In Praise of Those Who Share Their Wheels

Where I grew up, a five-minute drive (an hour’s walk) would take me to school, a post office, the nearest convenience store. Forty-five minutes in a car would get me to music lessons, assuming the weather cooperated. Two hours got me to the nearest city, where decent shopping could be found. Four hours got me all the way to Edmonton, for music competitions and specialized medical care. To get anywhere of consequence, I needed more than my two legs, and my legs were all I had.

Part and parcel of being a kid in a rural area was asking for rides—to the store, to extracurricular activities, to friends’ houses, to school, even, if you managed to miss the bus. We were all used to it, and all our parents were used to the asking. Many childhood memories involve being driven everywhere, through rain and snow and parental exhaustion. It was annoying to be so dependent, but we were all similarly needy, so it never chafed too badly.

Then, all around me, my friends and relatives began turning sixteen and getting their licences. Driving fever hit, and suddenly everyone was blasting forbidden music at top volume, speeding around in second-hand vehicles, thrilled with their new freedom. For the first time, getting where they needed to go was a matter of grabbing their keys and promising they’d be home by eleven.

Everyone but me, that is.

At sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, I was still hitching rides, especially when out of reach of a cab or bus. Visiting my family during the holidays meant convincing some kind soul to ferry me home. Getting to the hospital when I was too weak to rely on a cab driver meant calling everyone I could at inconvenient hours, asking the dreaded question through tears. Socializing with friends who lived on the outskirts of the city meant expecting them to drive half an hour out of their way, much of it through downtown traffic, for the dubious privilege of seeing me. My life, as a twenty-three-year-old urban dweller, is still influenced by my inability to drive. Asking for someone else’s wheels never gets easier, though it is routine and inevitable.

I could go on at some length about the ways being unable to drive makes life harder, more precarious, more difficult to plan, less convenient, less independent. Today, I’d rather focus on the people who answer yes, over and over. I want to honour the relatives, friends, and acquaintances who have driven in all weathers, at all hours, for all reasons. I want to highlight the kind stranger who, discovering me lost and bedraggled during a storm, drove me to my house without any thought of recompense. They have performed this service whether they felt like doing so or not. They have done so without expecting a return on their investment of time and gas money. They have done it, if not always without complaint, then with generosity. The music lessons and emergency medical appointments and shopping trips and singing engagements and social visits have all meant the world to me, and I owe that joy to the people who transported me there.

When someone asks for a ride because they have exhausted all other options, you know they desperately need it. You know it will improve their lives in ways large and small. You know that it is not usually easy for them to ask.

If you’ve been a frequent driver for others, know that you are valued, and needed, and appreciated. We may not always tell you so, but it’s no less true.

It’s easier than ever to travel without a vehicle, but there will probably always be a need for a kind soul with a car.

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Let Me Be Generous

Earlier this week, a particularly trying driver took me to work. Exhausted from too little sleep and running dangerously low on patience, I listened as he prattled on about his “amazing” blind friend, with whom I must be utterly fascinated since all blind people are endlessly interested in each other, right? I explained how my phone’s GPS allowed me to follow along with the route, and indulged him when he asked, at least three times, “Where does it say we are now? … Now? …How about now? … Amazing!”
For this man, in fact, everything about me was amazing, from my university degree (a standard bachelor’s, nothing spectacular), to my full-time job, right down to the fact that I don’t live with my mother. He concluded that, like the afore-mentioned blind friend, I was a winning combination of blessed and, well, amazing. Due to my acute frustration and sleep deprivation, I was unable to appreciate his good nature and kindness, which I would certainly have noticed on an ordinary day.
The last straw came when we pulled up to my destination. As he assisted me with the debit machine, he skipped right past the “Tip Option” screen without asking me if I’d like to tip. Aware that cab drivers often do this instinctively—to the point where it stands out when they don’t try it—I had previously asked that he please stop at the tip screen. Ignoring my explicit instructions, he breezed right past it, and steadfastly refused to cancel and re-enter the transaction. Disregarding direct instructions when I’m letting someone else act as my eyes will inspire pique on the best days, and this was not my best day. By this point, the lack of caffeine and goodwill in my veins signaled that I should let this one slide. So, I let him go on his way, no doubt convinced he’d done me a kindness and blissfully ignorant of my annoyance.
Refusing to allow disabled people to express generosity is dismayingly normalized. Judging by the many conversations I’ve had with other disabled people on the subject, I’m far from the only one to find attempts at everyday generosity being rebuffed, sometimes forcefully, by all kinds of people. Even those asking for money on the street will sometimes push our money away, as though taking funds from disabled people would be a violation of their personal moral codes. Apparently, being homeless is still better than having a disability, and taking money from disadvantaged, less-fortunate souls is practically criminal. Who would accept gifts from such abjectly pitiable people, anyway?
I’m all too familiar with the prevailing narrative on disability in much of the world: anyone with a disability is disadvantaged, pitiful, and even cursed. People break the mould all the time, especially when they are accomplished enough to feature in inspiration-laden news stories, but no matter how successful we become, we are perceived to be worse off than nearly anyone else. The cab driver who laments he does not have enough money to feed his children will resolutely resist my offers of a tip I would otherwise spend on an overpriced latte I certainly don’t need. A person who does not have a place to sleep, food, or even a clean blanket is uncomfortable receiving support from me, even though I have every appearance of someone who is solvent, if not extravagantly wealthy.
There is a tiny nugget of truth in this stereotype, as with so many others. high unemployment rates, coupled with the extortionate costs of assistive devices and technology, mean many disabled people are indeed struggling financially. Some of us have incomes that are supplemented by government benefits, but most of us, myself included, are supporting ourselves without help. At the moment, my full-time job and freelance career are enough to give me a stable home, a nutritious diet, and the ability to afford the occasional luxury without compromising my student loan payments. That’s more than many of my nondisabled peers can say.
As with so many other disability-related issues, the problem runs more deeply than strangers who won’t take my money. I’ve written in the past about friends and family who, whether consciously or otherwise, shy away from allowing me to be generous. Whether they’re telling me not to help with difficult tasks or claiming they don’t want to burden me, even those closest to me are under the impression that I either have nothing to offer them, or at least should not be expected to give what I can. Having been raised in an extraordinarily open-hearted, unstinting community, the inability to participate in all the generosity around me was and continues to be a blow to my pride and spirit. My personality is characterized by a powerful need to give, and give lavishly, so any barrier that keeps me from doing so is emotionally devastating. While I do have people in my life who feel free to lean on me for support and will ask unhesitatingly for assistance whenever it’s needed, many others seem sheepish or even vaguely shocked at the very thought. It’s as though a voice inside them is saying, with not a little surprise, “You mean…*she* might be able to help *me* out? But that’s not how it’s supposed to go!”
I hope that, in time, strangers and friends will realize it’s possible to move beyond the paradigm where I am the helped and never the helper. I envision a society in which a disabled person’s tip or gift is seen as standard generosity and accepted guiltlessly. The world will be a slightly better, kinder place when people are open to the idea of a disabled person as more than a problem waiting to be solved or a good deed waiting to be done. In this, as in all things, I want to be no more and no less than everyone else.
Let me be generous. I have a lot to give.