The exciting buzz in my home academic department is that we’ve
moved to a shiny new building. We’ve ditched the dungeon for a swanky
open-space layout equipped with standing desks and abundant natural light. Walking
with a couple of my friends, the topic of the building’s accessibility came up.
We took turns pointing out design elements that limit access.
“None of these signs have Braille.”
One of my able-bodied friends commented, “I worry every time
I walk down these stairs because there aren’t any depth cues. And they’re so
slippery.”
“There aren’t automatic doors to many spaces. How could
someone with a mobility impairment get around?”
“With an open layout, sound carries. Ambient noise will make
it impossible for those with hearing loss.”
“Everything looks the same! It’s so easy to get lost!”
As we wandered through the stunning spaces, we found
ourselves nitpicking the many ways the building has its shortcomings. My
immediate affective reaction was a tinge of gratitude and pride at how woke my
friends have become to access needs.
But my friends felt very differently. “This is infuriating!
How do they design a fancy new building and not consider accessibility?” They
were outraged, declaring this unacceptable.
I found myself defending the well-intentioned faculty behind
the building plans. “I understand it’s hard to accommodate every form of
disability. There are a lot of considerations to take into account.”
My friend retaliated, “okay sure, but mobility, vision, and
hearing. Those big three deserve attention.”
Another friend added, “and now is the time, rather than
retrospectively updating the building!”
They are completely right. Their sense of injustice and fury
highlighted how easily those of us with differences in ability become
complacent. Our complacency stems from a lifetime of being unable to access the
same spaces, material, and opportunities. Despite my outspoken nature, I too
have succumbed to learned helplessness as a result of living in an able-bodied
world as a person with a disability.
I found myself reflecting on a building planning meeting
months ago. The facilitator asked about additional concerns that may not be on
the forefront of people’s minds. I instantly thought about inclusion and accessibility.
But, I said nothing. I didn’t want to sound needy or dissatisfied. I didn’t
want to draw attention to myself. I didn’t want to be the voice representing
all people with disabilities. At the time, I silenced my voice as to not
inconvenience the majority. Looking back, I regret my silence. Now, for the
umpteenth time, future generations of students will be plagued with the challenge
of navigating yet another space with limited accessibility.
Scrutinizing the new building, discovering missed
opportunities for greater access, and hearing my dear friends’ reaction
reminded me to reinvigorate and mobilize my anger in an effort to promote
social justice. All new buildings,
especially on a college campus, should be fully accessible to those with differences
in physical ability. My resulting embarrassingly cheesy mantra: when access is denied, anger
is justified.
