Wait!

“What’s it like, being disabled? As in, day to day?”

For a long time, this question stymied me. I had no frame of reference, no way to start with “normal” and paint a picture of what “abnormal” might look like. I could describe specific obstacles, particular incidents, but I had no sweeping, instantly relatable analogy–no lens to capture what this life is like when it’s the only reality I’ve ever known.

Many have taken a crack at this tough little nut, and come up with innovative ideas along the way. Being disabled, some say, is like playing a video game on the highest difficulty setting. Others say it’s like navigating an obstacle course while everyone else uses a sidewalk. Some of us resort to hiking metaphors. Your path is wide and smooth; mine is a rocky, treacherous trailblaze of a life, which manages to be as hard as people assume, and at the same time, much easier.

It was not until I stood on a slushy street corner, waiting for an unusually long light to change, that it hit me. I had found my personal metaphor, and it was one that covered an astonishing amount of ground in the simplest way.

Being disabled, I realized, is a lot of standing on the corner, waiting for the world to decide that it’s safe for you to cross. My life as a disabled person involves a lot of standing still, watching cars fly freely by, wondering when the light will turn green long enough for me to make some headway. Since the system is more complicated than I can wrap my head around, and there’s no handy countdown, I have no clear idea when that might happen. So I wait, getting increasingly cold and impatient, for a path forward. Some days, it feels as though the world is filled with cars, and I am the only pedestrian in sight. They are roaring along while I walk and wait, walk and wait.

I wait for accommodations to be put in place. I wait for my paratransit ride to show up. I wait for technology that promises to save me. I wait for people to decide I’ve proven myself worthy. I wait for attitudes to change, for fears to be calmed, for unreasonable limits to be stretched. I wait for accessible products in a world where nothing is designed for me—nothing I can afford, anyway. I wait, sometimes quietly, more often restlessly, for the world to make room for me.

Then, when the waiting becomes too much for me, I try to jaywalk. I barge right into the unsafe spaces, the heavy traffic, the uncharted territory. I might get a warning or a slap on the wrist or even an angry honk from someone’s horn; occasionally, I retreat to my corner, chastened. I am foolish and fragile. I must be protected from myself, and from shadowy figures who would exploit me. I must be patient. I must be understanding. I must realize that change doesn’t happen overnight. I must not ask how long this light will stay resolutely red. I must not point out that everyone else seems to be cruising while I am plodding.

All in good time. Soon enough. Someday, if you go the extra mile.

Walk and wait.

Every now and again, that light turns green and I make real progress. Barriers are overcome, and my journey picks up speed. Life comes so easily that I have time to forget, if only for a few moments, that I was ever a lowly pedestrian in a dangerous network of drivers. The reprieve might even be long enough for me to point at other unlucky foot travelers, and to wonder loudly what they’ve done–or left undone—to leave themselves stranded at the corner.

Inevitably, that light turns red again, and I remember what it is to stand still, thwarted by incompatible software or a narrow-minded employer or a skills gap. There’s always something, and that something brings me back to the corner, where others can gawk at my inactivity and imagine how I brought it on myself. And it’s back to the waiting game.

With too much prodding, the metaphor falls apart, as so many of them do. Living as a disabled person is typically far less passive and futile than this framework would suggest. There is worthwhile work I can do while I stand on that corner. I am not a helpless victim of a static system, and I can certainly jaywalk if I wish, with the result likely to be rather tamer than death. Disapproval and societal exclusion aren’t quite as dramatic as an altercation with a speeding car, and I’m seeing genuine, lasting steps forward all around me. I am more welcome, more respected than I have ever been, and it’s not all down to my own advocacy.

Nevertheless, I use this comparison because it explains why the hurry-up-and-wait nature of living with a disability is so interminably frustrating. While my every success feels hard-won and snail-pace slow, my nondisabled peers seem to sail through most challenges, hitting so many green lights they don’t even notice I’ve fallen behind. For them, a red light is an inconvenience, not a brick wall, and no one is telling them to take those red lights gracefully. Meanwhile, I’m reminded to be grateful I’m allowed to cross at all. Commonly enough, the criticism comes from fellow disabled people, who are quick to condemn and still quicker to remind me that it could be worse.

I work toward a world in which I’m not always suspended in mid-stride, waiting for something to change or improve or move out of my way. I hope the next generations will know less and less of what it is to fall behind not because they are moving too slowly, but because the rest of the world hasn’t caught up. As I anticipate the birth of my first niece/nephew, I wish with all my heart that should they face barriers similar to mine, they will not need to be so patient and gracious and grateful. And I hope that, when the time comes to jaywalk, to break the rules and challenge the status quo, they will have the courage to do it, and the good fortune to emerge triumphant.

If you ask me, that future is definitely worth waiting for–but sooner rather than later, please.

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Guest Post: When Your Advocacy Looks More Like Erasure

It’s challenging to communicate the seriousness of the unfair treatment service dog handlers encounter on a regular basis. I’m not a handler, but all I have to do is spend half an hour with one of my handler friends to get a sense of how frustrating it really is to exist in the world when you have a service dog. Watching service dog users interact with the disrespectful public sets my teeth on edge, and I have no idea how they put up with it as gracefully as they do.

It’s tempting, then, for handlers and for me, to use racial discrimination as a direct comparison. I’ve made such comparisons on this very blog, without examining the deeper implications of that choice. Today, a guest poster, who has chosen to remain nameless, challenges me, as well as her fellow service dog handlers, to take a closer look at these comparisons. Compelling as they are, she invites us to consider a more inclusive path forward. I, for one, will be doing a lot of rethinking.


From time to time, controversy rears its ugly head in my network of service dog handlers. A viral news story about a person of colour being mistreated sweeps social media, and inevitably, service dog handlers draw direct comparisons to their own lives. They equate discrimination they have faced due to the presence of their dogs to that faced by people of colour and other marginalized groups. It’s usually sparked by genuine frustration as handlers try to help the public understand why access refusals are problematic, but the resulting conversations usually lack nuance and meaningful intersectionality. Traditionally, I have remained silent. I have sat on the sidelines, scrolling through the comments, feeling increasingly uncomfortable. I’ve been unwilling to speak out, not wanting to risk backlash from those propagating this comparison. After the most recent surge of posts like this, I find I no longer want to be silent.

Before I go any further, I will admit I face discrimination because of my gender, my disability, and, yes, because of my service dog. However, I am white, and I have the privilege of never experiencing discrimination or oppression due to my race. Thus, I will be describing my experiences as a white handler, and I am calling out my peers, because without exception, the handlers I’ve seen conflating their experiences with those of people of colour are white.

As I said above, I am not a stranger to discrimination due to my dog. I have been refused access to stores and restaurants, been turned away from taxis, and even been denied employment opportunities. Is this humiliating? Yes. Does this harm me? Yes. Is this highly illegal, and should violators of the laws be punished? Yes. Does this mean my accessibility issues are on the same level as discrimination that’s racially-motivated?

No.

On the surface, you can definitely identify similarities. It’s easy to compare service dog discrimination with racial prejudice, especially if you want a familiar framework to help nondisabled people understand it. Denial of access to services and employment is par for the course for people of colour, LGBTQ folks, people with disabilities, etc. When you dig further down, however, you quickly encounter the pivotal difference which, at least in my mind, reveals a false equivalency. That essential difference is freedom of choice.

Using a service dog is a conscious choice one makes with the full awareness that discrimination probably will occur at some point. The service dog programs I’ve attended had info sessions about what to do if you are denied access to a public place or public transit. I was warned that I would be placed in situations where I would have to argue for my rights. I still went ahead with the decision to get multiple service dogs over the years, because I weighed the pros and cons, and still found that a dog was the right choice for me, even if I would occasionally argue with members of the public who are unaware of relevant laws. That is an informed decision I made, and continue to make, regardless of how I’m treated. In the case of PoC, the barriers they deal with are not based on choice, but on fundamental characteristics they did not ask for and cannot change. Make no mistake: I’m not in any way minimizing the importance of service dogs. Service dogs improve the lives of many, and are typically considered medical equipment. I would never choose to be without mine for any length of time, and no one should ask it of me. But that’s a far cry from having a skin colour that automatically sets me up for mistreatment.

Now, I’m not at all saying discrimination against service dog handlers should be ignored just because it is based on a choice we made, but there exists a difference between the two situations that cannot be overlooked. Discrimination based on race and discrimination based on the presence of a service dog are both reprehensible, but they should not be conflated. When a business owner denies me access because of my guide dog, it often involves fear of the dog, concern that my dog may make a mess and/or violate health codes, concern for allergies, and/or a lack of awareness of the laws that grant my service dog access to any public place. When PoC are denied access, it is due to a fundamental mistrust, disgust, hatred, and/or fear of them as people. I may be asked to leave because a business owner is afraid that my dog will shed on their merchandise, while  a PoC may be followed around the store by staff because they are afraid they will steal something. Put another way, I am mistreated because I am accompanied by an animal; PoC are mistreated because some people view them as animals.

Another telling difference is the response by authorities to the discriminatory act. If a business owner threatens to call the police because of my dog, I generally invite them to go ahead. Most likely, the police will be on my side. They will inform the business owner that I am legally permitted to have my dog with me, and if the business owner doesn’t comply, they risk a fine. In fact, I have my city’s police department’s phone number in my contacts, and when I meet a belligerent business owner, I actually offer to call the police for them. While there have been a couple of occasions where the police have also been unaware of the laws they have sworn to uphold and have told me that I must leave with my dog, that is the worst thing that can happen to me. I leave the business and promise myself that I will never patronize it again. Maybe, if I have the mental fortitude, I send a letter to the head office of the company, or to the media, to lodge a complaint, which may net me an official apology if I’m lucky.

This is not the story for many PoC. I am sure most of you have seen news stories regarding business owners calling the police on PoC who were quietly minding their own business in public. In many of these cases, a huge police presence arrives, the PoC is arrested, and physical harm can sometimes follow. Many PoC have spoken out saying that they fear and distrust the police, with good reason. As a white person, I can freely assume the police are my allies. PoC don’t have that vital privilege.

Those who conflate these two types of discrimination frequently justify it by claiming it’s the only way to call public and media attention to the plight of service dog handlers. I have seen several social media posts in which a white service dog user points to a news story where a PoC was ejected from a store or denied access to an Airbnb, urging their followers to replace the PoC in the story with a service dog handler. While it is true that discrimination against guide dog users rarely makes the news, it is also true that the overwhelming majority of discriminatory acts against PoC fails to reach the media, too. I do believe that society would benefit from a more robust media that fairly covers issues relevant to PoC and people with disabilities, but I do not believe that erasing the experiences of the PoC for the benefit of service dog users is the right way to achieve that aim. Both issues need to be in the spotlight, and even though people with disabilities often feel justifiably ignored, I don’t believe white handlers should be pushing other marginalized people aside to draw attention to our own issues.

What about empathy, you ask? What about common ground? Empathizing is important, and we are absolutely free to use our experiences as service dog handlers to show empathy for other marginalized groups. I have personally felt the humiliation of being ejected from a public place, and I know firsthand that it feels terrible. That being said, I wouldn’t use my ability to empathize as a method of erasure, especially when the discrimination caused by my dog has a much different origin, and far less harmful results. I can see the ways in which my experiences relate to what a PoC goes through, but I’d never state the two are interchangeable.

Fellow white handlers, we can and should do better. We should call out discrimination when we see it because we know it is wrong, and we know that it hurts. We should stand together and demand equal rights for everyone, not just the groups we are a part of. And we should work against the instinct to erase or distract from the voices of other groups to amplify our own. There is plenty of room out there for all our grievances without denying anyone else the attention theirs deserve.

“A” is for Advocacy

I’m not a parent, but the internet has exposed me to the struggles, joys, and everyday dilemmas of parenting in this ever-connected, ever-judgmental world. I read discussions about how to teach kids to interact more gracefully on the playground; how to remove bread from a hot toaster; how to play traditionally-inaccessible board games; how to shave sensitive areas of the developing body. Each time I see one of these, my heart soars. My parents had to raise me with sporadic, impersonal support, while parents who knew nothing of disability looked on with varying degrees of disapproval. They made it work, but there are many gaps in my basic skillset that might have been filled by an online community of disabled people who were willing to share their wisdom. If Disability Wisdom or VI Talk had been around when I was growing up, I might not be so wary of toasters.

The one skill that seems underrated, particularly in rural settings, is advocacy. Several of my teachers, visual consultants, and special education coordinators were adamant that I master an array of miscellaneous skills, like cutting paper with scissors, drawing the human form (with what little vision I had), and writing a legible signature. My childhood involved hours spent cutting a piece of blank paper into a series of meaningless rectangles that were destined for the recycle bin. I practiced my signature each day in a special book, trying vainly to copy the raised signature on the front cover, and wondering why sighted people were allowed to have illegible scrawls while I had to achieve perfection. (These days, my signature is defiantly unreadable.) I connected dots on graph paper. I completed strange worksheets with tactile circles, using a different colour for each one. These exercises ensured that I’d always be comfortable with scissors, and have a rudimentary idea of how to draw a human face, but they didn’t teach me how to stand up for myself, or ask for accommodations, or interpret my rights as a disabled person. Every now and then, someone would mention that I must always be my own advocate, but the concept was never expanded upon, and far more attention was paid to how I held a pencil—a pencil I’d seldom use, since I couldn’t handwrite—than how well I understood what being a disabled adult might be like.

Steeped as I was in traditional Catholic culture, I was an obedient student rather than a respectful one. Fear and anxiety were far more influential than respect or interest, and while I enjoyed school and hungered for knowledge, my primary and secondary education rarely encouraged me to grow into anything more than an unquestioning rule-follower. I’d occasionally be chastised for seeming too passive, or criticized for failing to take initiative, but years of conditioning kept me from voicing disagreement or making my own decisions in almost all cases. After all, what did I know that grownups did not? Who was I to request accommodations that made sense to me when someone who earned a lot of money and used plenty of high-level language felt differently? How could I ever provide insight about my own learning style when someone with decades of experience knew best? I carried on in this way for far too long, wanting to take the wheel but convinced I’d cause a wreck. Systematic rejection of my ideas and insights bolstered the illusion. By the time I left grade school to start my postsecondary adventure, I had very little idea that my rights would constantly be challenged, or that I had disability-specific rights at all.

In university, I soon figured out that even though I had no foundation to build on, I’d have to learn how to be my own advocate, and learn it quickly. My life and education were in my own hands, and those hands were more capable than many had let me believe. With ample coaching and encouragement from newly-discovered disabled friends, I engaged in the controversial art of speaking up. I practised saying “no,” or “yes, but not that way,” or “please Don’t grab me,” or “I want to try this instead.” When roadblocks were put in my path, I didn’t docilely accept them as immovable parts of my reality. Sometimes, I was even a little bit firm. I worked to let go of “I’m sorry, that’s probably silly” and “What do I know?” In place of those familiar crutches, I paid attention to what worked for me, and asked for it. When charm failed, which wasn’t often, I used blunt logic, and usually won. It was a novel and exhilarating way to live, though it came at a cost. Since acquiring advocacy skills, my life has never been as calm and peaceful as it once was. Taking control of your own life is exhausting business.

Living in a more tolerant and accessible world doesn’t mean everyone can sit back, relax, and forget how to take ownership of their lives. If anything, widespread complacency about our supposedly-civilized society means parents need to be even more diligent about instilling advocacy skills in all children, not just disabled ones, early and often. I’m not suggesting that children should be taught to despise authority or behave disruptively for the sake of it, but they should be as prepared as possible for the ignorance, bigotry, and exclusion they will inevitably face. Adults are not always right, and it’s neither healthy nor safe to teach kids otherwise.

Whether you’re a parent of a disabled child or a newly-disabled adult, don’t ignore the limitations of a life without solid advocacy—a life far more limiting than a disability could ever be. Be mindful that third-party advocacy will never match the advocacy you can do for yourself. Value the insight and experiences of experts, but be open to customized solutions. Seek advice from the disability community, but remember that conventional wisdom is not without merit. Recognize that not every problem is a disability problem; some of them are just ordinary problems that can be solved in ordinary ways. Emphasize the powers of courtesy and respect, but never underestimate well-harnessed anger. Acknowledge social hierarchy, but be aware that hierarchy is commonly abused.

Parents may resist teaching advocacy skills, and I have the greatest sympathy with them. Advocacy is frightening, and frequently disappointing. It is delicate, thankless, much-maligned work, especially when it’s done by young people. It will not always produce the hoped-for results, and it’s rarely much fun. Understand that advocacy is tough to cultivate, and likely to inspire nasty pushback from people your child loves and trusts. Be ready to deal with the possibility that your child’s advocacy will sometimes be directed at you, and that you won’t like how it feels. Know that you will need to respect their advocacy, even if it hurts or upsets you. Accept that you are not exempt. Shudder at these harsh truths, and teach it anyway.

Advocacy skills have guaranteed that my education was useful and comprehensive. They prevented me from being barred from services I required. They help me be productive and successful. Advocacy is the cornerstone of every fruitful thing I have ever done for my schooling, my career, and my relationships. It keeps me on my feet when the wind is doing its best to knock me over, even and especially when that wind is coming from an unexpected direction.

Before you worry too much about signatures and scissors and the exact method of removing bread from a toaster, remember that A is for advocacy. Start there, and everything else should follow.

Staying Sane In A Culture Of Outrage

Unless you’ve been living off the grid for the past year or so (and if you have, congratulations, you’re not really missing much), you’ve been inundated with rage-fuel from just about every imaginable quarter, at least on the internet. The tumultuous American election, the unrest in Europe, the conflicts in the Middle East—these have all snowballed to create feelings of despair and near-constant outrage. Sustaining these feelings for any length of time is mentally taxing, and I’ve seen this struggle in the disability community and, of course, in myself.
Shouldering my personal mental health issues has spurred me to devise strategies for staying sane in these troubled times. While everyone on and offline will have, I hope, found their own effective coping mechanisms, I thought it might be prudent to share some of my own. My goal is to help others, including those without disabilities, safeguard their sanity while continuing to be present online. It’s all very well to fight on the front lines, but we must remember to look after our well-being, no matter how guilty it makes us feel to do so. We’re no good to anyone or anything unless we care for ourselves, first and foremost.

Learn to Sit Down

If you’ve spoken about any issue on the internet, you’ve probably been told to “sit the f**k down” a time or two. It can be discouraging when people demand your silence, particularly if they claim to speak for and represent you, but they have a point.
One of the first things I had to accept when I worried for my mental health was that sometimes, I had to put down my torch and acknowledge that not every battle is mine to fight. I cannot possibly join every crusade, champion every cause, or address every issue, in the disability community and elsewhere. I’ve found that sticking to the conflicts that affect me most directly is the best way to ensure that my voice is heard and my views are based on accurate information and experience. There is no point getting involved in a dispute I know nothing about, and once I recognized this, my life got a whole lot calmer.
In addition to preserving my sanity, this tactic meant I didn’t inadvertently misrepresent or harm anyone else, whose opinions are much more valid than my own. What right have I to speak on behalf of those with autism? Wheelchair users? Those who are deaf and hard of hearing? None whatsoever, I’d say. I’m free to discuss their general rights as disabled human beings, but my personal experience is totally irrelevant in most cases. I’d be annoyed if someone with little or no experience with visual impairment presumed to override my needs, and I imagine others in the community feel the same way.
So, learn to sit down once in a while. It’s worth it, I promise.

Know your limits

The next thing I learned was that my capacity for absorbing rage-fuel is finite. You may have discovered the same. While some of us grow numb to it all, developing armour and forging ahead, others of us need mental health breaks. Stepping away from social media can be therapeutic in the extreme. More than once over the past year, I’ve had to unplug temporarily, just so I could function normally and live my offline life.
Here are some signs to watch for if you think you might need some time away:
• Your heart races at the very thought of reading yet another inflammatory article or Facebook post, but you can’t seem to stop clicking on them.
• You find yourself jumping into strangers’ conversations at the smallest offence, determined to set them straight.
• You pick fights with friends who disagree with you, despite the fact that it achieves little and only ends in resentment or awkwardness.
• You find yourself under constant stress, especially when surfing the web.
• You’re losing sleep over the opinions of strangers, even when those strangers are ill-informed and unworthy of your time or energy.
• You’re unable to concentrate on your job, your relationships, and other infinitely more important parts of your life.
If you’re encountering any of these issues, back away, at least for a few days. Your energy is precious, and if you’re anything like me, you can’t afford to waste spoons on fruitless anger. I can just about guarantee you’ll return to the fray feeling more tranquil, and the energy you do expend on the things you care about will yield better results. Try it.

Be Open to Changing Your Mind

Personal growth is underrated in this polarized landscape. If you’re on the left, you’re expected to stay there under all circumstances. If you’re on the right, the same is expected of you. No matter where you fall on the spectrum, people demand that you pick a side and remain there. Nuance is so often abandoned in favour of toeing the party line, and this can be enormously stressful.
Remember that your principles, while they’re admirable, are allowed to evolve over time. If you receive new information that proves you’re wrong about something, be at peace with changing your perspective and your position. You may consider some beliefs to be inviolate, I know I do, but flexibility is its own reward. Keeping your mind open—but not too open, you don’t want to be swayed by every breeze—is vital to your growth and development. My own views have shifted over the years, which is reflected in my blog, but I’m not ashamed of it. All it means is that I’m capable of adapting to what life teaches me.
If communities as a whole, and individuals in particular, are totally closed to change, they won’t survive for long.
Don’t let anyone accuse you of betrayal or flip-flopping. Adjusting your beliefs and values according to new information you gather is normal and healthy. Don’t let anyone convince you otherwise.

You Owe Nothing to Anyone

Finally, keep this close to your heart: you do not owe anyone anything. You are not duty-bound to educate. No one should try to force you to act on any given cause. Respecting your limits and beliefs should be your highest priority. It’s worthwhile to advocate, and I prefer that people choose the path to education if they insist that nondisabled people behave properly around them, but you should never feel as though you have to treat every situation as a teachable moment. If you try, you’ll find yourself exhausted and frustrated. You might even snap one day and bite some innocent person’s head off. This has happened to me, and I recognized it as a signal that I could not be a perfect educator at all times. On days when I just don’t have it in me, I need to go about my business and forget about perceived duties to my community.
Furthermore, you don’t owe anyone a debate or an explanation. If someone seeks an argument with you, by all means engage them, but end the conversation once you’ve had enough. There are many resources out there. Point them toward those and withdraw before you become unduly upset. Let no one tell you what you owe them.


I hope these tips will help you. If you can, please pass them along to anyone you know who might be staggering under the weight of all they are reading and sharing. Tempting as it may be to steep ourselves in this culture of outrage, we must learn to practice self-care and cultivate self-awareness. Only then can we find balance.
Good luck in all your noble endeavours. Do me one favour though, and rest now and again.

Fearing The Pigeon-Hole: Or, The Trials Of Being A Disabled Writer

During a mock interview, the interviewer skimmed through some writing samples, noticing how many of them were directly related to disability. He then asked, without a trace of irony, whether I was “all about accessibility?” I didn’t have a coherent answer for him.
After mentioning blindness in a piece of creative writing, my classmates pressed for details, appearing to overlook the fact that the story wasn’t about being blind at all. I was writing about love, familial obligation, and social isolation, but all people seemed interested in, at least at the time, was the blindness angle.
Writing a blog about disability advocacy is hard, honest work, but many people believe it is the obvious choice for a blind writer. It is generally assumed that disabled people only ever write books, articles, and blogs about their disabilities, and all too often, this is proven true. Most of the blind writers I know focus, if not exclusively, then predominantly on their disability and how it colours the world around them. They may engage in all types of social advocacy, but disability tends to be at the forefront. They may have a varied work history, but much of it might involve working for advocacy organizations. We are, in short, pigeon-holed.
As I embarked on my modest little writing career, I began to fear the pigeon-hole. I wrote stories and articles that were completely devoid of disability-related themes, just so I could avoid being put into a neat little box. I explored every other facet of myself—Meagan as woman, Meagan as student, Meagan as writer and so on—but tried to write around blindness so I would seem more nuanced and less typical. I fought hard when classmates and instructors would press for more information on my disability, especially when I deemed it to be peripheral to the writing in question. I resisted when people suggested that my writing would only be unique if I included my disability, as though the rest of me was incurably boring without it. I became frustrated when I was told to “write like you do for your blog,” thinking this meant I was only of interest when writing about my broken eyes.
What I failed to understand, though, was that my disability-related writing was appealing simply because it was direct, confident, and convincing. I wrote with an authority I struggle to maintain when writing about other subjects less well-known to me. My straightforward and relatable approach on the blog was what made others want to see more of that style, not the blindness itself. People didn’t want more of my blindness, per se; they wanted more of me, period.
Nervous that I would inadvertently paint myself into a corner I would never emerge from again, I considered dropping my blog altogether, to weaken the associations between my writing and my blindness. Would having a blindness blog peg me as a one-trick pony right off the hop?
I asked myself what I’d write about instead. Contrary to the beliefs of many, I have wide-ranging interests, and could probably write several blogs if I had the time and energy. My bibliophile mind would have no difficulty conjuring endless posts about my reading life. Certainly my adventures with mental illness would provide ample fodder for a blog all on their own. I could easily write about music, popular culture, technology, and even philosophy, without breaking too much of a sweat. If I thought enough of my writing to believe people would actually enjoy them, I could cover a lot more ground.
It took some time, but I’ve come to realize that writing “Where’s your dog” does not have to pen me in as a writer unless I let it. Focusing on disability in one medium does not restrict me in others. Writers are, in theory, limited only by their time, energy, and ingenuity. I can submit to as many publications as I’d like. I can establish as many blogs as I please (though I think one is enough, for now anyway). I can explore the multi-faceted world I inhabit just as fully whether I have a blindness-related blog or not. And, if I fear that employers and the casual reader will dismiss me as that one-trick pony, why, all I can do is prove them wrong.
Further, if I do choose to write about my disability in relation to the wider world, that’s not shameful or lazy. If the everyday woman can write about being female, and the everyday lover can write about being in love, then surely I, the everyday blind person, can write about being blind without sacrificing self-respect. Surely disability, like any other minority trait, is enough to give me an interesting perspective on the world? After all, I greatly enjoy the perspectives of fellow disabled people. So, why shouldn’t my own writing about my blindness be truly meaningful?
Society is so often putting us in boxes, telling us our place, and shaping our narratives. In this case, though, the only one stuffing me into the pigeon-hole was me.

“Why Are You So Angry?”

Almost every person who so much as encourages advocacy will face this question at some point, and while I don’t get it often (my writing style isn’t what you’d call vitriolic), I have been asked this multiple times. “Sure, you deal with a lot,” they say, “but do you really need to be so pissed off about it? Do you really need to write a whole blog whose purpose is to complain, and point out all that’s wrong with the world?” My answer to this is always the same: “Huh?”

I’m not an angry person. I like my life, even when it’s difficult, and I have great faith in the idea that human beings are capable of kindness and enlightenment. I spend most of my time just being Meagan, and the rest is usually spent trying to educate, not lay blame or spew hatred at the world at large. Yes, I do go on about what’s wrong with society. Yes, I do sometimes vent my frustration on a public forum. Yes, I get angry sometimes.

Do I spend my life in a state of perpetual fury? Do I direct hostility toward the sighted population? Do I focus more on being a malcontent than on trying to make the world that little bit better? Nope. I’d much rather bring positivity into this world than anything else, even as I’m being direct and unyielding concerning my rights as a human being.

 

I must confess that I’m shocked at the public’s expectation that we should be virtuous angels, patiently awaiting the day when the world will give a damn about the injustice that is built into society’s very structure. I am amazed that people are surprised when we object to systemic discrimination and harmful stereotyping. I mean, would they shoulder these things with unwavering grace? I don’t think so. That said, do we have the right to reject all efforts to reach out to us? I think not.

 

I did not create my blog with the intention of using it as a source of fatalistic ranting. I set out to maintain a safe space where ideas could be shared, questions could be answered, and advice could be dispensed. I’ve always kept one goal in mind: how can I foster empathy and understanding? How can I describe what my life is like, and how can I use that insight to help others?

I’d like to believe that regular readers realize I’m prone to seeing the good in the world. I hope they have noticed my tendency to right wrongs and offer solutions rather than condemn specific individuals and the mistakes they make. I hope, most of all, that I make my readers feel inspired, not hopeless, and determined, not angry. I resent those disabled people whose sole purpose appears to be making “normal” people miserable. I don’t expect them to maintain a sweet disposition when they’ve been fielding the same ignorant questions and withstanding the same discrimination for years on end. It’s acceptable to indulge anger; it can be a powerful tool if it’s used correctly.

That, of course, is the key: one must use anger judiciously. There’s enough rage-fuel online without worsening the problem. It wastes time and energy we could be devoting to initiatives that improve our lives. Accessibility and inclusiveness benefit us all, whether we’re disabled or not. We can all share in the fruits of disabled people’s labour. We can all read and write blogs like this one. If we get a bit angry sometimes? Well, I’d say that’s human, wouldn’t you?

So You Like To Pet Service Dogs…

As I watch you encourage your child to engage with a working dog, even after the handler has asked you to stop, I cannot help but feel angry: angry that you, a stranger, feel that your child’s right to interact with a cute puppy dog is more immediately important than the handler’s wishes. I am angry that you would argue with a firm denial, even when it is given with respect and gentleness. I am angry that you are showing blatant disrespect for the safety and comfort of the dog’s handler. I am angry that you are teaching your child to disregard the proper treatment of service dogs. I am angry that you, as the parent, are refusing to live by example. I am angry that you are ensuring that service dog handlers everywhere will have to keep saying “please don’t pet the dog” indefinitely.

I understand: the dog is beautiful, and friendly, and a pure delight to touch. Your child adores dogs—probably, the dog adores children, too, and would welcome a little affection. You are a dog lover, and hate to deprive yourself or your child of the opportunity to indulge in a bit of doggie-interaction. You don’t want to disappoint your child. I’m a dog lover, too. I understand. But …

I’m here to tell you that it doesn’t matter, because you may choose an unsafe time to distract a working dog, thus inconveniencing or even endangering the handler. It doesn’t matter, because the dog has a million distractions to contend with already—dropped apple cores, other dogs, and tantalizing bits of popcorn—without sudden attention from a strange human. It doesn’t matter, because you should never touch someone else’s property without permission—and yes, the dog does count as property in this instance. It doesn’t matter, because you were told no. That, on its own, ought to be good enough.

Many of my friends are dog handlers, so I can guarantee that they don’t enjoy telling an eager child that they can’t touch the puppy. They don’t enjoy saying “no” three times a day. They don’t enjoy denying you the company of their dogs. They just want to get where they’re going without fuss, and the last thing they feel like doing is disciplining a complete stranger. They are not part of a conspiracy to ruin your fun. So …

Why do you do it? Why do you insist, even when you know better, upon continuing to violate another person’s space? Why do you continue to place handlers in awkward positions where they must discipline your child because you refuse to do so? Why do you care more about touching that sleek coat than you do about whether the handler makes it across the street safely? Why do you care more about your right to go to pieces over the cute doggie than another human’s right to autonomy? The dog is an extension of them, and when you touch the dog, you’re effectively intruding on their personal space as well.

If I placed a wandering hand into your stroller to give your child’s head a stroke, wouldn’t you be a bit nervous? If I reached over and grabbed your arm to say hello, wouldn’t you be annoyed? If I insisted on distracting you while you were trying to do an important job requiring vast concentration, wouldn’t you wonder where my manners were? So I will ask it of you: where are your manners?

Yes, we’re talking about a dog here, but that doesn’t exempt you from the rules of basic human courtesy. Maybe the dog would love to be stroked just now. Maybe the dog has had a long day and would love to flop down and have its belly rubbed. Ultimately, though, the dog has a role, whether that’s guiding a blind person, or alerting the handler of an approaching seizure, or assisting a police officer. That role precludes them from being an ordinary dog while they’re out and about. When that harness is on, the dog is not a cute little puppy you run up to—it is another living being, hard at work and deserving of your respect. Even more importantly, the dog is attached to someone who is depending on them, and that person is also deserving of your respect.

To those who pet the service dogs: no excuse is good enough. Please, for the sake of safety and common decency, stop.