During the first few minutes of nearly every conversation I have with a new nondisabled acquaintance, the question invariably surfaces: “So, what do you do … I mean, do you work?” Implicit in the question is our ever-present nemesis, The Shadow: What kind of job could he have, being confined to a wheelchair? Not only is he wheelchair-bound, he may even be a shut-in.
Confined, bound, shut-in. These words, like shadows cast across our lives, obscure the truth of who we are. Even a figure as well-known as John Callahan must tolerate them. On a Dutch website describing a recent documentary about Callahan, the translation came across this way: “Callahan, a quadriplegic chained to a wheelchair …”
The assumption that disability has the power to imprison us knows no boundaries. But disability’s power to diminish our lives is nothing compared to these entrenched stereotypes themselves. For myself, I decided to attack the persistent mindset long ago.
“I’m a professional tightrope walker,” I used to tell questioners with a straight face. “And you?”
Back then, my pat answer was absurd and mildly amusing, but today I couldn’t get away with it. You can bet that right now someone somewhere is rigging up a wheelchair that will balance and roll on taut cables.
These days, when I tell someone I’m an editor, I see feigned interest: “Oh, really, exactly what do you do?” When I try to explain, I see they don’t quite get it. They need an easy image. So I change the topic: “I also own and operate a small organic vegetable farm.” Then comes a barrage of pre-packaged questions: “What do you grow? How many acres? Do you actually sell what you grow? How do you, well, get around?”
So I’m back to square one, stalked by The Shadow again: “How can a wheelchair-bound person actually farm?”
Once I establish that I ride an all-terrain vehicle and have tractors outfitted with hand controls and toss in a few hints on how to get rid of harmful bugs without chemical poisons, I take another run at explaining what New Mobility is all about: “The magazine I edit is about active lifestyle wheelchair users. It’s based in Pennsylvania, but I work from my home office in Oregon on my computer. I’m connected with other editorial staff members and freelancers all over the nation — even in Mexico, Canada and other nations.”
Somehow it takes breaking through the farm’s physical barriers before they are able to envision the virtual world of the magazine. When they finally tune in, the stereotype busting kicks in to high gear. “You wouldn’t believe the amazing things that active wheelchair users are doing these days,” I say. “Did you know that some quadriplegics can scuba dive or fly airplanes? Other wheelchair users are practicing law, teaching, running their own businesses, farming, working for nonprofit organizations, doing sit-down comedy. One of our freelancers rode an all-terrain handcycle to the bottom of the Grand Canyon lying prone. We ran a story from a woman wheelchair user who celebrated her 60th birthday by skydiving for the first time.”
Now they are listening. Still, buried in the polite nods and the incredulous stares, I see the image of The Shadow reviving: “But how can they jump out of the plane while they’re chained to their wheelchairs?”
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