LESSONS FROM SELMA

EarthBound tomBOY

BY HEIDI JOHNSON-WRIGHT

A film has just been released about Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., and the 1965 civil rights marches from Selma to Montgomery, Alabama to demand voting rights for African Americans. The film is called Selma.

I haven’t seen it yet, but I plan to. So what am I doing writing about it?

What stirred me is the promo photo that ran with the film’s review in my local newspaper. (Yes, I still read one of those.) It shows the actor portraying Dr. King with actors portraying a Jewish rabbi and a Greek Orthodox clergyman.

What struck me about the photo was the coalition it depicted between people from other groups who –like African Americans -- have also faced bigotry. A united coalition fighting for the rights of a marginalized group of people.

Fifty years has passed since the march on Selma. Like other minorities, people with disabilities are still fighting for equality. For access to jobs. Housing. Attendant care at home rather than in nursing homes. Medical care. Transportation. And on and on.

While the passage of the ADA in 1990 was a landmark of progress, I fear that the disability rights movement is at a stand-still. That we’ve reached a plateau we may be stuck on for quite some time.

Everywhere I look I see steps at the entrances of businesses which have still not undertaken barrier removal. The demand for accessible, affordable housing far exceeds the supply. In many cities, it’s still nearly impossible to get a wheelchair-accessible cab. Even public transit in many locations has barriers. Young people with significant disabilities and few resources end up in nursing homes because community-based attendant care is a pipe dream.

We still have so many barriers to get past. The way to do this is for leaders in the disability community to come forward and form coalitions with other minority groups who have made significant progress in their struggles towards equality.

I look forward to the day a disabled person stands at a podium with leaders from the African-American, Jewish and gay communities and the speakers tell the world that discrimination against one is discrimination against all. That refusing to put up a ramp at an entrance is equivalent to posting a sign that African Americans or Jewish Americans people or Gay Americans will not be allowed to enter. That transit inaccessible to wheelchair users is the same thing as banning women or Asian Americans from riding the trains, buses or taxis.

U.S. Rep. and Congressional Black Caucus Chairman Emanuel Cleaver said, “There is more power in unity than division.”

FINDING A FRIEND IN A MOST IMPROBABLE WAY

EarthBound TomBoy

By Heidi Johnson-Wright

I am just as human as anyone else. Which means I’m susceptible to the stupid ideas that humans can have.

I must confess that, even though I pride myself on championing the rights of the marginalized, I am sometimes guilty of buying into ugly biases and stereotypes. In this case, I held prejudices about a friend.

I met her about a year and half ago. She lives in my neighborhood. When we first saw each other, I sensed that she wanted to connect with me. Looking back now, I can see that she was clearly afraid of trusting too much.  Afraid of getting hurt.

I took her standoffishness as arrogance, because that is what I’d been taught to believe about her group. That her ilk thought themselves better than everyone else.

So I steered clear of her, until her overtures of friendship became more insistent. Okay, maybe she’s different, I thought. Plus, I’m a sucker for a pretty face, and she surely has one. Her eyes dazzle like blue topaz stones.

We began to connect over food. My husband was the one who suggested we break bread together. And after a week or so, it became clear that we were nurturing a real friendship.

I finally began to let go of my prejudices. Why? Because once I got to know my new friend, I realized she was amazing. Smart. Sweet and gentle. Funny as all get out.

Within a month, she began visiting our house on a regular basis. After two months, she was coming to our house every day, both before I went to work and just after I returned in the evening.

Shortly after that, I had to admit that my initial biases about my friend were really more about me than her. I harbored unfair notions because I was afraid of being rejected. Of being made to feel not good enough. Of being seen as an awkward freak in a sinister, mechanical contraption on wheels.

But my friend treated me no differently than she treated my able-bodied husband. She was not the least bit afraid of my wheelchair. She didn’t run and hide when I moved closer to her. In fact, when I transferred to my living room recliner, she would sit in my wheelchair right next to me. She still does.

Perhaps you’ve guessed by now that my friend isn’t human. She’s a cat. A gorgeous, brilliant, delightful Siamese kitty.

I’d grown up in a family of “dog people.” I bought into their anti-feline propaganda. That cats are cold and unaffectionate. That they see humans solely as sources of food and toys. That they are incapable or unwilling to bond and love the way dogs do.

What rubbish. In a few short months, Princess Miyuku Honey Bear of the Royal Court of Siam (that’s her name) taught me the beautiful truths about cats. The finest of those truths is that cats can love and accept me, sometimes more wholeheartedly than humans do.

I am most honored to be one of Honey Bear’s guardians. Because she’s sweet and silly and whip-smart. But mostly because she accepts me, wheels and all.

THE MEANING OF (MY) LIFE: OR, THAT CHICK’S GOT CRIP CRED OUT THE YIN-YANG

Earthbound Tomboy

By Heidi Johnson-Wright

I’m ecstatic, ebullient. Over the moon.   My mind is blown and my heart is a-flutter.

You see, I’ve had an epiphany of Biblical proportions. I have discovered the meaning of life, or rather the meaning of my life.  And I didn’t have to go to an ashram in India to do it. It simply came to me out of the blue.

I now understand why I was put on this Earth, and it’s not about my own personal journey of self-discovery or growth. In fact, it’s not about me at all.

I exist solely to make non-crips feel good about themselves.

That’s right: the purpose of my existence is to reassure those who don’t (yet) use canes, crutches or wheelchairs to get around.

Why, you might ask, do those folks – the ones who don’t move through the world in gimpy fashion – need reassurance?

I’ll tell you: when you can get out of bed in the morning without pain and go about your day without restrictions in movement, it’s pretty dang scary.

I mean, who wouldn’t be rattled by having no worries about whether your caregiver will show up on time because you don’t need a caregiver at all? Putting on your own clothes and making your own breakfast is stressful. Not having to rely on para-transit to get you to work on time is nerve-wracking.

OK, I’m just going to say it: non-gimps have a pretty crappy life.

But, see, that’s where I come in. I am absolutely, positively, undeniably disabled. For one thing, I use a power wheelchair for mobility. And on the rare occasions that I stand up and take a few steps on my own two feet, ain’t nobody gonna mistake me for an Olympic athlete.

In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised to someday overhear someone whisper: “Say what you want to about Heidi, but that chick’s got crip cred out the yin-yang.”

Clearly, my life’s purpose is not to be a valued, autonomous human being with my own meaningful existence. No sir. I was conceived, raised and put out into the world to serve as an example of what NOT to be. Of what to be thankful that you’re not. A sort of goofus gimpy human being to serve as a foil for the non-gimpy gallant ones.

I’m a living embodiment of the tried-and-true bromide: “I was sad that I had no shoes until I met a man who had no feet.” (In this case, I’m the one who has no feet. Except in reality, I do have feet, though they’re mangled and pretty messed up.)

Imagine, a half-century I’ve spent contemplating the purpose of my existence. All the wisdom I’ve sought from the teachings of philosophers and sages. Countless hours of ruminating.

All along the answer was to be found in the pity-filled gazes of non-gimps not-so-secretly grateful that they’re not me.

Thank you ever so much, all you graceful-gaited, altruistic non-gimps.

Without you, I would be nothing.