The Deserving Disabled
| Publication year | 2023 |
| Citation | Vol. 52 No. 10 Pg. 12 |
| Pages | 12 |
DEPARTMENT | AS I SEE IT
BY KEVIN RHODES
If you're in a wheelchair, everybody's your friend. They say hi, give you the thumbs up, roll down the car window and shout encouragement, open doors, and hold the elevator. If you're on a bike path cranking out the miles, they shout "you're awesome!" as they whiz by; or sometimes they stop and ask what you're doing out here and how you came to be in a wheelchair. A bicyclist stopped to offer bandages and energy gels after I'd had a crash—she went on ahead, then circled back to check on me. She was a nurse, she said.
I read recently that you're not supposed to help a disabled person unless they ask for it; also, don't tell them they're inspiring, and whatever you do, don't say "wheelchair."[1] That advice came from the website of a company that makes ADA-compliant products, but this kind of advice is all over the place—even the United Nations repeats it.[2] Surely, it came from someone who's not in a wheelchair—probably some well-meaning able-bodied person who was trying to imagine what disabled people feel. "Let's see, if I were disabled, I'd feel kind of self-conscious, so if someone asked if they could help me, I'd feel worse." Or maybe, "If I were disabled, I'd be insulted if somebody tried to help or told me I was inspiring."
I found the same kind of outlook on an advocacy website. It labeled the mentality behind offering help and asking about your wheelchair "ableism"—yet another "ism" based on "harmful stereotypes, misconceptions, and generalizations of people with disabilities."[3]
I think somebody who isn't disabled came up with "ableism." I don't define myself by
my disability—why would someone else? I'm okay, really. I just can't walk very well, and some things don't work how they used to. You don't have to target people who can walk okay in order to advocate for me. I'm quite sure I've never experienced overt ableism. Oh, wait. One person volunteered that we should all stop using the term "disabled" and use "differently abled" instead. I'll bet he heard that at an HR webinar. Seems like his HR department might be practicing ableism.
I like my wheelchair. I feel strong and quick and agile when I'm in it. It makes me feel, well, able. I wonder—does that make me an ableist?
If I'm struggling with a door (I'm always struggling with a door) or can't reach something from an upper shelf (this is "accessible"?!), I'm happy if somebody holds it or grabs the jar of chutney for me. A couple times somebody didn't ask before pushing me up an incline, which I admit felt odd, but I appreciated the help and said so.
If somebody's going to give advice about how to deal with me when I'm out in public (something that unfortunately happens a lot less than it used to), I'd rather it came from somebody who includes people like me in the process instead of somebody who's trying to guess what I need and want.[4] It seems like ADA compliance gets tacked on at the end, as an afterthought— oh yeah, I almost forgot, isn't there supposed to be a ramp in here somewhere? How about if we reverse the order? How about we put accessibility first? How about we create spaces that people like me can only dream about? Then, of course, we'll make sure it works for all you other people, too.
I'll bet I'd get out more.
And what would I do then?
Get a Job
President George H. W. Bush said this when he signed the Americans with Disabilities Act into law: "Every man, woman, and child with a disability can now pass through once-closed doors into a bright new era of equality, independence, and freedom."[5]
I can't imagine what it must have been like before the ADA. Turns out, though, that there was more to the ADA than a magnanimous wish to even out the accessibility playing field. There was another, ulterior motive that revealed the conservative mood of the times: the ADA's endgame was to get disabled people back to work. People like me would no longer be a drag on the economy. We'd be "productive" again. Our worth to society would be reinstated.
Kind of takes the humanitarian shine off it.
Welfare Becomes Workfare
The ADA was passed in the glow of the Reagan economic revolution's renewed faith in capitalism, privatization, the free market, trickle-down economics, individual initiative and accountability, volunteerism, and the other hallmarks of traditional conservatism. The Bush Sr. administration pushed for a "kinder, gentler" America and rhapsodized over a "thousand points of light,"[6] but those days ended when Bill Clinton and Tony Blair took charge on their respective sides of the pond. It was time for fiscal conservativism to get tough and purge aid to the undeserving.
The Deserving
Workfare is simple to understand: if you work, you're worthy; if you could work but don't, you aren't. Working for a living is a badge of good character and honorable citizenship and the core determinant of cultural compassion.
When Clinton and Blair installed it, workfare was government's hammer seeing everything as a nail. Workfare replaced welfare as the solution to unemployment, poverty, disability, urban blight, mental illness, addiction, and other social ills. Forty years of post-WWII economic success had positioned the steady job as the cornerstone of economic prosperity and upward mobility. That concept was already in decline by the 1970s, but policymakers didn't see it, and neither did the people who voted for them. As a result, workfare became the one-size-fits-all solution for government assistance to the under performing population.
"What Do You Do?"
Workfare was a natural fit in the United States, where work is a primary means of personal identity and social status.[7] The cultural emphasis...
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