Dear Wheelchair: We Need to Talk

FROM THE EARTH BOUND TOM BOY FILES

By Heidi Johnson-Wright

Dear Wheelchair:

 

We need to talk. Yes, I know: no conversation in history starting off that way ever ended well. But there are some things we need to hash out.

 

We’ve been together nearly half a decade. Wow, that’s significant. Five years is the length of cohabitation most health insurance policies require before a chair user can get a new chair. Not that I’m in the market for another, dear. I’m just sayin’…

 

Now, babe, don’t cry. Need some reassurance? You are amazing at giving me my own space. I mean, you are the opposite of clingy. Of course, I would expect nothing less from someone named Torque Storm. Not exactly the moniker of a clinging vine.

 

But sometimes you’re just a little too laissez–faire. I’ve got an image to uphold, you know. People see a gimp girl in a wheelchair and they immediately assume I’m “wheelchair bound.” (Stop snickering. The B&D of our private life is nobody’s business.) They’re convinced that we’re perpetually fused together. That I shower in you, sleep in you. That I never transfer out of you into a theater seat. Can you imagine what they’d say if they saw me taking a few steps with my walker? Good God, the fallout that would cause. 

 

This affects your image, too, you know. You and your progenitors have established your reputation as symbols of failure, as prisons on wheels. What would they say if it leaked out that you’re really enablers, huh? Enablers of mobility, of freedom…of independence, even! What if I went to the press and told them the truth: that I never would have gotten an education, made a career or left the dang house without you in my life? Two can play at that game, my friend.

 

Come on now, baby. I didn’t mean to be cruel. You know you’re the best thing that ever happened to me. So what if you’re not my first, or even my fifth? So what if my chair throughout college cradled my backside like no other? It didn’t mean anything. It was nothing compared to what we have. We’re going to be together forever, just you wait and see.

 

Or at least until insurance says I can roll you to the curb.

DISABILITY...

A FATE WORSE THAN DEATH?

By Heidi Johnson-Wright

Step right up, kids. I’ve got something I gotta tell you, and that something it this: drive stupid and you’ll face the worst possible fate you could ever imagine.

What do I mean by “drive stupid?” I mean taking your eyes off the road, especially for stupid reasons. Like to replay that Demi Lovato tune. Or to re-adjust those flesh tunnels in your blown-out earlobes. Or to send a text from your Hushed app to that unwitting recipient who thinks you’re a chick from Barcelona when you’re really a dude from Barstow.

You see, distracted driving can have some mighty brutal results. Like wrapping your dad’s Kia Sorrento around a tree. Think how mad he’s gonna be when it’s totaled ‘cause your leg is now attached to the carburetor. 

 

I know what you’re thinking. You’ve seen the “scare ‘em” movies in Driver’s Ed of real-life crashes. You think I’m trying to frighten you with the specter of death.  Au contraire, amigo mio. I am trying to make you piss your pants at the thought of something much worse than death: being disabled.

Being disabled is way worse than death. At least a corpse is still a full-fledged person. But a wheelchair user? Truth be told, going from “cool to crippled” would drop your value to about six-tenths of a human being. That’s why we’ve placed a non-disabled kid in a vintage wheelchair, told him to hang his head in shame, and put his photo on the above poster.

Being disabled is absolutely the worst thing we could think of. The worst combination of fear and shame imaginable.

Worse than running over a toddler. Worse than doing time for vehicular manslaughter. Worse than being dogged by a felony record. Hell, worse than death itself.

So the next time you text while driving because you figure ending up in a coffin doesn’t sound so bad, remember: you could end up in a wheelchair instead.

For more satire in the name of social justice, visit 

KYLIE JENNER: GIMP GIRL WANNABE

BY HEIDI JOHNSON WRIGHT, AKA EARTHBOUND TOMBOY

By now, you’ve probably seen the fruits of the Kylie Jenner photo shoot in the current issue of Interview magazine. The teenage reality TV star is dressed provocatively in leather bondage gear. In some of the shots, even her delicately-curved derriere is exposed.

But with all of the photos we average folks are bombarded with on the Internet – celebrities posing in little more than body paint and glitter, fashion models striding nearly nude down catwalks – Ms. Jenner’s photos are not terribly remarkable. You, dear reader, have probably seen much more revealing stuff on your friends’ Instagram accounts.

So why am I even mentioning this? Well, it seems that Ms. Jenner has revealed something intimate about herself that goes beyond bare skin.

Kylie Jenner is a gimp girl wannabe. 

In two of the shots, Kylie is wearing a black leather strapless onesie and a black leather collar while sitting in a gold-tone manual wheelchair.

Looking at the shots left me flummoxed. You see, I thought Larry Flynt was the only gimp out there rocking a gold chair.

Then I tossed that thought aside. I mean, if anybody else could acquire a golden gimp-mobile, it would be a member of the storied Kardashian-Jenner family.

Next, my eyes went to the expression on Kylie’s face. In one photo, she stares off into space as if she’s perhaps experiencing a petit mal seizure. My cynical side wanted to dismiss this as the typical empty gaze of a high fashion model. You know, that look that says “I am insanely gorgeous and make $10 grand an hour, yet I’m so misunderstood.”

But then I realized that Ms. Jenner is really trying out the look of someone who has a disability. She wants to live it, to feel it.

Kylie’s tired of her incredibly privileged, affluent, non-disabled life. She wants to know what it’s like to have precarious health, to struggle to find employment yet keep her government benefits so she can pay for attendant care. She longs to spend weeks trying to find an accessible apartment she can afford, only to have the landlord tell her that the “no pets” policy means she can’t bring her service dog. She yearns to sit in the rain waiting for a bus, only to find that the one that stops has a broken lift and she has to wait another 20 minutes for the next one.

Kylie Jenner, I pronounce you an honorary gimp girl. Welcome to the club. 

http://earthboundtomboy.blogspot.com/2015/12/kylie-jenner-gimp-girl-wannabe.html

PROFESSIONALLY CRIPPLED

FROM THE AUTHOR OF THE UPCOMING MEMOIR: Earthbound TomBoy

By Heidi Johnson-Wright

Denial and acceptance seem, at first blush, to be polar opposites. Or perhaps two sides of the same coin. 

As a kid, I figured you either completely accepted something, or completely denied it. The light switch was either on or off, with no shades of gray in between. Decades later, I eventually realized the irrationality of such an extreme viewpoint.  I began to see that one could indeed accept certain layers of something, yet deny others. Such as a disability.

Since I was about 10 years old, my disability had become visually obvious. I could walk unassisted sometimes – wheelchair on the sidelines – yet there was no denying I was disabled. 

Arthritis had irrevocably claimed me. I had the classic look of a 1970s-era juvenile rheumatoid arthritis survivor. Should you meet anyone of my era who had severe JRA, our look is unmistakable. 

We have very small chins because of jaw joint damage. Our faces simply didn’t grow fully. We can’t turn our necks so we follow things with our eyes only. Our shoulder width is narrow. We struggle to raise our arms, which are short. Our hands are small. Our fingers are twisted, gnarled.

A JRA survivor’s gait is more of a side-to-side motion, rather than one of forward strides. If our hips were affected – especially if they were replaced – our lower backs are arched and our buttocks stick out. We have knee contractures that keep our legs perpetually bent.

With all of these undeniable physical changes, you’d think my acceptance of my disability would be complete. Yet when when I started using a wheelchair more often for mobility, I would sometimes find myself jumping hoops of rationalizations.

“I can still walk a little bit, so I’m not as disabled as those other chair users,” I thought.

One thing I tried to avoid was looking – as I called it – “professionally crippled.” While I couldn’t actually define the term “professionally crippled,” I knew it when I saw it. Kind of like Supreme Court Justice Potter Stewart’s take on “obscenity.”

The professionally crippled of the world tricked out their wheelchairs with beverage holders and bumper stickers. They didn’t discreetly hide their wheelchair battery chargers or reacher sticks or even urinals. They left things spread out for anyone to see. They cared more about convenience than appearance.

As I began my second half-century on this Earth, I still like to look my best. But now I value convenience and ease and lack of hassle more than ever. Part of it stems from just being older and a bit more depleted of energy. Plus, with age, comes wisdom and the ability to sort out what really matters and what doesn’t.

Time has also eroded away some of my underlying layers of denial. You might even say I’ve moved up from amateur to professional rank. I’ve learned to embrace my disability identity. It’s who I am. 

I’ve earned it. I own it. And I refuse to be ashamed.

http://earthboundtomboy.blogspot.com/2015/09/professionally-crippled.html