So Why Did My Temporary Living Arrangement Bother Me?

As I feel asleep last night I was truly bothered the way my house has been rearranged while healing from my wound. But as I began to feel sorry for myself I thought--knock it off. I am lucky to be in my home. A mantra I often repeat. So why did my temporary living arrangement bother me? The answer came to me this morning reading Tobin Siebers book Disability Aesthetics. Siebers attempts to redefine both disability and aesthetics. While much of the book was not to my taste in part because Siebers looks at much art which I have little interest in. One small section of Siebers book did hit home--here I refer to the section on "Hysterical Architecture". I have often been struck at how violently people react to accessible space. I have heard again and again how access and durable medical equipment is ugly. I have heard heated arguments about how access "mars" a building or is an "eye sore". It dawned on me that while i obviously reject such beliefs I have nonetheless incorporated them in my thinking. When I renovated my house I did not want the ramp to my home to be too visible. I did not want my bathroom to look like too medical even if it meant being inconvenienced. Part of this concern was financial. To sell a house it must look aesthetically pleasing. Access I have learned is rarely if ever aesthetically pleasing. What has struck me as an obvious problem is that access is "ugly", an "eyesore" because we do not value said access. Access when constructing a building always appears to be an after thought--something that must be forced into an already beautiful design because of the law. And we know many hate the law, especially the ADA. That pesky law bankrupts small business and costs schools a fortune.

Given the above I was struck by Siebers following observation:

It is as if the public interprets ramps, accessible doors, and signage for the disabled as symbols of disability that require a mustering of defense mechanisms. In no time, plants and flowers clutter wheelchair ramps, handicap signs are tucked away, and decorative rocks and wood chips block accessible walkways. Nature abhors a vacuum, and society treats handicapped parking spaces and accessible pathways as empty paces to fill: locales marked by accessibility inevitably become handy collecting points for trash, building materials, or delivery trucks (pp. 79).

Society is indeed very defensive. It is as though the mere presence of accessible entrances is an afront to the delicate sensibilities of society. The presence of the disabled body and hence access for that body is unwanted. Every person I know with a disability can relate to the Seibers quote above. We have all had experiences where the space for us has been violated. Trash in wheelchair lifts are a common problem. Snow plows dump snow in handicap parking. Delivery trucks block curb cuts and fill up handicap parking spaces. Handicapped seating is used to store extra chairs and supplies. Signs if present are obscure and often grossly wrong. The list of violations is seemingly endless to me. Indeed, violations in terms of equal access are the norm. When traveling I always assume problems will arise and sadly I am almost always correct. What all these seemingly minor violations indicate is that we people with a disability are not valued nor welcome. We are ugly, a reminder of all that can wrong, a tragedy even. I am not sure how to change this societal mindset when even I am guilty of incorporating it. I will thus cut myself some slack knowing that my wound will heal and my ugly bed will find its way into its proper place--my bedroom. So for now I remind myself to be content with my existence even if it does not exactly please me.