What we really look like

I've been thinking a lot lately about what people with disabilities look like and how it influences our interaction with the nondisabled in public. What disabled people are supposed to look like is part of the interaction too. I've seen several films recently where appearance was definitely part of the tension of personal encounters, and I spent yesterday (101° in Minnesota, yo!) out and about in Minneapolis paying attention to possible changes in how nondisabled strangers treat me. When I thought of it. Mostly I just had fun.

I had my quarterly appointment to get my PEG tube changed for a newer shinier one. I say that like I've been doing this for years, but I've only had a feeding tube since November when I nearly died of malnutrition, my stomach refused to do any more digesting, I got aspiration pneumonia from constant vomiting and took a helicopter ride. Then I woke up with my new friend, PEGgy. This particular incident began with a delicious Chipotle's burrito and I now mourn the fact that the thought of eating another someday only makes me think of hurling.

Anyway. The tube gets replaced every three months. (Incidentally, Dr. Perky had told me they never need replacing when I had expressly told her mine was starting to feel floppy and asked if she would check on when the switch might need to occur.) So every few months now I will migrate into The Cities to the hospital where my stoma was born for this amazing procedure. And it is amazing -- I watch on an x-ray monitor, completely unsedated, while someone pokes a guidewire down the tube, deflates the balloon in my stomach, pulls out the old tube and threads in the new one like he's snaking a drain. It takes less than five minutes and it's totally cool to watch. But I digress.

Anyone who has experienced both limping and using a wheelchair will tell you that public reactions to the two appearances differ. Same with manual chair versus power chair, white cane versus guide dog, invisible impairment versus visible one(s), and, Ballastexistenz claims, with dog versus sans dog for her as a person with autism. Visual differences cue stereotypes, and breathing on one's own versus towing a ventilator on my scooter also makes a discernible difference. Most notably, even fewer people are willing to make eye contact. The only spontaneous smile I received from someone I didn't need to interact with was from a young Somali woman selling beautiful silk clothing at the newish Midtown Global Market, also known as the most fabulous food court in the entire state, by the way. Jamaican jerk chicken. Mmmmm. Again, I digress.

(Oh, wait. Can anyone familiar with Pocky and the astounding variety of flavors it comes in tell me what's up with the "Men's Pocky"? Is that man-flavored or candy viagra, or what?)

Okay, so I know it's fear of difference and the old "there-but-for-the-grace-of" thing. And that's fed by a history of segregation and institutionalization. I'm 37, by the way, and Americans in wheelchairs who are my age are pretty much the first generation allowed to attend public school with everyone else. Hollywood hiring beautiful nondisabled actors to portray us on film doesn't help fearful people get used to being around actual gimpy bodies either.

Which brings me to these photos of the New York celebration of the ADA's anniversary last week. Real people. And some hot transportation I covet. Great photos from Aleja at No Pity.