The Edge of the Abyss

The Edge of the Abyss
Depression is not a sign of weakness

Monday, October 6, 2014

STEP RIGHT UP AND ASK THE GIMP GIRL



My husband and I were in Mallory Square, gazing out at the water. We’d gathered with the rest of the crowd to enjoy the evening sunset celebration. The light splashed across the sky was changing colors minute by minute: topaz and tangerine, hot pink and periwinkle, scarlet and cinnabar. We held hands and smiled, enjoying the remaining minutes of a leisurely day spent in Key West.

Just moments before we hoped to spot the elusive green flash, a woman came up to us out of the crowd. I’d never seen her before in my life, and from the look on my husband’s face, it was clear he didn’t know her, either.

“I’ve been watching you from my window,” she said, pointing to a nearby hotel. “You’ve been standing up and also sitting in your wheelchair.”

“Huh?” I thought, startled from my reverie, then instantly realizing what was happening. She was one of those insensitive knuckleheads who felt it was her God-given right to pepper me with questions.

As if on cue, she asked me why I use a wheelchair, how long I’d been using one and why I sometimes stand and walk.

“I have arthritis and use a wheelchair to get around, but sometimes I need to stand and stretch,” I replied, hoping that would satisfy her curiosity and she would turn around and depart.

She did not. She’d gotten her foot in the door, and burst forth with another round of highly personal questions about my disability.

My face flushed hot and for an instant, I mentally debated – but rejected – the idea of kicking her in the shins. Instead, I quietly turned away from her and back toward the water. Mercifully, she got the message and walked away.

The light on the water was still breathtaking, but the magic was gone.  I was shaking with anger but unsure of whom I was angrier with: my interrogator or myself for even answering one of her questions. My husband was equally disgusted. But we didn’t want to end the day on a sour note, so we shook it off.

The next day when I was more introspective and less irate, I thought about what had happened. It was hardly the first time that a total stranger had treated me this way, yet it left me just as puzzled.

Why do some otherwise normal people think it’s OK to behave so brazenly? Why do they see folks with disabilities as a sort of “community property,” as walking or rolling encyclopedias they can demand answers from whenever they please? Why is this sort of behavior acceptable to them, yet they would be appalled – and justifiably so – at the thought of asking an African American they’d never met before intimate questions about his or her racial identity or experiences with bigotry.

Some people just don’t get it, and they probably never will. So I’ve resolved to respond the following way to the next dolt who dares to interrogate me:

“Which STDs have you had?  Why is your credit score so low? When are you going to take off a few pounds?”

When I see a flabbergasted expression and hear nothing but crickets, I’ll wrap it up this way:

“Are you shocked by such intimate questions from a complete stranger? Now you know how I feel.”

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