You're the Inspiration.....

I can't count how many times each week someone tells me that I am "inspirational."  I never know how to respond to such a compliment....

I suppose I should say, "thank you," but often I am left too dumbfounded to respond.

The encounter often goes something like this.*

I'm headed toward the bathroom on my floor at work.  I press the automatic door-open button.  The motor on the door stalls.  Nothing happens. 

Still (obviously) needing to use the bathroom, I push my back and behind into the door to slowly guide it open.  Another woman headed in my direction sees me struggling and offers to help.  I decline her offer, because I really can open the door myself, and I would probably fall over if she took it from me since the whole weight of my backside is now pressed firmly against it.

"Thank you, but I've got it, " I say.

"You're so inspirational, " she says with a smile.

There is an awkward silence as I ponder what she has just said.  Am I inspirational because I can:
a) Respond to her offer of help?
b) Open a door without asssistance? 
c) Go to the restroom without aid?

Even though I'm unsure just what I've done to inspire her, I'm glad she seems inspired.... and also, that I finally made it into the door.  I avoid answering her by looking down as I hurry into the restroom stall.

Later in the same day, I get into a cab.  I am always particularly inspirational to the cabbies in our Nation's Capital; sometimes they are enthralled by my very existence.

Cabbie: "Where do you work?"

Me: "I work for the DC government."

Cabbie: "Oh, so you work in there in the cafeteria..." (points toward the food court in my building).

Me: "No.  I'm a lawyer."

Cabbie: "So you answer phones for the lawyers?"

Me: "I answer my own phone.  I am a lawyer."

Cabbie: "Really, so who cooks and cleans your house for you while you are at work?"

Me (bewildered): "No one.  I cook and clean when I get home."

Cabbie (with mounting, considerable shock and awe): "But your parents must help you with that, right?"

Me: "Well, I have plenty of friends and neighbors who help me with things sometimes... but I do not need my parents' help."

Cabbie: "So.... you really can cook?!?"

Me: "I hope so. I love food too much to starve to death."

Cabbie: "And clean the floors?"

Me: "Yep."

Cabbie: "And get yourself ready for work?"

Me (rolling eyes at this point) "Yep."

Cabbie: "Wow!  That is AMAZING!!!!"

Really, Cabbie?? 

Amazing??

I'm not so sure.

You know what I think is amazing?

A double rainbow.

The Navy Seals who found Bin Laden.

The guy who walked a tightrope across Niagra Falls.

Those things and people are amazing. 

Me coming home to make a tuna sandwich?

Nope.

A baked potato?

Nah.

How about a Mexican casserole?

Well.... it might have a little something on the double rainbow, but I'm pretty certain it falls just a smidge short of true inspiration.

I am just like anyone else in this town-- trying to make a living, help others daily, and lead a happy, productive life.  I put on my pants the same way you do every morning.  It just might take me 3.7 seconds longer.

Do those 3.7 seconds make me inspirational?  No, no more so than my decision not to give up on myself and just leave the house without pants.

My day-to-day life is not lived to inspire, but to aspire.  I start each day with a set of goals and I make it my business to accomplish them before the day is through.

Don't we all?

Same game. Same aim. Different attack.






*The conversations above are re-enactments of actual conversations in which I have been engaged by other people.  The names of all of the parties have been omitted to protect their identities, though unfortunately, nothing could be done to mask their ignorance.

Desperately seeking....

What exactly?? I'm not sure, but that's the question I ask myself every time I talk to another one of my girl friends with disabilities who are single and navigating the dating world. All women who are in the slightest bit insecure can be prone to settle in many aspects of their lives.



Love is one such aspect. And a woman who is in the least bit insecure about her disability is no exception to this rule.



I have been a prime example of such insecurity at times in my life. I have stayed in unhealthy, abusive relationships (sometimes for long periods of time) just because I thought that the type of relationship I was in was what I deserved or the "best someone like me could have." If I started to think to myself that I was being mistreated, I would talk myself out of it.



"It's good sometimes."



"I mean, at least he loves me."



"I really want to get married and have a family, and he seems to want the same most days."



What I should have been repeating to myself were the things those guys were saying to me....



But "at least he loves me" has a much nicer ring to it then, "Jessica, you need to get over yourself. You're an attention wh**e."



Thinking about the "good times" is much more pleasant than hearing him say, "Can I have $50 more from the Jessica L. Hunt Scholarship fund?," or reliving the sting of any of the slaps I've had across my face from a less-than-worthy guy.



A woman's insecurity, no matter how strong she thinks she is, weaves its own web of desperation. And once we start to smell the slightest bit desperate, the good guys run away, and the bad guys pose next to us with a box of tissues and a sly smile. A guy in need of money, assistance, or just a convenient warm body will get a woman caught in the sweet, sick stickiness of her own desperation. And before she knows it, she'll have made a home there, by becoming complacent with a situation, and often a person, who is so much less than what she really deserves.



"Beggars can't be choosers," one of my friends said to me.



Begging? Do we really need a man THAT badly? I know I don't. Again with the desperation. Where is it written that disabled has to equal desperate? All men and women, disabled or not, are made in God's image. We all deserve people who will treat us respectfully based on that very fact alone.



I rode in a cab today with a driver who saw me as desperate. In the span of 30 minutes he had offered me sex (multiple times in multiple ways); mentioned that he wanted to impregnate me as soon as I agreed to date him, and couldn't understand why I wouldn't accept these "wonderful offers" that he was throwing my way.



"I'm willing to date you, if you want," he said. "No one else will love you."



Oh, sir.... that's where you are wrong. They already do. God does.



And I'm fairly certain I have an army of family and friends who are just as "willing" to kick you where the sun doesn't shine, just based on the way you've talked to me in the past half-hour.



The sad thing is, I know some women who probably would have taken his offer under consideration. And maybe a few years ago, I might have been one of them.



But today, I know that I deserve so much more than a fast-talking, vulgar so-and-so who doesn't even know my name but is sure "he loves me."



The stench of desperation takes a while to dissipate, but I assure you, that if guys like that are who the world has left for me, then I will be superbly happy spending the rest of my days single, safe, and free from surreptitious snakes-in-the-grass.



I'll be the first to admit that I've honestly yet to have a good, healthy relationship with a man on this Earth, but I know enough about what one isn't to know that I only want the opposite.

To my little girl...

I haven't met you, but I love you.

I haven't seen your daddy smile at me for the first time (that i know of.)

I haven't felt the butterflies (the ones i know you'll bring me) when we learn about you for the first time.

I haven't felt you kick inside my belly (if that's how we are to meet.)

Of course, we may meet in a different way.

You may come to me from another mommy,

Who will be strong, and generous, and loving enough to bring you home to me. (And I'll teach you to love her just as much as I will).

We may not even live in the same place when you come from your mommy's belly (but I will love you from afar).

In fact, i may not even get to be your mommy.

This will make me a little sad sometimes (but I will love you so much anyway).

I may be your cousin,

or your cool "aunt" Jessica,

or "that nice sorta crazy lady from church who always takes you to the movies and brings you books to read..."

(but whomever I am to you, you will know that you are loved).

My little girl, you exist in me today.

Even without seeing your daddy's smile;

or feeling your tiny foot;

or knowing exactly how it is we are to meet.

But I have loved you for as long as I have wanted you.

And that, my dear, has been 10 times the length of the longest day you'll ever know.

To my little girl...

I know God is waiting for the perfect time to send you to me (I am a very patient lady).

So enjoy your time with Him up there. You'll see me soon enough.

I love you.

** I wrote this post, because i know that there are a great many amazing women who can't or won't have children, who are sometimes just as burdened by as overwhelming a desire to be a mother as I am.

As I move into my 30's I'm trying to focus more on the opportunities God may be giving me to be a mother, even if it isn't to happen in exactly the way I've always dreamed.

Sometimes the answer to our prayer isn't the answer that we want, but it's still an answer, nonetheless.

Beauty

When I was a little girl, I'll admit, I thought I was pretty. How could I not? My parents told me all the time. There is even a video tape from my brother's fifth birthday, and I am sitting on the highlighter yellow-green, plush 70's carpet in my parents' bedroom, helping him open his gifts and hold them up for the camera. I hadn't had a particularly good day at school that day, and I wasn't in the best of moods. But there was a moment in-between gifts, when my Daddy had the camera on me, and said, "Hey, Sissy. You're pretty, you know that?"

In that moment, everything else vanished, and for a split-second, no matter what else I had done wrong that day, I knew I was loved.

I wish that feeling had stayed with me-- that I was able to navigate my teen years, and college, and even certain points in my not-quite-as-young adulthood still feeling as beautiful as I had on May 4, 1990.

The thing about beauty though, is that it's not something someone else can convince us exists. Like Santa Claus. Or the Tooth Fairy.

Or even God. While not so much with the other two examples, i have faith that He is there, and i don't have to see Him to know it. I've made up my mind that He exists without seeing Him, and there's little you can do to change it.

Not so with beauty We have to see it for ourselves and in ourselves to believe that it's there. And even after we've seen it, if we don't believe in it, it's easy to forget what we saw. I've found, that for me, what someone else says about my beauty can work to my good or to my ill. It can warm and strengthen my confidence like my father's compliment so many years ago... or it can chew a parasitic hole of doubt into my self-image, just as many other not-so-complimentary remarks (and stares) have done since that day.

It has been hard for me to find beauty within myself, especially physical beauty. Beauty in my curved spine and slow gait. Beauty in my scarred abdomen, back, and feet. Beauty in my brain-injured stare (the one that sometimes comes across my face when I concentrate, or when I'm confused, or when I'm lost in absolutely no thought at all). Beauty in the way that I bend, contort, move. Beauty in the way that my left eye crinkles more when I smile. Or in the way that I laugh. Or even in the way that my mouth moves when I talk.

For a long time, none of those things looked beautiful to me. I was convinced that if my body didn't look beautiful to me, it couldn't look beautiful to anyone else either-- let alone a guy I was interested in dating. I had heard all my life (ad nauseum) that men were such visual creatures. If I couldn't give them the vision they would desire, I would have to find some way to compensate.

I convinced myself that if my body wasn't beautiful; I was going to make sure it could do beautiful things anyway. This led to a love for healthy eating, for exercise, and at some points in my life, to a promiscuity I am not proud of, but cannot run from.

As I've grown older I've realized that no amount of exercise, starvation, or sex can make anyone (least of all me) see my beauty. In fact, vices often hide beauty underneath a veil of self-pity and shame, making it invisible to even the most earnest of eyes.

My beauty may not lie in every single physical aspect of my body, but it lies in what those aspects represent. A premature birth. Months in hospital. Countless surgeries. Hours of pain. Struggle. Perseverance. Strength.

My body is a living testament to the presence of a loving, living God, who gave me no more on this Earth than I could handle. Who wanted me to live.
Who was willing to give me opportunity, a loving family, and a (somewhat hardened) strong will to take my physical body and to use the soul within it to push myself as far as I could go. And for His benefit.

My body itself may not be meant for a magazine cover, but it does tell a story. And to me, the story it tells is beautiful.

So the guy that i meet for coffee on Friday may stare. He may gawk. He may not have the best impression of my physical beauty, no matter how I wear my hair, or what dress I choose, or whether I make it out of the house with eyeliner.


He can choose to see me skin-deep. Or he can look deeper.

But I know, no matter what he thinks, that I'm beautiful. Why?

Because this body I'm using-- this broken, scarred, imperfect body, ultimately belongs to God.

And who am I to call anything He's given me anything less than gorgeous?

Parents, don't let your babies grow up to be...

I was having a conversation with my mom yesterday about whether kids in today's world are in some senses more cruel toward kids with disabilities or other differences than they were when I was growing up. Sometimes I feel like kids today are chock full of cruelty and disrespect, but most days, I realize that they are probably no different than the kids I encountered when I was younger; I just notice more now than I did before (which is probably a good thing, considering that I was able to live into my early twenties under the illusion that the intentions of those around me were almost always affable.)

A child's attitude toward individuals with disabilities starts with the attitudes of their parents. It is OK and even "normal" for your child to be curious about others whose lifestyles, means, and abilities are different from his own. Curiosity is a healthy characteristic of any growing, intuitive person--young or old. If your child is curious about something, you, as the parent, will be the first person he asks (in most cases). I have watched this happen on at least a weekly basis with kids I see out and about in DC.

Kid: "Mommy, what happened to that lady?"

What follows this question is usually one of a series of answers that is not only nonresponsive to the question, but also can cultivate fear and an attitude of avoidance in the child.

Kid: "Mommy, what happened to that lady?"


Response number 1 (while tapping the child on the shoulder, grabbing him by the arm, leading him quickly away) Mommy death stare, also interpreted as, "Don't say another word; you are embarrassing me."

Kid: "Mommy, what happened to that lady?"

Response number 2 (in hushed tone) "Shh... not in front of her! I'll explain when we get home."

Kid: "Mommy, what happened to that lady?"

Response number 3: Mommy says nothing. Kid stares at individual with a disability.

Kid: "Mommy, what happened to that lady?"

Mommy says nothing. Kid continues to stare.

Kid: "Mommy, what happened to that lady?"

Mommy says nothing. Now kid and mommy both stare, and mommy leads kid away with kid's head continuously turning back in pseudo-Linda-Blair-head-spin fashion to look at the amazing crutch-clad lady.

None of the above responses encourage the kid to explore his curiosity; none of them encourage him to talk to the individual with a disability, and none of them answer his question. All of the responses do, however, help cultivate the attitude that

a) having a disability is kind of a big deal
b) having a disability is kind of a bad deal
c) the first rule of having a disability is that we don't talk about having a disability.

So what would be the correct response? Is there a correct response? The best response is to encourage your child to talk to the individual with a disability. The person who can best answer questions about his or her life is the person living it. There is, of course, always the chance that the person with a disability won't be receptive... but you run that risk with all new people to whom you introduce yourself. The best thing you can do for your child though is to show him that people with disabilities are just like able-bodied people. The easiest way to do that is to approach, extend your hand, and say, "Hello..." The rest will follow.

What if...

Don't get me wrong. Some days I wake up and am a little less than enthusiastic (ok maybe a little more than a little) about being dependent on two metal sticks to walk. Some days the arthritis in my body makes me feel as though I've been beaten flat by a meat mallet. Other days I'd rather be doing the downhill slalom in the Winter Olympics than getting dressed for work. Some days, when I hear my favorite song on the radio, I wish I could jump up and dance in a way that makes sense to more people than me. Other days, I am saddened by the fact that I will honestly never know what it is like to carry a child in my arms while walking down the street... or anywhere, for that matter.

Some days I am bitter. Other days I am angry-- angry at myself, at God, and at anyone within earshot... thinking that I would have a better life if I didn't realize what I'm missing out on day-by-day.

So... what if? What if I was different? What if I was this gorgeous, graceful, able-bodied attorney who loved to roller skate, and dance, and run half-marathons?

I'm sure this other version of me would be a perfectly nice person, with perfectly nice interests, and a perfectly nice life. But that person wouldn't be me. And what's more... I'm sure she would have an equally long list of complaints about her own life, skills, and abilities. I'm ok not knowing this other me, and should research and science ever give me a chance to meet her, I think I'll pass.

I like the me that I've become, flaws and all. I wouldn't trade it for the world. I may not have the ability to walk without some sort of aid, but I do have the ability to fight for the rights of others even less fortunate than myself. I am passionate about disability rights, and civil rights in general. That passion wouldn't have grown to be what it is today without my personal experiences and struggles. I know God has given me this life for a purpose, and I don't intend to waste a single second worrying about what I could do or be in a different one.

Since I've been a blogger, I've worried about posting my workplace woes online, afraid that someone would read them and I'd be fired, yelled at, or relegated to the nearest closet to eek out my already-miserable employed existence. After much thought and deliberation on the to-post-or-not-to-post dilemma, I've come to one simple conclusion.

The truth is what it is, and sometimes the truth hurts.

Each of the scenarios that follow is true, and actually happened to me. There have, of course, been more than just these, but I post them here mostly to vent, and to share what I have learned in the past (nearly) 4 years at my job, which is that an equal employment opportunity office is not always efficient at obeying the laws and regulations it has been established to uphold.

When I was hired to work for the federal government, I came to a building that was not accessible to people with mobility disabilities. There were no automatic doors on the building, and my office which was on the 8th floor, did not even have an accessible stall. I was unable to even enter the door to my office, as I needed both hands (one to swipe my id and the other to open the door). With crutches, my hands are perpetually full, so opening the door was perpetually...impossible.

All of these things were minor setbacks which were remedied eventually. The restroom and outside doors were made accessible before I came on board, but the inside office door was inaccessible to me for two years. Despite alerting management to this fact early on, the door was fixed only after the office adjacent to ours decided that they did not want to leave their doors open to accommodate me, that it was my office's job to do so, and that leaving their doors open to the public was subjecting them to a substantial security risk. I did not disagree and was happy to have the automatic button installed so I could let myself into the office.

Despite being able to get past some of the physical barriers to my job, attitudinal barriers I have encountered have been harder to overcome. My office is not an easy place to work, being composed of mostly women. Pettiness and gossip can sometimes abound. Attitudinal attacks are also a struggle.

As Prince said, "You don't have to watch Dynasty to have an attitude." And boy, do these women know it.

I have been yelled at by the Director of my office in a public setting--twice-- the most notable occasion for accidentally handing out an old evaluation sheet in a training, which asked participants to anonymously identify their race, age, and gender. Our office keeps the data for demographic purposes only, so we can know exactly who attends our training. It is under lock and key. Only we see it. Such data collection is not against the law, and is regularly kept by thousands of entities. I know this.

My Director, however, who is not a lawyer and did not go to law school, told me that day that I had "broken the law and undermined the integrity of the entire program" by asking for this data. I merely apologized for my mistake and told her it would not happen again. I later took a copy of the Privacy Act to her, citing the relevant passages that would allow us to gather demographic data. She still disagreed and has never apologized for yelling at me in front of my co-workers or using such harsh language to this day.

Meanwhile, I'm wondering if I should sue Apple for violation of the Privacy Act for asking my race, age, and gender when I purchased my last iPhone...

When I started my job, I worked with equal employment discrimination complaints and typed acceptance/dismissal letters for those complaints on a regular basis. Because I am a one-handed typist (and somewhat slow) I had requested voice dictation software for my computer. I have had the same software at every other job I've had, public and private, and I still don't have it here. The Director had agreed to help me request it through our computer-electronic accommodations program, but when I approached my supervisor, she was more skeptical. She rolled her eyes at me when I told her why I thought I needed the software, and made a comment when she saw me waiting for my ride after work.

"You say you need help typing but you sure are good at texting on that phone, " she quipped. I do have the software now, but have been given the runaround as to who can install it and when. Honestly, I've lost interest.

Another supervisor of mine had a similar sort of reaction when I asked for help carrying a three-ringed binder from the file room to my desk.

She shoved the binder into an intern's hands and said, "Can you carry this.... because Jessica doesn't want to?"

No one ever said I didn't want to carry the binder. Believe me, I do, I'd love to be able to carry a binder at my job, a tray at a restaurant, a friend's baby in church. But with crutches... I'm afraid carrying is a little difficult.

And my inability to carry isn't the only thing that gets me grief around here. Just the other day, the administrative assistant shoved a laptop cord into my hands after I had used our office laptop for a presentation, proclaiming that I didn't roll it properly. The cord was rolled around the adapter tight enough that it wouldn't unravel, I just wasn't able to slip the velcro around the plug.

When I explained to her that I had trouble with the motion necessary to roll the cord the way she wanted, because of the spasticity in my hands, she rolled her eyes as though she didn't believe me, and followed her reaction with, "Well, I don't care who you get to roll it, but it better be rolled properly before you give it back to me."

While the statements above smack of intent to demean, I'm not always certain that is the case. I try to give those I work with the benefit of the doubt, regardless of what they should know about being equal employment practitioners or even just professionals in any workplace. I have questioned so often what makes people think they are justified in their reactions to others, and in saying things the way they say them? Are they considering the other person at all when they react?

I tell myself that words and reactions are not always intentional, and that it is going to take time and effort to change attitudes toward differences (especially disabilities) since I work in an able-bodied culture. There are times when an attitude can sneak into a conversation with blistering stealth.

Whether it happens when my boss emphasizes the word "neatly" every time she asks me to write something in print or she inadvertently talks about me "dragging myself around the Pentagon." Whether it's when the admin assistant gives me a look after I explain to her that it is difficult for me to cut up and glue tiny strips of paper because my hands have spastic movements. Or whether it's when a co-worker says, "I love your dresses, but I'm always expecting you to have cute shoes.... and then I look down..."

People don't always mean what they say, exactly the way they say it, and being in my job I know that communications are more often misdelivered or mistaken than not. But how many flubs is too many? And when is it ok to wonder whether something is more than inadvertent. I mean, even if someone only makes one Freudian slip... shouldn't I use it as an opportunity to educate??

It's just hard to gingerly bring up that these comments and actions hurt since they happen so often. I just keep telling myself to have a thicker skin, because I don't want others to walk on eggshells around me. When can I speak my mind, and am I justified in speaking?? If I were someone else, I'd say, "Absolutely." But as my own advocate... I'm skittish, and I just don't know.