On Pity and Helicopters

 As someone with a disability, I’m somewhat routinely given things. People pay for my coffee, my meals, sometimes they go out of their way to help me in one way or another for no other reason then my  wheelchair. One of my more distinctive childhood examples of this random charity was of a wealthy Iowa tycoon whipping around in the movie line, getting on one knee and asking my mother “Has this little guy ever been in a helicopter?”  Absurd? Undoubtedly. Yet there I was a week later, circling the downtown skyline, making a memory that will last me the rest of life. I’ve had a professional poet buy my family a computer, Shriners lug me across the country, and flirted with beautiful women far beyond the reach of my charms. Pity, sympathy, and genuine empathy all irreducibly combined made those experiences possible, and shape the way I interact with the world. But it goes beyond that. I’d wager pity plays a role in most of my interactions with able bodied people, to one degree or another. Contrary to lots of my disabled peers, I’m okay with that. Because pity, flawed though it may be creates the possibility of the new.

If I’ve noticed any constant within the disabled community, it’s that people with disabilities almost universally loathe pity. It is treated, in many ways rightfully so, as an antiquated, patronizing mentality that so dominated able bodied perceptions of disability for generations. The Medical Model of disability as discussed in Disability Theory largely draws off pity, perpetuating the idea that the disabled have to be cared for and cured.  Contrarian though I may be, I’m not about to argue against the belief that pity politics has long inhibited honest national discussion on disability. However, I remain skeptical of those with disabilities who view pity with disgust, if not outright vitriol. I similarly reject the idea that pity is a purely ablest reaction to disability with no redeeming elements. Connecting to others is one of the more daunting tasks laid upon those with disabilities. It’s profoundly challenging, to impart our struggle and the nuance of our daily lives to those with no grasp of it. Our lives, our experiences, even our bodies are often so decidedly alien that we need every path to empathy we can find. Pity I believe is one such path, and I believe that it, as deeply flawed reaction as it, is contains a kernel connective possibility.

I remember once a small kid came up to me, hesitant and clearly with something to say. He looked at me with a sad little look on his face, and asked if I was okay. It took me a moment to figure out that he saw my chair and had assumed I was in some horrible accident. In his young mind he associated wheelchairs with illness and injury, and figured he would check up on me. I assured him I was fine, and gently explained my disability as best I could. He mulled things, looked at me worriedly and asked quite sincerely if “it hurt”. That gave me pause, and I decided to be honest. Yes, I said. Yes it sometimes hurts, sometimes it hurts very much. But that’s not true for all people in wheelchairs, and I was in college and had a great life. He seemed relieved, if still slightly concerned for my safety. Brief as our conversation was, I like to think our talk left us both for the better. It was as incredibly sweet as it was misguided, and almost entirely the product of pity of a sort. The young boy felt sorry for me, and reached out. From that connection, he left better understanding my life and I’d like to think the lives of all disabled people.

I truly believe that pity is ultimately born out of love, a love for people and a genuine caring for others well being. It’s twisted, misguided, and often used to disastrous effect, but I believe to be at its center the product of human kindness.  And because of that worthy center, I believe it can be appropriated to do incredible things. People who pity me are one sharp shove away from empathizing with me, one short conversation away from changing fundamentally the way they view the disabled. It’s a profoundly short leap, and one I saw made by that young boy. Pity opens up the possible, a deeply flawed thing that can be transformed into something truly wonderful. In that way it’s not unlike disability itself. As a person with a disability, I use the tools that are offered me, and ride the helicopters within my reach. I follow human connectivity as high as it will take me, and will remain thankful for the opportunity.