Never Walked In High Heels

            When Sarah Palin mentioned special needs children in her speech at the RNC last year, there should’ve been a reaction akin to opening Pandora’s box. There wasn’t even a puff of smoke. Glenn Beck has a daughter with Cerebral Palsy. Fox News analyst Neil Cavuto was diagnosed with MS a number of years ago. Columnist Charles Krauthammer has been paralyzed since the 1970’s due to a car accident. Limbaugh received clocear implants. The more I watch the news, the more I see Washington pundits affected by disability. And still nothing changes.

            Disability, of course, knows no party lines. It is a true equal opportunity force that will mess up your life. But it does seem that key figureheads leaning right are being affected by disability. The lack of attention given to the subject shouldn’t be particularly surprising of course. It is often part of conservative ideology to ignore weakness and hide any deficiency. But for a party that is attempting to win back public favor, they’re missing a huge chance.

            If we are to define conservatism as a strict interpretation of the US Constitution, disability access goes under the heading of Jefferson’s promise. The role of a conservative government is to protect the right to “life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness” while assuming that “all men are created equal.”  In terms of simply physical access, the Untied States have a very long way to go in creating equal opportunity for those of us who are disabled. I’m not talking about expert programs and government cheques which are designed to increase dependency. Democrats are really good at this technique,  but it only serves to cripple people even more. But what about physical access issues. For example, most people forget that Brown v. Board of Education does not guarantee equal access to education for all children. Ask any mom who has battled special education and she’ll tell you, schools will often place advanced placement classes in a room that isn’t wheelchair accessible assuming that no student with a disability will ever be smart enough to attend those classes. Sarah Palin knew this. Most Americans do not.

            What if the conservatives understood the disabled population as disenfranchised people rather than leeches trying to work the system? An inaccessible main street is as taxing as any tariff the government may impose.  What good are constitutional rights when you can’t even get out of your own home? The rights of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness are not inalienable as Jefferson claimed. You just need to injure your back to figure that one out.

            Even with a strict interpretation of the Constitution there are still human rights battles which need to be fought. We haven’t outgrown that document, as some politicians would have us believe. The fact is we haven’t even fulfilled it. We are people who love life and see potential in everyone. We are feeble humans fighting a losing battle against gravity and age. To deny our own humanity is to shrink our rights when they are no longer self evident. Which is when one needs them the most.

Sometimes I feel like going through the streets of London is like being a high school quarterback. Of course, that experience is not one that is unique on the field. Dodging individuals trying to make out in the middle of the pathway or young mothers suddenly stopping to grab their children by the hand before they totter away can be equally as dangerous as trying to beat the clock for that last-minute touchdown.

London is considered by many to be the most civilized and, oddly enough, the most advanced city in the world. And, looking at the city as a whole on a good day, this is largely true. You can top up your cell phone at any ATM, the trains run on time (as long as you fit into the ideal London body), you can go through your day relatively smoothly with your iPod in your ears and your purse in your hand, conducting business on the go, dropping into Fleet Street when necessary, and jumping on the train just before the door closes to make the most of time. **

Oddly enough, with all this advancement and adaptation that is supposed to make life go as smooth as the silk of a new White House/Black Market dress, we’ve lost something. As human beings in London, we have lost the entire skill of spatial awareness. The irony is, of course, Westerners, particularly British Westerners, in comparison to most cultures, feel the necessity of a relatively large amount of personal space. With this notion, one would assume, comes the ability to remain extremely well placed in the environment. Not so.

It would be easy for me to say that American tourists are the worst. And they are pretty bad – don’t get me wrong. As an American, myself, I often groan at the middle-aged woman in khaki shorts with her fanny pack with her flat drawl that can only come from Minnesota. She is in London to experience culture, and as such, she’s doing her best to herd her children like a flock of geese. In doing so, of course, she is completely oblivious to those of us who still have to work on a 9 to 5 job while she is on vacation. 

But it does not end with the tourists. It doesn’t end with the individuals trying to get that perfect shot of Big Ben when they might just as easily hop into a local newspaper agent and get one ten times better. It doesn’t stop with Regent’s Park where the young people make out freely. It doesn’t even stop in Covent Garden where the mixture of bipeds and motorists proves to be so deadly that no law can dare define the area. No, it doesn’t stop there. Londoners will take their half out of the middle as much as Americans. I stop in awkward spots as much, if not more than the young couple across the street wanting to show off their make-out skills. And sometimes, just sometimes, the fact that millions of us are trying to go in completely opposite directions backfires in a way that can only be described as inner-London traffic. 

Getting around in London should really be the new Olympic sport for 2012. It can be called “urban slalom,” and you lose points for every biker you hit, every time you disrupt the flow, and maybe even gain a few points for every time you dodge out in front of an oncoming car, knowing full well that you have plenty of time and ample speed to be across by the time he reaches the crosswalk. The British, of course, would have the home court advantage and make sure that even a New Yorker would get a run for his money. I might just be the champion as I dodge and ram, predicting an entire sidewalks’ move and how to avoid a lawsuit while going at top speeds with a 500 pound electric wheelchair. It’s as much art and skill as it is athletics and critical thinking, and I challenge anyone who thinks they can master the London sidewalks to do it in an electric wheelchair.

Today I found myself in Cambridge Circus, one of my most dreaded areas where Charing Cross meets Tottenham Court Road in an utter mess of confusion and terrible planning. Getting through the crosswalk of Cambridge Circus proves to be the most annoying endeavor in the entire city as buses tend to enjoy stopping for the light directly over the crosswalk, thereby blocking the wheelchair ramp to cross. Sunglasses on, my iPod in my ears to ensure that nothing would annoy me and I could have a completely private walk in a city of millions, I waited for the stoplight to turn and the crosswalk not to be blocked. Finally an African woman took my hand just as the light was about to change back to “don’t walk.” 

“Come on, honey. We’re going.”

And with that, she held her hand in front of the oncoming taxi to make sure they would continue to stay still even after the light had changed so I could get across with a clear shot. 

Then again, there are some times where you need a city full of strangers just to get by. 

Up until last summer, I prided myself on never having seen an episode of Sex in the City in my life. But, within the course of a month, I have seen all six seasons and the movie. I blame a combination of my roommate and the inevitable procrastination that comes from having a dissertation due at the end of the year. It’s probably more the fault of the latter. 

I would not want to be like any of the main characters in the show. The obsession with shoes and handbags is something I will never understand. Not walking much means that my shoes last forever, and I just don’t have time to change handbags everyday. I’m just not apt to go through men like water. I won’t let my daughters watch it until… well, ever actually.

But there is something about them that is very lovable. The bond between women who have lived life side by side is unbreakable. I know two young women who can only be described as the Midwestern Sweet Valley Twins. They always have handbags which match their shoes. If I’m in my more opinionated mood, I can’t stand them. But they are always ready to talk to me. They are bright and kind, chattering on and on about everything imaginable while braiding my hair. Hearing their secrets lifts the weight of mine. And whenever I am with them, I feel about as normal as anyone else.

We all want friends like that, people who remind us that we aren’t the only ones going through this madness. Friends make us feel like we can be spontaneous, and girlfriends make us feel like we are all worth while. The brilliance of Sex and the City was that, by watching the friendship of those four women, we became their friends, too. In hearing about problems and ideas, which we thought were only ours, we cannot help but be drawn in. And after a bit, one can’t wait to see what comes in the next episode, just to make sure we’re all ok.

My Dear Friend,

Last night you asked me how I could claim to be a capitalist and state that all men and created equal. You asked me how I could ever reconcile my political views with my faith without claiming hypocrisy. I wasn’t very impressed with my own answer. I don’t think you were either. You are right - On the surface these two will never mesh.  But my life is full of what seems to be contradictions. I invite you to check your premises, starting with the fact that all capitalists are “greedy.” Beware of such absolutes, it only takes one oddball to prove you wrong.

One of the things I so love about you is your fierceness in protecting your own freedoms. Here is something that you and I stand together on, for I would rather die than lose my independence. I have seen you give up the predictable comforts which come from having a “safe life” in order to have the life you want to lead. I have seen you  defend my freedoms to those who cling dogmatically to their prejudicious. And I have seen you demand from others that they rise up and assume the responsibility that comes from freedom.

So why are you shackling yourself with your own economic theory?

It disturbs me to see you claim that everyone should have the same amount of money, assets, or capital. What this will turn you into is someone who sees others with one of two lenses. The man who has even just a little bit more than you, you can only resent. Whatever he has should be rightfully yours. The person that has a little more than you is terrifying. What you have should be his. If he cannot have it, then you are the source of injustice. You only have two options for relating to people, fear and hate. Both put chains around your ankles. Neither will give you the freedom you yearn for. 

But people should work regardless of payment, you told me. Maybe they should, but they won’t. You know that. Why should you work that extra hour at the office if it’s only going into the pocket book of someone else? Why not work two hours more then? Or four? How can you even bother to go home, as doing so only takes food out of society’s mouth?

Don’t say that this is an extreme example. It isn’t. It has happened to every system which has attempted economic equality. If a system does not hold true within extreme examples, how will it ever hold up under the strain of reality?  

This is where I believe charity and service do come in. I’m not saying if someone can’t help themselves ‘that’s just too bad.’ But give it to the efforts and people you value, the ones who you want to see helped in the world, the causes that no one else is fighting for. You earned that money, you have a right to decide exactly where it goes and who it helps.

I believe God made all men equal. I believe that God made man to be free. I believe that God made man to work. These are not contradictory, they are self evident. But these three tenants do not promise anything, be it wealth or safety. They don’t promise an easy ride, or that you’ll be born where opportunity simply rolls out in front of you. All they give you is the right to exist with the knowledge that you have the same innate value as every other person who will ever exist and it is not based on your bank account. After that, it is up to you to remain free. 

I hope you keep your freedom. 

             “Last night I dreamed that I went after It until I was 35. I would see my birthday cake with one more candle on it. Then I turn around and They look at  me and say ‘no.’ Then I see another candle on my cake and I turn around again… When I finally woke myself up I was sobbing. I’ve never done that before. What if I never get It?”

            At this he threw back his head and laughed. That was the only noise he made.

            Jewish women have a tradition of asking to be “a woman who laughs at the future.” It comes from the book of Proverbs in a chapter which reveals what a revered woman looks like. This quality, the older I get, I find particularly hard to swallow. I am a master planner, so much so that I can make Stalin’s five year plan look like shortsightedness. After this dream, I was a combination of enraged and terrified. What if I never reached my goals? What if I just stayed stuck exactly where I was? And where the heck did my friend get off laughing at my perfectly legitimate fears?

            It was the last question momentarily overshadowed the other worries. He knew this was important to me, he could laugh at my worries? How could he just shrug off my nightmares and move on to his next task without saying anything to me? What kind of friend was that?

            “Because I know you. And I know it won’t happen that way.”

            It was a simple statement said while passing through tables and serving drinks. He said it in answer to my explosive challenge to his behavior. He swiftly had me defused. I sat at the bar and sat still for a moment. My friend dismissed my fears so easily. Not by building up some dramatic and inspiring speech where at the end of it the cripple is in tears and feels inspirational, but just as if he could state plain fact and keep walking because the statement took no concentration to say. It won’t happen that way.

            I am, on my worst days, very far from a woman who can laugh at her future. I suppose, for those of us who haven’t gotten there yet, having a friend who can do so is all the more precious. It is not that he recognizes my worries as irrational that is to be treasured; there is nothing more aggravating when you’re actually worried than a friend who says “you’re ridiculous, stop it.” Rather, it is the ability to look at the demon square in the eye and poke its nose that I admire. And after he’s done that, your friend walks back to you and says “you can take him,” because he knows its your demon to fight and not his.

            Perhaps I will be 35 and still fighting this battle I fear. Maybe I’ll never reach  what I want. Make it so. Each time rejection happens I’ll go back to my friend, sometimes with my head hung low. And he will no doubt laugh. He will laugh at the absurd idea that I should ever consider myself defeated. 

Money is a very strange thing. Money when you are a follower of Christ is an even stranger thing. It is too easy to fall into the trap which absolutely states that money is the root of all evil. For too many, every mouthful of food on your spoon is one that is taken out of the stomachs of starving children in some impoverished country. And thus, not having money becomes an opportunity for reverse snobbishness as much as having money does.

If we are to believe that a person’s value in not determined by his bank account, then it should also follow that his morality should not be determined by his poverty. At this point most of my friends say, “Well that’s easy for you to say because you’re considered extremely privileged by the rest of the world’s standards.”

If you can read this, you are extremely privileged too. There, what do we do now?

One of my dearest friends now lives in Russia. Her family has adopted 9 children and there are always rumors of more. My friend lives her life on a shoestring with so much class and honor she’d make Emily Post squirm. Devoting her life to serving others, she uses every bit of her advanced liberal arts education to make ends meet. When we pack for trips together I’m almost embarrassed by the lotions, the extra tires, the tools, the creams I need to pack to have a ‘normal life.’ And I can’t help but wonder when I crossed over into the realm of high maintenance?

And when she came to visit me in the UK for the first time, she came into my flat and said “wow, being here is so restful.” There wasn’t an ounce of judgment in it.

She doesn’t expect me to live like her. And in this lack of expectation she is the richest person I know. She knows first hand how hard living cheaply truly is. And because of this, she knows that I can’t walk everywhere or sew buttons back on my clothes. And while we both have the responsibility to use our resources as wisely as possible, that’s not going to look anything the same for both of us.

No two people are uniform, so why should their budgets be identical? If a family has a kid whose wheelchair can only fit into an Escalade, should they be ashamed to buy one? On what grounds should they apologize for it? For that matter, which one of their peers has to deem it a ‘need’ before it is the moral vehicle to buy? Or is it the government’s role to determine that?

For the moralist out there, it never says ‘money is the root of all evil.’ Maybe to you we seem the incongruous pair. God has given us very different resources to use wisely. There were many times that the Hebrews and the Gentiles both were aided by very wealthy people. These are the types of people who support my friend, who buy her groceries so she can serve without needing an income producing job at Starbucks. Without giving people like that, nobody could afford to take a vow of poverty.

            It is a long held tradition that a woman my age should be restless until she finds her match. And I do feel this pull as much as anyone, but recently I’ve been fortunate enough to have a small piece of  this hole filled in the strangest and most arbitrary way imaginable.

             It all started at a pub. All good stories in England start this way as a possible explanation for the most unlikely events.  Without such a preface the events that follow would  seem far fetched, this way it provides an excuse. Anyway, I had visited the S&W for a friend’s birthday and I had seemed to have overstayed my welcome. Not according to the pub, mind you. But whereas at midnight Cinderella’s carriage turned into a pumpkin, here in London the transit system becomes completely inaccessible. I got out of the pub just in time to see the last accessible boat leave the pier. I had just entered my own personal Twilight Zone where nothing is accessible and the world isn’t ready for a young red head in a wheelchair.

Ninety minutes and six phone calls to cab companies later, I was waving from a black cab at the men from the S&W who had found me a ride home. Chivalry was not dead, it had merely gone out for a drink after becoming very bored. It was at that point that I decided to visit the old pub a bit more often.

Over the next few months my roommate and I would visit the S&W two or three times a week. I would get to listen to stories from the men about their day, or join in debates. I would watch them play darts while I would perch on the leather couches and laugh at their insults. The greeting I would get when coming through the door was irreplaceable.

But what the men at the S&W gave me or  rather give me every time I visit the constant reiteration that I am a woman of great value and worthy of respect. For most young women  this particular gap can only be filled with a masculine influence. When a good guy is not readily available often time standards will get lowered just so the loneliness is filled. And to our own fault, sometimes we are so busy looking for an idealized version of romance that we miss the many other facets of love right in front of us. The S&W reminds me to stop looking and start seeing. It is one of the few places in this city where I feel most like myself.

After eleven the pub technically closes. But the owner allows us to stay later so long as we keep buying drinks. I am far from done debating with a gentleman who must be some reincarnation of Hemingway. The chef has locked the bartender in the alcohol cage in some sort of ritualistic joke that never is funny but never gets old. Another game of Killer starts out on the dart board.

And I know, if I wanted it, any one of them would see me safely home.

It’s three AM on a Saturday morning in London. The light of the outside metropolis shines into my flat like some surrogate moon unsuccessfully trying to lull me into a slumber. And even though I have shut the curtains, turned the other direction, and taken a sleeping pill, sleep is nowhere to be found.
Most people in my situation have been more than acquainted with the night. A Chicago native now calling Las Vegas home and London my workplace, I am currently living as a nocturnal creature to say the least. Add to that the fact that the stage is my office and my networking consists after show drinks with actors and I guess it shouldn’t be a surprise I’m up at this hour. After all, I just came back from a show tonight called Bent.

Bent was first preformed in 1979 and latter turned into a movie in 1997. Max a promiscuous gay man is taken to a Nazi concentration camp with his partner Rudy. While Rudy is beaten to death on the train, Max quickly discovers that he will be treated slightly better by denying the fact that he is gay and convinces the Nazi officers that he is Jewish. When it was first produced, Bent helped paved the way for historical research on the horrific treatment of homosexuals in the holocaust. 

Small wonder I can’t sleep.

Many people forget that before the Nazis went after the Jews, they rounded up others, namely the homosexuals and the disabled. This group was how Hitler perfected his methods of mechanically, often by trial and error. Overall, these deaths were the slowest, most gruesome, and least humane out of any during the regime. Largely forgotten about in history books, it is yet another example of how people can’t stand what they refuse to understand. 

As a disabled woman I have learned that there are two things that most humans want to be absolutely clear on: physical ability and sexuality.  Yes, there are other factors as well, but nothing globally labels you as second-class status faster than these two issues. Even in a world so hell bent on making things easy, painless, and accessible, few dignities are granted to those of us who have no homeland to begin with. There is no country of queers anymore than there is a kingdom of cripples. Those of us who were made to challenge categories and classifications are constant wayfarers. Which is why, I suppose, I have always felt a tremendous kinship with many gay men. Many of them, like me, refuse to apologize for their non-conformity. It would be easy to say we camp it up, make differences sexy and glamorous but that would be simplifying a very difficult struggle which continues today as much as it ever has. 

Throughout history it has been those that weren’t privileged which have reshaped the world. Much of American history has been the redefining of the phrase “all men are created equal” to include what those in power originally hoped to exclude.  The days that homosexuality was a social taboo exactly what was allowed the Nazis to take citizens into the concentration camps. And so, those of us who have public battles at the very least ensure that such silence does not happen again. Better to be in the middle of controversy than taken away in silence. At least with the commotion we force the world to slowly propel itself forward. 

It is a little later and the black sky has grown silver. Even the light outside of my window has now gone off. But I still cannot sleep.  This is pointless. I get out of bed and put feet on the ground. I walk to my front door and check the lock before I go to the couch. Still no sleep. 

I open the newspaper to an article about fetal testing to avoid possible ‘’problems’’ as a child. As always, there is much discussion as to what these ‘’problems’’ are. Where do we draw the line when it comes to avoiding problems? Genetic defects? Disability? Race? Homosexuality? Sound familiar?

My phone rings and I jump from the start. It’s from a mate across the city calling to tell me about his date with his new boyfriend. Neither of us were expecting me to be up at this hour. He talks and I listen to the sound of his deep voice, feeling instantly relaxed. Even though he takes longer than I do to get ready to go out, tonight I am thankful for his confidence, something that I often miss from straight men. Sometimes, I’m in awe of his masculinity. He invites himself over to make an early morning cup of tea. As soon as I hang up the phone I look out my window, the sky is bright red. 

We are everywhere, the others. We are the ones who turn the wheel of history, ensuring that no one is comfortable until everyone has the same dignities given to them. Progress is not made by the actions of those who are sitting in their leather armchairs, it is made by those of us who fight for things that never should have to be a fight in the first place. We have no homeland, but the strength we have ensures that things will change and we will gain the rights that should be ours. Until then, I am reminded of what a more contemporary gay playwright says what an ideal world ought to be. “Everyone in Balenciaga gowns with red corsages, and big dance palaces full of music and lights and racial impurity and gender confusion… Race, taste and history finally overcome.”

Good luck in your own fight to make that happen.

              I don’t think anything in the city of London can cause more mayhem than the Tube being partly suspended. Unless, of course the ENTIRE SYSTEM has been suspended due to an employee strike.  

              I don’t exactly know why the employees are on strike. I just know because there have been signs announcing the exact dates of the strike posted everywhere for the past month. By the time this article is posted, the strike will be over regardless of if any negotiations have been reached. For weeks, cycling shops have had ads running that read “beat the strike… buy a bike!” Now if I were planning an act of civil disobedience, this wouldn’t be the effect I was going for. 

              Everyone knew it was coming. 

              And even though everyone knew it was coming nobody did anything about it. The streets have been filled with people glued to their London A-Z more closely than American tourists in high summer. Suddenly the truth comes out. Nobody knows how to get around their city above ground. Given that the Underground may as well not exist for those of us in wheelchairs, it is particularly frustrating. I’m now the directional expert and Londoners are begging me to tell them which way to Oxford Street and Big Ben because they’ve never seen this part of London above ground. I feel like I’ve acquired native status. 

              And still, with over one month’s notice, nobody dared to look on a map how to get home. They just waited for these 48 hours to pass muddling through on buses or in cars. Some friends stop me and say “I can’t believe you’re on the streets fighting this everyday. Being underground is loads easier.” 

              I bit my tongue to keep from saying, “its much faster when you lot aren’t up here clogging up the works by standing around befuddled by the map.” 

              On my way home I got on the ferry where I was greeted with nothing but smiles and even a few empty seats. I asked the captain why he was so happy. 

              “This is better than Christmas! We’ve sold more tickets these two days than we sell in a month. Its been crazy at the docks, but we were prepared.”

Yesterday I went to what was supposed to be a very special affair. It was for a cause (doesn’t matter which one, I’m sure half the people in the room forgot what it was for eventually).  So I put on my best dress and arrived at a theatre in the West End for photo shoots and champagne flutes, the obligatory escort on my arm. And despite the smiles, the congratulations, the television stars offering gratitude, something just wasn’t how it ought to be. 

Everyone there was miserable. 

It wasn’t your typical ‘oh I’m really unhappy about being in this tux, but I’m doing it for my wife’ sentiment. It was almost like there was nothing to be celebrated at all. Every smile I saw was forced, every introduction I had was blanked out, and every dress I saw suddenly seemed cheap. It reminded me of that part in Atlas Shrugged where Dagny Taggart has her coming out ball. Her mother, having struggled with whether or not to even offer the party, is thrilled to see her rail-working daughter come downstairs looking like a lady. By the end of the night, Dagny is found straddling a fence talking to her friends and acting like the incongruous tomboy she is. She says to her mother “nobody enjoyed it,” remarking how all the guests expected the flowers and ice sculptures to make themselves interesting rather than the other way around. 

I think I know exactly what that feels like. 

For as young as I am, I’ve been to a relatively high amount of formal occasions, particularly here in London (the land of fairy tales and ball gowns). And each time I go, unless I’m with people who I know share the same ideals and ideas as  me - the people who I know value life - I’m miserable, and I can’t find anything to celebrate, no matter how many men in tails carrying champagne bottles I see. Sometimes I think the more we force a “celebration,” the more we cheapen the concept until it doesn’t mean anything. 

I went home upset, wondering why I made the trek so confidently in the first place. I kept expecting my shoe to break to give me some sort of heavy-handed metaphor, but it didn’t. It’s the occupational hazard of being a fashionable writer in a wheelchair I suppose. The clichés are utterly unavailable to you.  This, of course, made me more upset. By the time I unlocked the door to my flat I was glad I was wearing waterproof mascara.  Smelling the roasted tomatoes from the kitchen, I headed upstairs to watch my roommate cook and just be still for a bit. Some friends from Scotland had come down for the weekend and were spread out all over the living room talking. I didn’t bother to change clothes, why should I? I had felt overdressed all night. I simply took off my heels and threw myself down on a couch, my head resting on the lap of one of the guys. 

“You look lovely,” was all he said.