed ages 20-22, Pattie diagnosed in adulthood in 2000s-2010s, Joey self-identified late 20s) and Greg was autistic too, Joey's presentation didn't stand out as requiring intervention.
Joey didn't struggle the way Pattie struggled with school suspensions or the way Cody struggled with chronic illness. He was "easier"—not because his autism was milder but because the household accommodations already existed. Everyone signed after 1995. Direct communication was family baseline. Literal thinking was normal. Routines were maintained. Stimming wasn't weird. Joey simply existed in an environment already adapted to autistic neurology.
Ellen didn't push for formal diagnosis during Joey's childhood because he was thriving, because diagnosis in the 1990s-2000s wouldn't have provided supports he didn't already have at home, because the family's energy was focused on more acute crises. This wasn't neglect but recognition that Joey's needs were already being met through the neurodivergent-friendly systems they'd built for Cody, Pattie, and Greg.
When Joey self-identified as autistic in his late twenties, Ellen's response—"Yeah, we knew"—validated that she'd seen his neurology throughout childhood but hadn't pathologized it. Joey got the language when he needed it, pursued or didn't pursue formal diagnosis based on his own needs, claimed autistic identity on his own terms. Ellen's disability advocacy philosophy extended to her own youngest child: self-determination, autonomy, accommodation without requiring diagnostic gatekeeping.
Crises and Transformations¶
Spring 1995: Cody's Suicide Attempt (Joey Age 8) The crisis that transformed Joey's childhood and his relationship with Ellen was Cody's suicide attempt. At eight years old, Joey learned what suicide meant during the Saturday morning family meeting where Ellen tried to explain the unexplainable. His questions—"What does that mean? Suicide?" "But he's not dead...Right?" "Why did Cody want to stop living?"—required answers Ellen could barely provide while managing her own devastation.
Joey's response was characteristically innocent—he drew a picture of the family with everyone smiling, everyone together. Ellen brought that drawing to the hospital, recognizing both the impossibility and necessity of protecting Joey's innocence even as their family transformed irrevocably. This crisis taught Joey that people you love can almost die, that families survive devastating trauma, that love persists even through worst-case scenarios.
Fall 1995: Susie's Departure When Susie left for Stanford, Joey experienced another loss in a year full of losses. His second mother was gone, and Ellen had to step up more despite being already stretched impossibly thin. The crisis of Susie's departure meant Joey learned that people you love can leave and it doesn't mean they stopped loving you—but it still hurts.
October 1998: Pattie's Pregnancy Crisis (Joey Age 11) When Pattie came home from the concert barely conscious from exhaustion, Joey's terror—"Can I make sure she's breathing?"—reflected trauma from watching Cody almost die three years earlier. Ellen and Greg's response—standing with him at Pattie's bedside, letting him sleep on their bedroom floor—demonstrated that even when they couldn't prevent his fear, they could provide presence through it.
2012-2017: Self-Identification as Autistic Joey's self-identification as autistic in his late twenties transformed his understanding of his own neurology and his relationship with Ellen. Learning that she'd known all along, that she'd recognized his traits but hadn't pathologized them, validated Ellen's approach to parenting neurodivergent children. Joey got language for his experience on his own timeline, claimed autistic identity on his own terms, continued the family legacy of disability rights advocacy informed by lived experience.
Legacy and Lasting Impact¶
Ellen's legacy in Joey's life is the Moore family values applied with eight-year-old logic: love is love, disability is neutral, justice matters, question everything. Joey internalized these teachings so completely that he applied them uniformly without social filters, asking "Are you and Cody gonna get married?" because if people who love each other get married, then obviously Cody and Andy should marry.
Ellen taught Joey through practical example that disability advocacy was family work, that showing up through crisis mattered more than being perfect, that accommodations were legitimate and necessary. Joey absorbed these lessons and eventually became a disability rights lawyer, weaponizing his zero filter and pure logic to dismantle ableist systems.
The lasting impact is Joey continuing the Moore-Matsuda legacy into a new generation. Ellen's fierce protection of disabled people in institutional settings, her refusal to accept "that's just how things are," her insistence on autonomy and dignity—all of it lives on in Joey's legal work terrifying opposing counsel with facts and zero tolerance for bullshit.
For Ellen, Joey represents both her "easiest" child and the one she feels most guilty about not being fully present for during childhood. But watching him thrive as an adult, watching him carry forward family values, watching him contribute to disability rights advocacy—all of it vindicates that even imperfect parenting, even absences and crises, can produce beautiful outcomes when core values are strong and love is unconditional.
Joey's story demonstrates that being the youngest child in a family defined by crisis isn't tragic but formative, that growing up surrounded by neurodivergent family members creates environment where autism is simply baseline, that radical innocence combined with fierce values can produce adults who change systems rather than accept injustice.
Canonical Cross-References¶
Related Entries: [Ellen Matsuda – Biography]; [Ellen Matsuda – Career and Legacy]; [Joey Matsuda – Biography]; [Greg Matsuda – Biography]; [Cody Matsuda – Biography]; [Pattie Matsuda – Biography]; [Susie Matsuda – Biography]; [Andy Davis – Biography]; [Matsuda Family – Family Tree]; [Autism Reference]
Revision History¶
Entry created 10/24/2025 following Relationship Template. All details drawn from character biography files for Ellen Matsuda and Joey Matsuda, documenting Joey's innocent processing of Cody's suicide attempt age 8, "What does that mean? Suicide?" question, crayon drawing of happy family, "Are you gonna get married?" question to Andy, fear during Pattie's pregnancy, self-identification as autistic late 20s with Ellen's response "Yeah, we knew," continuing Moore-Matsuda disability rights legacy.