Disabled Etiquette

Greetings all. We know you're off to a good start for this new year. Here's our offering for this Friday Letter.

Handicapped etiquette

According to the State of Colorado, I am a licensed and registered handicapped person. (I'd rather think of it as a disability, not a handicap -- but that's quibbling.)

So I have some authority in the subject. I've seen it all -- disabled people being rude to others, others being rude to the disabled. I've seen handicapped-parking-rudeness, permit abuse and permit arrogance, blatant disregard, lack of awareness -- from both sides.

Once upon a time, Laura and I went to lunch with friends, a couple. The woman was in a wheelchair. The waitress took each order until it was our woman friend's turn.

Then, the waitress said, "And what will she have?'' (Right, I thought. Deaf and mute people are the ones in wheelchairs.)

I myself have been mocked, more than once. And people have occasionally had to look away. Once, I'm sure, someone tried to kill me, perhaps simply because I am disabled.

I was crossing the street in downtown Fort Lupton, Highway 52 adjacent to the city park. I was well within the painted crosswalk, hobbling on my cane like I do, from south to north, headed for our little house.

Along comes a guy in a Chevelle and it was obvious he had no plan to stop for me, or to even slow down.

So, even though I knew it would look absolutely comical, I decided to run for it. Obviously, I survived. And then, guess what.

A Colorado State Patrolman happened to be coming the other way, and he saw me scurrying for dear life through the crosswalk. Bang. He whips a U-turn and nabs the Chevelle driver, big time. Ah, that felt good.

Another close call

As gratifying as that one incident was, I also could have been killed or injured in a Safeway aisle not too long ago. No patrolman was on hand this time for instant gratification.

I'm just do-duh-ta-to-do down the bakery aisle, and here she comes. A big fat ugly woman with vivid purple hair is bearing down on me fast. In a motorized wheelchair.

I had been quick enough to get out of the way of the guy in the Chevelle, all those years ago. My close call with the bimbo in the chair was quite a bit closer. It was just barely -- I did get my toes out of the way.

Andy's perspective

I asked a young writer by the name of Andy Hodge to give me his perspective on Handicapped Etiquette. (He happens to be my nephew.) Here's his reply:

''Unka Tom -- The same lady would have pushed past you on foot ten years and 100 pounds ago with the same lack of concern for your toes.

''Of course being disabled should not excuse one from conforming to social graces. But dammit, sometimes it's frustrating trying to maneuver through crowds.

''The vacant look in shoppers' eyes when I've asked them to move so I can get by can be maddening. I can't say that I've never been tempted to bomb through a crowd, elbows flying, and take out as many people at the knee that I can. Thus far, I've refrained.

''This summer, I was at a crowded bar fighting my way through a narrow passage. I'd tap each patron in my path on the shoulder and ask him to move a little so I could squeeze by. I came to a guy talking to a group of my friends, looked him in the eye and cocked my head, assuming he caught my drift.

''He didn't move and I was flustered with my slow progress, so I ran over his toes and went on my merry little way. It was a jerky thing to do, but I assumed the gaiety of the evening and his good nature would excuse my indiscretion. Nope. He found me a few minutes later and yelled, 'Do you know you just ran over my toes back there?'

" 'I sure do, sorry about that,' was my best response. Wind taken out of his sails, he moved on and I bought him a drink later.

''I do my best to be polite to the people I'm around, just like most of society. It would be nice if all of us did the same. But not everyone was raised right. The blue-hair who almost mowed you down may have been having a bad day.

''My guess though is that she is rarely polite with or without her electric cart.''

Wheelchair adventures

The first wheelchair I ever drove by myself was an antique -- a wicker-and-steel affair with the high wheels in front and casters in the rear.

This thing should have said "International Harvester" or "Dodge" on it someplace, because it was a real dog. Heavy, clumsy to manipulate, hard to wheel, frustrating, especially for a five-year-old boy.

As if by magic, several "new" style chairs appeared one day there in the Children's Hospital ward where I was recuperating. They were made of stainless tubing, vinyl seating, casters in front, high wheels in back. I was permitted to try one immediately. Fast. Light. Comfortable. Sexy.

So right away I had to play a game of chicken with another kid. The idea was, we'd wheel side-by-side, at speed, up to the edge of the stairwell and put on the "brakes" at a pre-determined line.

The other guy was more cautious. There were four deep, black skidmarks leading up to the stairs. Mine went all the way over the first step. I found myself upside-down at the landing. Unhurt, but helpless. Here came Big Nurse; I had been caught.

As punishment, the nurses pronounced a demotion for me to the clunky old wicker chairs for a long, long time. (Probably the rest of that day.)

Considering everything that's gone on with me, I haven't spent much time in a wheelchair. But I speak with authority, because I've been on that "side."

It could be that one of these days I'll be ready to order lunch and the waitress will point at me and say, "What's he going to have?"

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Word of the week: Discordant. From Middle English and Old French, descordaunt, to be out of harmony. In English it means "Not in accord; disagreeing; dissenting; differing; incongruous; not in harmony; dissonant; clashing; jarring.'' (Just as a matter of curiosity, a member of the St. Peter 8:30 a.m. choir suggested this word.)

Next week's word: Lothario

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Gripes? Complaints? Whines? or Comments? Adoration? Aggravation? Puppy love? Feel free to express yourself in the comments below!