What does kindness look like?
I AM A MAGNET FOR KINDNESS. LIKE THE CENTER of a black hole, my body attracts every good deed from across the universe to the foot of my wheelchair. I move through parking lots and malls, farmers’ markets and airports, bookstores and buffets, and people scramble to my aid.
O.K., so there are plenty of people who don’t seem to notice me, and some people who are actually repelled. They look down, pull their bag or their child closer to them, draw their legs up to their chest as I roll by. (Yeah, it doesn’t feel great.) But it’s the abundance of kindness that gets me all tangled. It’s the fly that won’t stop buzzing, won’t hold still long enough for me to swat it, won’t die.
It’s harmless, really. What damage can a tiny fly do? But then why do I feel like tearing down the house every time I hear its familiar buzz?
I’ve been paralyzed since receiving cancer treatments as a toddler, and I started using a wheelchair in first grade, so I’ve had 30 years to learn just how capable I am and just how often people assume I’m helpless.
As a culture, Americans are convinced that disability is something they’ve figured out. How could ableism exist when we’ve memorized the rules? Don’t say the R word; don’t make fun; disability doesn’t define anyone; try to be helpful; and the rule that guides them all: be kind. I’ve seen so many people perform these creeds in one form or another.
Like the folks who try to do me a favor by keeping me separate from this disabled body of mine: All I see when I look at you is a beautiful woman. I don’t even notice your wheelchair! It’s meant as a kindness, but it feels like erasure.
I think I understand how it happens: if you live in a community where disability is framed
