When inclusion works
Caz and I journeyed to London to go see Dungeons and Daddies, a d&d podcast well worth a listen if you get the chance. We bought tickets and with the legendary support of organisers we were able to go to the q&a beforehand. Walking around London would be longer than my current 15 minute walking limit and so we were going to need to take the chair. My new chair has been delayed, something that has left me as sore as my back and shoulder from my current basic chair. So we were taking Firefly, my chair barely holding together, but somehow still beating the odds to get us where we need to go.
Sometimes… often… inclusion falters and I run into one too many barriers to being able to participate, whether it be broken elevators, doors, or my true nemesis, stairs.
But sometimes inclusion works. On the train the wheelchair accessible toilet was working and indeed truly wheelchair accessible and there was soap in the dispenser, allowing me to adequately sanitise my hands to be able to catheterise. When we arrived the elevator was out of order but the station staff saw me eyeing escalators mischievously and took us up the service lift.
When we arrived at the O2 we went to a local pub to meet other fans and we were all exchanging gifts, admiring cosplay, meeting new friends. The pub had a downstairs toilet that was wheelchair accessible and everywhere we trekked, including around the outside of the arena lost for a good 15 minutes, was easy to wheel around.
When I used to walk places there was always an unspoken freedom in knowing that, should I choose, I could run. Moving at pace in the chair requires the terrain to be even, to have little camber. But when the ground is even, on smooth surfaces, you can feel it; you’re like a horse reaching an open field, and you just want to put your hands to the rims and really fly, to feel that free.
When we arrived at the venue proper inside the o2 the staff took me to the side, supported me to circumnavigate the scanner, and even were cautious about touching the chair without first checking with me, recognising putting hands on the chair for the intimate act it is.
The staff took us up to the viewing platform for disabled attendees and we were up there with two other families. As I’ve come to expect and enjoy we all looked at each other with the smile, the little nod, that mutual recognition that we were all members of the same crappy club fighting to belong in a world so often built without us in mind, the kinship of the defiant.
So often disabled viewing platforms like this are sat behind some obstacle, but here we were out of the way but had a clear view of the stage and screens, the ramp up was easily traversable, the bar within easy wheeling distance. The event had really thought about us.
We ventured home on the train, an easy trek now given my improved strength. We sent a message to the organisers to thank them. My ass hurts, my shoulder hurts, and my back is stiff from wheeling Firefly around so hard, but today so many people went the extra mile so I didn’t have to. Today I’m filled with gratitude and optimism, and another reminder that maybe we can do more than I once thought unrealisitically ambitious.