TESTING THE TABS

It’s sometimes hard to gage how folks see you when you have an obvious disability. In their eyes, are you a pitiable creature, a thing to be loathed, a fetish object or simply another human being? I occasionally assume the worst about TABS – the temporarily able bodied. I catch myself now and then presupposing someone harbors bigoted views, even if they don’t.

 

When I was younger, I used to secretly put others through tests. Perhaps it wasn’t the nicest thing to do, but it seemed necessary at the time. I would make a new friend or meet a cute guy who was boyfriend material, then see how they would react to my disability in certain situations. I was B. F. Skinner and they, my lab rats.

 

When I went away to college at 17, I had my first personal care attendant that wasn’t a family member. I felt an immediate connection to her. She was enthusiastic but not fawning, and clearly had a sense of humor. She seemed perfect. Or was she?

 

One day shortly after Lexie had begun working for me, we were in the dorm bathroom. She was helping me with my morning ablutions. We were telling jokes – some cheeky, others raunchy – to pass the time. When it was my turn, I told her a joke that poked fun at disabled people but was straight-up hilarious. She laughed and shook from her head to her toes. Other people I’d told that joke to had frozen just after I delivered the punch line, afraid to laugh. Lexie showed no such fear. She passed my test with flying colors.

 

The tests I devised for boys were different. If -- when I first met them – I’d been walking, I made sure they’d see me later in my wheelchair. I then watched their reactions. Did their faces show shock or disgust? Discomfort or curiosity?

 

If a boy passed my initial test, then he moved to the next level. On a first or second date, I’d be sure to hold his hand at the restaurant or movie theater. My hope was he’d be at ease being seen with a disabled chick in public. Usually, he passed. Usually.

 

Looking back, I realize that my little tests were as much about my own presumptions and biases as anyone else’s. I wasn’t yet comfortable in my own skin and sometimes projected my discomfort on others. Now in my fifth decade of living with a disability, I can finally admit it.