Grumble
grumble grumble. Transportation. It remains one of the biggest obstacles for
people with disabilities, especially if you can't get out of the chair to
travel. If you can get into the vehicle at all on public transit, it's usually
in a tiny cramped space that smells like an armpit. Backpacks and pocketbooks
swing in my face, and there I am, at “butt level”, hoping that nobody has gas.
Then,
there is paratransit, the charming alternative offering door-to-door service on
a smaller bus just for people with disabilities. Paratransit buses, like the “short
buses” I rode in high school, are known for being only vaguely reliable, and
they usually offer their passengers very large time windows, as though they
have nothing better to do all day than wait for buses and leave home at 7:03
for a job that starts at 9am in an office two blocks away. These rides often
feature drivers who tell inane, unfunny jokes and feel the need to narrate your
ride on the lift with condescending “wheeeee!” noises. After the very thing
happened earlier this week, I feel very compelled to say “wheee” the next time
one of these ambulatory offenders climbs up the stairs and compliment him on
his skilled and inspiring use of his limbs. I could go on about transportation
all day, but that is for another article.
The
other morning, paratransit wanted to pick me up at 7:32 although my academic commitment,
some ten minutes away does not start until 9 AM. My personal assistant does not
come until 7 AM, so unless we had superpowers, being ready in 32 minutes was
just not going to happen. Clearly, whoever makes the bus schedule has never
tried to put on pants with cerebral palsy, or experienced the feeling that
sitting up on the side of the bed can't be that different from the “insanity
workout” many of my peers have mentioned. Being ready in 32 minutes is an
enchanting thought, but it is only possible in the world of paratransit, where
we fill out ten pages of paperwork about our every impairment, only to be
treated as though we should be able to race out the door whenever they see fit.
In
light of the fact that having pants on is a prerequisite for most professional
endeavors (I say most to be open-minded), and I knew I couldn't possibly be
dressed that quickly, my other assistant and I made the daring decision to
check the regular bus schedule and join the masses. After settling into my tiny
little space, praying for safety in the sea of butts and backpacks, I was off
to meet the day.
Then,
the driver said loudly: “Is the wheelchair ready?” Hm. Last time I checked, the
wheelchair is not able to answer any questions. I am not ashamed of my
wheelchair and I don't have a problem acknowledging it, but I don't appreciate
my entire identity being swallowed up by it, as if an empty wheelchair is riding
the bus, ready for a successful day. The image is amusing, my wheelchair motoring
through town independently. The way the driver objectified me made me feel as
though my wheelchair goes out by itself and picks me up at daycare after work.
I am still cracking myself up picturing it rolling through the door and saying,
"Honey, I'm home!” All jokes aside, I am still a person, and even though I
have a wheelchair, the fact that there is a person in it should not be
forgotten. The reality that everyday speech allows for our humanity to
evaporate into the metal and plastic and overpriced neoprene on which we sit
says something about the way society treats us. Words lead to actions, and
based on this woman’s words, I am just a wheelchair.
The
driver also addressed me as “wheelchair”, as though I should be expected to
answer not to a name, but to the mention of my mobility device. My wheelchair
is very much part of who I am, but it is not me, it is just the way I get around. If this were truly a way to
talk about people, then maybe next time I should address her by saying “Hey
legs!” in a loud voice and assume that she will answer.
Because
I know this phrase often comes up in situations like this, I will add I have
never been a fan of the colorful, often cheesy posters beckoning people to “SEE
ME, NOT THE WHEELCHAIR.” While I don't want my personhood to disappear into the
wheelchair, I do not think my wheelchair should have to be treated as invisible
to see the person sitting in it. Acting
like my wheelchair has to go away in order for me to earn my personhood at best
triggers the hilarious image of non-disabled people putting on some kind of new
age goggles that make me appear as though I’m sitting on thin air. At worst, it
triggers the thought that others don’t see “wheelchair” and “person” as
compatible. If you can only see me as a person when you don’t see the
wheelchair, it implies that the presence of the wheelchair negates the ability
to treat its occupant as a human being. My wheelchair is my constant companion,
and rather than calling me “a wheelchair” or willing the chair away in order to
see me, I challenge you to see me and the
wheelchair, and at the same time, see someone who is moving along in the world,
looking for the same opportunities that so many people take for granted.
