Never Walked In High Heels

            OK so… its 8:30 in the morning and I’m rushing through the train station trying to reach the 8:38 to Norwich. It’s pouring rain outside and everything that could go wrong has gone wrong. Naturally, I think “good, glad I got all the bad luck out of the way.”

              Or that’s what I was bold enough to think.

              As I swiveled into the elevator a priest comes in behind me. I know who he is because he’s in full garb. I quickly start off: Dear Lord please don’t make him start praying to heal me. I never know what to say when they start praying… He gets off at the next floor without even ‘God bless.’ Apparently he’s not on duty yet. I go down one more floor to get off myself. At least in theory that’s what’s supposed to happen.

              Once down to my floor I am met by a large lump. I stop dead. It’s completely blocking my path to get out of the elevator. I can’t move it myself. What a stupid and unthoughtful place to leave stuff. If I ruled the world there would be none of this…  My electric wheelchair bars  the elevator door from closing as I look around the ticket hall for someone to move the obstacle.

              “Um… excuse me, sir…” I flag down a security guard and do my best damsel in distress act. I can still make the 8:38 with very little luck needed. Or there is the 9:08. I laboriously do the math in my head. I haven’t had enough coffee to do higher mathematics as of yet. I need my morning hot chocolate. The guard comes and starts to move the pile of rubbish out of the elevator frame. Then, at the exact same time he and I come to the exact same realization.  

              It’s a corpse.

              He drops what we now realize to be an arm and I jump back into the lift without foreseeing that this action will make the impatient door shut. The guard is now leaning over the body trying to stop the door from closing because, of course, he doesn’t want anyone else to come down in the lift and get an early morning surprise. Without thinking, I pull the emergency stop button which makes everything better for about two seconds. Then the elevator alarm sounds thus bringing this situation to more people’s attention.

              There is nothing in all my years that has even begun to prepare me for this situation. I don’t think that there has ever been a Miss Manners column to date about what the classy thing to do is once you have become impeded by a corpse. I begin to think two things. First I feel sorry for the poor man who has died in a London train station during the wee morning hours. And second, if my mother ever makes me take the etiquette lesson she’s threatening me with, I am so asking about this in class.

              By the time we’ve cleared the corpse out of the way, I’m being bombarded with questions by other station staff. Why is he there? How long has he been there? Do I know him? Will I come down to the office and answer some questions?

              “I don’t know anything. The elevator door just opened and there he was!” Some brilliant officer commented that it seems like an unlikely story. Yeah, you’re telling me.

              For several weeks now I’ve been trying to come up with some higher meaning for the whole incident. I keep thinking this must be a metaphor for something. But I’ve had no luck with coming up with an answer. Life just is messy and sometimes you don’t know what file to put something under. Was it tragic for whoever he was? Was it comedy? Can one negate the other? What am I supposed to be feeling by this? Sometimes in life there is no acceptable response. Even Emily Post might be flabbergasted by what is there once the door opens.

When I was in Prague a few years ago I saw a blind violinist on the street. He played his instrument so lovingly well that, without thinking I pulled out a bill (as to not make noise with cumbersome coins) and placed it into the tin cup in front of him. When I returned to my traveling companions  one of them was enraged.

 

“I thought you didn’t believe in charity,” she snapped. This was news to me. We had sat up many a night debating politics and the role of government. She, of course, had different views from my own (most people do). I wracked my brian trying to figure out when I had said that I didn’t believe in charity. I couldn’t find anything.

 

I’m a little bit older now and can recognize something which I couldn’t see before.  One of which is, of course my companion’s insecurity about her own views. Another is, I see what often passes for “charity” and I do not like it.

 

Charity does not equate paying your tax dollars. Period. End of Story. The next time someone tries to tell you that paying taxes is ‘charitable,’ remember that charity is by definition a voluntary action. Paying taxes is not voluntary. Here is where my companion’s assumption went wrong. I want to help people. A lot of folks want to help people who also want to keep taxes and the government in check. I just don’t want to fool myself into thinking that paying taxes is my moral deed done for the day.

 

I also don’t want to give charity because “it’s the right thing to do,” like earning some Girlscout badge or ticking something off my list. The word charity comes from the Latin ‘carus’ which means ‘dear.’ Charity is as much of a trade as anything commercial. One cannot be charitable until he values what he is giving to. I received something from you/ your cause, you gave me an idea, you made me think or, I am just glad to know you are in the world. Charity or aid should be about recognizing inherent value of the recipient, not the action.

 

I do believe in charity and gifts. What I don’t believe in is that you should give because you ought  or, worse still, because you are ‘privileged.’ We have come into a time (no thanks to the redefinition of taxes) where charity has become defined as giving a check rather than service. The more “the government takes care of it” the less we have to see the hunger, the less with have to heal the illnesses, and the less we have to fight the injustices ourselves. Thus, the less we have to feel the painful pull that makes us grit our teeth and do everything we can to make it better.

 

When people say its ‘society’s duty to be charitable,’ I can’t help but squirm. What is this “society” you speak of? And how can duty ever be on the same plane as charity? Society never cured anything. People, individuals, took action to overcome. And they did. And they will again. Society has never changed en masse. It took individuals prodding them for things to get better. Call it Newton’s Social law if you’d like.

 

I still remember that violinist and can hear him play. I just wish I knew what he was to have given me over the years. I would have paid him more.

 

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.

 

            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. 

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. 

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.

The problem with human rights is that people don’t realize how important those rights are until their own have been violated. I was trying to get on a train with Paige the other day up in Scotland, and she sat down a full cup of coffee and a full cup of hot chocolate so that she might get a ramp for me. Then, a moment later, I saw a cleaner start to get on the train and, realizing what was about to happen, I grabbed him and said,

 

“There are two cups of hot coffee on the train. They are mine. I’m waiting for a ramp. Please do not throw them away.”

 

“Right,” he said, looking at me blankly and extremely confused.

 

The next thing I knew, the coffee cups were gone. I was livid. First of all, no one comes between me and my coffee, particularly at 8:30 on a Scottish morning when the weather is miserable. Doing so is the equivalent of putting one’s hand in a piranha tank. It is truly, in a matter of speaking, taking your life into your own hands. When he got off the train, I confronted him.

 

“Why did you throw away our coffee when I specifically told you not to?”

 

“You want to get a on you say?” he asked me, avoiding eye contact. I could see this was going nowhere, and so I grabbed a hold of his arm and repeated the question. Within another moment, Paige arrived. 

 

“What’s wrong?” she said, ignoring the man complaining about my grip.

 

“He threw away our coffee when I specifically told him not to.”

 

Within the next fraction of a second, Paige was asking the janitor questions and making him feel extremely uncomfortable, I’m sure. 

 

In times like these, I can’t help but wonder whether or not we are too hard on people. I mean, really. It was his job to clean up the train, and people at the lowest part of the ladder usually have the most miserable jobs and are more than a bit snippy to let everyone else know that they are unhappy. People don’t think, as a mentor of mine once reminded me. It’s not that they’re malicious so much as they don’t realize the ramifications that their actions have on their fellow human beings. For example, if he thought about it, the member of staff would probably question, ‘why am I throwing away two completely full coffee cups? Maybe they are meant to be here.’

 

To make matters worse, in addition to people not thinking, they also don’t want to have to claim responsibility for things that are likely to go wrong. Most people don’t want to get in trouble, and the man who threw away our coffee realized that if he left rubbish from the previous train journey on the train, he would not be doing his job, and it would be more likely that someone would complain. Simple enough, and for that he is commended. Not many people I know would be willing to do this job of cleaning a train so thoroughly.

 

But the fact is, I did specifically told him not to clear away our coffee cups, and the fact is, he looked at me blankly, did not bother to clarify what I had said when it was unclear, and ignored my request. In these points, I don’t think my assistant nor I were too harsh in challenging him and his actions.

 

I said very little on the train ride back to Glasgow. I was frustrated as one can imagine. Who ever thought that two cups of coffee could cause so much frustration and disappointment? I have long since stopped being frustrated with the member of the cleaning staff. After all, he was just doing his job. But I started being enraged with the bigger problem that at the moment seems unfixable. Why is it that we even needed a ramp to get onto the train? Why couldn’t some brilliant engineer just make the train platform level with the train? Why wasn’t there an appointed train car, at the very least, that didn’t require a ramp to get on and off? Why was this world built for able-bodied people when able-bodied people ultimately have their perfectly able-bodies commit treason against them with age, aches, and illness? Who was the idiot who came up with the notion of stairs anyway? Probably some ancient Roman governor who wanted to make sure that his mother couldn’t bother him in his room. 

 

I lost my appetite for a while and stewed in my own little microcosm of social change. Before reaching Glasgow to go home, it was a miserable evening outside. The rain was still coming down at that annoying rate of not being hard enough to stop you from your responsibilities but being a bit too hard so that you would inevitably get soaked if you were out more than seven minutes. I stopped by a coffee kiosk with Paige, and we ordered another two hot coffees to go. And this time, we were prepared to guard them with our lives. I was still in my own little world, making my way back to my Glasgow flat in the cold rain. 

 

As a disabled woman, very often I am considered to be invisible, even by the most liberally minded people, and inevitably I have to ask why. Sometimes the system doesn’t work, and you have to ask why it didn’t. Sometimes the classes you need to go to are in a building that is completely inaccessible. Even to the most able-bodied of people it presents a challenge, and then you ask, ‘Whose brilliant idea was this?’ 

 

But whatever you do, and whoever she is, do not come in between a young professional woman and her coffee. 

I wear the top button of my jeans unbuttoned at all times. For most women this would make me a slut, but in my case it just makes me pathetic. Today, I have funky red hair, I’m 5’ 2”, one hundred pounds, a 34-C, Banana Republic size zero. I have blue eyes, eyelashes so long I can’t wear sunglasses, lovely skin, and a smile that never stops. I’ve been schooled in classics, theology, philosophy, Spanish, Arabic, ballet, athletics, kinesiology, theater, Karate, and politics. I’ve traveled to 14 counties, broken 5 international track and field records, and taught school in Mexico.

Like what you’re reading? I’ll go on. I’ve got a cute butt, an absurdly long tongue for cocktail party tricks, a set of wheels custom made for me, and a great sense of humor. I’m an hour glass figure, a la Marylyn Monroe, very flexible, and ready to embrace the true meaning of freedom. 

All of this and I’ve never been asked out on a date. 

Which doesn’t mean I don’t any action. Every time I go to the airport I get pulled out of line and patted down by some security guard, their gloved hands running up and down my most intimate areas. The last time I was in Boston one hefty, uniformed individual whispered into my ear “this is my favorite part about my job. I’m so good at it,” as she rubbed her hand up the inside of my leg.

Come fly the “ friendly” skies.

After nearly twenty-one years of living with a disability, I am still constantly amazed by how sexually frustrated young disabled women are. I’ve seen girls with all types of disabilities burst into tears and held them time and again as they sobbed “but I’ll never have a boyfriend.” Often it seems as if perceived asexuality is the greatest disappointment from disability as I watch young women yearn to feel beautiful, desire a man’s touch, wish to have the freedom and confidence to invite him back to their room for the night. Just like all women, we too crave to feel cherished. 

It is particularly difficult to watch idealized images of love, even though my brains knows that these ideals will falter, fall flat on their faces, and cause more heartache that I can ever imagine. I remember coming home after a bridal shower for both of my hall counselors last year and sobbing in the shower “I want to be loved like that. I want to be held like he holds her. I want to be someone’s sexual dream. I want so badly to be given dishtowels by my best friend and be excited about them.”

Perceived asexuality does have a wonderful advantage though. I may cry every time I see Cyrano de Bergerac, but I am able to take the time many girls primp and throw themselves ruthlessly at guys to truly excel at everything I wish to do. And I know I have be given desire that only certain guys are man enough to fill. True, pure, hunger is made to be satisfied.

Unlike many of my disabled peers, I know my inactive romantic life is actually not my fault. Indeed, it’s amazing how guys who do not know about the disability will give me complements without hesitation. (It is important to note I use the term “guys” here, because males this shallow are not men.) On the way back from church today I looked out the car window to see the car full of guys whopping and yelling at my eye contact and wagging their tongues at me. In Switzerland this summer, during a particularly hard evening, I opened my third story window and stood alone watching the sunset on the balcony. Within a few moments a Swiss walked by, stopping to stare at me. He yelled up, first in French, then Italian, then German. After all attempts failed he tried English. “You are the most beautiful vision I have even seen. I wish I had a camera to make your picture. May I came up to see you?” Unaccustomed to such attention I always smile and back away, knowing that mystery is more romantic than exposure. 

I am beautiful. I am sexy. I will be cherished by a man someday. I don’t need to waste my time with false lovers, for I know I have these characteristics, even if no one else suspects it.

 

Not long ago, I found myself in a pedestrian gridlock that was enough to make any urban dweller revolt. All of the sidewalks, streets, and secret allyways of London’s Trafalgar Square were blocked by formidable officers on horseback to absolutely ensure we were going nowhere. Used to such hoopla, I asked an officer what the occasion was. Turns out, on this perfect Sunday, Bush was going through London on his farewell tour. And so, despite opinions and beliefs, facts and rumors, I found myself doing the popular thing. I too was waiting in patient expectation to see George W. Bush’s limo pass the streets of London.

Truth be told, I can’t dismiss the Bush family as easily as most. There, I said it. You can stop reading whenever you want. But as I grew up in Chicago during the 1990’s, the first president Bush had a profound effect on my life. I remember sitting in front of the television, my six year old knees scraped as always, while Bush Sr. picked up his pen and signed the Americans with Disabilities Act. It was the first time in America that it was illegal to discriminate against me. As I went to school the teachers had to teach me. Doors opened, quite literally, so I could go to university, and now that I am an adult, I should be able to have the same dignities and respect as anyone else in society. It was this law that served as a model for other counties, such as Britain, to restore rights to their own people with disabilities. Asking me to hate the Bush family is like asking a newly freed slave to despise Abraham Lincoln. 

The limo passes in a flurry of camera phone flashes and finger-pointing. For being  such an unpopular president, Bush sure does seem to attract a lot of popularity from people who happen to be in the right place at the right time. I look at my phone and I can’t help but chuckle. It’s The President of the Untied States on my phone… and frankly it looks like any other car with tinted windows. I turn to leave. The barriers are now down and inconvenienced Londoners breathe a collective sigh of relief. 

“Finally. All I was trying to do is get to Charing Cross station,” a woman jokes to me. She says she’s going to visit her grandchildren for the week, and she’s hoping that tonight there’ll be time to bake bread with them. I smile at her, she smiles at me, and there is an instant connection. I say that I’m headed to the same place to catch the train home, hoping for an easy night.

“Oh, isn’t it sweet of them to let you take the train? It must be so nice to hold the rest of us up so you can get onboard.”

I swallow hard. For the rest of the conversation I stare dead ahead answering in one word syllables, resisting the urge to reach up and disable the woman myself to teach her a lesson in empathy. I keep telling myself to breathe and remember that she is older, so soon she’s going to fall, break a hip and learn her lesson. Or maybe she’ll go blind. Or…

I purposely lose her in the crowd. Doing so makes me feel a little more control of my life. I don’t know if I’m aggravated more at the woman or at myself for not saying anything. “Nice?” It’s the law. It’s my right to ride that train, and the fact that I can’t ride the train without giving at least 48 hours notice proves we have a long way to go before we can even talk about being “nice.” Every time the platform manager harasses me because he doesn’t want to get the ramp out, or when I have to ride an extra hour to the end of the line because no one was at my stop to help me get off, I’m reminded that freedom, while granted by law, takes awhile to trickle into actuality. 

It is easy for us to assume that because something changes legally, the problem is completely fixed.  In reality, getting a law in the books is only the first step to evolution. After that, the responsibility rests on the citizen’s shoulders. Oddly enough, it is at this point that society claims the problems as one that can be dismissed because it is remedied. We argue for legislation and for papers to be signed but after Congress is cleared and the legislators leave for home, the reformation of society still is entirely dependent on ordinary people. It is what we do on the subway, while buying jeans, the absent minded comments we make while passing each other on the street which define the rights of the individual more than any statesman would ever dream of.

At home I fix myself an obligatory cup of tea and watch the Thames from my balcony, Canary Warf looking like the land of Oz in the distance. The warmth of my home reminds me that while the outside world can turn hostile within a second, the places where I belong value me for the woman I am and for the things I have accomplished. To them, any slight allowances in time and adaptions are well worth it.