Who/What do you see?
The question is not what you look at, but what you see.
Henry David Thoreau
This post is inspired by Kelly Mack’s series on responding to pity as a person with a disability. I recommend this series and her Substack blog, Rolling With It!
When you look at another person, what do you see? I believe looking at someone else can be like looking in a mirror.
“You are so amazing!“ (in reference to me holding a sandwich)
“I could not do what you do.“ (in reference to giving directions to put on my shoes)
“Do you have a license to drive that thing?” (in reference to my electric wheelchair)
Throughout my life, I've enjoyed meeting people. I would describe myself as a ‘people person’! Yes, the wheelchair, my wheelchair, draws attention. Most of the time, I don't notice the stare or whisper. But honestly, it is hard to ignore the personal declarations made by strangers when they see me going through a normal day.
There can be obvious discomfort. I know I don't always blend in, who does?! I naturally seek things we have in common when approaching a new gathering, even though I always believe our differences make us more interesting to each other.
I am never truly in control of how I am perceived.This is true for everyone. From a young age, I learned the price I might pay if I focused too much on trying to be in control.
Throughout my life, children have seen me and naturally begun to reach out with curiosity. When I was young, kids would notice me as a peer who looked different, which caught their attention. Of course, it caught their attention! They were children and were not shy to come toward me with questions. But as quickly as their curiosity sparked, they would be gathered up by a protective parent or other adult, told to stay away, and to be quiet.
It was as if I were contagious.
My family had a favorite restaurant. It served amazing seafood, and on special occasions, we would go to enjoy a night of everything fried.
On one of those evenings. I remember driving down the long road past what I now know as a stocked pond and unloading the car with mouthwatering anticipation. The dinner met all of our expectations. When we were done, Daddy went to pay the bill while Mom took my sister to the bathroom. I sat at the more accessible end of a booth where my wheelchair could roll under the table.
With my back to the restaurant, I waited for their return.
Without any introduction, an arm reached around from behind my chair and slipped something into my hand. Before I could figure out what was happening, a man stood beside me, patting me on the head with a look of pity and compassion. There were no words, and just as fast, he was gone. I looked in my hand to find two one-dollar bills.
Immediately, tears began to flow. They were hot tears of frustration and embarrassment. I did not understand. At the young age of seven, I felt the awkwardness of being different. With no interest in my name or anything else about me, this man left me with a powerful sense of helplessness. My parents returned to find a very upset child. I did not want the money.
I felt violated.
I have little memory of what my parents said, but I do remember that they added more money to what had been given, and I came home from that dinner with a new doll.
I have never forgotten that night. What happened in that restaurant taught me a most difficult lesson about what it meant to be different.
This experience would repeat as I moved from childhood to adulthood. Money may not be left in my hand at this stage of life, but people reveal their own discomfort by making awkward comments as we pass one another.
So many people live their lives and are not seen. They make decisions about what they wear, where they go, and how they engage with the world with little input from people around them. For those of us with disabilities, our unique ways of living often make us more visible. We often become a mirror for the world’s own complicated feelings about what it means to be different.
“The question is not what you look at, but what you see.” Thoreau could not have put it better.
