STEP RIGHT UP AND ASK THE GIMP GIRL
By Heidi Johnson-Wright
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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