We're Not Really All That Different
graphic by thanh thai
When I rolled backward down the three-foot, foldable ramp that projects from the rear of my white Dodge caravan, I felt a familiar pressure. A pressure I'd been experiencing for my two decades. A pressure rooting from my first love. I lifted my head through the heavy, thick, dense atmosphere of the Tops parking lot, then looked around.
I found myself gazing into the trees to the right of the store, looking into the invisible oxygen. I had been there before. It was Manlius, New York’s community marketplace. It was a staple in the town that built me, the town I’ll always call home. The whistling wind sounded like millions of people whispering.
The whispers got louder. I felt eyeballs glued to me. When I looked around, there were six people looking my way. But it wasn't my red Nike shirt they were looking at. It wasn't my cargo, khaki shorts, either. It was my Quickie Pulse 6. They were investigating my legs -- the ones that go round and round. The blacked-out, battery-powered machine. The cornerstone of my identity. The trampoline I jump off to better the world. The 350-pound anchor they consider my disadvantage but what I see as the root of my potential.
I felt their hearts drop to their stomachs as they struggled to comprehend the moment. The tag in our window confirmed their assumptions.
“Are you ready?” my mom asked as she restored the black, steel ramp. I continued to notice curiosity throughout the parking lot. I told her I was, and she placed the elastic bands of my transparent face shield around my head. She and I began toward the sidewalk cutout in the front of the store. As we approached the busy intersection separating the first reserved spot and store's sidewalk, she urged me to get beside her so drivers could see me.
As we strolled into the store, eyes locked again, as if all 20 eyeballs clung to the metal that maneuvered me around like magnets on a refrigerator. I saw 10 adults wondering who I was and how I arrived in this mini-vehicle, much like young children wonder how to use a TV remote. It was like they had never seen such an elaborate piece of equipment. Each long pause felt like a staring contest lasting eternity.
The lower half of all of their faces had the close-lipped sympathetic smile I have become accustomed to. The one where their bottom lip was directly in front of their top lip. The look that says, “I am uncomfortable; I don't know what to say -- or whether I should say something, -- so I’ll just acknowledge your presence and my guilt.” When we made eye-contact, the expression of discomfort was associated with a slight nod of the head. Once again, uncomfortable acknowledgment.
“What are we getting first?” I asked my mom as she began skimming through her list. She said we were going to the fresh food section. I suddenly felt more eyes. More weight on my shoulders. I felt people struggling not to look my way. They were surprised that I spoke, I thought. They weren't sure what I said. I looked around a few times. I saw the curiosity loom as I looked into the eyes of the other shoppers. The chills I got from the open freezers resembled the vibration down my spine rooting from the looks of confusion directed my way.
I saw curiosity.
To them, I was a prisoner escaping his cell.
They thought I was out of the box -- I was out of my box, as in the one I inherited the day I was born. The transparent box that is open just enough to keep me alive but closed so I cannot live. The box created from centuries of ignorance and an American tradition of individuality. It is the box marginalizing my brothers and sisters with disabilities, my Black friends, my classmates belonging to the LGBTQ+ communities and anyone who challenges the status quo. The box that gives us the freedom of speech but not the freedom to be listened to. The box begging for division and denying unity.