Never Walked In High Heels

How do you introduce yourself to someone who thinks that you ought to be dead?

It’s a situation that probably happens more than I know. I’m very aware that there are people out there who think that disabilities and ailments found in the fetuses of unborn babies should mean that the child is to be aborted. This is becoming more common on a worldwide scale, and there’s other fools like Peter Singer who claim to be philosophers of the modern age, but yet insist that animals have more rights than disabled babies. I am sure I have shaken hands with people who believe this either consciously or subconsciously, or think that having a disability would be among the worst things in the world. I usually do not know that they believe this, and it’s probably a good thing that I don’t. But in this occasion I did know.

My mother was taking a graduate level course last spring when she befriended a young woman named Linda. Linda is from China and there she is a gynecologist. She has come to America to know that she can practice medicine here and yet needs a different degree to do so. A statistical wizard and brilliant at mathematics, my mom immediately spotted her as a potential friend and aid in her biostatistics course. The two became fast friends, Linda being eager for company as she was so far from home. One day my mother showed Linda my picture. It’s from my senior year in high school and I am in a black gown with my hair down long, seated in my wheelchair. On my lap are three books, three hardback old-fashioned books. I forget what they are now, but they are classics. When Mom pulled out the picture, Linda did a double take and immediately asked what was wrong with me. My mother told her and Linda looked at her in disbelief. She said, “you don’t really mean…?” explaining my condition in the precise medical terms that she was taught. “Yes,” Mom said. I do.

Perhaps at this point I should explain that children with disabilities don’t often have the best fate in foreign countries, particularly that of China. If they have the misfortune to be born disabled it is not unheard of for a partial birth abortion to take place, or the child is left in one of the dying rooms that has recently been exposed in China. It’s worst than being born a girl. In a collectivist society, a disabled child most likely means a huge amount of tax dollars devoted to the health of somebody who probably won’t give much of anything back to the collective at large. The fact that Linda was an OBGYN meant that she too had made decisions concerning what children should live and die even while in the womb after amniocentesis. Linda explained this to my mother directly.

When I woke up, my early morning dreams the day I was supposed to meet my mother’s new friend, consisted of debates on partial birth abortions and were filled with images of doctor’s offices and waiting rooms.

One of my main faults is that when people seem confident and put together, I tend to believe them. As a result I afford grace and kindness to the people who seem to need it rather than those who are unaware, or putting on a show that everything is ok. As a result, in sort of a twisted humility, I think of myself as superior because I have no clue what I’m doing. Before meeting her, I saw Linda as one of the confident ones. I envisioned her always wearing a suit unless in her office performing surgeries and exams. She must be put together to strike out on such a limb and so bold a moral stance. I couldn’t think of any of my friends who would agree with her that doctors should have the right to decide who lives and dies before they are even born. I saw her as arrogant, proud, someone who had all her debates and facts in a line and could convince anyone to take her side.

But this was not the case. When I first laid eyes on her, Linda looked like a child, wearing a soft purple skirt for spring. She looked younger than me and still had teenage acne (although I found out later that she was five years older than myself). Everything about her demeanor said shy and humble. When she saw my mom she thrust a green paper bag of gifts into her hands, explaining that it was for both myself and my mother. She was not at all the moral extremist whom I had imagined. Looking at her I suddenly realized that people are more than what actions they take. We’re often taught that actions speak louder than words, and of course this on some level is true. But, was she choosing whether babies lived or died in her office, or did it come from higher up? Our actions are often more complicated than just our beliefs and what we want to accomplish. In a society that lived as hers did, if everyone shared everything, wouldn’t that extend to everyone sharing moral decisions as well? Even what I would consider to be the amoral ones.

So I looked at her again and smiled and said the one thing that I could think to say in such a strange situation. I stuck out my hand and said, “Hi. How are you? I’m Athena.”

I’ve stepped out of the Ethiopian restaurant in Elephant and Castle absolutely stuffed. Night had fallen by the time we had finished our meal and we dragged our overfull belies to the bus stop. The first bus passes us by even though we attempt to flag him down like mad. There are 12 minutes to wait in between the buses at this particular stop.

And then I see a homeless man who makes eye contact with me and I instinctively know that there is going to be trouble. He crosses the road carrying his bag and wants to kiss me on the lips. “Just one kiss.” And like always, I am stunned and speechless. He attempts to make a move. It is my friend’s 19 year old boyfriend who responds, shoving him backwards and making fierce eye contact with a strong “No” attached to it. “What? I just anted to kiss her, it’s not like I was going to hurt her.” “No.” he says again firmly. The homeless man shuffles off, yelling curses at Alex.

After we get home, I am in the shower and I feel filthy. Not because a homeless guy laid hands on me and attempted to kiss me, but rather I realize that it was the first time in my life that anyone had mentioned that this sort of behavior is wrong.

Perhaps I should explain. People, absolute strangers, try to kiss me all the time. While I was living in Chicago, homeless men and women would invade my space wanting to know my name or where I was going. And I was taught to accept it. Actually, taught is most likely the wrong word. But, to avoid commotion, I let it happen. This, combined with the fact that no one else knew what to do in such a situation meant that I was kissed by strangers a lot. Or followed while being asked annoying questions. My space is constantly invaded and I am used to it.

There comes a point in everyone’s life when people tell you something is wrong which always bothered you but you never thought to put an end to it, and all of a sudden you feel ashamed for your naïveté. You didn’t know that such behavior was a violation. You never thought that you were vulnerable and it was entirely possible to become a victim so easily. And then the fact that it took a 19 year old to know despite his immaturity what was appropriate and what was not, simply rocks the foundation of your world. You no longer feel like an adult. You no longer feel like you can take on the rest of society and live safely. The world suddenly gets very big and very dark. After this particular incident I felt helpless for several days, even in fear, and then like most things, it wore off and I moved on.

It still happens occasionally. How old the person is or what they’re wearing doesn’t seem to matter. I can usually spot trouble when it meets me on the street and I try to avoid it as much as possible. Sometimes even crossing the street myself after they have crossed it and are approaching me. Some areas seem less affected by these people. Some areas more. Elephant and Castle is particularly a place where I am on my guard. But sometimes I have no idea it’s going to happen. And as much as I want to cry out that my body is not public property, it still catches me off guard, particularly in the nice areas of town.

One night I was with two friends heading over to the Tesco Trafalgar Square. It was a late evening and one of them had just gotten out of a show that he was starring in. On our way over to the store, the two others decided that they didn’t need anything and would head home shortly thereafter. Then I saw him, another person who simply went into our cluster and tried to break into our conversation and touch me. I got out of our group and went inside Tesco while it was still lit. My friends followed me and I acted as though nothing was wrong. Then I made eye contact with one of them. “Can you stay here for a minute until he leaves? I don’t trust him.” “Yes, I will stay. Just go about your business.” So I picked up some sushi and milk, a combination that is most likely my own but being easy to get to as I realized I could get out of the store sooner, and went to the checkout extremely aware of my surroundings. Pretty soon after I was in line, one of my friends came over to me and said “We’re leaving now.” I looked over to him and said, “Is he gone?” “Yes” he said, “he’s gone.”

I sat across from the occupational therapist, going through his checklist and asking the standard questions. It was my last visit to the therapy center I had attended for 16 years. She was going through what she called the “release documents” which was to say that I was leaving the center, never to be a client again. “How have you improved in your independence since coming to this institution? Are you now able to live a fully independent life?” It was a ridiculous question on several levels. First of all I was approximately 9 months old when I first started going to therapy at the clinic. I would hope I had improved from a baby who could not sit up by herself in the past 16 years. But to further complicate the situation the therapist was asking for a definite answer to a rather nebulous question.

Do I live a fully independent life?

What the heck does that mean, “fully independent?” There are plenty of able-bodied people who aren’t at all “fully independent.” There’s the girl who is in a co-dependent relationship with her boyfriend and can’t leave him at any price. There’s the man who lacks self-confidence and therefore relies on his wife to make the decisions that he cannot take initiative for. Co-dependency is everywhere. What about the woman who can’t shovel her driveway when it’s full of snow, or calls her daughter every time the DVD player starts flashing 12:00?

In our society today, we’re not just dependent on people. Stuff ties us down and paralyzes us in an extreme way that most of us don’t recognize. SO often I hear, “I can’t go anywhere without my pillow,” or, “I don’t want to be away from wi-fi for longer than 3 hours. I need to know what’s going on.” The comforts of the home which we insist on are in their own way a confirmation of our dependency on things outside of ourselves. They tie us down, make it difficult to move at a moment’s notice, and close options and opportunities that might occur yet ask us to travel away from our home with all the comfortable stuff.

A good friend of mine is a philosophy professor up in Leeds and she asked me one day why I seemed to have this obsession with independence. According to her, none of us are independent. We can’t survive on our own. We need to go the grocery store and buy flour made by some farmer we’ve never even laid eyes on. I guess it depends on how you define independence more than anything. The word “depend” actually comes from an old Latin and French root meaning “to hang.” Properly defined by the dictionary, depend on or depend upon means “to be controlled or determined by.” Maybe it’s just the way I was brought up, but I can’t help but see the connection between being controlled and hanging oneself at the end of a rope. If the French root of the word is indeed “to hang” it quickly explains my fear of dependency. You are tying yourself to something that will inevitably not allow you to go as far as you want and much like a dog on a leash, eventually the choke collar will nip into your neck.

If we look at where the word comes from and the violent as well as suspenseful image of being controlled, we begin to wonder if independence means not being at the end of a leash. Maybe it’s about knowing that you have options to change your life and live how you would like it to be rather than living a life completely self sufficient? I can’t make my own breakfast or tie my own shoes. If you define independent in this way, my occupational therapist was a failure in her goal of helping me work towards independent living. But if it’s about having options and being able to control your life, seeking help if one method fails you and having the confidence that you will survive one way or the other, then I am independent. I have succeeded in being the driver of my life, being able to take it where I want to go, and ensure that I can meet my goals and dreams. Oddly enough I don’t feel independent during the hours I spend alone, even if I’m able to complete any task I want to. I feel the most independent when my front door revolves with people offering suggestions, borrowing a cup of flour, insisting that we live in a community where we value each other, help each other, and encourage each other to go as far as we possibly can.

“Is it easier if you are disabled from the beginning?” she asks me on the phone. My friend has been sick for months and she recently had to break down to get a handicapped parking badge. Not the red ones which are temporary, but a blue one. This unknown medical condition is going to be hers for quite some time. Maybe even forever.

“No, it isn’t.” At first I can’t explain why having a disability from the day you are born isn’t any easier. It’s a question that a lot of therapists have asked me. Kind of like, do you think it is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all? Do you think it’s better to have walked and then lost the ability rather than to never have the ability in the first place? And yes, I do, actually. Being a child with a physical disability is one of the worst things you can imagine. You don’t play on playgrounds or get to bake cookies like everyone else. You sit and watch and are more or less at the mercy of people deciding to be your friend rather than making your own.

When we are kids, regardless of abilities or not, the fact is, we have no idea what we’re signing up for in life. Even in high school we think, go to college, get married, get a job, everything will run smoothly. What we don’t realize is that human bodies fail. All of them. Fail us, and what we want them to do, eventually. My mother used to say the minute we are born we begin to die (she’s normally a very cheerful woman) and while mentally you realize that’s true, you don’t feel the impact of it until you are much older and your body does begin to break down and fail.

My sophomore year at university, all of us saw my friend’s body simply revolt against her. For days she couldn’t get out of bed and see past three feet in front of her face. She would recover, and then relapse, and then recover and then relapse, each recovery time being shorter and the relapse time being longer. Now she is married and is trying to figure out life as a legally named disabled person.

In the past few years watching her, I have begun to see my other friends, who are as young as I am, have their bodies revolt and receive permanent conditions that they never dreamed of getting at this age. It’s forced me to wonder what will happen twenty-five years down the line when I really watch them age, watch them not be able to climb a set of stairs as quickly as they used to, or even after an accident that leaves them paralyzed. What to tell them when they ask me if it’s easier to be disabled from the beginning? What to say when they need advice and they want to be told that they will be able to rehabilitate themselves and life will be as easy as it once was. For that matter, why do I think I’m wiser and above further ailment simply because I’m disabled to begin with? My condition, if you don’t take care of yourself, means that you will age faster. Arthritis has a higher risk of setting in at a very young age, and there’s little to stop the aging process even if you’re disabled to begin with. Your body will break down even more.

We are at a friend’s wedding, and a week after getting her handicapped placard, my old university friend is feeling well enough to join us for the bridal shower and help us get ready in the bride’s chamber. The day is full of joy and life, everything that a wedding ought to be. She follows me around, helping me open doors when I can’t manage them and the flowers, making sure my dress is on straight, walking with me to the bathroom and constantly holding my hand. She will not let me go. In the bathroom stall I am unable to lock the door and she offers to hold it closed. She is bending down and a thought suddenly occurs to me, “Don’t make yourself pass out with your head below your knees.” She immediately sits on the floor, realizing that this is a distinct possibility for her.

“I guess I wouldn’t be very helpful to you in England anymore.” I hear the small voice on the other side of the bathroom stall and it breaks my heart realizing how much has changed and how much her world has been limited recently. The thing is, I wouldn’t say that she would not be of help to me. Friends, regardless of their physical ability, true friends, are always helpful along the way, in ways that are unique to them and the temporal bodies they occupy.

It’s Armistice Day again. It is the time when we all wear red poppies for remembrance and flower sellers on the street corner are doing a respectful duty. The scarlet plastic flowers contrasting against our dark coats are a bold statement for the good that men are capable of in the bleakest times. And these men, wars, and efforts, are worth being revered as well as remembered because these are the people who knew that sometimes a war is worth fighting, in order to protect human dignity.

Sadly, we as a society seem unable to offer these people the same respect in peace time as they did on the battlefield. Indeed, it is a known fact that with war comes wounds, and with those often comes permanent disability. What is often forgotten is that even today, with the onset of disability, basic human rights and dignities are habitually forgotten, looked over, or ignored. It suddenly becomes socially acceptable for a taxi to blow past a man in a wheelchair because the driver cannot be bothered to put the ramp down. Store clerks refuse to acknowledge someone with inarticulate speech because it is easier to talk to her companion. And a family stops trying to bathe the last living man from the World War II generation because his missing limb combined with his age related conditions makes showering extremely difficult.

Veterans are the people who were willing to risk life and limb to protect our safety and way of life at home. What they did not realize they were risking, was what is taken away as a person with any disability… their dignity.

With disability rights legislation several years old, it would be easy to assume that such discrimination and humiliation no longer exists or, at the very least, is on its way out. But in fact, the issue is a civil rights battle with extremely uncharted waters. The Disability Rights Commission recently revealed that a shocking number of organizations failed to give a disability equality scheme on the required date. Research shows that over forty percent of disabled people are deemed “economically inactive.” Despite all possible legislation, the barriers which were an issue for disabled people fifteen years ago have not been erased but rather transformed. And for the man who gave up his pristine spine because he believed an ideal was worth that risk to protect that notion, why can’t the country he was willing to enlist for now see him as a man who is as deserving to be able to get into any building as he is.

If this sounds absurd then there is only one word I can say in response… good. It is absurd that anyone is one faulty stoplight away from becoming a second-class citizen. Moreover, the fact that our culture emphasizes perfection and convenience symbolizes our refusal to acknowledge the frailty of the entire human condition. If the Armed Forces can see this need for the protection of humanity, why is it those at home refuse to recognize the same need for dignity for injured vets.

As a disabled woman, I recognize that laws and legislation have their place in forcing social change. But, it is people who make the laws, and it is people who make changes, or impede them. All of the laws and constitutions amount to good intentions on the part of lawmaker, but the conditions for disabled persons remain unchanged in daily life. And such changes will not be until changes in perception occur at an individual level. It is indeed inappropriate for anyone to excuse his ignorant behavior by explaining “I have yet to receive training on how to deal with disabled people.” Moreover, it is wrong. To use such a feeble defense is to ultimately give permission to someone else to treat you in the same manner when you are old and have unsure footing. More than any other civil rights battle, this issue is the one where, given time, you are sure to reap the seeds you sow.

Of course it is not only veterans who are entitled to these rights, but for them the common condition of the disabled person should strike you as the most shameful. These men and women became disabled by protecting you, your way of life and your home, because they thought your freedoms were worth pain, fear, and even a lifetime of inconvenience. Why can we not take the same challenge on our local high streets? What should be our selfless heroes are currently force to drink from the pungent cup of dependency feeling unwelcome, foreign, and a burden. They have been forced into the position, like all disabled people, of a refugee with no homeland even among the nation they fought to protect.

Back in the classroom, Socrates was relentless towards the mind of sixteen year olds.

“Can we ever be untied? Look on a map, America is huge. Alaska, Kansas, New York all in one country. Let’s be reasonable.” Now he was doing his best to push everyone’s buttons.

I’ve been out of college a short while now and already two of my friends have needed to apply for handicap parking placards. Two years ago it was unthinkable, now they are applying for the blue placards which are permanent, rather than the temporary red ones. For someone who has found how we are all alike more interesting than how we are all different, the connection is striking. For most of us, as we age, America will be shrinking. What is different about disability rights from most civil right battles is that nobody will wake up suddenly being a different race, gender, or creed than when they went to bed. Life can change in an instant in that going for a jog one morning may be the last time we ever do it. This may be as simple as a bad knee or as traumatic as a car accident, but everyone’s body will fail him. Moreover the inaccessible America you  permit today is going to be the same one you will inherit tomorrow when your body breaks down. I’m not just advocating for my rights. I’m advocating for yours

But even the politicians, the ones who are supposed to be directly enacting the Constitution, remain blissfully unaware of how small America is on this issue. In between welfare reform and environmentalism, gay marriage debates and school vouchers, when was the last time you heard a story about disability rights on a news station? I can think of only one politician who consistently brings up the issue in her platform. Other than that, I feel like everyone else’s issues get debated in Washington except mine. Even though all men are ultimately feeble, the needs of all men are ignored.

What I learned that day in the classroom, took an additional six years to finally reach its full meaning. Like so many other things in life, you don’t realize what rights are until they are taken away. It’s as simple as someone in the grocery store insisting that I really want skim milk when I’m reaching for the two percent. Most people when they think about disability rights think of assisted care or special services. I don’t need that. I just want to get where I’m going unimpeded by a staircase, someone who thinks they know my limitations, or even an overbearing special service. Don’t give me add on’s until you’ve figured out how to fully give me my unalienable rights. This doesn’t mean I don’t have those rights yet. I still have them, America (or anywhere else I’ve lived) just hasn’t figured out how to respect them. Special care facilities, special education, even special funding is no replacement for freedom. Any revolutionary in American  history could’ve told you that. They could also tell you that sooner or later, that freedom eventually came. Even after living in the real world, I cannot give up hope that I will join them.

“I’m still waiting for an answer.” He looks at what we are all looking at… the clock. Our books are still being clutched to our chests in anticipation. “Miss Stevens, you’ve had your hand up for some time now.”

“Maybe the phrase all men expands as civil rights expands… Uh… It could’ve meant all males with property then but now it means all humans… or-or at least it should.”

“Go on.”

“It just expanded to incorporate more and more people until today, everyone is equal.”

“So the history of America-“

“The history of America is the story of the phrase ‘all men’ expanding.” He looked at me and nodded approval. The bell rang.

That’s what I said one rainy August morning when I was sixteen. It would take me years to learn the weight of what it meant.

The preceding is a narrative from Athena’s book The Perfect Sole due out this winter.

“What  kind of kooks would claim equality as a birthright? I mean the idea’s insane. Can anybody in this classroom, in 2000 give me any absolute proof that the man who wanted to wash my windshield for a buck this morning and Bill Gates have an equal chance in life? Anybody?” The teacher was already passionately walking around in circles and raising his voice. “You can’t do it, just look at the world.”

People who pass me on the street tend to see what I can’t do when really, they don’t know the half of what I can do. The idea that God made all men equal is great in theory, but hard to believe in practice, particularly at first glances of other people’s conditions. We live in a world, I came to find out later, where most people will define you by what your abilities are not, not what they are. Oddly enough, this way of defining humanity is precisely what splinters people so that we question the meaning of “all men.” By categorizing everyone so that “we are all different” there is no longer a solitary unit of mankind. If there was, nobody would question what was meant by “all men” in the first place. Thus we do not allow Jefferson’s ideal to be fully accomplished.

“I’m still waiting for someone to tell me what ‘all men’ means,” he says after a brief tangent about the Civil War. “Did the constitution change when we freed the slaves? Don’t think you are getting out of  here without answering the question. I don’t care if the bell does ring.”

I realize now, that my so called “America” ends with the first unramped sidewalk  I come across, regardless of what the law says. Certain doors, both metaphorically and physically, remain impossible to open and you can recite what lawmakers say until you are blue in the face, it doesn’t mean anything. If America is a place where people are “endowed by their creator to certain unalienable rights,” then you don’t realize how small America actually is when your are sitting in your high school U.S. History class in your wheelchair. You can’t know that, because all the same teachers see you everyday, they know you for you, meaning that there is nothing to prove, and every day you open every door, even if it means asking a janitor, in Spanish, how to unlock it. Then when you get through the graduation line and out into the public you’re shocked by how many variable friction door handles there are which, of course, you can’t hold onto, how many huge cracks there are in public sidewalks from endless cycles of ice freezing and melting, and how many oblivious people there are out there who don’t listen and can’t stand the thought of either themselves or me being independent . Outside of a classroom, American progress rarely goes in a straight line.

Jefferson’s promise was scrawled across the board in half dead dry erase marker. Circled were the words all men. Our first day back for junior year of high school, the man in a sports coat at the front wasted no time in making us think. He demanded to know,  who was classified under the term “all men?” Did that include women, minorities, every age, creed? What about the fact that when these men wrote the Constitution, they clearly didn’t mean slaves, or women, or for that matter any white male who didn’t have the good fortune to own land? I looked out of the window at the rain pelting down, as it did every August to discourage us from even wanting to be outside. Summer was, without a doubt, over.

I didn’t know it then, but that was the first time I realized that I was entitled to certain rights, even if society refused to grant them.

Speed ahead six years and I’m in the so called “real world”. And I have discovered that certain bus drivers refuse to let me on their buses, in public there is a very vocal, albeit small, amount of people who don’t think I’m educated enough to go shopping on my own, and I am constantly plagued by experts telling me that they know more about my life than I do. A concerned teacher is continuously calling me and insisting, not suggesting, that I move out of my newly unpacked flat on the fourteenth floor of a high rise I love and into one that’s on the ground floor for “health and safety reasons.” When I try to tell her that I couldn’t find a ground floor flat which suited my needs, she told me I “don’t know how to go about looking properly.”

At twenty three, I’m wondering how to go about declaring my independence from the people out there who can’t stand the thought of me being independent.

Being a disabled woman these day is like living in your own private American Revolution without the petticoats and bayonets. It means starting from square one and having to convince every person you meet that you are, indeed intelligent, capable of making your own decisions, and deserving of being listened to. It means finding subtle ways to display your capacities. There are numerous daily examples of this. Calling a waitress by their name on the tag alludes to the fact you can read. You bring up current events and dare to debate where disagreement is uncommon (citing your sources of course). And if you can see from the onset that a person is going to be over bearing, you avoid them at all possible costs, even at the expense of being slightly aloof.

Not that I knew any of this my first day of junior year. Sitting, listening to the bald man at the front, I thought the idea that God made all men equal was just a given to Americans, excluding the bigoted idiots of course. We had the Civil Rights movement, women’s rights marches, and every amended law in between so that America was the land of opportunity for all people. I never thought that I would be one of the ones still having to fight for Jefferson’s promise to be fulfilled.

I’m in Central London trying to get the 188 home. A driver pulls up to the stop looks at me and insists that London buses don’t have wheelchair ramps. Now in a lot of ways, I can’t say I really blame him for being a fool, just like I can’t be blamed for being born with a disability. He doesn’t know that I have lived in London for years. He doesn’t know that I’ve used 3 buses today, all of which had wheelchair ramps. He probably doesn’t even know that one entire side of his double-decker bus is devoted to a full color ad declaring all buses in London to now be wheelchair accessible. And I’m assuming that he has no idea that I work for Transport for London and I just met his supervisor last week. All he knows is that he is one hundred percent right and I have a disability, which makes me automatically one hundred percent wrong.

Like I said, people shouldn’t blamed for how they are naturally.

Except it is this exact excuse which keeps London miserably inaccessible to wheelchair users and woefully under prepared for the Olympics / Paralympics in 2012. Yes, the London Underground was started in 1863. Yes, London is a city where things are so old that every piece of construction could qualify for a blue historical plaque. Yes, the city is hard for anyone to get around in. None of this justifies the fact that we are now five years after Britain passed the Disability Discrimination Act and there is still not a single reliable form of transportation in London for disabled people to use. As a transportation advisor, I’ve heard public officials try to justify these conditions over and over. And you know what, after all this time and all the warning, after America passed its disability legislature a full fifteen years before Britain passed it, there is still no good way for person’s who have anything less than a fully functioning body to get around in London.

An athlete in the Paralympics stands to be insulted by the ground staff at any London airport. They would be appalled to learn just how many taxi drivers don’t know how to use their own ramps, and how many bus drivers deny that ramps even exist. And, my guess is, after a day or so, they would consider themselves lucky to even get on a train with the level of resentment I’ve seen from most station staff. And the London Underground has a goal of making thirty three percent of all stations on the system accessible by 2013… that’s it, just one third. These are the situations I see in London on a daily basis. In one of the world’s most diverse cities, access is far from being even “manageable.”

When determining nation wide access, the concrete obstacles are often easiest to change. The mental blocks that people throw up are always inhibit equality more than issues of bricks and mortar. Now my worry is that people are falling for ‘good enough,’ and the idea that London was never made to be accessible. Maybe if you have the luxury of taking this attitude London’s accessibility today seems impressive. But to those of us who are dependent on accessible transit, these conditions are paltry to say the least.

People of London you have just under three years to inform, change, and build. The first thing you must do is stop hiding behind your “nature” however justifiable of an excuse it may provide. Since when has something right ever been easy? I don’t think with this little time left Londoners can accomplish the necessary adjustments to make this city wheelchair friendly. Prove me wrong.

Apparently, I’m a fire hazard.

              I was not made aware of this until I was rejected from an internship last week. The theatre I was looking to work at is up three flights of stairs above a local pub. I frequent the theatre all the time, climbing up the staircases and making my way into the theatre all the time, occasionally putting a little extra weight in my escort’s arm. I was aware of the stairs when I chose to apply for the position. I was equally aware that I could navigate the stairs by myself safely and effectively. The stairs were a non issue for me. It should have been likewise for the theatre company.

              But then again who am I to say what I am capable of?

I never asked for a reason as to why I didn’t get the position. The company willfully offered it on their own in an email. “Although we understand the nature of your disability allows you to climb stairs, we are concerned that in the event of a fire, you would impede safety for yourself and others in the building.” And that was the end of their reasoning.

        What’s most troubling about this situation is that it occurs at least three times per year. Because a building is not accessible, the potential employer hides behind health and safety law as a means of negating any form of disability discrimination law. To be able to escape the compensatory obligations of one law by hiding behind another law represents a failure on the part of lawmakers to form a cohesive code of conduct. Worse still, it prevents society from ever effectively progressing. During the 1950’s in America we found ourselves equally able to escape the law via other laws. We called this heinous situation the Jim Crow laws and they are looked upon now as a disgraceful barrier towards civil rights.

        What is, perhaps, the most disturbing about being called  an occupational fire hazard is that it takes values such as choice and independence out of my hands. No longer am I able to decide for myself when I am able to safely walk up and down a flight of stairs. Furthermore, achieving the goal of being able to do so is no longer enough. Rather, it is up to an outside source who knows very little about me and my condition, to decide what I am capable of. Outside sources, governing experts and pragmatic cautions overstepping their boundaries often result in putting more shackles on the individual, not safety  features.

        Assuming of course that the only reason I didn’t get the position was because I would prove to be a fire hazard in the workplace, I appreciate the theatre’s desire to keep me safe. But really, that decision should be my call. I know my capabilities and limitations. I weighed all those considerations before I applied for the job and they are not their choices to make. Oddly enough, if I prove to be such a fire hazard, I’m surprised they didn’t saying anything about me going up three flights of stairs to pay them money for a ticket. I guess occupational hazards only occur when the money flows in a certain direction.