Disabled for a Day

All right, you got me. The title of this post is a misnomer. I went for the alliteration, but the truth is, I was only "disabled" for about 45 minutes.

When my friend Saadiya asked if anyone was available to ride around the Cornell Store in a wheelchair yesterday afternoon, I responded that I was free and would be glad to do it. I thought it would be fun. I met up with Saadiya, Ross (who would be hobbling around on crutches) and some campus leaders/administrators in the area of accessibility.

Right away, I needed assistance. The handicap accessible entry to the Cornell store is a buzz-in entrance, you have to ring a bell, it's the employee entrance. You can't go in all by yourself. Then, when I sat in the chair, I needed people to hold my things for me. I felt so small as my peers towered over me.

Now, I'm not a very tall person. But I've been told I can have an imposing presence when I want to have one, and I've often taken advantage of my "big personality" to do just that. In a wheelchair, that was taken away from me. In order to interact with anyone, I had to crane my neck to look up at them. People started moving around me with great care. I needed space to maneuver because I was clumsy with the wheels. People were extra polite and patient with me, but not out of respect--out of pity.

My first task was to try to "mail" something at the PostMarket. Fail #1. The stantions (is that what they're called...those things that delineate waiting lines?) were so packed together that there was no way I could get through. A number of people in line shuffled about nervously, trying to move them so I could navigate.

I kept saying, "I'm fine, I'm fine, I got it." I wanted them to know I wasn't actually disabled. And instantly, I felt ashamed. I was embarrassed that people thought I was in a wheelchair because I needed it, and then I was horribly, horribly ashamed that I would be embarrassed of something like that.

My next task was to order something at the cafe. The aisles were wide enough, but I felt very awkward, and again, people were uncomfortable. Then I saw Adina, and she waved, and asked me how it was going. I treated it like a game, and said it was "fun." Wrong. It wasn't fun. It was eye-opening, and in a painful way.

The next failure came when I tried to check out the Cornell ties. Very handsome ties I might add. However, on my way there, I barreled through a few racks of sweatshirts and banged up a few fake mahogany display cases. I tried to turn around and get out the way I came, but there was no space. Someone needed to push me out. Then I got stuck on a little bump in the floor, one of those rubber strips that separates a carpeted area from hardwood flooring. I was sweating by the end of it.

We returned to the employee entrance of the store, from where I took the service elevator down to the first floor. Fortunately I had people with me to push the buttons, because I would have had to strain to reach them.

I wheeled on out of the Cornell Store with a fresh appreciation for what it means to be confined to a wheelchair, both physically and emotionally. I felt that the interactions I had while in the wheelchair were dominated by the fact that I was in a wheelchair and that people were trying really hard to pretend I wasn't, and failing noticeably. I felt that taking a service elevator and using a back entrance made me feel separate and emphasized the words above the elevator: "Assistance Needed."

So I will now do my best to change how I react to people in wheelchairs, and I will try to enact change wherever I am able to make places truly accessible (not just "compliant"). I learned a lot in those 45 minutes, and I hope this blog post has opened your eyes as well. This is an important message, and it is something we can really do something about.

Let's start.