23 Apr Growing Pains 5: “Different” Folks

By Beth Livingston

“You people are amazing!”

How often do you hear that and wonder whether you belong to some unnamed tribe?

When I returned to Bozeman after rehab, I was officially “different.” I was in a wheelchair. I stood out. I suppose some communities have larger populations of people with disabilities than in Bozeman, Montana, but it sure felt like I was the only cripple for miles around.

Yes, I said “cripple,” and in my geographic locale, that is rancher-speak for “you people” thus, acceptable terminology. When a calf is injured on the back 40, it is not “disabled.” When a rancher hobbles around after riding the range for the last six decades on his horse, he is not, “challenged.” He’s crippled up. To everyone who doesn’t know you personally, and who doesn’t work on a ranch, we are considered “you people.”

I believe that people are generally afraid of sharing true human emotions, and appearing vulnerable. After a while I surmised that when someone, seemingly unprovoked, blurted out in my direction with a smile on his or her face, “You people are such an inspiration,” it was meant to be genuine. Giving total strangers accolades is a way of replacing scarier real statements or thoughts such as, “That looks frustrating. Can I help?” Or an internal dialog, needing no outward acknowledgement, such as, “Boy, I wonder how I’d handle having to live like that?”

The truth is, I am just living my life. Yet I have often been given hero status for merely breathing in and out. How would anyone really know just by seeing me put my wheelchair in my car myself, that I am truly “amazing,” “brave,” or “strong?” Sometimes, I think I am one of the laziest people I know. I love to sleep! I make my kids get their breakfast themselves. Occasionally, I mouth off when someone illegally parks in the handicapped parking and sometimes I am unpleasant. I rarely am on time. I procrastinate. I am terminally cynical, and I don’t care . . . Heroic? Humbug!

Returning home, I was recognizable, and memorable, even if, on occasion, mistaken for the only other girl in town that happened to be in a wheelchair. The good side of being recognized, and generalized, is that you have your own private standing army ready and willing to help when you need it. I am fortunate to be able to do most things for myself, but the 40 pound sack of dog food? Yes, I would love that in the back of the car, thank you. A binge shop at Costco where everything comes in a “jillion-pack?” No way am I asserting my independence carrying this; help would be great! Having the guy check my oil at the gas station is a lifesaver.

I suppose, to be fair, we all stereotype others more than we should––whether abled or disabled. You do, and I do. At first it really hurt to know I was being stereotyped because of my disability. I hated the thought that I had lost my individuality because of my apparent outward physical challenges. Had I merely become “a wheelchair person” in the eyes of others? I always loved the illustrator Kliban. I still embrace his best known phrase “Dare to be different.” I never want to lose what makes me an individual. I keep polishing those characteristics because they are distinctly mine, regardless of how I get around. I am aware of the harm caused by making sweeping generalizations about people. I try to give people cause to question their stereotyping of people with disabilities every chance I get. It’s my way of saying, “Yes, I can!”

Beth Livingston is the mother of two children. She lives in Bozeman, Montana.