I have lived my life hyper aware of the physical body, and its capabilities in the public world.

At the age of nineteen, a motorcycle accident severed my father’s spinal cord. He is a paraplegic, and has used a wheelchair since the day of the accident. In my first sentence I am specific when I say I am hyper aware of the physical body in the public world. I grew up in a private world where almost everything was accessible. One-story open floor planned houses. Kitchens with cabinets on lower levels. Appliances like the toaster and microwave had their own built-in cubbies at eye level, or lower. My dad even has special hand controls in his car that allows him to drive.  My father moves fluidly through these spaces, so as a result I rarely had to think about the physical body in relation to its physical surroundings.

The public world; well that is a different story. Buildings with front steps forced my dad to enter in the back or on the side where there are rickety ramps. Elevators placed in remote locations of a building–or even worse elevators that required a special key to use, so my dad would have to track down a custodian just so he could follow his children upstairs at their elementary school. The inaccessibility of the public world (even places that are dubbed ADA) forced me to be hyper aware of the physical body.

Looking at our university to our Humanities building to the classroom in which I teach, I can come up with a troubling and long list of what Dolmage would call “steep steps”.

Let’s start at  Red Square. The bricks in which the square gets its namesake are beautiful, but not fun when one is pushing a wheelchair across a very uneven surface. To enter the Humanities building by ramp, one must first find the ramps on the sides of the building, and travel twice the distance from the front door. Once inside this building, it is immediately noticeable that the hallways are uncomfortably narrow (even for someone who does not use a wheelchair). If someone who uses a wheelchair or has a difficulty with using stairs needs to use the restroom, they would have to locate the elevator. Oh, but wait, even if they did get to the elevator, they would find that the bathrooms on the second floor are not accessible (and neither truly are the ones on the third floor–hopefully they don’t have to pee too badly!)  If a student who used a wheelchair was in my ENG 101 class, they would then have to struggle their way down the crowded hallway to room 107. This room is horrible. Narrow doorway. Small space. Individual desks instead of tables which means one must either write on their lap or transfer to a desk (a desk that is wobbly, and therefore dangerous and difficult for one to transfer into from a wheelchair). Even if said student can transfer into the desk safely, the room is uncomfortably small. Where do they put their wheelchair so it is readily available to them, and not a fire hazard to all by blocking the door? All of this in a building which is said to be accessible.

I think about the physical body in the public world a lot. I do this because I have spent years watching my father, who was a collegiate athlete, played wheelchair tennis on the professional circuit, and considers himself very able-bodied—flounder in a world that does not think of his body in the public space. I know I was raised with an advantageous perspective. I know that most people are not trying to exclude my father, and other people like him, from the public space, but I also know that most people do not have to think about the physical body in terms of the public space.

In my class I see students who identify themselves as able-bodied struggle to maneuver in the classroom. Cramped quarters, and small unstable desks could make any student feel uncomfortable and out of place. I hope to continue this conversation in class, and throughout the school year . I do believe that change can happen throughout our ENG 101 classes. We have the numbers, which in turn can lead to a powerful voice.