Make a Wish

I never thought I'd ever know a kid who qualified for one of those wishes from Make a Wish Foundation. Now, I not only know a bunch of kids who do, I happen to be the father of one. Boy, that was a real kick-in-the-teeth when I realized that. My little boy is considered to have such a "life-threatening" condition that good-hearted people would smile a little smile to see him meet a sports hero or ride in a racecar, or do whatever thing he wishes. What is behind those smiles? Certainly compassion, good wishes, caring. But also, I'm sure, a healthy dose of "thank god it's not me or my son." I get it, and I'm sure I used to feel that way too. But, I don't want to delve into that issue now.

Instead, I'm thinking of Make a Wish because of a Moth story I heard. If you haven't discovered The Moth, check it out. It is a storytelling series -- true stories told live on stage without notes. The podcasts are free on iTunes. It's amazing. The stories range from laugh-your-ass-off to choke-back-tears...and everything in between.

Anyway, the other week, I was listening to a Moth story told by the guy who played "Steve" in the kids t.v. show Blue's Clues. His real name is actually Steve. It was a pretty funny story. One aside to the main narrative was that Steve occassionally does work with Make a Wish. A kid with, say, brain cancer will say his wish is to meet Steve from Blue's Clues and Steve will fly to Dallas or Des Moines or wherever to make the kid's wish come true. The thing Steve said he notices, though, is that even though the kids are the ones who chose their wishes, they really chose it for their parents...that time and time again when these kids who are facing disease or disability or whatever have a chance to do something purely self-indulgent, the thing they really want to do is make their parents happy, to ease their worry, to make them smile. Wow.

I guess that doesn't surprise me. Kids are smart and understand a whole lot more than we give them credit.

Does my boy know that my wife and I stay up at night worrying about him when he has a cold? Does he know how much worry and concern we put into deciding where to send him to Kindergarten? Can he tell that there are moments that we just want to scream and jump out of our skin at the unfairness of his physical limitations? God, I hope not. We try to keep that hidden. But, he's pretty damn smart.

I don't think of him as a "wish" kid. But, if he has a wish, I hope that it is his and his alone.

Most people

Okay, so there are the people like those chronicled in my last post, but most people really are lovely.

Like the physical therapist we ran into a few days ago, who was so interested in my boy's Permobil Koala powerchair. My defenses were up, but it turned out her interest was for the children who are clients of hers and could use a chair as cool, kid-friendly, and powerful as my boy's "red racer." She was just lovely.

Like the balloon man who made both my kids great balloon animals and asked for nothing. He didn't treat my boy as a poor kid who needed a lift, rather the vibe I got was that he just thought both my kids were cute and could use a balloon. Just lovely.

Like the airport baggage handler who so appreciated the laminated direction-sheet I had hung on my boy's Koala in a purely self-serving attempt to prevent damage. He said he wished everyone did that and stuck around to meet my boy. Just lovely.

Like the train conductor who made sure my boy and his Koala got good seats on an old historic (1920's) tourist train, and checked in to make sure we didn't miss a thing. Just lovely.

Like the young couple traveling cross-country who offered to take a picture of the entire family, and even help us traverse some challenging terrain. Just lovely.

Like all the people we encounter everyday who simply greet my boy just like any other kid...or look right past us as they would any other family traveling down the same sidewalk.

And, like all you wonderful readers who have sent me such lovely, thoughtful (and thought-provoking) comments about my last post.

"Thank you for taking care of him"

Can you believe it? In the middle of a restaurant parking lot, some bozo calls me over after my boy has driven up into the van and ends up spouting the sentence in the title of this post. Followed, of course, with a "God bless you." (and I didn't even sneeze!)

As Paul Harvey would say, here's the rest of the story...

The family and I had just finished a very good lunch on a beautiful day and were just generally having a great time. Everyone loads into the minivan (my boy does so, of course, by driving up the ramp that has been deployed from the side of the van). I go into the van to transfer him from his powerchair to his car seat, then attach the tie-downs to the Koala and close the side door/ramp. As I walk around to the driver's side, I notice someone in a white pickup truck motioning in a way that a police report would decribe as "furtively." I thought it was probably some tourist who needed directions. So, I walk over and here is the conversation with the driver, whose 12-or-so-year-old son was sitting next to him silently. My inner, unspoken thoughts are in [brackets]:

Driver: "I don't mean to get real personal, but [oh boy, here it goes, what now?] what's wrong with your son?"

Me: "Nothing [and **** you, you ****]"

Driver: "Can he walk? [really, you just saw him drive a powerchair out of a restaurant and you're asking this stupid question, d-***?]"

Me: "No, but that doesn't mean there's anything wrong with him, there's not..."

Driver (interrupting): "Oh, I wasn't saying that. [yes you were, you creep, and why the hell did I come over here in the first place?]."

Me: "He's a perfectly happy, smart, mischevious, wonderful kid who happens to use a wheelchair to get around, there's nothing 'wrong.'"

Driver: "Yeah, he does really look happy. [unlike your sullen kid sitting next to you thinking "please shut up, Dad"]. I just want to say thank you for taking care of him. [and **** you for being such an ignorant bigot]"

Me: (rather flabergasted as this is a comment I've not heard before): "What? What do you mean? What in the world else would I do? [you sack of ****]. My son, my family live a full, happy, wonderful life..."

Driver (interrupting again): "No, it's just, you know, I just went for a mountain bike ride with my son, and...God bless you."

Me: [And, so what? I've been biking, sailing, running, swimming, horseback riding, etc., etc. with my son, and he's done more cool stuff at his age than I did before I was a teenager. I'll bet he's done a lot more cool stuff than your kid, and he certainly has a better role model for a father...and I don't want or need blessings from someone as close-minded as you].

I said nothing else, I just turned and walked away, not even acknowledging his last sentence.

Two things: First, I know he wasn't trying to be a close-minded, offensive bigot. But that doesn't change the fact that he is. Second, I wish I had not been so gob-smacked, so shocked, so nearly speechless. If I face this sort of situation again, I won't say the bracketed obscenities, but I hope it will go more like this:

Driver: "I don't mean to get real personal, but what's wrong with your son?"

Me: "There's nothing at all wrong with him. He's perfect, but I can't say the same for some people's attitudes and discomfort with disability."

Driver: "Can he walk?"

Me: "If he could walk, don't you think he'd be walking? He does use a wheelchair to get around, but that doesn't mean there's anything wrong with him, and frankly it's offensive to assume that a mobility challenge means there is something 'wrong.'"

Driver (interrupting): "Oh, I wasn't saying that."

Me: "Actually, you were. I think you probably did not mean to cause offense, but it is deeply offensive to assume that people living with disabilities are somehow 'broken' or 'imperfect' or less happy or well-adjusted than anyone else. I don't define my son by his abilities or disabilities, my son doesn't define himself in that way, and you shouldn't either. We all have different challenges, abilities, and disabilities. His happens to be physical and pretty obvious. But that doesn't mean he doesn't live a full, happy, magical life. He does -- he's actually pretty darn lucky compared to most people on the planet."

Driver: "Yeah, he does really look happy. I just want to say thank you for taking care of him."

Me: "Okay, now I think you probably again didn't mean any disrespect, but that comment is so deeply offensive on so many levels. First, he's my son and what would you expect any parent to do? Second, it's not your place to thank me for anything. You don't know my son, you don't know me, you don't know his needs, you don't know everything he adds to my life, you honestly don't know anything at all about this situation, except that you saw a four-year-old leave a restaurant on wheels. What gives you the right to call me over and make a comment like that? Third, that comment assumes that I am somehow burdened rather than blessed by my son. And, not only is that ignorant and wrong, but how dare you make that assumption? Thank you for not abandoning your son by the side of the road the first time he threw a tantrum at 2, or the time he broke one of your favorite things, or whenever something happened that required some parenting."

Driver (interrupting again): "No, it's just, you know, I just went for a mountain bike ride with my son, and...God bless you."

Me: "And, so what? I've been biking, sailing, running, swimming, horseback riding, etc., etc. with my son, and he's done more cool stuff at his age than I did before I was a teenager. I'll bet he's done a lot more cool stuff than your son sitting here. He is not so limited by his disability -- the real limitations come from an attitude by others that he is somehow less-than, or broken, or unhappy, or unlucky, or what have you. I ask you to please consider your attitude and why it has so offended me. And, it's not your place to 'bless' me. You don't know me, and, frankly, I don't want or need your blessings. I have plenty already. Three of them -- my two kids and my wife -- are sitting right there in that van and I'd rather be with them than talking to you in this parking lot, so I'll say goodbye and ask you to please just google disability blogs and read a few thoughts from the perspective of adults and teens living with disabilities. I really think you might find it eye-opening."

Okay, I know that's a fantasy conversation, but it's my fantasy so I'm sticking with it. I do think, though, that since anything that doesn't kill you helps you, I can use this pretty disquieting experience to improve my discussion of disability with ignorant and prejudiced strangers who regularly feel entitled to comment on my boy.

A tale of two businesses

Okay, first off, I realize how ridiculously long it has been since I've posted anything. I expect that if there are any regular readers, they're thinking what the ----? And, quickly deciding to forget about my little ramblings. Okay, I'll try to do better. I have a lot of in-progress posts and will strive to get them all posted soon.

With that preface, on to the topic at hand. Accessibile shopping.

I live in a wonderful city that is generally pretty aware of the need to make things wheelchair-accessible. But, it is a city with many old (pre-ADA) buildings, many of which are very...quirky...and not necessarily easy to adapt as needed to permit shoppers on wheels to frequent them. This, I have discovered, will be a constant issue for me as I go through my city--whether with or without my boy at my side (or up in front of me, or dawdling several paces behind, or wherever that sometimes-naughty four-year-old decides to travel). You see, I sort of see the world differently now. Where before I never noticed the little step or stoop here or there, now I see them all as if they were six feet high. After all, any rise more than a few inches might as well be a few feet for purposes of my boy's powerchair being able to overcome it.

With that backgound (I promise to not start every other paragraph with a "With that" caveat), on with the story. Some weeks ago, I was preparing for my son's fourth birthday party. At his request, I had agreed to perform some magic at the party. I once dabbled in magic in a long-ago mini-career, but had not done much magic in many years (at least not the needle-through-the-baloon type of magic...I think there's lots of other magic that happens every day, but that's another topic for another post).

Despite living in a metropolitan area with several million people, there is only one real brick-and-mortar magic shop around. And, it has a step. Just one, right out front from the street into the door. And, it's tall enough to be an insurmountable barrier. I've encountered shops with steps like this before and been pleasantly surprised that they had a portable ramp in a back closet that they gladly brought out to allow entry. Pretty low-tech, cheap, and simple, but immensely effective and a just-perfect solution for a small business. But, this magic shop? No such luck. I knew this, but I really, really wanted to go there to get some supplies for the party. So I called and spoke with the owner.

I very nicely explained my situation--that I'd love to come shop there, but can't get through the door because of the step and would he please get a simple ramp or something so I can become a regular customer. Okay, so I said I was the wheelchair-user because it was much simpler than explaining I wanted my son to be able to come in, even though he wouldn't actually accompany me until later, etc., etc. The point is that I don't want to frequent a business that does not welcome my boy. No more than I'd want to go to a restaurant that serves me, but not my African-American family members.

Naive me, I figured the owner would immediately say "oh, I never thought about that and yes, indeed, I can get a ramp on Tuesday, see you on Wednesday." Not so. He was outright hostile. Basically said too bad, he doesn't particularly care that I can't get in. Couldn't be bothered to even look into the cost of a ramp, and essentially couldn't give a shit. Wow. That was shocking and infuriating. And, pretty profoundly upsetting. This wasn't just a case of some ignorant person staring at my boy, this was someone saying he does not want to be bothered with him. Needless to say, I bought my magic supplies on-line.

Depressing and infuriating.

Flash forward a week or so and I decide to go to a great old bookstore that I've been to hundreds of times. I know the entry is no problem. I know that even though there is an upstairs section, the children's section is on the ground level so I can take my kids there and get them some books. We arrive, with my boy leading the charge, and find out the store has rearranged the sections and now the childrens' books are up on the other side of four stairs. It's an old, quirky building crammed with books...one of those great semi-musty bookshops that has been around for decades. A real landmark. But, all of a sudden, unwelcoming to my family.

So, I ask at the counter to talk to the manager. Soon two men come to see me--the co-owners of the shop. I explain the predicament and ask if there is some way they can install a ramp up those four steps so my boy can grow up going to this great shop instead of just Borders or Barnes & Noble. The owners are very thoughtful about it, tell me they struggled with the fact that some of their shop is not wheelchair acessible, and have tried to do what they can with the physical space they have. They looked into a ramp, they say, but it just won't work in the space. And, I can actually see their point. There just isn't enough room in this quirky 100-ish year old building. They explain that they will do anything they can to accomodate...even bringing an entire section worth of books down to a customer who uses a wheelchair. And, I can tell they are serious and not just feeding me bullshit excuses. We have a good talk and I explain how much I was looking forward to my kids growing up and going to this bookstore (totally sincere and true). They get it. They give me their contact information. They explain they're having a meeting with the third owner next week and they will all discuss it again.

Then, a week later, I get a call from one of them. He tells me they did meet and did look into the feasibility of a ramp again, but that it just won't fit. I explain that maybe they can try a lift--not an elevator but a simple, fairly inexpensive (as these things go) platform lift that would enable someone to wheel onto it, raise it, and wheel off on the top of these four steps. He gets on the web as I'm describing this device and sees it and says they'll look into it. And I believe they will. And, even if it ends up not working out, I feel that they really will try. Because their building is so old, I think it is exempt from ADA requirements to some extent (although these experiences remind me I really need to learn the details of that law), so they don't need to do anything at all. But it's clear that they want to if they can. I'm left feeling like they don't hold my boy ini contempt like the magic shop ass. No, they respect him and his mobility needs. It's a world of difference and restores some faith in people for me.

So, that's my tale of two businesses. I guess the moral is that what you do, although very important, isn't as important as how you do it. Simply caring, and recognizing everyone's need for respect and dignity can go a long, long way to creating a less-imperfect world.

Public property

I remember when my wife was first pregnant reading the baby book warnings that once pregnant you become public property. That strangers will comment on the big belly, and even touch a pregnant's woman stomach. I thought how odd. What would possess a stranger to have the audacity to do that to a stranger, pregnant or not. I did see a smidgen of that sort of thing during my wife's pregnancies--especially when she was carrying my boy (he was a really big baby...9+ pounds...and my bride's belly reflected that fact). But, all in all, there was no real public property effect from pregnancy.

I've also lived overseas in a country where white people were the minority--and rarely seen in very rural areas that I visited at times. At times, kids would be fascinated by the foreigner--and his hairy forearms. So, that was a bit of an experience in being public property.

But, neither of those experiences approach the public-property aspect that comes with being my boy, or with my boy. Simply put, it's impossible to go anywhere without receiving at least some stares and comments. Usually they're good-natured. The stares are most-commonly from curious people who are (1) amazed that a 3-1/2 year old can control a powerchair so deftly; (2) taken by how damn cute my boy is; or (3) impressed at how cool my boy's "red-racer" is (thanks to permobil for making a great-looking pediatric powerchair). These good-natured looks don't bother me. They are momentary and they come from a not-bad place.

But, then there are the two types of stares that make me want to rip people's faces off. First, the open-mouthed gape. These are the folks who glare and don't look away after a second or two. In fact, don't look away even after a mother-bear or papa-bear glare back. These are the people who turn their heads...sometimes their bodies...to keep staring. Really pretty unbelievable. Rare, but enraging.

Second, the "oh, how sad" puppy dog stare. It's when you just know the brain behind those eyes is thinking "poor little boy" or "poor family." It makes me want to say "save your goddamned pity for someone who needs it--we sure don't." What the puppy-dog starer doesn't know is that my boy is not sad, or unfortunate, or an object worthy of pity. He's a happy, funny, and deeply-loved kid. And, our family neither needs nor wants anyone's pity. We're happy as hell. As my wife said to me the other day -- we dance. We fucking dance! In every possible way. It's what we do. And, if you can't dance, well, you know the rest... (thanks for that one, Emma G).

So, those are the looks. But, public property manifests itself verbally and not just visually. The comments, too, fall into several categories, but that is a topic for a future post.

of Temple Grandin and Jenny McCarthy

HBO has produced a wonderful biopic on Temple Grandin. Dr. Grandin is a professor of Animal Sciences at Colorado State University and has pretty single-handedly reformed the entire livestock-handling industry. About half of all cattle in the U.S. go through a Grandin-designed system from feedlot-to-slaughter. Her designs have been embraced by the cattle industry and also lauded by animal welfare, and even animal rights, advocates. Cattle who pass through her systems endure much less stress, pain, and suffering.

Dr. Grandin also has autism. She credits her autism as enabling her to think visually and put herself in the place of cattle to understand what causes them stress and suffering. She has written and lectured widely on autism as well as animal science, animal welfare, and humane slaughter. In short, she's pretty amazing.

While I haven't read any of her autobiographical books, if the HBO movie is accurate, her mother was told her daughter would never talk and should be institutionalized as a young child. Her mother refused to follow that "standard of care" and instead encouraged and pushed her daughter to attend school, college even. Her mother, as with so many mothers of children with "disabilities" was her advocate. In the movie, one of her mother's mantra's is that Temple and life with autism is "different, not less."

I was struck with the horrible thought of how many children just like Dr. Grandin were institutionalized, neglected, and essentially forced to live up to the no-expectations curse that was put on them. What a crime against humanity for the children, their parents, and society at large.

Dr. Grandin has taught an entire industry that no doubt is often hostile to change, to women, and to animal welfare advocates how to do things better. Not just "different, not less," but "different AND better." What has society lost in snuffing out the potential of all the other Grandins over many generations who were condemned to institutions and the tyranny of low expectations?

Jenny McCarthy has also been in the news a lot lately. McCarthy, of course, came to fame as a Playboy model and then a comedienne and television personality. But, she's best known now as a speaker and activist on autism issues.

Full disclosure -- I don't have any direct experience with autism. But there is something about Ms. McCarthy's approach that I find deeply disturbing as a parent of a child with a disability. McCarthy is focused on a couple things that stand out. First, the supposed vaccine-autism link and second, the idea that kids with autism can be "cured" or, more crudely in her words, "fixed."

I'll leave the vaccine thing aside, except to say that I don't buy it. Not just because of the many studies debunking the one published study claiming a link, but also because I just don't see a motive in this alleged public health cover-up. What is the upside for the "vaccine deniers"? Money? Fame? Desire to create more autistic kids?

Okay, on to my larger concern, the idea that kids living with autism need to be "fixed." Again, I don't know if "a cure" is possible or not, but I have grave concerns about the message that they NEED to be fixed. And, the implication to parents that if they try all the things suggested by the "fixers" and it doesn't work, they have failed. Certainly, there are interventions, therapies, etc. that are no doubt god-sends, valuable, wonderful. For example, Grandin invented a type of squeeze-chute for herself to calm her during times of sensory overload and it is apparently helpful for others living with autism. But an intervention or therapy is not a "fix." An intervention or therapy helps people living with autism, or other challenges, to achieve their potential.

Perpetuating the idea that people with differences need to be "fixed", in contrast, does a lot to prevent those people from living up to their potential. It stunts growth, frustrates development, and fosters the attitudes that make for an unwelcoming and hostile society at large.

By advocating "fixing" kids with autism (or any other disability), it also sends the message that these people are not just different, but that they're "less." And, I find that abominably prejudiced. Stone age thinking. Whatever the equivalent is to racist when talking about anti-disability biases and attitudes.

Come to think of it, why don't we have a word for that? We have "racist", "sexist", "homophobic", "classist", etc. Okay, that's a topic for a future post.

Would anyone in this day and age suggest that we can "fix" being of color? I know there are still the "you can cure homosexuality" bigots out there, but I do think they are largely seen as the bigots they are.

Essential reading

I've been thinking a lot lately about Harriet McBryde Johnson, a lawyer, author, and disability rights activist who died in 2008. I've been reading her excellent autobiography Too Late to Die Young, and seeking out her other writings to help guide me in striving to raise my boy to be a proud trouble-maker following in her tiretracks.

I imagine I'll post more thoughts on her writings and perspectives later, but for now, just two things:

First, I suggest reading her "Unspeakable Conversations" essay from the New York Times magazine in 2003. Here's the official link (subscription required) http://www.nytimes.com/2003/02/16/magazine/16DISABLED.html.

This essay comes out of well-known debates she had with philosopher Peter Singer. I read a good deal of Peter Singer's writings long before ever having a connection to disability issues, and it's wonderful to read Johnson's treatment of some of his most controversial philosophical positions. An interesting note is that Peter Singer came to respect and like Harriet Johnson a great deal and wrote an obituary for her after she died.

Second, I just have to share one of the most wonderful lines from Johnson's autobiography:

"When I die, I might as well die alive."

Rockin' out

I sit here as my daughter hits the auto-song function on her electronic keyboard (piano practice is over) and is dancing furiously to the jazzy tune that is blasting from that cool device. My boy is loves it -- "come on you guys, get up and dance" he yells to us. "Mommy, dance!" ... "Daddy go ahead and dance!" he insists as he cuts quite the rug himself, sitting in his chair in the dining room.

He insists on dancing from his seat in the dining room for two rounds of "rockin out", but I finally convince him to join us in the living room for the third and fourth rock-outs.

The Axis Dance company (http://www.axisdance.org) ain't got nothin' on us.

Of bathrooms and parking lots

We're far from a barrier-free world...a long way from achieving the Dream of which I wrote in my last post. But, thank God for the Americans with Disabilities Act. I cannot imagine navigating through the world with my boy in a pre-ADA world. What in the world did people who use wheelchairs do before sidewalk cut-outs and accessible entrances to businesses, airports, libraries, and museums? I think often of the disabled ADA activists who literally crawled up the U.S. Capitol steps on the run-up to the passage of that great civil rights law to demonstrate why it was so sorely needed.

Thank you, thank you, thank you to you all. Thank you to Republican Dick Thornburg and Democrat Ted Kennedy who were both instrumental in that landmark law.

Accessibility issues never really entered my consciousness until having a
child. And then, it was only to note how great sidewalk cut-outs are when
pushing a stroller. Now, of course, I think about accessibility every single day. Obviously, when I¹m with my boy, I have to search out the elevator at the mall, choose a route to the grocery store with cut-outs, and find a van-accessible parking space. But, it's also with me when I'm without him. I find myself noting whether or not my boy could get into whatever shop or restaurant or office I'm visiting; being really happy when a simple ramp makes a whole establishment accessible (and not just the foyer); and realizing that I'm not going to buy anything at that little boutique after all because my boy couldn't get up the step in front and through the door.

There are two particular components of an accessible world that I rely on and need almost every time I'm out with my boy--a disabled bathroom stall and a van-accessible parking space. Both can generally be found most places ... it's actually really great that nearly every public restroom has one larger stall that can accommodate a wheelchair and that blue curbs and disabled parking spaces are commonplace.

But, just because they're commonplace doesn¹t mean they're available to people who really need them.

Let's talk bathrooms. I've always liked the disabled stalls. Long before kids, long before thinking I'd ever have first-hand experience with disability issues, I took advantage of those large stalls. First, they¹re great when you need to change clothes--like at the airport when you desperately want to get out of the business suit and into jeans for a long flight. Second, they feel a bit more private than the other stalls, which is nice. And third, if you have a young kid with you, it's a lot easier to help her/him when there¹s space to turn around.

I always figured that if the large stall is empty, no harm in going ahead and using it. After all, I'll be done soon enough and the chances of a wheelchair-user needing it at the same time is low. I have learned, though, how wrong-thinking that was. Because so damn many able-bodied people think the same way, the large stall ends up being the first one taken -- the on most often used -- and therefore the one least likely to be free when someone really needs it.

At first, I totally understood that people-by and large-mean no disrespect or thoughtlessness in using the big stall. And I know that's true. But when a 3-year-old needs to pee, he needs to pee. And it is back-breaking, as well as completely lacking in privacy for my boy, to have to transfer him from his powerchair outside a little stall onto the toilet in the little stall.

So, I now have a routine. If we go into a bathroom and the big stall is occupied, I'll look underneath to check for a walker, or crutches, or a wheelchair. When none is there, I'll say something like, "Well, dude, looks like someone is using the only stall that will fit your wheelchair, and all these empty ones out here are too small, so we'll have to wait for him to finish" in a loud (albeit friendly) voice. That usually results in a quick flush and a hurried exit from the able-bodied big-stall-occupier.

I also tell this tale to everyone I know so they will remeber to use the little stalls and keep the big one open for those who need it.

Parking is another issue. Unlike stall-users who, I think, just don't think about whether someone might need the space, I consider disabled-parking abusers by and large selfish, callous, and rude. Well, I guess there are different types.

First type: the "I'm just waiting for my friend and will pull out of it anytime someone needs it." Okay, I know that may not seem completely unreasonable and you don't mean to be rude, but if you think for a second, you'll realize that: (1) if it appears that all the spots are taken, someone who really needs one likely will just keep driving around looking in vain for a spot; (2) people with physical disabilities aren't really able to stop, get out of their car and ask you to please move; and (3) disabled only means disabled only, damnit!

Second type: the "I have a disabled placard even though I don't really need it." Okay, maybe you can't really tell from seeing someone spring from their car and run into Macy's whether maybe they really have some hidden disability (such as a legitimate medical issue like pulmonary disease, etc.) and do need that spot. But, come on! I can't count high enough to keep track of all the perfectly-able-bodied-appearing people who have taken spots I need to unload my son from the van. I know, I just know in my heart that a huge number of people with disabled placards don't really need them and are just abusing the system. And, I'm sorry, but elderly does not necessarily equal disabled. My parents are pushing 80 and they park in steerage just like everyone else because they can actually walk through a parking lot and don't need space to unload equipment. Able-bodied people of any age need to leave the spots for those who really need them.

Third type: the "sack of ----." This is rare, but happens. People with no disability and no placard take up a disabled parking space because they are too lazy or too selfish or whatever to deal with parking like everyone else. They need to have their cars towed and sold at auction to fund disabled services for the city. Once, we even had a car park in the cross-hatch of a disabled spot--making it impossible to open the side door of our van and deploy the ramp. I've never wanted to slash a set of tires more in my life (of course, I didn't). But such selfishness really is enraging.

Also in this category are people who fraudulently get a disabled placard. See this enraging recent San Francisco Chronicle story about abuse of disabled placards: http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/c/a/2007/03/26/MNGOLORI7C1.DTL&hw=placards&sn=001&sc=1000. It focuses on the loss to the city of parking fees. I think I remember a Dateline piece some time back where they approached people who had placards, but looked very suspiciously able-bodied.

Speaking of cross-hatches -- people put all kinds of stuff in them. Shopping carts are the most common thing, but also stores leave empty pallettes, and once a moped parked in one next to my van...again making entry and exit impossible for my boy.

Okay, what's the point of this rant? I don't know, but it feels good to rant sometimes. Seriously, I am convinced that most of these offenses are simply out of ignorance and that we need a public education campaign letting people know that those stalls, those spots, those sidewalk cut-outs that people stand in all the time, exist for a very specific reason and that the able-bodied need to just keep them open. Even if it seems silly, even if it seems unlikely that anyone within miles actually needs it, just leave it free and clear because when someone does need a van-accessible space, or a large bathroom stall, or a sidewalk cut-out, they really really need it.

Oh, a ticket for illegally parking in a disabled spot should cost at least $1,000 for the first offense, $5,000 for the second, and on the third you should have your license suspended for at least one year.

Unless it's a Lamborshini Countach like the one in the picture above (found on the blog http://infospigot.typepad.com/infospigot_the_chronicles/2007/03/powerful_sports.html). This car parked outside a library in Berkeley, California actually had a placard hanging on the rear-view mirror, but boy one wonders. It's hard enough to climb into a sports car as an able-bodied twenty year old, so it's hard to imagine someone with a true physical disability would drive such a beast. If the placard for this "supercar" was not legitimate, I'd want the car seized and auctioned off and all money given to disability rights groups or other non-profits that serve people with disabilities.

The Dream continues

Ben Mattlin has a wonderful piece in last Friday's USA Today about the lessons of Martin Luther King and disability rights (available here: http://benmattlin.blogspot.com/
and at the USA Today website here: http://blogs.usatoday.com/oped/2010/01/column-disabled-owe-personal-debt-to-king-as-well-.html#more).

As the family listened to some of Dr. King's speeches yesterday (a yearly tradition), I couldn't help thinking of how his words still resonate not just for racial justice but also to disability rights. And, indeed, to so many politicians and pundits of today who suffer from the same "high blood pressure of words but anemia of deeds" against which Dr. King warned in his "Give us the Ballot" address.

We couldn't listen to "I Have a Dream" as a family, because my girl's class is listening to it today in school and she insisted on waiting to hear it with them. A demand to which I happily acceded.

But thinking of Dreams of the sort imagined on the Lincoln Memorial steps that day in '63, made me realize that my Dream for my boy is not that he no longer need to use a wheelchair, but that it not matter one bit that he does...

...that no store will have an entry step that poses an insurmountable barrier

...that every playground will have ramps to the top of every structure so that all may play and reach the same heights

...that all new homes and buildings will incorporate universal design

...and that my boy not have to endure the stinging stares of curiosity and the caustic comments of ignorance.

My Dream is a barrier-free world and a consciousness of disability that does not victimize or pity, but understands and respects. Seems a long way off, but I'll bet few in 1963 ever dreamed there would be an African-American president elected less than half a century later.