ABC Ableism, Nightly News Style

ABC World News sure has been pushing the inspirational stories lately. So much so that whenever Charles Gibson says, “And finally,” I cringe to hear what comes next. Last night was no exception. Mainstream media proves once again that they are clueless when it comes to Disability Rights.

 

“And later tonight,” beams Gibson, “we’ll take a look at the uphill battles of a mountain climber confined to a wheelchair.” Gibson added the emphasis.

 

And he didn’t just say it once. He used “confined to a wheelchair” twice going into a commercial. It could be that Gibson, in his tiny bubble, is oblivious to the linguistic wishes of the disability community. I’m not anymore confined to this wheelchair than Gibson is confined to his overpriced loafers.

 

As a matter of fact, I get out of my chair and into the bathtub. I also get into my truck, the bed, and other chairs. I’ve been known to get into some trouble now and then, but that’s another story.

 

One dictionary defines confine as “to hold within a location; imprison” and “to keep within limits.” Does a wheelchair really confine us to our limits, or does it help us to circumvent our limitations? Ah, but that’s semantics, right, Gibson?

 

Such confining use of language confounds the disability community’s ability to navigate society fairly, and They know this. It’s the same reason why something unfavorable or bad is considered “gay” and wimpy men are considered “pussies.” Oppression via language is oppression all the same.

 

Perhaps this is just personal bias oozing out of us. I’ve been guilty of it. But speaking to millions comes with a big responsibility, and that responsibility does not involve perpetuating antiquated stereotypes of confinement.

 

To make matters worse, the main character in ABC’s inspiring story, Bob Coomber, is nicknamed “Four-Wheeled Bob.” Apparently he pushes his wheelchair backward up mountain paths. Gibson called Coomber “determination on wheels,” saying he “faces more of an uphill fight than most.”

 

Surprisingly, the story and video itself were largely unsympathetic. They focused on what he “still” can do, saying that Coomber had been an avid outdoors enthusiast and athlete his whole life. Now he simply pursues those passions from a “different vantage point.”

 

While “different” still signifies “Other”—it could have been identified as “another vantage point”—it expresses that life has many points of perspective, all relevant. Relevance validates the “different” perspective of Coomber’s seated hikes.

 

At the climax of the story, Coomber falls from his chair, and the narration stops. The only thing that can be heard is the Kevlar of Coomber’s pants as he scoots alongside the chair. To the nondisabled, there is nothing more helpless than a cripple on the floor.

 

 While he admits that from time to time he thinks about what could have been, his focus is on “living forward,” claims Coomber. This is the best part of the whole story. It is no coincidence that it comes directly from the person with the disability and not the nondisabled narrator.

 

As the video ends, Gibson chimes in, “Determination with a capital D.” Hey, Gibson, why can’t it be disability with a capital D? Perhaps because seeing disability as a relevant existence is impossible aside from perceiving it in terms of inspiration…at least for the mainstream nondisabled audience.

Nurses, Bedpans and Rehab Romance

Most guys who have spent any lengthy period of time in a hospital have a nurse story. For me, her name was Simoan. That’s probably not how she spelled it, but it worked for me.

 

After being paralyzed from the waist down, one must come to terms with the changes in sexuality. Having a supportive mate helps a lot, even when that supportive mate decides to leave six months later with some asshole French guy on a student Visa named Cricket or something stupid like that. But I digress.

 

Four months before my twenty-first birthday, a friend rolled his car with me and three other people inside. Not everyone walked away. I’d had a steady girlfriend for four-and-a-half years, whom I had cheated on while at college with a cheerleader and a few freshmeat young’uns.

 

I remember the first time Simoan touched me. I was on the can, constipated from the medication and a particularly nasty urinary tract infection. Pouting like a pansy, I bemoaned my inability to poop on command. It was something I had become rather fond of before being paralyzed.

 

Simoan rubbed her soft hand on the big intestine side of my torso. Up and down, her hand attempted to smoothe out the chunks that clogged me up. “Just relax,” she said. Her smile sent a chill two-thirds of the way down my fusing spine, and I filled that toilet bowl twice.

 

We both knew that our love was forbidden, and it wasn’t just because of some policy against employees dating patients. She was a 28-year-old RN dating a 52-year-old surgeon. He had the money, honey, but I had her time. I had her every day. I looked forward to her shift when we would flirt and I would learn how to insert a 14-french catheter directly down the center of my penis.

 

Simoan made disability bearable, She showed me that although I may have had a mangled back and withering limbs, the spark inside that had existed before the accident was still there. Personality counts for a lot. 

 

Greg was my roommate for the last month of my stay in rehab. Simoan encouraged me to give up my bed by the window to the 16-year-old C-6 quad so they could put him in my room. Because of my extraordinary support group and my unique outlook on life, I had been deemed the inspiring cripple for that floor. Accordingly, new patients with bad attitudes were instructed to come speak to me in that hopes that my relentless denial would rub off on them.

 

True, I had seen some amazing things in my short time on this earth, and I had experienced a spiritual connection that many never experience in their life, but nothing had prepared me for Greg. When I encouraged him to cheer up, to focus on the things that he could still do, he said, “Easy for you to say. At least you still have your legs.”

 

My stint as a crip counselor ended with his statement. After that, Greg and I took turns at Simoan’s attention. 

 

When Simoan unfurled her blonde locks and flashed her baby-blue eyes at me and Greg one night when she left the room, he and I felt intensely the sexual frustration of newly gimped gigolos. Later, Greg had said, “That look was clearly for you, Woody.”

 

Simoan and I kept in touch after I left the rehab. Sometime later, she came and picked me up so we could go visit Greg at his newly modified house. His parents had revamped the garage for their son. It was the only area of the house where he would have the best access.

 

I could tell he was a little miffed when I showed up with Simoan. She admitted on the way to his house that she had not told him she was bringing me. When she went to the little girl’s room, Greg ribbed me about showing up with Simoan, asking if we were dating and if I had nailed her yet. We were still talking like we could “nail” a chick, yet neither one of us were willing to expose ourselves to the truth: Leg bags and condom catheters tend to get in the way of sexy.

 

On the way home, I pissed in the passenger’s seat of Simoan’s Jeep. I was so embarrassed, I never said anything. I just pulled my shirt down over the dark spot that had spread across the front of my jeans.

 

When I dropped out of the Jeep into my chair, the dark fabric and late night hid the evidence in the seat. She asked to come in, and then she proceeded to crawl up the counters in the kitchen and spread her legs invitingly. As much as I wanted her to stay, my urine-stained pants begged me to make an excuse, so I told her I had to get up in the morning for a “thing.”

 

As much as Simoan had seen as a nurse, something little like an improperly fitted condom catheter and subsequent leaking would not have scared her off that night. It wasn’t the impairment that kept me from getting into Simoan’s pants. It was my own foolish pride. Because of embarrassment, I missed out on a smart piece of ass.

 

Simone, if you’re out there, I know it’s been a while, but drop me a line. I’ll send you the $20 to cover that urine-stained seat if you’ll sit on my face and let me clean your tail.

Stock Up On Catheters, the War’s Coming

I had a change in insurance recently, and I got screwed royally. When I broke my back and started receiving Medicaid, the Almighty State Healthcare God told me I would have state insurance as long as I was permanently disabled. Apparently a miracle has occurred. After sixteen years of sweet paraplegia, the State now considers me cured.

Better yet, I receive all the benefits of being a cured person, such as the loss of insurance. I now pay twenty percent for all durable medical equipment, which includes leg bags, condom catheters and, more expensively, wheelchairs.

As a cured individual, I no longer have to wait in the long lines at subpar doctors’ offices with the sickest people society can provide. I am free from unpleasant phone trees and the fruits that bounce me back and forth, unable to provide an answer to the simplest question.

All this and more. Somehow, though, I thought a cure would be replete with the ability to walk, the control of my bladder and bowels, and an honorary key to AB City. What gives, Medicaid?

Despite the obvious benefits of being dropped by Medicaid, I attempted to cling to the tree of healthcare life. They shook the branch and I fell. Luckily, I landed on my head, so there was no serious damage. I can’t afford another co-pay right now.

If you still have Medicaid, stock up on supplies. Beseech the Healthcare Gods, tell them you use a new Texas catheter every time you cath, as many as 100 a month, and then conserve your resources by wearing them while you shower. They’ll go for two or three days like that, and they’ll stay clean. If the adhesive wear off too soon, cinch up with a spare leg strap. Just be sure to relieve the pressure before your pecker turns purple.

Reuse leg bags and tube catheters as much as possible. Don’t worry, the tube won’t kill ya when it starts turning brown. Be sure to build up the bacteria presence in your bladder before attempting this. Leg bags are trickier. They’ll start to smellin’ pretty bad when you get into the third and fourth week. I use a vinegar solution, soaked over night, to bring back that fresh, new leg bag smell.

As far as the wheelchair goes, do yourself a favor and learn a little welding. I’ve got three old chairs I’ve collected over the years that I use for parts. I swap out when necessary, but I always have a back up or two. Besides, you never know when you might want to whoop some Walkie’s ass in an impromptu game of basketball. 

You didn’t ask to be crippled, so you shouldn’t have to pay for it. If you’re one of the lucky one’s sucking on the State’s desiccated teet, don’t be afraid to order more than you need. Maybe you could sell the extras on EBay when things get really bad. Which reminds me….

I’ve got a box of male latex external catheters, 35 mm, slightly used. I’ll let it go for $75. Come on, man, I applied the aloe vera myself.

Shiner

Once smooth, its surface has become torn and tattered. Frayed leather curls in places where a rough infield or impromptu diamond had grabbed the concrete. The old, dirtied ball, protected in a plastic cube, now sits suspended on a high shelf, between a signed football and a steel-blue Texans helmet. Scrawled by the hand of a nine-year-old pee wee leaguer, my name adorns the tight narrow between the faded red seams. The week I wrote it seems like a lifetime, maybe two lifetimes ago. I was just a little boy looking forward to his first real-pitch game, a little boy who learned that grandpas have a sense of humor, and baseballs are a lot harder than they look.

    

It wasn’t the first time we had ventured into my grandparents’ backyard to play catch. My grandfather and I had been back there at least three times a week since it had gotten warmer. Lancer, my grandparents’ dog, eagerly pounced around me as I walked out to my spot. He was very fond of retrieving mishandled balls. My grandfather started at his customary twenty feet to get me “warmed up.” He stepped back after a few throws, and after several more hurls, he moved even farther away.

    

I’ve heard that all baseball players fear one thing more than all: the baseball. Careers have even been ended after a player has been hit by a ball. Sometimes, the more spirited players will charge a pitcher’s mound after being struck by the hurler. I didn’t know any of this in my grandparents’ backyard that day. But after my grandfather’s throw arched over the top of my glove and smacked me in the right eye, I could surely empathize with those players. The one thing that remains clear in my mind from that day is the ball as it rose higher than my glove. No matter how high I held my glove, it just kept going. The sun, from behind the ball, blackened the ball as it closed in on my eye. Even though I’d already been in a couple of fights by the age of nine, I’d never been hit in the face that hard. My eye immediately began to swell. I’m sure I cried, and with good reason: a baseball had just hit me in the face.

    

My grandfather laughed so hard that I thought he was crying. He was unable to speak for a decent length of time. My grandmother tried to console me while chastising my grandfather, but it became clear to me that perhaps getting hit in the eye with a baseball was not all that extraordinary. Of course, my mom probably made a fuss about it, but everyone else, even at school, considered it a badge of honor. My little league coach called me Shiner, a name that stuck for the rest of the six-week season. When my dad saw me, he gingerly clasped my shoulder and said, “Welcome to the club.” As it turned out, my grandfather had hit all three of his sons in the face with a baseball, and I was just taking my place in line as the first male progeny of the next generation.

    

It was several years before a girl slapped me in the face so hard that I remembered that fateful pitch from my grandfather. When he had stopped laughing that day, he gave me a pen and handed me the ball. “Sign it,” he said. “It’ll hep ya ‘member t’use two hands.” I have moved more than a dozen times since I signed that ball, but I have always kept it in a prominent spot in my room. Remembering that day reminds me that no matter how hard life smacks me in the face, a smile will get you back on the horse faster than a sneer.

Disabling Access: Dumpster Diving, the Finale

 

“Believe me I am on your side,” wrote the disability services coordinator. I didn’t really think I had suggested that he was NOT on my side, but whatever makes him feel like he’s doing his job. “I was just pointing out what the law states and that it would be used by an unnamed person(s) to justify their actions. I’m running into brick walls all the time re: getting things for disability students.”

 

According to the statement above, the disability services coordinator believes that he is unable to do his job, i.e. “getting things for disability students,” because certain “unnamed person(s)” operate above the law.

 

Again, I reminded him that the ADA will back us up when we push for improved access at the college. The ADA is like a tool: It only works when you use it. It’s nice and pretty by itself, but it must be implemented for it to be useful.   

 

Unfortunately, we don’t know how many people, drivers who needed the spot, have had to drive past the blocked area designated for handicapped parking. I can tell you that I have been forced to park in an alternate parking space, one designated for disabled access but without an access aisle (the “blue-striped” area allowed for loading and unloading).

 

This particular spot forces me to open my door and assemble my wheelchair in the face of oncoming traffic. Sadly, not all drivers exhibit regard for a safe passing distance. There are times when I could have reached out and touched a passing vehicle.

 

As I am actively involved with the Office of Student Life, I attend meetings regularly in the campus student center. Since the parking area in question has been blocked, I have been forced to either park in one of the four spots without an access aisle or roll my wheelchair downhill to the building. I also had no choice but to use these inadequate parking spots when I worked for the Writing Center, which is on the second floor and is also inaccessible.

 

“Some people think federal law doesn’t apply in Texas or to them personally,” wrote the disability services coordinator.

 

“Well,” I responded, “sometimes an objective third party can clear up any confusion regarding federal law.” As I stated before, the dumpster was moved the next day.

Dumpster Diving, Part 2

So I received an email from the gut-challenged disability services coordinator about the dumpster blocking the handicapped parking space on campus. Here’s what he had to say:

In response to your query about the dumpster by ******* Hall
blocking the handicap parking space, I found this on the Title III Technical
Assistance Manual website– http://www.ada.gov/taman3.html:

“III-3.7000 Maintenance of accessible features. Public accommodations must maintain
in working order equipment and features of facilities that are required to
provide ready access to individuals with disabilities. Isolated or temporary
interruptions in access due to maintenance and repair of accessible features
are not prohibited.”

I appreciate your concern and offer of assistance in such matters. I think we will be collaborating on disability issues as situations arise.

I was glad he sent the link to the Title III section of the ADA. There were some things I wanted to point out to him in my response:

Please note that III-3.7000 specifies “repair of accessible features.” To my knowledge, that parking
space is not under repair.

In addition, I would agree with your conclusion except for the fact that the handicapped parking space in question also services the One College Center, which is NOT under construction. The pseudo-access aisle on the main path to One College Center is designated for “staff” parking only; therefore, the handicapped parking space for the south side of One College Center is currently blocked by a trailer/dumpster.

Furthermore, the handicapped parking space in question is the only one with an access aisle/unloading space for van users. According to III-7.4300, “ADAAG requires that at least one of every eight accessible parking spaces have adequate adjacent space for a van lift to be deployed. Each such space must have a sign indicating that it is van-accessible, but it is not to be reserved exclusively for vans.” There is NO “adequate adjacent space” in the other designated handicapped parking areas in that lot because those areas have NO access aisle whatsoever, forcing a wheelchair user to open doors into oncoming traffic. By blocking this one handicapped parking space, the college has, in effect, prevented use of the one legally valid handicapped parking space in that particular lot.

I appreciate your effort in assisting to resolve this misunderstanding of the law requirements, and I look forward to your response.

Why can’t they just move the damn dumpster? We’ll see where this goes.

Freedom of Speech, Anyone?

“The topic of free speech is one of the most contentious issues in liberal societies. If the liberty to express oneself is not highly valued, as has often been the case, there is no problem: freedom of expression is simply curtailed in favor of other values. Free speech becomes a volatile issue when it is highly valued because only then do the limitations placed upon it become controversial. The first thing to note in any sensible discussion of freedom of speech is that it will have to be limited. Every society places some limits on the exercise of speech because speech always takes place within a context of competing values.” –Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy

 

Such liberty should exist with every subject matter so that we have “absolute freedom of opinion and sentiment on all subjects, practical or speculative, scientific, moral or theological” (1978, 11). Mill claims that the fullest liberty of expression is required to push our arguments to their logical limits, rather than the limits of social embarrassment. Such liberty of expression is necessary, he suggests, for the dignity of persons. –John Stuart Mills

 

You Have the Right to Blog Anonymously.

 

You Have the Right to Keep Sources Confidential.

 

You Have the Right to Make Fair Use of Intellectual Property.

 

You have the Right to Allow Reader’s Comments Without Fear.

 

You Have the Right to Blog about Your Workplace.

 

Know Your Rights and Prepare to Defend Them.

 

For more information on Free Speech and the protection of Freedom of Speech online, visit Electronic Frontier Foundation. Be a Blue Ribbon supporter.

 

Dumpster Parked in Handicapped Parking

At the college where I teach, there has been a dumpster parked in a handicapped parking space for nearly three weeks. It is only summer school, said the head of maintenance when I asked him to have it moved. I told him there are only three handicapped parking spaces in that parking lot, and reducing that number is unacceptable. He said it would be out of there soon enough, and he sped away in his little golf cart. Well, sped away is a bit of an exaggeration.

I called campus police and said, “Someone is parked illegally in a handicapped parking space over near the science building.” He said he would be right there, so I waited. And I waited. And I waited.

I finally called him back and asked where they were. He said, “Sir, are you talking about the dumpster? There’s nothing I can do about that.” I figured that’s what he would say, so I called the disability services coordinator.

Now let me tell you a little bit about the director of disability services: He is new on the job, he is not disabled, and he is apparently more interested in saving his own neck than doing the job for which he was hired.

“Mr. so-and-so, I am calling about the dumpster parked in the handicapped parking spot. Does that dumpster have a permit to park there?” I said.

He laughed, “Yes, I received your call last week (which he never returned), and there is nothing I can do about that. I don’t handle ADA claims. You’ll have to call Human Resources. I am still trying to figure out how much I can request without stepping on anyone’s toes around here.”

“Well,” I said, “we have a great civil rights law to back us up if necessary. I am interested in creating a policy that would keep this from happening again.”

“That’s something you’ll have to take up with Human Resources.”

“Huh,” I said. “Okay, thanks for your time.” There is a tool born every minute. 

I called Human Resources, and I was told the director would be on vacation for another two weeks. How convenient.

Frustrated, I made a copy of a handicapped license plate and taped it to the dumpster. At least now it’s legal.

So Many Christians, So Few Lions

Either We’re Created Equal, or We’re Not

A student wrote an essay in which she claimed she wanted “the blind to see, the deaf to hear, and the crippled to walk.” I circled “crippled” and drew a line to the margin. My pen was actually shaking.

 

“This is like writing ‘nigger,’” I wrote. “Use disabled or handicapped if you must, but strive for people-first language. Besides, how do you know the Deaf want to hear? Maybe they’re happy being deaf.”

 

She came to me after class and pointed to the taboo n-word in the margin, “Is that what I think it is?”

 

“Sure is,” I said. “The n-word and the c-word derive from a long succession of oppression and discrimination. From institutionalization to extermination, these two minorities have endured it all, and they were called niggers and cripples the whole time.”

 

Dumbfounded. That’s the only word to describe her face.

 

This was a perfect opportunity to open a discussion on the power of language, but I didn’t take it.

 

It wasn’t until someone later said “That’s retarded” that I finally took that opportunity.

 

“Saying that word implies there’s something wrong with being mentally disabled,” I said.

 

“But there is something wrong with that,” said a student.

 

I whipped my wheelchair around to face them squarely, “We’re either all created equally, or we are not. You have to make up your mind.”

 

This stumped them. Gay, Black, Disabled, or Female, they’re all equal. But still, they didn’t want to accept it.

 

“No offense,” said a pretty little bird, “but I don’t want to be disabled.”

 

“Well,” I said, “no offense, but I don’t want to be a woman. That doesn’t mean that women don’t deserve the same treatment and benefits as men.”  

 

“But disabled is….” Silence. Be careful what you say here. Your grade may hang in the balance.

 

Where did this Divine Right of Able Bodies come from? This corporeal absolutism has dominated the perception of disability for eons, ingraining in the collective psyche a model of disability dependent upon what a person lacks rather than what they have.

 

“Again, it’s either All Men are Created Equal, or All Men are NOT Created Equal,” I said. “Which is it going to be?” Sheepishly, they grumbled and assented.

 

But I know where they’re coming from. I remember what it was like to run and climb trees, and now I sit in a wheelchair. Maybe disabled is less than. How can I, with a straight face, tell a class that it is the perception of others, not the impairment, which makes life difficult for the Disabled? Do I even believe that?

 

I have been hobbled the last few weeks by a pressure sore that is forcing me into bed rest when I want to be up and moving around. Heck, I crapped my pants this morning before I even made it to work, forcing me to turn around and head back to the house. Isn’t that the impairment that is making life difficult?

 

Perhaps all men (and women) are created equally. It’s what happens after creation that makes life difficult.