It started in 2019, when I cheerily told my best friend how I was regularly called “Hop-Along” and “Peg Leg” because of my limp.
“That’s not funny,” my friend had said. “That’s messed up.”
I explained that it was meant as a joke, that the people mocking me meant no harm. My friend ignored that, focusing instead on how I felt. I confessed, for the first time, that those words made me feel uncomfortable and ashamed.
My friend told me that I didn’t deserve to be made to feel that way and suggested a revolutionary idea: that I could, in fact, demand to be treated better. Not just in this situation, but in every facet of my life.
I started “playing the Cerebral Palsy card,” as we called it. Instead of walking across university buildings for class activities, I asked if I could stay where I was. To my surprise, most people were understanding and accommodating. As I started to change my own thinking and behaviour, I saw that other people could and would support me, with my disabilities.
Stairs are a barrier for me. Though I can manage one or two with difficulty, it’s best to avoid them. Two of my friends recently moved house. Their places had several stairs at the entrance, which I was prepared to climb in order to see them. But I didn’t have to, because, without talking to each other or me, both friends installed a ramp.
I apologised to them for the extra work I’d caused them, and they waved away my apology. They said they wanted me to be comfortable, that they valued my company and wanted me to be able to visit. They were willing to make adjustments. They refused to accept an inaccessible situation and they did the work to make it better.
This is allyship and belonging and this is possibility: the possibility of a life – a world – where my presence and that of people like me is a given and not an afterthought.
This is life where my presence and that of people like me is a given, not an afterthought
It’s easy to feel like an afterthought in 2022, when the ongoing pandemic makes so many places unsafe for those of us who don’t want to – can’t afford to – catch COVID. I still wear an N95 mask everywhere I go, and I don’t go many places.
Recently, someone I love came to visit me. He asked me why I was wearing a mask. He told me I didn’t need it when there was no one else around, and he reached over and pulled it down to my chin. I was shocked, unable to comprehend the violation of my personal space and his blatant disrespect of my wishes.
A few days later, I got into a car with someone else I love. As I put on my seatbelt, she put on her mask. Not because I asked, but because she knew it was important to me, and that was enough. I was enough.
The idea of my own adequacy is tricky for me to grasp. My immediate assumption when I make a new friend is that they will leave, and some people have. There have been times when my apologies, my need for reassurance and my tendency to withdraw at the first hint of rejection has been too much. But I am learning to catch those anxiety-driven behaviours.
I withdraw less often and for shorter periods and I explain myself immediately afterwards. A few years ago, I withdrew from a friend at university. We were in a trio and I felt, as ever, the spare part. My brilliant friend understood my explanation and told me that I’d hurt her feelings.
Hurting her (or anyone I care about) is the last thing I’d ever want, and it was what I needed to hear. I haven’t withdrawn from her again. She’s still one of my dearest friends and she showed me something magical.
There are some people who don’t leave. There are some people who believe I am worth staying for. I am trying to believe that too.
I still have a lot of work to do in recognising my own privilege and the way my behaviour impacts those around me – we all do – but I am now able to distinguish between my own faults and the individual and systemic ableism around me. I no longer automatically assume that I am always the problem, because my friends have shown me that I’m not.
