dot doc n roc

Tag: disability

  • ACCESS INTIMACY AND ADULTING

    Mia Mingus, a disabled activist of color, coined the term “access intimacy” some time ago. I remember stumbling across it and feeling that awe that comes with finally finding a label or phrase which perfectly encapsulates an experience that’s integral to your make-up as a person. To summarize very briefly, access intimacy refers to the comfort and ease disabled folks may feel, either with other disabled individuals or with non-disabled people who have truly become allies.

    Being disabled, as is now becoming more widely understood and talked about, means constantly trying to function and find acceptance in a society which is not made for us. Even as a child, before I had language for any of this, I knew who I felt safest, happiest, and most myself around. My dad affectionately created the term “dealing” to encompass the things I often requested: a sighted guide, support around accessing the foods I could tolerate, visual descriptions, answers to my many questions. Even within my family, there were people who did this, if not technically “better” than others, with a certain warm, effortless finesse that I’d certainly never taught. I’m not sure that I’d know how to teach it, even now, though that’s not to say it can’t be learned.

    In elementary and middle school, I often had my birthday parties at the roller-skating rink. I took turns skating with everyone. Everyone. It was easy, an unspoken given. Similarly, in college, I could rely on every member of my a cappella group to fill in proverbial blanks. Of course, some became my friends outside of singing, while others remained groupmates. Still, though, everyone understood me on a basic level: not just my needs, but also my strengths. I was expected to pull my weight and contribute, and I wouldn’t have had it any other way.

    In my mid-twenties, I realized that my attachment to people — my difficulty in accepting that, sometimes, people come into our lives for a reason and a season — was rooted in more than simply being sensitive. It takes a higher level of trust, as a disabled person, to let someone in: to be vulnerable enough to name your needs and allow them to be met, without shame, by someone who may not fully share your experience. This is especially true when a disabled person takes the plunge to let a non-disabled person in. Teaching about disability, even in an incidental way, is labor. So losing access to that connection you’ve worked to build, as a disabled person, can naturally feel like a multi-layered loss.

    Now that I’m a thirty-something, I think about this concept from a slightly different angle. I find myself waxing nostalgic about friendships like high school, college, and shared activities, where interacting with people on a daily basis automatically facilitated access intimacy. I’m lucky enough to be in touch with many of these folks, but times have changed. We’ve moved to different places, lived through different situations, and, in many cases, grown away from one another in such a way that meet-ups can sometimes feel awkward, even though mutual understanding and respect are still indisputably there.

    People often say that friendships are harder in adulthood. Aside from neighborhoods and workplaces, it can be hard to find clear-cut pathways to create new connections. As a disabled adult, I both crave those connections and also, often, feel too tired and dispirited to summon the initiative needed to build them. And I do think that disability plays a part in this: a double-edged sword, of sorts. Those true connections can be harder to forge, but they can be so much more rewarding because of the work all parties must put in. I intend to remind myself of this whenever I question whether or not the effort is worth the outcome.

    Image shows TJ (Caitlin) sitting on the floor on a space-themed rug, inside a huge baby gate setup with Maite the Rottweiler laying on her back right in front of her. TJ has her Braille Sense in her lap and is wearing her “I am a safe space” hoodie (which is also space themed, complete with an astronaut – although they are not visible). Maite’s mouth is a little bit open, teeth showing, but her face is very relaxed, complete with the whites of her eyes visible. Behind them are shelves with board games, a toy house and other toys. Everyone’s access needs are being met.

  • Elbows and Etiquette

    One of my fave “coffee shops” in SF is Christopher Elbow Chocolates. It’s in Hayes Valley, which is kind of fancy-pants and pretentious, but it’s freaking delicious, and it was close to where I used to live with my dad. I was introduced to this spot by my friend Kate, who’s a braille teacher, and I still go there with her every so often. I also used to take OK Cupid dates there back in the day, partly because of the comfy seating and close-but-not-too-close-to-home location, but also because the staff were always so friendly, respectful, and accommodating.

    I went to Elbow last week to catch up with Kate and had an interesting set of interactions that I thought it might be cool to share.

    1. My Para-Stranded driver was very kind: an English-language learner who seemed extra concerned about my well-being because Elbow doesn’t have an easy drop-off spot for the big bus. After escorting me across the street and to the door, he seemed hesitant to leave—not at all in a creepy way, but just a concerned way.

    2. This is where one of the staff, whom I’ve interacted with often but wouldn’t necessarily have known by voice, greeted me with, “Oh, hi! We haven’t seen you in a while!”

    I don’t know if she did it intentionally, but it served the dual purpose of (a) reminding me that I knew her and (b) assuring the driver that I was in good hands.  As disabled folks know, worried non-disableds tend to listen MUCH more to other non-disableds’ reassurance than to OUR assurance … which, of course, is silly, because don’t we know ourselves best? No shade to this driver, though—he was sweet—although I kind of wondered what he planned to do as a means of helping me further? The shop is small. It’s not like there was a staircase I could fall down or anything.

    3. I finished greeting the staffer, clarified that I was remembering her name right, and explained that Kate, whom she also knows well, would be coming soon. “Is it okay if I just hang out and wait for her?”

    “Of course,” she said genuinely.

    Out of habit, I found myself waiting for her to rush out from behind the counter, probably in a panic, and then flounder to guide me. I knew her well enough to know that she wouldn’t grab or pull me, but I found myself automatically bracing to be manhandled anyway. At this point, it’s just reflex to brace when I’m out in the world alone.

    Interestingly, and awesomely, she didn’t actually do anything! She assumed competence! In response to that, I, on autopilot, almost asked for her to come and guide me to a chair. But then I remembered just how small and straight this place was, and how devoid of anything that I could damage in any way. It struck me, in a flash, how used I am to letting other people guide me, even when I really don’t need the help, because I’m so afraid of either getting in other people’s way, or appearing inept just by using my cane and doing something in a way non-disableds perceive as “different” or even “too slow.”

    “Is anyone sitting back there?” I asked instead.

    “Nope,” she replied cheerfully, “it’s all yours.”

    And I took my left turn and effortlessly navigated directly to where I needed to be. No hiccups.

    Every once in a while, I have these reminders. I remember another one, at my first teaching job. I was called to the phone in a colleague’s classroom while he, myself, and a third colleague were having a meeting across the room from the phone. I expected him to rush across the room and manhandle me to the phone, but he didn’t. I expected him or the other teacher to panic and have an entire fit as I clanked and clattered my way through the thirty-plus empty desks and chairs. But they didn’t. And I reached the phone fine. Maybe with some noise and flailing, but fine. And is it really a crime if I hit a desk or take a little longer? Totally not.

    I tell the kids all the time, in response to their appalled gasps when the cane hits something, “It’s okay, that’s what the cane’s SUPPOSED to do. It bumps into things so I don’t have to.”

    But I think I forget to remind myself about that sometimes.

    I’m so wary of being perceived as hapless just for doing things “the blind way” that I think I sometimes sell myself short. But it feels so good when I’m able to do something simple for myself. And if people flip out about it, I can remind myself that that’s about them and their inexperience with disability. It doesn’t have to be something that I shoulder, take responsibility for, or feel shame about. We may look like we’re struggling, but more often than not, we aren’t, and I will be helping blind-kind more by letting myself flail a bit than by taking the path of least resistance when it’s not always necessary.

    4. When Kate and I ordered, the staffer, as she always has, brought our stuff to us, which was very kind. I do think she does this for other folks, and that it’s not just a disability thing. However, she added an extra touch. I’d ordered drinking chocolate (the darkest possible), which is very rich, very thick, and very hot when it arrives.

    “I usually fill people’s drinks to the very top,” she explained, “so they get all of what was in the blender. But I thought it might be easier to just give you the rest of the drink in the blender container instead, so you wouldn’t have an overflowing cup.”

    I can imagine some blind-kind being pissed about this and going into a rage, railing at her, saying that they can very well drink the same damn drinks as sighted people, thank you very much. But I, personally, have a hard time holding very hot, very full cups gracefully. I appreciated the gesture and told her so.

    5. After a delightful visit with Kate, I took Stranded home. The driver was new and couldn’t find my house. Martha wasn’t home and I was already late to feed the dog, so I asked the driver if he could just park and make sure I was in the right vicinity before leaving. He agreed to this, and we were, in fact, not far from my place.

    Once we’d found my house, he very sweetly noticed that our trash cans were out and offered to bring them in for me. I thanked him and told him that wasn’t necessary, but that if he could wheel them slightly closer, I would go ahead and pull them in myself right away. This, I explained, would eliminate the need for me to flail all around the general area of the trash cans with my cane, trying to find where the bins had been left.

    He understood this and followed my instructions to the letter, respecting my autonomy and giving just the amount of help I’d asked for. Even when I wrestled a little extra hard with the recycling bin, which is bigger and more unwieldy, and which I wanted to nestle in a spot I could more easily find when I opened the garage door to wheel it in, he was already walking away and didn’t comment. It shouldn’t be a novel thing when people genuinely hear me, but it is, so I always notice and appreciate it just that little bit more.

    In closing, I just want to note that I’m not asking for advice or criticism for how I handle myself and mobility-related situations. I know I’m not perfect. No one is. I’m just sharing this because I find it interesting, and in the hopes that it may help someone else whose approach and struggles may be similar to mine.

    Peace, hugz, and rainbowz to any and all who want them!

    Image is of a cup of hot chocolate on a saucer. There is a spoon that has clearly already been in the chocolate. The cup and saucer are sitting on a tiny wooden tray, just wider than the saucer. To be clear, this is NOT TJ’s hot chocolate. I got this image from Unsplash (shout out to the photographer, Ashkan Forouzani) and thought it would make a nice addition. For sighties.