Tag: equality

Celebrating the Americans with Disabilities Act by Curbing the Heroes

Posted on by Emily Ladau

I have never known life without the Americans with Disabilities Act (ADA), which became law on July 26, 1990. My birthday is just one year and three days after this. In countless ways, the ADA has been a blessing. Places that my mom and my uncle (who are also disabled) could not have gone while growing up and things that were not accessible to them are open to me. Public attitudes towards disability have shifted significantly from prejudice to acceptance. Opportunities for the disability community continue to expand every day. It’s a beautiful thing to be alive with the ADA as a fixture of United States law, and I couldn’t be happier to ring in the 24th anniversary with optimism for the future.

The optimism I hold is crucial for advocates as we move towards the quarter-century mark of the ADA, because we must be hopeful that changes will continue to come. Far too many people believe that the work for disability equality is done, but we’re still just getting started. The ADA has been a source of immense change, but there is so much more to do. I am reminded of this every time I cannot get into a public place, even though it was supposed to become ADA compliant years ago. I am reminded of this every time I am subjected to stigmatization and exclusion. And I reminded of this every time I hear stories of discrimination and access barriers across the country, and know that I am not alone in the struggle.

So, in honor of the 24th anniversary of the ADA, I’d like to share a poem I wrote last year for my Disability and Social Justice class, entitled “Curbing the Heroes.” I hope it captures the complexities of having a disability in America – a lamentation of the access still needed, a celebration of independence, and a rallying call for advocates to never give up our fight.

Curbing the Heroes by Emily Ladau

I feel your eyes on me.
Intense gawking.
Inquisitive gaze.
Maybe an indifferent glance.

Roll on.
Let it roll off your shoulders.
That’s what I’m told.
And so I roll.

Bump. Screech. Crash.
I tried to roll forward.
I hit the curb.
The step is too high
to make it up
and over the barrier
of your discrimination.

The kind stranger armed with working limbs
swoops in to do his good deed.
Lifts me up, shoots down my pride.
I don’t want some everyday hero
coming to my rescue.
I want to be my own hero.

And so I fight. Fight to get over that curb.
Fight to get over discrimination not in leaps and bounds,
but in turns of the wheel –
Each unencumbered turn a small victory
On the inaccessible battlefields
that we will flatten and widen
and make ADA compliant
‘til we don’t need you and your two “working” legs
to save the day.

My Wheelchair is Not My Halloween Costume

Posted on by Emily Ladau

A note: This piece is written from the perspective of 12-year-old Emily, who was still quite conscious that a wheelchair itself is not a costume, and it’s not something to be questioned or mistrusted. My disability is simply another part of me – a real part of me. My goal with this is to point out unnecessary ableism in a way that hopefully brings some levity and humor to the situations I experienced. Happy Halloween, everyone!

The year my dad hit the curb with my wheelchair and I landed in a heap of crushed fairy wings should have been my first clue that Halloween was not my holiday. But when you’re eleven years old, no candy gets left behind. You just have to pull yourself up by the fairy wing straps and persevere.

I assumed the next year would be business as usual and when October came, I waited by the phone for my friends to invite me out to the trick-or-treating big leagues in the wealthy neighborhood on the other side of town. I could practically taste the full size candy bars I’d be getting in my plastic pumpkin basket…but the taste went from Hershey’s sweet to Warheads sour when I got out there and saw myself surrounded on all sides by massive grand staircases leading up to spooky decorated mansions. No Halloween princess I knew could clap her hands and have servants carry her up the stairs.

So my friends brought the candy to me. And yeah, it was almost as good as having servants…at least until my friends were accused of trying to score extra candy by lying about their friend in the wheelchair who couldn’t climb the steps. Uh, hello?  I’m right here. Silly Halloween candy police. Are you implying that little girls who use wheelchairs can’t have friends?  Well, guess what, candy police?  I’m here to tell you that people with disabilities do more than just live inside the imaginations of candy-hoarding twelve-year-olds.

But being a real live twelve-year-old girl in a wheelchair was hard sometimes, you know?  At least that’s what I was told, since the man at the next house over felt so bad for “that poor girl in the wheelchair, so please take some extra candy for her and God be with her.” Well, that was awkward, I thought, but thanks for the candy, I guess. I mean, if people are so convinced that my life is so hard, I must have deserved an extra Snickers, right? So I should just stay quiet and take the supposed perks of disability wherever I could find them, right? And for that matter, mister “God be with me,” shouldn’t I just be grateful that my parents let me out of the house like all the “normal” kids?

Well, I was grateful. But not because I got to taste the candy of “normal” life. I was grateful because I managed to finish enough homework for my parents to take me trick-or-treating. Pretty “normal” twelve-year-old life, don’t you think? I had earned my right to go about filling that silly plastic pumpkin basket, happy to be out like every other kid on Halloween.

And then we came to a house with no steps! Jackpot! I rolled up feeling super confident in my princess costume, crown on my head, and just as I held out my pumpkin I heard:  “Oh, I get it! You’re in a wheelchair! You’re right out of the hospital! Cool costume!”

REALLY, mister?, I thought. Did you not get that I’m a princess? I mean, I know I’m in a winter coat, but there’s a bright pink crown on my head! I can pretend to be a princess, but I sure as hell wouldn’t dress up as a girl in a wheelchair. Don’t get me wrong; it’d be nice to attach my crown to my head and my wheelchair to my butt once a year. It’d be nice to take it all off at midnight on October 31st and put it on the shelf ‘til next Halloween. But my wheelchair is not a costume. I can’t put it on and take it off like fairy wings or a princess crown. And that’s fine with me.

So accept me as I am. Accept me as a fairy or a princess. And please, don’t patronize me. Just share your candy.

Just One of the Guys – A Critique of the Wheelchair Basketball Guinness Commercial

Posted on by Emily Ladau

I think it’s safe to say one of the first things students learn in Marketing and Advertising 101 is that one of the best ways to pull viewers in is to tug at their heartstrings. A prime example of this approach can be seen in a new commercial for Guinness beer.

As I started to watch the ad, I was impressed by the accurate portrayal of a wheelchair basketball game, enough so that I could (almost) overlook the sappy background music. But then, as the men exit the gym, a deep voice goes on to say: “Dedication, Loyalty, Friendship…The choices we make reveal the true nature of our character.” To me, this seems to relegate disabled people to the status of a community service project.

The brand’s tag line, which is shown at the end of the commercial, is “Made of More.” Of course, this refers to the beer, but there is arguably a double meaning behind it. When a commercial makes you feel warm and fuzzy, you’ll associate those positive feelings with the brand that’s being promoted, thereby making you more likely to buy the product, which in this case, is the Guinness. Essentially, the underlying message of the ad is that it demonstrates good character when an able-bodied person befriends a disabled person. Those who do so are “made of more.”

At the end of the commercial, all the men who were playing basketball are hanging out and drinking Guinness. If Guinness had made a commercial in which a bunch of guys were out on a Friday night drinking together, and one of them just happened to be in a wheelchair, that would have been great. They could have made an inclusive ad without making it seem like spending time with a guy in a wheelchair means you’re a good person. He should have been just one of the guys without calling so much attention to it. Personally, if I made the commercial, I’d have had an empowering rock anthem in the background, eliminated the sap, and then after the game the guys would have gone out for drinks. That would be have been an awesome commercial.

Instead, Guinness objectifies disabled people. The message that choosing to be friends with a disabled person makes you a saint is constantly perpetuated by the media and it needs to stop. Disabled people are not here so we can make nondisabled people feel good about themselves. And yet, that’s exactly what this commercial seems to accomplish. You don’t have to take my word for it though; just read some of the comments under the video in the link I shared and you’ll see tons of people saying things like “this brought tears to my eyes” or “this was the nicest thing I’ve ever seen on television.”

Nicest thing for whom? Nice for you, the nondisabled viewer, because you can sit on your couch and feel momentarily good about the state of humanity? Would your eyes still well up with tears if the commercial showed a bunch of sweaty dudes without wheelchairs playing basketball and grabbing a beer? That doesn’t sound like a tear-jerker to me!

It is clear that the commercial tried to show the men building each other up and supporting each other, which is absolutely a great idea, but I question if Guinness considered how dehumanizing it actually is for disabled people to be depicted as needing kindhearted non-disabled people to pay them some attention. The friendship between the guys in the commercial is certainly portrayed as genuine, and that’s admirable, but why is friendship among diverse people so emotional and inspirational? That should be the norm…it’s 2013!

Including disabled people, whether in real life or in the media, is fantastic and definitely necessary. I’m obviously a huge advocate for inclusion both on and off the screen. But it’s time for advertisers and other media outlets to do it right. Disabled people are just people, not your good deed for the week. By representing inclusion of disabled people as inspiring, this both reflects existing social stigma and can cause nondisabled people to continue to subconsciously perceive us as somehow being less than. It’s time for disabled people to be portrayed realistically instead of stereotypically, because ultimately, everyone on this planet, disabled or not, is just one of the guys.

The Complexities of “Curing” Disabilities

The Complexities of "Curing Disabilities" by Words I Wheel By
Posted on by Emily Ladau

I can’t count how many times I’ve been asked variations of the question: “If there was a pill that could cure your disability, would you take it?” Though the short answer is a resounding “No!” I rarely get the chance to elaborate on the complex feelings and emotions that are behind my answer.

Here’s the long answer: I definitely have moments where the thought of an instant cure gives me pause. I wonder what life might be like as an able-bodied version of myself. I try to envision myself walking around the mall or running after a soccer ball. I try to picture myself climbing a tree or jumping rope. But thinking about these things is mind-bending for me because they’re not part of my life. And I’m okay with that. I don’t have a burning desire to walk or run or climb or jump like an able-bodied person, because such actions have never been part of my life to begin with. Since I was born with my disability, I don’t feel that anything was taken away from me. It’s simply not possible to miss something I never experienced.

I think “cure” is actually a rather loaded term in relation to my disability, because to cure something implies that you are returning the body to its normal state.  My disability is my normal state. To cure me in accordance with the medical definition of the word would not only give me new abilities, but also essentially transform me into a whole new person. I can’t imagine myself as an able-bodied person, because I never was an able-bodied person. I’ve embraced my disability as a huge facet of my identity, and I take pride in it.

While I don’t define myself solely by my disability, having a disability has undeniably shaped who I am. Without my lived experiences as a disabled person, I would be a completely different Emily. And as tough as certain aspects of my life have been, and though I know I will continue to face disability-related challenges throughout my life, I wouldn’t trade my life for a minute. My disability has given me a place in a community and a culture; it has been the reason why I’ve had amazing adventures and unforgettable experiences. To walk freely up and down stairs for one day would never measure up to the things I’ve done because I have a disability.

So, my answer is still no. No, I would not take a pill for a cure. That being said, it’s not my place to judge another person for answering “yes.” I understand that disability is a highly unique experience from one person to the next, and I can’t say that my opinions on “curing” disability are the only way to think about it. For instance, it is completely reasonable to search for cures for degenerative or painful diseases and disabilities. If I could take a pill to cure the pain I experience, I would do that in a heartbeat. But I don’t want to change who I am. We should be looking to cure the pain, not the person.

We should not be trying to cure disability or disease because society sees it as something to devalue. And for that matter, if the reasoning behind “curing” disability is about eradicating differences from society, then I think we should cure society’s ableism instead. We should make it a priority to eliminate access barriers and prejudiced mindsets, rather than focusing on eliminating disabilities. But to find ways to relieve symptoms and improve quality of life for people – those are the right reasons to support finding cures.

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