Disabled For A Day
I couldn’t talk, so most people assumed I was deaf.
Because they thought I was deaf, too many people assumed I was dumb.
And I don’t mean mute.
But running the gantlet of what’s-wrong-with-yous wasn’t the biggest challenge of living one day without speech as a part of “Assume a Disability for a Day.”
The real hurdle I encountered Friday was accepting my new-born limitations and working around them.
I was among more than 50 participants from community organizations who took part in the event, sponsored by the Arc of Spokane and several other agencies. We drew our disabilities from a hat Thursday afternoon.
We were to “assume” our disabilities from the minute we rose from bed Friday morning.
In my case, the first test began at that moment, when I was awakened by the telephone.
Out of habit I jumped up to answer, but before I could say a word, I remembered that I couldn’t say a word.
“Hello?” said a voice on the other end of the line. It was a long-time friend calling to wish a belated happy birthday.
“Hello …” my friend said, simmering with annoyance.
I pressed buttons on the telephone in a pattern that did little to explain what I wanted so badly, but was unable, to say.
My friend finally hung up.
It was then that I realized the lesson “Assume a Disability” would teach: The use of the telephone, and everything else I so blithely take for granted, would abandon me for the day.
Because I was not able to speak, in many ways, I lost my ability to be heard.
And for some people, that is their “normal” life.
I never thought I would admit it, but for once I was thankful for e-mail, as it would become one of the last ways I could effectively communicate without driving someone else, or myself, totally bonkers.
Having to rely on my trusty pad and pens to converse — since I don’t know sign language — slowed nearly every exchange to a slug race, and a crooked one at that.
Because nobody should be exposed to my pitiful handwriting unless absolutely necessary, my usual level of witty retort was reduced to nods and smiles for most of the day.
Lyn Moss, a security officer at The Spokesman-Review, is my first work greetings most mornings.
But Friday was a little different.
Behind the front desk in the building lobby, Lyn looked shorter.
A closer look revealed she wasn’t sitting in her regular chair. She was using a wheelchair.
I nodded, smiled, then waved. She looked a little puzzled so I pointed to the white “Assume a Disability” name tag which was hanging around my neck. She was wearing one also.
She nodded and smiled, assuming I was deaf.
I smiled back as I walked to the elevator, where I saw a woman wearing a blindfold, holding a cane.
I didn’t need to read her name tag to know it was Terra Morehouse in accounting, and she was obviously blind for the day. The elevator doors had just opened.
I wanted to tell her which of the three elevators was waiting for her, but …
She made her way, a little hesitant, but just fine.
I followed her onto the elevator; I wasn’t sure she even knew I was there.
While she was fishing for the right floor on the control panel, I tapped her shoulder.
I wanted to help her get her stop right but I only startled her.
“Who’s that?”
I grabbed my name tag and tapped her hand with it but that just vexed her more.
“Okay, why are you tapping me? This isn’t very funny,” she said.
Not knowing what else to do, I grabbed her hand and put it on my dreadlocked ponytail.
A dead giveaway.
She figured out the rest and wished me good luck with the rest of my day.
I nodded and smiled as if she could see me.
Several similar episodes followed, each more enlightening than the last, but no less challenging.
About mid-afternoon I saw Moss again in the building lobby, and fumbled a hand gesture to ask how her day was going.
She said she was getting cramps in her hands, knees and back.
“I just want to stand up and stretch,” she said.
By losing my speech, I was getting off easy compared to what some people had to live with for one day, compared to what others live with every day.
Char Donald is totally deaf from maternal rubella. She can lip-read and is fluent in sign language.
The Interim Executive Director at the Eastern Washington Center for the Deaf and Hard of Hearing on North Howard, Donald wrote in my notebook that the most common misconception hearing people have is that, because the deaf cannot talk, they must not be too bright.
“I can talk, but my voice is very flat. I cannot hear to be able to regulate it. As a result, hearing people have a problem understanding me, so I prefer to write,” penned Donald, who noted that she was in a doctorate program at Howard University in Washington D.C.
Of the estimated 324,358 people living in Spokane, 42,361 — about 13 percent — have severe disabilities, according to a survey conducted by the Center for Disability Policy and Research at the University of Washington in 1998.
With those disabilities often come some profound side-affects.
People with disabilities have considerably more difficulty going outside alone, working at a job and taking care of daily needs, according to the survey.
As a result, a person with a disability in Spokane is three times more likely to live below the federal poverty limit than a person without one.
Having a disability also increases chances of experiencing fatigue, depression, fitness problems, chronic pain and weight control problems, the survey said.
I have a hard enough time meeting my deadlines with being able to talk. I now know first hand how maddeningly inefficient, if not impossible, this job would be without being able to speak.
Participants in “Assume a Disability” gathered in a large group at the Arc headquarters to debrief their experiences Friday afternoon.
Many of them said they were tired and frustrated; felt isolated or neglected, all in one day.
Simple tasks like getting dressed, brushing teeth and using the restroom became exhausting chores.
Many of the participants said they were either getting too much help — robbing them of their independence — or not enough help — forcing them to either walk or crawl.
“I didn’t want help and I didn’t want to need to be helped.” said Liz Blodgett, a Ferris High School junior who spent Friday using a wheelchair.
Rick Colon volunteered for “Assume a Disability” weeks ago. It turned out that he didn’t have to pretend, as he tore cartilage in his knee in a softball injury last Sunday, leaving him on crutches.
He has been getting a more in-depth perspective on living with a disability.
“You get both sides of the coin in this community. Some people are very sympathetic, other’s don’t even see you,” said Colon, an AFL-CIO Community Service Liaison with United Way.
Craig Orchard, who works at Avista Utilities said he has a friend who resents it if someone tries to help him.
“He’ll sit there and wrench on the door, but that’s what he wants to do,” Orchard said. “Some people don’t want empathy, they just want to be treated normal.”
So how do you know when people with disabilities need help and when they need to struggle?
The old fashioned way, said Sandie Shephard, an advocate for the Arc of Spokane.
“A good rule of thumb is too ask, `How can I help?’ ” Shephard said. “Most people with disabilities are used to helping themselves. The worst thing you can do is walk up and just assume and start helping.
“Usually, people with disabilities will tell you if you’re helping too much,” she said.
Unless that person has lost the ability to speak, then he or she might write it down for you.
It might take a little longer, but you’ll get the message.