Of all things people could do to someone with a disability, Katie Wiest hates to be infantilized. Strangers on the street often talk to her in a “baby” voice, treating her like a helpless toddler. The pity wallowed in their eyes irks her.
“It’s like, I’m fine, I’m just sitting down!” she exclaims.
Wiest has heard and experienced first-hand the whole spectrum: the derogatory ones–cripple, freak, weirdo, faker–though they’ve become less frequent. But then there’s the intentionally uplifting ones that make her feel worse.
“People say like, ‘special, unique, butterfly abilities!’” she mocks, fluttering her fingers, cheeks puffed out in frustration. “And I’m like, I’m disabled. Just say disabled!”
At Amador, the Wheelchair Foundation holds an annual Wheelchair Day event, where select students sit in wheelchairs to experience the daily reality people with disabilities live through.
Wiest herself had participated in the event during middle school, learning how to use a wheelchair and how to move around in one, never even knowing she would ever need to apply that knowledge years later for real.
She appreciates the foundation’s attempt to bring more awareness to the hardships people with wheelchairs face, but says it only strikes the tip of the iceberg.
“The whole point is to be ‘awww, look how hard it is for people in wheelchairs,’ which is kind of all [the organizers] are doing,” Wiest points out. “They didn’t talk about the systematic things that come with the wheelchair.”
Like often school campus buildings, including many of Amador’s, weren’t built with wheelchair-accessibility in mind. And those old buildings don’t need to be renovated to make it easier for wheelchair users.
Moreover, the real, past struggles of the disabled community for recognition of their rights–like getting an education at school or having sufficient hospital care–get glossed over.
Wiest herself has experienced at Amador frequent ableism, when able-bodied people discriminate or harbor social prejudices against those with disabilities.
Some teachers treated her like a lesser student once they heard about her condition; others couldn’t accept why she had to leave class for medical appointments and threw at her excessive make-up work she couldn’t complete. Once, she went to class without her wheelchair, and a teacher exclaimed: “Oh my gosh, you’re cured!”
Wiest had felt her heart plummet in that moment at the teacher’s careless remark, a harsh reminder that some people would never see her beyond her POTS.
Without addressing these important issues, Wiest believes the school’s Wheelchair Day just serves as a “weird empathy” exercise, and that doesn’t sit right with her.
That’s why Wiest is beyond grateful for her own support squad at school–her friends and boyfriend, who never judged her disability when she told them, who buy lunch for her because her wheelchair never fits in the cafeteria lines, who stand with her in solidarity and treat her without any stigma.
“I’m more comfortable being in a wheelchair or using a mobility aid if other people are with me and make it seem like it’s not a big deal, because then it doesn’t feel like it’s a big deal,” Wiest says.
Her boyfriend Brayden Cameron calls the experience “eye-opening.” Learning about Wiest’s condition and the challenges that come with it has made him a more accepting person, more aware of the struggles of those around him as opposed to focusing on what’s happening with himself.
“It’s like, ok, if this person has a disability, then that might be affecting them in a lot of ways, socially or physically or mentally, and it’s not something for somebody else to get upset about,” Cameron says.
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