u.2 measuring the utility of others
I get really pissed off when people think that they know the utility of another based on his or her perceptions of said other. I’m also incredibly tired of the way our society tiptoes around issues that the majority wished didn’t exist and think itself clever by coming up with creative euphemisms. For those who care, when I was seventeen years old, a doctor royally-screwed-over my left leg, and as a result of his malpractice, I cannot walk on ice. It’s not that I’d rather not walk on ice, I can’t walk on ice. I always fall down if the ice exceeds the width and length of my left foot.
Because of this, my amazing doctor gave me plates for my car so that I could park close to things. The State correctly calls them “disability plates” on some forms, but I have to park in “handicapped parking” places. Let’s define:
- hindrance: something that hinders or is a disadvantage to somebody or something
- golfer’s compensation in strokes: a compensation in strokes given to a golfer on the basis of skill in past performances
- balanced contest: a contest, especially a horserace, in which individual competitors are given an advantage or disadvantage in an attempt to give every contestant an equal chance
This has nothing to do with golf; this has nothing to do with giving people equal chance. I’ll admit that it’s a hindrance, but only when I stupidly walk on ice. Now, let’s define “disability.”
- restricted capability to perform particular activities: an inability to perform some or all of the tasks of daily life
- medical condition restricting activities: a medically diagnosed condition that makes it difficult to engage in the activities of daily life
I definitely don’t suffer from the former, but I do suffer from the latter, but not daily. I admit that, once in a while, I do get tired of the fat beyond-morbidly-obese people getting the tags or plates so that they don’t have to walk so far to get into the restaurants. They also have those little carts in which they drive themselves around so that they can fill up the baskets with Twinkies, Ho-Hos, and of course, Diet Coke. My disability is due to a surgeon’s maniacal, hell-bent status on cutting everyone open. Most obese people in America (not all, to be clear) like to eat too much, exercise too little, and expect us not to notice that they sweat up a storm while taking more than one seat on an airplane.
Now, you might think that I have a vendetta against fat people; the opposite is true! The fat people get a pass from society. People just look at them and know why they get the “handicapped” plates. They need the extra time to get to the buffet, after all. When I get out of my car, I get looks of
pity.
Americans in particular have an extreme phobia of disability. I tell people I have “cripple plates” because technically, I’m crippled. Words only have as much power as you give them, and I generally elect to give them zero when coming from most strangers. They don’t know me, and worse, they have prejudiced me. It cuts both ways, though. I have been scolded by old people because they assume that since my hair isn’t gray and I don’t walk all stooped over that I must be using “someone else’s” disability plates. I show these people the scar that angrily runs down the inner-portion of my left calf and then they get all embarrassed and walk away.
The point of this post is that there are millions of people with disabilities, or who are crippled, or if you really can’t say those words, handicapped. Many of these people suffer from varying degrees of disability, and a lot of them are physical. For those who are genuinely human, and they do exist, who take the time to get to know these people, they often find brilliant minds contained in the heads of people with a physical restriction or deformity. Most people will instead offer these people pity, because they believe there is some reason to pity the disabled.
Perhaps my favorite overheard quote has something to do with thanking a deity that one doesn’t suffer from said disability, or hoping said deity offers some kind of comfort or relief to the disabled. Mothers whisper to their children to be “nice” to disabled people. Let me clear this up now: if a disabled person is acting like an ass, call him an ass. I get called an ass frequently by some of my best friends, and I do not say, “you can’t call me that: I’m disabled!”
This does not, however, mean that society does not need to accommodate those with disabilities where it is required by law, is the decent, human thing to do, or both. Society may not refuse to hire someone because of the inconvenience of placing a stability bar down a long hallway, or installing an elevator, or escalator, or whatever is required. But please, spare your pity. Keep it for the people who are so blinded by our myriad of differences that they cannot see the beautiful people within. Spare it for the bigots, the -phobes, the haters, and the willfully-ignorant people out there who will never see what a great world in which we live because they are apathetic and do not wish to make the effort to see. Like the sphere rising from the water in the image at the top of this post, disabled people shed the false limitations with ease.
My disability is mild, and most people don’t even know that I have it. Better would the world be if everyone were as “hidden” as am I in the realm of disability, but don’t pretend that it doesn’t exist, don’t treat the disabled any differently than you must, and above all things, see the utility of these people for what it is, or you will have my pity.
—fin—
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