Last night, while out having a drink with a good friend, another woman using a wheelchair passed by our table. Though I didn't know her, I caught her eye, smiled, and said hello.
She looked at me and kept going, without acknowledging me. My friend was upset. "How rude," he said. "Isn't she one of your people? How could she not say hello? I could tell she heard you. Why was she aloof? You should approach her again."
His strong reaction surprised me more than the stranger's. "You can't assume intention or interpret her behavior," I said. "I said hello because that's me. She has the right to do as she pleases."
Like my friend, there was a time when I believed that there was homogeneity in all of the groups I belonged to. As women, therapists, people with disabilities, neighbors, wives, activists, professors, business folk -- we all wanted the same things and sought them in the same way. Where there were differences, they were the same differences.
Or so I thought.
I've learned that in every group there are cliques, agendas and stratifications. If we're on the inside of a group, we see these subgroups clearly. If we're on the outside looking in, we often don't.
I've been sized up by many other people with disabilities. They have asked me how long I've had a disability ... wondering if I'd moved from novice to intermediate to experienced handicapper. Others have wondered if my membership was temporary or permanent. Many years ago, as a contestant in the Ms. Wheelchair pageants, the other contestants said I didn't belong because I didn't look "disabled enough." I really wanted to be liked by the other women. I also wanted to be seen as like them.
At another time, I had a household helper. She was a person with an intellectual disability. What I couldn't do physically, she could. What she didn't understand intellectually, I did. We made a great team. Our needs complemented each other. I remember when a stranger asked her what was wrong with me. She laughed and said, "She's handicapped!"
Years ago while camping, I broke my leg in three places. I wore a cast from the top of my hip to my toe. Getting around in my wheelchair was tricky. I looked like an actress in a disaster movie. Many people with and without disabilities thought I used the wheelchair because of my broken leg.
While I wore the cast, to many I was temporarily able-bodied. People with disabilities didn't see me as one of them. During this time, I saw ableism up close and personal. Several times a day, able-bodied people cajoled me with, "Soon you'll be out of that metal contraption and back to being yourself. I bet you can't wait."
How someone becomes disabled is also of interest to people with disabilities. Many people have assumed that I'm a member of the "auto-no-fault group." Because of the benefit coverage, getting injured in a car is seen as one of the best ways to ensure lifelong medical care. Some folks with gallows humor joke that if you're not injured in a car, someone should throw you in one.
People with disabilities assess each other with regard to their resources. Does the person receive government benefits, insurance disability or work? Do they have a supportive family or spouse? Does their appearance, IQ, social skills allow them ease and passing in the able-bodied world? Did they win a lawsuit settlement related to the cause of their disability? Did someone have a spaghetti dinner fundraiser for them, a telethon, "pink campaign" or "yellow wrist band initiative" or an Extreme Home Makeover?
I've heard other people with disabilities say what's good for one person sometimes seems to have little impact on the good of the whole group.
This month, my family learned -- rather haphazardly -- that several of our neighbors are going through some very tough times ... illness, financial problems, death of a loved one, divorce. We felt terrible that we live on the same street and didn't know these things. It seems that in our mobile, fiercely busy, private and independent lives, we've lost sight of our deeper need to connect with one another.
My husband suggested that every interested neighbor could raise a flag when something difficult is happening at their home. Each household could raise individually themed flags that fit the current status of their lives. If they're mourning, they'd fly that flag. And so on. Then, as we come and go, we'd know more about our neighbors. Maybe we could connect through a call, a card, a hot meal, a visit, a quiet thought or prayer, a few dollars or a hug.
Maybe flying our flags would just let us know we're part of the group.
Susan Odgers, a resident of Traverse City for the past 22 years, has used a wheelchair for 33 years. She is a faculty member at Northwestern Michigan College and Grand Valley State University. She can be reached via the Record-Eagle. For more Adapted in TC columns, log on to record-eagle.com/susanodgers.
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