POWERING (AND EMPOWERING) THROUGH THE WORLD ON WHEELS

There’s no two ways about it: wheelchairs are demonized in our society. They’re seen as a symbol of weakness and failure rather than of power and liberation.

 

I had many orthopedic surgeries as a teenager and had to use a wheelchair for mobility during the long periods of rehab. But because of the way other people treated me when I used a chair, I was determined to get back up on my feet, even though walking was painful and draining much of the time.

 

I didn’t have a power wheelchair that I could use independently until I went away to college. I immediately realized the freedom it provided, but I was very conflicted about using it.

 

Normally, if I had a flare of pain, I would take my chair to and from class for a day or two. But I always preferred to walk, whenever possible. I still struggled to reconcile using a chair with my self-image. If I were a quadriplegic due to a spinal cord injury, I’d have to use one for mobility – there’d be no room for debate. But I inhabited a realm betwixt those who walked all the time and those who never did. There was no “how-to” guide for someone like me, or at least I’d never seen a book titled Sometimes Your Ass Walks, Other Times it Rolls: a Guide to the Wheelchair Netherworld at Walden’s at the mall.

 

Some part of me was still in denial about the severity of my disability and my need to use a chair. People treated me differently when I was in the chair instead of walking – no question about it. I sometimes felt like the homeless bag lady who everyone sees on the street yet looks right through. And like a street dweller much in need of a bath, people often made wider circles around me when I was on wheels, as if I smelled bad or had a contagious disease.

 

It was all pretty ridiculous, since even when I was up and walking, I would never be mistaken for an able-bodied person. My rear end stuck out, my strides were tiny and my gait included a side-to-side rocking motion. Standing or seated, I was still a gimp. But to a lot of people, a wheelchair is a prison, a sign of tragedy. It’s reflected in archaic terms such as “wheelchair-bound” and “wheelchair-confined.”

 

At age 20, part of me still bought in to the idea that to use a wheelchair – even when I hurt so bad, I was sick from the pain – was a sign of failure. I simply wasn’t trying hard enough, wasn’t soldiering through like I should. Using a chair meant giving in, that I would never be fully accepted into the “cool kids’ clique” of the able-bodied.

 

I’m ashamed to admit that, on the days in college I did take the wheelchair, I hid it. I would purposefully arrive early, find an adjacent empty classroom, park it there, then walk over to my class. Crazy, huh?

 

After half a century of living, I’m finally comfortable navigating through the world on wheels. The top of my head might be a couple of feet lower in altitude, but my mind, heart and soul are the same. If other people choose to devalue or infantilize me, it’s their problem, not mine.