On Awkwardness & Disability Etiquette

When awkward moments blow like a calm wind through your bones

The room was spacious and quiet. The ominous buzz of tools dominated the rustling of pages in magazines. I locked my gaze on the pictures of forestry and deer on the wall.

I scanned the room, this observatory of souls sitting in chairs backed up against the wall. They were all waiting for their turn to get cavities filled, but for the moment, their heads were down, stuck in separate worlds of fashion and truck accessories.

“Excuse me, Miss,” a woman in the farthest corner of the room bellowed as she walked over to where my mom and I were sitting.

“My daughter is afraid of that wheelchair,” she blurted out, not even looking in my direction or directing the comment towards me. She then plopped all the way down into the empty chair next to me, and positioned herself so that she was inches away from my face. Her body language was uneasy, and a heavy awkwardness followed.

That’s usually how it starts—with a muffled word, whisper, or obvious gesture that blows like a calm wind through your bones. Then comes what I call the “What planet are you from?” look, followed by the “I’m not deaf; I’m just in a wheelchair” stage.

Granted, the last part takes a little convincing—but you hear the person’s tone elevate to a shout while an-all-too-familiar storm intensifies inside you. It becomes clear that that person in front of you either has never been around someone with a disability or has little regard for etiquette.

Sometimes it’s hard to draw a line there, because it’s not always a matter of ignorance. Sometimes it’s a matter of simply being unaware, as is the case in the video below of a young student whose mother found his class photo “unbearable” to look at because her son was set off to the side in his wheelchair.

In my situation with this stranger I encountered at the dentist’s office, however, that was not the case. The woman continued to engrave this little girl’s words into my conscience, as if to deprive her of her own tiny voice.

I could see the little girl out of the corner of my eye. She had her fingers in her mouth and baby dolls with frayed blonde hair by her side, completely oblivious to my chair. My mom started talking to the woman and her daughter, inviting them to interrogate me.

This scene would play out for a good half-hour or more. By then, the drilling on the other side of the door to the waiting room was getting louder—and the pain of listening to this woman continue to announce “My daughter is afraid!” loud enough for the entire room to hear, was cutting deeper. I thought we should just wait outside and not cause any more confusion.

“No!” mom said adamantly. “If that little girl was crying or disturbed, I wouldn’t hesitate to leave.”

She turned and looked the woman square in the eye as she said, “I think you’re the one who has the problem. Your little girl seems to be adapting quite well and it’s a shame that you haven’t let her run and play. I think the fear is yours, not hers.”

I glanced back at the sweet excuse for innocence. She was still oblivious—still playing with her dolls. In her mind, my chair might have been a jungle gym if her mother wouldn’t have let her own fear and prejudice get in the way.

I’m so used to watching scenes like this play out that I don’t stop to think about what they might be like if I were on the outside looking in. Again, I don’t think that’s a result of being ignorant or naïve.

I don’t often get treated “normally” right off the bat. In fact, there’s only a handful of people in my life who have done so, and I’m taken aback when it happens because it isn’t the norm. I’ve come to accept the fact that the latter happens—and when it does, I automatically go through the motions.

I never ignore the pain it brings, though. To be treated as if your disability defines you, or to hear someone address you in a way that makes you feel obsolete or invisible is degrading. It’s real and it often cuts to the bone. I think it’s worse than getting slapped in the face or being called every name in the book because it degrades something we all need to carry with us.

After the chaos died down, we all went back to holding literary worlds in our hands, us with our magazines and the girl with her plastic princesses. The pain and awkwardness was still there, however. I wasn’t surprised by how I felt. I just wanted everything to stop.

I’ve seen what a little bit of class and etiquette can do, even though part of me has become numb to all this. In many ways, etiquette can play a huge role in the end of disability hate crime if we just take that first step.

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–Photo: ShaneFox/Flickr