Joe stepped out for a second and of course it was then we were invited forward. The woman started to explain the rules of the game and then noticed that we were three. She said, nicely, “How about I get the girls to play with a couple of others who can help them learn the game?” I said, rolling behind the girls, “I’m going to be playing.”
“You’re playing,” she said.
“I am,” I said as Joe walked in to make our fourth.
We all did dreadfully at the sport but we laughed. It’ a game, and we laughed, that’s a win. We’ll do it again.
Joe and I are shopping for supper stuff. When done I notice that the store doesn’t have an accessible aisle. I ask one of the clerk at a checkout that I can’t get through, if they have one. She tells me to go through the 1 to 8 express line and then pointed that the disability symbol was there. I look down into my basket and we have a lot of groceries. Way more than 8. Way. Way. More. She sees the look on my face and she says, “Hold on, I’ll double check with the manager,” I don’t want to take her away from her job even though there is presently no line up at her till. She says, “Please, sir, I want the break,” and heads to get a manager.
We head over to the 1 to 8 line. Joe is hating this, he really doesn’t like for either of us to ever be in the way. I get in the line up, Joe goes to look fora pumpkin pie, and immediately there is a problem. The people wanting to use the line up who come behind me are holding one or two things and glaring at our cart. The first two I say to just go ahead. It’s awful to be using the disability designated line up which is also a line up for speedy exit. I’m sitting in a socially awkward position. The woman I’d asked comes back and says, “Yes, this is the line up for you.”
One of the two people who I’d let ahead of me was a young guy who’d bought some beer. He’d been listening intently, he turned to speak to me and nearly fell over, “Still a bit drunk from last night,” he laughed. Then he said that It really was unfair for me to be without an aisle to go through except one that pisses everyone off. The he looked in my cart and jokes, “At least you’ve got your beer,” and reaches over to fist bump me. I fist bump.
I tell him I don’t drink but thanks for understanding the situation. “Who’s beer is that then?” he asks. I tell him that it’s my husbands. There was a pause, in the whole line up,” then he said, “You are married to a man?”
“I am,” I said as Joe walked back to the cart pieless.
I realize that I get a lot of shocked, “YOU ARE?” questions as a disabled person.
They usually arise when I mention that I’m going to do something rather ordinary.
You are going to work?
You are all by yourself?
You are going to the gym?
You are taking care of a couple of kids?
You are traveling, like on a plane?
The only answer is: I am.
Let’s break this down.
YOU: in this context it means, in my ear anyway: the person I see in front of me who I have already judged as to be so different that any form of normalcy or any form of routine experiences of living that I can’t imagine as being really part of the human condition in any real, concrete way.
ARE: in this context it means, in my mind anyway: existing and participating.
In combination the words are asking, “Do you actually live and participate and belong? Do you actually have a human kind of life where games are played and relationships are had? Do you suggest to me that you have a desire to be off the sidelines and in the game?”
(Big fat man in wheelchair) I am (is going to play pickle ball because it looks fun and we four can play at playing and we’re going to do this because I want to and therefore I will)
It may only be pickle ball, but it’s a big I AM.