Month: January 2019

I tell people that my first year teaching middle school was rough, among many reasons, because that’s the year all my own repressed middle school memories came up. We all have those, right? No matter how golden your childhood may have been, they’re just rough years. After my first year on the teacher end of middle school, though, those memories were mostly tucked back away in the dusty back corners of my brain where they belong.

Until one pops up and decides it’s not too late to haunt me!

This weekend’s traumatic memory was triggered by an episode of Black-ish. Their latest episode was about colorism, and the storyline started with the twins’ class photo. Because of the lighting in the photo, Diane, who has the darkest skin in her family and in her class, looked more like a shadow in the corner than a person. Her parents were furious, and immediately called the principal to say they were coming to talk about this and demand a new photo.

So here’s my own story. I’m not even sure if I’ve ever told it to anyone.

I was in middle school, and it was the week when they took yearbook photos of all the clubs and groups. I was an involved student in several activities, so I don’t remember now which one it was, but I was answering the “come and gather” call for some group I belonged to. We were led outside, and directed to the bottom of a steep grassy hill, where the camera was set up.

Except… I couldn’t get down this hill. I’d have tipped my chair over if I’d tried it, and there was no accessible route. While everyone ran down the hill, I awkwardly hung back, confused at what I should do next.

When the adults (teachers? photographers? I truly don’t remember) realized I couldn’t get down the hill, they told me to just stay at the top of it. I’d be several yards above the rest of the group, and they’d get me in the photo that way.

I was mortified. It was going to be the most ridiculous looking photo. A few rows of kids in a traditional group photo, then a tall hill of grass behind them, and me all by myself at the top of it. I was dying of embarrassment there in the moment, and imagining what it would look like printed in the yearbook. I wanted to just leave. I didn’t really care if I got left out of the photo altogether. But being made to stand out like such a sore thumb? No! No, no, no… Like most other middle school kids, my main goal in life was to blend in and not be noticed. I was used to failing at this goal–wheelchairs don’t blend in anywhere. But this photo was too much. I didn’t want to do it. And I didn’t know how to get out of it. If I tried to sneak away, somebody was going to notice and call me back, bringing even more attention to my predicament. The photo happened.

That day, I got home from school and burst into tears. I told my parents all about what happened and how upset I was. Just like in Black-ish, my parents were furious, and they called the school to give the principal a piece of their mind. I usually didn’t like it when my parents acted like “those parents;” I’d rather just let things go. But I couldn’t bear the thought of that photo being published in the yearbook! I didn’t know what else to do about it, so I appreciated having the protective parents card to play.

I don’t know what the conversation was like on their end. I don’t know if they got any push-back. All I know is, a new group photo was scheduled.

When the group was gathered again a few days later, this time in an accessible location, I remember hearing a couple kids complaining about having to do the photo twice. I’m not sure if any of them knew the reason why. I certainly wasn’t explaining it to them. I just did my best to act mildly annoyed along with them, and not blink in the photo. Blend in. Blend, blend…

As an adult, I’m almost more horrified in hindsight. At the time, I felt like I was the problem. If I’d just been able to blend in better, everything would have been smooth; everyone’s life would have been easier… But now, I can’t imagine putting  any of my kids into a situation like that! Separating them from their peers, putting them on display, letting them feel like a problem just for existing and participating. Unacceptable. There were a million and one places they could have taken that photo. It didn’t have to be in the one part of the school grounds I couldn’t access. There was no reason for that.

I still deeply resent being put in those situations. Other people throw some kind of ableism at me, whether it’s inaccessibility or just offensive comments, and then it becomes my job to “fix” it for them. It’s so unfair. But I either fix the problem, or I am the problem.

I avoid it as much as possible. When an event is planned at somebody’s house, unless they make a point of telling me about accessibility, then I just assume it’s inaccessible and don’t say a word about it. Because most likely, that’s the case. If I counted on my fingers the number of friends’ houses I’ve been inside over the course of my life, I’d have several fingers leftover.

I might be assuming wrongly; maybe an event is being held at one of those rare houses that don’t have steps. But if I ask about accessibility, and the answer is no, then everything becomes awkward. People can never actually bring themselves to tell me that I can’t come in their home, so they hem and haw and promise that we’ll make it work. Then they expect me to figure out how to make it work. Or they expect me to allow myself to be carried up the stairs. Me and my 500 lb. wheelchair? Me without my chair? In either case, no. Maybe they expect me to go up a “ramp” that’s just a piece of plywood thrown over five steps–so steep, it’s practically straight up and down.

Maybe they really do bend over backwards and build a legit ramp that will work well, or maybe they change the entire event to a more accessible location. Great! Those gestures are super appreciated, but now I feel so uncomfortable about how much work was done just for me. Everybody else would have been happier with Plan A, but they’re settling for Plan B, just for me. Plus, I’m obligated to attend at that point. What if a last-minute conflict comes up? What if I’m just physically drained and emotionally introverted when the day arrives, and I don’t want to go? I can’t gracefully back out. People sacrificed for my ability to attend, so I need to be there, and I need to be all smiles. Too much pressure…

There’s nothing worse than the times I’m promised that it’ll work, so I show up, and immediately see that this will not work. I become that awkward adolescent girl on school photo day all over again. I want to turn around, go home, and forget the entire thing. But nobody wants to see me leave, because then they’ll feel bad. They insist that I stay and put my own safety at risk with some really janky stand-in for accessibility. And so many times, that’s exactly what I’ve done, because I don’t want other people to feel bad. I don’t want to be the problem.

I’m slowly, very slowly, getting better at catching myself in this toxic thinking where I’m blaming myself, thinking that I’m just too much, that I can’t expect other people to deal with all my complications. And I self-correct by thinking about my own classroom. My students have a very diverse range of needs, strengths, and characteristics. They stretch me in many ways. But every kid is a valued part of our classroom community. Nobody is too much. Nobody is too different. Nobody is too needy. I’m not perfect at meeting everyone’s needs, of course, but overall I feel good about how I include every student as an active participant with a sense of dignity. My kids face a lot of inequities and injustices, and I want them to know that I’m at their side through everything that comes up, but I don’t want them to feel like they’re the problem. And I feel like I’m pretty successful at that.

So I know it can be done. We can pay attention to the people around us, and meet people’s needs, without treating any person’s needs as a higher priority or a larger burden. We can do better.

About two seconds after getting tickets to see Michelle Obama speak, I also clicked the “purchase” button on Becoming, her memoir. It had been on my list, but now needed to be devoured immediately. I just finished the book, which was, of course, as wonderful as she is. I’m more excited than ever to hear her speak, but I also kind of just want to eat ice cream and chat with Michelle. (Sending that crazy wish out into the universe. Why not?)

The most surprising discovery while reading–it turns out Michelle Obama and I have basically the same life. I live just like a First Lady. As soon as the Obamas moved into the White House, I found myself highlighting passages, saying, “Been there, Michelle, been there!”It first struck me when she wrote about 4 months into their first term at the White House, when Barack (We’re on a first name basis now.) kept his promise to take her to dinner and a show in New York. She describes finally getting a lovely date night with her husband, but also:

The harder part was seeing the selfishness inherent in making that choice, knowing that it had required hours of advanced meetings between security teams and local police. It had involved extra work for our staffers, for the theater, for the waiters at the restaurant, for the people whose cars had been diverted off Sixth Avenue, for the police on the street. It was part of the new heaviness we lived with. There were just too many people involved, too many affected, for anything to feel light.

I feel ya, Michelle! I think everybody who navigates the world in a wheelchair feels that. Everything is so complicated. There are so many details, logistics, and people involved in even the mundane daily activities of my life, never mind planning an outing. I’m always extra work for other people, no matter how much I might want to just quietly do my own thing. Extra work for myself. Nothing can ever feel light. I fake cheery lightheartedness, but that’s trying to compensate for all the extra weight of my presence. Nothing can ever feel light.

Later, Michelle talks clothes.

I was supposed to stand out without overshadowing others, to blend in but not fade away. As a black woman, too, I knew I’d be criticized if I was perceived as being showy and high end, and I’d be criticized also if I was too casual. So I mixed it up. I’d match a high-end Michael Kors skirt with a T-shirt from Gap…. I wanted to draw attention to and celebrate American designers, most especially those who were less established…. For me, my choices were simply a way to use my curious relationship with the public gaze to boost a diverse set of up-and-comers. Optics governed more or less everything in the political world, and I factored this into every outfit…. In my dressing room, I’d put on a new dress then squat, lunge, and pinwheel my arms, just to be sure I could move. Anything too restrictive, I put back on the rack.

I feel ya, Michelle! That’s about how much thought I put into my clothes too. Between function and optics…. My body doesn’t look anything like the body they design clothes for, so nothing fitted is ever going to fit. If the fabric isn’t stretchy, it’s ruled out. Tops need to be long enough that I can tuck them down and expect them to stay all day. I can’t be tugging at clothes that won’t stay in place. But not too long, because I’m like nothing feet tall. Necklines need to be really simple and conservative, because I have bony shoulders, and wide necklines slip right off my shoulders. Pants/skirts need a waist that isn’t going to dig into me from sitting all day. Loose enough to be comfortable, but not too long and baggy, because nothing feet tall. Shoes that are easy to get on, no heel, nothing open-toed, but also not geriatric or orthopedic, because optics. I need layers that will keep me warm, because sitting all day doesn’t get the blood flowing, and I’m always cold. But nothing heavy, because my muscles are really bad at being muscles, and heavy clothes make it hard to move. Whatever I put on in the morning is staying on all day, so that usually doesn’t involve a coat.

I could get away with just wearing sweats all the time, and a blanket over my lap. But when I was a kid, I saw adults in wheelchairs going out like that all the time, and it made me sad. They looked like they’d given up on life. I swore that wouldn’t be me. So I have to look like I put some thought into my appearance, and like I have my life at least kind of together. But after all the planning that goes into everything I wear, at least half the time that I leave my house, the first thing I hear is, “Don’t you have a coat??” Since the reasons behind my clothes are nobody else’s business, rather than launch into a (boring) explanation, I usually just pretend I’m not cold, while they laugh at me for being an irresponsible child that doesn’t know how to dress herself.

Clothes shouldn’t be this much work. And just like Michelle, I envy Barack’s ability to wake up an hour later, throw on the regular black suit and tie, and with no effort at all, look like a million bucks.

So Meredith was in charge of helping with the wardrobe. In addition to Meredith…

I came to depend…equally on Johnny Wright, my fast-talking, hard-laughing hurricane of a hairdresser, and Carl Ray, my soft-spoken and meticulous makeup artist. Together, the three of them (dubbed by my larger team “the trifecta”) gave me the confidence I needed to step out in public every day, all of us knowing that a slipup would lead to a flurry of ridicule and nasty comments…. Today, virtually every woman in public life–politicians, celebrities, you name it–has some version of Meredith, Johnny, and Carl. It’s all but a requirement, a built-in fee for our societal double standard.

Michelle, I feel ya! It isn’t just women in public life. I’m a nobody, but I rely on my team to keep up my appearance. When I’m looking for new assistants, people always think I want somebody with experience in healthcare. Not even close to true. I don’t need my vitals checked. I need to get out of bed and end up looking pretty! Optics.

Heather is the gemiest of the gems because she has no interest in healthcare; theater is her thing. She has tons of experience with costuming. She knows how to get clothes on another person and make them look good. I need more Heathers in my life.

Michelle, if you’re done with Meredith, Johnny, and Carl, feel free to send them my way. I’m usually stuck with people who will tell me, “Yep, looks good!” Then I look in the mirror, and see one shoulder seam halfway down my front, the other disappeared somewhere down my back, and my leggings at two drastically different lengths. And then I have to explain, again, how clothes work. I need assistants who understand their role in protecting my image.

Moving on…

I continued to feel as if we were falling backward, our whole family in a giant trust fall. I had confidence in the apparatus that had been set up to support us in the White House, but still I could feel vulnerable, knowing that everything from the safety of our daughters to the orchestration of my movements lay almost entirely in the hands of other people–many of them at least twenty years younger than I was. Growing up on Euclid Avenue, I’d been taught that self-sufficiency was everything. I’d been raised to handle my own business, but now that seemed almost impossible. Things got handled for me. Before I traveled, staffers drove the routes I’d take to venues, timing my transit down to the minute, scheduling my bathroom breaks in advance.

Oh, Michelle, I completely feel ya! I’m a fiercely independent soul inside this highly dependent body. A control freak who can’t control much of anything. My entire life is a giant trust fall, and unlike the White House, nobody actually cares if I crash and burn. Also, in the disability community, we have a phrase for the art and science of scheduled bathroom breaks–we call it “pee math.”

Talking about the connection she felt to Sojourner Truth, Harriet Tubman, Rosa Parks, and Coretta Scott King, Michelle describes the feeling that she couldn’t take time to rest.

I put this on myself as pressure, a driving need not to screw anything up. Though I was thought of as a popular First Lady, I couldn’t help but feel haunted by the ways I’d been criticized, by the people who’d made assumptions about me based on the color of my skin. To this end, I rehearsed my speeches again and again… I pushed hard… to make sure every one of our events ran smoothly and on time. I pushed even harder on my policy advisers to continue growing the reach of Let’s Move! and Joining Forces. I was focused on not wasting any of the opportunities I now had, but sometimes I had to remind myself just to breathe.

Yep, Michelle, I feel ya. It doesn’t even matter that I know I’m generally liked and respected by students, colleagues, administrators, and parents. I’m forever going to be trying to prove wrong the people who’ve doubted me. The “mentors” who basically took one look at me as a student teacher, and told me “You don’t have what it takes to be a teacher. You should find something else to do with your life.” The English professor who warned me that her class would be too hard for me. The random people who ask if my students respect me less (or more) than their other teachers. (For the record, they respect me the exact amount that I’ve earned, no more and no less.) All the others that are too polite to voice their doubts about me out loud. The black community isn’t the only one that knows the “work twice as hard to get half as far” rule. I put an enormous amount of pressure on myself to perform and excel, because I don’t want to reinforce any ableist beliefs when I fall short.

I’m highly aware of the opportunities I have right now, thanks to health, privilege, and good luck. I’m just as aware of how quickly I could lose every one of those opportunities. The clock ticking away in my head is deafening. So much pressure. And I do it to myself.

Finally, I was in tears when Michelle talked about the violence that our kids face just by going to school or living in their own neighborhoods. I sobbed, reliving Sandy Hook, and Michael Brown, and Hadiya Pendleton, and the Charleston church massacre, and so many others…. She went to talk with students at Harper High School in South Chicago. After listening to their stories and concerns, she was asked by one of the kids, “But what’re you actually going to do about any of this?”

“Honestly,” I began, “I know you’re dealing with a lot here, but no one’s going to save you anytime soon. Most people in Washington aren’t even trying. A lot of them don’t even know you exist.” I explained to those students that progress is slow, that they couldn’t afford to simply sit and wait for change to come. Many Americans didn’t want their taxes raised, and Congress couldn’t even pass a budget let alone rise above petty partisan bickering, so there weren’t going to be billion-dollar investments in education or magical turnarounds four their community. Even after the horror of Newtown, Congress appeared determined to block any measures that could help keep guns out of the wrong hands, with legislators more interested in collecting campaign donations from the National Rifle Association than they were in protecting kids. Politics was a mess, I said. On this front, I had nothing terribly uplifting or encouraging to say… Use school, I said.

Oh, Michelle, I feel you. I feel you, I feel you… Having to explain these ugly realities to kids is the worst. When scared kids ask me to make the world make sense for them, my instinct is to assure them that they’re safe, everything’s ok, the adults are taking care of things… But I can’t make their world safe. Like Michelle, I choose to be honest with kids always. If I can’t give them safety, I can at least give them honesty and information. I tell them what I’m doing, and what others are doing, to protect them the best we can, and give them as many opportunities in life as possible. I tell them what they can do to help themselves. And I tell them what we’re up against. Knowledge is power. I don’t sugarcoat things, because that’s just a form of lying, and “friends don’t lie.” But it hurts my heart so much. I want to be able to tell my kids about a world that values them, invests in them, protects them, and treats them as a top priority. They deserve that.

I believe this thorough analysis proves one thing… I’m probably still not cut out to be the President of, well, anything. I never thought I was. But turns out, I’m remarkably qualified to be a First Lady! I’ve been practicing my whole life. I could do it. So if you know any single presidential hopefuls, send them my way….