The conference I’d attended that day had ended. I sat in the lobby, waiting for my wheelchair-accessible taxi. The lights in the building were dimmed, and people were leaving.
My driver calls: he’s almost there and asks if I want to get ready. I close my laptop and put it in my bag. It’s the middle of winter, cold and dark outside. I put on my coat. “Let me see if I can find someone to zip it up,” I think. I look around. The building is quiet. By the door, I see the security guard sitting. I wheel over to him, he slides his window open.
“Excuse me, would you mind zipping up my coat?” I ask.
The security guard looks at me. As if he’s seeing water burn. He looks away, into the dimly lit office, then turns back to me, questioning.
“Where’s your carer?”
What that one question stirred up
I blink, stunned into silence. The question caught me off guard. The tone caught me off guard. Did he really just say that to me? I don’t know how to respond. Is he joking, and am I supposed to laugh? Am I meant to answer? What I do know: I’m tired, and I’m not in the mood for a conversation. I wish the man a good evening and leave the building.
On the drive home, I replay the situation in my head. This was an ableist remark, a type of microaggression more people with disabilities experience: being treated like a small child, as if you can’t go outside on your own.
Why intent isn’t enough
I don’t believe he set out to insult me or put me in my place. But that doesn’t change how it felt. And that’s exactly the crux of it. What you say or do can feel completely “normal” to you. Innocent. Well-intentioned. But that doesn’t mean it lands that way. Even with the best intentions, you can still hurt someone.
In a conversation, don’t ask yourself whether you meant well, ask what it does to the other person. Step into their world, and invite them into yours. That’s daunting. Sometimes uncomfortable. But it’s also the only way toward an inclusive environment for everyone.