For a person with limitations on what can be done in the physical world, it's very easy to have opinions and perceptions written in black Sharpie before you're even introduced to the person who's making them. Many people have "blind" limitations -- meaning that their shoulder, for example, may not move like an unimpeded person's shoulder moves, but they don't wear a sling or adaptive device. People don't realize there's an issue unless they're either told, or the person makes an adaptive motion such as switching a burden to the other side. For me, though, the black brace and the cane are like my own personal neon sign screaming "OMG! DISABLED PERSON ON THE LOOSE!" to everyone who crosses my path. As someone who prefers to not be in the spotlight, I'm sure you can imagine how happy this makes me.
One of the most common assumptions is that I'm incapable of opening doors. If I get to a door with someone behind me, I tend to hold the door for the person. What can I say? My parents raised me to be polite. The usual response that I get is something like, "Oh gosh, I should be holding the door for you!" Now, I realize that the person is just trying to be nice. But I promise you, that while my knee is a mess, my arms are both quite solid. I honestly can manage to open a door, and with either one!
The really nice check-out staff at my favorite grocery store has been "trained" for lack of a better word, to know that I am most likely going to refuse help out with my groceries. This has nothing to do with foolish pride: the fact is that I lean on the cart when I walk, and it takes some pressure off of my leg. It also provides a little extra stability as I go down the ramps to the parking lot. So no, thank you; unless I have more than one cart worth of stuff, in which case I will generally bring a kid, I do not want you to take my grocery cart for me. They still offer with a smile, and I refuse with a smile. But they don't push the issue, for which I am eternally grateful. I have actually had a person pull my cart away from me, telling me that he will be helping me with my groceries. After I recovered my balance from having it disrupted, a brief, quiet conversation with his manager proved him wrong.
Yesterday, I executed a surprise for my kids: a day trip to the mountains to go snow tubing. I grew up in the Northeast, where I went sledding every possible moment during the winter, usually down a stupidly dangerous track in the woods. The idea for the trip started here. And I knew full well when I showed up, that the automatic assumption would be that I was a spectator, not a participant. The harried girl behind the tall counter didn't see anything from the chest down, so there wasn't even a blink when I paid for 5 tickets. But I saw her eyes go as wide as saucers when she saw me laughing with my family as we headed out the door of the lodge to get our tubes, bright orange tags on our jacket zippers. I grabbed my tube and went to the conveyor belt with my kids and headed up to the top. The attendant gave me a glance, but didn't say anything. I got some startled looks from people as I chose a tubing lane, but when I shoved off and flipped into the tube, holding my cane under one arm, that's when people's jaws started to hit the snow. For the rest of the day, people on the conveyor belt heading up the side would point and stare when I'd go flying by on a tube. My own kids didn't even blink at the idea that I would be sliding with them, as this wasn't anything that could really endanger me. But to everyone else, I was an anomaly at which they were astounded.
Throughout the day, I ignored people who looked at me like I was a circus attraction. I did respond politely to those who ventured to speak to me. After all, they were just asking a question, which I respect a whole lot more than a perceived assumption. But it really led me to realize just how much society assumes about a person when they have a visible limitation. Now, the one attendant at the top, when I flopped into the tube a little early, howled with laughter when he saw me use my cane to give myself an extra push. He yelled, "Use it like an oar!" I loved that. Another attendant, saw me come by again chuckled and said, "You're better at this than half the able bodied people!" I just laughed and said, "Hey, you manage your disability or it manages you. Mine will never manage me!" as I slid off down the hill.
We may never be able to change the way people think when they see a disabled person on the street; to make them realize that we have a disability, as opposed to being a disability. But we can definitely drop some of our own fears, and embrace our own sense of adventure and fun. We can show by our actions that we are not delicate little orchids to be kept on a shelf in a hot house when the world is happening outside. We need to be the ones who live our lives, find ways to adapt when we can and still do the things we want to do.
Only then, will the stares of incredulity dissipate like our breath in the snow.
