Sometimes I forget that I’m different. Sometimes I’m part of the group, participating and being myself and being accepted for who I am. And then, out of the blue, I’m put back behind the barrier, reminded that my lived experience is, definitely, different. The funny thing about those painful moments is, usually, I’m the only one in the room who even knows it happened. Usually no one intended to exclude me, and they have no idea that they did. But they have made it clear that they are sure their lived experience is better than mine.
“I could never do what you do,” one says. Uh huh, I think, wondering what they mean by that. Please, let them say something about my talent for synthesizing a discussion, or that I’m a good listener. Nope. “I would have given up.” Really? And done what with the rest of your life? Hide under the bed? I don’t believe you.
There are a million versions of it, some gentler than others, more likely to be said in my presence. “You’re so courageous.” “You could have done so much. What a waste.” “I’d rather be dead than disabled.” The message remains the same – my lived experience is too different.
I understand about the fear. We are taught to value radical independence and self-reliance. But autonomy can be over-rated. In this world full of barriers, I ask for accommodations. Even for help. Rather than diminish me, it teaches me, again, that we are inter-dependent – all contributing in different ways.
I have multiple disabilities. I use a mobility scooter. I encounter the world differently. There are a lot of things I would never have experienced running up the stairs three at a time. Perspectives I only get down here at waist-level. Conversations I would never have had, if I had not been on a “slightly different path.”
Too often, when someone inadvertently “others” me, I don’t say anything. I decide against the “teaching moment.” There are too many of them. Yet, I know I feel included when I can point out a disempowering attitude or remark as ableist, and know that my intent will not be questioned and I can take up the teachable moments.
And I know I feel included when someone takes the trouble to draw my attention to ways I am excluding someone. When they bother to take up a teachable moment with me. The communities we live in are filled with so many differences that we will, almost certainly, “other” someone from time to time without meaning to do it, and without being aware of doing it. I do it. And, if that person I just “othered” decides to make it a “teaching moment,” I hope to have the grace to listen and to experience the discomfort that comes with realizing that I messed up, again. For me, it’s part of the journey.
In faith,
Suzanne Fast
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