A while ago, I read this post by amandaw, “What can I do?”. amandaw is disabled in a way that isn’t obviously visible to most able-bodied people, a so-called “invisible disability.” I use quotes because it’s “invisible” primarily to able-bodied people and people who don’t have to think about the disability – it surely isn’t “invisible” to amandaw or her family and friends, and it shouldn’t be “invisible” to anyone else, either, be they coworkers or classmates or casual acquaintances. The post is very interesting to me because it tells me not only a specific thing that I, an able-bodied person, can do to make life more accessible to persons with disabilities, but it also gives me a framework for thinking about what I can do in general.

amandaw writes (emphases hirs),

When I was attending college, I had a lot of walking to do — at least a mile from my dorm to each class, and of course the walking in between. It was exhausting, and it was one of the major factors that led me to drop out the first time.

One of my classes was on the sixth floor of the humanities building. Another was on the fifth floor of the math and science building. And I had several choices on how to reach those points:

1. The elevator.

2. The escalator (in the math building).

3. The stairs.

Here’s the irony: the only accessible solution was the stairs.

I have a physical disability. That disability is also invisible. I can climb stairs, but when I do it precludes any remotely physical activity (up to and including sitting upright) for a couple days, compounded the more flights I have to climb.

This was not teneble, not when I had to do this three times a week, and that doesn’t even include the energy required to walk to the building in the first place, to sit in the hard uncomfortable chair for an hour taking notes, and the energy I needed to do the home assignments, projects, and studying necessary for the class. And that doesn’t account for my four other classes!

So: Why couldn’t I use the elevator?

Well, because everyone else was using the elevator — so many people that there was a long line and usually a 15-20 minute wait before you could step foot in one. …

This crowd existed in front of every elevator in every building on campus. Not all of the people waiting at that elevator were healthy enough to take the stairs. There were surely others with invisible illnesses like me, and others yet who just weren’t in the greatest shape, and so on. But the majority of those folks took the elevator because it was there. And those folks are the ones who made my life, and my participation in society, that much harder back then.

So: Why couldn’t I use the escalator?

Here’s a different problem. A lot of kids used the escalator. An escalator, as you know, is basically a revolving set of stairs that moves upward, so that you don’t have to do any climbing to get up to the next floor.

But here’s the problem. Everyone who took the escalator? Walked up it. …

But I couldn’t use it that way. If I stood still on a single step, that would clog up the line of kids studiously climbing, climbing. …

So: what was I left with? Well. The stairs were pretty free. Maybe I could have started to carry a cane, just to visually signal to people that I was sick. Even though I didn’t need that cane and wouldn’t know what to do with it. Do I hunch myself over, tousle my hair and do my best to act like I’m ninety years old and barely hanging on? Just so people would maybe, just maybe, believe me?

Or maybe… maybe everyone else involved could have stopped and thought about how their actions were affecting other people. Because I sure as hell wasn’t the only one facing this dilemma.

Just because the elevators and escalators existed did not mean they were therefore accessible to the people who needed them. Because accessibility is more than structural. It also counts on the actions of each individual.

Yes, you are part of the problem. There are times where you are in the way, where your actions are creating difficulties in someone else’s life. And you probably can’t even see it. But, you know — maybe you would — if you started looking.

Pre-move, I walked to work most days and took the bus now and again. Post-move, I began to BART twice a day, every day, and found out what BART looks like during rush hour:

Two long lines of people queued up to get onto the escalator after exiting a BART train.

Those lines for the escalator are long and especially in that prime window between 8:30 and 9:00, they back up and snake down the station platform. So, the escalator is there, but in order to use it, you have to navigate the rush of people going in and out of the train, jockey for a place in the line, wait in line, and then finally, get on the escalator. And then repeat the experience once you’ve taken the escalator from the platform to the ticket area and need to take the escalator from the ticket area to street level. Oh, and the elevator at the station might or might not be working, too. The escalator might be broken, too.

Ableism, like so many other forms of systemic, society-wide oppression (e.g. sexism, homophobia, classism, transphobia, racism) operates both at the societal and individual levels. For example, the elevator at Civic Center BART/MUNI station has been out of commission for months and will be out of commission until April 2009.* The announcements at BART stops cheerily advise people who need to use elevators to get out at another station and then go Civic Center. This advice is a problem because both Powell and 16th St., which are the stops bracketing Civic Center, are quite some distance from Civic Center, which poses some difficulty for movement-impaired people who need to get to Civic Center. Sure, they can get there by cabbing or finding a bus line or finding someone to drive them or some other fix, but the point is, they shouldn’t have to. They shouldn’t be unnecessarily inconvenienced and limited in where they can go and what facilities they can use solely due to their disabilities; the lack of workarounds for the elevator closures are a prime example of not having to think about accessibility if you’re able-bodied.

Elevator closures and station infrastructure as a whole are an example of ableism working at a high level. It’s not something that I or any one individual can fix. However, it’s a result and a reflection of a society full of many people who don’t think about ableism, disability, and making things handicapped-accessible. As with any society-wide prejudice, it’s the responsibility of everyone in the dominant group, even if you or I don’t think that we’re actively the cause of it, because society is built to accommodate the desires and needs of the dominant group, which in this case is able-bodied people. And so ending prejudice and able-bodied privilege requires work both in the individual and group levels.

I take the stairs. It’s not about whether it’s faster (sometimes) or easier (never) for me than the escalator, it’s about thinking and being mindful that although the escalator is convenient for me, it’s not necessary. It might be necessary for someone else, and by joining the clogged-up line, I contribute to that clog and make their day, their participation in society, that much harder when it doesn’t need to be.

Taking the stairs isn’t just about taking the stairs and thinking that’s enough; taking the stairs is about examining the idea behind taking the stairs and applying it to everything else.  It’s about noticing what’s ableist and what is and isn’t accessible and working to change that rather than ignoring it or accepting it as the way things are.

Take the stairs, and think about it.

Sincerely Yours,
19th&F

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* Incidentally, when I went to the BART website to find out when the elevator repair work will be done, I had to go to their 2008 press archives. There’s nothing on the page for the Civic Center stop that says the elevator is out of service; in fact, the “Elevator Locations / Accessible Path” tab at the bottom of the page gives the impression that the station is currently fully accessible for people with movement disabilities. Another example of how ableism works, by assuming that everyone visiting the station page is able-bodied and won’t need information on its accessibility.