There are quiet, subtle spaces where people living with disabilities are marginalized. This is not usually done intentionally, but sometimes occurs when people mean to say something empowering.
This weekend I was at my son’s hockey tournament. The arena had a pretty good option for both people standing and people in wheelchairs. In one of the corners, there was a built-up concrete platform behind the plexi-glass. This meant I could sit in an elevated position without my view being impeded by the boards. The game was about to begin and the Orono team did what they do every game: they skated into the corner, jumped into the boards and each other, made a big pile of young, excited bodies, and did the Orono Spartan chant. With this arena set-up, the players seemingly skated right at me and the two other parents standing next to me and crashed into the boards. It was strangely intimate because their screaming monkey pile was only a few inches away from us through clear glass. I turned and wheeled away. This was a sacred team moment and they did not need a parent staring directly into their mass of humanity. The brief moment passed and the hockey game began.
Later between periods, I was talking to one of the other hockey parents Amy in the hallway. Suddenly, a man interrupted our conversation space and said with a big, affected smile, “Were they doing that for you?” I was at a loss and he saw my incomprehension. He continued, “You know…when they jumped into the boards right in front of you and cheered.” Suddenly it dawned on both Amy and me. He imagined that I am the Orono team’s inspirational mascot, not simply a parent. I realized his set of many-layered assumptions and gently responded, “No, actually they do that every game. They were just being who they are.” There was a slightly awkward pause but kindness carried the day and he walked off. Amy and I are friends but we have not shared any such encounters. I said to her with a smile, “Do you get what just happened?” She burst out with incredulous laugher and said, “Does that happen to you often?” I simply nodded and chuckled with her. She gained a glimpse into the absurdity and subtle marginalization of my every day life. This gave our friendship a deepening moment.
The next day I was sitting in the same spot, next to a parent from the opposing team. We had seen each other a couple of times throughout the weekend. After a whistle and stoppage of play, he turned and asked with a look of admiration, “Do you come to a lot of games here?” Again, I was momentarily befuddled. Then it dawned on me. He was assuming that I was a guy in a wheelchair that just liked attending hockey games…that somehow I came with the rink. It didn’t register that I might be a parent of a hockey player just like him. After a slight pause, I gently replied, “No, I am just here watching my son play. He plays for Orono.” I watched the confused look move across his face. I stayed open and friendly so as to protect him from his gaffe. A minor conversation ensued.
Both these marginalizing faces of humanity came out of kindness, a heartfelt, albeit preconceived attempt to make connection with someone (me) who they perceived as ‘different.’ Although I accept such encounters and can even chuckle at them, they still me pull on a tender spot. They make me feel ‘other,’ and push me to the margin. People feel sorry for someone living with a disability. The ‘otherness’ projected at me is mixed with sympathy and a desire to empower. But now imagine ‘otherness’ that is not meant with relatively harmless but misguided good intentions. Imagine instead being a person of color or an immigrant obviously connected to another culture. Imagine this projected ‘otherness’ is mixed with distain or threat or fear and a projection that you don’t belong here. Imagine absorbing this every single day.
I can tell you that, even in my case, such encounters don’t feel good. Especially now, our work is clear. We are living under leadership that intends to marginalize big segments of our population. I suggest we start looking each other in the eyes.