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ABC Ableism, Nightly News Style

2009-08-13T18:55:00Z

ABC World News sure has been pushing the inspirational stories lately. So much so that whenever Charles Gibson says, “And finally,” I cringe to hear what comes next. Last night was no exception. Mainstream media proves once again that they are clueless when it comes to Disability Rights.

Coomber climbs the ultimate ramps.

“And later tonight,” beams Gibson, “we’ll take a look at the uphill battles of a mountain climber confined to a wheelchair.” Gibson added the emphasis.

And he didn’t just say it once. He used “confined to a wheelchair” twice going into a commercial. It could be that Gibson, in his tiny bubble, is oblivious to the linguistic wishes of the disability community. I’m not anymore confined to this wheelchair than Gibson is confined to his overpriced loafers.

As a matter of fact, I get out of my chair and into the bathtub. I also get into my truck, the bed, and other chairs. I’ve been known to get into some trouble now and then, but that’s another story.

One dictionary defines confine as “to hold within a location; imprison” and “to keep within limits.” Does a wheelchair really confine us to our limits, or does it help us to circumvent our limitations? Ah, but that’s semantics, right, Gibson?

Such confining use of language confounds the disability community’s ability to navigate society fairly, and They know this. It’s the same reason why something unfavorable or bad is considered “gay” and wimpy men are considered “pussies.” Oppression via language is oppression all the same.

Perhaps this is just personal bias oozing out of us. I’ve been guilty of it. But speaking to millions comes with a big responsibility, and that responsibility does not involve perpetuating antiquated stereotypes of confinement.

To make matters worse, the main character in ABC’s inspiring story, Bob Coomber, is nicknamed “Four-Wheeled Bob.” Apparently he pushes his wheelchair backward up mountain paths. Gibson called Coomber “determination on wheels,” saying he “faces more of an uphill fight than most.”

Surprisingly, the story and video itself were largely unsympathetic. They focused on what he “still” can do, saying that Coomber had been an avid outdoors enthusiast and athlete his whole life. Now he simply pursues those passions from a “different vantage point.”

While “different” still signifies “Other”—it could have been identified as “another vantage point”—it expresses that life has many points of perspective, all relevant. Relevance validates the “different” perspective of Coomber’s seated hikes.

At the climax of the story, Coomber falls from his chair, and the narration stops. The only thing that can be heard is the Kevlar of Coomber’s pants as he scoots alongside the chair. To the nondisabled, there is nothing more helpless than a cripple on the floor.

While he admits that from time to time he thinks about what could have been, his focus is on “living forward,” claims Coomber. This is the best part of the whole story. It is no coincidence that it comes directly from the person with the disability and not the nondisabled narrator.

As the video ends, Gibson chimes in, “Determination with a capital D.” Hey, Gibson, why can’t it be disability with a capital D? Perhaps because seeing disability as a relevant existence is impossible aside from perceiving it in terms of inspiration…at least for the mainstream nondisabled audience.

Read more about Coomber's mountainous adventures in Backpacker Magazine's Hell on Wheels

Nurses, Bedpans and Rehab Romance

2009-08-12T18:20:00Z

Most guys who have spent any lengthy period of time in a hospital have a nurse story. For me, her name was Simoan. That’s probably not how she spelled it, but it worked for me.

After being paralyzed from the waist down, one must come to terms with the changes in sexuality. Having a supportive mate helps a lot, even when that supportive mate decides to leave six months later with some asshole French guy on a student visa named Cricket or something stupid like that. But I digress.

Four months before my twenty-first birthday, a friend rolled his car with me and three other people inside. Not everyone walked away. I’d had a steady girlfriend for four-and-a-half years, whom I had cheated on while at college with a cheerleader and a few freshmeat young’uns.

I remember the first time Simoan touched me. I was on the can, constipated from the medication and a particularly nasty urinary tract infection. Pouting like a pansy, I bemoaned my inability to poop on command. It was something I had become rather fond of before being paralyzed.

Simoan rubbed her soft hand on the big intestine side of my torso. Up and down, her hand attempted to smoothe out the chunks that clogged me up. “Just relax,” she said. Her smile sent a chill two-thirds of the way down my fusing spine, and I filled that toilet bowl twice.

We both knew that our love was forbidden, and it wasn’t just because of some policy against employees dating patients. She was a 28-year-old RN dating a 52-year-old surgeon. He had the money, honey, but I had her time. I had her every day. I looked forward to her shift when we would flirt and I would learn how to insert a 14-french catheter directly down the center of my penis.

Simoan made disability bearable, She showed me that although I may have had a mangled back and withering limbs, the spark inside that had existed before the accident was still there. Personality counts for a lot.

Greg was my roommate for the last month of my stay in rehab. Simoan encouraged me to give up my bed by the window to the 16-year-old C-6 quad so they could put him in my room. Because of my extraordinary support group and my unique outlook on life, I had been deemed the inspiring cripple for that floor. Accordingly, new patients with bad attitudes were instructed to come speak to me in that hopes that my relentless denial would rub off on them.

True, I had seen some amazing things in my short time on this earth, and I had experienced a spiritual connection that many never experience in their life, but nothing had prepared me for Greg. When I encouraged him to cheer up, to focus on the things that he could still do, he said, “Easy for you to say. At least you still have your legs.”

My stint as a crip counselor ended with his statement. After that, Greg and I took turns at Simoan's attention.

When Simoan unfurled her blonde locks and flashed her baby-blue eyes at me and Greg one night when she left the room, he and I felt intensely the sexual frustration of newly gimped gigolos. Later, Greg had said, “That look was clearly for you, Woody.”

Simoan and I kept in touch after I left the rehab. Sometime later, she came and picked me up so we could go visit Greg at his newly modified house. His parents had revamped the garage for their son. It was the only area of the house where he would have the best access.

I could tell he was a little miffed when I showed up with Simoan. She admitted on the way to his house that she had not told him she was bringing me. When she went to the little girl’s room, Greg ribbed me about showing up with Simoan, asking if we were dating and if I had nailed her yet. We were still talking like we could “nail” a chick, yet neither one of us were willing to expose ourselves to the truth: Leg bags and condom catheters tend to get in the way of sexy.

On the way home, I pissed in the passenger’s seat of Simoan’s Jeep. I was so embarrassed, I never said anything. I just pulled my shirt down over the dark spot that had spread across the front of my jeans.

When I dropped out of the Jeep into my chair, the dark fabric and late night hid the evidence in the seat. She asked to come in, and then she proceeded to crawl up the counters in the kitchen and spread her legs invitingly. As much as I wanted her to stay, my urine-stained pants begged me to make an excuse, so I told her I had to get up in the morning for a “thing.”

As much as Simoan had seen as a nurse, something little like an improperly fitted condom catheter and subsequent leaking would not have scared her off that night. It wasn’t the impairment that kept me from getting into Simoan’s pants. It was my own foolish pride. Because of embarrassment, I missed out on a smart piece of ass.

Simone, if you’re out there, I know it’s been a while, but drop me a line. I’ll send you the $20 to cover that urine-stained seat if you’ll sit on my face and let me clean your tail.

Inspiration From the Nondisabled

2009-08-07T18:40:00Z

The following is an email from a nondisabled relative:

"Hey dude – just wanted to pass along some info about a speaker we had at an inservice gathering this morning for all of Shelby County School teachers and staff. Check out the website for a fellow named Todd Whitaker at www.ToddWhitaker.com.

He was our guest speaker and was one of the most dynamic, effective speakers I personally have ever heard. He has written numerous books pertaining solely to education as he himself is a professor at Indiana University. He began his teaching career as a teacher and moved up to principal at an elemetary, middle then high school level. He was truly amazing this morning and impacted all that attended (5,200 of us :).

I highly recommend his books (from his ‘lecture’ this morning) and hope you can pursue purchasing one of them. I believe he would definitely inspire you as well as your co-workers. And what a sense of humor he has.

Can you tell I was impressed by him or what!!!

Let me know your thoughts if/when you check out his books."

This letter disappointed me. She was so inspired that I was sure she was going to tell me this guy uses a wheelchair!

Sticks and Stones: Language that Disables

2009-08-06T17:59:00Z

Language is continually evolving, including language related to people with disabilities. Rather than being about “political correctness,” using appropriate terminology is important to communicate effectively and with respect. What you say and write may enhance the dignity of people with disabilities or may inadvertently reflect stereotypes and negative attitudes.

Some words and phrases don't recognize the broad range of capabilities of people with disabilities. They don't need or want to be pitied, nor should they be labeled "courageous" or "special" because they accomplish daily activities or work. Also, people are sometimes concerned that they will say the wrong thing, so they say nothing at all - further segregating people with disabilities.

People-first language — Refer to the person first, not the disability. For example, "the person who uses a wheelchair" or "the person with arthritis" is preferred over "the wheelchair person" or "the arthritic." This last term especially defines the disability as the person rather than as one aspect of his/her life. This general rule may be different within some communities, such as those who are blind or Deaf. Individuals in these groups often self-identify as "blind person" or "Deaf person." Mention a disability only when it is relevant to the discussion.

"Handicap" and "disability" are not synonyms — Disability is a generic term for a condition which may affect a person's mobility, hearing, vision, speech, or cognitive function (such as paraplegia, deafness, AIDS). Handicap describes a barrier that is environmental or attitudinal (such as no ramps or elevator, information not available in Braille, negative stereotypes).

Etiquette -- If you have had little interaction with people who have disabilities, you may feel uncertain about what to do. Here are a few tips.

Shaking hands is usually welcome. People with limited hand use or who wear an artificial limb can usually shake hands. Shaking hands with the left hand is an acceptable greeting. You may want to take the cue from the individual with a disability. (A person who is blind won't see your extended hand – wait to see if she extends hers.)

When talking with a person who has a disability, look at and speak directly to that person rather than to a companion, aide, or sign language interpreter.

Common words and phrases are OK to use. For example, it's fine to say "see you later" to a blind person, or "Want to go for a walk?" to a wheelchair user. When referring to people with disabilities,
choose words that reflect dignity and respect, such as:

Inappropriate language	Appropriate language
the disabled	people with disabilities, the disability community (disabled, an adjective, must be accompanied by a noun)
the blind, the deaf	the blind community, the Deaf community
crippled, suffers from, afflicted with, stricken with, victim of, invalid	has a disability, is a person with a disability, physically disabled, walks with a cane, uses leg braces
normal person, healthy, whole	non-disabled, able-bodied, person without disabilities
impaired, impairment	disabled, has a disability
handicap parking, disabled parking	accessible parking, disability parking
wheelchair bound, confined to a wheelchair, wheelchair person	wheelchair user, person who uses a wheelchair
paraplegic, quadriplegic	man with paraplegia, woman who is paralyzed, person with spinal cord injury
hearing impaired, hearing impairment	deaf, hard of hearing, late-deafened
visually impaired, visual impairment	low vision, partially sighted, blind
dumb, mute	person who is unable to speak, has difficulty speaking, uses synthetic speech, is non-vocal, non-verbal
stutterer, tongue-tied	person who has a speech or communication disability
CP victim, spastic	person with cerebral palsy
epileptic	person with epilepsy, person with seizure disorder
fit, attack	seizure, epileptic episode or event
crazy, insane, nuts, psycho	person with mental illness, person living with mental illness
retard, mentally defective, moron, imbecile, Down's person, mongoloid	person with an intellectual, cognitive, or developmental disability
slow learner, retarded	has a learning disability, person with specific learning disability, person with ADHD
dwarf, midget	person of small stature, short stature; little person
birth defect	congenital disability, disabled from birth
post-polio, suffered from polio	person who had polio, person with post polio syndrome, polio survivor
homebound	stay-at-home, hard for the person to get out

The King County Office of Civil Rights contributed to this article.

Stock Up On Catheters, the War's Coming

2009-07-30T14:44:00Z

I had a change in insurance recently, and I got screwed royally. When I broke my back and started receiving Medicaid, the Almighty State Healthcare God told me I would have state insurance as long as I was permanently disabled. Apparently a miracle has occurred. After sixteen years of sweet paraplegia, the State now considers me cured.

Better yet, I receive all the benefits of being a cured person, such as the loss of insurance. I now pay twenty percent for all durable medical equipment, which includes leg bags, condom catheters and, more expensively, wheelchairs.

As a cured individual, I no longer have to wait in the long lines at subpar doctors’ offices with the sickest people society can provide. I am free from unpleasant phone trees and the fruits that bounce me back and forth, unable to provide an answer to the simplest question.

All this and more. Somehow, though, I thought a cure would be replete with the ability to walk, the control of my bladder and bowels, and an honorary key to AB City. What gives, Medicaid?

Despite the obvious benefits of being dropped by Medicaid, I attempted to cling to the tree of healthcare life. They shook the branch and I fell. Luckily, I landed on my head, so there was no serious damage. I can’t afford another co-pay right now.

If you still have Medicaid, stock up on supplies. Beseech the Healthcare Gods, tell them you use a new Texas catheter every time you cath, as many as 100 a month, and then conserve your resources by wearing them while you shower. They’ll go for two or three days like that, and they’ll stay clean. If the adhesive wear off too soon, cinch up with a spare leg strap. Just be sure to relieve the pressure before your pecker turns purple.

Reuse leg bags and tube catheters as much as possible. Don’t worry, the tube won’t kill ya when it starts turning brown. Be sure to build up the bacteria presence in your bladder before attempting this. Leg bags are trickier. They’ll start to smellin’ pretty bad when you get into the third and fourth week. I use a vinegar solution, soaked overnight, to bring back that fresh, new leg bag smell.

As far as the wheelchair goes, do yourself a favor and learn a little welding. I’ve got three old chairs I’ve collected over the years that I use for parts. I swap out when necessary, but I always have a back up or two. Besides, you never know when you might want to whoop some Walkie’s ass in an impromptu game of basketball.

You didn’t ask to be crippled, so you shouldn’t have to pay for it. If you’re one of the lucky ones sucking on the State’s desiccated teet, don’t be afraid to order more than you need. Maybe you could sell the extras on EBay when things get really bad. Which reminds me….

I’ve got a box of male latex external catheters, 35 mm, slightly used. I’ll let it go for $75. Come on, man, I applied the aloe vera myself.

Shiner

2009-07-29T13:30:00Z

Once smooth, its surface has become torn and tattered. Frayed leather curls in places where a rough infield or impromptu diamond had grabbed the concrete. The old, dirtied ball, protected in a plastic cube, now sits suspended on a high shelf, between a signed football and a steel-blue Texans helmet. Scrawled by the hand of a nine-year-old pee wee leaguer, my name adorns the tight narrow between the faded red seams. The week I wrote it seems like a lifetime, maybe two lifetimes ago. I was just a little boy looking forward to his first real-pitch game, a little boy who learned that grandpas have a sense of humor, and baseballs are a lot harder than they look.

It wasn’t the first time we had ventured into my grandparents’ backyard to play catch. My grandfather and I had been back there at least three times a week since it had gotten warmer. Lancer, my grandparents’ dog, eagerly pounced around me as I walked out to my spot. He was very fond of retrieving mishandled balls. My grandfather started at his customary twenty feet to get me “warmed up.” He stepped back after a few throws, and after several more hurls, he moved even farther away.

I’ve heard that all baseball players fear one thing more than all: the baseball. Careers have even been ended after a player has been hit by a ball. Sometimes, the more spirited players will charge a pitcher’s mound after being struck by the hurler. I didn’t know any of this in my grandparents’ backyard that day. But after my grandfather’s throw arched over the top of my glove and smacked me in the right eye, I could surely empathize with those players. The one thing that remains clear in my mind from that day is the ball as it rose higher than my glove. No matter how high I held my glove, it just kept going. The sun, from behind the ball, blackened the ball as it closed in on my eye. Even though I’d already been in a couple of fights by the age of nine, I’d never been hit in the face that hard. My eye immediately began to swell. I’m sure I cried, and with good reason: a baseball had just hit me in the face.

My grandfather laughed so hard that I thought he was crying. He was unable to speak for a decent length of time. My grandmother tried to console me while chastising my grandfather, but it became clear to me that perhaps getting hit in the eye with a baseball was not all that extraordinary. Of course, my mom probably made a fuss about it, but everyone else, even at school, considered it a badge of honor. My little league coach called me Shiner, a name that stuck for the rest of the six-week season. When my dad saw me, he gingerly clasped my shoulder and said, “Welcome to the club.” As it turned out, my grandfather had hit all three of his sons in the face with a baseball, and I was just taking my place in line as the first male progeny of the next generation.

It was several years before a girl slapped me in the face so hard that I remembered that fateful pitch from my grandfather. When he had stopped laughing that day, he gave me a pen and handed me the ball. “Sign it,” he said. “It’ll hep ya ‘member t’use two hands.” I have moved more than a dozen times since I signed that ball, but I have always kept it in a prominent spot in my room. Remembering that day reminds me that no matter how hard life smacks me in the face, a smile will get you back on the horse faster than a sneer.

Disabling Access: Dumpster Diving, the Finale

2009-07-28T19:14:00Z

“Believe me, I am on your side,” wrote the disability services coordinator. I didn’t really think I had suggested that he was NOT on my side, but whatever makes him feel like he’s doing his job. “I was just pointing out what the law states and that it would be used by an unnamed person(s) to justify their actions. I'm running into brick walls all the time re: getting things for disability students.”

According to the statement above, the disability services coordinator believes that he is unable to do his job, i.e. “getting things for disability students,” because certain “unnamed person(s)” operate above the law.

Again, I reminded him that the ADA will back us up when we push for improved access at the college. The ADA is like a tool: It only works when you use it. It’s nice and pretty by itself, but it must be implemented for it to be useful.

Unfortunately, we don’t know how many people, drivers who needed the spot, have had to drive past the blocked area designated for handicapped parking. I can tell you that I have been forced to park in an alternate parking space, one designated for disabled access but without an access aisle (the “blue-striped” area allowed for loading and unloading).

This particular spot forces me to open my door and assemble my wheelchair in the face of oncoming traffic. Sadly, not all drivers exhibit regard for a safe passing distance. There are times when I could have reached out and touched a passing vehicle.

As I am actively involved with the Office of Student Life, I attend meetings regularly in the campus student center. Since the parking area in question has been blocked, I have been forced to either park in one of the four spots without an access aisle or roll my wheelchair downhill to the building. I also had no choice but to use these inadequate parking spots when I worked for the Writing Center, which is on the second floor and is also inaccessible.

“Some people think federal law doesn't apply in Texas or to them personally,” wrote the disability services coordinator.

“Well,” I responded, “sometimes an objective third party can clear up any confusion regarding federal law.” The next day, the dumpster had disappeared.

Dumpster Diving, Part 2

2009-07-25T17:41:00Z

So I received an email from the gut-challenged disability services coordinator about the dumpster blocking the handicapped parking space on campus. Here's what he had to say:

In response to your query about the dumpster by ******* Hall
blocking the handicap parking space, I found this on the Title III Technical
Assistance Manual website-- http://www.ada.gov/taman3.html:

"III-3.7000 Maintenance of accessible features. Public accommodations must maintain
in working order equipment and features of facilities that are required to
provide ready access to individuals with disabilities. Isolated or temporary
interruptions in access due to maintenance and repair of accessible features
are not prohibited."

I appreciate your concern and offer of assistance in such matters. I think we will be collaborating on disability issues as situations arise.

I was glad he sent the link to the Title III section of the ADA. There were some things I wanted to point out to him in my response:

Please note that III-3.7000 specifies "repair of accessible features." To my knowledge, that parking
space is not under repair.

In addition, I would agree with your conclusion except for the fact that the handicapped parking space in question also services the One College Center, which is NOT under construction. The pseudo-access aisle on the main path to One College Center is designated for "staff" parking only; therefore, the handicapped parking space for the south side of One College Center is currently blocked by a trailer/dumpster.

Furthermore, the handicapped parking space in question is the only one with an access aisle/unloading space for van users. According to III-7.4300, "ADAAG requires that at least one of every eight accessible parking spaces have adequate adjacent space for a van lift to be deployed. Each such space must have a sign indicating that it is van-accessible, but it is not to be reserved exclusively for vans." There is NO "adequate adjacent space" in the other designated handicapped parking areas in that lot because those areas have NO access aisle whatsoever, forcing a wheelchair user to open doors into oncoming traffic. By blocking this one handicapped parking space, the college has, in effect, prevented use of the one legally valid handicapped parking space in that particular lot.

I appreciate your effort in assisting to resolve this misunderstanding of the law requirements, and I look forward to your response.

Why can't they just move the damn dumpster? We'll see where this goes.

Freedom of Speech, Anyone?

2009-07-23T18:51:00Z

"The topic of free speech is one of the most contentious issues in liberal societies. If the liberty to express oneself is not highly valued, as has often been the case, there is no problem: freedom of expression is simply curtailed in favor of other values. Free speech becomes a volatile issue when it is highly valued because only then do the limitations placed upon it become controversial. The first thing to note in any sensible discussion of freedom of speech is that it will have to be limited. Every society places some limits on the exercise of speech because speech always takes place within a context of competing values." --Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy

Such liberty should exist with every subject matter so that we have “absolute freedom of opinion and sentiment on all subjects, practical or speculative, scientific, moral or theological” (1978, 11). Mill claims that the fullest liberty of expression is required to push our arguments to their logical limits, rather than the limits of social embarrassment. Such liberty of expression is necessary, he suggests, for the dignity of persons. --John Stuart Mills

You Have the Right to Blog Anonymously.

You Have the Right to Keep Sources Confidential.

You Have the Right to Make Fair Use of Intellectual Property.

You have the Right to Allow Reader's Comments Without Fear.

You Have the Right to Blog about Your Workplace.

Know Your Rights and Prepare to Defend Them.

For more information on Free Speech and the protection of Freedom of Speech online, visit Electronic Frontier Foundation. Be a Blue Ribbon supporter.

Dumpster Parked in Handicapped Parking

2009-07-23T14:32:00Z

At the college where I teach, there has been a dumpster parked in a handicapped parking space for nearly three weeks. It is only summer school, said the head of maintenance when I asked him to have it moved. I told him there are only three handicapped parking spaces in that parking lot, and reducing that number is unacceptable. He said it would be out of there soon enough, and he sped away in his little golf cart. Well, sped away is a bit of an exaggeration. I called campus police and said, “Someone is parked illegally in a handicapped parking space over near the science building.” He said he would be right there, so I waited. And I waited. And I waited. I finally called him back and asked where they were. He said, “Sir, are you talking about the dumpster? There’s nothing I can do about that.” I figured that’s what he would say, so I called the disability services coordinator. Now let me tell you a little bit about the director of disability services: He is new on the job, he is not disabled, and he is apparently more interested in saving his own neck than doing the job for which he was hired. “Mr. so-and-so, I am calling about the dumpster parked in the handicapped parking spot. Does that dumpster have a permit to park there?” I said. He laughed, “Yes, I received your call last week (which he never returned), and there is nothing I can do about that. I don’t handle ADA claims. You’ll have to call Human Resources. I am still trying to figure out how much I can request without stepping on anyone’s toes around here.” “Well,” I said, “we have a great civil rights law to back us up if necessary. I am interested in creating a policy that would keep this from happening again.” “That’s something you’ll have to take up with Human Resources.” “Huh,” I said. “Okay, thanks for your time.” There is a tool born every minute. I called Human Resources, and I was told the director would be on vacation for another two weeks. How convenient. Frustrated, I made a copy of a handicapped license plate and taped it to the dumpster. At least now it’s legal.

Either We're Created Equal, or We're Not

2009-07-22T17:07:00Z

A student wrote an essay in which she claimed she wanted “the blind to see, the deaf to hear, and the crippled to walk.” I circled “crippled” and drew a line to the margin. My pen was actually shaking.

“This is like writing ‘nig*er,’” I wrote. “Use disabled or handicapped if you must, but strive for people-first language. Besides, how do you know the Deaf want to hear? Maybe they’re happy being deaf.”

She came to me after class and pointed to the taboo n-word in the margin, “Is that what I think it is?”

“Sure is,” I said. “The n-word and the c-word derive from a long succession of oppression and discrimination. From institutionalization to extermination, these two minorities have endured it all, and they were called nig*ers and cripples the whole time.”

Dumbfounded. That’s the only word to describe her face.

This was a perfect opportunity to open a discussion on the power of language, but I didn’t take it.

It wasn’t until someone later said “That’s retarded” that I finally took that opportunity.

“Saying that word implies there’s something wrong with being mentally disabled,” I said.

“But there is something wrong with that,” said a student.

I whipped my wheelchair around to face them squarely, “We’re either all created equally, or we are not. You have to make up your mind.”

This stumped them. Gay, Black, Disabled, or Female, they’re all equal. But still, they didn’t want to accept it.

“No offense,” said a pretty little bird, “but I don’t want to be disabled.”

“Well,” I said, “no offense, but I don’t want to be a woman. That doesn’t mean that women don’t deserve the same treatment and benefits as men.”

“But disabled is….” Silence. Be careful what you say here. Your grade may hang in the balance.

Where did this Divine Right of Able Bodies come from? This corporeal absolutism has dominated the perception of disability for eons, ingraining in the collective psyche a model of disability dependent upon what a person lacks rather than what they have.

“Again, it’s either All Men are Created Equal, or All Men are NOT Created Equal,” I said. “Which is it going to be?” Sheepishly, they grumbled and assented.

But I know where they’re coming from. I remember what it was like to run and climb trees, and now I sit in a wheelchair. Maybe disabled is less than. How can I, with a straight face, tell a class that it is the perception of others, not the impairment, which makes life difficult for the Disabled? Do I even believe that?

I have been hobbled the last few weeks by a pressure sore that is forcing me into bed rest when I want to be up and moving around. Heck, I crapped my pants this morning before I even made it to work, forcing me to turn around and head back to the house. Isn’t that the impairment that is making life difficult?

Perhaps all men (and women) are created equally. It’s what happens after creation that makes life difficult.

Prostitutes Make You Forget You're Paralyzed

2009-07-21T20:42:00Z

“So what do you want me to do to you?” she said, straddling me in my wheelchair. They’re the best words a woman can say to a man, even if she is a prostitute. She interlocked her wrists behind my head and gently pulled against me. This was going to be the best $1,200 I’d ever spent.

Hookers. Bottom line, it’s the best sex you’ll never think you’ve had.

With a lack of sensation in the genitalia area, it becomes very difficult to stay focused during sex. I used to have nipple rings, and they could keep my attention, but sometimes I’d get sidetracked, and I’d start to pay attention to the faces made by my partner. Big mistake. Talk about losing your mojo. I’d try to get my head back in the game, but then the ridiculous sounds would make me laugh. After a while, I’d think, “What’s the point?”

Well, like too many married men know, being with one woman gets boring after a while. And if you can’t feel your penis, it’s just that much worse, which is when I started going to hookers.

Hookers don’t care about your back story, and they sure as hell don’t care if you’re paralyzed. They’re like strippers, but they’re a sure thing. You’re the best they’ve ever had, and they’ll let you know it. You pay for what you get, but relationships are all about give and take. Whether you’re putting a ring on the finger or fingering the ring, you gotta pay to play.

If you want to find male wheelchair users, you have to go to the strip clubs. In strip clubs, you don’t even have to transfer out of your chair for a lap dance. The accommodations are desirable for any sexually frustrated gimp.

Strippers are safer than prostitutes, mostly because they are legal. If you go for a whore, make sure you use a reputable “escort” service. You don’t want to end up on the news. Also, this is one of those things where you get what you pay for. Spend a little and get a lot. Drop a grand on a prostitute and you will not be disappointed. Twelve-hundred dollars got me a drop-dead gorgeous blonde with huge knockers. The amputee, I was told, would be extra.

And don’t forget that strippers and whores know how to party. Treat yourself to a good night of careless sex. You deserve it, crip.

Letting in Flies

2009-07-20T13:57:00Z

I’ve lived

in this place

two years

it’s only

been cleaned

five times

Don’t mind

the mouse

droppings

dotting the counters

with crusty brown commas

punctuating paw prints

in dust thick with dust

piggybacking dust

the tables are free from mice

commas, cluttered with cups

three or four months

sitting

Or the smell

that hits you

entering

the stench

unidentifiable

a somewhat

musky

scent

of urine

The cups without straws

Do not drink

Watch out

for the turds

don’t touch

anything

ignore

the dog

hair

Don’t go

to the kitchen

or ask

for water

I have coke

in cans

See here

the water came

through the walls

and soaked

into the laundry

and papers

and droppings

and added

a fresh

wet

fragrance

to the room

The cups without straws

Do not drink

No, no

it’s no bother

we can stay

or you

can go

if you

don’t

like it

Close the door on your way out

you’re letting in flies

Fellatio and Other Incontinence Hazards

2009-07-13T17:50:00Z

It had been a pretty wild evening. We had started with fajitas and ritas, and then moved to a downtown wild goose chase for some illicit party favors. After nearly being shot in a seedy neighborhood, we made it back to the house and went straight to the bedroom. I didn’t know how long we’d been at it when she went down on me, and it freaked me out. I had emptied my bladder before splitting the sheets, but I wasn’t sure how long ago that had been. Alcohol and stuff has a way of filling up a bladder quicker than usual, but she was already down there, and I didn’t want to stop the action.

Being the receiver of oral sex can be a nerve-racking ordeal for people with incontinence, and it doesn’t matter if you’re a man or a woman. You don’t want to give an unrequested golden shower in the old pie hole. She may think you’re coming when you’re really going.

For some people with severe spinal cord injuries, incontinence is more debilitating than the loss of the legs. Yes, I said it, legs are overrated. This is never more evident than when you’re having sex.

I peed on my ex-wife during sex on our wedding night. We had done some things that definitely worked as diuretics in our system, but steps can be taken to avoid “accidents.” She was on top when she jumped like she’d been shot. I took it real rough, got upset about it, but it became funny when we divorced. I mean hilarious. I’d do it all over again if I had the chance. Now that I think about it, I should drive to her place tonight and empty my leg bag on her car tire.

I seem to remember a time or two before I broke my back when I urinated, with glee, on a young girl in the shower. The people in the living room said they’d heard her scream, and then they had heard my booming laughter. It was so funny the first time that I had to do it again. What was she going to do, pee on me? That girl is married with children somewhere. I wonder if she ever told that story to her husband.

As funny as that had been, I found it difficult to find the humor in it when less than three years later I became paralyzed and had to worry about spraying lovers every single time I whipped it out and stripped off the condom catheter.

Here are some ways to avoid the unrequested golden shower.

First and foremost, take a leak before you peak. There won’t be a forecast for showers if the sky is dry. But for those long marathon love-making sessions, all that joshing and jostling can refill the bladder before you know it. So keep a catheter and an empty beer can near the bed.
One thing that works: Put on a condom. There’s no sense in draining your lizard in the garden of love. It’s a good idea to wear a condom anyway. Better safe than be a victim. Also, it’s easier to fake an orgasm if you’re wearing a condom.
Another option, put on the old kock ring. If nothing can get through, then nothing gets lost. But beware, this is a dangerous option. Be careful not to leave it on too long: I found out the hard way about the puffy purple penis effect. Besides, you don’t want to get dysreflexia when your urine backs up into your kidneys.
You could always abstain from sex, but what’s the fun in that?

Some people will tell you that’s there’s more to sex than intercourse, and they would be right, but you may as well use what God gave you. So stock up on the Caverject and hypodermics, fellas, and treat yourself to a three-hour sex fest. The number of partners is up to you.

What's Better, an Acquired or Congenital Disability?

2009-07-08T18:35:00Z

An acquired disability means a person becomes disabled sometime after birth. If someone becomes disabled at, say, the age of 30, then he or she would have had the sensuous experiences that are typical for nondisabled people: the first step recorded by the parents, the Benjamin Franklin role in a junior high play that was sure to begin an acting career, the winning home run in the little league playoffs, your first poke.

A congenital disability is one that occurs at birth or “naturally,” according to the Holy Book of Webster (desk edition). A person with a congenital disability never experiences the so-called normal body. Indeed, the normal body is the disabled body. You would think that they would never know what they’re missing when in fact they are not missing anything. Only a man who could once walk would miss walking.

Why does one have to be better than the other? Assuming one existence is better than the other is to assume that disability is inherently negative. The Disability Rights Movement, our brothers and sisters on the front lines, would lead us to believe that disabled does not equal less than.

Of course, this is hard to accept when we are constantly told how bad off we are: disabled vehicles congest the freeways, inactive ball players go to the Disabled List, paralyzed transit systems cripple cities.

If we’re told how pitiful we are often enough and long enough, we’ll start to believe it. Or that’s what they hope. How dare we cripples try to claim we can be uninspiring contributions to society, i.e. just regular people.

I mean, don’t you get tired of having people at the grocery store pat you on the back and congratulate you for being out of the house when you roll up pushing your wheelchair and a loaded grocery cart? I’m gonna punch somebody in the gut one of these days.

Oh, and to my jackass neighbor, yeah, I think I will try to get a speeding ticket in my wheelchair. Really, really? Don’t you think I’ve heard that one before. I would love to hear some new material, people.

Okay, obviously I’ve touched myself or a nerve or whatever the saying is. It’s obvious to me that disability, whether congenital or acquired, is manageable. Believe it or not, you normal freaks, it is possible to be disabled and content. Plenty of people are disabled and happy. The lucky ones are happier being disabled. Of course, white trash is white trash, and a lot of people have problems regardless of their physical or mental status.

It’s clear that disability’s not the problem; It’s the nondisabled people who project their pity onto us who are the trouble makers. Those poor babies just couldn’t imagine what they’d do in our situation.

“Why, I’d kill myself if it happened to me.” That’s almost as common as the speeding ticket remark. It must be something in the diet sodas that’s causing this rash of idiocy.

We need a fresh wave of disabilities, a crippling phenomenon that bends and breaks, blinds and maims a third of the population. Then, after a while, when everyone’s family has been touched by the Big D, they’ll see that the Disabled are just people trying to live life. It’s not a freak show. Stop staring when you see someone getting a wheelchair out of a car. I’m not your object of charity, so stop trying to use me for your good works. No I don’t want you to buy me a beer…well, okay, that’s really not a bad one.

In some ways, it seems like life would be better if the paralysis would magically disappear, but in other ways it really wouldn’t make a difference at all. It may actually be worse. I’d lose the good parking, and the parking makes up for all the other crap people make me go through.

Hey, Norm, wanna rent a placard this Christmas during the busy shopping days? Thirty bucks an hour. Come on, Gramma needs hers this year.

One last thing, conGENITAL just sounds dirty.