Because I’m A Scary Lion

These things all happened within the past week:

1. I was coming down the hallway at school, and another adult clearly wasn’t watching where she was going. I needed to cross her path, but she was looking in the opposite direction. So I made a very wide turn, creating tons of extra space between me and her, just in case she did something erratic. Just then, she turned her head, saw me in front of her, and made a big show of stopping and screeching, “You almost ran into me!” (I wasn’t even close to it.) I responded, “No, you almost ran into me.” (And she definitely would have, if I hadn’t been doing all the watching-where-she’s-going for her.) She laughed like I was making a joke. I didn’t, because I wasn’t.
2. Again, coming down the hallway, this time crowded with kids. We’re all following the normal traffic patterns of a hallway. Nobody is doing anything wrong. Nothing interesting is happening. Just another day in the hallway… Until an adult monitoring the hall screamed at a bunch of kids to “Watch out!! Give her space!!” The kids, who were nowhere near me, looked confusedly in my direction, since that’s where the adult was gesturing… She just pointed at me, though, didn’t actually look at me, so she didn’t see the mix of confusion, irritation, and embarrassment that had to be on my face. (Sidenote: her shouting caused everyone to slow down and move in weird patterns, so new hallway congestion was created that definitely hadn’t been a problem moments before.)
3. Out and about somewhere, a mom was walking with her preschool-aged daughter. Cute kid; I smiled at her and she smiled back. They were on their side of the nice, wide sidewalk, and I was on mine. We were all meandering in the sunshine, nobody in a hurry. Then the mom noticed me, grabbed her daughter’s hand, yanked her even farther away, and yelled “Look out!” Let me reiterate: the child was nowhere near my path, and we were in the middle of greeting one another like civilized humans.
4. I was traveling down another sidewalk, and an older couple was coming out of a store and crossing the sidewalk. I was moving at about nothing miles per hour anyway, and when they appeared, I further slowed to a complete stop. There was probably six feet of space between me (stationary) and them. The wife, who was a step ahead, saw me, gasped, grabbed her husband’s arm, and shouted “Watch out!” The husband, who seemed to struggle with walking anyway, looked like he was dangerously close to toppling over when she pulled on him.

This wasn’t a remarkable week. It was completely normal. It was my normal.

People get confused when I use the word “ableism.” It often confuses spellcheck too. So I expect even more confusion when I use the less common “disphobia.” (Spellcheck didn’t like that.) But I don’t know what else to call it. People have a very real fear of disability. It manifests itself in all kinds of ways, but it’s most obvious when implicit bias drives automatic reactions in situations like these. If any of these hysterical women had taken an entire second to actually look at and think about the situation, they would have seen there was no danger. If the situations had been identical, and I’d been making the exact same movements at the same speeds on my own two feet instead of in a chair, they wouldn’t have reacted. There would have been nothing to react to. But when they saw a wheelchair, their instincts overrode their sense, and their brains shouted “danger!”

(Yes, I know I used the phrase “hysterical women,” which is decidedly unfeminist phrasing. But you know what? This particular response seems to come from women more often than men. The behavior fits the definition of “hysterical.” And I’m not using the phrase to uphold the patriarchy and oppression of women; I’m calling out the oppression of the disabled. Like the phrase or not, I’m leaving it.)

I’m not dangerous. From my observations of the world, you’re much safer when sharing the sidewalk with a wheelchair user than anybody else. I know that I’m generalizing, but wheelchair users tend to have fantastic spatial awareness. We know exactly how much space we need, and how every slight bump, crevice, or slope in the ground will affect our use of that space. We also manage to look in every direction at the same time, and keep track of how everybody around us is using their space. (Yes, we have eyes in the back of our heads. I got one extra set of eyes for being a wheelchair user, and then another back-of-the-head set when I became a teacher, so I can see all the things.)

It’s the able-bodied you need to look out for. They’re careless. Believe me, I’ve spent a lifetime studying them. They pay very little attention to where they’re going. They find it completely acceptable to walk in one direction while looking in another. They change direction or come to complete stops without warning or taking a look around. They think texting and walking should be simultaneous activities. If they carelessly crash into another able-bodied person, they usually have the decency to own it and apologize. But if they crash into a wheelchair user, they claim that they “got run over,” even if the wheelchair user was sitting perfectly still!

It’s a lot of work being responsible for the physical safety of every head-in-the-clouds able-bodied person that wanders through this world without a license to be on the sidewalk. (They also think it’s hilarious to ask if I have a license to drive my chair. Such comedians…) You probably don’t even know how many times your life has been saved by an everyday hero in a wheelchair looking out for you, dodging your erratic movements, protecting you from yourself. Sometimes I have to make a quick call in the moment, and realize there’s no way to avoid being run into, but I can swivel just enough to minimize the impact, or make sure the able-bodied person doesn’t fall on my joystick, which would send me flying into yet another person. In those moments, I’m thanked for my quick-thinking with a glare for “running them over.”

Don’t message me with your stories of the times you really were run over, and it really was the other person’s fault. If that’s where your head is right now, you’re missing the point. It happens. Everyone has had their careless moments, including me. And when it’s my fault, I’m quick to apologize.

But everyone hasn’t had (at least) four people this week freak out at the sight of them, as if a hungry lion were lunging at them. Everyone doesn’t get treated as an object to be feared.

And I’m only talking today about the most basic fear of physical safety. I’m not even getting into the more complex social fears. The people who “don’t know how to talk to someone with a disability.” (Hint: follow exactly the same social rules that you use when talking to someone without a disability. So complicated and confusing, I know.)

I wonder if this is kinda sorta what it’s like to navigate the world as a black man. (Or woman… But I feel like the fear response is especially common with black males.) To be seen as a threat everywhere you go. Watching people jump, gasp, grab their children, lock their doors, get away, reach for a weapon… before they’ve had a chance to check themselves. Given a moment to think, they might insist that they’re “the least racist person” they know, but it’s that first split second reaction that betrays their fear. The fight or flight response.

It hurts to live in a world that’s afraid of you. It’s exhausting to carry the burden of easing everyone’s fear, convincing everybody you meet that you’re not a threat. Because if you don’t, as every black person in America knows, their fear can quickly turn into a dangerous situation for you.

At least in my case, the harm done by disphobia is usually limited to shame and discomfort as the other person makes a scene.

Disphobia threatens both my life and my livelihood in plenty of other ways. But usually not on the sidewalk. I guess I should be glad?