Living with Disability Archives

Is the Restroom Accessible? That’s Up in the Air

Posted on December 7, 2017August 12, 2021 by Emily Ladau

When you’re getting ready to go on a flight, what’s on your last-minute to-do list? Mine looks a little something like this:

Make sure I packed enough underwear
Charge my Kindle
Start limiting the amount of liquid I drink

Does that last one seem a little strange to you? Well, for wheelchair users who are unable to get up and walk (like yours truly), limiting what we drink before flight is often the norm, because there’s simply no way for us to access the restrooms aboard a plane.

But bathrooms are something most people take for granted, and so they drink to their hearts’ content before and during a fight. Most people simply can’t imagine not having access to a place to relieve themselves wherever they go. And for that reason, I’m not all that surprised by a report that a Delta flight from New York City to Seattle had to go hundreds of miles out of its way to make an emergency pit stop just because the plane’s toilets were broken and people had to go right now.

Let me tell you something: I just took a flight from New York City to Seattle a few months ago. Heck, I’ve flown from New York City to Israel. And you know what I had to do on those flights, and every other flight I’ve ever been on? Hold it. I’ve gone without peeing for upwards of 14 hours so I could travel.

On the flights where I’ve found myself needing to use the restroom in spite of my valiant efforts to avoid drinking anything, the only solution was to meditate and deal with it. Seriously. No way would a pilot divert a flight because I needed to “find relief of built-up pressures.”

Once, during a flight home from Minneapolis, I had the misfortune of experiencing motion sickness. Fair warning: what I’m about to say may not be fun to read if you’re easily made to feel queasy.

I asked the flight attendant for a motion sickness bag, but she didn’t take my request seriously and took her sweet time getting it. Since I couldn’t get up to go to the restroom, I got sick all over myself. And then, you know what happened? My dignity took a nosedive and I had to change out of my vomit covered clothes in the middle of the airplane while the flight attendant who didn’t get me the paper bag in time held up a blanket to try to give me a modicum of privacy.

Why am I telling you all this? To highlight what it’s like to be disabled in a world designed by people who don’t take you into account.

I spend my life (not an exaggeration) strategizing every move, big or small. From researching if I’ll be able to get into the new restaurant a friend suggests for dinner, to deciding if I should stay on a long sidewalk in the hopes there’s a curb cut at the other end, to figuring out when I’ll next be near a restroom I can actually use––everything requires planning.

Of course, it’s possible that people on the Delta flight had other types of disabilities, chronic conditions, or age-related bladder or bowel issues, so yes, I get why the plane landed, but the world sure doesn’t accommodate me with emergency landings.

But there are laws to make things accessible, you might say. True. The Americans with Disabilities Act was passed over 27 years ago to prohibit discrimination and provide access for disabled people in all areas of public life, but even with amendments to update the law, inaccessibility is still everywhere. The Air Carrier Access Act (which significantly fewer people know exists, including, seemingly, airline personnel) was passed nearly 32 years ago, with the intent of ensuring the disability community has access to air travel. Yet, though it’s since been amended, the law still allows for aircraft with only one aisle to have inaccessible restrooms. These types of planes, known as narrow-body planes, are used by commercial airlines pretty darn frequently.

Even so, I need to travel for work. I have to go places in order to go about my day. I have the right to be an active member of my community.

I could wrap up with a broad, sweeping call to action to improve upon accessibility everywhere, from storefronts to airplanes, but I believe this kind of change won’t happen without recognition of just how easy it is to take access for granted.

I admit that I roll my eyes when people who break their leg or have surgery that temporarily impacts their mobility tell me they “get” what I “go through” every day, but there’s still a lesson to be learned from these comments: the ability to access wherever you please doesn’t matter to people, until one day it does. Anyone can become disabled at any time.

That may sound intimidating, but think about it: if you became disabled tomorrow, wouldn’t you want to live in a world where you had access to basic things like restrooms anywhere you go? People don’t think about the possibility of not being able to use the restroom until access to this basic need is taken away from them, just like the situation on the Delta flight.

It shouldn’t have to be this way. Full bladders should not inhibit full participation in society for the disability community.

“There’s No Room For You Here.” – On Encountering Discrimination

Posted on August 29, 2016August 12, 2021 by Emily Ladau

I have a little tradition to search for handmade jewelry when I travel, usually rings or earrings. It’s my favorite way to bring home a piece of where I’ve been. Since I just visited New Mexico for the first time to join my family in celebrating my cousin’s wedding, I was especially excited to see what I’d find because I love southwestern jewelry designs. My mom (who also uses a wheelchair), my dad, and I ventured to Old Town in Albuquerque one afternoon to look around and when we reached the first shop, Native Gallery, I was immediately drawn to rows of earrings and beautiful pottery.

Not even 10 seconds after entering the shop, I gravitated toward some rainbow bowls in the front of the store and was already contemplating buying one when the shopkeeper came over to my family and said “there’s no room for you here.”

Mind you, the aisles were a bit narrow but I have the depth perception to know my wheelchair would fit through and the common sense not to drive like a wild woman through a store full of valuable breakables. There was undeniably room for us. So, I began to explain that we were fine and would be very careful, but the shopkeeper again insisted there was “no room” for us and demanded we leave.

My dad, who was standing up and is obviously taller than me, could plainly see the shopkeeper was lying about the lack of space. In fact, aside from the one couple he was ringing up, there wasn’t a single other customer in the store. There was plenty of room. Based on the look of horror on the shopkeeper’s face when he saw two wheelchair users roll through the entrance, the urgency with which he jumped up to ask us to leave, and his persistent arguing that we couldn’t stay, it was clear he just didn’t want us to patronize his shop, or assumed we’d cause damage, and so he thought it best to kick us out rather than finding a way to accommodate us.

I sort of get it, maybe. Power wheelchairs in a store full of fragile pottery are risky and the shopkeeper wanted to protect his goods, but the reality is that anyone could accidentally break something. At the very least, he could’ve offered to bring some pieces to the front for us. But no matter how many times we pointed out that turning disabled people away from your public business is discriminatory and illegal, the shopkeeper ultimately forced us away.

I just wanted to buy a ring. I wanted a taste of what New Mexico has to offer. I wanted to enjoy the late afternoon sun and the colorful boutiques with my parents. I love exploring new places. Yet it seems every time I try to embrace my independence like any other human being, someone stops me in my tracks and reminds me that disabled people are still not fully welcome in this world we inhabit.

In most cases, it’s structural barriers that prove unwelcoming. Steps and narrow entryways are warning signs to stay away. Because of this, I’m generally inclined to give my business to places where the architecture isn’t keeping me out. Of course, there are plenty of instances where I take one look at a place and can tell there’s no way I will actually be able to navigate safely or easily. But I have learned to make my way around in environments not designed with accessibility in mind. I have learned how to weave through curves and make sharp turns, how to roll forward at just the right angle and slip through tight spaces. Within the realms of accessibility, where I go is my decision to make.

And so, even as the sting of this encounter flowed through me, I was still determined to find a ring. We went to a shop around the block called de Colores Galleria. There, the owner was lovely, accommodating my mom and I as we narrowed down our jewelry options, never making us feel as though we were unwelcome or in the way.

While she helped us, my mom shared with the woman behind the jewelry counter what had happened at the other shop. The woman was mortified, apologizing on behalf of Old Town. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “That’s not good for Old Town. And that’s not good for you.” We appreciated that, and thanked her profusely for her hospitality before we left.

My mom and I felt compelled to thank the second shopkeeper because her kindness was such a refreshing change from our first encounter. That said, we were essentially thanking this woman for treating us like people. It’s a painful reality of my existence that I find myself expressing gratitude when people communicate with me in such a way that shows they see me as deserving of equality and respect.

As I sat down to recount this shopping debacle in writing, my stomach tightened at the thought that issues such as this – the ones I so desperately wish to see eliminated – are the ones on which I’ve built a platform and a career. The frequency with which I experience and write about ableism has become a twisted form of job security, because deep down I know I will never run out of stories to share. And yet, what I would give for an end to the writing fodder, as it would mean a world finally without encountering discrimination.

I am tired of the days when simple moments of enjoying life are shattered by someone else’s lack of understanding and acceptance. I am a tireless activist, but I am still tired.

I kept the ring that I picked from the second shop on my finger as I wrote this. It now has a place as one of the most bittersweet pieces in my collection, but I treasure it. I will wear it with joy not only because it is a reminder to keep up the fight even when I feel defeated, but also because of the other memories it holds: eating raspberries straight from the bush in my family’s backyard, the hazy mountain view surrounding us, twirling around the dance floor with my dad at my cousin’s wedding, peering out of a tram with my family as it reached 10,378 feet, and – most beautiful of all – being with people I love, who love me, and who welcome and accept me as I am.

A Letter to My Younger Self in Honor of International Women’s Day

Posted on March 8, 2016August 12, 2021 by Emily Ladau

Shortly after my first love and I broke up in 2013, I wrote a letter to my younger self. At the time, I intended to bury it away somewhere to be forgotten, as it was just meant to be a private way to help myself heal. But every couple months or so, I’ve found myself pulling up the letter again on my computer, reading it over, adding to it, finding comfort in it.

In 2015, I learned about #DearMe, an empowerment campaign in honor of International Women’s Day that encouraged women to write a letter with advice to they needed to hear when they were younger. So, I pulled my letter out of hiding and put it out into the world. Now that International Women’s Day has come around in 2016, I feel it’s time to dust off my letter once again.

This letter will never be finished. Each year, as I grow older, I plan to read and reread, write and rewrite, hopefully building on what I want 15-year-old Emily to know. And while this letter is deeply personal to me, and I’m specifically sharing it for International Women’s Day, it is my hope that no matter what age you may be or how you identify, these words will resonate with you, reminding you that you are always enough and never alone.

Dear Me (15-year-old Emily),

I know how your eyes scan the room every time you go somewhere new, wondering if today will be the day your gaze settles upon a guy who just might accept you for who you are. I know how you lay awake at night envisioning what the future might be like, if only a guy could accept your disabled body. I know how you think that day will never come.

But the day will come when someone will accept you. He will tell you that you are the most beautiful girl in the world. He will tell you that you can trust him. He will tell you he loves you.

And he will be a wheelchair user too. I know that’s not an option you’ve been considering, but I promise when you open your mind to him, you will feel like he can relate to you in ways no one has ever understood you before.

Then he will leave you. He will break your heart and break your trust instead of breaking your fall. And it will hurt in ways you never imagined.

Don’t let him be the source of your self-worth. For that matter, don’t let anyone be the source of your self-worth. You’ll face rejection for being disabled and you’ll face rejection for being the girl you are. When you’re met with discrimination or a lack of acceptance, don’t just sit there and take it.

Learn to love yourself for all that you are. Gain strength that will be there to keep you going even when life shoots you down. That cannot come from outside you. It will only come from within.

I know these sound like words in the self-help books that made you roll your eyes and laugh as you pulled them from bookstore shelves. Quit laughing and start listening. It will save you a lot of pain in the years down the road.

Please, don’t give any of yourself away before you accept yourself. Learn to embrace your disability as another part of what makes you, you. Learn that just because you’ve got a body with scars and curves and a wheelchair attached to your butt, does not mean you’re not beautiful just as you are – your brain, your body, every part of you.

I won’t lie to you: Life as a disabled woman will continue challenging you to the core at times. Know that even in the hardest moments, you have so much to offer the world. Stop doubting yourself. More importantly, stop believing that you will only be validated and whole when someone looks at you with romance in his eyes.

Remember the pain of heartbreak is an experience not limited to the disabled world, nor is the joy of reaching your dreams. If there’s a day, a week, or a month when it feels like you just don’t fit and nothing is right and everything is wrong, know that you are far from alone in this world.

Focus on finding joy in who you are, on finding your way to a career path that will both fulfill your dreams and give you the opportunity to make a difference in people’s lives. Remember how capable you are, no matter what message society may send. When it feels like you’ve been left out of nondisabled life, never forget that your life is no less valid.

I promise write to you again in a few years as I work to gain self-worth, self-acceptance, and pride in being a disabled woman that I wish you’d fight harder for now. But in the mean time, hang in there. You’re going to become stronger than you thought possible, and you’re going to be alright.

Love you always,
24-year-old Emily

My Wheelchair is Not My Halloween Costume

Posted on October 31, 2013August 12, 2021 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.