The Invisible Disability

I have not walked for 20 years. Mobilizing in a wheelchair is a natural part of life. I always think that the first thing that people see is the wheelchair. They immediately register that I am different. I have had some experiences that confirmed for me that the disability is not the most important part of my person.

In Beijing in 1989, it was unacceptable for people with a disability to appear in the community. It was one thing to be a woman travelling alone; it was quite another to be a woman mobilizing in wheelchair, travelling alone. At that time, people with an obvious disability were not accepted with equality. Throughout this trip my greatest asset was the welcoming group of seniors who mothered and fathered me along every step of the way. They gave me directions, brought me tea, placed a shawl over my shoulders at cold windy bus stops. They saw only a woman who appreciated their concern and assistance. They did not speak English, I do not speak Chinese. Neither language nor the wheelchair were a deterrent.
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In 2001, I travelled to China for the second time – now a more welcoming culture. I met a young woman who was teaching kindergarten. She invited me to her class to meet with the children, both of us thinking that they would be fascinated and curious about the wheelchair. I found myself in the midst of 60 four and five-year-old children. They approached eagerly and without hesitation continually touched and stroked my hair. The teacher reported that they had no interest in the wheelchair. They had never seen anyone with long hair; they had never seen anyone who did not have black hair. The disability to them was invisible.

In 2005 when I travelled in India with Michelle Querns and a woman from Punjab who could not help us physically but Harriot’s ability to speak Hindi was a priceless advantage. In Varanassi, we all decided that it was time for a haircut so off we went to the hairdresser. The small salon (no larger than my tiny en suite bathroom) featured a poster that covered the whole back wall. On the poster there were photographs of 40 different women. All the same haircut! We took turns leaning sideways over a minuscule sink, then met the aggressive scissors. We sat outside in the sunshine for initial hair drying; final bits of dampness eliminated by a small blow dryer. The result? We looked like triplets, patterned after the poster – 40 women with identical haircuts, now 43 women with identical haircuts. Walking on wheels, having a disability, did not make a difference. We all looked the same.